Chicago inhabits a special place in my belly. I made a trip there several years back with my eating buddy, Scott, and dined at 6 four and five star restaurants in fewer days, along with eating Indian on Devon, Mexican at Frontera Grill, Garrett’s popcorn, and other tasty Windy City delights. I’d eaten at nice restaurants before, even top restaurants in cities like San Francisco. But the concentration of quality gave me a baseline that has informed my palate since.
So, on the way back from a family trip in Michigan, I decided to add an extra 24 hours in Chicago to introduce my little brothers, 9 and 12, to Chicago, including its food.
Our first stop was Lou Malnati’s. One of my brothers, Andrew, is crazy about pizza. He probably ate 2 pounds of cherries and 3 pounds of taffy on our car trip from Northern Michigan, but was still excited for some pepperoni and cheese pie. Given the option, he would subsist on pepperoni pizza, french fries, and Mountain Dew.
After a relatively short wait for a Friday night in Chicago (only 20 minutes), we sat down, already prepared to order. We got a salad, mostly for me, some garlic bread and a medium pepperoni and sausage pizza. The bread and salad were acceptable. The pizza was good. We got the buttercrust, which seemed to be a cross between a pie crust and a pizza crust. I liked the pepperoni and sausage, the sausage being relatively sweet. It appeared to be in a single layer that entirely covered the pizza. The cheese and pepperoni were thick, slices of the pepperoni overlapping. I especially liked the sauce, which was bright, possibly uncooked prior to being put on the pizza. The service was efficient and speedy. The prices were very fair.
Afterwards, we decided to get hot dogs, a favorite of my other brother, Gabe. We chose a place as much for its “ambience” as for its food: Wiener Circle. Those of you familiar with the place at night are probably scolding your computer screen right now. Weiner Circle’s claim to fame, besides decent dogs, is their…unique…customer service. They berate. They demean. They challenge your manhood. They let fly a flurry of cussing that would make Dick Cheney blush.
I ordered a charred polish and my brother ordered a boiled red hot. Both were simple and tasty. The four black girls behind the counter exchanged epithets with a tall white guy. Then they turned to my brothers. Do they mind their momma? Do they back talk? One of the girls came out with a belt, slapping her hand, telling the boys what they’d get if they backtalked them. My brothers just sat their blushing and giggling, not wanting to look them in the eyes.
Normally, I’m pretty strict with my brothers. Cussing isn’t tolerated. However, for this outing, I told them that if they were cussed at they could cuss back. But I knew they’d be sheepish. As we’re leaving, the gals behind the counter were flicking my brothers a final volley of crap. My little brother, Gabe, only 9 years old, turns and yells a phrase I will not repeat here. You know that scene in A Christmas Story, where Ralph exclaims a certain word, the big daddy, a word that is not “fudge”? Well, what my little brother said was much worse. The crowd erupted with a “Whoooooa” and Andrew and I, caught off guard, nearly fell to the ground laughing. Even the counter girls were caught off guard and aren’t sure what to say in return. Later, I learned that Gabe had heard this unusual phrase from a friend’s mom when she got cut off on the road.
The next day, we hit The Field Museum and said hello to a T-Rex named Sue, took the new free trolley up to the Hancock and wished we could spit off the top. A walk down the Magnificent Mile included a nice close-up magic show, a string quartet of sisters, a couple mechanical men, and a wait that went nowhere at Garrett’s. I was eager to try Garrett’s again and introduce my brothers to its tasty popcorn. But the line was out the door and not moving at all. After 10 minutes or so of just standing and my brother’s getting really anxious, we left.
We took our car over to the Pilsen district, Chicago’s most famous Latino neighborhood. Since my brothers live in California, they have many Mexican friends who helped introduce them to Mexican candies. So a promise of a dulceria was enough to make Pilsen an eagerly awaited destination.
Pinatas hung from the ceiling so that I had to continually duck my head. Boxes of sweets sat everywhere. Baskets of candies lined each side of the back of the store, small ones, 10 and 15 for a dollar, on the right, larger ones such as Lucas on the left. We got two huge bags and I broke out my feeble Spanish for the first time of the day.
With my brothers now happy, we could head over to Nuevo Leon to make me happy. The restaurant has a very cool exterior, painted to look like an old Mexican building with bricks and potted plants. Inside, it smelled like Mexico. Looking at the menu, it looked like Mexico. Specifically, it looked like a menu any taqueria-loving Texan would recognize, which makes sense given Nuevo Leon’s location right over the border from Laredo. I’ve eaten in Nuevo Laredo, a city where all the waiters will proudly tell you their town invented the fajita. (Although, I imagine the first caballero to cook a cow invented the fajita.) There are fajitas and nachos, items any American would be familiar with. But there are also items you usually find only in the better taquerias or in northern Mexico and Texas, like barbacoa, the steamed head of a cow, and a couple preparations of lengua, beef tongue.
They set down a big bowl of house made chips and salsa in front of us and my brothers each ordered a Jarritos. I got myself a tasty horchata. My brothers heartily dug into the chips and salsa and decided to split an order of nachos. I ordered the comida corrida, a standard daily, multi-course special you find for lunch everywhere in Mexico. This one consisted of soup, choice of pork or beef stew, beans, rice, and tortillas. (All for only $6.00.) Just after we ordered, each of us was given a cup of chicken soup, too.
The nachos were simple, simply individual chips covered with beans, cheese, avocado, and sour cream. But they met the needs of the boys. Mine was excellent, though. The soup had pieces of simmered beef along with vegetables. It was rich and flavorful, with a side of corn on the cob. The rice and beans were adequate, but the guisado (stew) was quite good, though I would have preferred it a little spicier. I chose the pork, which was very tender, and came covered in a red chile stew. I had ordered both flour and corn tortillas, both of which were house made. I prefer white corn tortillas, but both were extremely good, especiall the flour tortillas. It’s such a difference having fresh made tortillas, and those things that come off the conveyor at Chevy’s or similar chains don’t really count. They never cook them enough and lack those brown spots of goodness.
I was encouraged by this introduction to Pilsen Mexican. And even though I was full, I decided that another stop was in order. First, to placate my brothers, we’d need to check out some more sweets. Nearby was Bombon. The owners/chefs there are former Topolo/Frontera employees who are from Mexico and trained in France. They have a fabulously tempting dessert case with a mix of European and Mexican pastries. The cakes in the window are probably the envy of every senorita dreaming of her wedding. We got a selection of all their little cookies and Gabe got one of their jell-o concotions. I would have preferred one of their tantalizing tarts, but it was better that I avoided more than a couple tastes.
Last stop, before I exploded like the guy in Meaning of Life, was Taqueria Cardona’s. It was right next to where we parked and I had seen the big menu on the front of the building earlier. They had huaraches, something that can be all too rare on menus, and always attracts me to a taqueria. But I wasn’t that hungry. Usually a huarache is huge. So I got something I often prefer instead, a gordita with queso and rajas (cheese and chile strips). I also got another horchata, which I liked here a little better than the one at Nuevo Leon. Even though I had only ordered one antojito, they brought me chips and salsa. Damn, them! Don’t they know that if they set those things in front of me I’ll eat them. I went through almost an entire basket, even though they were truly only mediocre, before my gordita showed up. I wish I hadn’t because the gordita was pretty good. The masa was slightly crisp on the outside and the cheese was melted and had a good flavor. The chiles tasted like poblanos, which I love. I couldn’t quite finish it all though. After it, though, I would have loved to get some syrup of epicac, go to the restroom, and come out ready to try some more places.
Chicago is a great food town with a lot of diversity. I hope to spend more than just 24 hours eating there again. I’ve already got the gut of a superfan and I don’t even drink beer.
