Italian So Good, Even My Nonna Approves. Riccardo’s: Chicago’s Best

I’ve had the sheer pleasure of living and eating in Chicago for two years now. Each day of my life is scheduled around food. Seriously. I am that sad person people refer to when they say “there are those who eat to live and those who live to eat.” I’m the latter. I live to chew, to taste life as much as I can, and eating is a full on sensory extravaganza. Or at least it should be. I was fortunate to be raised by genuinely amazing cooks, in particular of the Italian variety. Both of my father’s have a talent for cuisine, albeit one of them takes all day to execute a semi-annual gourmet meal. Nonetheless, they have a feel for food. Each woman has their own specialty and touch. I have a few favorites made by each. My Mom made a home-cooked dinner almost every night growing up and I can’t remember one bad meal. Somehow through all that goodness, we all still pale in comparison to my grandma.

Nonna (Italian for Grandma) or Grammy as I so affectionately call her, is the most intuitive and efficient culinary artist I’ve ever met. She’ll work all day, grab some groceries and whip up an amazing dinner with dessert in 30-45 minutes. And she loves it. Never complains. She’ll eat a meal somewhere, like it, but find a way to make it better so she loves it. Despite living in Italy for three years, traveling around Europe and living in big cities here in the States, I’ve never had a better meal than one my grandma made. And for that, we’re all screwed. I go into a new restaurant with limited hopes and expectations. I’ve had many amazing experiences with food throughout my life and I’m grateful to have found an authentic Italian spot in Riccardo’s.

I first delighted in Riccardo’s exquisite cuisine while celebrating a mutual anniversary with dear friends during their visit to the windy city. My friend is also Italian with an awesome grandmother who makes delectable sauce, so we both enter Italian restaurants with a sense of wonder. I did some searching and found Riccardo’s quaint location in East Lincoln Park, where Clark street meets Dickens. With a very small, navy awning with yellow letters, Riccardo’s unassuming facade is warm and welcoming. As soon as I entered, I transported to a different time and place. I was back where I feel a big chunk of my heart still lives, in the land of passion and pasta: Italy.

With tall ceilings, curved architecture and large paintings on the walls, Riccardo’s is cozy and bustling, seating roughly 60 people max. There’s staff of all ages, a testament to a family run institute, many of them speaking Italian, laughing with the customers and providing knowledgable, sound advice on which amazing items from their menu to try. I’ve been back 6-7 times and I still can’t get enough. I’ve taken my very selective grandmother, mother and family members, all of which ooed and ahhed at the pure bliss entering their mouths. Can’t wait to go back.

Riccardo’s is special. It’s a splurge. When we’re aiming to save we’ll elect their tasting menu. For $33 you select a 1st, 2nd and dessert course. You’re greeted with prosecco and amazingly fresh bruschetta. Their house wines are as good as anything I had in Italy and they have a wide selection should you desire something specific. On our multiple visits, our group has enjoyed veal meatballs in osso buco sauce (remember, Italians eat everything. They value quality, natural ingredients and they honor the life they’re eating.), gnocchi with wild oxtail, fried zucchini flowers with prosciutto and mozzarella, garbanzo flour crepe with wild boar sausage and fava beans, papardella with pork cheeks in chianti sauce, vitella tonnato, beef carpaccio, spaghetti carbonara, risotto with porcini mushrooms, pork tenderloin with parmesan risotto and oven potatoes, and much, much more.

My god I am salivating as I type! I must go back immediately. Truth: I cried the first time I experienced Riccardo’s. All the elements of our dining experience were so spot on, of such high quality and I really just felt nostalgic for Europe. There’s no rush when you eat. You sip wine, laugh, savor each succulent bite and moan the entire way through. Their tiramisu is as authentic as I’ve had, as good as my dear Italian friend who labored over it lovingly for one of our last meals as residents. You walk out onto Chicago’s beautiful streets, slowly sauntering off your epic meal, just as the Italians would do.

It pains me to see people choose mediocrity. Please know that Olive Garden could not be farther from authentic Italian and most American restaurants claiming to make genuine food straight from mamma’s kitchen are bullshitting us. There are certainly spots all around the country who focus on quality of ingredients and superb execution of their chosen recipes. They’re usually family run and less easy to find, but they’re there, and they’re worth every mile you drive and every penny you spend. You have one life. Eat, drink, laugh and love well. You deserve it. Give yourself the gift.

Sultan’s Market- A treat for Your Wallet, Your Health and Your Soul.

There’s something about food you can eat while walking, while riding the train, on your way to or from work, as a snack or a meal, on good days or bad, that sets you right back to zero, cleans your slate, warms your belly and heart, and acts as a tool in bringing you back to the moment, crankiness begone, who cares? I’m not talking about the fast food stylings of mystery meat factory chains designed to keep us unhealthy and yet craving more and more. I’m talking about a satisfying, hand-held pouch of nutritious deliciousness (pardon the terrible rhyme) to be enjoyed during any time of year, standing up or sitting down, in stillness or in motion, good mood or bad, alone or in a crowd. For this, any day of the week, I make my way to Sultan’s Market. Back during my time in New York City, I was fortunate enough to attend Yoga teacher training at a remarkable studio in Hell’s Kitchen, an embarrassment of riches in the food department, anything you could need or want within blocks. In the middle of many long days, me and my fellow students would walk a few blocks west to an amazing cafe for falafel pita sandwiches. We’d crowd the literal 260 square feet of space Azuri cafe took up, ordered from the sometimes cranky, sometimes flirtatious man, and walked out with a pita pocket full of the best falafel, hummus, herbs, and spices you’d ever experienced. I left the city and its amazing topography, culture, food and yoga scene to emerge in the midwest, hoping for their own version of the same. I love Chicago. I think it trumps Manhattan in many ways. Some it does not, but what I was very satisfied to find was a fantastic falafel pita sandwich at Sultan’s.

You’ll need to venture to one of two parks. One with a ton of hipsters, large framed glasses, skinny jeans and young artists. That would be Wicker Park. Sultan’s is on West North Avenue, a street with an endless supply of good food, occasionally intersecting with other streets carrying more great food, shops, small businesses and expensive clothing made to look like it’s cheap. The other is a combination of successful, middle-aged parents and college students, also replete with great restaurants and shopping, this time with stores carrying overpriced items that do in fact look expensive along with actually being expensive. That would be Lincoln Park. The LP Sultan’s is on North Clark Street, a long stretch running northwest, cascading from swanky to classy to casual to party. Sultan’s is toward the beginning of a multiple block run of great, valuable cuisine. You can access either through bus, train, bike, cab or foot. Just keep a sharp eye for your fellow man, those narrow curved roads can be dangerous. I want only safe, happy trips to and from Sultan’s.

As you’d imagine since I ranted on about it two paragraphs above, I always order the falafel sandwich. Every. Single. Time. Yes, I’ve ordered other items to accompany my repetitious choice, but never do I neglect to open my mouth as wide as possible and cover the corners of my mouth with hummus, pita and falafel, because it’s that damn good. It satisfies my nostalgia for some NYC middle-eastern while providing an even better atmosphere, and dare I say staff, to round out my experience. Sultan’s is small, with tall ceilings and bright colors, a small buffet table with numerous sides should you need additional toppings. I can vouch 100% for their lentil soup, passed down from Grandma Zafira, for their spinach pies, their meat pies, their egg and cheese pies, their lamb or chicken kebab, lamb or chicken shawerma, their basmati rice, and their impeccable execution of my favorite simple delights, hummus, tabouli, and baba ganuj. Everything tastes fresh, homemade and heavenly.

Beyond the cozy environment, the friendly staff, and the insanely delectable food is the excellent prices. Falafel sandwich will fill most adults with normal appetites. It’s $3.75. I can’t even fathom how they manage to profit enough, given their most expensive item is Mediterranean style tilapia with seasoned tomatoes, onions and lemon for $7. A small soup is $2, large is a measly $3, so I walk out of there spending around 8 dollars (almost as worthless as monopoly money at this point) with tip and feeling satiated, healthy, comforted and energized. My dream is they open one near my apartment soon. For now, I’ll enjoy what have been some amazing days here in the windy city. They deliver and of course offer carry-out, in the event you're unable to make it to either location. Hope you can experience it.

I love a good burger or hot dog, but given our country is made up of immigrants from many other continents, I think America’s best offering is the diverse sampling of ethnic inspiration. Regardless how different and special we may feel, we have much more in common with our fellow human beings than we choose to acknowledge. And we all eat. Each person’s history has carved out a unique appreciation and execution of culinary influences and it is a great start to bridging the mind-created gaps by eating a variety of foods. The key to opening your heart is through the door of your stomach. Open wide.

Be open, in mind, heart, body and taste buds. Spend a little, get a lot. Enjoy.

A portal to my heart. A relief for my hunger. An adventure for my senses. The Athenian Door.

Despite my brain’s need to dissect, question, and analyze human behavior, I love and appreciate simplicity, satisfying primal urges and keying into my sense perceptions. I’m grateful to have all my senses in tact at the moment, but mostly I’m driven by taste, by flavor and texture, by bouncing food around each of my taste buds, challenging my cheeks and jaw by taking the biggest bites, chewing slowly, eyes rolling back in my head in sheer foodgasmic bliss. I plan my days around my meals, no longer satisfied by a handful of nuts or shoving a granola bar down my throat on the go (I never achieved satisfaction, just placated my appetite for 45 minutes), I must want and enjoy every single bite I take. A close second and a partner in crime to the taste bud is the often under-appreciated sense of smell. Many cannot eat certain foods, brussel sprouts, leaks, seafood to name a few, simply because of their sensitivity to the smell. Unless it smells like a plastic bag with 20-year-old farts I can typically get past a strange look or smell and give the flavor a shot, but nothing gives me more pleasure than to spike my serotonin with the waft of fresh, warm food. I went to the Athenian Room to use the bathroom and immediately decided to come back that evening for what was sure to be some incredible fare. I’ve never smelled something delicious and then hated the taste, so you know I was happy to find a cozy Greek restaurant not too far from my door. I love Greece. Greek people. Greek food. Greek drink (oopaa!). Greek tradition. Greek history. Greek bodies. Greek islands. I even love that silly romantic comedy about that Greek wedding. And I really love that Chicago has a Greek town. What I love even more is this charming little eatery is in Lincoln Park, a good distance from Greek town and therefore a nice walk or a short train ride from my apartment to their location, a splendid red door just under their unassuming sign, illuminated by the white lit trees lining Webster avenue, just west of Halsted. Walking inside that small, bright red door your amygdala is immediately overwhelmed by the most exquisite aroma. I swear I felt high, a beautiful head rush, pure nirvana and enraged hunger was now pumping my blood and diminishing my patience. It smelled fresh, bold, the musical sounds of crackling grilled meat and vegetables now translating into a smokey, succulent scent, titillating my appetite and lust for Greek culture.

Upon entering, taking in a panoramic view of the small but charming design, the smooth dark-red brick at your feet, the narrow brick archways bridging the foundation and the ceiling, the romantic lighting; I’m immediately snapped out of my slow-motion romantic in-take by a powerful woman standing at the curved, tiny brick countertop serving as the entrance to the kitchen. She is tall, older, confident and magnetic. For some reason watching her move and interact made me think she’s probably a dominatrix at home, not necessarily the image you want while trying to stimulate your appetite, but I had to distract my mind from it’s hunger and people watching with a like-minded soul is just what I needed. We told her table for two, she kindly said to wait 10-15 minutes and without taking our names she carried on, business as usual. While observing the diverse walks of life also awaiting their meals, I took advantage of the bird’s eye view we had into the kitchen. A few, hard-working men and women, standing over fire for hours on-end to execute impeccable dish after dish for the endless onslaught of customers on a Saturday night. I am in awe of every employee working at family run restaurants such as this, all pivotal to the success of their business, night after night, year after year, surviving and thriving through a long recession. I do my best to make eye-contact, smile, tip and give any extra nod of respect and appreciation I can. These strangers are a huge piece to my happiness puzzle and they deserve even more gratitude and admiration than I could ever give.

After twelve and a half quick minutes full of humorous observation, my curly-haired soul sister and I were summoned by our kind fem fatale to a comfy table for two, nestled in between elderly couples on a double date, a group of girls enjoying a friend’s night out, couples with children, and larger tables full of celebration and joy. I was immediately transported to the countless restaurants in Greece, Italy and throughout Europe donning their unique facade and decor, the heart-warming staff, the enticing smells, and the even more spectacular tastes. Each of my favorite restaurants and experiences throughout my life had their own unique quality and nuance, but all exhibited the same formula for success; quality ingredients, traditional recipes, genuine care for customers and an atmosphere that wraps all of it together in a memorable, soulful package.

I kept expressing how happy I was before I took even one bite of food. I loved being inside what I felt was such a special place, a place to be enjoyed with those deserving of good company and good eats. I kept taking deep breaths, almost yogic in quality, to fully fill my lungs and nasal cavity with that intoxicating aroma, so reminiscent of my mother’s kitchen, but again, with special, Greek distinctions. Opening the menu I was pleased to see a small list of items, as usual the focus being quality, being tradition; if it’s not broke don’t fix it. The Greeks mastered many things (maybe not economics, but that’s another issue for the EU to tackle) and similar to French, Italian, Spanish, and the long list of others with incomparable feasts, the greatest restaurants stay true to what their ancestors conquered long before preservatives and the creative ways we fuck up perfectly stunning food more than a million years of evolution brought our way. I miss my family’s cooking and the tiny but powerful individually owned restaurants in Europe, but living in Chicago and finding places like this quells that yearning and sadness, bringing the smile back to my heart through the complicated conduit of consumption (you’re welcome for that epic display of alliteration!).

Now for the nitty-gritty, the important piece, the grub. I’ll say that I watched a few entrees placed in front of other patron’s seats and every single one made me green with envy. I’m not one who always wants what someone else is having. I want what I’m having and yours too. Give it. I’ll eat it and I’ll moan and roll my eyes with pleasure, sinking this visceral experience into my bones. I will kick your ass at eating. Not sure why I resorted to my old competitive ways but not to worry, I will not steal all of your food if we dine together, but we’ll certainly have a better time if you’re not a picky pain in the ass and you join me in the adventure of sharing a bunch of delectable treats rather than selfishly hoarding your one. And that is just what we did. We shared a simple, fresh Greek salad, full of savory kalamata olives, smooth feta cheese, juicy cucumber and tomato lying on a bed of crispy lettuce lightly drizzled with a vinaigrette. Accompanying that was a favorite of mine, Spanakopita, a spinach pie baked inside a flakey, puff pastry until golden brown. Seriously, so damn good. For our meal we shared another traditional Greek dish, chicken breast kebab, smokey and juicy, alongside some peppers and onions, on top of the most delicious Greek style steak fries I’ve ever had, somehow maintaining their crispy texture while absorbing the marinade resting at the bottom of the plate. In addition to that magic we also received a warm, pure piece of pita (more alliteration, I’m really on it today), with tzatziki sauce. I took some baklava home and was again pleasantly surprised, as that is not only one of my favorite desserts, but a challenging one to make and therefore rare to find in quality. I left somehow happier than I went in, having had excellent conversation and equally fantastic mastication.

It is very important I mention what an unbelievable deal this place is. We ate like queens, each taking something extra to go, all totaling $27 American dollars. I do believe you get what you pay for, but that payment does not just come in money. You pay attention, energy, focus, love and hope on things everyday. What you get back from the Athenian Room will far outweigh anything you put in. You won’t even be disgustingly full. Your experience will be so well-rounded, a treat for your senses, a snuggie for your soul. Go. Now. And then go again. They deserve your patronage and you deserve the experience.

Eat, spend, speak with consciousness. Enjoy.