I returned home to Seattle a few days ago after spending a week in Chicago visiting family and friends, and it's good to be back. Twelve years after my wife and I moved here, no regrets, not even about the flaming Left local and state politics. It's a target-rich environment, and we're incorrigibly city people with huge Nature habit, what can I say? But some time away does lend perspective. Walking home yesterday in Seattle from the grocery store, down the very street on which I live, a guy came out of a house wearing a cordless headset phone, a down jacket, hiking boots, and....a kilt. He was smoking a cigarette and, moments later, jokily dissing his dog for not producing a large enough stool. You see a lot of guys in kilts in Seattle, but not in Chicago. Men walking around in public wearing skirts would get beat up in Chicago (unless they were on ultra-gay North Halsted); and it wouldn't even be called a hate crime. I can see the Chicago police sergeant taking the report: "Whaddaya expect, walkin' aroun' like 'dat? Sheesh."
Seattle (population 572,000 or so) also is home to about 100,000 motor vehicles still sporting Kerry-Edwards '04 bumper stickers. Didn't see one in Chicago, even though Kerry handily bested Bush in Illinois.
Finally, there's the biggest difference of all between Chicago and Seattle. No, I'm not going to talk about how government corruption is usually more genteel in Seattle, but all the more pernicious as a result. (Another time). I'm going to talk about restaurants. In Seattle, you could count the number of restaurants that have been around for ages, on, probably, two hands. In Chicago, they're everywhere. True, there are plenty of new "it" eateries in Chicago, and some that are just trying too hard (see below).
But there's a deep roster of neighborhood ethnic restaurants that endure. The variety is still striking, even as the city becomes more Hispanic every year.
Chicago has always been a place for great Mexican food, unlike the pallid gringo-fied stuff we get here in Seattle. If you come back after years away, hankering for, say, the Tacos Sabinas at El Nuevo Leon in the city's Pilsen neighborhood, well, you just head on over there. Same place it's been since 1962, same "neighborhood joint" atmo, same multi-hued crowds. The Tacos Sabinas are flour tortillas made in-house, filled with strips of grilled ribeye, grilled jalapenos, grilled onions, tomatoes, and topped with chihuahua cheese. Other menu highlights are the Tacquitos Daniel (mini-tacos filled with steamed beef, cilantro and onion); Quesadilla Raul (tortillas filled with melted chihuahua cheese, topped with red ancho chili sauce and grilled onions); tamales with shredded spicy pork meat inside; breaded pan-fried beef tongue (lengua); plus savory soups, stews, steak, chicken and fish dishes. Outside, 18th Street is a carnival of Mexican commerce, including bakeries, groceries and much more. There's free parking in a restaurant lot on Laflin Ave., just a short block east of the restaurant, and a few steps south of 18th St. And, please, don't mind that huge overhead police security camera high above on a lightpole, down Laflin a stone's throw from 18th St., at 18th Place. (Picture below - that's the wide-angle, bulb shaped lens on the very bottom of the box).
I'm told crime on the street has dropped markedly as a result. Chicago's Democratic mayor Richard M. Daley is really big on these public spy eyes, to surveil both common criminals and potential terrorists.
I enjoyed a great lunch at another iconic Chicago restaurant called Gene and Georgetti, which opened 41 years ago. This is where you go to dine among Chicago ward heelers and fancy-suited bagmen. You get a steak, maybe the chicken picatta instead, the awesome cottage fries, and the "garbage salad," a huge pile of chopped iceberg and romaine festooned with a whole antipasti tray worth of julienned goodies, dressed and already tossed for you in a light vinaigrette. Order a half-size garbage salad if you're dining solo, or the whole thing for two or more. Wood-panelled walls, all-business white-apron clad waiters distinctly lacking in body piercings, good crusty bread, and downstairs, just a touch of cigarette smoke wafting over from the bar. My kind of place.
Here's a shot of my delicious chicken picatta at Gene and Georgetti.
A relative newcomer, at just 29 years in the same spot, is The Mirabel Restaurant on West Addison, where I had a tasty lunch just before hopping the nearby commuter train to O'Hare on my way out of town.
If you're ever at a Cubs game in Wrigely Field, just drive straight out west on Addison after the game, or take the bus to The Mirabel, for the greatest Weiner Schnitzel known to man. The dinner version will set you back $22. It's about the size of Madagascar, pounded thin, breaded and cooked to a crisp deep golden hue. Achingly tender on the inside, with home-made spaetzle and on the side, a little pitcher of scrumptious brown gravy imbued with just a touch of tomato flavoring. Plenty of other German entrees, expertly rendered, and lots of German beers. Boozy locals fill the bar.
Last for now, but not least, was The Gaylord, the first Indian restaurant in Chicago, still operating where it opened in 1972.
I had a superb meal there with my parents.
Tandoori grilled boneless chicken pieces and lamb sausages, a vegetable biryani, raita (yogurt salad with mint and cucumber), bindi masala (spiced okra), sag paneer (a creamed spinach with Indian cheese cubes), and a special nan (the pita-like fresh made Indian bread) stuffed with mustard greens.
There were some (Louis Farrakhan) Nation of Islam gals in their white habits at the next table enjoying a tasty meal free of the devil-meat, pork.
The first of several regrets: not enough time to get to Mr. Beef on Orleans.
That's home to the nation's greatest Italian beef sandwich. But what you really want is the combo: a long Italian bread roll sliced open, with a nubby, fennel-spiked italian sausage tucked deep inside, and layers of the thin, shaved Italian beef plonked atop, along with jus and sweet and hot peppers.
Definitely not a first-date experience, but then again, probably a good test of how far an opposite-sex relationship has progressed.
Small wonder Jay Leno's been going to Mr. Beef for 20 years. He knows a killer sandwich when he wraps that anvil jaw around one.
I'm also still dreaming of the ultra-fresh tacos at The Mexican Inn at 95th and Ewing; where I used to go a way on back in the 1970s with my high school buddies. Yep, it's still there, in that odd, triangular building.
Finally, I'm really jonesing for Manny's on Jefferson, which opened right after World War Two ended. This is the place for a corned beef sandwich, latkes, chicken matzoh-ball soup - oy, don't get me started.
I ask: could you resist a corned beef sandwich like the one above?
Related Rosenblog post: "Chicago, Chicago."
Posted by Matt Rosenberg at March 18, 2006 11:39 AM
Um, that's not a sandwich! It's a gargantuan pile of meat with some decorative slices of bread!
That said, I'd be all over it. ;)
Posted by: J. Hagglund at March 22, 2006 12:18 AM