Bird’s Nest – So Obvious; So Right

Whenever guests come to visit my apartment, I struggle about whether I should leave my New Yorker magazines in plain site on the top of the toilet. Visiting ladies, upon using the facilities, could either 1. be impressed by my well-read urbanity or 2. be disgusted by the implied duration of my BMs such that I would have the time to go through 10 dense pages on the emergence of blue grass folk singers in the Ukrainian industrial section.

This is how I feel as I write this review of Bird’s Nest (2500 N Southport). On first glance, it lacks GCL telltales such as location in either a hipster or ethnic neighborhood, non-traditional world cuisine, or gesture-driven ordering interactions with limited-English wait staff.

Lincoln Park is an anathema to some of my closest gastro-chums, noticeably Chlodnik, who requires of her bars and neighborhoods a high ratio of emotionally troubled yet strategically disheveled young men whose heroin addictions serve the functional purpose of helping them squeeze into their skinny jeans [1]. Sorry, Chlodnik, I will stop pigeonholing you as “my artist friend that lives in Logan Square” as soon as it stops being helpful for people to make accurate generalizations about you.
The fare is unapologetically bar food done greasy. They have the best wings in the city, with each of the five sauces equally good on different planes to lead to paralysis by analysis. I favor them in combination with the garlic fries and whichever their cheapest pitcher is for the moment (usually MHL).

As for the wait staff, they are by far the nicest hot waitresses I have ever encountered in any bar. And notice that I said nicest hot and not the other way around, a subtle yet significant distinction. Bird’s Nest made a friend for life when they put the Laker game on at my request in the back room. Sure, it was in the middle of a Sunday afternoon on a slow Chicago sports day, but I have been rebuffed enough times at other locations for similar requests that game must recognize game. Much of the credit goes to Kip the proprietor. He makes a conscious decision to make a locals-friendly environment. On any given night you can see people enjoying a drink while their dog naps at their feet. And no matter how crowded, the girls behind the bar flash you that special smile that makes you feel as special as your mom always told you you are (warning: you will experience pangs of jealousy when you see them do it to another table).

Of course, my love for Bird’s Nest is as much convenience as anything else. Within walking distance of my apartment, their bloody marys have been morning-after salves to a debauched Chittlins on more than one occasion. Bird’s Nest has been the background to many fond memories like the drunken shouting match with a bunch of douchey Midwestern puds for talking too loudly during their trivia night or the drunken shouting match with my douchey Midwestern puddy roommate [2] over objectivity in mainstream media (the only thing more idiotic than our argument was that we gave each other the silent treatment for a month afterwards).

This summer I can’t imagine anything more pleasant than knocking down a couple cold ones watching the World Cup. I’m still not sure whether you can truly review unabashed bar food. No culinary frontiers are pushed. No effort is made to pander towards either the Affliction or the American Apparel crowd [3]. Bird’s Nest: is comfortable with itself, but then again, why shouldn’t it be?

[1] This picture accompanies an article forwarded to me by Chlodnik about how Sizzlenutz and I are to her what PBR and blow are to hipsters. For chuckles I recommend reading the article
[2] Usually on GCL I work to come up with clever nicknames for the friends that make appearances. Samir is such a worthless piece of crap that I can’t even come up with a nickname that encompasses his entire douchebaggery.
[3] People in the know will point out that American Apparel already crested and could probably name more representative brands. That said, for metonymical purposes, it serves.

Tam Popo - Measured Disappointment

As past entries have demonstrated, I take ramen seriously. My girlfriend is right: I do have an Asian fetish… only the playful Oriental minx I crave is soaking in a complex broth, with a dash of bamboo shoots, green onions, bean sprouts and thinly sliced seasoned pork – and for once that’s not an innuendo. If ramen were a person, ramen would have a restraining order against me. I would follow ramen at night from a discrete distance in my tinted Aerostar van. I would read ramen’s mail and hack ramen’s Friendster (look, the ramen I know doesn’t abandon the original social networking tool just because everyone else jumped ship). And if I hurt ramen, it’s only because I love ramen so much, right?

Against this background, you can appreciate the anticipation as I joined super friends and fellow ramen obsessors Sizzlenutz and Chlodnik at Tam Popo (5665 N Lincoln Ave). LTHForum had titillated us with the possibility of great ramen without a drive to the suburbs. I’ve been called an elitist several times, but it’s not a character defect in me that people enjoy flavorless derivative mush like Avatar (and yes, I saw Avatar in 3-D. Shitty character and plot development set to bad acting does not get better just because the moron spectacle-o-meter is set to 11).

What is my point? Despite the wisdom of the crowds, perhaps there is room for elite opinion. I can appreciate Yelp and LTHForum as platforms for democratic opinion exchange. But at GCL there is no deluge of contradicting pronouncements. Once our readers sift through the self loathing and tangential asides that saturate our entries, they’ll see we are purposeful on which restaurants we choose to praise and not praise. It takes more than social inadequacy combined with the annoyingly self-aware diction of a New Yorker subscriber to become a GCL contributor. It requires a spirit of gastro adventurism to enter establishments with less than stellar health ratings in the hopes of a new taste experience.

Tam Popo had so many things going for it – friendly staff with limited command of English, intimate location in a food district known for its East Asian population, high praise from food message boards. Still, other than interesting, almost dessert-like scallop sakura appetizer,
the tanmen and shoyu ramen left these gastronomes less than fulfilled. There was nothing particularly wrong with our ramen, but it lacked the full gusto character we had expected. There was a collective shrug, as when Chlodnik meets my b-friends and says, “they’re just so…nice” in a manner that makes it clear normalcy is a pejorative term in her schema.

Fortunately our solipsistic triangle remained as satisfying as ever. This past winter in Chicago felt just a little bit warmer due in no small part to their company (and also because it actually was warmer, scientifically speaking). Food critiquing is hard…friendship even harder…but making Sizzlenutz giggle while Chlodnik sighs, well that’s just the piano to my Mozart.

But yeah, now that I have a girlfriend I don't really need them that much anymore. Amirite?

Food vs Friends: The Battle that Rages within Sizzlenuts

I, Sizzlenuts, am approaching a crossroads in life. I am a proud resident of Andersonville, and I would argue that the ‘ville is the most prime real estate for comestible consumption in this city. The drag on Clark from a few blocks below Foster to a few blocks above Bryn Mawr has plenty of nice options, including the very reasonably priced fine dining spots Anteprima and Cere’s Table,[1] and the incomparable Pasticceria Natalina.[2] But, that is not what I am talking about.

I am talking about what’s in the immediate surroundings. While it is very easy walking distance to Little Vietnam, it is just a quick bike ride to so much more (including many that have been that favorites of this blog): the Korean of Albany Park, the Thai of Lincoln Square, the Indian & Pakistani of Devon; The Ethiopian of Edgewater. My love for Chicago between 4000 and 6400 North, from the Lake to about Kimball East to West is constantly reaching new heights. My newest love is of the West African food in Uptown. There are a number of places around Broadway between about Montrose and Lawrence. I recently tried two.

The first is BQ Afro Root cuisine, serving up Nigerian fare. The first time I went, I went alone,[3] having just stopped by neighboring Uptown Bikes. I got the yam porridge. This was a delicious, hearty and spicy. They call it “yam” but it is not the same root vegetable we gringos think of. I got a side of spinach that, while nicely spiced, tasted like it was made from frozen. Entrees come with a variety of meats. I got the chicken, goat and fish. All 3 were richly flavored, but tough. One would expect these to be more tender, given the appearance of slow cooking.

Excited about this find, I brought back Chittlins, Chlodnik and Toupee. They were less impressed. And it is true, the meat isn’t great. But, the pattern has been that I am the most critical one, and I was heartened to see that trend reversed.[4]

Of the dishes we got the second trip, there is really only one I’d recommend highly. The egusi with fufu is delicious. Fufu is this pounded yam thing that you tear apart and dip in soups/stews. Egusi is a soup/stew. I don’t really know what’s in it, but I like it. The other dishes were not great. The whole tilapia was pretty good, but not special. The spinach was not nearly as good as the version that I ordered as a side dish the trip before. Flavored very differently, and much more clearly from frozen or canned.

The next restaurant is Grace African, dishing out food from Ghana. Reggae Law Firm has lived in Ghana, knows a lot of the African community in Chicago through the Reggae side of his identify, and highly recommended Grace. RLF, San Antonio Brown and I went there for a very pleasant Sunday lunch. This place is much better than BQ, all around. I had goat meat in peanut butter soup. This was phenomenal. The meat fell apart in your hands, which, are used to eat it. This came with banku, which is very similar to fufu, but more fermented. San Antonio Brown got the “red red,” a platter of delicious fried plantains and bean stew. Reggae Law Firm got tilapia with kenkey. Kenkey is the driest and most fermented of the fufu, banku, and kenkey family. This dish comes with two chutney like sides, one spicy, one primarily fresh chopped tomatoes. Rave reviews all around. This dish is also hand-eaten. You tear a piece of kenkey, fish off the bone, and some of the two chutneys, and you get a mouth full of satisfied desires. I have since gone back with Gregalo; I wanted to get the kenkey for myself, and he got the red red.

Now back to the quandary at hand: my residence in the ‘ville. I love it here. But, as for my social life, this isn’t really where it’s at. Chlodnik, Mixed Signals, Lady Vol, Husband Crispin

Glover[5] and a slew of other friendly art enthusiasts live down in Logan Square. Toupee and I Am The Law live in neighboring Wicker Park. In addition to the source of the crucial-to-my-

sanity-friend-time,[6] Logies and WP is where I actually have, in theory, a chance of finding a mate. Let’s just say in the ‘ville, my Subaru Forrester, and Toucan Sam’s Outback wagon fit

right in. [7] Chlodnik is buying a house, most likely in Logies. I am quite honored to be invited

to be her resident. However, Logies food, outside of a couple of nice places, is all Mexican, and, lesser Mexican to my hometown of Austin, TX (as far as I can tell). So, what do I do: do I choose food or friends?

Luckilly, I’ll have plenty of time to ponder this because (sing along now):

I went downtown to see milady, she stood me up and I stood there waiting.

But it’ll be alright, When The Morning Comes. [8]

---

[1] Cere’s Table is 1 for 1 for taking a girl there and then bedding her. Which is more than I can say for The Bristol in Bucktown.

[2] I don’t want to say too much, but just that this place has also brought me some, even if temporary, success. I won’t say more because I actually want to see this girl again, and if I do, who knows? She might even read this. (who am I kidding? She's never going to read this).

[3] Have I mentioned that I’m a miserable lonely wretch recently? I’m really losing it. I track my mental health by what songs I find myself indentifying with. This week I can’t stop listening to side 1 of the 1973 Hall & Oates LP “Abandoned Luncheonette.” That I think “When the morning comes” is about me, is clearly a new low.

[4] Chittlins claims I only like it out of white guilt.

[5] I don’t think he looks like his namesake at all. Our guy is much better looking. I think he should have been named after James Franco.

[6] Have you ever lived alone in a city where you have very few friends older than 6 months? I’ve done much more exploring of my psyche in the 7 months of living here than with the three dozen or so mushroom and acid trips of my youth.

[7] A few things to note here: 1. I love living near older gay couples. Seeing gay couples on the street makes me happy for some reason. 2. Logies trim is fucking wells grade. Really disappointing. The top-shelf aesthetics of Lady Vol, Chlodnik and Mixed Signals really do not generalize to their local sisters. 3. Luckily, WP is a source of top-shelf trim, as discussed in my review of Big Star, which is still my favorite bar in Chi-town, in case anyone is keeping track.

[8] If you haven't been reading the footnotes, then this part doesn't make any sense. Also, you probably haven't laughed at all.

Udupi Palace - Requiem for our two-year holiday

Did you know commencement is synonymous with beginning? Who was the clown that thought graduation signified a new beginning? Graduation is an event that for all intents and purposes signifies the end to what has been a two-year unpaid vacation, albeit in a city that refuses to acknowledge the arrival of spring. Graduation is a requiem; it is why we wear black and sit through elegiac laments of days past. On June 12th, I for one will be wearing dark sunglasses to hide the tears, and those will not be tears of joy. My sole consolation will not be some certificate signifying a degree completed but an unemployed Chittlins sleeping on my couch.

Our more dedicated readers may have begun to notice the slower pace at Good, Clean Licks this quarter. I would like to blame the health care legislation or even the illegal immigrants in Arizona, but the truth is, Chittlins has a girlfriend. The noose (also know as Coolwhip) hangs heavy. Casually meeting up somewhere for a quick bite now requires advanced scheduling; I suppose I could join them for movie night tonight, but you know what they say, Mexican tamales don’t mix well with Indian chutney.

Speaking of Indian chutney, the GCL entourage descended upon Udupi Palace (2543 W Devon Ave) this week for an evening of South Indian gastro enlightenment. South India is known for its religious tolerance, beautiful geography and India’s Silicon Valley; a visit to Bangalore, the region’s unofficial capital, promises slumdogs, millionaires, and lots of spontaneous Bollywood dancing. At Udipi Palace, expect suburban Indian families and the adventurous gringo. As for the Bollywood dancing, well, no one is going to stop you.

This week was the first time I was able to roll up to a GCL event in my own transportation. That’s right, ToucanSam bought the lesbian favorite, granola guzzling Subaru Impreza Outback Sport. Of course, due to a Chittlins’ scheduling error, 55% Blame and I showed up half an hour before anyone else. We kept ourselves busy chatting over some Dahi Vada and continued ordering appetizers as everyone showed up. The sampler plate itself might as well have been fried along with the random assortment of vegetables it came with. Only the samosa is worth mentioning. Of the other starters, the papdi chaat and dahi vada are well worth ordering; similar in nature, each delivers the yogurt and tamarind sauce combo with panache, one with crispy dough biscuits and the other over a black lentil donut.

Our other guest that evening were Miss Piggy, Uninvited 1st Year, and The Bania of Shaitan. As is customary at Indian restaurants, the Indians ordered for the table. We selected a tasting of South Indian specialties: three dosais, an utthapum, and two rice dishes. The favorites were the special rawa dosai and the besibele bath. The rawa dosai was crispy and paired very well with the coconut chutney. The besibele rice dish on the other hand is a rice daal mixture with peas, carrots, peppers and potatoes resembling a rice stew.

For dessert we were served tales of how The Bania and Miss Piggy met their respective partners. Sweet never tasted so cute. It seems the combination of misdirection and nonchalance is the foundation on which to build today’s successful relationship. Note to Coolwhip: if Chittlins starts to act like he isn’t interested, you’re so in.

From SoKo to LatAm, a GCL forged in fire

Now that I am in possession of a girlfriend, many have wondered whether a food blog conceived of subliminated sexual frustration can survive a fulfilling relationship (note: probs not that fulfilling on her end). Yes, as enjoyable as it is to have ToucanSam berate me while we sit in traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway (btw, a significant achievement in horrible urban planning and asinine civil engineering), GCL might never have happened if I had been able to choose between time with ToucanSam or a special lady. Still, the fuel that drives GCL was never loneliness in and of itself, but rather a larger sense of frustration and helplessness. As a result, with impending graduation and no concrete job prospects, my impotence before the world promises transcendent food blogging.

This week I met up with cognitive science powerhouses Sizzlenutz and Chlodnik to sample the vaunted ramen at Tanpopo. Unfortunately Sizzlenutz did some amateur hour leg work and didn’t bother to check hours of operation – real bush league, amirite? Walking around the Far North Side, Chlodnik pointed out the intriguingly named restaurant, The Money Shot. Needless to say, we knocked that setup out of the park. We decided to try Woo Chon Restaurant (5744 N California Ave) solely on the basis of its strategic location behind a shlubby Korean video store; however, finding a spot with real dolsot bi-bim-bop (hot stone pot-style Korean fried rice) mitigated the anguish of not supping on good ramen in the Chicago city limits. If you’re into K-food, consider yourself duly K-aware. This hidden gem provides genuine Korean cuisine at reasonable lunch prices.


Wednesday the original GCL duo along with Cambridge powerhouse Principal Blackman headed to South Loop in anticipation of a game night at Charades apartment. I have often dismissed the South Loop as a culinary wasteland – high rents and new construction favor mid-brow chain eateries rather than the sort of mom-and-pop independent spots that excite the gastro-venturer. Cafecito (26 E Congress Parkway) goes a long way towards not exactly redeeming but at least assuaging South Loop’s mediocrity. The chimichurri sauce in my choripan could have been a little more playful, but it packed enough zest to maintain my interest. ToucanSam spoke well of the sharpness in his provoletta, and Principal Blackman’s palomilla knocked some of the starch out his stuffy Ivy League cummerbund.

There is something poetic about Chicago institution the Tamale Man – a wandering Johnny Appleseed, only it’s more of a Juan Maiz, if you know what I mean. He might be a marketing genius. His brand would get lost in Pilsen; probably barred from North Side or Wrigleyville; but in frequenting the transitional (read: hipster) neighborhoods of western Chicago such as Logies or Ukrainian Village, he, like a maseca Goldilocks, found the white people niche that was just right to create a new media sensation. I heard about him often enough that when he and his tamale laden cooler were discretely leaving Happy Village (1059 N Wolcott Ave) I knew it was my GCL duty to drop my $5 for his namesake specialty. I can say that like a Mesoamerican Bill Cosby, the proof was indeed in the pork tamale pudding.

I hope that GCL is granted another year to continue its unique brand of food blogging without a safety net. If I put as much effort into my career development as I do into these entries, I would feel like less of a crumbum around my successful and motivated MBA classmates. If I could somehow convince the head of programming for the new, youth-focused Cooking Channel to make a show revolving around GCL, well, that would combine my twin passions for 1) exploring Chicago’s cheap food scene and 2) not holding a real job. I say the only way to atone for the woeful underrepresentation of brown people in broadcast television is to give ToucanSam and me our own show. I can probably scrounge up some vatos locos to march in front of corporate headquarters; ToucanSam’s entourage is like 1.1 billion strong and growing; and Sizzlenutz, well he can probably pull some Hollywood strings at his next Shabbat (wow, was that too Mel Gibson?).

Follow us on our food map

Valois - good for mandates and girlfriend. Or both at the same time

There were no third wheels on this tricycle. On Saturday, Chittlins, Coolwhip and I went to Valois (1518 E 53rd St) for a post-bacchanal pre-mass brunch. Fortunately the venue provides some anonymity making it the perfect place for a morning-after brunch. Also, let’s face it, its in Hyde Park. Who are you going to run into there? Not that anyone in our threesome had anything to hide. (Although the coats and sweaters on Chittlin’s bed might have a different story to tell.)

Before I get to the food, let me back up for a minute. Two weeks ago, Chittlins marked my triumphant return to Chicago by picking me up in his ride and taking Sizzelnuts and I out for a walk on the beach. If we were in a romantic comedy, we would have taken off our sandals, sat on the pier and made fun of people with metal detectors rummaging in the sand. Wait, that’s exactly what we did. We also tossed around the ‘what does it all mean’ discussion and finished off with berating Chittlins for parking the Scion 2 miles from the beach. The rest of the afternoon was lost in a haze of Chittlins one-liners and Lakers basketball.

Back to the food. Valois claims they should be patronized because only there, can you ‘see your food’. Presumably they are referring to the customer’s ability to watch their food being prepared by the 3 short-order chefs. Unfortunately, their intentions here are better than the resulting effect. ‘Seeing your food’ at Valois should be left to those with a stronger stomach than this patron. I don’t mind the occasional misplaced hair or stray eyelash in my food; I just don’t want to see the Eastern European cook from whence it came.

The whole experience starts with the ordering and finishes 10 feet away at the cash register. Between trying to ‘see your food’, navigating the line and answering the 43 questions (“hash browns? toast? brown/white? keep moving, OJ? coffee? butter? sugar?...” ) seeing the cash register is a relief. After that, the Valois experience becomes a Burger King or Arby’s experience. There’s nothing unique about it.

I ordered the Vegetable Omelet with cheese, hash browns, brown toast, an orange juice and a coffee. All under $8. Good, Clean Licks came under budget for once. The hash browns carried the dish; they were pan fried and left a little raw. The cheese tasted like it was in liquid form before it even got to the omelet, that’s an extra that should be avoided. Overall though, there was satisfaction all around. Coolwhip had the pancakes and Chittlins ordered the French toast. And outside, the Hyde Park Coffee Angels were bringing hot Dunkin Donuts coffee to the homeless. It warmed the heart.

Salam - a hummusy bridge to the heart

For our dedicated readers, consisting entirely of people who write this blog and people who appear on this blog, the new installment of GCL has been a long time coming. In my defense I had finals for which I didn’t particularly study for and dates with women that didn’t particularly like me. Procrastination and frustrated courtship are time consuming activities that leave little for self-involved food blogging.


At Chlodnik favorite Salam (4636 N Kedzie Ave) in the heart of Albany Park's Middle Eastern community, the vegetarian selections so overpowered the meat choices that it was criminal…were that disparity personified in a troubled and misunderstood jazz great, it would go by Felonious Monk. The Halal meat dishes were satisfactory; neither breaking new ground nor resetting the scale for Middle Eastern fare. Still the labna, fried cheese, and lentil soup earned a GCL first – a golden marker denoting a Chittlins fave on the GCL food map - solely on the strength of the vegetarian menu. This is of particular accomplishment considering that they neither serve nor allow booze on the premises.

The flavors were layered, though not nearly as complex as our diners’ personal lives, which if they were a food, could only exist as dishes in the nightmare kitchen of depraved, manic genius Thai chef. In her GCL debut, I Am The Law shared a her man troubles in a story that managed to make the emotionally retarded child that resides in the husk of this humble food voyeur seem like a positively well-adjusted understander of women. Any breakup email that starts with, “How was your trip to X? I hope you found the man of your dreams while there!” promises off-the-chart scores on Wow-Even-An-Emotionally-Retarded-Child-Like-Chittlins-Knows-Not-To-Do-That scale. This is of particular accomplishment considering that there has never been a woman that I’ve had a relationship with that hasn’t deserved an apology (“relationship” here defined as anything from a romantic liaison on through sharing an elevator).