Salsa in the NW suburbs

Mexican food has, in the last few years, worked its way to become one of my favorite ethnic foods. Perhaps that was because I was exposed to mostly hearty German food from my father growing up on a farm or the array of Italian dishes from my mother’s family that I can replicate in any kitchen from memory. I suppose I do have to be concise on what I mean by Mexican here with all the rich flavors, the off the wall traditional plates that Mexican’s and other Latin American countries will enjoy week in and out.  What I have learned to avoid is grubby, gelatinous Tex-Mex that although can have a dish to be satisfying with a cold beer, has mostly been bastardized by Taco Bell and other joints. Even Chipotle is more Tex-Mex than true Mexican – the mission style burrito was invented in San Francisco. 

This leads me to also argue the use of the word ‘authentic’ when slapped on a jar of salsa or a menu at an Italian restaurant. From what I have seen in a few foreign cultures and investigated further into culinary texts and restaurants is that some people who use that label ‘authentic’ wouldn’t likely eat the vast majority of what Italians and Mexicans sit down for. I’m talking like squid ink pasta, rich mole sauces with spicy chorizo, and haggis that is yes, made from sheep’s intestines. Even to my surprise the gruel of organ meat I had in Edinburgh, Scotland was a treat. 

Earlier this week I decided to take Ally to Salsa 17, a Mexican restaurant in downtown Arlington Heights that brushes ‘authentic’ off of the table for a bit of the familiar and some clever takes on traditional dishes. Designed to resemble an adobe style 19th century Hacienda, Salsa 17 is brimming with activity inside. The long bar has beautiful amber colors that truly show off their collection of over thirty different types of tequila amongst the gallery of other liquors. Lively salsa and the occasional Cuban rhythm find their way to your ears. Sure, they have a cliché over-sized sombrero on the wall with collections of pictures to create the full theme. If the food and array of clever cocktails weren’t so fulfilling, I might have been a haughty pain in the ass at the sight of this place, as I know a few people can be. The old adage ‘Don’t knock it until you try it’ works well with food – not sure if it applies well to perhaps the prohibited activities of life. 

We started with a fried soft taco shell that was rolled to resemble egg rolls. Inside they stuffed chicken, black beans, double-tomato salsa (which they pass along at the table with chips). Blow on the Rollitos de Pollo to get that hot oil from burning your tongue. A smooth avocado lemon cream dip on the side was there to tie the dish together.

Ally went for her standby of tamales. Here they had the usual rice and beans, except that the black beans were encased in an octagonal corn shell next to a dollop of crèma. Served on a bed of dried corn husks, the corn and butternut squash tamales had a rich red tomato and Serrano salsa placed on top with a few lines of melted goat cheese that resembled white frosting on a cinnamon bun. 

I went for the Chilies Rellenos con Birria de Borrego.  This Mexican version of an open faced sandwich was a hearty concoction of two fire roasted Anaheim peppers stuffed with birria (shredded leg of lamb) and a ladle full of the dark trifecta of ancho, guajillo, and mulato chilies. The melt in your mouth birria, strong flavors from the salsa were complemented all so well by a large bed of creamy chipotle mash potatoes. From my chair I looked up at two plaques on the entrance wall of ABC’s The Hungry Hound and one of Chicago’s Best, both cheering Salsa 17 with the words “Holy Mole!” Sure they never heard that one before. I powered my way to finish the grande sized plate, so much so that I took a decent walk after dinner to not feel so rotund in the belly. Ally bowed out early to take her leftovers to work the next day. Nothing better than take-out for lunch at the job the next day, right?

Since she had a bad day at work and I figured since I had the day off, our hands found the drink menu in record time. Ally had a smooth pineapple and tequila cocktail in a margarita glass. I shed my man card for one meal and chose a pink, big ole’ girlie drink filled with Chambord vodka, pink lemonade, and a splash of Cointreau. From the first sip I was so blown away that I almost decided to give up scotch – almost…I mean we all slip up in love now and then. 

Salsa 17 is one of my personal favorites in the Chicagoland area for Mexican food. Judging by the crowds that pack the place on the weekend, I’m not the only one. 

Bachelor Party on the Brew Bus

I have learned there are three responsibilities of the best man. One - take care of the bride’s ring at the ceremony. Two - deliver a comical yet tear jerking speech at the wedding reception. Third – throw a bachelor party full of boozing and debauchery akin to what every New Orleans Catholic does on Marti Gras before they begin to repent. Being the best man for my brother Ryan, I had decided that our gathering of lads for an elaborate steakhouse dinner with drinking and gambling last year wasn’t enough for the good man that I am sure no one can say a bad thing about. Having been close with my brothers Ryan and Eric since we were children, I knew the usual tour of strip clubs for bachelor parties seemed skeevy and amateurish. Now that didn’t mean any one of us would occasionally glance at a cute waitress during our drinking tour, which of course we naturally did. 

In the past year Ryan has forayed into the world of home brewing. At first the brews needed work as with any first attempt. Being persistent at things we Titus boys love to experiment with (me with this blog) Ryan continued to brew, improving with every batch. A particular cider he made came out so crisp, the right match of dry and honey sweetness. Nick and I figured that Ryan would love going on what we heard was a tour of local micro-breweries by the Chicago Brew Bus. After much planning, the co-owner and tour guide, Kevin, began our journey at Chicago’s most famous brew, Goose Island.

Goose Island

Founded in 1988, Goose Island has fashioned many brews with three Chicago locations for Midwestern distribution. Kevin was sharp enough to include us onto a tour of the tiny facilities at the Clybourn location. With about thirty other people, the seven of us bachelor lads went past a steel door that looked like an entrance to a fall-out shelter. Encased in brick walls up to ten feet and then glass windows for the other fifteen the brewing room was damp, filled with stainless steel drums that contained the multiple processes of beer. To our right, against the wall, nine wooden bourbon kegs each fermented a particular type of beer and a few wines the brewers were trying out. The tour guide was fine, nothing special. Nick thought his face and eyes were so saggy and stricken from dehydration, likely from constant drinking, that he looked like Droopy Dog. 

In a long, narrow banquet hall the beers had been sitting for close to twenty minutes in tasting stations. Any liquor drinker knows that the sweet, sweet alcohol you crave is not great after been poured and left to sit, warming up with the temperature of the room. Bad form, Goose Island, bad form. From left to right we tasted six beers, each quite different from each other. Since we were part of a tour, we seven guys could only find spots where they were available. Eric sat to my left, Kyle to my right, a weirdo looking guy and his friendly hipster sister across from us. We agreed that we most enjoyed the blonde ale, which could be a dangerous beer with its higher than usual alcohol content and flavor. One would mistake this as a beer you could keep drinking with little effects to your blood alcohol level when in fact it’s a killer in the long run. Thankfully as a souvenir Goose Island gave us pint glasses with a modified Chicago flag on the pint. All us guys giving each other a glance, we left the tour early and stepped on the Brew Bus.

The Brew Bus, with their requisite slogan, “We drive you to drink” was a converted short bus into a party wagon. As our driver meandered through the pot hole stricken side streets of Chicago, Kevin enlightened us with a little Chicago brewing history. He also cleverly screwed with us by tossing a full zip-lock bag of green herbs in our direction, yelling “who wants to start this party!” Nick and few of us guys all looked at each other in surprise at the full bag of what we thought was weed, only to discover in fact it was part one of the brew history – malted hops. Oh, Kevin you cheeky muthafucka! 

One location nearby Goose Island Clybourn had a giant P with a hand grabbing the letter at a corner of the building that had been sadly converted into a World Market. That building in the late 1800’s was the birthplace of cheap, working class style lagers. When the recipe was sold decades later, it became what we know as Miller Light. 

To add to our disappointment, we found that Goose Island is not in fact a micro-brewery but a subsidiary of Anheuser-Busch, likely the largest beer company in the United States and certainly the dual gold medalist of shite in a can with douche attitudes and leadership. Ryan, Nick and I have affection for the finely crafted micro-brews or even the small market breweries like Sam Adams, who are less about mass production and more about quality. Busch controls over 50% of the United States market alone. Sam Adams, likely the largest small market brewer, controls a little over 1% of the market. Take the extra time, pay the extra dollar and enjoy a good beer that won’t leave you hugging the toilet later for numerous reasons. My personal favorite small market brewers or micro-brewers are Sam Adams, Leinenkugels, Two Brothers (Warrenville, Illinois), and Great Lakes Brewery (Cleveland). 

Haymarket Brewery

Our second stop on the brew tour has to be one of the hidden gems of Chicago. Located on 737 West Randolph Street, in the Mecca of the mind-blowing wave of quality, inventive west loop restaurants, Haymarket deserves an A in every category. The owner was there to greet us at the door, a half-finished pint in one hand, his other hand running his fingers through his long and thinning strawberry Viking hair tied back to rest on his flannel button-down. A set of high-top tables set aside for us, we took Kevin’s advice and ordered some grub to soak up the booze. Nick and I tore into a refreshingly different thin-crust pizza with bakery made dough, Italian sausage, a light drizzle of BBQ sauce and the kicker – a delicate topping of house made giardinara for some spice on top. Below you can see a happy Nick enjoying a slice. I had a sliver of Ryan’s burger that was so flavorful I noticed three distinct herb and salt flavors on top of the evenly cooked meat. Eric’s bratwurst, complete with sauerkraut on top of pretzel roll was divine, impressing even my usual picky brother. 

The beer was everything we hoped it could have been, considering how awed we were by the beautiful wood décor and out-of-this-world bar food. We had five, four ounce tastings, each one brought out in five minute intervals. The last two, a Mathias Imperial IPA and the Templeton Whiskey aged Imperial Stout, were by far the best. The Mathias, as the owner explained, contained rich citrus hops, which explained the crisp orange color and flavor similar to that of hints of grapefruit and orange mixed together. The Imperial Stout was one of the best beers I likely ever had, each sip bringing back those delightful flavors of chocolate and vanilla. 

After a brief tour of their facilities, which to us was more informative and personal with our small group, we examined the back room. Nick and I were the only non-game geeks to not be playing the four-man Pac Man council that the rest of the guys did. In-between more good rounds of beer and laughing our asses off, we got back on the bus. Eric summed up the last beer at Haymarket the best – “The high alcohol in the beer was tough, but it was so sweet. It felt like someone was punching me in the mouth and their fist was layered with honey.”

Moonshine

The last stop on the brew bus was at 1824 West Division in Wicker Park at Moonshine. I will save you a long review here by simply stating that this place was nothing special. We almost wished that the tour could have been fifteen dollars cheaper and skipped the less than spectacular beer samples at Moonshine. Some of the beer, one of them being a South Side Stout, tasted rancid and chalky. Most of us in the group didn’t get through half of the beers. The servers and owners weren’t prepared, nor did they seem to care in what is likely one of the most bohemian neighborhoods in the city.

Perhaps the food was welcoming, much like a Haymarket. Maybe I should have grabbed one of their classic mojitos. By that point, and the disappointment of the beer, the guys and I were eager to get back on the bus.

We returned back to Evanston after being dropped off at our cars that we left at Goose Island. A quick saunter into town with our heavy, alcohol stricken legs, and we spent some hours at Tommy Nevin’s in Evanston. I could tell I had fulfilled my best man duties for my modest brother as we played a competitive set of darts whilst clearing out the taste of beer with hard liquor and savory pub food. Turns out that I should give myself more credit – who wouldn’t love a brew and munchies tour?

New American in the midst of a bastardized holiday

I started out my weekend with a foolish thought that perhaps Chicago during an unseasonably warm time would have a mild St Patrick’s Day celebration. The smatterings of thousand green t-shirt wearing revelers, half of them shouting and using the holiday to feel as if they can out drink a person of Irish blood was maddening. My friends and I had noticed, as I hope some of you have, that some women have found that every holiday has become appropriate to dress like a prostitute. The sea of dyed green on the Chicago river reminded locals that at least there was one uniform color on a river that should be dyed light blue (instead of the puke brown) the other 364 days of the year. I knew a few minutes after noon, thirty people deep in a sweaty crowd for a peak of the parade on Columbus Drive that I had enough. A teenage girl next to me in the crowd, her arms folded like mine, looked around and said “this really isn’t fun.” 

Five years ago I celebrated a rather inebriated and yet surprisingly memorable St Patrick’s Day in Limerick, Ireland. At twenty-five, drinking to excess seemed appropriate as my friends at school and I realized that we were in the last vestiges of using our either immaturity or devil-may-care attitude. One of those friends, Stevie, chose to visit Chicago for the first time with her friend from Las Vegas, Ashley. Wanting to show them a good time, at least where their swanky post-modern Dana Hotel was stationed in River North. Seeing glimpses of the gathering storm that was asshats in downtown that day before, I decided to get some culinary joys in early. 

On Friday night we agreed to join in for a dinner at Chef Paul Kahan’s New American legend that started it all in the West Loop – Blackbird. The winner of multiple James Beard culinary awards seemed to have the magic formula between the stark white walls and rustic wooden floorboards of its minimalist dining room. To be sure, we sat at the end of the bar where a very knowledgeable and friendly bartender served us up drinks to loosen up our wallets. 

For an appetizer I chose the blue hill bay bouchot mussel bisque with crispy potato, nicoise olive, tomato and olive oil. I’ve had better bisques, for two main reasons. First, one of the mussels wasn’t properly cleaned. When I took a bite, I nearly had my tongue ripped open by a jagged shell that remained inside. Second, as I cautiously waded into the soup for multiple spoonfuls, I was hoping for some balsamic or crème friche to break up the watery pepper flavor. 

The main dish was the most impressive - chickory glazed lamb belly with escarole, crunchy turnip, pine nut hollandaise and preserved meyer lemon. The lamb had little of that gamey taste you get from lamb or duck. A hollandaise so buttery delicious pulled the entire dish together. I secretly wished to ask for a small to go container of it so that I might put it on every dish at home from popcorn to salmon. My friend Stevie’s dish of aged duck breast simply was not impressive to me thanks to the chewiness of a mediocre bit of bird.

Going for broke – literally – I asked the girls to share with me a plate of toasted peanut cake with balsamic carrots, buttermilk and lime. Another artfully presented plate shattered the notion of cake as every bit is scattered around in shapes and forms that are creative enough to not be presented. I almost wished the standard complimentary palate cleansers of beautiful dark chocolate balls and soft vanilla French cookies could have been more, much of what I felt about my Blackbird experience.

That is where I drew the line, not because of the creativity, which I applaud, but the damn small portions. I am not a red-blooded American pounding my chest for meat and expecting to be gorged like a beast on a chain. All I am asking if for slightly larger quantity of food to make my sixty dollars go as far as possible when other elements are lacking. Any restaurant that would have these items would be a band apart from the thousands of chain or mediocre restaurants, some of them well known. Perhaps because Blackbird has become a name for excellence I was quite judgmental of every aspect. I know a creative and backbreaking mind like those behind the dining in the cramped spaces of the kitchen are artists, just as ready to be challenged. I hope that Paul Kahan’s other staple restaurants in the area of Avec and The Publican are a step above what Blackbird has – I’d really like to embrace this food evolution in Chicago and believe that hype as well.

Bad Rock and Roll with a little bizarre Goodman Theater on the side

If you are going to be spending a weeknight in Chicago, you have to leave before rush hour or consider yourself screwed. Ally and I hustled ourselves out in my car, parking in the north loop. We had a few hours to kill before we indulged in two free tickets to The Goodman Theater production of a lesser known Tennessee Williams play called Camino Real. More to come of that shit storm of bizarre that would make Dali’s head spin. 

In River North I had the desire, as we took in the cool upper 50’s air, to walk to our destination. Being on a budget, I fought the urges to not dive into one of many great sets of restaurant doors. Being a good boyfriend I let Ally use the two Hard Rock Café gift cards that her father gave her for our early dinner. My disposition towards these chains has changed considerably since I was a child, where the flash and glamour override the obvious flaws at even calling these places restaurants and allowing them to pass health codes. Though, Ally made an excellent point by saying, “People don’t go there for the food…they go there for entertainment and whatever they throw up on the walls.”

The Hard Rock Café Chicago reminds me a bygone classical age of rock where loud, audacious, and all around kick-ass tunes justified all the debauchery and sin from oddballs not cut out for any conformity within American and British life of the 20^th Century. My spirits were lifted when the constant stream of music videos (ala VH1 or early MTV) played a rip-roaring Smashing Pumpkins song from Gish and then a few choice hair metal songs. Where was Bowie, Ray Charles, or Freddie Mercury? They were on the walls, but not to be played, only remembered. 

Letting my guard down, I ordered the so-called local special burger mixed with Italian beef toppings. Heavy on the salt, light on the flavor with nothing to balance out the burger I was only disgusted further when I found a hair in the meat. No, I didn’t continue eating, treating the charred puck that I requested to be medium to turn into an episode of Bizzare Foods. It turns out that the Hard Rock Café is merely the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, just with revolting food.  Now you know I wouldn’t fully mind a chain as long as they make the effort to have a recent array of flavors and were light on the thematic. 

Light on the thematic is not what occurred in the Camino Real show Ally and I saw thanks to my good friend Mike’s girlfriend, Claudette. The two of them liked the show, more so for Claudette having done some sound design. The unique uses of lighting design, from LED lights in the stage and back walls, to capping mirror balls with frightening key-lights that cast a horror below was hauntingly unique. That’s where my appreciation stops. Camino Real was more than art for art’s sake – it was the worst Samuel Becket, wrapped in layers of Rothko, with existentialism of a art school student who only wants to make the world understand the twisted soul of an artist. People are twisted in their own special way - artists only seem worse because we make it our life’s work to document our twisted souls into art, literature, film, music, and so on. There were endless moments of blathering dialogue, reminiscent of a conversation with philosophers Michel Foucault and Jean-Paul Sarte that led to nothing but dead ends and almost useless sexually charged imagery. 

The make believe town was run by creeps, whores of every type, nymphomaniac cops, and masochistic hotel owners that all wedged themselves into the most uneven story I’ve seen in years. Ally and I turned to each other at least four times, whispering “I have no idea what is happening?” At one moment she had to suppress a laugh when the hotel owner cut open a man’s chest to remove his heart and I threw my hands to my forehead, whispering “What the fuck is going on with this show?” For the over a hundred in the crowd who stood up at the end and clapped furiously, I couldn’t repress my feelings by asking them “really?”  I never thought I’d say this but to make some sense of this world again, I need to watch Samuel Beckett. 

After a little after party and a stroll down Wacker Drive with Ally before we drove home, the lights of the city high-rises reminded us that even a mediocre meal and a batshit insane show with really good people like each other and my friends was better than sitting home and watching TV night after night as so many of us find ourselves doing all of our lives.

Heaven...a little Smoque BBQ Heaven

Two foodie minds can think alike when planning out a new restaurant adventure. Thankfully in early March this came true again with my friend Nick and the dinner I had promised him for his birthday. My plan back in January was to treat him to the now new age of Chef Paul Kahan west loop culinary excellence with Blackbird. Then I reminded myself on March 1^st of the financial obligations of everything from medical bills to my brother’s bachelor party, later wedding and the 100 to 130 I would likely spend at Blackbird flew away. 

Nick has become an enthusiast of smoking meats. Perhaps the tastes from his time in the boggy south whet his appetites, perhaps as well because Nick is a very inventive home cook, often using his or his parent’s smokers for holidays. I swear if my novel never sells I would encourage my friends and family to go in on what would likely but a fun but ultimately a disastrous restaurant venture in micro brewing and culinary desires. Pipe dreams aside, Nick and I ventured down to Smoque BBQ in Chicago on 3800 N. Pulaski, just off of the tenacious bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on route 94. 

Walking in, we were greeted not only by the several helping hands of assistance staff (between wait staff, bus boys and runners) but also the delectable smell of smoked meats. A giant signed poster of Guy Fieri from Diners, Drive-ins and Dives on the wall urged us to go forward into a seven to fifteen people deep line that didn’t die down until we left.

“Should we go all out?” I asked Nick, pointing to the massive menu chalk board. “Whatever you think is best, I trust your awesomeness Big G,” Nick said, rubbing his hands together, anticipating. I used the rule of thumb there as I did at Real Urban BBQ – one dish for each of us and then one other main dish for us to share. The side menu was limited to about seven items, making us wonder why there weren’t more options. I would soon find out the sides, contrary to main course of animals that died for good causes, would prove that quality was better than quantity. I ordered pulled pork and let Nick pick out the sides – macaroni and cheese and hearty brisket chili. 

“Sliced brisket with sides of BBQ beans and cornbread,” I told the pint sized young woman behind the counter. “We were thinking about splitting ribs…maybe a full slab?” 

“We have an off the menu special on those…” the cashier said. 

Off the menu special you say? Please continue! 

“You can do the special half slab of St Louis style and the half slab of the Chicago baby back.”

The two of us nodding like two men with bobble heads on, we took our seats. Smoque BBQ features family style dining where you will be placed in open spots amongst total strangers. Don’t fear the opportunity to interact. The group next to us joined our conversation about food hot spots in Chicago after offering us some of their French fries which we dutifully dipped in the two sauces – Memphis style with spice and a loose Carolina style with a vinegar snap. The place is also a BYO, which many patrons took advantage of with a shared six pack. 

One of many men behind the counter shouted our number above the din chatter and small kitchen behind. I had to make two runs from there to our table with what we ordered. The pulled pork, sans bun, was quite good as I noticed the hints of vinegar, black pepper in moist meat. Their signature sliced brisket was melty and soft, so much so we didn’t need to use a knife. I named the BBQ beans, complete with tiny chunks of brisket, a “bowl of smoke” with it’s almost effervescent smoky flavor that was delicious and so rich I swore we could blow smoke rings after a few bites. The other sides were great compliments to meal as well. I particularly appreciated the coleslaw, which I am not a fan of. The slaw, prepared quite simply with black pepper and vinegar instead of mayonnaise, refreshed the palate. 

The main event was the ribs, something that had left me feeling somewhat unsatisfied when I went to Real Urban BBQ. I hold this truth to be self-evident that Smoque’s baby back ribs with and without sauce are the best damn ribs I have ever had – period! All my senses needed was one bite and I was hooked by the multitude of spices on top of the beautiful smoke ring, some of which I could tell was various peppers, salt, and coriander. The St Louis ribs, with all of their imparted flavors and artful char, were slightly meatier and just as fall of the bone quality as the baby back. You can see below how happy of a lad Nick was - nearly in tears with appreciation. When I wasn’t using one of six napkins or my lips to clean off the flavors, I was in the same company of satisfaction.

Needless to say we left with our stomachs feeling like those old toys, wee wobbles, bobbing here and there in what could have turned into a meat coma. I couldn’t resist buying two, 18 ounce bottles of their affordable spicy Memphis style barbeque sauce. A gift for my Dad but selfishly, one for my future grill on my patio!

The difference between Real Urban BBQ and Smoque is in a few items, where one place does them better than the other. Truthfully, don’t waste your time comparing which one is better – they are both good. Sometimes you just have to appreciate a good plate of barbeque that will not remain on your plates for long once your order has been called.