Lots of bars, especially in college towns; spring break locales; and resorts, offer up specialty house shots. These are generally outlandish or extreme in some nature, often using “extreme” ingredients or including incongruous liquors. To whit the Mexican Revolution, a shot consisting of equal parts tequila and 151 proof rum topped with a generous spray of hot sauce. Or maybe you prefer the 3 Wise Men, a shots whose contents are hotly contested, but generally follow the guidelines of alcohols named after dudes with “J” names. Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, and Johnny Walker are the most common components.
“Dare Shots” is how I generally refer to these concoctions and had I not tried a few of them over the years, usually on my birthday, I would chalk them up to the same urban mythology of zany sex acts like the Abraham Lincoln, Jelly Donut, Hot Carl, and the notorious Orange Ronald. That said, I’ve dabbled in the invention and execution of a few of these myself and thought that the day after my birthday would be just as good a time as any to share them with the world.
First up is the Tijuana Prostitute:
Ingredients:
- 1 shot tequila blanco
- Squeeze of lime
- Teaspoon of cottage cheese
- Several healthy shakes of hot sauce, habenero would be best
Make It So:
Squeeze the lime into the shot glass them pour in tequila. Top with cottage cheese and hot sauce. Shoot it and enjoy!
Second to the party is the Mexican Gentleman:
Ingredients:
- Cold gin
- Salsa
Make It So:
For each person partaking pour one shot of gin and a heaping spoonful of salsa into a shaker. Shake vigorously then strain into shot glasses. Shoot and enjoy! You may also add lime juice or hot sauce to the shaker to taste.
Good luck with these, I hope they make your night a little better sometime soon!
The Appetizing of the Feasters by Pizza:
But other personal choices can certainly be opted in assuming they are indeed Blanksworthy and delightfully silly.
Blappy Blanksbliving, Bleveryone! 
In honor of the year’s spookiest month Nicole and I have been watching Twin Peaks, gold edition box-set thank you very much. So far the only thing I haven’t liked about it is waiting twenty years to watch it. It’s a fantastic show that combines humor, mystery, romance, action, the supernatural, and just the right amount of Mayberry wholesomeness in a way that only David Lynch could make palatable, let alone watchable. In addition to being one of the most perfect shows to ever air on network television it’s also one of the most bewildering programs to ever land on network television. In today’s market of niche programming on both basic and premium it’s easy to imagine Twin Peaks as a sleeper hit on HBO or the mind-melting off season replacement for Mad Men, but in a pre-X-Files 1990/91 television landscape Twin Peaks’ unhinged lunacy was a miraculous pick up for CBS and an even more surprising renewal.
Black Yukon Sucker Punch
The Dale Cooper:
Super Simple Michelada:
The Beer-a-Rita:
Next stop on this balmy Saturday evening was the Bottom Lounge for yet another birthday celebration. The walk to West Lake, near North Ogden, was relatively quick and Bottom Lounge, as well as Mark’s birthday area, was well stocked with patrons and well wishers. While waiting for a much desired seat I forged my way to the bar and eventually got the attention of the bartender. I placed my order and coughed up only to watch her deposit my change directly into the tip jar. What. The. Fuck! In no time or place or world or ever is this an even remotely acceptable practice. I was gladly going to tip her when she brought my change, it was, essentially hers, but to just take it? To assume that it was hers? It’s tantamount to theft, albeit petty, but theft is theft. For the rest of the night I opted to not order beers from the bar, lord knows what else might’ve been stolen from me, and ordered instead from our waitress and the lady selling beers out of a large bin upstairs, but we’ll get to that. Once we found some stools to park our weary bodies in we ordered some food from Bottom Lounge’s small menu. Julie and Nicole decided to share a grilled cheese sandwich and some fries, I got some pita and hummus. Despite the hurried atmosphere in the bar our food arrived quickly. Unfortunately it wasn’t fantastic. My pita was soft and tender, a plus, but the hummus was overly lemony, with citrus obliterating any of the nuttiness of the chick peas, creaminess of the tahini, or any trace of herb or spice, while the cucumbers that arrived in the basket were lifeless and limp. The bite I had of Nicole’s grilled cheese half was filled with bland, soggy bread and chemically cheese. The only bright spot was the fries. Perfectly fried and seasoned with garlic and parmesan it gave me hope that at lease one person in the Bottom Lounge kitchen knew what they were doing. With a little food in us we were able to try to enjoy our company, but it was difficult due to the throngs of people in the bar. This was due in part to its proximity to the festival as well as the fact that it was hosting the big post-Pitchfork concert which was a rare Cap’n Jazz reunion. All these factors considered it was still just too crowded, so we decided to get some air on Bottom Lounge’s rooftop patio. On our way out we stopped a bought a round from a lady sitting on a stool in front of what must surely have been an animal watering trough full of ice selling beers and trading Pitchfork drink tickets for shots, not a bad idea. Out on the patio things weren’t much better, instead of being surrounded on all sides in the air conditioned bar, we were surrounded and back in the evening heat. Despite the crowd we were able to enjoy a little fresh air and a stunning view of the city skyline. When we’d had enough we wandered back down to the first floor bar and bid farewell to the birthday boy.
The night was young yet and while we were walking back to Shortie’s we decided to take a brief detour to meet her and Maureen at the High Dive. What began as something I thought to be a reasonable walk turned what felt like an epic hike across this city, however this might have just been my exhaustion talking. When we arrived we discovered no Saturday drink specials to match Thursday’s and grabbed a round of bourbon and gingerales. Seeking rest our weary feet again we sat down with Mo and Shorite and a few others when suddenly food arrived. Shortie had ordered some of High Dive’s chicken wings and a basket of fries. Once again, the fries were beautifully executed, crisp outsides and flakey delicious centers, perfectly fried by someone who knows their way around a frymatic. The wings on the other hand were… interesting. I was told that High Dive Starts their wings by par-frying them then tossing them in sauce and finishing them on the grill for that smokey char and some sexy grill lines. The resulting meat is tasty, fried fattiness, smoked grilly-ness, and tangy sauciness. But the multi stage cooking process, especially something as dry as the grill, wrung most of the moisture from the already dry wings. Good flavor and bad texture do not great wings make. The bright side to this, however, was the triumphant, albeit somewhat misplaced, side sauce. A soy and wasabi mayo came with the wings and, when I dipped a fry in, revealed itself to be wonderfully rich and perfectly salty with just the right amount of tingle in the sinus from the wasabi. Like the man said: “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
After three days of hard eating and hard partying we were starting to feel the wear and tear, so a little extra sleeping in was in store. Eventually rousing from our slumber, Nicole and I set out on a search for brunch. We originally planned on meeting some friends at a restaurant, but were cut short when they texted us letting us know that said restaurant no longer serves breakfast. Bummer. Undaunted and across the street from our second choice spot we crossed the street and put our names on the wait list for Earwax. This oddly named, carnival side-show themed eatery was busy enough for a Sunday morning but we were seated quickly. We parsed the menu while sipping some of their delicious, fresh brewed coffee. One of the better cups I had on this outing, Earwax boasts a strong, full bodied joe with smokey aftertastes, and a pleasantly bitter twang. A little cream and just a touch of sugar and it was just about the best thing a body can drink first thing in the morning. Earwax’s menu is smallish, but strong, with plenty of great sandwiches and breakfast served all day. Being a dyed-in-the-wool breakfast aficionado I was all over their bevy of choices finally selecting their breakfast burrito. Nicole was also feeling the burrito vibe and ordered the barbequed seitan burrito. Earwax’s menu skews towards the veggie/healthy end of the spectrum and, in fact, the menu reminded a bit of Cleveland’s own Tommy’s. Anyways, food arrived in good time despite the fact that they were constantly busy and we tucked in. My burrito was massive, filled with scrambled eggs, cheddar, refried beans and avocado. With a side of potatoes, salsa, and sour cream, this was a champ-worthy breakfast for sure. The eggs were perfectly cooked, light and fluffy, but firm enough to stay in place while eating. The beans and cheese added some meatiness and body to the wrap, but the avocados were oddly scattered. I’d eaten about a quarter before I found even a hint of green and then bam, a huge pocket, my only real complaint with my breakfast and it’s a minor one. The potatoes were well seasoned and beautifully fried and extra tasty with some hot sauce mixed with the sour cream and salsa. Come to think of it that mixture was a bit of alright on the burrito, too. Nicole’s “barbequed” seitan burrito was pretty tasty as well, but Earwax seems to be playing pretty loose with the term “barbeque.” In my mind barbeque means one of three things: (1) meat that’s cooked low and slow in order to enhance texture and flavor, (2) more loosely, anything that’s been cooked on a grill, or (3) something with barbeque sauce on it. Earwax’s burrito fell into none of these categories. The seitan had more of a southwest/Mexican flavor; the beans and rice inside certainly backed this up, as did the chips, salsa, and sour cream that accompanied her brunch. While I am wasting too much time on the semantics of nomenclature here, I am not saying it wasn’t delicious which it was, just improperly marked.
With some serious gut fuel to get us through the last day of the festival we made a short detour to Shortie’s before heading to the park as we had been soaked in a sudden downpour on the way to brunch. Dryly attired and amply sun screened we wandered over to the park. We arrived in time to catch a portion of Lightning Bolt’s set. Unfortunately the Brians’ blown-out sonic extremism didn’t translate from skuzzy house show to massive P.A. A lot of Gibson’s calculated racket was translated into a bland din post-mixing board, and all but one of Chippendale’s drums and cymbals were making any sort of impact. Surfer Blood and St. Vincent, on the other hand, sounded perfectly crisp and clear. Vincent especially shone on the middle stage combining her perfectly crafted pop with live guitar shredding and noisy, arrhythmic breakdowns that, as if by magic, reshaped into her shimmery, esoteric jamz. After the long, dreary, dancehall pastiche of Major Lazer, we forged our way into the fray to snag a decent locale for the impending Pavement-ing. Just a few yards right of the main stage sound booth and about 100 from the stage we felt pretty confident in our vantage. After a thoroughly rousing performance from Out Kast’s Big Boi, a couple Heineken Lights—the surprisingly drinkable sponsor beer at Pitchfork this year, not fantastic, but as easy drinking as any other major brand light beer— and soft pretzels with tangy beer cheese from the Berghoff food stand—totally awesome!—it was Pavement time. The band took the stage in a properly shambolic way that brought to mind Bevis and Butthead’s infamous Pavement jab that these guys aren’t trying hard enough. The power quintet ripped their way through an excellent set of mid-album rockers and a few slow jamz, reaching back to Slanted and Enchanted just twice—“Two States” and “Fame Throwa”—with “Spit on a Stranger” the only representative of Terror Twilight. But the set list mattered little as I would’ve been happy to hear them play Wowee Zowee b-sides for the hour.
We and the other thousands of lucky souls trudged out of the park and towards some destination or another. Ours was the quest for a bus and food. Packed like sardines in what I’m sure was a safety violation of some sort on the blue line, we headed back towards Bucktown and Ukranian Village in the hopes of scoring pizza and beer from Piece Pizzeria and Brewery. But our dreams were dashed upon arrival when we were informed that the kitchen was closed. The pizza place next door had recently been cleaned out, presumably by throngs of hungry concert goers, so we moved on to plan “C.” Appropriate since our third option was Cleo’s. A ten minute walk brought us to our destination and a large table where we tried our best to devour all the cheese in the joint. Cheese cubes and fried mac’n’cheese appetizers were the opening salvo followed by a full cheese blitzkrieg. There were pizzas of all flavor and stripe, a few quesadillas, and, of course, cheese burgers. Nicole and I kept things simple with a pepperoni pizza and some fried cheddar cheese cubes. The cubes were excellent--how could battered, fried cheese not be--and the pizza was, well, pizza. Homemade dough, a zesty tomato sauce, good cheese, and a healthy sprinkle of pepperoni; all well executed and delicious, but nothing terribly new or mind blowing. Other dining companions were a little more adventurous, the buffalo chicken pizza smelled amazing and the bite or two I had from the barbeque chicken quesadilla was excellent. The real food winner of the night, however, was the bacon bleu pizza. Homemade dough again served as the base, but instead of regular tomato sauce Cleo’s subs in a tangier, heavily herbed tomato sauce. The whole thing is then covered in bacon and smothered in sweet, funky bleu cheese. I only had a small piece, but wow. Wow.
Feeling sufficiently refueled those of us that didn’t have to work the next morning, or simply didn’t care, walked across the street to the Map Room. Map Room is one of my favorite Chicago watering holes. The walls are covered with, you guessed it, maps; maps of all types, variety, and age, as well as numerous shelves of National Geographic. The beer selection is ample as it is impressive, more than two dozen draughts, a huge bottle list, and a hand pumped, casked beer. The selection leans towards the fruitier, more malty Belgian beers and domestic sympathizers, but there’s plenty of room for hops in the Map Room rotation, too. I opted for the hand pulled Arcadia IPA and received and imperial pint, 20oz, of hoppy, smooth beer goodness. Not as bitter or robust as say a Sierra Nevada or its ilk, the Arcadia variation had a nutty, brown color and at times was reminiscent of New Castle. At least when it first hits the tongue, the after taste is pure IPA citrus/pine goodness. Hand pulling from the cask gives the beer a smoother mouth feel, not as carbonated as a bottled or traditionally drafted beer, the beer engine makes for a creamy texture which is fantastic, but creates a strange disconnect between taste and texture when drinking hand pulled IPAs. Nicole’s choice was the Bear Republic Hop Rod Rye. Dark and hoppy the Hop Rod tastes of IPA when if first goes in, but has a wonderful dry, spicy finish from the rye with which it is made. And at 8% ABV it packs a pretty good kick. After round one we discussed another and decided that we were on vacation, damnit, and we would drink beer all night if we so chose. And we did! Round two found me with a Boulder Beer Company Cold Hop English Style Ale. Golden, wheaty in color this interesting brew boasts a great floral nose and some serious fruity flavors followed by a great hoppy sting and an oddly buttery/fatty aftertaste and mouth feel. Delicious and refreshing, like a more complex variation on Boddington’s Pub Ale. Nicole, perhaps at the recommendation of the beer list, Chose the Goldbräu by Stiegl, due to it being “perfect for warmer weather.” A light, crisp German lager this would be an ideal beer to sip before, during, and/or after mowing the lawn or most any other summer activity. Refreshing to max and served in one of the coolest pilsners I’ve ever seen. The one curious aspect of this otherwise simple beer was the aftertaste. While we both agreed it was quite literally corny, Nicole felt it tasted of Fritos while I thought it was more along the lines of corn tortillas. Tasty but odd. Our cravings for late night food and drink well sated we departed the Map Room at last call and staggered back to Shortie’s one last time.
It was a bittersweet morning when we woke on Monday. On one hand glad to be headed for home, on the other sad to leave so many wonderful people and places behind. We packed up our, now very sweaty, belongings and loaded up the car. But the six hour drive ahead of us demanded a solid farewell brunch. After a little debate over where to eat and what may or may not be open on a Monday afternoon we decided on late-night Lakeview beacon, the Pick Me Up Café. Just a few blocks stumbling distance from MLB’s most iconic stadium, the Pick Me Up is a 24 hour espresso bar and diner serving up a variety of traditional diner fare with veggie and vegan twists—if you find yourself in Lakeview in need of some serious late night munchables I can’t recommend the veggie chili and vegan, that’s right, mac’n’cheeze! We drifted the few blocks from Bucktown to Lakeview with Nicole offering her one-woman tour of Chicago along the way and found an amazing, albeit expensive, parking spot in front of our diner. We seated ourselves at a table decorated with images of the Sesame Street crew made from food. For starters I grabbed a huge mug of PMU’s excellent coffee. Strong, flavorful, scorching hot, this cuppa was a fitting farewell to all the great coffee that can be had in Chi-tonw (
With the crossword mostly completed, our third of forth cuppa polished off, stomachs well plied we got some gas and water before getting back on the road. The drive home on a Monday afternoon was also pretty easy, a little more traffic than a late Wednesday evening, but no traffic jams or long lines on the expressway, just smooth sailing. We stopped a few times for coffee and other pit stops, but basically made it home without issue. Road weary and famished upon our arrival we bandied around some dinner ideas, the short walk to Aladdin’s at Surrey and Cedar was a front runner before settling on an overlooked gem in Cleveland’s ever expanding food crown: Richie Chan’s. Located just west of the Cedar/Lee intersection, Chan’s is easy to miss with all the glitz and glamour just up the road, but it shouldn’t be missed. Primarily a carry out, there are a few tables available, Chan’s is run by a middle aged couple we’ve dubbed “Mr. and Mrs. Chan.” She takes the orders then barks them at him, he cooks them up, she packs them and dishes out the goods. While the menu at Richie Chan’s appears at first/second/hundredth glance to be pretty standard, the food is vastly superior to almost any I’ve ever had, save for maybe a few meals in New York’s Chinatown and the always surprising Yangtze on Chardon’s square. Chan’s General Tso’s Chicken is unlike any I’ve ever had, sweet, spicy, and loaded with ginger. Their wonton soup should be the standard to which all others are held, buttery, meaty broth, delicate wontons, and sumptuous roast pork; it’s a rare visit that we don’t leave without a quart. And the egg rolls are not to be missed, crisp and fresh tasting in both veggie and shrimp incarnations. My order that night, and my “usual” is the cashew pork. Loaded with carrots, peas, corn, and mushrooms and peppered with savory thin sliced pork it is utterly simple and wildly delicious on its own but doesn’t mind being perked up with some spicy mustard or sriracha. Nicole scored some veggie lo mein which was so straight forward and compact that it belied its simple intrinsic deliciousness; also excellent with a few dashes of the spicy stuff.
We kicked things off right in Chicago by visiting one of the most esteemed culinary outposts in a city crammed to the gills with good eats: Hot Doug’s. Hot Doug’s Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium has been a dream food destination of mine for several years now, ever since Justin began extolling the merits of their countless varieties of house made sausages. In fact I’d heard so much about how great Hot Doug’s was that I, briefly, began to doubt weather it could be that good. Any doubt I had was obliterated when we arrived and took our places in line. I understand that on some days, especially Fridays and Saturdays when fries cooked in the culinary gold known as duck fat are on the menu, the wait for some encased meat can reach the two-hour mark, but we made it out of the heat and into the a/c in about half an hour. Not a bad wait, all things considered. But the wait was the easy part. Once we were inside I had to figure out what I wanted to eat. I’d been thinking about this moment for so long I felt like Ralphy when he finally gets to see Santa in A Christmas Story. I was blanking! Here I was about to face Doug himself and I had no idea what I was even doing there! I took a few deep breaths and asked Nicole what she would be having while I took a more composed glance at the menus. At first I was focused mainly on the special menu which features items like the Foie Gras and Sauternes Duck Sausage with Truffle Aioli, Foie Gras Mousse, and Fleur de Sel, or a “Damn Spicy” pork sausage with Chipotle Dijonnaise and Habenero Jack Cheese called the Atomic Bomb. Where else in the world could you ever hope to find sausages so esoterically designed and lovingly created? Surely they must be mine! But then there was the standard menu chock full of simpler, but no less delicious sounding, encased meat fare. The Keira Knightly Fire Dog and Salma Hayek andouille sausage each sounded appealing for a variety of reasons. As did the Elvis, a smoked Polish sausage and maybe the only Elvis referencing food item in the world that does not feature peanut butter and banana. The Marty Allen, beef, pork and garlic was tempting for sure, so was the Pete Shelley if for no other reason than a veggie dog in a self-described “Encased Meat Emporium” has to be something worth trying once. In the end I think I chose wisely, opting for: The Paul Kelly: a beer soaked bratwurst that is grilled and split bilaterally. I had it topped with tangy mustard and caramelized onions. As well as the smoked and spicy alligator sausage topped with shrimp remoulade and fontina cheese.
Having gorged on Hot Doug’s as a late afternoon lunch Nicole and I returned to Shorties, our unofficial Chicago flop-house, for a little post meal r’n’r. We napped and lounged for a few hours before rinsing off the day’s heat and the previous night’s car ride in preparation for Maureen’s birthday extravaganza. According to Mo, on her last visit to Cleveland, the only time she eats Mexican is on her birthday so I guess it was kind of an honor to be there for this annual occasion. The site of this fiesta was Jose’s, a modest BYOB spot on North Winchester in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village neighborhood. We were told to come prepared so just about every other person in attendance had a bottle of tequila tagging along for the meal as Jose’s will make you a margarita if you bring the hard stuff. We were handed a few Tecate’s on our arrival and ordered a pair of margaritas while settling in with some chips and salsa. The chips were delicious and more than likely homemade, and the salsa had a fres, spicy kick. Things were off to a good start. We put in a few table wide orders for appetizers, a couple plates of guacamole and some queso fundido loaded with roasted Mexican peppers, all excellent. I guess at this point I should come clean on the fact that I was still stuffed from Hot Doug’s and the idea of eating more, even that manna from the gods that is Mexican, seemed like a reasonably to terribly bad idea. But I thought I should at least have something other than chips and dips so when the waiter came around I selected one barbacoa and one al patstor taco. Actually, I originally picked those two meats to fill some soft and tender tamales, but the menu fails to mention that tamales are only available on the weekends, boo-urns. So I checked the taco box on my order instead and waited very patiently to see what kind of room I had left in my food vault. In turned out there was just enough for these two excellent specimens. The barbacoa was tender and beefy with a little spice, a little onion, and a healthy handful of cilantro. The al pastor was porky and delicious but a little over done. While the charred bits on the edges added some great smokey flavor to my “Mexican gyro” the inside was a tad dry. The onion/cilantro/salsa on top helped this matter immensely. The rest of the food on the table looked delicious and huge, so I felt less guilty about not ordering something I probably wouldn’t have finished more than a third of, plus I was still running on Doug’s and gator so I didn’t need much anyways.
Having plied ourselves with Mexican goodies and a handful of margaritas we moved the party just around the block to the High Dive. Located on West Chicago Avenue, between Winchester and Wolcott, the High Dive is an understated little bar with a handful of 4-6 person high-tops, several expansive booths, and a gorgeous bar that is either an antique or a very reasonable facsimile. Every one ordered a round and we toasted Maureen again. Not knowing what the High Dive had to offer I watched another partygoers order that Champagne of Beers and followed suit, just moments before noticing the weekly specials posted way above the bar. Thursday night at the High Dive is $4 Absolut drinks, if only I’d seen that sooner! I contentedly sipped my High Life before switching to the 3 Floyds IPA they had on tap, and what a world of difference! 3 Floyds’ IPA is a strong entry into the category, full of aromatic and bitter hops that lend it that floral bouquet and citrusy aftertaste sought after in most IPAs, rank it right in there with Sierra Nevada for a excellent and fully competent IPA, yardsticks to measure all others against. From there on out I was Moscow Mules for the rest of the night, the sumptuous blend of ginger ale, vodka, and lime is perfectly refreshing on a hot summer night after a long day of eating heavily. I should also note in here that while at High Dive I chanced to try a few swigs of a friend’s New Castle Summer Ale. Tasting somewhere between regular New Castle and a watery IPA, New Castle’s summer ale is tasteless and alternately bland sweet, soggy, and bitter. Avoid this beer at all costs.
With a splash of beer to revive body and soul we were ready to eat. Small Bar offers a brief but solid menu of bar standards: burgers, sandwiches, assorted sides and snacks. Nothing wild and crazy, just good food that tastes better with beer and possibly sports. Having been told to by most everyone I’d encountered the night before, I ordered the pulled pork nachos. For breakfast. Well, brunch I guess given the timing of our meal, but it seemed an odd choice for my first meal of the day. While I got my own order, Shortie and our dining companion Adam opted to split theirs. When they finally arrived I could see why. The nachos arrived in a bowl most restaurants would use to serve a family style pasta dish with a pile of crisp, delicious tortilla chips piled high above the rim. On top was a mound of steamy hot barbequed pork, several generous handfuls of cheese, and a healthy dollop of sour cream. It was big, but I was hungry. Before diving in mouth first I needed to test the waters and so took a healthy bite of nothing but pork. It was good, real good. Slow cooked beautifully, although not smoked, and slathered in a sweet barbeque sauce, a tasty counterpoint to the spicy pork that makes up the Pig Destoyer, Led Zeppelin, and pulled pork fries over at Kuma’s Corner. Kuma’s sauce is a bright, bold, and daring dressing, while Small Bar’s is unctuous and inviting. Coupled with zesty jack and cheddar and supplemented with daubs of sour cream, Small Bar’s pulled pork nachos are a great way to start a long day of outdoor music festival attending. Continuing the theme of appetizer-for-brunch Nicole ordered some of Small Bar’s other infamous app: fried cheese curds. Dipped in a stout based batter and fried, these cheddar curds are as hearty and fun as any mozzarella stick, with the bonus of that sharp cheddar zing. The tangy honey mustard dipping sauce that accompanies the curds was excellent, but I found a few dots of sriracha to be just as tasty an accompaniment.
More than well fed, we departed Small Bar so that Nicole and Shortie could get hair cuts from their favorite trimmer and I roamed the streets of Chicago in search of danger. And by danger I mean comic shops, book stores, and record retailers. My first stop at Brainstorm, a comic book shop and video rental spot that boasts a respectable selection of both despite its limited retail space; I picked up a copy of Doom Patrol volume 2: The Painting That Ate Paris. From there I wandered down the street checking out the local stores as I wandered. When I came to Gallery Café I couldn’t help but venture in. For coffee lovers the world round freshly and expertly roasted beans are a must. Cleveland’s Phoenix Coffee has its own roaster in the city, as does Bowling Green’s Grounds for Thought. But Gallery takes this demand for freshness one step further and roasts their beans on site as they need them, while you might smell more like the inside of a coffee pot after a few minutes in Gallery than you might at other cafés, the funk is well worth it as this is some of the finest coffee I’ve ever sipped. With the mercury speeding ever northward in Chicago I opted for Gallery’s iced coffee. Rich and bold with a splash of cream for color and a reduction in acidity, this was exactly the thing I needed to survive such a heat wave with such a full stomach. My last stop, I never did make it to Reckless, was Quimby’s. One of the finest bookstores in the world, specializing in all the weird and eccentric books other stores tuck away or simply refuse to stock. This is an excellent spot to find everything from the newest graphic novels to local and national `zines to The Anarchist’s Cookbook. There’s a whole section dedicated to the printed materials from and related to McSweeney’s, the art books have their own graffiti subsection, and they proudly sell “gay smut,” their words not mine, in the front section of the store; no beaded curtains or hushed whispers for something behind the counter. I perused their aisles for a long time but was ultimately overcome by choices; I wanted it all, but I got none.
I was soon whisked away for an afternoon of rock’n’roll fun at Pitchfork where I managed to digest away all the pork and chips while enjoying the abrasive post-everything jamz of Liars, the comedy melt-down of Michael Showalter, and the competent execution of Modest Mouse. But all this loud music and a few beers had left me feeling mighty hungry. Post fest we boarded a blue-line bus and made for that beacon of late-night Mexican goodness: Arturo’s. A perennial Chicago favorite of mine, I was introduced to Arturo’s by Nicole on our first visit to the city last September. We’ve been many times since and I knew what I wanted before we even got there. Arturo’s was busy when we arrived but we managed to find two tables to accommodate our eight hungry companions. A double check of the menu showed that they did indeed still serve tacos both barbacoa and al pastor. The quesadilla was not on the menu, but it never is. I overhead some rumbling concerning the al pastor come from our sister table and was struck by a cold sweat. Might I not be able to have my al pastor? Was the spit layered with slabs of seasoned pork and slowly roasted as it spins, like a Mexican gyro, really scraped bare? When the waitress came to take our order my worst fears were confirmed. Yes, they have no al pastor. I scrambled over the menu again looking for a replacement. There is no real replacement for a good taco al pastor, but I decided on a taco carnitas. Spiced, slow cooked pork shoulder that is shredded and tossed in a hot pan for crispy edges and soft, savory centers. Arturo’s does it right and the taco carnitas was excellent. As was the barbacoa, natch, both are served in homemade corn tortillas and garnished simply with a sprinkle of raw onion and cilantro. Arturo’s quesadilla is simplicity and deliciousness defined. Just two of their fantastic corn tortillas filled with soft, white Mexican cheese (queso blanco? Chihuahua? Oaxaca?) and grilled until melty. The perfect late night pick-me-up, Arturo’s gave us the strength for a night cap across the street at the Green Eye Lounge. Dark and loud like a bar should be, the Green Eye Lounge on West Homer seemed a perfect final destination on this long first day of the fest. We sipped a few PBRs while check out the place and its clientele and noticed that from Sunday to Thursday Green Eye offers $5 bourbon and PBR boilermakers, an excellent deal if I do say so myself. Well fed, well beer’d, and all kinds of tired we made for home base to rest up for another long day of fun.
