Chicago Day 4 – Vito and Nick’s

"Yet once you've come to be part of this particular patch [Chicago], you'll never love another. Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies. But never a lovely so real."  Nelson Algren

I like blue collar bars and restaurants.  I don’t want to be treated like a king; my Scandinavian roots make behaviors like that embarrassing.  And I don’t want to go to a restaurant where five different preparation methods are offered when you ask for an after dinner cup of coffee, three of which I've never heard of.

I like the kind of bar/restaurant where I feel I could change places with the server with nothing changing in the flow of our conversation.  We’re just people, no better or worse than each other.  We’re familiar – the root of the word being family, if only for an hour or two.  Vito and Nick’s feels this way. 

In existence for 90 years, Vito and Nick’s was started by Sicilian immigrants as a tavern with food being added when Nick’s wife started cooking at her father-in-law’s bar.  Now Vito and Nick’s is know for the best thin crust pizza in Chicago and has been seen on Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives. 

Ordering a tap beer is easy here.  Old Style comes out of both of those taps.  Simple and unpretentious.  There is no need for 63 beers on tap here.

I order a tap beer and a sausage, black olive, and green pepper pizza.  It appears that you need to be 23 to drink at Vito and Nick’s.

It isn’t too fancy here and the pizza comes with paper napkins and plastic plates.  Blessed by the Pope, of course.  No silverware. 

Vito and Nick’s has a few policies.  One is they only take cash and another is they don’t deliver.  I sit at the end of the bar near the take-out counter and there is a steady flow of customers of all ages picking up pizzas to go. 

Notice the kitchen and the cooks in the reflection.

My pizza arrives with a simple presentation in just the right amount of time.  I can’t help but go for a crispy edge piece first and the crust has a very nice crunch.  It’s not too thin, which seems to happen too often with thin crust pizzas, and it has that perfect crunch to it.  As I was sitting waiting for my pizza one of the cooks came out and filled a pitcher with soda water.   I suspect this could be a soda crust.

I am learning that there is a reason I hear so many people in Chicago order sausage pizza.  The garbage pizza with a multitude of toppings isn’t the thing here.  The reason is the sausage.  The sausage I’ve had on this trip has been incredible.  The same is true here and I regret ordering the black olives, and particularly, the green peppers which seemed to have come out of a can.

The sauce isn’t too heavy and the cheese is light, but the balance with sausage is perfect.  The crust remains firm as I make my way in towards the center of the pizza, and I notice that the pizza has been sprinkled with dried spices after it came out of the oven.  That’s a nice touch. 

If we took the Twin Cities pizzas from Broadway Pizza and Savoy’s and smashed them together, we might be able to get close to this.

Now there is one more test that is required for a thin crust pizza:  Is it good cold?  I can say definitively that this pizza may even be better cold.

(I had three beers.  The bartender bought me one.)

Chicago Day 4 – Superdawg

I love hot dogs.  I don’t usually eat hot dogs at home.  Except for National Hotdog Month – July, for those of you that don’t already know.  I figure if someone in marketing at the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council went to the effort to get July deemed National Hot Dog Month, then who am I to not celebrate?  I buy hot dogs in July.  And the style I like to make most is the Chicago style hot dog.  This is a an all beef hot dog topped with yellow mustard, chopped white onions, bright green sweet pickle relish, a dill pickle spear, pickled sport peppers, and a dash of celery salt.  It's difficult to get the right components in Minnesota, but with a little searching and the help of mail order, it is possible to make a good approximation.  At least I thought so.

 I’ve been to Chicago a number of times, but I have never had a Chicago style hot dog in Chicago.  This had to change.  I decided to checkout Superdawg.  A drive-in started in 1948 by recent newlyweds Maurie and Flaurie (Florence) Berman on what was the edge of town.  They named their special recipe the Superdawg and today the drive-in is still family owned and one of the few remaining 50’s style drive-ins.  The two hot dogs on top of the building represent Maurie and Flaurie and beckon drivers to stop for a hot dog.

You drive into a spot next to a menu – front end in or out depending on the location of the menu and who is ordering – and you make your order over an intercom.

I order the Superdawg without fries and the startled order taker confirms that I really want my dog without fries.  I’ve found on this trip that fries are the street food sign that you have made it.  If you can serve fries, you are big time.  I've also found that if I eat the fries I’ll never be able to eat at all the places I want.

Some may argue that Superdawg isn’t completely true to the Chicago dog because they use a pickled green tomato in place of a fresh tomato, but I’m willing to let that slide.

 A server brings the bag out to my car and collects the money.

 The box is telling me that I deprived my Superdawg of being contentedly cushioned.

 Even more overstuffed than the ones I make it home, it has the flavor balance I’ve been trying to achieve.  My choice of hot dog has been all wrong and I’m a little too heavy on the mustard and celery salt.  I could eat these for all three meals of the day without hesitation. 

 This is great, I want in on naming stuff here!

Chicago Day 4 – Au Chevel

The Best New Burger in America?

 I am convinced that the motto for Chicago should be something like, “Chicago: If you want the truth, go to church.”

In September of last year the crew from Bon Appetit was in Chicago for their Chicago Gourmet event.  A blog post about Au Cheval on their website said, “The Best New Burger in America?  Head to Chicago” .  A month later the Eater crew from Chicago had changed it a bit:  “Bon Appetit Names Au Cheval Best Burger".  Notice the slight difference there. The Bon Appetit article said it might be the best.

Au Chevel is located on the west edge of downtown and doesn’t have anything resembling convenient parking.  I drive an ever widening circle until I find myself on an epic trek on a particularly cold and windy day.

 I finally make my walk from the parking spot to the restaurant when I notice a crowd lined up in the entry way.  It is busy.  Really busy.

 One thing I have learned since I arrived in Chicago is that there is no hesitation in how things work.  If you hesitate, you lose.  Period.  There is no drama or discussion; if you hesitate, you are going to eat dust.  I first noticed this while driving.  In Minnesota the driving behavior I observed in Chicago would cause people to literally go insane with adolescent fits of rage - images of their elementary school teacher’s admonition of “No butting in line” ringing in their ears.  In Chicago, leave a gap for half a car; a whole car is coming and you will make room.  Driver falls asleep at an intersection; cut him off and be on your way.  What is most remarkable is the only person I heard honk a horn all trip was me.  No hesitation, no drama.  It is how things work.

I assert my place in line and make it to the hostess stand.  I prepare myself for the usual reaction I get when I tell a host I’m a party of one:  The cheerful smile that greeted me immediately turns to a concerned frown.  I quickly get a look at the back of their head as they scan the restaurant trying to imagine where to put one person.  Then a quick look at a notebook with scribbles all over it, I’m sure a ploy to avoid eye contact as they offer a seat that is one small step above sitting in an open stall of the unisex bathroom.

This hostess is different.  I can see the usual look of concern, but she bounces back quickly and I’m agreeable to sit at the bar.  She promises to find me a seat and asks my name.  I fall back into a pile of seemingly likewise rejected guests as the flurry of people being seated walk by. 

 Suddenly she orchestrates a maneuver where a couple at the bar are about to be seated.  She calls me by name and points to the people and before I realize what is going on, a server is grabbing these people.  I throw my body in front of people pushing for the open seats.  No hesitation, no drama.   I am truly amazed by her skills of managing the logistics of the restaurant while making the guests feel taken care of.  

This is my seat.  I guess to keep guests from ordering drinks while waiting in line to be seated and then getting stiffed (they don’t’ take reservations), they have installed this eye level bar around the corner of the bar near the entrance.  Strange. 

 I order the cheeseburger.  One unique feature of their burger here is that a single burger is really two burgers, one on top of the other both topped with cheese. 

My seat does let me see where the magic is made.  I expect that there is some unique, secret process that is performed by a splinter Illuminati sect that allows one simple restaurant grill to out perform another.  I haven’t seen evidence of this.  The closest I have seen are ladles of an unidentified substance tossed on the burgers as they cook.  The magic could be there.

The burgers are moved about on the grill to different spots to control the heat and pre-sliced cheese is added.  An assembly area is set up just across from the grill and the burgers go directly from grill to bun.

 I watch as burger after burger makes it from grill to bun amazed by the sheer number of burgers they have made before mine arrives!

 The burger arrives simply displayed on a white plate with a pickle and a steak knife stuck through the top.

 On top of my cheese burger is thick cut bacon and a quick pickle cucumber cream sauce with chopped scallions and just a hint of horseradish.  The bun is a firm white bun with a glazed egg washed top.

I take a bite and it blows me away.  The beef, with four sides of grill goodness vs. the usual two sides blends beautifully with the melted cheese.  The bacon and the cream sauce all work together to push the sweet, sour, salty, umami taste explosion that is happening.  I can tell that this balance of flavors was not an accident and the strong beefy flavor of the burger makes me wonder if it isn’t a beef stock being ladled onto the burgers while they are cooking.  It did everything right and nothing wrong. 

This is the best burger I have ever had.  And I’m not from Chicago!

Chicago Day 4 – Rainbo Club

The sign above the cash register of the Tug & Maul Bar indicated Antek the Owner's general attitude toward West Division Street: 'I've been pushed, kicked, screwed, defrauded, knocked down, held up, held down, lied about, cheated, deceived, conned, laughed at, insulted, hit on the head and married. So go ahead and ask for credit, I don't mind saying NO.'

 – Excerpt from Man with the Golden Arm by Nelson Algren (1949)

Nelson Algren, author for the down and out, lover of Simone de Beauvoir and represented by the character ‘Lewis Brogan’ in her book The Mandarins, based his bar, the Tug & Maul, in the Man with the Golden Arm on the Rainbo Club. 

His book Walk on The Wild Side was the motivation for the same named Lou Reed song.  It’s the rock and roll history of the Rainbo Club that has brought me here.

 Liz Phair’s first album Exile in Guyville came out in 1993.  Her revealing, intense and sometimes humorous lyrics delivered by a calm monotone voice over sparse back up was a welcome change to the noise driven teen (male) angst of the alt music seen at the time.  I couldn’t help but wonder if she was this jaded or just an acute observer.  The test of time has proven that she is an acute observer and first class songwriter, even if underappreciated.

 The story goes that she was at the Rainbo Club with Nash Kato of Urge Overkill telling him how her record label did not like her current album cover design.  Somehow amongst the drinks and conversation she made her way to the photo booth located in the back of the bar, and in what I can only interpret as a “fuck you” to the record label took a shot of herself pulling down her shirt and exposing her breasts.  The photo was cropped to leave more to the imagination and there it was, the album cover.

 The photo booth is still there and in operation taking black and white photos.

 When I walk in to the Rainbo Club the first thing I notice (besides the odd, incomplete paper mache art project on the stage behind the bar) is how dark it is.  The bar was once known for jazz music and burlesque dancers (strippers), and the sort of limited lighting except for the stage for those events still exists today.

 The stage is directly behind the bar and the idea of an up and coming group playing a set or two is compelling.

What the Rainbo is best known for today is a good drink at a good price.  I order a Guinness which is quickly tossed in front of me with the warning to wait until it settles.  I decided that a shot of house whiskey will help the wait.

 The music comes to you old school and watching the bartender scramble to change a record and keep the music going every 15 to 20 minutes adds a seldom seen dynamic to the experience.

 If you want to hang out with a group of friends or get a little more intimate with a new friend, there are a few booths and tables available.

I decided it was best that I keep my shirt on and stay out of the photo booth.

Chicago Day 4 – Happy St. Josephs Day

They Are Among Us

“The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.”
James Joyce, Ulysses

 “Happy St. Joseph’s Day” I hear as I’m sitting in an Italian bar in an Italian neighborhood.  It’s St. Patrick’s Day and I don’t know what St. Joseph’s Day is.

 Saint Joseph’s Day, I find out, is the feast day of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s spouse and Jesus’ step-father that is taking place on March 19^th this year.  Unlike St. Patrick’s Day where the Lenten prohibitions on meat and alcohol are lifted for the day, St. Joseph’s Day is a more subdued celebration.  A Catholic tradition with strong roots in the Italian community it isn’t unusual for the Italian’s to avoid the debauchery of St. Patrick’s Day and even look down on it.  I’m glad for this.

 St. Patrick is attributed with bringing Christianity to the polytheistic Irish in the 5^th Century.  There is also the myth that he drove the snakes out of Ireland.  It is true that there are no snakes in Ireland.  And there never have been snakes in Ireland.  Ireland is surrounded by an icy cold sea which is much too cold for snakes to migrate.

 I have a theory of what these “snakes” in Ireland might be.  The story of St. Patrick goes that he was kidnapped in Britain at the age of 16 and taken as a slave to Ireland.  He was tortured and mistreated forced to tend sheep for his captors.  I’m sure there were some Irish folks that were not too high on his list of favorite people.  He escaped and when he came back to Ireland with the power of the Lord upon him, he had some ass kicking to do.  I think he did get rid of the snakes.

 The current celebration of wearing green and drinking yourself stupid is an unfortunate misrepresentation of the original intent. 

 At the time, Patrick’s idea was to get them drunk, paint them green so they were easily identifiable, put a bag over their heads, and ship them off to the Middle Ages equivalent of Nebraska. This started a tradition where once a year the douchebags would be cleared out.

But now we only do it half way.  We get them drunk, paint them green, but that is it.  We let them go on with their happy douchey lives!