Dixie For Your Soul

Some of us grew up in households where a dash of cayenne or diced up jalapenos in a dish wasn’t met with a torrent of fear. Others grew up in around kitchens where a strong combination of non-tangy spices would be seen as irrational and quite beyond the realm of safe. Growing up, I found that my family met in the middle, too terrified to taste anything spicy, occasionally experimenting with cross complimenting flavors. This isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy family dinners these past decades – my Mother’s lasagna and my father’s chili are warm reminders that I am back in their presence for a visit. As the years advanced and the people I met shot me looks of abject shock that I had “never tried Indian” or “never had a Serrano in guacamole” or “don’t like cayenne pepper in stew” forced me to wonder why I had never personally challenged myself. Thankfully, the challenge lives on with this blog, documenting adventures of what I would call not a rookie palate but a second or third year veteran, literally hungry for more.

My latest hunger quest brought me back to one of my favorite restaurants. I have visited The Dixie Kitchen & Bait Shop on Church Street in Evanston many times over the past year for brunch, a quick lunch or a satisfying dinner. Waiters wear black t-shirts that have a quote from the happy review of then Illinois State Senator Barack Obama when he use to frequent the establishment in Hyde Park, which converted to the Calypso Café and closed as of last June.

The décor is hodgepodge of Cajun, Bayou and rustic Louisiana items that are fairly reminiscent of dusty treasures that the boys on American Pickers have dug up. My friends and family have particularly loved the light fixtures that are made from oversized Jays and Potato Flakes tin containers. A row boat rests up-side-down on the ceiling, next to some clever, pre-world war two era signs doling out folksy wisdom or advertising the most erroneous health care remedies that were likely nothing but snake oil. Now even though I have been critical of places such as this with the kitschy decorations, shades of items on the wall and down-home southern look are reminiscent of non-chain places I have seen in the south over the years. The real winner should be the quality of the food, which Dixie Kitchen has far more often than those depressing ‘same in and out’ chain restaurants.

When you sit, they toss down corn cakes. Better resembling a pancake than a corn muffin, this small paddy of deliciousness, covered ever so lightly with butter, sets your taste buds to the Deep South. Ally ordered her stand-by favorite – North Carolina pulled pork on a bun with a macaroni side. The pulled pork, hit with a dash of the appropriate vinegar and spice sauce found in that region, sent that meal to just below the greatness of that pulled pork at Real Urban BBQ. Usually she would order collard greens, which have adverse affects on various people’s taste buds and stomachs. The mac and cheese I thought was simple, with little specialness.

There in front of me on that menu were my previous opponents. A crawfish etoufee I had last spring that sent my mouth into a tizzy with its sinus clearing spice and the freshness of the broth and seafood. A plate of crispy fried chicken passed beyond my gaze to another table and I forced myself to look away. The breakfast menu had thankfully disappeared, forcing me to chose an item that wasn’t in what I feel is some of the best weekend brunch you can have in Chicago.

 I buckled down for the Trout Pecan, which as the website lists as “Fresh boned Trout brushed with mustard then crusted with Pecan flour and grilled.” A Creole mustard sauce, a cross breed of vinegar and what tastes almost like a light Dijon, sat with a small dollop on the top. The fish was served flesh side up, the skin side, with it still on, facing the plate. The flakiness of trout, combined with nutty and mustard flavors had me hooked within a few bites. My sides of pan fried plantains in brown sugar and cheese grits that are good any time of the day presented a wonderful variety of flavor. I didn’t even mention that cup of Gumbo soup I had to start! The bed of white rice complimented and soaked up all of that seafood, tasso ham and spicy gravy that left a delightful massage of cayenne at the back of my mouth. The whole meal cost me about thirty dollars as well – not bad!

The Dixie Kitchen is an affordable stop for a glimpse into the variety of plates one could find in bayou country. If you missed out on celebrating what has become something of an American tradition of Marti Gras (in the long history of Carnivale) stop down at Dixie Kitchen in Evanston. I’ve never felt sad, hungry or displeased with my experience at every visit, especially for brunch.

A little love for Chicago-style pizza: Visit to Pizano's

Pizza, like with hamburgers, has taken on an evolution over the past one hundred years. They have become staples in the American diet, molding into new forms the way art does. Blues and jazz each have their respective specialties from region to region - same is true of pizza. Now as much as I consider Anthony Bourdain an insightful cultural writer and a pithy, if not pessimistic commentator, I cannot agree with him that my Chicago-style pizza is a 'lasagna" of sorts. True that Italian pizza's for hundreds of years were a combination of reused elements, at times as simple than even the greasiest slice of NYC style. Since the Malnati family introduced the deep dish pizza, the Chicago-style regulars of Gino's, Lou Malnati's, Pizzari Uno's, Giordano’s, have become favorites for their hearty combinations of thick sauce, meat, fresh vegetables, with over several pounds of dough at times. Lasagna it is not, neither is it for obese people bent on killing themselves. NYC pizza isn't just street food and for my money, I'm still not sold on high end pizza that only ends up becoming satisfying because they are served with a far better accomplishment of an American micro-brew.


I took in a visit to another deep dish establishment of Chicago called Pizano's. Ally and I found our way there after I was disappointed to see that the Berghoff was closed on Sundays, and that the high-end Atwood Cafe at the Burnham hotel (adjacent to Macy's on State) was well booked. Our day had been occupied with a duty of mine to visit the Field Musuem of Natural History to brush up on an assignment I had ordered my students to undertake there. Being a third choice, Pizano's was as good as a number one.


The mozzarella sticks were nothing special. However, the two slices we each had of the pizza cured our hungry appetites. I find that Pizano's is fairly close to Lou's - not too much sauce, the dough isn't as heavy as Gino's, and you can taste the fennel in the sausage the vinegar from the spinach that gradually congealed with all of the flavors. Oh, and did I mention mozzarella? A proper dashing of oregano and shredded romano and that mozzarella takes the slice of this heavy pie over the edge. We ordered the small because we thought that our bellies would still have a crevice of space left over for a chocolate pie, sauce, and ice cream - let the fat Chicagoan jokes roll. Needless to say, we huffed our way nine blocks back to our Metra train to work off some of the meal. Let's hope the oolong tea I'm brewing actually does aid in digestion.

The Madhouse on Valentines Day

Could you believe it that I had lived thirty years on this Earth consuming Chicago sports teams of the Bulls, Bears and Cubs only to finally see my first NBA game on Valentines Day this year? Even further you ask "how did you sell your lady on the idea of seeing a ball game on V Day?" Simple - I sold the ticket purchase months ago for two section 328 seats for what they were...an experience. Truth is I've learned I love experiencing new films, food meccas, sporting events and travel with my girlfriend Ally in the year and a half we have been together. Ernest Hemingway once said, after a disastrous vacation with F. Scott Fitzgerald "Never take a trip with someone you don't love." Even if this was truly in the platonic sense with a friend, I couldn't agree more.

My temper tends to erupt when I encounter traffic in the Chicago land area. I take Metra and the el when I can. That time, since I live in the NW suburbs, had to be by car. Once on Madison Street in the West Loop, parking and getting inside the stadium was easy enough. I think about visiting any new foodie hot spot but soon shed these desires for thirty minutes from that moment, a 7pm tip off between the Derrick Rose-less Chicago Bulls would commence against the Sacramento Kings.

At least two years had past since I was last in the Madhouse on Madison. At that time I was with a friend and a larger random group of people that consisted of less than appealing company - how does one say caddy women and douche men? The Blackhawks played and lost a 3-1 lackluster performance to the Calgary Flames. The game was only capped off by a fist fight that had a Hawks player flooring an upstart Canadian - seriously, the Blackhawk player hit this guy so hard that he had to be carted off of the ice.

Changes had been made to the decor of the United Center, mostly in the form of a post-modern steel and glass design with nostalgic images of Chicago Bulls and Blackhawk favorites that melt even this critical heart. Plus, i had to salute them for designing lounges that had decades of random Chicago Stadium and United Center concert passes (Led Zeppelin to Neal Diamond) encased beneath the glass of bar tables. Ally and I both muscled our way through a lackluster and pricy steak sandwich. I figured I should have complained for the quality of the steak and the prickly service of the growling fifty-year-old woman with a thin mustace behind the counter. Screw it - Ally and I were at the United Center and we were going to watch one of the best teams in the NBA. Two Green Line Pale Ales later from an admirable selection of beers, we sat up in our upper deck seats.

For much of the first and fourth quarter I got into a close game the only way I know how - yelling, balling up my fists in frustration, and watching intently for a spot of brilliance to scream for as those professionals fall all over themselves. Ally says I do this during most Bears games and fellow fans would probably agree. Reigning MVP Rose sat out that night after continued back spasms. Sad for not seeing him in my first game, just like it was for a friend of mine in the glorious 90's for the Bulls when Jordan had just retired for one of I think four times. I have come to know the strengths and weaknesses of Boozer, Noah, Gibson and the like just like I have with Chicago Bears and Cubs players - we do not worship but live and die with the teams we love. Last May when Ally and I spent five days out in Las Vegas, we spent part of one night in a crowded bar at the Monte Carlo on the strip, drinking and verbally spitting at the T.V with Bulls and Heat fans alike. I couldn't have loved her more.

For those who aren't completely sold on basketball, a game at the United Center is loaded with attractions. There was Benny the Bull, when he wasn't molesting a fan, tossing out free T-shirts and shooting silly string into the hair of middle-aged balding men. The jumbo-tron in the center kept track of stats, playing goofy digital skits like at Wrigley or the Cell, and blasted out what had to be more than thirty selections of rap, pop, hip-hop and traditional Chicago-style blues.There were plenty of walking space and thankfully, aside from the highways, the stadium was easy to park and get out from.

I seriously wish, aside from all the adventures that I could take and places I could eat, that I would be able to afford more Bulls games at a unique time for the club. Like all Chicago teams, they kept us on the edge of our seats as the Bulls fought the Kings towards a 121-115 victory. Having seen those six NBA championship banners hang in the rafters, I knew that even though I want my Cubbies to win the World Series before I die, and the Bears to make a more than half-assed run at the super bowl next year, I want our Bulls to slap that smug grin of the Miami Heat and tack up another banner. For then, leaving the stadium, I took Ally's hand and realized that in a past, full of years that I just despised my single status around February 14th, the 2012 V-Day was one of the best because of Ally.

Classic Southern BBQ in the north shore

Through a series of calendar mix-ups, Ally and I thought we were going to downtown Chicago this weekend for a visit to the Field Museum of Natural History for research for my Ancient Cultures class. Turns out those mummies on display are going to have to wait - what's another week for them? Museum visits are exciting cultural forays into a city and the world that you hope to touch beyond those neo-classical walls. The restaurant we had hoped to visit thereafter (Berghoff or DeCero) will have to wait for another blog and a fatter wallet. 

I find that when I do my searches for places that I am dying to try, the adventure moves along much like when I walk into a record store or pop open ITunes – what the hell did I want to buy in the first place? I amble along, struggling for some time with my apparent short-term memory plaguing me. Truthfully this blog has been a great excuse for my writing about culinary adventures by experiencing new restaurants. The factors were and still are how limited my funds are, how brutal the wind chill was last night and how far I was willing to drive Ally and I from our apartment in Southern Arlington Heights. After a search at several places online and being revolted by their prices, my friend and brother’s fiancé Heather tossed a great recommendation my way.

With the exception of those stingy vegans (only kind of kidding) and adamant vegetarians (lots of love, actually), most of us carnivores love a good BBQ. Be it the St Louis or Memphis style dry rub, the Kansas City sweet sauce, the Texas and Carolina tangy and sharp sauce, all of these regions can agree that slowly smoking meats with various techniques brings about a half hour of heaven to a hungry customer. I was bent on visiting Smoque in Chicago, just beyond Irving Park Rd. Instead I took Ally’s lead, from Heather’s suggestion, and we went to Highland Park and Real Urban BBQ on Central Ave. 

Highland Park contains many memories for me, from my childhood running around in the open square to catching a movie at either the art house theater or the hole-in-the-wall four-screen movie theater built in the late 1920’s. The recent dusting of four inches of snow turned a bi-polar winter/Spring into an uninviting landscape. Meandering through the streets of downtown Highland Park as streetlights automatically flickered on with the fading sun, I took a wrong turn and found that I brought us straight to Real Urban BBQ. 

The chalk menus, odd in their reminiscence of what one would find at a Pot Bellys, displayed at least 18 feet wide of barbeque treats and the associated side dishes. As I expected Ally went for the pulled pork. We agreed to share an order of burnt ends while I ordered a half-slab of St Louis style dry rubbed ribs. All meats were presented on long rectangular cookie trays covered with wax paper with white bread and a few slices of sweet pickles. As we stood privy to the head line cook chewing out fellow cooks and servers for giving away one entire order to the wrong customer (a loss of $50), I realized that though stress is normal to the line like with a classroom, try your best to not berate employees in front of customers who look away for feeling awkward. After choosing sides of mediocre coleslaw, a decent cranberry cobbler, and some excellent corn bake, we sat down for a feast that cost us 40 dollars. 

We had come in at the right time because the line went out the door. Much to my liking, each table had a converted six pack into a sauce guide. The four sauces we thoroughly tried were Piedmont (Carolina tangy), M=3 (3 mustards and vinegar), Texas Road House (southwest spicy), and Original Kansas City (medium balanced sauce). The rib meat was not as tender as I would have liked, and the spice didn’t grab me as much as something I could do. What did reach me was the flavor of pure pork meat that still remained with a decent smoke ring. Ally’s pulled pork with the Texas BBQ sauce was what it should be – delicious velvety meat that dissolved in the mouth. Our personal favorite was the large square of burnt ends. Real Urban’s versions are a cross between pulled pork and the burnt flavor of the skin and spice from the outside of the pork. I relished the melting quality of the meat when chewed, along with the great variety of sauces that when poured on offered a swirling ocean of what have become traditional American flavors. 

Along with a glass bottle of coke that I popped the top off next to the register, and a requisite glass jar of tea for Ally, the experience was a decent substitute for the day when I drive down to St Louis, Kansas City and Memphis in the future. The old Highland Park movie theater experience was a great trip through nostalgia, which I will share with you all in a future blog of movie house reviews. For now, pay a visit to either Smoque or Real Urban BBQ, or your local highly reputable BBQ joint to cure those morose longings for summertime.  

Bad ethnic food that pisses us off

For all intents and purposes I feel it would be fair to generalize this one time and say that many of us have an ethnic food, outside our own backgrounds, that we call our favorites. Every semester I tell my students to branch out of their pigeonholed suburban cultures and involve themselves into a restaurant they wouldn’t normally find themselves sitting down at. My forefinger held out, I scold them when I say “If you journey to a place such as New Orleans, and you eat at Burger King instead of having a Po Boy or crawfish, shame on you!” Instruction is a much more livable profession if you have a healthy dose of sarcasm. 

So I ask you all, what ethnic food pisses you off? What restaurant, small business or pre-packaged corporate chain, have to been to that has ruined, for example, simple tacos or regular ole’ American food? For me, I am reaching into half of my heritage on this one and calling out all fake, glitz and glamor Italian restaurants. That’s right, you – with your Mario Bros cliché names and your lazy-ass need to soak a bleached pound of fettuccine in enough white sauce to reduce five years off of a life. I have somewhat of a similar feeling to Anglo-Irish foods, but nothing replaces my contempt for anything from the McDonalds of Italian food, the Olive Garden. They are one Roberto Bennini as a waiter cliché away from…well, let’s not get too cruel. Buca di Beppo is not much better. If you only knew that most Europeans do not gorge themselves like we do, myself being guilty of this as well from time to time. These aforementioned places fall into the line of European ethnic chains that buy from warehouses full of items for their décor that most American’s think are unique to Italy. Many Irish pubs that are set-up around the world get bar designs and items from a group called the Irish Pub Company. 

What is ethnically true? What is accurate to actual palates of most Italians, Mexicans, or whoever? Ethnic trueness is known by those who are either from that long standing heritage or have immersed themselves into the profession of cooking. These ethnic plates are likely filled with items that most American’s couldn’t stomach eating such as full Spanish prawns (the spicy juice comes out when you suck the head) or perhaps a deceptively simple dish of well-prepared prosciutto and garlic rubbed toasted bread. I use the rule of thumb similar to purchasing any item– if the food and ‘cultural experience’ advertises itself as too good to be true, chances are you wind up with a sack of a pre-packaged meal that cannot be altered. 

This new chain of Tilted Kilt restaurants is plainly in the same vein of full on mental instability. The commercial on T.V of three bombshell waitresses that are barely clad in kilts and bras delivering beer to three guys who look like they are going to bust a nut at the table for probably seeing boobs for the first time is pathetic. Honestly, all kidding aside, these highly pre-packaged, highly salted chain restaurant meals are fueling a diabetes, heart disease and obesity increase that is and has been killing America. Worst of all, they are destroying any sort of confidence and comfort one can have at establishing a local, small-business restaurant, no matter the cultural origin.  One of the most depressing sights in my mind is driving along a long avenue and seeing the endless neon signs of fast food and ethnically backwards chain restaurants. 

If you like to stop by these places for a family meal or drinks with friends, enjoy yourself. Just know that your business is fueling a cliché. Good lord, I am beginning to sound like a cranky socio-political nut; time to leave it to you. For my two cents – save your denaros and search for that place that actually gives a damn what they are serving you.

Cooking the "Big Game" right

This could quite easily only be sequestered to writing about party food for that forty-year plus famous secular day where Americans gather and watch two teams that have reached the pinnacle of the mountaintop for the National Football League Super Bowl. If you are not from America, or still enjoy sport but would rather skip this day, millions join you in a chorus of “what about Rubgy? Soccer? Baseball? Cricket?” Naw, screw cricket – all the time I spent living overseas and still not one foreigner could explain this elderly version of what became a superior family descendant in baseball. Pitchers and catchers report in less than a month and I imagine this year, though my Chicago Cubs and the White Sox will have rebuilding years (aka – free ticket to laugh at us) I will still write about the great American pastime. For now, off to the gridiron game that dominates the airwaves in-between gluttonous capitalism in thirty second flashes of egotistical commercial exposure. I heard there was a Ferris Bueller commercial this year? Is it only me or do you also feel that since John Hughes died, that none of his former 80’s creations (Ferris) should not be touched? The 80’s is not a sentimental time for me – John Hughes and his make-believe kids in the Northbrook by another name Shermerville is for me as for millions of other kids raised in that ‘me decade.’

What consists of “Big Game” food? Over the years I have traveled to see at least a handful of college football tailgate parties to schools where the fans would fight and die for the school like for a Lord or Duke of the Medieval era. The average food critic has come to pass off tailgates as parades comprised of fat-asses with a desire only for piss beer and whatever they can shove into their gullet. As the years have gone by and portable cookers and smokers have become cheaper, tailgates and Super Bowl parties have been taken a notch or two up. A few years back in at University of Illinois football game I was privy, with a friend of mine at that time, to being handed a bowl of savory white bean chili from a man who dressed like Chief Illiniwek. In Madison a few years before that, a friend of a friend with the red and white war paint of the Badgers shared with me a kick-ass venison sausage along with beer brats soaked in Wisconsin only New Glarus ale, topped with his homemade pickled onions and a house made spicy brown mustard. The key, like these examples, for any tailgate or super bowl party is what I have learned from any Italian cook, professional or Amateur – ingredients, ingredients, ingredients!

So let’s say you’re one of those people that say “I’m not going to put that much time into something that so small and trivial.” See, if you simply buy fresh, well prepared ingredients and you put a little effort into your dish, you’ll even notice the difference in quality. True, I am not a fan of the over-sized zip lock bags of re-heated Velveeta cheese that in my mind more resembles the bags of fat Tyler Durden snatches from the liposuction clinic in Fight Club. Why not replace the yellow lava with a few shredded cheeses (Aged cheddar, Gouda, mozzarella) that when mixed in a pan with milk, flour and a little salt until they congeal? You could also take time (like a friend of mine does at these get-togethers) to slow roast pulled pork in a crock pot for God’s sake, silently cheering yourself with a bit of your creation while others scream at the television on Super Sunday. The motto forever in cooking is to be imaginative for you are gracing yourself with an art form that so many, like in music and film, are simply hacking apart for brief gross satisfaction and revenues that make us shake our heads.

This morning I am about to make a Cajun corn hash. Odd choice for the game party, sure – I could have just made my standby guacamole with a roasted bulb of smashed garlic and chopped Serrano chilies. I had recently seen an episode of No Reservations where Anthony Bourdain journeys to Cajun country around Louisiana. When he wasn’t sweating to death, shooting a pig for the feast or dining on what he called “one of the best meals of my life with this crawfish bowl” he and his crew let us take a peek into the back country creations. One meal was the Cajun corn hash. You’re going to need the following.

-Corn (either in kernels, unfrozen or sliced off of the cob).

-Chopped bell peppers (toss in a variety of color to counter the yellow corn)

-Serrano peppers or dashes of cayenne pepper. (I went with only the cayenne since I don’t want to smoke out the people sampling).

-Tasso ham or cooked and chopped bacon.

-Salt, pepper and butter up as you cook in a crock or heavy pot, stirring up the cooked, sticky bits from the bottom. Repeat again and again – that’s the Cajun way. 

Though the dish may not be remarkable, the Cajun corn hash is a food that is representative of wonderful microcosm of American cultural flavors. If you prefer chips and dip, or a simple warm-your-belly chili on game day, at least take a few extra minutes to be that creative person, making sure those flavors marry up in the pan or grill to complement each other. Enjoy the game.  I gotta go with the NY Giants 27-23 over New England.