A Diablo Start-up in Evanston

Opportunity is that universal truth that many humans wish was equal to all but limited in execution. The same goes for a start-up restaurant that in the first weeks of its door’s opening is proving whether or not they will be the anomaly to 70%-80% failure rate of new businesses. Competition is the name of the game, be it other fellow small businesses, corporate giants or improper execution of marketing the name. I hope none of those unfortunate things happen to a new Mexican restaurant in Evanston named Taco Diablo at 1029 Davis Street.

When my buddy Nick and I entered Taco Diablo, there was not a sign or awning to indicate its presence. There nothing more than a small placard in the front window of two kiddy crimson devils with pitchforks that we didn’t notice until we left. I remembered the place from a show another friend of mine performed at what the place used to be, a poorly run bar. The décor of Taco Diablo will strike you, making you take pause at how the owners make you want to find similar exotic accessories for your home. A medieval-style chandelier hangs in the front. Over the bar are Arabian inspired tin lights that illuminate the bright in color and character Neo-Mexican art of devils, luchadores above fine selections of whiskey and tequilas. Distressed wood ties the restaurant together as it is placed into the bar, the sandpaper smoothed booths and the wall of misshapen wooden timbers adjacent to the front window. 

Nick and I went with taco platters, each attention-to-detail taco prepared for a price of 3.50 to 4 dollars a piece – a steal in our opinion, considering the quality within. A deal for $11 is included to get three types of tacos from their ten unique choices. We both ordered crunchy chicken tacos (fried), beef cheek tacos, and duck confit and chorizo tacos. My belly, still not satisfied as I had previously visited the gym and worked myself into an appetite, went for one order of the delectable adobo mahi-mahi tacos with a orange salsa. Each was a pleasure, the chicken perfect with lime marinated onions, the beef cheek though light on the salt was still tender as carnitas. I’ve had better duck confit and chorizo tacos that packed more flavor. 

If you want to impress patrons such as my friend and I with your start-up restaurant, boast the originality of your products served. By inquiring, we found the tomatillo, spicy red salsa, pickled onions and crème were all made in house. Those touches give a restaurant its own character, the same way a smoke house uses its own charcoal or dry rub. To my pleasure, I revisited my time overseas by drinking a bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola which contains cane sugar and not what all American Colas contain – syrupy, gelatinous corn-starch, thanks to subsidized industries and frankenfoods. Don’t get me started when someone says “Your body can’t tell the difference – sugar is sugar.” Bullshit – my mouth can taste the difference as well as my ever-likely to fail into diabetes liver if I drink “According to the National Soft Drink Association (NSDA), consumption of soft drinks is now over 600 12-ounce servings (12 oz.) per person per year.” Enjoy the glass bottle of cola, don’t ask where the fountain drinks are to consistently refill. If you are not a cola fan, do what Nick did an order another house made specialty, iced tea. A tiny squirt of honey from the table and you are on your way to a series of delightful sips, those iced cups jangling against the glass. 

When we entered Taco Diablo close to 6pm, there were few people inside. A line was ready to collect out the door once we left, with every table occupied. The co-owner came to our table at the end of our meal to help bus, who she said the place is owned and operated with her husband since they “opened three weeks prior.” Though run-down, as her face was beginning to truly realize the sacrifices of owning a restaurant, a smile carried through with graciousness as we spoke of our affinity for those personal touches Taco Diablo gave, from the salsa to the décor. I wish for Taco Diablo to have that opportunity to become stable, have good word of mouth in a very competitive restaurant town of Evanston, and above all – continue to be inventive and let their small business voice carry. 

Confucius say, “Charcoal takes time”

If I can offer one piece of advice to anyone out there who like myself is foraying into the world of cooking succulent meats or vegetables by the heat of charcoal – develop patience. I chose to not embrace this virtue yesterday as I Christened my new 18.5’’ Weber charcoal grill, perfect for the corner of my condo balcony. Dumping coals into the chimney starter, I light the mounds of paper in the area below, thinking those lumps of rock will ignite in a slow burn. Problem was that after a mere two minutes of burning, I poured the charcoal onto the grill, the heat far below an acceptable 225, not a single briquette turning ashy. Disappointed, I watched over the low heat for safety while Ally was nice enough to grab us a small bag of Kingsford mesquite charcoal and a can of lighter fluid. Like any guy who is turned on by the sight of flames roaring, I did however care more about those new briquettes lighting. I learned to leave the grill cover off to allow as much air to begin a chemical reaction within the charcoal. When they turn ashy gray in color, that means that heat will come, and if you are wise to move the charcoal around and stack appropriately, in a matter of 15 to 20 minutes, your grill will be ready to go. 

I chose to cook three half pound grass fed beef burgers from Whole Foods along with two ears of corn slathered in butter while the kernels caramelized on the grate.  The roaring coals were spread out evenly over the bottom grate for direct grilling, a method that requires 30 or more briquettes (depending on size of grill) that will result in a heat above 300 degrees for sustained cooking. If you expect to smoke a meat, your charcoals should rest in a certain corner while the meat sits on the opposite side above. That method is called indirect grilling. The fat within the meat will break down and turn into a juicy steak or tender ribs because your temperature should be from 215 to 260. Smoke as well will add flavor, texture and cook the meat through. Soak a handful of desired chips (for beginners, use hickory) in a bowl for a half hour. Afterwards, remove chips, pat them down with a towel and toss them onto the working coals. If you wanted to add chips as well to direct grilling, do the same thing, just don’t expect top notch smoked meat results if your burger and corn cooks for a mere 10 to 20 minutes. 

Ally and I chose to place these medium cooked burgers on mayo and mustard covered sliced pretzel buns. Place a slice of bacon on top, along with either a slice of avocado or tomato and pad with some crunchy lettuce or arugula for a peppery bite. The true genius, if I must say so myself, came with goat cheese, which we duly slathered over the top of the finished burgers. Trust me, all that frustration was worth a dynamite burger, crunchy corn and a good beer. 

Don’t bother to put out the flame of the charcoal with water or dirt unless you absolutely have to. The next morning, you’ll be glad you left the cover open to let those hot coals run the course of their packed energy to dissolve into an ashy pit. Every stage of grilling requires a patience that I am learning to appreciate – the results are too delicious to pass up.

A Weekend of Chicago Festivals

Trace the brief history of the blues since its origins in bayou country in the deep south of post-emancipation 1870’s and you will mind that one of the main stopping points of the great migration for 1 of every 8 black American in the early 20^th century wound up in Chicago, Illinois. Like New Orleans, St Louis and New York City, Chicago developed a sub-genre of the blues, most from honing the electric guitar and harmonica. 

The past weekend Chicago held the 28^th annual Chicago Blues Festival, originally created in honor of Muddy Waters (Father of Chicago Blues) after his passing in 1983. Having been to the festival years ago, I was happy to once again last weekend to tap into the soul of what I teach in the occasional lesson on the origins of blues and jazz. 

On the weekend of June 8-10, 2012, Chicago seemed blitzed with a plethora of events – MidSommerfest in Andersonville, Old Town Art Festival, Rib Fest in Ravenswood, Printers Row Literature Fest and Blues Fest, all while hosting the Roosevelt graduation and a Sox game. Add to that a true Midwestern summer’s day with heat hovering around 90 and the humidity potent enough to create a waterfall of sweat on our backs. Ally and I chuckled at the fact that each couple we saw kiss, we knew it would be a salty one.

In the morning, we made plans to visit with my old friend Mike and his lady, Claudette, for brunch at Café Selmarie in his neighborhood of Lincoln Square. Café Selmarie, aside from having balanced, thoughtful brunches and lunches, graduates with honors on what has to be my favorite bakery case in Chicago. I guarantee if Ally and I weren’t about to take in the afternoon at the Literature and Blues Fests that we would have wrapped up a delicious slice of cake, cookie or pastry – my favorite is a slice of the Black Forest Torte. Ally enjoyed a plate of corned beef hash, the shredded bits of beef the true treat. I went for the Chilaquiles, which was tucked into a round earthenware dish. Though tasty as the shredded chicken mixed well with the blended chips, I felt the excess amount of queso fresco with all the salt that was already in the dish was too much – maybe use unsalted chips next time. The teaspoon size dollop of guacamole was far too small for the size of the dish. Don’t let this discredit Selmarie – I haven’t had a meal I’ve regretted there in three or four years I’ve visited that great neighborhood of artists, thirty-somethings and enough strollers to scare even a suburbanite soccer mom. 

My visit to the Literature Fest, tucked into the Chicago Loop neighborhood of Printer’s Row was my third. The first time I had sauntered through the closed off blocks of south Dearborn to visit each stall, best resembling a massive antique fair combined with modern booksellers and author events, I was lucky enough to find a gem – a guidebook from the 1893 World’s Fair that I still use for my classes. The prices on that Sunday, the last day of the festival, were reduced at many tents. Ally had to fish out a mere eight dollars for a paperback copy of Water for Elephants and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, both in retail bookshelf condition. Unfortunately I didn’t find that next novel that would catch my attention – perhaps the heat and the hustle-bustle of the fair distracted me. Though, the few tents dedicated to vintage posters from movies, films and festivals since the early 20^th Century are a true treat to thumb through for one that rests at the perfect point of the wall in your home or apartment. 

Not punished enough by the sun, Ally and I walked about five blocks east of Printer’s Row, past our undergraduate alma-mater of Columbia College, to the Chicago Blues Fest – did I mention both festivals are free thanks to the City of Chicago? Our bodies were cooled by the artificial rain drops that flew from the long jet of water at the Buckingham Fountain onto the melting crowd below. 

The Chicago Blues Fest is a better environment to be in than the pilgrimage crowds of eaters who descend only a fair representation of Chicago’s culinary environment. Though a half million are said to visit annually to Blues Fest, I was happy to not develop a sudden claustrophobia. We trampled the thin rubber of our sandal soles from stage to stage. A particularly laughable moment for us came when we tried to dance a bluesy jig like so many others around the northern stage, only to nearly fly in opposite directions for not being able to grip one another thanks to sweat and sun tan lotion. 

We took a brief sabbatical from the music and son to grab two mini pulled pork sandwiches and rib tips from the Robinson’s Ribs truck – music from southern origins=southern style BBQ! Of the rib tips that weren’t burned to a crisp, they were only fairly meaty. The char was far too burnt instead of brimming with flavor from black pepper and other BBQ spices. The mild KC style tomato based sauce mixed well with the perfect shreds of pulled pork. – hell, even the buns tasted amazing after soaking up the sauce.

At the Bud Light tent we taught a well-known Blues band named Lil’ Ed and the Blues Imperials. Lil’ Ed, replete in his Shiner’s Cap and voice that’s a mix of Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon, has been playing with his Imperials for 25 plus years. We taught the late 40’s style blues slow rhythms of “Had to Die before I Started Living”, the euphemism and slang packed tune “I gotta check my woman’s oil…someone’s been placing their dipstick in there” and range of upbeat guitar driven tunes that one doesn’t have to think hard as to see why this beautiful American musical form inspired countless artists during the rise of Rock-n-Roll during the 1950’s and 1960’s. 

A true blues fan would visit a traditional club. In absence of that visit, Blues Fest is there for the masses. All of this is true irony of course, considering the mainstream culture and society of America in early to mid-twentieth century called blues and boogie-woogie blues (Rock n Roll) the Devil’s music. At least on some things like the blues we can evolve to understand, appreciate and love in culture that we can call our own, region to bluesy region. 

In Memory of Ray Bradbury

I cannot help to swerve from the purpose of this blog today to speak of the man who first made me aware of the power of literature. This morning, news sources around America announced the passing of one of this nation’s greatest authors, Ray Bradbury, at 91 years old. When I was in seventh grade, a rather wise English teacher placed a copy of the dystopian Fahrenheit 451 in my hands. When most kids slogged their way through, I couldn’t help turning on the lamp next to my bed and reading his evocative prose for hours. Those nights I delighted in my struggle to fall asleep with all those allegories of a society that outlaws education and reading keeping me up past the midnight hour. Ray perhaps said it best with “You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.”

If you ever wish to write, stand on a cliff, take a leap and build your wings on the way down. Ray was full of whimsical advice such as this one that I was privy to in my last semester at Columbia College Chicago in the spring of 2003. The annual Columbia Literature Fest had an event that hosted a live satellite chat at the Harold Washington Library. Ray, who was unable to travel out to Chicago from his stroke a year before that and because of his debilitating phobia of airplanes (ironic, considering some of his science fiction) sat for two hours, live on a big screen, answering audience questions to his heart’s content from Los Angeles. A rather transfixed young man I was with the brevity of his words and daily application of his talent to storytelling. There was no excuse to not commit one’s self to their labors of love, he taught me. Bradbury himself, in the months before that assembly, laid his body crippled from a mild stroke onto a hospital bed and over a matter of a week dictated a novel to his daughter off the top of his head.

Though Bradbury developed a reputation for being gruff and blunt with his booming voice, he was consistent in allowing those to approach his friendly demeanor, often being quite generous with lovers of literature and fellow writers, published and amateur alike. Bradbury’s biographer, Sam Weller, approached him years back with the idea of having an authorized documentation of his life. “I had written you a letter back in the 1980’s, Ray,” Weller said. Ray had him go down into his basement where the biographer found rows of wooden shelves fit for boxes, each marked with a year. “1983...April,” Ray mumbled to himself as his fingers searched through stacks of split open envelopes containing letters from fans. “Is this yours,” Ray said. Sure enough, Sam Weller held the same letter he has sent to Ray Bradbury as a child. “You kept my letter all these years?” Weller asked. “Of course…I save every letter a fan sends me!”

Bradbury’s career amounts to more than the published work of 27 books, 600 short stories, a screenplay for John Huston’s 1956 Moby Dick, numerous teleplays, and his own television hour, The Ray Bradbury Theater. Throughout this prolific career, Bradbury spoke of how death was so permanent. From twelve years old, where at a sideshow within a carnival that had rolled into his birthplace of a now much different Waukegan, Illinois, Ray was convinced that the written word assured immortality. On my shelf he remains and within that creative slice of my brain a future novel about innocence of childhood and love of baseball thanks to Dandelion Wine – you too, were as curious at eleven years old as Douglas Spaulding remains in that novel. Your frustration with censorship and burning itch to enlighten yourself is in Guy Montag of Fahrenheit 451. The cold mechanics of technology and our latent psychological fears have been probed within the Illustrated Man collection. The devastation we allow ourselves to live in growing generations develops a conscience when you read of a future where humans are bound to escape Earth for Mars in The Martian Chronicles. Ray Bradbury lives on in all of us, reminding those who remain aware that what we touch and create becomes immortal.

"Everyone must leave something in the room or left behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there" - Ray Bradbury

We Took it to Go

“Titus, where the hell has your blog gone the past month?” I’ve been asked this more than once and I appreciate that people cared enough to wonder where my pithy reviews had gone. In truth, though for only decent reasons other than needing a break, teaching six classes and then winding them down with finals will tuck away things like blogs. Just as well, I started my summer class at Harper right after ending my summer semester. If I didn’t feel busy enough, I returned to my re-writes of the seventh draft of my novel, The Forest of Silver Leaves. Words cannot say how proud I am of this draft meant for agent and publisher submissions. Wait, yes I can – the proof is hopefully in the prose.

Today marks the beginning of the next 90 days of what we in the Midwest praise as a sanguine time of grill outs, music under the stars and sunburns so vivid we feel them for days. For all of the ‘beginning of summer’ that was declared with Memorial Day, Ally and I took a riverboat cruise and a dinner at Carson’s Ribs in Chicago.

I am sure the Chicago Architectural Foundation wants me to buy stock in them for all of the student’s I had sent to them over the years of teaching college Humanities courses. With a few dollars socked away, Ally and I decided to take an architectural cruise of the Chicago River on the Sunday before Memorial Day. Hot is word reserved for days like that, with temps resting at 95 in pure sunshine and humidity that has the sweat on your back forming its own beads of perspiration in 100 plus heat indexes. We armed our pale skin with SPF strong enough to deflect solar flares and headed down by my air conditioned car to downtown Chicago. We didn’t wish to play the fools game of crowding on a late Metra train with overflowing riders. Though I am not claustrophobic, I shall never forget the time I had a fat man’s belly sweat rub all over my forearm at a Metra platform after the Taste of Chicago. A taste, mind you, that I nearly spewed up after that incident. 

The river tours are not cheap as they start at $40 a pop, tax included. I wished I had better read the directions for Ally and I showed up at the Chicago Architectural Foundation, only to be told we had 15 minutes to walk up to Michigan and Wacker and make that boat. Like a fool, the lady reminded me that we were the last to grab our tickets. With luck on our side, a few others waited to get on the boat to cruise in the bright sunshine on the top deck or sit around an air conditioned lower deck and see half of that view through Plexiglas. Tours on charming, yet polluted waters with pillars of architectural gods like this remind you why Chicago is one of the most photogenic cities in the Western hemisphere. I’ve included a few photos below of the journey on the eastern branch and at least a mile north and south on the Chicago River. You know as well that the history geek in me nodded to Ally each time I knew a bit of the cultural legends. Her version is likely that of her annoying ass boyfriend proving that he knows enough to take over the microphone for the guide with the straw hat and copa-cabana shirt at the front of the sun deck.

After getting some serious re-hydrating in once we hit dry land, we practically dragged our perspired bodies over to Michigan, left on Ohio and a slight left onto north Wells in River North to Carson’s Ribs. Thank god for LivingSocial coupons for that visit, soon to expire, guaranteed us thirty dollars, which the waiter subsequently forgot about when the bill came later. 

Carson’s opened in 1977 and within a few years became one of the quintessential rib joints in Chicago, specializing in the baby back rib, which Chicago is known for, unlike St Louis or Memphis which have their own rib styles as well. Without the overhanging Carson’s sign, you would think the white brick and stone building was better served as a rust belt factory gone south or a handout for Chicago wise guys. The dim interior within manages to highlight with carefully placed dome lights in the ceiling leather chairs, a fine double-sided fireplace and plenty of TV’s playing Chicago’s favorite – our sports teams. Ally didn’t waste time on the menu with anything else but ribs, though I rankled Ally out of a God’s honest truth damn fine looking prime rib. 

The gleam of child-like giddiness was in our eyes once the waiter’s placed bibs on our mouth, this fine meal then becoming an excuse to get down and dirty with our food. My Mom will be the first to recall her oldest boy at the high chair when I got more of the pork chop on me than in my mouth. Yeah, aside from my eating habits at my parent’s house last weekend, when you gotta be a slob, expect those wet naps later on. 

Ally ordered the half-slab and I, foolishly, ordered the full slab. In the appetizer, we ordered the crab cake…which is singular, much to our disappointment for $13 dollars. Despite the sole ball of crab cake, this combination of large, fresh crab meat pieces tied together with smaller bits, egg wash and bread crumbs were a true delight. Washed down with much needed water, I punished my parched liver on that hot day with a beer from my new favorite micro-brew, Two Brothers. The ribs, slathered in a Kansas City style BBQ sauce, are not fall of the bone. The waiters and the menu make a special point of mentioning Carson’s go against the grain. This required some extra work, though quite delicious work at the grilled ribs. There are better rib joints out there, certainly. Albeit, a dinner with a great side of spinach tossed in garlic and wine next to a dish of potatoes au gratin was worth the effort to wade through steamy Chicago streets. 

I grew up with Carson’s commercials promising “take it to go, take it to go. Tangy…mouthwatering!” Looking down at the remaining half slab of ribs that I just knew would be futile to complete, I asked the waiter “I’m gonna have to do what your commercial says.” “What does our commercial say?” the waiter asked, confused. “Did you grow up in Chicago?” “No, St Louis.” “Oh,” I said, a local reference lost. “Just take it to go.”