CHICAGO CARLESS

-Posted in Food and Drink

(Photo: Can I have some soup with my garlic, please? Credit: Glória Fácil.)

As a follow-up to yesterday's post on nowness, indeed, I did go shopping for dinner, after all. If there's anything I regret about my move to Chicago, it's that unlike my NYC hometown, we don't have any Portuguese restaurants in the Windy City.

No, oh no, all those Brazilian steakhouses in town just don't count. And, dammit, I was in the mood for Sopa à Alentejana, or Portugal's incredible Alentejan garlic-cilantro soup.

So off I went on a 30-minute that turned into 90-minute supermarket sweep of River North (I told you we ADDers can't estimate time). And then I went home and created the meal that I just finished my second day--and the other half of my bottle of Vinho Verde--enjoying.

Regular readers will remember my love for another quirky soup, the equally garlicky Korean kimchi chigae. Either one of these soups is heaven on a chilly day. But Sopa à Alentejana and I have a history.

On the first day of my first trip to Lisbon in fall 2000, my Luso buddy Jose (and please pronounce that "J", he is not a Spaniard) and I found ourselves hungry for lunch on the Rua da Sé in the Alfama. We ended up in a teeny tasca with half a dozen tables and a marked lack of non-locals. Jose suggested Amêijoas à Bulhão Pato, the garlicky clam dish that would become our afternoon staple across the city of seven hills.

But what to start with? Jose ordered Sopa à Alentejana. I asked him whether he thought I'd like it. He shook his head and told me tourists never go near the stuff, but I've never met a clove of garlic I didn't like.

So we ordered whole a tureen, along with the clams and a bottle of Vinho Verde (Portugal's answer to Prosecco). And Jose and the waiter both stared in shock and admiration as I barely came up for air. It was like sex in soup form, and oh my, the Vinho Verde just made me want to pull a privacy curtain around the table.

Did I mention the poached egg and day-old bread floating in the pungently green broth?

Unfortunately, Vinho Verde is as seductive as Sopa à Alentejana. I never saw the second bottle coming. I felt its effects, though, when we met Zay's parents for dinner at a terrace restaurant in their west-suburban town of Parede. We had Sapateiro, or Portuguese hard-shell crab. With mallets. Lots of mallets. All going at once. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer.

I put my hungover head down and went to my happy place.

Yesterday, that happy place was my apartment, which I turned into my personal Portuguese restaurant for one. I paired the soup with another Portuguese favorite, Bacalhau à Brás, or codfish with scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. I was out on a limb there, usually I stick with making yummy Pastéis de Bacalhau (fried salt-codfish balls), but I was in an adventurous mood.

If I had had time to make Pastéis de Nata (Portuguese custard tarts), I'd never have left the house this morning.

I know most of you probably aren't intrigued by garlic soup or salt cod. Good, more for me. Those who are, however, can find a fine Bacalhau à Brás recipe at the wonderful Leite's Culinaria.

Unless you can read Portuguese, though, the above Sopa à Alentejana link won't do you much good. Just mash up (or process) a bunch of cilantro, a few cloves of garlic, half a cup or so of extra virgin olive oil, and a teaspoon of salt. Put a tablesoon of the paste in a bowl, pour in hot water or chicken broth (I prefer the broth), and drop in a poached egg and some hard bread.

But if you pair it with Vinho Verde, don't complain to me if you're not heard from until morning.

Posted by Mike at 08:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Adventure | Food and Drink

(Photo: Maurie and Flaurie, the long way 'round. Credit: Superdawg.)

My boyfriend, Chris, thinks I'll go anywhere to eat a good meal, or even a bad one. Dating a chef, I usually don't have far to trek. A couple of weekends ago, however, was a different story. I knew it was supposed to be a morning of travel, but neither I nor my stomach knew what we were in for.

I've lately been helping out a groovy underdog HIV health clinic in the Fox Valley, Open Door Clinic, with pro bono communications and fundraising work. Their annual gourmet chocolate fundraiser is coming up this Saturday in Elgin, and I needed to go meet the clinic's executive director at their companion office in Aurora. At 10 a.m.

No Chicagoan is happy to arise early on a Saturday in order to hurry to a Metra train for a 75-minute, 40-mile trip to Aurora. The waffles, sausage, and coffee I wolfed down to fortify myself before I set out were a help, at least.

But it was a pleasant trip, filled with scenery gazing and meditation, and I was in good humor when I met the E.D. on the other end (of the world, apparently--again, people, Aurora). In fact, so pleasant a meeting did we share, talking about strategic plans and chocolate fountains, that I barely noticed noshing on that Mexican skillet in a dive diner.

The trip back wasn't half so pleasant, however. It was the day of Chicago's pretend St. Patrick's Day (I will never understand why this city holds its holidays on days other than the, ahem, actual holidays), and every drunken western suburban frat boy decided to ride my commuter rail car into town. I maxed my iPhone volume and counted the minutes until Brookfield, home of hip-suburban-chick Val (who was away that day), where Chris would be picking me up and ferrying me back to his Oak Park abode.

But it was lunch time, so of course we had to make a little stop first. We opted for burgers and fries at Poor Phil's. As usual, I asked for mine bloody if not still mooing. Chris asked if I had eaten yet. I admitted the skillet, but chose not to disclose the waffles.

At any rate, it was enough gastronomic fortification to make us decide to burn some calories by wandering around downtown Oak Park. A visit to an edgy toy store and one over-expensive haircut later, we made it back to Christopher's and immediately hit the doldrums. In the middle of a day of wandering, it's awful hard to suddenly come to a stop.

I needled Chris. "Let's do something. Let's go out...Let's at least go somewhere for dinner."

I couldn't believe I went there, but sometimes you just can't hide your inner glutton.

I oinked onwards. "How many times have we talked about going to Superdawg? Margie's Candies? Driving up to Mars Cheese Castle for cheese curds?"

"Oh for God's sake, shut up and get in the car."

And with that, we were on the road once more. I asked Chris where we were headed. He said he'd let the Jetta figure it out. We started out pointed towards Oak Brook Center, but for some reason the car turned north and refused to exit the expressway.

Up, up, up we drove. When we crossed the border into Lake County, I had an inkling where we might be headed. But we needed gas, so somewhere near Lake Forest we stopped at an Oasis. With a McDonald's. And you know how many people ask you in March if you’ve had your Shamrock Shake yet. It was better than I expected (and as Chris was pleased to later report, kept me quiet for a few miles). Like a milky version of a Disneyland mint julep.

Happily sugar dazed, I leaned back into my seat and waited for us to cross the state line. And so we did. At exactly 7:01 p.m. we arrived at Mars Cheese Castle, to find out that at exactly 7:00 p.m., they closed for the night.

Noooooo! Not after all those miles and all that bitching!

Chris shrugged and got us back on the highway, still headed north. A few miles of farmland later, he told me he needed to make a pit stop. We parked in the lot at a Culver's. I stayed in the car and pinpointed our location in the middle of nowhere between Chicago and Milwaukee on my iPhone.

A few minutes later, Chris returned and plopped a bag of fried cheese curds in my lap.

"I'd have gotten you a butter burger and frozen custard, but I'd prefer you not have a heart attack before the night's over."

Giggling our way into the bag of fried goodness, we turned around and headed back towards Chitown. Imagine our shock when we spied the lights still on at Mars as we sped by on the highway.

"Call them on your iPhone, they might still be open!"

We got off at the next exit, our hopes high, and sped back towards the Cheese Castle. It was from their parking lot we realized the lights we had seen glowing were from the pretender cheese shack next door. Still, any port in a storm.

So one injudicious drive off of a high curb (dammed Cheesehead lack of streetlights!) and right turn later, and we were parked in front of the correct, if less famous, cheese pusher.

Twenty bucks worth of spicy cheese curds, dill cheese curds, and string cheese in hand, we knew it was time to stow our lactic booty and, finally, head home.

Mission thusly accomplished, or so I thought, we turned around for a second time and headed back south towards the Illinois border and civilization. It was getting late, we were getting punchy, and dammit, for once I actually thought I was full. So I was a bit surprised when Chris kept the car pointed towards Chicago when were supposed be headed back to his digs in Oak Park. His response pretty much pegged me completely.

"What? You said you wanted to go to Superdawg, didn't you?" And so we did.

But we saved Margie's for another day. Everything in moderation, after all.

Posted by Mike at 08:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink | Shopping

(Photo: "It's that ABC news van again...".)

[Ed. Note: A big shout out to my readers from the estimable Gapers Block today, and thanks for the coverage, JA!]

It's generally not a good sign when the ABC news van is parked in front of your establishment in the middle of the business day. So it was on Monday, as I walked past the Randolph Street frontage of the financially troubled Macy's on State Street and came face-to-face with this curiously parked news vehicle.

Numerous news reports over the past two days (see the Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times, and, yes, ABC7 Chicago) chronicled Macy's newsworthy faux pas of the day: a Chicago Health Department smackdown of Macy's popular lower-level food court (in part, for, of all things, a fruit-fly infestation). That the eatery closures occurred in the basement of the erstwhile Marshall Field's flagship store is a delicious irony for anyone wondering to what further depths Federated-cum-Macy's Inc.'s management would drag Chitown's historic shopping mecca.

Not the least of those wondering whither the store's future: its rank-and-file floor clerks. Some I spoke with on Monday suggested that the health-code violations were merely the tip of the iceberg of the store's problems. Also among the candid opinions I encountered from store staff: surprise that the 7th Floor eateries weren't cited; and outright doubt that the store would last out the year under current (mis-)management.

While staff must wonder quietly, though, I don't. So does anyone else want to know how many months of missteps it will take before Macy's, Inc. honcho Terry Lundgren finally admits that he made the mistake of his career by attempting to ram the Macy's nameplate down the throats of 8 million Chicagolanders who, as time has proven, weren't kidding when they vociferously asserted last year that they had no taste for the new monicker?

Let's review the silliness of it all:

--Department-store juggernaut Federated (now Macy's Inc.) in late 2005 announces its intention to wipe the century-old Marshall Field's nameplate off of State Street and from the midwest in general, triggering loud and emotional protests across Chicagoland (see the 2006 Google News archive).

--Adding insult to injury, a Chicago-native PR specialist is tapped to create the ad campaign announcing Macy's arrival in the midwest and across the country. Amazingly, it is a wholly generic ad campaign that completely ignores the local angle--potential customers across the county are simply told to be happy that Macy's is now located wherever people want to travel (hands up how many of you out there have ever, say, booked a trip to Maui because your favorite department store had an outlet there?).

--Equally insulting, Macy's installs new wayfinding maps throughout the store that actually list the wrong street names for three of the four streets surrounding the store. Regular readers will remember it was Yours Truly who tipped Chicago media on this, earning Chicago Carless the front page of the September 1, 2006 Chicago Tribune business section. (And as if that weren't enough of a public-relations blunder, in the same week Macy's threatens to sue a local eatery for selling a sandwich formerly popular at the old Marshall Field's).

--The nameplate change occurs. The change is met with numerous brand changes, widely considered to be downmarket choices by former Field's shoppers, the beginning of Macy's hopelessly messy, Walmart-esque "let's pile boxes of everything everywhere" stocking strategy, and protests, protests, protests.

---And for the next year, news report after news report (see here for the Google News archives on same for 2006 and 2007), not to mention reports from Macy's, Inc., themselves, announce the perilous decline of shoppers--and shopping receipts--both at the State Street flagship and in other cities that received similar nameplate changes by Federated in 2006.

Hope seemed to arrive in January 2007, when Lundgren announced upper-level management changes--after one of the State Street store's worst Christmas seasons ever--aimed at making the store more welcoming to Chicago shoppers. Health-code violations in my formerly favorite food-court are not what I, as a local living three blocks from the store, had in mind, though, Terry.

Neither, I might add, are closures of other local stores (and if Macy's can't make money in tony Lake Forest, just where can they turn a buck?), allegedly looking for a buy-out offer, or cutting the compensation and commission rates of hard-working store employees in order to make others pay for what have been from the beginning very personally led corporate blunders.

Instead, how about, for once, finally admitting that Macy's on State Street is, ahem, on State Street, in Chicago? How about celebrating Chicago, and the long-standing relationship between city and store, in a big, loud, and persistent manner? How about commercials and newspaper ads that say "Chicago's Macy's" instead of "Macy's, you better love us because we're everywhere so get used to it"?

If Macy's is (apparently now) so desperate for Chicagoans to love them, my advice is to let Chicagoans feel the love, first. It's time to show some love towards the locals you want to keep you in business, Terry. A lot more. This is not a difficult concept.

Then again, judging from recent actions, maybe it is. After all, you sponsor a nationally televised Thanksgiving parade in New York, but let Macy's dump Chicago's 2006 turkey-day parade into the hands of McDonald's. McDonald's, for God's sake. Hello? Is this thing on? Is anyone actually awake and listening out there in Cincinnati?

A region of eight million shakes its head and continues to wonder.

Posted by Mike at 02:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (3)

-Posted in Food and Drink | Recovery

(Photo: Who doesn't love eating over a garbage can and peeing in a porta-potty?)

My last Taste of Chicago (God-willing) was definitely the best. Protest though I did last year about Chicagoans' proclivity to attend the Taste year after year although everyone rants how much it stinks, this being my last summer in Chicago, I decided to take one final opportunity to eat lunch over a garbage can.

Maybe it was because it was 75 degrees instead of 95. Maybe it was because I never have to do it again. Maybe it was because it wasn't on July 3rd when the Chicago Transit Authority had yet another as-usually unforgivable CTA meltdown stranding thousands of riders on stifling trains after the Taste and the Independence Eve fireworks. But for once I have to admit, I had a good time--an unexpectedly good time at that.

I took the plunge on Day One of the food fest last week after one rainstorm after another kept me from reaching NYC to begin my apartment search (the worst moment: sitting on a plane at the gate with a buckled seatbelt only to have the captain come out--and it's never good when the captain actually comes out--to tell us to deplane because there was no more safe room in the air between Chicago and LaGuardia). Good enough, I thought. I'll just start my job search first and go have a three-ticket vegetarian samosa.

My tally turned out to include aforementioned samosa, as well as a breaded-steak sandwich with hot peppers, Cajun meatballs, a fried plantain and pork sandwich, and a combo lemon and watermelon ice. Of everything, the only miss was the waxy, tasteless ice. (I love Chicago, but Hogtown has nothing on real New York City Italian ices, hands down. Don't believe me? Come sleep on my air mattress in a month and find out).

Lunchtime isn't as crowded as the evening rush, so the pushing and jostling and six-inch shuffling was bearable, although not absent. You'll still have to body check a few people out of your way at the Taste in the early afternoon, but you'll have that trash can all to yourself as you drip your Italian beef into the smelly bag of wasps below.

The only other real backfire: Patty Burger. The teeny home of tasty, retro hamburgers and shakes on Adams between Michigan and Wabash seems to love continually shooting itself in the foot. While every other eatery on Boul. Mich. and adjacent side streets has been filled to capacity during this year's Taste, Patty Burger has--as usual--been a ghost town. It's easy to see why. As has been the case since the day they opened last year, they still don't bother with posting their hours or their menu on their front door, leading potential customers to walk up and wonder what they serve and if they're even open.

Worse, since they always seem to have a yellow "caution" sign sitting in the middle of the floor (four words, people: get a rain mat), most people just think they're closed and walk away. Note to Patty Burger owners: when the management can't even be bothered to realize they're actually turning people away during the Loop's most crowded week of the year, it's probably time to get yourselves a new manager. Your employees are actually bored from the lack of customers. Just ask them; I did.

This is not one of the places I'll miss when I move back home to NYC. That list is long enough, and I hate belaboring good-byes. My plan is to live in Chicago as normal until my last day here, have my friends see me off, and eschew a slew of "last time I'll do or see this" scenes. God knows I'll be back soon enough for weekends on couches, anyway.

Neither is there to be a long, or really any, good-bye with Devyn. We are, at the moment at least, officially estranged, and not by my choosing. Tomorrow being the eight-week mark since the break-up, I've been doing a lot of thinking about that recently. I spent most of the past couple of months taking all the blame for our separation--and sinking into a pretty deep, major depression because of it (not to brag, but we're talking every single symptom including suicidal ideation: I figured I deserved a statue for it, something carved in the shape of a sad clown face, in pewter).

A daily clinical (900mg) dose of nature's magical St. Johns Wort (i.e. natural Zoloft) puts a lot into perspective. With my objectivity back and my mood swings gone--likely for the first time in years--things look much different in hindsight. The old times I pined for don’t look quite as rosy now. I have my issues to continue to deal with (and recover from), but so did my partner. And unlike before, now I can see the interplay of issues, back-and-forth between us, during our two years together. Did I ask for too much of an emotional investment? Maybe. But was I ever offered enough of one in the first place?

After two years, it's hard to admit the answer: no, I wasn't.

I miss having a friend in Devyn. But knowing now that he was never really emotionally present in our relationship, I can't exactly expect him to be able step up to the bat during our break-up. And after these past several perilous, frankly terrifying weeks of the absolute stoppage of my life (we did not break-up gently), I can finally see that the aura of self-destruction over which I have been suffering so much guilt and shame is simply not my own.

I may have asked too much, but at least I was there in the relationship. I deserved my partner to be there, too. I always said getting rid of me would be his first step in dealing with his issues. It remains to be seen if there are any other, more constructive steps on the way.

For his sake, I hope so. It would be nice to actually talk to each other someday. He is still the most creative person I've ever met in my life. At the very least, I finally know it's not me who's hiding up an emotional tree right now. Unfortunately, I don’t expect that to end anytime soon.

In case you haven't heard, many trees grow in Brooklyn, too.

Posted by Mike at 05:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink

Just a short post before I settle down to my favorite cold-weather dinner: kimchi chigae. That's Korean kimchi stew for the uninitiated or anyone who missed my paean of love for kimchi chigae last March.

Most mere American mortals usually hate the stuff. But if you love hot, spicy, edgy food as much as I do, a big bowl of fermented, heavily spiced cabbage boiled up with onions, pork belly, and Korean beef powder, garnished with medium tofu and served with a bowl of scallion-covered rice can be a definite turn-on.

Devyn hates the stuff. Oh well, more spicy, fermented goodness for me. Click through here to my March 2006 post to learn of my love, and my recipe, for kimchi chigae.

Just don't say I didn't warn you.

Posted by Mike at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink | Media

Oasis Cafe may not be in the Wabash Jewelers Mall anymore, but Suleiman Ahmed still makes the best--and cheapest--falafel in the Loop. I said so last month here on Carless. And I'm happy to say so again, in this week's issue of Time Out Chicago (TOC #85).

Once I found Oasis new home (in the Iwan Ries building at 17 S. Wabash), did a few backflips, ate shawerma until I was ready to burst, and wrote my electronic paean to the place, I emailed TOC and asked them (well, ok, begged them) to do a piece about Oasis' move under the popular glossy's Save This Restaurant column.

It pays to be ballsy. They asked me to write it. (Thanks for the opportunity, Heather!) So if you have TOC #85 in front of you, feel free to all turn, in unison, to page 36. Or you can just click through here to Save This Restaurant: Oasis Cafe.

The editors say they're always looking for establishments in need of saving, so if you know of a spot that's recently hit the skids, think about dropping TOC Eat Out editor Heather Shouse an email (hshouse(@)timeoutchicago.com).

I also suggested Cuernavaca at 18th and Racine, home of Pilsen's best chiles rellenos and strongest margaritas, but where the afternoon and early evening crowd has all but dried up of late. But I bet you know of one or two places that could use to be featured, too, so don't be shy about speaking up. The restaurant you help save could be your personal fave, too.

I thought my letter to the editor in TOC #78 was a kick. Hmm. It's definitely much nicer to be paid for my opinion...

Posted by Mike at 10:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink

(Photo: The East Loop's best falafel shop returns to Wabash Avenue--but not to the Jewelers Mall.)

(Updated, Sept. 27, 2006: Thank you to the hundreds and hundreds of people who have read this entry in the past few days. I knew we all loved Oasis, but I am overjoyed to see just how much. What a thrill to be able to help get the word out that the East Loop's favorite falafel is back in business a block away from their old digs.)

Suleiman Ahmed is the proud owner of downtown's popular Oasis Cafe (tel. no. 312-443-9534), the middle-eastern falafel shop that until June was tucked oddly into the back of Wabash Avenue's Jewelers Mall for 17 years. Depsite what the little yellow sign may say outside, it's not coming back, at least not to that location. As Ahmed tells it, he spent his summer dodging bombs in his native Nazareth only to return to Chicago to do battle with the mall's new owners over the terms of his lease. However, representatives of the mall refute Ahmed's claims.

Now as any faithful falafel-head in the East Loop knows, Oasis closed up shop when the Jewelers Mall (at 21 N. Wabash) began an extensive renovation over the summer. According to Ahmed, the head honchos at the mall told him he'd get two weeks notice of the closure, he'd only be closed a week, and he could walk back into his month-to-month lease.

Apparently things ran a little differently. If you think Oasis' closing was sudden in June, you may be right. Ahmed says he received one day's notice of the closure--at which point he was told the cafe would have to stay closed for four weeks, not the one week originally expected. However, in August, with the end of the renovation work nowhere in sight, Ahmed was again told to expect to be closed for another four weeks.

Worse, as the cafe's hiatus doubled, so too did its rent--from $4,680 a month with utilities included, to a whopping $7,000 with pay-your-own gas and electric (adding about another $1,000 to the monthly total). According to Ahmed, he was informed by the mall honchos if he didn't like it, they'd be happy to house another middle-eastern restaurant in Oasis' vacated space.

"That's no way to do business," says Ahmed, who commutes 20 miles early every morning from his suburban Oak Lawn home. "Oasis was there for 17 years. I bought it four years ago. All the previous owners always had a good relationship with the mall. Always."

As the closure entered its third month in August, Ahmed went home to Lebanon to attend to family affairs. As he tells it, "I went home and they were dropping bombs, and then I come back to Chicago to this battle."

By August 31, with still no end to the renovation in sight, Ahmed had to decide if his business was ever really coming back. He decided it was. But not to the Jewelers Mall. On that day he informed the mall's owners he would not be renewing his monthly lease, and hours later found and signed a multi-year lease on a new, larger cafe space in a shared food court a block to the south.

Last week, Oasis Cafe reopened for business in its new digs at 17 S. Wabash in the Iwan Ries building, exactly one block away from its original location. The cafe--and its spectacular new neon signage--shares an enormous (if somewhat shabby) dining room with three other fast-food shops, and boasts a full-sized counter, a larger kitchen, and best of all for downtown workers and residents, longer open hours (including all day Saturday).

Even better for Ahmed, the rent at the new space is significantly lower than his original rent at the Jewelers Mall. This may come in handy, because, unfortunately, many old customers don't yet know that the cafe's back--and Ahmed wonders whether the Jewelers Mall wants to keep it that way.

When Oasis quit the Jewelers Mall, instead of taking down the small yellow "closed" sign that had marked the cafe's temporary hiatus, someone scrawled the word "original" in black magic marker above the cafe's name. According to Ahmed, when he asked why this was done, he was told by mall representatives that they intended to open a new middle-eastern eatery in Oasis' old space, possibly under the Oasis name.

However, sources at the Jewelers Mall, including mall manager George Pappageorge, tell CARLESS that within a couple of weeks a new falafel shop will open in Oasis' old digs at the back of the mall, and that no one at the Jewelers Mall knows who wrote the word "original" on the sign. Once a name is chosen for the new eatery, the old sign will be taken down. Mall source also contend that Ahmed knew full well how long the renovation would take, had agreed in advance to the proposed new rent, and that Ahmed's leaving stiffed the Jewelers Mall with thousands of dollars in kitchen renovation costs but no restaurant to show for it, forcing the mall owners to scramble to find a new tenant.

As for whether the new restaurant will be called Oasis, sources say the legality of that was considered, but it's more likely a different name will be chosen for the eatery.

Still, Ahmed fears for the Oasis name, which he believes is rightfully is. If that name is used by the new Jewelers Mall eatery, says Ahmed, "It's stealing. Just because you're the landlord means you can do whatever you want? It's not right."

Ahmed also wonders whether the plan was to oust Oasis and install a new, Jewelers Mall-owned business all along. But as any regular Oasis customer can tell you, the cafe brought in the lion's share of activity to the Jewelers Mall. "Making us go", says Ahmed, "is a big mistake for their business."

Hopefully the move won't turn out to be a mistake for Oasis as well. The best falafel in downtown can't survive if no one knows it's there. Ahmed has already hired a few people to hand out menus pointing his old customers to the new location. One place you can be guaranteed to find these flyers: right in front of the offending yellow sign at the Jewelers Mall.

In a few weeks time, you, dear reader, can sample the pita at the as-yet unnamed new eatery in the back of the Jewelers Mall, and decide for yourself whether the new eatery is a worthy replacement for the old. In a neighborhood with a dearth of good ethnic restaurants, two falafel shops on one stretch of street can't be bad thing.

As for potentially having two restaurants called Oasis within a block of each other on Wabash Avenue? Should that come to pass, says Ahmed with a glint in his eye, "We're gonna take them to court."

This neighborhood resident's tummy would be happier, though, if both eateries just battled it out in the kitchen.

Posted by Mike at 01:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (1)

-Posted in Food and Drink

(Photo: In Chicago, can a bird by any other name taste as good? Original Credit: Looper.)

As if the death of Marshall Field's weren't enough, trouble is brewing yet again between another home-grown Chicago icon and a national interloper. If you frequent the South Loop, get ready for a fried chicken smackdown. Because soon to join the venerable Harold's Chicken Shack #62 on the same block of South Wabash between Harrison and Balbo...a franchise of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

It's little wonder why KFC wants in on the block. Just across Wabash sits Columbia College, whose hungry students have been frequenting Harold's #62 for years. Given the chicken shack's grubby interior and long waits--both fixtures of the citywide chain--the suits at KFC probably think they can outdo Chicago's south side chicken king.

Except for one thing. Newly arrived college students may not be aware of it, but anybody who's lived in Hogtown for longer than five minutes knows Harold's is the best deep-fried bird this side of the deep south. Founded in 1950 on the corner of 47th and Greenwood by self-proclaimed "chicken king" Harold Pierce, the local chain has grown to more than 60 fastidiously numbered chicken shacks, all but one (Wicker Park's #36) located on the south side of the city. The chicken king's remarkably loyal fans put up with 15-minute waits (since each bird is custom fried), generally crummy digs, and for north siders, long trips across town, to savor the fried goodness contained on Harold's expansve menu.

Depending on your shack of choice, that menu can include every possible shape and combination of fried chicken, catfish, and perch, all served on a bed of white bread and fries and, in true Chicago style, slathered in various savory sauces including Harold's famous, nuclear hot sauce. Each chicken shack decides on the menu variations, so the items available from shack to shack--and the food quality (as reported in this Chicago Reader PDF)--can vary greatly.

By comparison, with KFC's corporate name comes a higher level of uniformity: patrons know what the menu will look like and exactly how the fried goods will taste from store to store. That's a good thing, and its a wonder Harold's has stood for the wide disparity in quality that still exists across its numerous Hogtown chicken shacks. And KFC is making, er, no bones about its product, either. In a new, back-to-its roots marketing push, the South Loop store will be among the first local KFC's to be rebranded (or is that un-rebranded) with the chain's full old name, "Kentucky Fried Chicken".

Furthermore, almost certainly, the new KFC will offer cleaner booths, a more modern HVAC system (i.e. it will actually have one), and far shorter waits, all at similar prices to Harold's #62. For anyone in the South Loop wanting to grab a quick fried bird amid clean, comfy digs, KFC will pose a seductive presence.

But chain-store uniformity comes at a price. Should KFC manage to dethrone the chicken king from his South Loop throne, that would mean no more cast of neighborhood regulars shooting the breeze while waiting for their 15-minutes of fry to be up, no more Harold's hot sauce, no more fried catfish, for that matter no more about 20 items on Harold's much larger food menu.

Still, given how long Harold's has persevered in the face of various KFC, Church's, and Popeye's onslaughts throughout the years, throughout Chicago, I don't doubt the chicken king will give the Kentucky colonel a run for his money on South Wabash. I know I'll continue to frequent good-old chicken shack #62. The colonel's bird may come in a snazzier box. But you can't make a sandwich out of white bread, nuclear hot sauce, and french fries when you get to the bottom of the container. That's one reason-defying local delicacy I doubt you'll see copied at KFC.

And given how long I've lived in Hogtown, it's one I refuse to do without.

Posted by Mike at 06:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink

(Photo: Food just like Bubbe used to defend in court? Credit: Eleven City Diner.)

Yesterday, the Macy's on State Street signage troubles that I uncovered weren't the only public-relations blunder dogging the New York-based department store giant, Federated. Full-court press also went to the South Loop's Eleven City Diner--for daring to serve a sandwich named after the (let's face it) defunct Marshall Field's. A big sandwich. A huge sandwich. A sandwich as big as your head. A sandwich I had for lunch today when I visited the trendy downtown diner.

According to the Trib, diner owner Brad Rubin created the "Marshall Field's Special" after a similar sandwich served at the Walnut Room, Field's storied old store restaurant. Trouble is, Federated, the new owner of Field's, think that the sandwich name infringes upon their newly bought trademark--so they sent the trendy deli a cease-and-desist letter. Hmm. I have news for Federated: just because they don't know their State Street store's correct street address, the average Chicagoan, upon seeing that name on a menu, is not going to wonder whether Macy's has suddenly relocated to the corner of Wabash and 11th.

But on to the sandwich. It's still on the diner's menu, which hasn't yet been updated to erase the "Field's" name, though according to diner staff, they're willing to take suggestions. (The "Carpetbagger", anyone?) Pretty much an open-faced turkey club on steroids, the plate comes piled with half a foot of turkey, swiss, iceberg lettuce, tomato, and bacon, on two thousand-island-dressing slathered pieces of rye bread. It's a great, Lower East Side of Manhattan idea for a sandwich. If only it weren't so dry. A better idea would be to slather the entire sandwich with the dressing, like a Reuben (I had to ask for more dressing on the side). And serving it with a proper knife would help too--it's not easy cutting into six inches of sanwich with a butter knife.

Still, not bad for eleven bucks and it definitely hit the spot. And it was sly fun the way the servers have turned the ordering of the sandwich into a clandestine game of spy-vs.-spy until they find a new name for it ("You want what sandwich? We don't call it that anymore. Whisper it, I'll see what I can do...").

Truly phenomenal, however, were the two consecutive, perfectly fizzy chocolate phosphates I ordered (one to drink with my mountain o'sandwich, one to go), made by a real-live soda jerk. I probably won't be back for the legally challenged sandwich, but I do intend to make friendly with the soda counter in the very near future.

All in all, I felt I performed a civic duty over lunch. But next time I'll try the Reuben. Now that's the true test of a real urban deli. If you want to know more about Eleven City Diner, you're better off checking out their Metromix entry than the restaurant's surprisingly still under-construction website (they opened six months ago). But it's definitely worth a visit, if only for the feeling of being, momentarily, illicit.

As for Federated, your flagship Chicago store is being re-christened against the wishes of many Chicagoans in eight days. If I were you, I'd pay a little closer attention to your public relations campaign. Think: more store clerks and cheaper prices; not careless signage and legal threats. Perhaps your CEO, Terry Lundgren, has been working too hard?

For this harried honcho, perhaps a nice, relaxing trip down to Eleven City Diner to lay into an unnamed turkey club while poring over a Chicago street map is in order.

Posted by Mike at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (1)

-Posted in Food and Drink

(Photo: An evening at the Taste of Chicago...wheel-o-fun or whirling stress-o-meter? Credit: Looper.)

There's no sweeter music to my ears than the woosh of 100 collapsing vendor tents, coming down today in Grant Park after the conclusion of another year's Taste of Chicago, the Second City's annual lakeside food extravaganza. Last week, I asked my native-Chicago friend, Rozella, if she wanted to go to the Taste. Her response was telling.

"Oh sure, I just live to dine over a dumpster and pee in a porta-potty."

I thought it was just me. I've only been here three years, but I already share the opinion of a native daughter. I found that curious. Officially, the Taste of Chicago is supposed to be a universally beloved event. I quizzed my friends and coworkers whether they had any taste for the Taste, to see whether 'Zella and I were simply statistical outliers in the great court of Hogtown opinion, or whether we were on to something. I had a hard time finding people who would disagree with us.

Instead, I heard the same reservations repeated over and over. It's too hot. It's too crowded. The food's too ordinary. Why bother? Indeed, if the responses I heard are any indication of popular sentiment, Chicago must be the nation's capital of personal masochism (which would explain our annual International Mr. Leather weekend, but I digress).

I mean, I went to the Taste this year, more than once. Devyn went, too. And so did most of the people I polled. But why, oh why, all this municipal gluttony for gastronomic punishment? As the Taste of Chicago rolls to a close every July, thousands of weary Chicagoans enter into pacts with their personal deities to deliver them from ever having to attend, whether by dint of invitation, peer pressure, or long-term memory loss, another year of the perilously overblown food fest. We swear "never again." We bitch until August. We go back next year. Same time. Same place. Same outcome.

As if guided by mass hysteria, each year we all hope to score a visit to the Taste on that elusive weekday lunch hour when the temperature stalls at 68, the tourists have left town due to a massive hotel strike, and the office workers have all gone home after another basement flood in the Loop. Are our memories really that short? Do we simply go hoping that this year will be better than last year, although we know that's never happened? Perhaps the Mayor's Office of Special Events releases Zoloft into the water supply every year around late June?

My money's on the last explanation. But while we still have some breathing (and bitching) room before the next mass dosing of the water supply, here is a summary of the most common complaints I heard from the people in my life regarding the Taste:

The Crowds
The oft-heard myth is that late-mornings through lunchtime you can walk the Taste without having to do the escalator line-up shuffle. Reality proves otherwise. Before the end of the first open hour of this year's Taste, six-inch strides were already the norm up and down Columbus Drive. They didn't relent. The Taste is exceptionally popular, but the pedestrian pathways through it are extraordinarily inadequate for the size of the crowds it receives throughout the day. With the exception of the food-tent area on Jackson, if you don’t want to get separated, best to walk arm in arm with that loved one. Or, better yet, tethered together.

The Heat
It might rain during the Taste, but somehow it never fails to hit 90 degrees on the day that you visit. When you're in the Loop, all those tall buildings provide shadows to keep the sun at bay and lobbies and stores to pop into for a refreshing air-conditioned respite from Chicago’s summer heat. Over at the Taste, those leafy trees in Grant Park look like they’d protect you from the sun. And they would, if you were underneath them. However, you’ll be walking with your Lou Malnati’s along the sun-baked asphalt in the middle of Columbus Drive where, except for a couple of meager comfort tents, shade is utterly absent. By early afternoon, when you’re one sweat bead away from wilting like a salad, you’re no longer of the opinion that a small cardboard fan is a chintzy enticement to get you to subscribe to the Chicago Tribune. More likely, you’re desperately scanning trash cans to find one that isn’t covered in jerk chicken sauce.

The Food
...is nothing special. A yearly let-down. A greatest-hits of ordinary. The run of the mill of the mall. The same old, same old, year after year. You go hoping this will be the year the Taste is transformed into a truly gourmet paradise of hard-to-find, hard-to-beat, gastronomic delights celebrating the breadth and depth of Chicago’s world-famous foodie scene. Instead, you get Lou Malnati’s, the Billy Goat Tavern, and Home Run Inn. And while you scour the Taste map for the few honest, edgy ethnic restaurants that are actually represented, you wonder why the hell there’s a food tent for a brand of pizza that you can buy frozen for four bucks at White Hen.

The Expense
You think you’ll run over to the Taste for a quick afternoon snack. Fourteen dollars and 22 tickets later, you perceive the error of your ways. At first you try to build a meal the traditional way, out of three-ticket “taste portions”, but three olives, half a pierogie, and a chocolate covered strawberry can only get you so far. So after 15 tickets for two human-sized servings and another seven for a can of Coke, you’re poorer than you intended to be. But hopefully wiser.

The "Waste"
The apt nickname given to the Taste of Chicago by prominent local conservationist Jerry Adelmann, executive director of Openlands. Three-and-a-half million people can’t spend ten days in the middle of a park and not do damage. It takes weeks for grass and plants to fully recover from the pedestrian onslaught unleashed on Grant Park lawns every year by Taste revelers. At least some comfort can be found in the relative absence at the food fest of environmentally antagonistic styrofoam, illegal in most parts of the United States, but still happily housing many a takeout meal across Chicago. But it’s not like you’re grease-laden paper plate is going to get recycled, either.

The Atmosphere
It’s nice to see every type of Chicagoan turn out for the Taste as they do. Then again, it can also be a little horrifying. Sometimes it seems like every race, color, and creed in the city has come down to the Taste on the day you’re there, amiably ambling from tent to tent in well-fed social harmony. Unfortunately, it also frequently seems like they’ve brought every K-Mart flip-flop, Choppers tee shirt, stained Cubs jersey, battery-operated mini-fan with the little blingy LEDs, and badly wilted West Side hairdo with them. Of course, it’s usually what, 1,000 degrees when you visit the Taste? Hard to be concerned about fashion when you’re in survival mode.

The Amenities
Rented carny rides, exhibition divers, face painting, an ROTC booth, and a country music festival, complete with bales of hay. Doesn't that just scream Chicago to you? Me either. Wisconsin called the Mayor's Office of Special Events. They want their state fair back.

Eating on Your Feet
Sure, you go plop your butt down on a goose-, rabbit-, horse- and dog-poop laden Grant Park lawn to chow down on your saganaki. I hope you brought anti-bacterial wet wipes with. Unless you also brought a collapsible chair, like thousands of others, it’s elbows in, follow the feet in front of you, and try not to spill or fork yourself in the eye as you jostle down Columbus looking for a relatively uncrowded garbage can to catch your drippings. Yum. Oh, crap, garbage-can wasps. I meant run.

As with all personal preferences, your mileage may vary. I will admit many people love the Taste of Chicago, can barely wait for each year to go by until the Taste returns again to grace Columbus Drive with that familiar aroma of pizza and urine. Then again, many people love movies by former SNL stars, Fox News, and ketchup on hot dogs, too. I'm just not one of them. Point me to the food festival where I get to eat my meals on china and do my business over in-ground plumbing. Clue me into the festival where the temperature is always room and the crowds are always light. Give me the festival where the dishes are all gourmet and the dining is by invitation only. Keep the country bands and diving shows, they just attract the proletariat. I want exclusivity, baby. I want a password required to get in. I want food as sublime as Xel Ha. And, dammit, I want a comfy seat.

Or you could just come over to my house and I'll whip us up some pastéis de bacalhau. I hope you love Portuguese dried salted codfish fritters as much as I do. I suppose when you get right down to it, there really is no accounting for taste.

Posted by Mike at 06:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (2)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

According to a personal email from Intelligentsia CEO Doug Zell received this morning, Intelligentsia has decided to compromise on the weekday evening hours of its Randolph Street store and remain open, beginning next Monday, until 8 p.m. for the benefit of its growing residential customer base. For the time being, they will nix yesterday's sudden implementation of a neighborhood-unfriendly 7 p.m. closing time. Two words: Thank You. We need more after-work neighborhood hangouts like Intelligentsia around here, not fewer.

It's up to you now, dear neighbors, to give Intelligentsia a try on weekday evenings. If you haven't already, you don't know what you're missing (and if you do, we'll be back at 9 p.m. in no time).

From Doug Zell:

Mike,

I am responding to your blog. I appreciate your issues regarding our operating hours and am slightly saddened that you did not contact anyone at Intelligentsia, before posting. I find the internet odd at times in that it does not always allow a dialogue to transpire which arrives at a mutually satisfying result and honestly, I find your criticism stinging and at times over the top.

That being said I wanted to thank you for your loyalty and let you know that we are keenly aware of the neighborhood developing around us and very much want to be a part of it. I agree that we should allow some time to pass in order to build the business in the evening and agree that our decision to close at 7:00 P.M. Monday-Thursday was a bit hasty. As a result, and based on your comments, our hours (beginning next Monday June 19th) will be Monday -Thursday 6:00 A.M.-8:00 P.M., Friday 6:00 A.M-10:00 P.M., Saturday 7:00 A.M.-10:00 P.M. and Sunday 7:00 A.M.-7:00 P.M. If you have issues in the future, please feel free to contact me or our VP of retail, Marcus Boni directly. My email is dzell (at) intelligentsiacoffee.com and his is mboni (at) intelligentsiacoffee.com. We are always interested in hearing what our customers have to say.

Best regards,

Doug Zell
CEO
Intelligentsia Coffee & Tea, Inc.

Note those emails, folks, if you'd like to thank Doug or Marcus yourselves, or otherwise let them know your thoughts about the Randolph Street store.

Stinging? Over the top? You came between me and your coffee. You know, your coffee, the best coffee in the city? If your fans are rabid for your java, you only have yourselves to blame. Looks like a compliment, to me.

Besides, no one ever said I wasn't a bitch.

Posted by Mike at 11:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (2)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

Nothing good lasts forever, especially the downtown-resident friendly evening hours of the Randolph Street Intelligentsia coffee bar. Earlier today, I praised Intelligentsia for being a class act, not the least reason for which their being the heir apparent to the crappy Starbucks on Madison Street as a coffee bar meeting the needs not just of office workers and tourists -- who by definition are only transients in our neighborhood -- but of those of us who call downtown Chicago home and have long jonesed for a neighborhood coffee bar open at hours that met our needs. Meaning, open after work, like every other coffee bar in the city outside of downtown.

Until today, Intelligentsia's Randolph Street shop was open until 9 p.m. weeknights. This evening, without warning and without even removing from the front door the now incorrect business-hours sign that still says nine o'clock, Intelligentsia has decided to close the Randolph Street store at 7 p.m. As in, the hour the office workers can be counted on to have left for home, Intelligentsia's staff now leave for home, too. Those of us who actually live in the neighborhood, a few blocks or, in a few cases, a few floors away, who in the past two months had come to rely on Intelligentsia as our late-night gathering spot...well, we're out of luck.

The staff is still professional. The coffee is still great. But, unfortunately, if you're a neighbor of Intelligentsia's, someone who actually lives and works downtown and thereby adds to the safety, vitality, and economic health of the heart of Chicago, the coffee is now, obviously, not made for you.

According to a store staffer who answered the phone after 7 p.m., "there's just not the business". Right. On Randolph Street, in the summer, next to Millennium Park. Apparently, those are phantoms I see from my window or my evening walks pouring back and forth from Wicked to Borders to Michigan Avenue to Randolph Street station and, for that matter, to the far less classy Madison Street Starbucks and Borders coffee shops, who, themselves, manage to pour until the evening news.

If Intelligentsia cared at all about its resident customer base, 8 p.m. would have been a more realistic closing time. The new 7 p.m. last call allows no comfortable possibility for a neigborhood local to get home from work, have dinner, and go out to enjoy an Intelligentsia coffee. Something better than a mere six-week run (the Randolph Street store opened on April 28) to develop an after-work customer base would have been more realistic, too. Every evening and weekend visit I've made to Intelligentsia in the past month, I've witnessed more and more customers -- local residents -- taking up root with laptop, Faulkner, or love-interest in hand. Cutting us off midweek after six weeks with no advance warning is a surefire way to completely mess up the growing neighborhood goodwill that Intelligentsia had just begun to engender.

I also have to wonder at the thought process that would lead a store to cut back its hours but not to bother to change it's business-hours sign. Perhaps the thinking was that the patrons who really matter -- you know, the ones who don't actually live in the neighborhood -- wouldn't be the ones to show up at the door after 7 p.m. to complain. Those of us, however, who live down here and did show up to be met with a mockingly incorrect hours sign and a locked door, myself included, got the gist of that thought process pretty quickly.

All is not lost, though. Loop locals can still merrily drink up when the midday office denizens and weekend trolley tourists are about. To my mind, poor daytime compensation from a generally classy coffee bar that has otherwise decided it's OK after hours to treat downtown residents like afterthoughts. Not exactly the best way to endear yourself to your neighbors.

This neighbor, for one, will absent himself tomorrow morning to make more room for those daytime customers who Intelligentsia thinks really count. You know, the ones worth more than a six-week commitment. I've had colds stay with me longer than that.

Posted by Mike at 07:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (1)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

(Credit: Intelligentsia.)

There are two kinds of coffee bar in the Loop: the Chicago-local Intelligentsia; and everyone else. Although service got off to a rocky start last month at Intelligentsia's new Randolph Street store (between Wabash and Michigan), today the morning rush is no longer lethargic, the coffee still fulfills like a legal crack hit, and in a month's time I haven't had to hear about the sex lives of the staff.

An odd thing to fear from your local coffee bar staff. Unless, like me, you used to frequent the Starbucks on Madison Street, two blocks directly south of the new Intelligentsia, but a whole world away once you walk in the door. My old coffee haunt for the first year that I lived downtown, I frequented the Madison Starbucks because it had good hours. Unlike the rest of its downtown corporate brethren, the Madison store stayed open late evenings and all weekend, hours that I, as a downtown local, could be counted on to come by for a cup of caffeine when nothing else was open.

Given that I didn't have much consumer choice in the matter, I suppose that's why I put up with the endless restroom line of vagrants and surly CTA bus drivers lined up back through the seating area waiting to pee, whose absence would probably put the store out of business. Or the illumination in the back half of the store, dark enough to disallow reading, but, in all fairness, judging by the number of times I saw homeless people taking a nap in the shadows, a useful social-service amenity nonetheless.

Annoyances truly, but still not enough to break me out of my Starbucks stupor to give Intelligentsia more than a passing glance when it opened late last spring. What was enough, however, was the Saturday morning I sat down with my coffee in the Madison Starbucks, just far enough away from the CTA-homeless pee-break conga line for personal comfort, only to be treated to a five-minute tirade between a uniformed Starbucks employee and his friend, both standing in the middle of the store and within full customer earshot, of how they both considered themselves "declittified" because they hadn't "gotten any motherfucking clit" lately, "know what I'm sayin', dog?"

The two free drink coupons that arrived in my mailbox from Starbucks were not exactly what I had in mind when I reported the incident. An apology maybe, perhaps verbal, a "this will never happen again in my store" telephoned to the number I included on the copy of the complaint letter that I hand delivered to the store manager. Nothing tearful, just some embarassment would have sufficed. Or anything that hinted on the existence of a chain of command or a responsible party, really. Though a little groveling wouldn't have hurt anybody. No matter. I'd never be able to gulp down another macchiato in that store without musing on whether the staff was finally getting any.

So, drawn in by its similar, long, downtown resident-friendly hours, I changed my morning coffee run to the new Intelligentsia. But with no vagrant problem, bat-cave lighting, or surly bathroom lineup, I lost all bearings of what a Loop coffee bar was supposed to be. Needing something to bitch about, last month I bitched about the morning service. And while that early service deserved the bitching, it's better now. And, thanks to Intelligentsia, my idea of what a downtown coffee bar should be is much improved, too.

The new standard for downtown, Intelligentsia on Randolph is cozy but not small, well lit, attractively designed and furnished, has amazing hours, high-end equipment, an over-trained staff, and a drink menu more befitting a European cafe than a Seattle corporate caffeine juggernaut, meaning a menu based around small cups of hot coffee, not big gulps of iced sugar.

Is the service as fast as Starbucks during the morning rush? No. It can't ever be that. High-end manual espresso machines like those at Intelligentsia are by definition slower, but they produce a better shot. And if your drink isn't perfect, right down to the design atop your foam, the baristas will make it again. And while you're waiting, you'll do so amid a smartly designed modern space, not a dimly lit restroom dungeon. And, if nothing else, the coffee is better. Much better. Crack better. Crawl-across-the-desert better.

The bottom line? If you want to see what Starbucks probably used to be like, many moons ago when they were still a principled little Seattle upstart, visit Intelligentsia on Randolph. There, the coffee-lover's caffeinated dream is still very much alive. Bring a book. Bring a laptop. Bring a friend. If you live downtown, meet your neighbors, there are quite a few of us hanging there now.

For the sake of comparison, feel free to visit Starbucks on Madison, too. In that case, bring a wet wipe. And don't say I didn't warn you.

Posted by Mike at 06:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (1)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

(Photo: Black cat of coffee goodness. Credit: Intelligentsia.)

Dear Head Honcho of the Millennium Park Intelligentsia Coffee Bar:

I love your coffee – but please sell it to me faster in the morning.

I live and work within blocks of the Millennium Park store and since you’ve opened have frequented it 7 days a week. I chose your store over the Starbucks on Madison, my former neighborhood coffee haunt, since you have better coffee and frankly better service. But your pace is glacial in the morning! Admiral Bird glacial. Titanic glacial. Mt. Rainier glacial.

Continue reading "Word to Intelligentsia" »

Posted by Mike at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink

(Photo: Asparagus in bondage. Credit: Ladies Home Journal.)

Any cook will tell you, good food is like good porn. With that, I give you this totally double-entendred trip, taken verbatim from the Ladies Home Journal lightstyle section:

How to Choose Asparagus

-Look for rigid spears with firm ends.

-Wrinkled stem ends mean the asparagus is old and may be tough.

-Asparagus tenderness is not related to the thickness of the stalk.

-Color signals the tenderness of the stalks -- the deeper the color the better.

...I have a friend who swears by that last one. Er, she's a home cook, too.

Posted by Mike at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink

I am a kimchi chigae crack ho. Give it to me three squares a day. Blend it and stick it in an IV. Hell, just let me drag my futon over to Kimball and the Kennedy and I'll just live in Chicago Food Corp. Fie on you, dear Korean friend (I - don't - friggin' - look - like - Margaret - Cho) Rozella, for showing me how to make this traditional Korean stew. Fermented Chinese cabbage has taken over my life. But, damn, it's so good. No, really.

Continue reading "The Stew That Dare Not Speak Its Name" »

Posted by Mike at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (2)

-Posted in Food and Drink

While not a downtown establishment, the coolness of Hilary's Urban Eatery has swanked up the corner of Division and Greenview on the near northwest side for years. But according to this Metroblogging Chicago post from today, a sign on the door at HUE says that the last day of full service will be February 27 and that, at some uncertain point and in some uncertain location somewhere nearby, they'll reopen--all of which sounds to me like a hedgy way to say "maybe". And they were just featured on Chicago Tonight, too (so I've heard, I haven't bothered to watch since WTTW dumped Bob Sirott, have you?)

East Ukranian Village without HUE? What next? State Street without Marshall F-...oh wait...damn.

Posted by Mike at 03:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink

The end of 2006 cannot come fast enough for this home cook. According to two features in Sunday's Sun-Times (here and here), the much-anticipated downtown Trader Joe's will open by the end of the year on Ontario between Rush and Wabash. Heck, that's not even as far as I walk to go to Whole Foods (or as I prefer to call them, Foods Prices As If They Were Filled With Gold). Not that I don't do most of my shopping at my local Jewel, but sometimes you just want to splurge on something decadent and unusual without having to pay a Whole Foods or, God forbid, Fox & Obel fortune (although for a Queijo da Serra fix or a schmaltz emergency F&O has been very good to me).

So soon, no more dragging out the passport for a CTA run up into the hinterland (read that as Clybourn and Armitage) for a bottle of three-buck Chuck or a box of Trader Ming's pot stickers. This will be one Trader Joe's definitely made for walking. Now if only the Korean Chicago Food Corporation would open a kimchi- and pork-belly-carrying outlet down here, I'd be all set.

(Follow this link for a nifty Sun-Times pop-up map listing all existing, planned, and eminently walkable downtown groceries.)

Posted by Mike at 03:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Food and Drink | Love

It's official. I've morphed into Betty Crocker. When I was in dire financial straits during 2004, I realized that the surest way to financial solvency was to abandon my take-away ways. In place of delivery, pick-up, and Mickey D meals, I began a brave but fruitful journey...into my own kitchen.

Continue reading "A Downtown Chicago Thanksgiving" »

Posted by Mike at 07:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

When you tell people you live downtown, the second thing they always ask (after they ask where you park) is where you shop for food. But what's equally important to know is how. And if you didn't just fall off the suburban boat yesterday, it's not done with a car.

Continue reading "Loopermarkets" »

Posted by Mike at 07:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (1)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

People who don't live downtown always assume you can't shop for groceries down here. They all think our only option is the Dominick's at Madison and Halsted, 'cause that's all they see from the Kennedy. Truth is, I'm closer to more supermarkets down here than I ever was when I lived north of North...and closer to the more, um, interesting people who shop in them.

Continue reading "Downtown Market, Uptight Shopper" »

Posted by Mike at 06:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

-Posted in Daily Grind | Food and Drink

When you live and work downtown, those lunchtime eateries we all frequent on weekdays merit added importance--and scrutiny. Because when you live down (or up, depending) here, you're bound to eat at them more. And, yes, a few really are open past weekdays at 3pm. Two of these face catty-corner across Washington and Wabash: Oasis middle-eastern cafe; and Marshall Field's lower level Field's Marketplace gourmet food court. And the one spectacularly worth making a special trip for is not the one you might think.

Continue reading "Oasis vs. Field's Food Court Smackdown" »

<