Chilly, I Mean Chili in Chicago

There is nothing like a long commute to spike the appetite. Such was the case when I was coming into downtown from work. Driving in third gear for most of the ride into the city was not only aggravating, but it was shaving off time that I had figured I would spend in the kitchen getting good use out of one of my many cookbooks. What was I to do? Where was I to go? What would I have? I pulled into the Near North area of downtown, parked, and walked along a familiar block that I had strolled past when I had worked downtown.

Rockit Bar and Grill at 22 W. Hubbard Street was one of the restaurants that I had passed many times but had never stopped to sample. It was at the moment of standing in front of the restaurant that I decided that I would go in and see what they had on the menu. From the relaxed, lounge style, I had begun to think that I had made the correct choice for my dinner destination.

There was a flyer that had listed dates that specific chilies would be prepared for the restaurant’s fourth annual chili festival. Being a little bold, I ordered something completely off the menu and out-of-place. I asked if I could have a flight of chili. Now, yes, I knew that this was not an ordinary request and I was even willing to abide by whatever price was set from the kitchen. With a quizzical smile, the server took my order for orange juice and the menu and she said she would inquire as to whether the chef would entertain such a request.

After several minutes, out came the chef. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach like that which you get when you are about to receive news. I had asked for something ridiculous, out in left field, not a part of the equation. She had mentioned that my order was the first request of the nature that had been posed. And then before me she placed three cups, each filled with what looked superbly appetizing and what tasted — I soon found out — delicious. The flight was a specially made preview for the restaurant’s media audience that night. I had a pork chili, a chicken chili, and a bison chili sitting before me, not quite yelling at me to put my napkin on my lap and get started, but just sitting there looking so tempting. Being a man of weak fortitude when it comes to good food, I picked up the first of three spoons and complied.

Allow me to bring you to the table and present to you what had me in such a state of bliss. The pork chili was green chili rubbed pork shoulder, white beans, queso fresco, and tomatillo salsa. The taste had a striking resemblance to eating enchiladas. My diet has not included pork in quite a few years, but the pork chili was incredible. Tender pork shoulder and the whole chili dish loaded with flavour, I knew from the first cup in the flight of chili that the evening was off to an outstanding start. I had a slice of bread to reset my palate and then I engaged the chicken chili. Happiness ensued. Jerk braised chicken, pinto beans, Habanero peppers, jack cheese, cilantro, and lime created a rather tasty bowl of satisfaction. Now, mostly when people hear of jerk chicken, the Jamaican delicacy comes to mind. Not overpowering, but well-balanced to let the chili come through, the chicken chili was a notch up and deserving, says my stomach. Another slice of bread for the palate and I was ready for the third cup of chili. The final cup, or highlight I shall say, was the bison chili. Ground buffalo, chorizo sausage, black beans, chipotle peppers, and cheddar cheese made for the most remarkable smoky flavoured entrée that I have had in a very, very, incredibly long time. For some reason, I kept thinking of Galveston, TX, and barbecue. This chili could be truth serum, although I would probably keep telling lies so that I could have more served to me. What I will say is that if there is ever a chili cook-off and I am competing, I will cheat by ordering a large pot of bison chili and entering it. This is, of course, our very own naughty secret.

Needless to say, I was quite happy and well-fed when I finally put the third spoon down. Remembering the flyer about the chili festival at Rockit Bar and Grill, I inquired as to a listing of dates at the Wrigleyville location since the dates for the Hubbard Street location were given on the flyer that I had. I keep a constant hankering for food and I figured that it would be ideal for me to have an idea as to when I may want to venture back for perhaps another flight.

If you find yourself in River North, head over to Rockit Bar and Grill at 22 Hubbard Street on any of the following days for some chili.

Date	Chili	Recipe
1/23/2012	Pork Chili	green chili rubbed pork shoulder, white beans, queso fresco and tomatillo salsa
1/24/2012	Lamb Chili	ground lamb, lamb sausage, chickpeas, bell peppers, tomatoes
1/25/2012	Lamb Chili	ground buffalo, chorizo sausage, black beans, chipotle peppers, cheddar cheese
1/26/2012	Chicken Chili	jerk braised chicken, pinto beans, Habanero peppers, jack cheese, cilantro and lime
1/27/2012	Beef Chili	Texas-style no bean, chili rubbed beef brisket, corn tortillas, sour cream

For a bit of food bliss while lingering around in Wrigleyville, the 3700 N. Clark Street location will be serving up bowls of chili on the following dates.

Date	Chili	Recipe
1/26/2012	Chicken Chili	jerk braised chicken, pinto beans, Habanero peppers, jack cheese, cilantro and lime
1/27/2012	Beef Chili	Texas-style no-bean, chili rubbed beef brisket, corn tortillas, sour cream
1/28/2012	Lamb Chili	ground lamb, lamb sausage, chickpeas, bell peppers, tomatoes
1/29/2012	Bison Chili	ground buffalo, chorizo sausage, black beans, chipotle peppers, cheddar cheese

One thing I have come to realize is that I have established a bit of a daring edge with asking for flights of food and flights of drinks. It has become quite a nice way to try several menu items in smaller portions in one setting. However, I am going to have to start being a little more cognizant of my experimentation. Then again, have to ask myself: Would I have had three outstanding recipes of chili placed before me had I not been so precocious? Chances are I would have missed out on sampling three delectable bowls of perfection. Then I find myself slappping my hand and coming back to reality. And I then search for a free date on my calendar for a return visit to Rockit Bar and Grill before the end of the month, this time to the Wrigleyville location on 29 January 2012. Wonder why?

Out with the Old, In With the Wow

Please return your seats and your trays to their upright positions. We will be landing shortly.

I have been on and off of airplanes so much during 2011 that there was a point when I knew exactly when the announcement was about to come on. During one of my most recent trips, the announcement was a reminder of me returning a city that I only visit for a few days annually. Jackson, MS, was my destination for a quick escape from Windy Chicago and from London fog. During my years of living in Jackson — so very, very, very long ago — I remembered downtown and two buildings that were blots on the downtown’s landscape. There was the Standard Life building, which is the tallest building in downtown. The other building was the King Edward Hotel. Both buildings, vacant and abandoned for decades, had been nothing more than markers indicating a city that had come to a standstill when the doors to both structures closed for business. Fast forward to 2011 and the King Edward Hotel is now the Hilton Garden Inn that boasts apartments, hotel rooms, and a fabulous restaurant.

My childhood best friend and I have a ritual. We usually, if not always, catch up with each other the afternoon before I return to Chicago — or destination X — because that is generally the only time I would come outside for any length of time when I am in Jackson. This time we made it a point to get together to clown well before my return north. He had recommended that the restaurant at the Hilton Garden Inn should be a fantastic place for lunch. Having spoken highly of a meal the chef had prepared for some doctors at an event and with me being a food addict, there was no way I was going to turn my nose up at sampling something worthy of a bravo. So it was off to downtown Jackson to see what the transition was from King Edward Hotel to Hilton Garden Inn at 235 W. Capitol Street, and what the kitchen had to place a smile on my face.

While my friend and I waited for one of my high school classmates and her sister and another of my friend’s high school classmates, we feasted on homemade yeast rolls twisted with fresh spinach and topped with toasted black pepper and butter. Clearly, this was an indicator that all was going to be well in the land. These were not frozen rolls that had been defrosted and placed into the oven for warmth and then garnished with butter and spinach, no. These rolls were so delicious that my friend and I indulged ourselves while we waited for the others. When the others did arrive, that was when we began our venture into Food Wonderland.

First to the table was a fresh vegetable salad with a pancetta vinaigrette in a balsamic reduction. Being a pescatarian — that being a vegetarian who indulges seafood — the ham in the pancetta vinaigrette simply went down without complaint. I have a feeling that the absence of it may have taken away from the salad. Served in concert with the vegetable salad was a dollop of goat cheese over a pomegranate syrup and topped with black pepper. Goat cheese, to me, has a consistency and a mild hint of cream cheese, so I am always pleased whenever it arrives at the table tempting me to feast on it. Having recently delighted my palate to some baked goat cheese in chunky tomatoes, I knew that the cheese would leave me with a smile. Yes, it did, indeed.

Second to the table was puréed pumpkin soup with a shrimp and spinach. I have always been a fan of sweet potato soup and kale, so I initially had thoughts of the bitter after-taste of pumpkin from pumpkin pie when we were told the ingredients. Very much to my surprise, this was not pumpkin with the bite that gets you at the back of the jaw. Could it have been the addition of the plump shrimp? Could it have been the accent from the spinach? Could it have been that the pumpkin was prepared to satisfaction? I prefer to believe that it was a combination of all three, with the latter being the most outstanding part of the recipe. I could see myself having this tasty soup all through the autumn and never tiring of it.

Third to the table was a roasted turkey breast in a coconut and curry sauce with spiced rice, garnished with fried onions and fresh cilantro. Somewhat reminiscent of Thai food, I was in heaven with each bite. Never mind the fact that the flavours were not having competition, but the roasted turkey — there goes my vegetarianism for the year — was so succulent and juicy that it was hard to keep on the fork. Well, once it went on the tongue, yes, it was hard to keep on the fork. Perfection on a plate and me giving full acknowledgement with every whiff of the delicacy is the best way that I could describe the experience.

Not quite completed, the fourth dish to grace the table was a skirt steak encrusted red fish, accompanied by a cilantro simple syrup. One can never have enough cilantro in his or her dish. Well, I should clean that up and make it personal. I can never have enough cilantro in my food. And I will never have a fit about having my share of any tasty fish placed before me. The only time I winced was when I had gotten to the last few bites and did not want the moment to end. I could have left a bit in honour of those who could not join us. But those individuals were, no doubt, too busy anyway. So I heaved a heavy sigh and finished the last morsels sans any remorse. By now, I was operating in slow motion.

For dessert there were two desserts — one for those whose diets included meat and one for those whose diets did not. There was a bacon and cinnamon roll bread pudding topped with a Chivas Regal gastrique. I let go of the pescatarian wagon for this one and performed a natural act of eating without shame. My mouth burst with fireworks and flavours. I never would have considered bacon to be an engaging recipe ingredient for any dessert and the bacon was prepared so that you only got a pop of the taste on the first bite and then it became faint after eating the bread pudding. Most restaurants would have a sensation akin to duelling pianos going about the tongue, teeth, and jaws. Not so with this dessert, as it was apparently prepared for just a hint of the bacon while the bread pudding stole the show. For those who were not fans of meat, red meat being at the top of their list, Mississippi mud pie was served. By now, all I could do was look at the dessert and ponder its magic. My language was garbled, my mind was roaming, and once the slurring became painfully evident, photographing the mud pie — with shaky hands — was all that I could muster.

Nick Wallace, who is the executive chef for the restaurant at Hilton Garden Inn, came to our table to welcome us to the restaurant, of which we thanked him profusely for hosting us for a chef’s table lunch. A young man in his early thirties, he employs a “waste not” mantra that adds appeal to his recipes as what may be a garnish in one menu item may be a base in another menu item. And use of local ingredients means freshness in what goes into the culinary works. It was clear from the smells and tastes of what came from the kitchen. While the King Edwards Hotel has relinquished its abandoned status to being an establishment with proper pomp and circumstances, the restaurant shines. Attentive and knowledgeable wait staff and a dynamic chef, well before you complete your meal, chances are you will shout Bravo! If I did not have such British polishing, I would have shouted in the restaurant. However, I waited until I was in the car far, far, away from listening ears.

And Now for Our Regularly Scheduled Program

To the tune of “The Little Drummer Boy”

Eat, they told me
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
There’s so much food to eat
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
I made an ugly face
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
I had a foodgasm
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
Chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
Chomp, cha, chomp, chomp

When my flight from Washington, DC, landed in Chicago, I was not a good ten paces in the terminal before I dropped to my knees and kissed the ground. If I had my way to describe things, I would say that God shows favour in Chicago because after several months in Washington, DC, the last people to turn their backs on that city are those who choose to live there. It is very humbling having someone scoff at your career in data management and statistics — that being a politician or a lawyer is viewed as worthy of sitting to the left of God, I guess. And of all things to lack, the food was so excessively bland that I wanted to bark. But the one guarantee that I knew with certainty was that I was returning to Chicago, to a world of culture and a variety of damn good food.

I spent Saturday unpacking, washing, and packing again because I will be going away for the Christmas holiday. Happiness! On top of those personal chores, I was running all over the city test driving Volkswagen Jetta cars. Merry Christmas to me. By the end of the day and into the night, I was too tired to contemplate cooking and I did not want the smell of take-away in my new car. So I slept that night with a huge smile on my face and an agenda for the next day.

It was off to Hyde Park in Chicago to a familiar restaurant of days past — Medici on 57th Street. Again, I say that I do believe God shows favour in Chicago. With good parking Karma, I found myself going into Medici and greeted with the most pleasant smile before taken to a seat where I could begin to overcompensate for the last few months in Washington, DC. Because the restaurants in Chicago have some allowance for a tweak to a menu item, I handed the menu back to the waitress and told her to surprise me. Out came a cup of baked goat cheese with chunky tomatoes and pesto, served with toast. Let me just say that you have not had a dip worthy of delighting yourself over until you have had the baked goat cheese at Medici on 57th. The waitress had said that it was her favourite and I played like it was marginally okay all while I did everything except run my finger around the inside of the bowl and lick it. Then came the shrimp chipotle fettuccine and broccoli. I have had fettuccine with shrimp, but spicing it up with chipotle added a twist that I had found surprisingly outstanding. The broccoli was crunchy, but not raw because it must have been steamed. It burst with flavour. And the shrimp were plentiful, considering they were large and plump.

The shrimp chipotle fettuccine was incredibly filling. But the waitress had said to me that I should have a dessert. So, I had the entrée boxed up so that I could take care of business with some dessert. She recommended the apple pie, which came with large slices of apple and caramel. This apple pie had a shortbread crust. Imagine that. Now imagine having that lovely bowl of bliss with vanilla ice cream. My eyes rolled about in my head and I stifled the moans and groans that would have escaped my lips had I been at my home eating the dessert. To wrap up the whole experience, I had Mexican hot chocolate. We are not talking about melted chocolate in hot water with cinnamon sprinkled on top. No, this was a cup of scalded milk and chocolate with cinnamon do correctly. I finally moaned, much to the laughter of those around me.

I will admit that family in DC did take me to some restaurants that were worthy of writing home about. Then again, those restaurants were in Maryland and in Virginia. It may be because of gentrification that Washington, DC, falls short of cultural diversity and that kind of absence hampers cultural norms like food selection. Chicago celebrates cultural diversity and even the gentrification that is filling in the Windy City still does not have enough influence to have the food pander to a single palate. If you are eating Stepford cuisine in Chicago, chances are it is because you are snacking on a frozen dinner.

I’m going to burn in hell
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
I ate too much to tell
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
I need elastic pants
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
Another foodgasm
Cha, chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
Chomp, cha, chomp, chomp
Chomp, cha, chomp, chomp

There’s No Place Like Home

It is the middle of November and my body is having a bit of a shock from lack of ethnic food. Screaming! The coup de grace came last night when I went to dinner with some friends who swore to the four corners of the earth that I would love the restaurant where they were taking me. Off to Virginia I went to some down-homey American restaurant with meat, meat, grease, and more meat on the menu. Not wanting to come across as a prude, which I should have, I partook of a few items on the menu. Being a vegetarian who will eat fish and will not cringe at the presence of chicken, the pickings were slim for my palate — the ubiquitous salad bar screamed rabbit food and I simply am not a purist vegan in that vein. Fried this. Fried that. Beef. Pork. Ribs. Gravy with globs of grease in it. And in the middle of the night, my matchbox corporate apartment room spun like a roulette wheel. I am still draining myself of the ginger tea I had to prepare and drink non-stop to cease my stomach from bubbling. The room was still spinning by mid afternoon and when I last looked in the mirror, I do believe the green tinge to my skin has diminished some. However, the thought of what I ate last night makes my eyes cross still.

While I give big ups to Washington, DC, for being a bastion of job opportunities, museums, people who talk about themselves — ad nauseum — and lots of tourist sites, there are those very important things that make a city most appealing to me — culture and food. Washington, DC, is very homogeneous. Many thanks to Ma and Pop Williams for not breeding a Stepford child. Being a product of the global community, I have more interest in being in settings that promote individuality. When it comes to food, the saying, “Variety is the spice of life,” comes to mind. Searching for small-owned, minority-owned, or independently-owned ethnic eateries is a bit of a scavenger hunt. Surprisingly so, because Washington, DC, being the capital of America, should boast the top ethnic restaurants in the whole of North America. Big box, upscale fast food, hotel restaurants, and chain restaurants dominate the culinary landscape. Even some of the coffee houses are like Target stores converted into lounges with dim lighting. There is no lack of quantity, for sure. But there is an absence of community that I have become accustomed to in Chicago, unless you go with a group of friends. After last night’s adventure, I think being set on fire would be more pleasurable than returning to any establishment that falls into one or more of the aforementioned categories.

I have one co-worker who is a vegetarian. She recently gave me a list of the greatest vegetarian and vegan-friendly restaurants in the city. Yes!!! A contact on my Flickr page saw some of my photos I had taken at a few of the small, ethnic restaurants where I have gone and he offered a few suggestions that have made there way to the top of my list. Yes!!! With the city being relatively small and quick to walk within a reasonable number of miles, having Google Maps on my cell phone has led me to some Thai, Ghanaian, French, and German eateries. I found the stretch of independent restaurants in Adams Morgan that reminded me of the long stretch of Clark Street in Chicago’s Lincoln Park and Lakeview. I wandered upon U Street, so reminiscent of Wicker Park up through Logan Square. There is Foggy Bottom that reminds me of Hyde Park. There are some chi-chi restaurants akin to those found in Streeterville and Gold Coast. But the insides of my jaws have popped with flavour only a few times and I have done my share of eating since I have been in DC.

The top restaurants and cafes where I have gone since being in Washington, DC, are as follows — with links to those having websites:

• Absolute Thai
• Aroma Cafe at 2401 Pennsylvania Ave., NW
• Baked and Wired
• Bread and Chocolate
• Bukom West African Restaurant
• Busboys and Poets
• Charmthai Thai Restaurant at 2514 L Street, NW
• Creme Cafe & Lounge
• Dukem Ethiopian Restaurant
• Ghana Cafe
• Java Green
• La Fourchette
• LiteStars
• Taj of India
• Tu-O-Tu

Okay, so the restaurant scene is not all that bad. But a food hound such as myself knows how to scout out the good eats wherever they may be found and spin straw into gold, even if it is not like stepping outside my condominium to a bevy of ethnic wonders in my Logan Square community. Having had some rather nice weather for this autumn, I have been able to get out of the apartment on the weekends and see where the culinary talent is hiding. There are pockets and one thing I have discovered is that it is imperative to get to these little gems as soon as the doors open because others like me appreciate finer things — like authenticity in their ethnic food and flavour. Between now and the time I return north to Chicago and all of its excitement, I will definitely sample the recommendations from my co-worker and Flickr friend. Know this to be true.

My time is nearing, for I shall return to Chicago where I shall indulge myself to excess on what my body has been craving since I left for DC. I already have my calendar set for the Cuban cafe, Thai restaurant, Japanese sushi bar, Brazilian restaurant, and Trinidad hole in the wall where all I have to do is walk in and greetings ring about on first name familiarity. Then I will be off to home to celebrate the end of the year with family. If you could see the smile that I have on my face, knowing that Ma Williams will have the house smelling of inviting aromas and me a few days later across the bed, on the floor, and up against the wall trying to get into a pair of jeans that will have somehow shrank between the time I will have gotten to her house and me stuffing myself to completion.

Off to the kitchen for some more ginger tea: slumber insurance. I do believe that I will be fine enough in the morning to get up and prepare some breakfast — scrambled eggs with cream cheese in it, avocado with lime, and blueberry waffles. Of course, I will get to pour some syrup that cost me damn near $7.00 from Whole Foods on the waffles.

Ending Song to Carol Burnette Show

It was a Friday night. I am soon to depart Chicago for Washington, DC, where for the next three months I will be on weekend scavenger hunts for restaurants to rival those in Chicago. I must say that Chicago has made it impossible for any other city in the world to best it in the cuisine department — that is unless you go to Melbourne, Australia, where you are guaranteed to shout from the rafters that you have been to food Mecca. But some critics with mild palates have stamped San Francisco as the top food haven in America. Far be it from me to debate someone who has never exhausted himself or herself to great satisfaction at a dining establishment in Second City.

My circle of friends had a proper send-off for me. We met at Tasting Room at 1415 W. Randolph Street in Chicago’s Near West Loop. Right at the edge of one of Chicago’s premier locations that houses swanky boutiques, fantastic restaurants, coffee houses, fancy shops, and a demographic consisting of artists, bankers, lawyers, engineers, and the like, Tasting Room was a most inviting choice. There are two floors that you may choose for meeting to sip an aperitif or two and sample tasty delights. The bottom floor has a full bar and a generous seating area of tables and lounge chairs. Sweet. And there is the second floor that has a wide-open loft feel with plenty more tables and lounge seating. Windows, tall and wide, face downtown and you see the splendour of the skyscrapers with lights painting the windows while you enjoy company. This is exactly what happened for my friends and me this particular Friday evening.

I have lost track of the number of times I have been to Tasting Room, spanning as far back as 2009. The quality of the food has always been a magnet that draws me back. The knowledge of the wait staff, and I do believe the server we had this time is a sommelier, exceeds that of what you will find at most casual dining establishments. Tasting Room is not for the frugal, but at the same time, it is not one to cause fear of going broke. With such splendid service and great space, it is an excellent location for a gathering of small friends or a send-off with a large party. And because you are certain to find at least one bottle of wine worthy of taking home, may I recommend the adjoining wine shop? Yes, I may.

We all ordered flights of wine, the names relating to the Rat Pack that was so famous during the 1980′s. The white wines were attributed to the female cast of the Rat Pack: Ally Sheedy, Molly Ringwald, Demi Moore, and others. The red wines had names linked to Judd Nelson, John Cusack, Michael Anthony Hall, Emilio Estevez, and other male characters of the bunch. It was a rather touching theme, one that made me aware of how old I am because I remember all of those Rat Pack movies — “Breakfast Club,” “Pretty in Pink,” “Sixteen Candles,” “Better Off Dead,” and several other worthy movies from that group that makes me wince when I see picture shows by the present ilk of silver screen Thespians. The table before us held flatbread pizzas — one with ricotta cheese and spinach, another with olives and pine nuts, and a margherita pizza topped with fresh tomatoes. We grinned as we delighted ourselves on Bruschetta with sweet, dried cranberries. A crab cake sandwich with spicy, authentic onion rings appeared from the kitchen and were dealt a swift end. And the piave cheese fondue that was ideal for the small group was well-received, as was evident from the fact that we had all but wiped the fondue bowl to completion. White bread, rye bread, potatoes, apples, and chicken swirled around in piave cheese and then popped into our mouths without hesitation. We all smiled.

When the night ended, I remembered the start of the lyrics to the song that Carol Burnette used to sing at the end of her variety show: It’s so nice we had this time together. The thing that left me with a smile is that I also remembered that the show came on again the next week. The laughter, commiseration, and fellowship that I have with my circle will resume when I return. But now that I have been so informed of how warm winters are in Washington, DC, I may want to work out some arrangement where I spend the summer in Chicago and winters in DC. I can suffer through not going to a Chicago restaurant for a few months. Well, I can try to convince myself of that. I guess.

Authenticity

Earlier this week I went to one of the Cuban restaurants where I had gone in January — Cafecito. This time a colleague who had recommended the restaurant accompanied me on my visit. Upon entry, the owner greeted me by name and I greeted him by name. We chatted at length and when I introduced my colleague, he asked if she was the one who had told me about the restaurant. He had read the journal entry I had written about my experience at Cafecito and his recollection of the statement I had given about my colleague recommending the place was very telling. His brand of authenticity will be missed greatly.

Throughout the week, I finally experienced the bittersweet moment that I knew would come eventually, with me soon to depart Chicago. I got a chance to meet with a few past co-workers, great friends, family, a past supervisor, and several others who have become significant parts of my circle. They jokingly rubbed in the fact that my constant appetite will keep me in some eatery in DC stuffing my jaws and that I will perhaps gain weight. They gave me names of cafés, restaurants, and holes in the wall that will certainly please the palate. A few paid for my Chicago Symphony Orchestra tickets and one volunteered to take my Chicago Lyric Opera subscription. And they all blocked my time for the remainder of my stay so that we could fellowship. Their brand of authenticity will be missed greatly.

On Friday night, I returned to a certain Korean barbecue restaurant in Chicago’s North Side named San Soo Gab San. Teeming with people, this house of all good eats was perfect for escaping wet, dreary weather. Rainy on the outside, warm and toasty on the inside, one of my great friends and I had decided to meet to get our fill of countless little bowls of edibles, and entrée of a savoury noodle dish, and meat on a hibachi. With cameras in hand and a camcorder, too, this time, I was ready. And my great friend was equally as ready as he brought his fantastic camera to capture the impressions left on the table for us to address and the final snapshots of how aggressive we were with the treats set before us.

For anyone who has gone to any Korean barbecue restaurant, you are well aware that nothing comes to the table ala American fare. Little bowls of this, that, and the other are stacked on the table in whatever spot available. When you think that there is no more room because an entrée has arrived at the table and plates of raw meat so that you can grill yourself have been brought, the servers figure out how to move things around to make more room for additional small bowls. Aye, aye, aye! Kimchee, potato salad, potatoes, lettuce, spiced pickles, bean sprouts, spiced tofu, water vegetables, peanut sauce, and things that you simply eat so that you can make space are there for the sampling. Although I am primarily vegetarian, albeit not one leading a crusade against eating meat, I had some chop chae. This plate of happiness — clear noodles, chopped beef, onions, and scallions — went down the gullet with no complaint and no wicked side effects. Well, that is unless you count being sleepy afterwards a side effect. There was bulgolgi, which is well-seasoned beef, shredded nicely, and doctored with a splendid amount of spices that went on the grill and cooked to bliss. Same was the case with the lip-smacking chicken. Gobbled up with all of the small side dishes, my great friend and I did one of the most awful things afterwards: we went and had gelato at Paciugo in Lakeview. I am not talking about a manageable scoop of one flavour either. No, there were four scoops stuffed into our individual cups and tended to with utmost diligence. Oh the shame of it all.

Saturday I spent a moment downtown taking in some architectural photography. Most of it was inside because the wind that whipped back and forth from Lake Michigan was a bit more nippy than I had anticipated. I visited the Chicago Cultural Centre and kicked my self, literally, for having not gone before now. The architecture, the attention to detail, the glass dome, the Tiffany dome, and the moment of relaxation that gave such ideal escape were exactly what I needed. After a few hours had passed, my belly started growling. Haha. Another great friend from Phuket, Thailand, met me downtown at a Thai restaurant after my photography session. Having gone to the restaurant, My Thai, it was great being able to see the manager and constant wait staff one last time. Where it became a quiet moment was when it dawned on my Thai friend and me is that we both are leaving Chicago, he to return to Thailand, me to go to DC. He was one of the first people I had met when I moved to Chicago seventeen years ago, an authentic friend who taught me how to speak in Thai in exchange for me giving him enough in French. Saying lacone, which means good-bye, sounded so final and it left me quiet for far longer than I could manage.

This weekend ended with me catching up with the aforementioned colleague — who really is more like family — who had suggested the Cuban restaurant to me. We met at Eggsperience, one of the American breakfast, brunch, and lunch restaurants in Chicago’s River North. We had fluffy pancakes, crisp waffles, scrambled eggs with cream cheese, freshly squeezed orange juice, a banana smoothie, and plenty of laughter. A quick walk over to Intelligencia, we watched the barrister prepare our coffee through some brewing process that looked more like a science experiment than mere percolating-and-pour. We took in a free concert at Chicago Cultural Centre, given by Chicago Chamber Orchestra. And a brilliant finish to the day was dinner at Tamarind, which is a Pan-Asian restaurant in Chicago’s South Loop, where we had chicken masala, spicy salmon maki, and another maki that was incredibly catchy to the eye and filling to the tummy. Of all days, I left home sans my camera. The food was journal-worthy.

The upcoming week will come and go in the twinkling of a moment. As I look back over the restaurants that I have visited over the past several years, I am amazed truly at how many I have covered. I never had any intention of putting a restaurant on the blog site that had food unsatisfactory to my palate or service that was not pleasing to my sensibilities. To date, there was not one that failed. There were the magnetism of flavours, outstanding service, and authenticity — there is that word again — that kept me returning. I cannot bottle my moments and place them on a shelf, but I still have records of my adventures. My dining experiences and my relationships have been constants that have kept me smiling. As I go into this final week, I will savour the precious memories and a little thing that the world could use more of: authenticity. Until the last supper…

A Washington, DC Alphabet Soup Blog, Possibly

Yesterday my supervisor and a vice president ran into my office — with the usual emergency gesticulations — and posed a question to me.

We understand that you would like to work from our DC location. How about sooner than later?

There was a bittersweet moment I then faced. I will be going to Washington, DC, to work on a project through the remainder of the year that could have been salvaged well in advance of its current behind-schedule, over-budget state. Chicago is by far the greatest city in America other than New York City and this immediate need had me thinking fast. Sixteen years in Chicago have resulted in a love affair with this metropolis. My doctor, dentist, church, personal tailor, friends, family, restaurants, my large three-bedroom condominium, Chicago Symphony Orchestra tickets, Lyric Opera tickets, artistic inspirations, and countless other trimmings are here. Washington, DC, is a fabulous city and the project will be saved now that I bring my competence to the table, albeit a case of cleaning up after the elephant, and there are other amenities that make DC very appealing. I will look forward to the restaurants, of course, and work on a personal relationship with a certain attorney who I have never fallen out of love with. Some asked why she won’t move to Chicago. That would require her taking the bar for Illinois. It is easier for me to go to her.

Many people say that sudden changes wreck their appetites or spike their appetites. For me, I think I eat so much that I never have time to consider whether I am waffling between locking myself in my condo and “dealing with it” or filling my belly to capacity. Worrying is not an option, as it cuts into my time planning which cuisine I should indulge. Such was the case today when I had plans to go to Hyde Park to get coffee from an independent coffee-house that always serves the best coffee around. In the spirit of Chicago’s finest — and I do not mean the police — I passed by a cafe and sushi bar on my way to the coffee shop. The Sit Down Cafe and Sushi Bar at 1312 E. 53rd Street was on the path and was a proper option for getting food. I figured I would then have coffee as an after-lunch drink.

The temperatures were a bit brisk, but not cold. September is gone and October is a whisper away, an indication that autumn is upon us. I chose to sit outside to enjoy my food rather than being inside. Chicago has several months of cold weather that results in spending a lot of time inside on the general principle. Besides, it was 53rd Street in Hyde Park, which is not bad for people-watching and enjoying a little outdoor ambience. The server gave me a menu and a wine list, of which I handed the wine list back since 2:00 PM in the afternoon is a bit too early to take liquid swigs, for me.

The menu was, shall we say, all over the place. I saw prosciutto, pasta fagiole soup, jambalaya stew, Mediterranean caprese, pizza, and sushi. Acknowledging that the menu catered to the palate that loves ethnic food, there were too many ethnicities on one menu. After seeing Japanese chefs behind the counter, I settled for Japanese fare. My order consisted of ebi tempura, which was tempura shrimp, spicy mayo, cucumber. Another favourite that I ordered was unagi maki — fresh water eel, cucumber, and sweet soy sauce. And third was a spider roll. Deep fried soft shell crab, cucumber, and sweet soy sauce rolled rounded out my sample for the afternoon. Considering The Sit Down Cafe had several ethnic menu items, the maki and roll were outstanding Japanese items. The shrimp, eel, and crab were all fresh, as were the ingredients used with them. Satisfying is one word that I shall use to describe how I received each bite. You would have had to see my facial expressions to understand just how good it was.

The server that I had initially came outside and talked with me for quite a bit. Noticing me photographing the food, she was curious as to whether I was a food journalist. The service was already top, but the added touch of engaging me in banter rather than merely taking my order and bringing the food made the experience that more pleasant. Even a few patrons who had come outside stopped and watched as I was capturing the pre-moment before I began my gobbling session — with dignity, of course. When the bill came, I nodded in appreciation for having had such a wonderful meal without being left with an expression of shock from a high price tag. I wish I had gone to The Sit Down Cafe long before now. Then again, my timing is not always perfect.

After leaving The Sit Down Cafe, I thought about Washington, DC. I know that there are countless restaurants there that will leave me sated, smiling my stupid smile, and making plans for some other eatery to sample. The project is to go for a couple of months with the intention of going through the remainder of the year. But with me preparing myself to wear my heart on my shirtsleeves for the attorney, these next few months may stretch longer. If she and I can put aside being such power players and having very, very strong personalities — and I should say this in first person only — then 2011 could be my final year in Chicago. There very well may be a Washington, DC Alphabet Soup on the horizon.

When You Wish Upon a Star

Makes no difference where you are. Hmm. I think it all depends on where you are.

When I was in undergraduate, a bored applied mathematics major who picked up a second major in computer science — and was even more deadpan with nothing to do but sit through tiresome study sessions and ace every test — I often extended a few weekends with trips to the Big Easy. New Orleans with all of its grit, grime, establishments that stayed open and indulged those of us who were eighteen years old or older, and two or more weird characters stumbling through some door and falling flat on their faces in front of you, it was a nice escape from calculus equations and programming code. Then I graduated and moved to Berkeley for graduate school where hugging trees, being awakened at night by tremors, and eating brownies with special ingredients mixed in ruled.

Long gone are my days of being so footloose and fancy free. I have a job that pays me enough to keep Uncle Sam smiling, a mortgage that beats letting an apartment, property taxes that make me bark like a dog, an appetite that has me struggling with the zipper in my pants, and a love of photography that keeps me in some place clicking away with any one of my cameras. I lost count after the fourth digital camera. On the photography front, I am taking another photography class: this one in photojournalism. Granted the extortion I used to do years ago would have looked great on some walls instead of in specially packaged envelopes — the statutes of limitation have long passed, it was that long — it is not a bad idea for me to polish my skill.

But I digress. During my most recent photography class, we all got to go to Wishbone at 3300 N. Lincoln Avenue in Chicago’s Lakeview to photograph a jazz band. What a nice way to hone some photography talents by capturing some freeze frames of a band sending notes into the air while dining patrons work their teeth on some Cajun style loving from the oven. This was a brilliant idea. Going anywhere that serves delicious food is a magnet that draws me near. It begs me, taunts me, and tell me that I am a the most important person in the world. Addictions are something else, I must say, and with it being food I have no problem submitting to the flavours. Even this cup of Ethiopian coffee I am drinking while composing this journal entry is telling me to stop being so modest with my cupfuls.

Spacious, nice, and dim on the inside of Wishbone, I secured a seat at the bar while the band was playing something true to traditional jazz — and I do not mean the sexy saxophone kind of jazz that you hear on soap operas just as the pretty-pretty walks from the powder room wearing her frilly baby doll nighty. The bass guitarist played his chords on the upright bass. The pianist tickled the ebony and ivory. And the rat-a-tat-tat-pscheeee of the drums and symbol made the visit worthwhile. Now, one could complain that they were not playing any zydeco, but New Orleans is probably the most jazz-authentic city I have been to the America. You want to ease into good food, not get up and dance to some zydeco — unless it is just that good. And the band played on.

I started with a mojito. A hurricane would have been more fitting, but I did have to go back to class after we finished photographing the band. Lip-smacking good, but a wee bit heavy on the alcohol, this Cuban highball went down smoothly after the first two sips and with the complementary mini cornbread muffins and roll. The server joked that she spiked the mojito, of which I pretended to be an unknowing victim. But it was sweet torture, nevertheless. With Wishbone serving Cajun food, I ordered Hopping Jack. Black beans prepared like red beans and served over rice, garnished with tomatoes, chives, and cheese, it was rather good. Far be it for me to switch into purist mode and compare it to the Hopping Jack that I have had in New Orleans, loaded with Andouille sausage and who knows what else, and well before my jump into vegetarianism, but I am going to say that I was very satisfied and a tad bit slow towards the end. One could blame the alcohol in the mojito but, no, I have a tendency to get a drunken sensation when I eat way too much food. That may explain why I do not drive. Imagine being the poster child for Do no eat to excess and drive.

While getting natural on the Hopping Jack and chasing it with the mojito, the manager stood and chatted with me for a few minutes. I had inquired about the band playing, recalling that there were no bands that entertained the guests in the past. This has become quite a phenomenon in many independent coffee houses, restaurants, and Potbelly sandwich shops, the latter mostly accommodating any disheveled hipster with an acoustic guitar. The manager explained about how there is usually a dedicated band that plays every Wednesday night for a whole month, a band rotating each month. What a novel idea, a brilliant way for local talent to get noticed, and as for jazz bands, a better selection of music to listen to rather than bubblegum music from the satellite radio. The manager and I also talked about ethnic cuisine in Chicago proper, recommended locations for some eateries, and travels domestic and abroad. We also noted how restaurants with close proximity to Chicago’s Loop and downtown tourist haunts tend to pander to the milder palate while those farther away add complete authenticity, that being spices, to the recipes. Regardless, if the jazz bands that they have come to play are as good as the trio that played this night, I shall have to make a few more trips to Wishbone on Wednesday nights before class.

Having gone to Wishbone for brunch primarily, going for dinner was a welcomed change. I will admit that I am still partial towards the breakfast and brunches that they serve. Love the price. Love the food. Could not have asked for better service. Add to all that a talented jazz trio that did not disappoint, this was a moment well spent. Ah, and I shall not forget to add that I ordered a slice of keylime pie, but for take-away. I give in to being a puppet of gluttony enough. I went back to my photography class with a tune in my head, food in my belly, drink putting me in a calm mood, and a note to myself to make a reservation to go to New Orleans soon. That is one city where I am sure to get some photojournalism done before, during, and after I get fed.

Pan-Asian Sampling Delight

When weekends arrive in Chicago, I tend to smile a little wider. I can sleep later in the mornings. I get a reprieve from hand-holding fellow colleagues at work. And I can eat until my heart is content, my belly is filled, and I can take a nap without anyone running into my space and disrupting it. Saturday morning arrives, it is sunny outside, I am on my way to some eatery, and then there is this thing called cloud coverage — always followed by cloud bursts of torrential downpours — that messes up the merry work for any outdoor activity. This has been a weekend phenomenon almost wears me down to spiritual defeat. But my appetite remains in tact, though.

After work a few days ago, I went by a Pan-Asian eatery that is in the concourse between the Red Line at Lake Street and the Blue Line at Washington Street. In the lower level of the new mall at 108 N. State Street is Simply Thalia, which is simply an Asian cafe of all good things. When I had gone the other day, my appetite was way off the scale because I had recently increased my workout routine and I had a hankering that was driving me sideways the wall. Having gone to the restaurant several months past and had a panang dish, I was not necessarily thrilled with the diligence done to their Thai curry dishes — more watery than hearty — but I was hungry and there are other items on their bill of fare. Today I wanted to try a different approach and I had decided that I would keep with my Snacking on Saturday [convenient] tradition. I was only going to have appetizers and, by George, I was going to like it. That was me psyching myself up for the edibles.

There was very little convincing that I had to do. Focusing on the appetizers, which were priced very low, I eyed three items that I wanted to delight myself with. I started with Saigon shrimp rolls. Who would have thought that rice paper rolled with shrimp, cucumber, carrots, lettuce, cilantro, bean sprouts, rice noodles, and mint could be so blooming satisfying? The Vietnamese apparently figured it out and the shrimp rolls that I feasted myself on with the complementary dipping sauce, consisting of a plum sauce and a hint of teriyaki sauce, really made an impression on me. This was the first time I have had Saigon shrimp rolls and loved them. My hat goes off the chef, cook, or frozen food merchant who dealt me this treat.

The next appetizer I had was Burmese samosa. Flaky to perfection and stuffed with sweet curried potatoes and spiced chicken, my mouth burst with flavours of Burma. One ethnicity lacking in the Chicago multi-cultural restaurant spectrum is Burmese. Albeit a small items on the larger menu, I was reminded of the fine eating experiences in many Burmese restaurants in Toronto, Ontario, and in Washington, DC. Served with a sweet mustard accented with a hint of cilantro, I know now that it is time for me to visit old friends in Toronto and in DC — to catch up with my friends, of course — for some loving from the kitchen courtesy some Burmese.

The final appetizer was Malaysian roti canai. Malaysian home-made naan served up with curry chicken dipping sauce was an absolute taste of heaven. It is quite evident that Simply Thalia does not concoct thick curry gravies, a case with the thin base for the curry chicken sauce. However, this curry was only thin, not watery, and it worked very well with the roti. I could eat the Malaysian roti canai everyday for the rest of my life and never grow tired of it. Hmm. Wait. I have a threshold and everyday would be too much; I would not want to risk tiring myself of such a dish full of love. But I found the roti alone to be a welcome to the palate and the curry sauce made it that more appetizing.

I cannot place Simply Thalia in any one ethnic bucket as there are many Asian cultures represented in the food — Japanese, Chinese, Malaysian, Burmese, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, and Indian just to name a few. What I will add is that for there to be a plethora of Asian cultures present in the food at any one restaurant, there is a splendid job done keeping each ethnic dish specific to the culture which it represents, rather than introducing fusion and competing flavours.

For the three appetizers and some organic tea, the tab for my moment of food bliss was under $20. Small and rather close, Simply Thalia has a feel of a lounge — minus super tan blond Rachels in high heels and mini skirts and Oompa Loompa orange Barts in clothes way too tight. Granted servers do not perform acrobats to please your sensibilities, I was appreciative of the fact that when I had said I wanted each appetizer one at a time and spaced out between delivery, the individual who took my order honoured my request. So my three factors that keep me returning were there: great service, low price, and outstanding food. What am I going to do when I increase my workout routine again? That was a rhetorical question.

Lessons Learned: Reality and Food

There are a few things that I have come to recognize:

• Chicago temperatures waffle in extremes — blusteringly cold or blisteringly hot.
• Men serve women food in large portions.
• Women serve men food in large portions.
• Never stand in line behind a group of women who are ordering ice cream.
• My appetite is out of control — rhetorical.

I had ventured out several weeks ago when the temperatures were not so blooming tropical, and I entertained what I termed Snacking on Saturday. The temperatures were a bit murderous today with the mercury rising into the 90′s and the humidity coating the city like a blanket. There was no need to stay in the condo and brood over the heat — we have had a whole month of uncomfortable temperatures — so I dressed lightly and decided to be about business of finding some food satisfaction.

I met with a friend early in the morning for breakfast at an Austrian cafe — Julius Meinl — that is east of where I live. The decision was an impromptu one so I had rushed out of the condo and left my camera. This marks the second time I have done something foolish like that when I know I will end up chastising myself. I had a great time slicing through crispy waffles and forking up tasty scrambled eggs. My lips curled up. My eyelids grew heavy — and it was 9:30 AM when we were busy indulging ourselves in breakfast.

A little later in the morning I wanted something else yet light. By now, I had one of my many cameras. And in my neighbourhood is La Boulangerie at 2569 North Milwaukee Avenue. What a lovely little French bakery this is and satisfying as well, if I may add. The selection is rather small and I was quite okay with that after I had bitten into my croissant. It was apparent the thing had been baked early in the morning. Given it was not hot, as if right from the oven, it was so soft and airy on the inside, flaky and smile-inducing on the outside. I had also ordered a small rum and vanilla bundt cake. Oh happy day! La Boulangerie does not sell coffee, so I had gone next door to New Wave Cafe where all of the local and imported hippies congregate to discuss things that matter to them — and no one else can understand. The cappuccino there really had an effect on me that left me with a lasting impression that will, of course, mean I will return for cappuccino from there several more times.

After relaxing at home for a few hours, I had begun to get cabin fever. It was time to seek something else into which to sink my teeth. I remembered a certain Middle Eastern eatery I had stumbled upon in Chicago’s Near West Loop neighbourhood. I Dream of Falafel at 555 W. Monroe Avenue was it. For me, it was a reality, as I headed for the subway and went into downtown to put my feet under a table at the cafe. And here is where I came to the realization that women give men way more food than men give each other. I had a hankering from some sweet potato falafel and perhaps something else on the menu. I ordered a chicken schwerma — so not vegetarian of me — with peppers, lettuce, onions, and tahini sauce. The thing was so tasty that I was sprung like you will not believe. And because the sweet potato falafels are prepared on-demand, I had to wait. For my wait, the cashier — a very appealing young woman — gave me extra. Recognizing that this has been commonplace, in the future I shall let others go ahead of me whenever men are taking orders.

Roaming around downtown for a few hours, the humidity had begun to wear me down to almost spiritual defeat. I could have had soda, which would be full of aspartame or high fructose corn syrup, so I took a pass on that. Water would have worked, but I wanted flavour. Aha! I headed for the subway and went out to Oak Park to Taste of Brasil, my favourite Brazilian cafe, for some lemonade. But, Gino, to go all the way to Oak Park for some lemonade is ridiculous. You have to have some of it to understand. Absolutely refreshing and prepared with real lemons — none of that artificial mess laced with aspartame or high fructose corn syrup — and condensed milk. The lemonade was enough to make the heat unnoticeable. Well, not quite, but good enough to cool me off a little.

Towards the end of the day, I figured that I would wrap up my snacking expedition by having a small dinner, something akin to snack food. I was in Oak Park anyway, so I went to the downtown mall area to the best Venezuelan cafe outside of Venezuela and met up with some friends. Aripo’s Arepa House at 118 N. Marion Street was my destination. I ordered what is called a domino — an empanada stuffed with black beans and shredded white cheese, and served with a spicy dipping sauce that makes all of your worries disappear. It had never dawned on me to inquire what a domino really was. However, I was glad that I took a chance on the order because I will make a few more trips back just to buy some of those tasty wonder treats for snack food at home.

After joshing around with my friends for a while, we retired to a French pastry shop across the street from Apripo’s. Sugar Fixe at 119 N. Marion Street captures the essence of coffee and dessert as the French does. There were two desserts that stood out most: a chocolate mousse and a mango mousse with pineapple and coconut. I had recently baked a devil food cake with a Mexican hot chocolate ganache for the icing, so I opted for the citrus mousse. Satisfaction in a thousand languages or in the stupid smile that I usually wear after eating too much food is all that I say to describe the mousse. The cappuccino I had tasted like the cappuccino I have had abroad, all prepared with meticulous care. Again, Sugar Fixe is one of those pastry shops that prepares its desserts in small batches so that they do not get old or simply become display items because no one wants anything that has been sitting out for days and weeks on end.

I did not make the promise to myself that I would not overeat. When it comes to food, the promise of behaving when it comes to the quantity that I indulge is not mandatory. I simply comply with my want. One thing I must say is that I will be glad when the temperatures return to a point where walking one to two blocks do not result in feeling like you have stood under a waterfall. There are some other locations in the city that I shall journal and I will simply have to be ready with camera in hand and appetite on hand.