El Chato - is this performance art?

This morning I stepped out to my scion to find a hawk tearing apart a pigeon on my car roof. Was this an omen? Was I the hawk and this is a favorable sign of the strength of my house and line? Or rather am I the hapless prey whose feather and guts had to be hosed off from my roof? Or maybe it is not an omen at all, but rather a reminder about the violent, random temporal nature of life.

Personally I find more meaning in my quest for sublime pastor. Leaving Chicago and returning to my beloved Southern California has been a mixed bag of emotions, but certainly the knowledge that superior Mexican food awaited me at every corner assuaged in part the sense of loss for that left behind. El Chato food truck (corner of Olympic and La Brea) has served late-night mid-city denizens for years, but with the recent blossoming of food truck culture with LA as its epicenter, even the humblest of roach coaches has developed an online following.

After an evening supporting the performing arts, Aphorism King and I needed instant pastor gratification, his earlier well seasoned steaks already a distant, digested memory. At $1 a piece, these small handfuls of grease and spice served their purpose.

Korean dudes next to baller, late-model German automobiles; banda members in matching performance outfits walking from one of the nearby Hispanic night clubs; a hipster with aggro calf tattoos riding a precariously high, self-made bicycle: It would be an interested first-year photography student project to document the eclectic clientèle that steps up to El Chato's 2'x 2' ordering window. I realized that I was much further from Lincoln Park's Mid West white frat culture than geographical distance implied. Bittersweet, like the pineapple finish to Big Star's pastor tacos.

< Aphorism King attempting to reenact his wide-eyed wonder at the bicycle guy mounting a seat that was a full 5 feet above street-level.

I took an operations class in business school, and even though I hated it, I couldn't help but recall several process flow concepts as I watched the efficient cooks quickly dispose of our order.

The center cannot hold

I have been told that I am "funnier in writing than in person" and also "not funny at all." And this is on dates with women who at some point found me palatable enough to agree on at least two hours of close proximity, one-on-one interaction. But they are wrong; I am very funny, even in person. Like the time I tried to ply a stubborn date with the classic "c'mooooooon. I paid for dinner!" Most of my dates end with me apologizing profusely, but I never really mean it because in my head I am already thinking, "I can't wait to tell the guys about this bon mot!" (yes, I drop French phrases like a pretentious asshole even in my own head)

The problem, of course, is the audience. If only my bros were around, I could get the immediate positive reinforcement I crave rather than having to wait until after I drop off the unappreciative lady at her place.

I bring this up because I am right in the long run, but I don't get the credit I deserve until much later if ever. Example: ToucanSam calls me up while stuck in rush hour traffic. He complains about the lone freeway from north suburbs into the city. I remind him that he spent two years audibly sighing, rolling his eyes, and saying "not this again" when I would complain about Chicago's piss-poor driving infrastructure as he sat in the passenger seat of MY car. Yes, ToucanSam, the view is different from the passenger seat than the driver's seat. Now apologize and mean it.

Or most recently with my OC dawgz when they suggested we try that new burger joint that just opened that's drawing so much attention: Five Guys. I told them that I had tried Five Guys while in Chicago and that it was nowhere near as good as our local In-N-Out, both for taste and for value. Compare the mental notes from recent GCL outtings:



Uru-Swati (2629 W Devon Ave)
- pani puri (hollow balls filled with spicy liquid; complex aftertaste)
- bhel (salad made out of interesting Indian shit)
- papdi chaat (Indian nachos made with slightly different Indian shit, or possibly the same Indian shit prepared differently. I honestly can't tell)
- vada pav (complex potato dumpling in unassuming hamburger guise. The evening's winner)

Sabri Nehari (2502 W. Devon Ave)
- Goat stew (complex broth, good if sparse meat on bones)
- Beef stew (beef falls apart in your fork: good sign. table competes to get the last meat scraps. everyone of course except for Chlodnik, who's pescotarianism continues to be a source of buzzkill in otherwise pleasant dinners)
- some paneer dish in yellow/red curry sauce and chickpeas (this was bomb. ordered extra naan just to sop up last remnants of sauce)

Now here are my mental notes for Five Guys.
- mediocre burger (shrug)
- peanut oil-cooked fries (ehhhh, okay)
- costs twice as much as In-N-Out

OC Dawgz, apology accepted. Especially you, Sunny Hills Homecoming Queen 2000. I'm not like your one year old infant you and hubby so cavalierly leave at home ("uhhh, he's asleep or something.").

Now here's a pan-regional bros on ManDates photo gallery, pictures ordered in an escalating scale of bro-ness.


The Sabri proprietor claimed the wait was only 15 minutes. 20 minutes later we asked someone else and they said it was only going to be 20 minutes. The trio of GCL contributors decided to take our business to Uru.

My OC Dawgz are my consumate bros. I do a lot of things with them that later on with my more "sophisticated" friends I disparage ironically. Will this innate contradiction within Chittlins destroy him? Probably.

Special thanks to Ms. I Am the Law for taking this pic and to her gentleman suitor, Guy I Fell in Love With After He Posted Mid-90s Lakers Highlights on My Wall, for driving me to airport.

Will I continue posting from OC? Possibly. I've been meaning to try an Indian Chinese cuisine place a few blocks from me, and at the Orange International Street Fair I was blown away by my first experience with loukoumades, those Greek honey dipped puffs. Will I find an OC-based adventurous gastronome partner in the mold of ToucanSam or Sizzlenutz? Maybe though they're irreplaceable. Will I find love? Not while the gene that codes for "female" also codes for "no sense of humor."

Piece - Towards Making It Whole

During this period of involuntary extended "vacation" and singlehood, I have found a source of richness that I had been ignoring for a while, mostly because this is not richness in the conventional sense of actually being worth something. I'm talking about friendship. ToucanSam along with life companion Superfrau and a German co-national of hers met me at Piece (1927 W North Ave). Piece has been gravel in my shoes for the last two years, its thin crust pizza and relaxed Bucktown ambiance spoken of in almost reverential tones by pizza cognoscenti as an antidote to the bloated, overly-cheesed Chicago-style. With my time in Chi winding down it was time to pick the gravel out of my shoe (in this case I've been wearing the same pair of canvas boater shoes sans socks for most of summer. Through the power of my Mexican thugness, I have transformed it from WASP to cholo).

The vegetarian pair ordered jalapeño, garlic and artichoke while German co-national and I shared bacon and Italian sausage. Verdict: the pizza definitely contributed to a socially binding evening, but it fell short of expectations. The grease pooling atop the cheese overwhelmed the nicely-executed crust and subtle sauce situation. I will remember the dinner less for the pizza however than for the the lawyer girl hectoring ToucanSam and me to attend a benefit for blind kids at a bar I particularly humbug. She said, "these kids truly have a light that we can't see" to which I said, "yeah, like sonar." Look, I was really proud of my timing...I mean, I came up with that right on the spot. I am my own greatest fan and critic. Wait, that's not true. HR interviewers are my greatest critics.


My opinion for the best pizza in Chicago in the GCL price-range: Cafe Nordstrom (520 N Michigan Ave). The nice decor belies the reasonable value. The coal fired pizzas have superior texture; the crust, sauce, toppings and cheese working in perfect coordination like UCLA Koreans on Modern Warfare 2.



Everytime visitors come to town, there is the imperative to take them to Chicago-style deep dish. Pequod's (2207 N Clybourn Ave) is as good as it gets, which is decent, but still, real thin crust pizza with good sauce and good cheese wins every day, twice a day, like a celebrity in court. Eating Chicago-style has become such a cultural experience however than what I consider the higher-order taste experience has been subsumed to the whims of tourism. Is there a life lesson in that? Probably but the really heavy piano music that I'm listening to as I write this make me only think of depressing ones.

Mariscos Fabulosos - it's not all sunshine and unicorns, but it mostly is

We all need a boost. Sometimes, unemployed and with nothing productive to contribute to society, we route our shirtless jogs through Boystown in the hopes of scoring some catcalls (hey, a compliment of my bod is still a compliment...ask Sizzlenutz how a former collegiate basketball player's appreciation for my weight lifting made my month).

Other times you are trying to build the American dream by coming to the land of opportunity and starting a restaurant catering to the Mexican diaspora. Mariscos Fabulosos (4318 W Fullerton) is located balls-deep in Logan Square, like way past the gentrification frontier. Specializing in sea food cuisine from the coastal Mexican state of Nayarit, Mariscos Fab opened its door in January by a family of native Nayarinos (actually, I have no idea how to refer to the inhabitants of Nayarit). They are trying to build up the buzz of their new enterprise and I'm glad to use this forum to get the word out.


They start you off with a complimentary swordfish ceviche tostada appetizer. It was a competent ceviche (once you've tasted Mo-Chica, all other cevies are categorized as either competent or non-competent), however I failed to translate the proprietress's warning about the accompanying salsa such that poor Chlodnik was reduced to tears by the generous dollop she dropped on her tostada. Even the king-size horchata goblet couldn't put out that fire. I thought that my innate Mexicanhood would protect me from the scorch but my lips burned for the rest of the evening after I Polished off Chlodnik's tostada (that's a pun because Chlodnik is Polish).

I ordered the langostinos (prawns) a la Nayarit while Chlodnik chose the halibut (I forget which style). They were both interesting gasto experiences, with Chlodnik's fillet the winner by far for its complex layering of pre-Colombian taste wisdom.


Of a definitely post-Mayan era was Chlodnik's custom unicorn and rainbow shirt. I suspect that despite her love for independent rock, art openings in transitional neighborhoods, and tortured pale males, Chlodnik's enjoyment of her shirt was non-ironical. At least my enjoyment of it wasn't.

90 Miles Cuban Café – Comparing Oranges to Grapefruits

Fat people leisurely jaywalking really rubs my goat (note: is that a real saying?). I would more readily accept genetic explanations for obesity if only they put a little hustle towards burning off that second Whopper. All I’m saying is your flower-pattern summer muumuu and crocs give you the mobility to hit a brisk trot on the crosswalk so the flow of traffic can continue.

So too with 90 Miles Cuban Café (2540 W Armitage Ave). No, actually that has nothing to do with 90 Miles. I’ve just been testy recently and goober Chicago drivers/pedestrians’ amateur antics have always been a rich source for Chittlins harangues.

90 Miles almost didn’t happen – the décor was too clean and the clientele too bourgeois for Sizzlenutz’s self-satisfaction (read: cultural masturbation). On his way towards 90 Miles he spotted a pair of Cuban places that from street level appeared to have more street credibility. However, since I had just finished my chest wailing bench press sesh with Mumbles, and my protein window was closing fast, we agreed to just sit down.

I ordered the Ropa Vieja sandwich with an empanada de chicharon, while Sizzlenutz settled on the classic Cubano. The meal itself was unremarkable. The place is BYOB and has nice ambiance, so it could be a sugar on the game location to impress an undemanding date. However the prices in person were about $2 higher than online. Big deal? Sorta. Maybe we had okay $6 sandwiches but subpar $9 ones. On the bright side, we ended up walking to those other Cuban places and they ended up being even shlubbier than our choice. I have to believe all things work out for the best.

In any case, the company was more than delightfully complex enough to make up for the food. The differences between men and women makes up the whole of the Western comedy canon, still, Sizzlenutz finds a way to rehash old material into something refreshing. He is very much like a tubby person that gets to the crosswalk, sees that the countdown for the light to change has begun, and, doing a mental calculation, realizes that he won’t make it to the other side at a comfortable waddle without inconveniencing the motorists waiting for him to cross. Like a decent, socially responsible citizen, he therefore waits for the next one. It’s a fine point, to be sure, but one worth noting.

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?