fishsticks and ketchup

I’ve now lived in Chicago longer than I’ve lived anywhere else, closing in on 20 years, but there are any number of local essentials I’ve yet to delve into. I’ve never taken an architectural tour, for example, and it was only a year or two ago that I went to the top of the Willis (nee Sears) Tower for the first time. I’ve never gone boating on the lake, and until a couple of weeks ago, I’d never been to the Maxwell St. Market.

Granted, the Maxwell St. Market is not what it once was. Formerly a mass melting pot of immigrants, it’s now predominantly Mexican, and even then, anecdotal evidence indicates that since relocating at the city’s behest, the giant flea market has been shrinking. Or at least it’s begun offering fewer food options, which is really its main attraction, not the tables teaming with rusty used tools or lots piled high with car tires. No, the food vendors are where it’s at, where you can really get a taste (so to speak) of what Chicago’s vibrant Mexican community has to offer.

Even then, there are a few must-eats scattered among the maybes. As usual, you can tell by the long lines which booth is worth the wait, and by that standard Rubi’s reputation remains undiminished. After working up an appetite for 30 minutes, making conversation in line with fellow food pilgrims attracted by the unique or unusual (yet all equally turned off by the idea of eyeball tacos), I decided to splurge for three tacos: the squash blossom, the carne asada with cactus and the al pastor, sliced fresh from the gleaming, slowly charring pork on a rotating spit which proved the subject of conversation of many a passer-by. Throw in fresh – that is, cooked to order – tortillas, with a total less than $10, and it’s no wonder that Rubi’s is the one Maxwell St. mainstay the consistently draws in the gringos and Mexicans alike.

There were other vendors worth checking out, too, those selling incredible looking tamales and other regional taco variations, but they’ll have to wait for another visit. My last stop at Maxwell St. before heading home was a Big Gulp sized agua fresca that made my hand look tiny and forced me to chug several ounces right off the bar just to make the unwieldy thing easier to carry around.

With the family out of town and in essence a weekend off, I had ample time to kill. The Sugar Beet Edible Garden Tour  seemed like a good idea, and the perfect weather clinched it. So after sleeping in and eating a quick breakfast, I hopped on my bike to tour Oak Park, and specifically some of the best community and backyard gardens scattered around a few square miles. Not only did I learn a lot, and get some exercise, but I got to connect with my neighborhood in a refreshing new way, free from kids and places to be, just talking green thumb matters with people who care.

I came away with a renewed respect for gardeners willing to sacrifice every last inch for the sake of bounty, even if they admit much of what goes on at ground level is something of an experiment, or that a backyard full of edible stuff might ultimately be consumed over the course of just a few meals. I met people with new chickens, fully aware they might ultimately not be worth the trouble once the novelty wears off. I met people with new apple and cherry trees, equally thrilled and disappointed at how much their yields fluctuate. I met people growing sweet potatoes on their (slanted!) roof. I met people who drive long distances to get their logs inoculated with mushroom spores. I met a couple who had harvested the acorns of a historic local oak tree, who had raised several seedling to give away, with plans to track the progress of their children after they left home.

Potatoes on the roof!

It’s the adventure that draws these people to garden as much as the environmental appeal, though that aspect was brought up several times in conversation, particularly our terrible summer, which began with a warm March, a cold April, a wet June and then several weeks of high heat and little rain. What was interesting was how luck, both good and bad, varied. Some gardens grew great tomato crops. Others failed. Some did well with squash, or cucumbers, or eggplants. Some did not. Some experiments planting corn or pumpkins panned out. Some did not. Was it the rain? The heat? The erratic rains? Who knows. I’ve heard climate change being renamed climate evolution, and that may fit our current unknowable situation better.

So what did I take away, specifically? I think I may plant a dwarf apple tree, for both looks and fruits. I want to plan raspberries, because everyone loves raspberries and you can never have too many. I want to plant potatoes, because they do well in containers, and garlic, because we’ll eat it. And I want to plant stevia and borage for, well, the novelty.

And I sure as heck want to get involved with Sugar Beet, our local Coop in progress, not just because I want them to succeed, but because apparently they’re considering the site of a giant community down the street as the location for their brick and mortar outpost. Here’s hoping!

Years ago, it used to be a Parky’s; you can tell by the distinctive shape of the roof. In more recent memory it used to be a taqueria, and I seem to recall it briefly selling fresh fruits and vegetables, too. Lately it’s been empty and derelict. But the other day I passed the space on Roosevelt and noticed the tiny shop had been rebranded: Big Guys.

I must admit, I was dubious. The blink and you’ll miss it spot seemed cursed and besides, Big Guys sounded like a desperate, fly by night attempt to coast on the name and reputation of Five Guys (which seem to be proliferating around here). But then I read that Big Guys was actually a return to hot dogs and sausages for the location, and beyond that, the beneficiary of a Bobby Flay-hosted reality show called “3 Days to Open.” Needless to say, the space reportedly took much longer than three days to renovate – that’s reality for you – and in fact clearly it was already open, but I decided to check it out the self-proclaimed “blue collar gourmet” sausage stand in advance of the TV show’s imminent debut.

And you know what? Not bad! With a wide array of quality sausages on offer, fresh cut fries (with optional butter and garlic seasoning) and aim-to-please service, it appears we have a solid local alternative to Gene & Jude’s up north, or Hot Doug’s and Franks N Dawgs in the city, let alone all the suburban hot dog standbys, from the drive-in throwback Superdawg to Portillo’s. My Maxwell Street Polish was good stuff, and the spicy grilled onions actually provided the promised bite.

Maxwell St. Polish

I’m now curious about the pork chop sandwich, while Alma is looking forward to the chorizo and the beer and cheddar soup. Apparently the place prides itself on its fresh toppings, from condiments to vegetables, and there’s no reason to doubt them. It’s a smart move, too. When it comes to food as common as sausages, it’s the little things that help you distinguish yourself from the competition. I’ve had many a hot dog ruined by sub-par toppings, so there’s every reason to believe better than average encased meats will soar given the right glop on the top.

Check out the fresh peppers!

We’ll see how nuts the place gets after its 15 minutes of fame, but the convenience factor alone (right on the way home from gymnastic, right by Ada’s school) indicates Big Guys will be a regular stop regardless.

I expected to hear that business was slow but improving when I asked who I assume to be an owner at Yilin in Forest Park. What I was not expecting was a hearty “thank you, guys!” After all, I’d never been to Yilin, let alone any of the previous restaurants at this apparently cursed corner of Des Plains and Madison. Nor have I done anything to deserve a “thank you,” ot even order food, at least not until last night.

I’m generally as turned off by the idea of pan-ethnic Asian eateries as I am by the idea of any other culture-colliding catch-all spots. I recall at least two different restaurants I’ve come across in the past serving the not totally illogical but still off-putting combination of Chinese and fried chicken. One was in Hyde Park. One was in, of all places, Puerto Rico. Most restaurants have trouble getting one cuisine right, let alone two, so the thought of Yilin, which boasts of both Japanese and Chinese cuisine, was as unappealing as the idea of Coral, the doomed restaurant it supplanted, which promised sushi and Thai (both of which the area already has in abundance, and neither of which really should be on the same menu as the other).

And yet, word on the street was really positive, and one wonders if the “thank you” I received was directed not to me specifically but to the numerous folks spreading the grassroots gospel, of which I am now retroactively one more. Because Yilin is actually pretty good, and compared to the rest of the corn starch glop in the area, even close to excellent. While I didn’t have much ordering power last night, what I did order was extremely well prepared and cooked with a degree of craft, whether it was the scallion pancakes or the surprisingly light (if still predictably sweet) sesame beef, peppered with crisp, fresh broccoli.

Next time around I expect to order more traditional Szechuan fare, dishes such as salt and pepper fish or dry-chili chicken, which are hard to get outside of Chinatown, or at least Katy’s in Westmont. And because the prospect of good Chinese in this wasteland is too good to pass up, I do intend for there to be a next time, or two or three. Good Chinese is too often taken for granted, and certainly its reputation has been degraded by fast-food mall slop attempting the pass for some semblance of the real thing, let alone lazy preparations aimed at desperate customers with no other options. But as the ditty goes, ain’t nothing like the real thing.

Oh, and the sushi wasn’t bad, either.

Given the tiny size of Schwa and the difficulty securing a reservation, it was surprising, to say the least, to bump into someone I knew there. Well, someone I sort of knew. Paul McGee, up until a few months ago, was the esteemed bartender at the Whistler, Logan Square’s unpretentious but serious entry into the Prohibition Era drink craze. Which is to say, not terribly crazy – McGee and the bar itself put the emphasis on classic cocktails from the pre-Prohibition days through the Tiki drink peak , with nary a Cosmopolitan to be seen on the menu. And indeed, the Whistler has a menu, a carefully chosen selection of a dozen or so drinks, each priced around $11 and each showcasing the freshest ingredients and most careful preparation, the two keys to cocktail preparation designed to counter years of damage done by bad mixes and flavored vodkas. Go figure, a drink is only as good as what goes in it and how it goes in.

But I digress. During his tenure at Whistler, McGee was known for two special events. One was a monthly book night, where he mixed drinks from a selection of classic recipe tomes new and old – the (beautiful but impractical) PDT Cocktail Book, for example, or dusty compendiums of difficult to make tropical drinks. The other was his Cocktails 101 class, an introduction to the basics of spirits and what to do with them. I took this class back in November alongside eight or so other alcohol adventurers, and I must say the course was close to life-changing. Certainly it helped (in a way) that I knew next to nothing about cocktails going in, having been mostly a beer and wine guy all my adult life, and only the most casual one at that. But it also helped to be taught the ins and outs of liquor by a master of his field, someone who could tell you where it counts to cut corners and where it will hurt you, the minimum array of spirits any good home bar should stock, or how a drink called the Corpse Reviver #2 could be one of the most delicious things you could ever imbibe.

Who knew (besides McGee) that that class would be among his last at the Whistler? When I bumped into him at Schwa I told him what it a pity it was that he didn’t offer the Cocktails 101 course anymore, but he told me he’d work something else out eventually. Not coincidentally, rumors were swirling that McGee had hitched his horse to a new River North country western themed bar, but that seemed … strange, to say the least, given McGee’s status as a staunch traditionalist. Now more details have emerged, and it all makes a little more sense. The new place is called Bub City, and while it is reportedly a C&W themed bar that will focus on beer, whiskey and other brown drinks, the downstairs will be given over to McGee’s Tiki bar fantasy, a 4000-square foot room where patrons will surely encounter some ace punches, fruity confections, and proof of the Zombie’s infamous potency.

Will I ever go to River North to drink? Probably not. I don’t go anywhere to drink. But it is nice to see he’s landed a good gig that will expose his skills to a wider clientele. The Whistler and McGee may have been a well-kept secret for a while, but talent deserves an audience. And guys as classy as McGee deserve a class of their own.

No one likes eating on airplanes, but at least airplanes have an excuse: you’re in the air, which tends to limit options. You get what you get, or at least you did, back when they bothered to give you anything. Airports themselves, on the other hand, are an inexcusably sorry lot. It’s the last place you see before you take off, and the first place you see when you land, yet with few exceptions, airports are a sea of fast food, chain restaurants, pre-made sandwiches and frozen yogurt stands. Where’s the pride? Is it any wonder why most people just stick to gum?

Still, I must admit I was intrigued when Rick Bayless opened up a gourmet fresh-Mex sandwich spot, Tortas Frontera, in the American Airlines terminal at O’Hare, a cousin to his local casual outposts in Macy’s and at Xoco, themselves street food supplements to his fine(er) dining spots Frontera Grill and Topolobambo. Never mind that we know of at least two cases of food poisoning at the latter, inexcusable given the price point and pedigree. I’ll readily concede Bayless knows what he’s doing when it comes to fresh ingredients and Mexican food, and – ironically, given Chicago’s wealth of Mexican food – he has without doubt helped up the Mexican food game, not just locally but nationally.

The problem is that we rarely depart via American Airlines, so I’ve never had a chance to sample Bayless’s air-fare. That is, until last week, before a flight to Mexico (more irony). Tortas Frontera stood out starkly against all the usual suspects, which lurked in a dense food court around the corner. Instead of flash-frozen garbage, Tortas Frontera offered fresh bread and made to order sandwiches, all featuring artisinal or local ingredients, and most demanding an honest to goodness wait. Indeed, we each bought a delicious breakfast sandwich of queso fresco and local jam, and even that simple sandwich took several minutes, which was no worry, really, since the coffee they sold was top notch and we got to watch fellow travelers taking departing tequila shots from the adjoining bar. In a lot of ways I wished our flight left later, to give me more time with the menu.

With the exception of a delicious lion fish taco (adorned with avocado, served with a tangy, spicy chipotle sauce and a side of slaw, with two kinds of sesame seeds, red onion, lime and cabbage) I bought down the dirt road by our beachfront condo, the sandwich was fresher and better than any meal I had in Mexico. Given that I hit the bargain gourmet Bayless spots downtown barely more often than I’m at the airport, I’m jealous of Alma, who not only works around the corner from the latter but frequently flies via American, too. Maybe next time she goes someplace exotic, like Cincinnati or Minneapolis, I’ll have her pick up dinner.

A few weeks back some friends of ours were kind enough to ask us to dine with them at Schwa. We said yes. How could we not? Without question, Schwa is one of the highest regarded restaurants in America, and, as a BYOB, one of the biggest bargains as well. Most notably, however, it is one of the hardest reservations to land in America, though ironically not exactly for the aforementioned food. Sure, the food is both original in design and sublime in execution. Yes, the BYO policy potentially shaves literally hundreds of dollars off the bill. But Schwa is hard to get into for a more mundane reason: they don’t answer the phone.

OK, to be fair, they do answer the phone. Sometimes. You just never know when they’re going to pick up. As part of the place’s renegade vibe, the chefs handle the tiny spot’s more quotidian tasks in addition to the cooking, which means handling the reservations (and, later, table service) between juggling the myriad kitchen duties. But actually getting someone on the line requires literally months of attempts. If you’re lucky you’ll get the machine, but more often than not the machine is full. Then, even if you do successfully leave a message, Schwa may take months to call back. It’s simply the luck of the draw and a matter of timing. But if you actually manage to get someone to answer, you’re generally golden, though of course even a reservation is no guarantee the place might close with no notice due to one of its infamous “plumbing problems,” which may be code for everything from a visiting celebrity to, yes, actual plumbing problems.

So when our friends snagged a table for four, we said yes and tagged along. Opportunities such as these rarely arise, and besides, the last time we ate at Schwa, several years ago, was a memorable experience, highlighted by a dish of lamb brains, the ultimate gross-out dining anecdote even if the taste was nothing special. But this meal was even better. From a shot-glass “Redhook” amuse featuring a liquored up chocolate covered cherry to a cold deconstructed crab cake to a dessert built around the flavors of Dr. Pepper, the meal was awesome, and at nine courses (plus three or four off -menu items), was perfectly paced and more than filling. Plus, even though I was the designated not-as-drunker, our table-made gin & tonics were awesome, thanks to the Q Tonic (pro tip: the tonic really makes the G&T).

Short another shot in the dark opportunity I doubt we’ll be back to Schwa again any time soon, whether we make the effort or not. God knows, its genius chef Michael Carlson could suffer another breakdown and shutter the doors with no warning. Were the non-stop staff jokes about hookers and cocaine a little silly? Yeah. Was the music a little too loud to always hear what I was being served? Probably, especially since the utterly ridiculous Trace Adkins country novelty “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” did not really deserve the dBs. But I was nonetheless grateful for the opportunity to bask in the ingenuity of Carlson and his cohorts once again.