Revisiting Chicago: Helping Myself to the "Seconds" City

I am happy to report that my much anticipated return to Chicago to see old friends (and to eat), was a roaring success. Thankfully the trip went almost entirely as planned as it pertained to food. As anyone who shares my obsession with meal-orchestration would know, rarely do these trips follow the EATinerary exactly; moods change, tastes waver, stomachs revolt, and wallets go bare. All that said, I was able to complete more than 90% of my predetermined itinerary. Here's how it all went down:

As enlightening and enjoyable as this eating excursion was, it couldn't have started out any worse. Our flight was delayed due to thunderstorms in the Midwest, offering an unexpected, first-round knee-buckling blow to my carefully crafted EATinerary which had us savoring beautiful burgers at Moody's, circa 10 PM CST, on our first night in the city. Instead, I found myself in the middle of Newark Airport's Terminal C foodcourt, staring down at my half-portion, turd-like "philly steak" from Steak Escape that had all the visual appeal of an "O" Magazine swimsuit edition.

When it was all said and done, we didn't arrive at my famed host Oogles' place until 2:30 AM.

So much for Moody's brutish blue cheese burgers...but tomorrow is another day.

The following morning (Thursday), rested, rejuvenated, and above all, hungry, we made our way to the City's annual summer-time food festival downtown, known as the Taste of Chicago. Here, countless local restaurants and food purveyors from both the North and South side of the city set up shop, offering everything from polish sausage and kielbasa, to the famous Billy Goat Hamburgers. (Cheeseborger! Cheeseborger!)

Of everything we scarfed down here, by far the most enjoyable (and seemingly most popular with the crowd) was the barbecued turkey leg from Helen's (below). This gluttonous gam was yanked right from a giant porta-roaster, and dipped into a bottomless vat of sweet and salty mahogany barbecue sauce. We found a nice shaded spot away from the sweaty masses and devoured these awesome pieces of meat accordingly.

I had always heard great things about the turkey leg at the Taste, now I know what all the fuss is about.

Meghan, not quite ready for the Turkey Leg (maybe next year), opted for Helen's pulled pork sandwich (below) which was nothing to sneeze at, unless you were allergic to barbecue sauce, which relentlessly smothered this dirty, tasty little morsel of messy goodness.

Just a few short hours later, having survived the brazen barbecue bacchanalia of the Taste, we headed to the west side neighborhood of Wicker Park for my favorite pizza in all of Chicago...Piece.

Just east of the eternally congested central intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee Avenues that forms the border between the burgeoning neighborhoods of Wicker Park and Bucktown, this cavernous vaulted-ceiling pizzeria and renowned microbrewery (originally home to an auto body shop), remains pleasantly unchanged since my last visit more than a year ago. But what about the pizza? Will the pie I've come to love over my time in Chicago still manage to steal my heart?

The short answer is...YES.

Having already determined what we were getting months ago when this trip was originally booked, we wasted no time ordering 2 red pies, one with garlic, one with sausage.

Both pies were incredible, perfect, and just as I remember them, equipped with equal parts of salty cheese and tart red gravy, on a sturdy yet foldable corn-meal crust (bottom right), that is crispy on the edges, and soft and chewy towards the middle.

The garlic pie (right) teems with aromatic freshly minced garlic that is embedded inconspicuously into the the various layers of deep red sauce and melted cheese. Over the years, I've come to realize that the less garlic you can see on a pie, the more it actually tastes like garlic. Piece never fails to prove this pizza postulate of mine.

Meanwhile, the sausage pie demonstrates a thoughtful use of restraint, topped carefully with marble-sized chunks of de-cased fennel seed-specked sausage, evenly spread so as not to exclude any one slice from sausage greatness.

Triangular (thank God!), submissively pliable, just oily enough, and amply doughy, the pie at Piece is an oblong homage to an east-coast tradition (billed as New-Haven style mainly because of their shape), as vital to pleasing my heart as my stomach.

Needless to say, this was a reunion I'll never forget.

A few hours later, after some well deserved roistering, we found ourselves inside a ramshackle hot-dog hut, crammed shoulder to shoulder amidst a claque of sweaty, drunken, unruly co-eds, angling for ample attention from the food counter. In the middle of this mayhem, immersed in this cacophonous crowd of blatant immaturity, I was compelled to do nothing else at that moment but smile. We were at the The Weiners Circle…and I was looking to get my hands on a couple of classic Chicago Chardogs.

In the wee hours of the morning, the insolent, the inebriated, the irreverent, and the indignant, are among many that descend upon this glorified screened-in porch in an effort to assuage tomorrow’s impending hangover with greasy, nitrate-laden grub. But that’s not the whole story at the "Circle".

These vittles happen to come with a hearty side of vitriol at this long-standing Chicago institution where it is customary while “ordering” to trade personally-charged, expletive-ridden repartee with the spunky and almost-too-witty women behind the counter. Who knew it would be so fun to say:

““Gimme two f%$% Chardogs you b%^$@!”

There’s something about degrading and belittling the servers here that makes the food taste that much better.

But beware; if you’re going to dish it, you must be ready, willing, and able to take it because these ladies don’t bite their tongues. They will let you have it and can be surprisingly personal in their attacks. (I was once called “Greasy Ringo Star mutha#$%@@!”)

Once my ego and I emerged from the ordering process relatively unscathed, my two chardogs (below) were begging to be eaten.

And there they were (above) in all their glory…two middle-finger-thin franks, each caught in the throngs of an airy poppy-seed bun, wearing an expressionistic swipe of classic deep green sweet relish and canary yellow mustard, sprinkled sparingly with diced onions that are reluctantly overshadowed by the long, boat-like pickle spear that runs the length of the bun. All this condiment sheltered by two tomato slices and a blood-pressure popping dusting of celery salt. There they were…my Chicago ‘dogs. And they were simply delicious.

We even saw Barack Obama getting into the mix with some feisty ordering of his own that would have made Reverend Wright proud...the chickens have come home to roost, or in this case the Chardogs. Didn't see a pin on him though...

Having had the night to slowly seep into my skin and evaporate beneath my nails, it was the pungent essence of mustard, relish, and grease, and not the early morning bird song that greeted me the next day.

After an eventful (and ridiculously filling) day 1, we were determined to use day 2 to recover; to provide our bodies with a day of rest from previous day's gluttonous gallivanting. All in agreement on this matter and eager to calm our dehydrated bodies and souls, we headed to highly acclaimed breakfast hotspot, Ann Sather, in the far north neighborhood of Andersonville for a traditional Swedish breakfast. After all, nothing says “light” like Lingonberry pancakes and bowl of meatballs swimming in gravy.

Whether you’re in Chicago for your first time or your fiftieth, make it a point to check out Ann Sather (preferably the original in Andersonville, but there are three other locations on the North Side). Here, the homemade cinnamon rolls themselves are reason enough to make the trip. Aside from the always-satisfying rolls, my Swedish pancakes (below) were thin, doughy, and a perfect canvas for the accompanying cup (could’ve been bigger) of tart, syrupy Lingonberry compote that is absolutely crucial to the dish. Even more memorable are the meatballs, which are densely packed, and swimming in rich and hearty brown gravy specked with tiny bits of meat and pan drippings that smacks of a nippy morning in the sparse outskirts of Stockholm. The less willing may not agree, but the meatballs are best enjoyed soaked in their own gravy, then afforded a quick dip in the sour-sweet lingonberry compote. Sweet, salty, meaty, and dense. Believe me on this one when I say it's good. It is.

After trading morning-after hot dog guilt for early afternoon meatball agita, I was beginning to wonder if I was even capable of eating “light”. It is becoming increasingly apparent, as I continue to hone my eating abilities, that the concept of “light”, and the belief that I can engage in this type of consumption, is somewhat a delusional one. In all honesty, I don’t even really know what “light” is, and I’m not sure anybody around me does either. For this, I blame my addiction to food, and no, at this very moment, I’m not willing to get help.

So while my fingers may have no longer smelled like a Chardog, they now harbored the distinctly meaty, spice-infused pungency of Swedish meatballs, which makes me wonder: why do my fingers always absorb and perpetuate the aromatics of my most recent meal?

After an all-too-filling barbecue extravaganza at Fat Willy's (see picture below), we spent all of Day 3 on the beach, working up an appetite for what quickly became my favorite spot for Mexican after only having lived in the city for a few months.

I speak of a vibrant little cantina in the western part of the Roscoe Village that is as busy as the street it calls home: Cafe El Tapatio.

This small, albeit flamboyant spot (you can't miss the pink neon sign), boasts an outdoor eating area that is hard to beat. Killer margaritas are an added bonus to a menu headlined by some of the best fajitas to be had in all of Chicago's north side.

On this particular night I went for the Tacos al pastor. (below). Tender bits of heavily seasoned slow-cooked pork, diced onion and a heavy dose of cilantro make these a relatively light, but satisfying treat.

It was nice to get my hands on some of these tantalizing tacos while I was back in town. It was also nice to find out that they still make the strongest margaritas I've ever had.

Alas, the final day of this long, arduous culinary journey would see me reunite with a Chicago tradition that is as unique and recognizable as any - deep dish pizza. And I was getting it at famed Lou Malnati's.

On a sleepy strip of Lincoln Avenue in northwest suburb Lincolnwood, stands the original Lou Malnati's Pizzeria where they've been doing classic Chicago-style, deep dish pizza for more than two decades. With locations all over Chicagoland, you can get Lou's almost anywhere these days, but I always absolutely insist on taking the 20 minute drive to the original location in Lincolnwood. It just isn't the same anywhere else.

There's really not much I can say about this pie other than that it is nothing short of a masterpiece. At some time or another, everyone has probably had some iteration or ill-conceived attempt at Chicago style deep dish pizza, and I can assure you none of them is anything near the pure perfection this pie embodies. And it is a pie you know.

Of the handful of well-known deep dish joints in Chicago (Uno, Due, & Gino's East), Lou's version is the tastiest and the heaviest. This pie is obese, but in a good way. The crust isn't far from your typical pie crust; flaky, super buttery, and crunchy on the outside, though unlike a normal sweet version, is still wet and doughy on the inside. The crust may be what makes this pie in the end, as it excels at handling the thick layer of sweet fennel-seed sausage, Wisconsion mozzarella cheese, and tart, tangy blood-red crushed tomatoes that make this work of art (in that order) such a specimen. I think the pictures below say it all:

I could ramble on and on about the large chunks of fresh tomatoes, salty Wisconsin-borne mozzy, (which is drier and milder than your traditional mozzy), and the half-inch layer of sausage, but I won't. Just know that when you're in Chicago, and looking for deep dish, bypass the fluffy tasteless junk at Gino's, and the dry, overcooked mess at Pizzeria Uno, and head north to Linconlnwood for Lou Malnatis - deep dish pizza perfection.

I can't think of a better way to end an amazing trip down memory lane.

Thanks Oogles for being such an accomodating host.

Other HIGHLIGHTS:

The awesome rack of ribs at Fat Willy's in West Town (map it):

Supper fluffy, incredibly "bloated" rich and creamy Spinach, Ham , and Cheddar omelette at Nookie's in Old Town (map it)