I celebrate and honor 22 the right way, at the Publican.

22. A special number in my life. A special date. A special age. A number that has brought luck, love and fortune to me through very little work of my own. Growing up I loved #23, for all the cliché reasons. In the 90’s all the best players donned that number, more than just the most famous, Michael Jordan. And so I begrudgingly left 23 behind and made room for one less, and it gave me so much more. On July 22nd, 2005 I embarked on my last first date with a gentleman working for the United States Navy, VS22 to be exact. On October 22nd that same fella with whom I shared in our last first date told me he loved me. On September 22nd, 2006, I married this man at the ripe young age of 22. We shared this age together, along with some amazing memories rounding out the day we exchanged vows. I graduated college. We celebrated in Vegas, with the fam. Spent our honeymoon in New York and shortly before turning 23 we decided to uproot everything and move to Italy. 22 kept showing up, winning us money in roulette, and the date happened to coincide with many life-changing travels throughout our stint in Europe.

On August 22nd, 2010, we moved to Chicago. No lie. It’s bizarre. I’m one to believe in coincidence rather than fate or miracle, but I’ve let the magic of numerology overtake my fully functioning brain and therefore, I’m banking on old 22. I find ways to celebrate this number, either big or small, and for our nickel anniversary I made no exception. We needed to eat our faces off, titillate our taste buds, send shock waves through our nerve-endings. And that's why we spent September 22nd, 2011 at the Publican.

The idea for the Publican came to me from a TV show I’d love to replicate in my own way someday. No Reservations, hosted by the acerbically funny, chef from New York, Tony Bourdain. Tony’s cactus sensibility resonates with my own, and although I’m somewhat sweeter and softer deep down (I think he is too), I’ve got a fairly razor-sharp tongue and very little tolerance for certain people or behaviors. This is why I respect his taste and his show tremendously. It’s not cheesy, phony, contrived, or dull. It’s genuine. It’s a window into worlds most don’t understand, or may not even be aware of, and it’s fricken food porn. When he’s ready to retire, I’m perfectly willing to attempt to fill his shoes. I’ll be sure to let him know because he’s clearly just waiting for me to say those words out loud. Ah, but one can dream.

So when Tony was in Chicago, as any smart person would be, he pointed out some excellent little gems that I’ve frequented and written about since; save for the Publican. Even hearing about it from friends, reading about it in the paper, and exploring their website, it still took almost a full year to make the trek to Fulton Market, for some pork, oysters and beer. Yeehaw. Warning, this place is three dollar signs ($$$), so it ain’t cheap. Special occasion arises, take your sweetheart or BFF and go. As with all others I deem worthy of writing about, this place is memorable and worth every penny.

This place comes with a major reputation and therefore some pretty significant popularity. They earned it and deserve it, but reservations are a must. We initially tried for a weekend, got shot down because of my last-minute attempt in making a reservation, and so we opted for the better choice anyway, Thursday, September 22nd. Taking a cab that drove dangerously quick, weaving in and out of traffic, attempting to arrive at our set time, we enjoyed the beautiful architecture Chicago has to offer, but arrived just beyond 15 minutes late. When this happens, you’re table is given up, but they do their damnedest to get you seated quickly. While you wait, you’re corralled like farm animals in the center of the restaurant, standing around small, circular, tall tables, where you peruse their impressive beer menu and get whiffs of the sizzling pork on other patrons’ forks. We ordered some microbrews and were quickly sat at the oyster chef’s table, getting a bird's eye view of all the action in the kitchen. The decor is simple, monochromatic, but very modern and sleek, with large paintings of pigs in cow print hung on the walls. Nothing makes you hungry like a pig/cow hybrid. Mmm.

The Publican is ran impeccably by executive chef, Paul Kahan, and chef de cuisine, Brian Huston. From the owners and creative minds behind Avec and Blackbird, this casual fare comes from the highest quality pigs, certified organic from Iowa, quality vegetables, top shelf oysters from trusted purveyors, and the staple ingredient giving this place its extra umph, beer. Designed by Thomas Schlesser, the Publican is simple farm fare with an old European bar decor. It's comfortable and impressive, casual but still a special occasion.

The menu is simple but also overwhelming, for the descriptions of each item are so enticing, the mixture of flavors so creative and unique, surely you cannot make a bad choice. We opted for half a dozen oysters, sweet n salty, a sampling of Serrano ham, and the Suckling Pig, from the entrée menu. The oysters are shucked fresh and are served on ice, with a tiny gravy boat of this buttery, garlic, vinegar concoction that you pour over each slurp with a sprinkling of lemon. I could drink that sauce every damn night. Oh my god. Jesus. Krishna. I’d imagine it’s what the buddha’s saliva tastes like. Weird? Oh well. The Serrano ham is Spanish, thinly sliced, and served with fresh slices of bread and butter. You make a tiny sandwich, or just eat that salty, bold deli meat by itself. We ate every single morsel. The suckling pig was the most jaw-dropping, life-changing, O-face inducing entrée I’ve had in days, ha, maybe weeks. I cannot fathom how good all the other entrees are and I cannot wait to find out.

What is abundantly clear when eating at the Publican, and watching the men at work, is how much passion and care is put into each plate, each bite. I love enthusiasm and talent put to use. My friends and people I admire deeply do this so well, and to share in the art created by chefs with people you respect and love makes for the most memorable evening, and I could not ask for a better experience. This is life for me. Laughing and eating. What more do we need?

Treat yourself. I’m sure you bust your ass and sacrifice to live your chosen life, so whether it be the Publican, or some other dining experience you’ve been eyeing, celebrate yourself and another with the joy and love that is food. Thank you and enjoy.

Oh My Crust!

Oh my Crust! Pequod's! Three words: Chicago. Style. Pizza. This evokes a variety of reactions from people who, for whatever reason, claim some sort of expertise on the consumption and critiquing of pizza. There’s the classic debate, NYC v. Chicago, for many things other than pizza, but food seems to be on top of that list. I’ll come right out and say right now that I typically prefer New York style pizza, but as a foodie I find myself loving pizza in all forms, and I crave Chicago pizza strongly. It’s a very specific desire that only this style pizza can fulfill, and in my humble opinion only one establishment can truly satisfy. Pequod’s.

Yep, Pequod’s pizza. Strange name, even stranger meaning. Something to do with Moby Dick, the logo is a whale with a thong over it’s face? Try finding the metaphor or symbolism in that. Regarding pizza. No clue. As I’ve so eloquently stated before, I don’t care. And neither do you. I’m sure there’s some literature out there with the story, but I was too concerned smelling and tasting delicious pizza to care. The pizza is beyond excellent, and that’s all any of us really care to know.

Winning the genetic lottery as I did, I was born with Italian blood coursing through my otherwise American veins. I also lived in the blessed country for three years. This gave me the built in right to judge food on such a ridiculously high standard and therefore have pure disdain for anything mediocre and everything cliche. Sure, I’m cliche in many ways, but not with food. You’ll never hear me enthusiastically revisiting a delicious Pizza Hut pie I consumed, or McDonald’s hamburger, or Subway sandwich. Mom n Pop, individually run establishments are always %100 better than any chain. Of course this is a matter of “taste”, but I’ll just say I’m confident you as the reader can trust my taste because of the standards my family so lovingly instilled. I know pizza, trust me. And thanks to a local friend, we were lead in the right direction, straight to Pequod’s. Ask a local, always.

So I’ve had Uno’s, Lou Malnati’s, Gino’s and Giordano’s. All are well known pizza places here in Chicago with multiple locations and an underlying rivalry. Similar to Pat’s and Gino’s cheesesteak in Philly, all claim to have the #1 best pan pizza here in Chicago. To all I call bullshit. You’ll enjoy yourself, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a snob. In a real fatty moment I can slather garlic butter all over Papa John’s and force it down my gullet, but this is about quality, an experience, something you won’t forget. Having family in Philly, speaking for them I know there are better cheesesteaks than the famous Pat’s or Gino’s. And the same can be said for Chicago.

Pequod’s has two locations, on N Clybourn Ave, between Webster and Greenview, in the neighborhood DePaul, western Lincoln Park, so college kids are abound and certainly a large part of the clientele in this place. The other is in a suburb called Morton Grove, won’t be trekking out there any time soon. It’s essentially a sports bar. Plenty of flat screens to watch any Chicago team currently playing, a decent sized bar and surrounding booths on two levels. It’s always busy, but you won’t ever have to wait too long. Pan (deep dish) pizzas take a good 45 minutes to cook, so you have the option of placing your order while still waiting for a table and I highly recommend you do that. As soon as you smell the cheese and sauce combination and catch a glimpse of the beautiful masterpiece you will be ruthless in your pursuit. Grab one of Chicago’s many delicious local brews, something of a Goose Island variety perhaps.

I’m choosing to discuss the pan pizza, because I’ve visited Pequod’s 3-4 times now and I’ve never wanted anything else. It should be said; however, that they do offer thin crust. So order that if you must. I’ll be reviewing thin crust eateries soon. After 45 minutes of painful anticipation, a deep dish consiglieri will bring your pizza, place the pan on a thick, wooden cutting board, and cut through that crunchy thick crust himself and place it on your plate. I most often opt for mushrooms and fresh tomato on top of the cheese, but you can add any combination of fresh toppings, meat, veggie, or cheese. Dust the top with a little parmesan and you’re good to go.

What makes this pizza such a stand-out is the crust, as is often the case with any type of pizza. With deep dish it's essential. Pequod’s crust is buttery and carmelized and thick, but never soggy, never succumbing to the tall layers of cheese, sauce and whatever else you’ve chosen to challenge it with. You fork and knife this pizza, which may throw you off, but it’s worth it. It’s more than a pizza. It’s a visceral experience. The cheese is gooey and smooth, the sauce savory and not too sweet or overwhelming, and the extras are top quality, but they all pale in comparison to the crust. It’s so crunchy that it has syllables when you bite. C-c-c-crunch! Not simply, crunch! Like any impeccable pie, the crust is almost crumbly when you bite, but hugs and supports it’s ingredients valiantly.

When we have visitors here in Chicago, everyone wants a Chicago style dog and Chicago style pizza. And while most are ignorant enough to want Uno’s, my judgmental ass won’t let that happen. They’ll be visiting Pequod’s if I can help it, and they’ll slap me they’re so satisfied. I’m still a lover of all pizzas, thin crust usually winning out, and it should be stated here that this pizza is not the best left over. But stuffing yourself with a fresh, just out of the oven deep dish Pequod’s pizza will be nothing less than memorable. I hope you get the chance to eat here.

Pequod's

Bite. Chew. Crunch. Mmmm. Enjoy.

O.M.G.-D.M.K.

DMK I’m observing many acronyms in my restaurant choices, not sure why. It’s purely a coincidence and this particular establishment has no full name. I’m guessing DMK is the owner’s initials or the initials of each owner, I don’t know. I also don’t care, and neither do you. DMK specializes in burgers, so vegetarians and meat-phobics beware. Nestled in between Lakeview and Lincoln Park on the 3000 block of north Sheffield, near the Wellington Brown Line stop, DMK is the perfect combination of each neighborhood, both swanky and casual, vintage and modern, lively and understated. It’s situated in a brick and mortar building with large red letters out front donning its name, boldly drawing in customers with a craving. As with many of my favorite restaurants, the brick is also exposed on the interior, the layout is narrow with tall ceilings, a mixture of four and two-top black tables, dim lit modern light fixtures and loud music. Not so loud you have to shout, but let’s just say those who refuse to wear hearing aids won’t have issues enjoying the music. Not that they’re dining in, they’re most likely asleep by the time we’re eating.

We were having one of those Tuesday night cravings for unhealthy food. The kind that would soak up remaining alcohol from the previous night, if you had any. In our case, it was soaking up alcohol and whatever else from Saturday night, so this food had some serious work to do. We braved wicked wind and rain to walk about .7 miles in order to reach our chosen burger joint. Upon entering, I was impressed and horrified by the decor and clientele, mainly because I was grossly underdressed, just gross. I had a burger joint in mind and what I found was a more of a combination of bistro and bar. I love this, I just wasn’t expecting it. We arrived around 8 and the place was hoppin, but luckily we were seated in a cozy two-top right away. It’s very Chicago or New York, where you either have to squeeze in between two tables to sit, as the seats against the wall are boothed, or you physically pull out the table to ensure there’s no drink spillage or coats dipped in food situations. I chose the squeeze option, as I like a challenge.

Great beer selection, we each had a Fat Tire for $3! That’s damn good, especially here. You can’t just have water with a burger, especially not at posh place like this. The wait staff we’re all above average adorable (I also enjoy alliteration), ours resembling Michael Cera’s ex-girlfriend from Nick and Nora’s infinite playlist. Another walked like she was auditioning for America’s Next Top Model. I’m nothing if not referencey.

Let me just relieve the beef haters and strict vegetarians right now...there’s a veggie burger, turkey burger, and salmon burger options, all very popular and highly rated. We did not opt for these options for the aforementioned reasons. And because we’re occasionally meat-eating, selfish assholes. I ordered the patty melt. It was like a heavenly version of Steak ‘n’ Shake’s frisco melt. Grass fed beef, smoked bacon (not sure what that was fed), burnt onions (holy hell in a hand basket, those were SO good!), Leroy’s Remoulade (I’m not sure I want to venture a guess there, but it was good, thousandislandy.), smoked swiss (duh!), on griddled rye bread (yowzah). So if you got through all that and still understood then well done to you. Fancy words and ingredients mean nothing. Did it taste good? Hell yes it did! Could I have eaten another one as I hoovered it in about 90 seconds? Yes, shamefully, I could have.

My partner in tasty murder that evening was Derek, the husband to my wife, and he had the #4, a burger also accompanied by bacon and cheese, but also including a fried farm egg and green chile sauce giving it a really fun kick. His was good too. Now, you can’t have burgers without fries, unless you’re some freedom hating nazi, and we’re freedom lovers proudly wearing our patriotism on our sleeves. DMK has a great selection of fries, including a basic fry, sweet potato and then some fun options you’d expect from a place of this calibre. We opted for the parmesan fries with truffle cream. They were better than they read, crunchy enough, fresh, dusted in actual parmesan shavings and the truffle cream we slathered over them like sloths was the perfect compliment. It should be mentioned here that they have home-made mac ‘n’ cheese that I had trouble resisting and I plan to order it next time. Like their burgers, it’s also highly rated and recommended.

Besides the varied selection of beers to wash down your burger, if you want to be a real American, you also order a shake. As we did. One for each of us. It was one of those nights for sure. And it was 38 degrees outside, we could not be deterred. Like everything else, it was very satisfying.

Each burger is $8, unless otherwise specified and a small order of fries, enough to feed two, is $4. With a big appetite, you’ll make it out of there spending about $25-30, not bad for a burger with a side of swank. I’ll give DMK the highest compliment I can and say, I’ll definitely be back.

D.M.K.

Eat. Drink. Eat. Eat. Gulp. Enjoy.