You Want Unreal BBQ? Have A Smoque

Being from the embarrassing cousin to the south, Florida, I have a pretty strong appreciation for good barbecue. I grew up visiting my father in North Carolina, Mississippi, and Georgia while visiting other loved ones in Tennessee and Alabama. I also lived in Texas for two years. I feel similar with BBQ as I do with Mexican food and pizza; I can eat pretty shitty BBQ and still enjoy myself, but I prefer the amazing stuff, of course. I’ve written about a couple BBQ joints here in Chicago which I enjoyed thoroughly, but nothing compares to my recent experience at Smoque. I left uttering those famous last words, “best barbecue ever.” Smoque is located on north Pulaski and Grace avenue, just south of the Irving Park blue line stop. This northwest side neighborhood is unchartered territory for me. This city is too huge for me to ever explore it all. The amount of restaurants I’ll never eat in is a soul-crushing reminder every day of my life, but I’ll do what I can, I’ll bite off as much as I can chew and afford and regurgitate my experience here if it’s worth it. And Smoque is unbelievably worth it. Holy hell in a hand basket.

We went fairly late in the evening on a Friday night. They close at 10 p.m. There’s almost always a line out the door. If this flummoxes you, turns you off or makes you hesitant to visit, don’t listen to your brain. Listen to your belly and your heart and go challenge them both with the most flavorful, tender meat you’ll ever consume. While you wait in line you can gawk at the people who’re already eating, try to figure out what they ordered and feel out what excites you the most. I went with mostly new visitors and one person who’d dined there once. He insisted we order certain items and given my indecisiveness when ordering food, I let him lead the way. He ordered for us both, 1950’s style, and the little lady that I am was relegated to my seat to anxiously await my succulent food.

For the longest time, I have been dry rub resistant. I’m not allergic. I don’t hate it. I just don’t love it. At times the ribs I’ve ingested in the past that were dry rub were just that, dry. I like me some juicy meat, so tender it’ll quench your thirst. I was astounded by the incredible flavor of Smoque’s dry rub ribs. Not only was the combination of spices interesting and wildly delicious, but the meat fell right off the bone and into my mouth with ease. Not to be outdone was the brisket, that easily shredded with a light amount of pressure from my plastic fork. Their two sauce options were each perfect additions. My fork ventured over to the spicy side more, but the sweet rocked my world as well.

I loved their coleslaw, a side item I’ve loathed for most of my life, in particular mayo based coleslaw. I love mayonnaise, don’t get me wrong, but the snotty consistency in most coleslaws left me underwhelmed and unimpressed. I enjoy a good NC style vinegar slaw and this was almost a Midwestern twist. No mayo, vinegar base, refreshing and satisfying. Their mac n’ cheese was pretty stellar. It looked, smelled and tasted homemade, made extra special with a bread crumb topping. Yum. I enjoyed my taste of their baked beans very much, as well as the peach cobbler we ordered in droves.

This place is an indulgence. I care very much about how my body runs and how consciously I’m eating. I love animals and I am very concerned not only with how this country processes meat, with how the animals are treated and therefore how the food we are consuming makes its way to my plate, but also with the quality of food I choose to digest. Eating BBQ everyday is most likely a one way ticket to diabetes and other health related issues, but treating yourself to a place like Smoque is something every human being deserves. I shared a rack of ribs, side of brisket, coleslaw, mac n cheese and peach cobbler with my love and it was more than enough. Savor every bite. Lick your fingers. When something is above average good, it doesn’t take much to satisfy. And that rule applies to more than just food.

With food, friends, beverages and daily choices, quality is always important and moderation is key. I genuinely believe we can enjoy all the fruits of this amazing existence healthily, by providing our own balance. Eat those greens and the nutritious offerings from nature and then pepper it with some treats, some tender meat, a small but satisfying portion of cheesey goodness, and maybe a little sweetness to top it off. Wash it down with plenty of water in between good craft beers and share the meal only with those deserving of your time and energy. Life’s too short to waste your senses on mediocrity. Eat and love well.

Danielle Robinson Yoga teacher/ Writer You, Me and Yoga Makes 3 on Facebook Follow: @mastic8onthis on Twitter

Give birth to a redneck food baby @ Honky Tonk BBQ

Ya’ll want some sweet tea? Come to Honky Tonk BBQ. Award winning pulled pork, brisket, baby-back and St. Louis style ribs, smoked chicken, home-made cornbread, and the impeccable creamy and crunchy mac n cheese are just a few southern style items this Pilsen gem is slinging out to customers on a consistent basis. Even as a North-sider, I’ve made the trek down south, to 18th street and Racine, for this delicious fare. Twice. And you should too. I first heard of this place because my guitar guy (he has a name, it’s Matt, but he’s endlessly referred to as my guitar guy. I’m wondering if I’m the yoga chick or what he may call me.) plays with his two-man lefty band, the Northside Southpaws, every Friday night. A fellow foodie, he described the legitimate sounding dishes in a way in which I knew I’d have to make it down, someway somehow. At the time I did not have a car, and it was cold, so I elected not to take a 30 dollar cab ride but to wait, until it warmed up, and until my brother moved up here with his car. Much better.

Cut to my first visit. A good friend and another fellow food-whore came to visit (we are the quintessential Never Not Hungry girls) and we set our sights on the south, both in our culinary quest and our geographical route. Our group from the north side drove down to Pilsen and met some great yoga friends of mine, one in particular was a Pilsen resident and shares the same priorities in life, good food, good people. We walked in, gawked at the enormous ceilings and southern decor, making our way to the back, to an American sized table, big enough to fit our group and our appetites.

When I allow the desire and anticipation for a certain type of food to build, piling onto what is already a famously large appetite, I attack a restaurant like a junkyard dog, as if it may be my last meal for a while. Gnawing hunger in tact, I take what is mostly a psychological craving and order with my cohorts the equivalent of a last supper. I can barely remember that first time, except waddling out of there. Not the type of food I can eat every day, or even every week, if I want to maintain healthy cholesterol and insulin levels, and so I prepare for a 2-3 month digestion period and anxiously await my next visit.

Almost exactly two months later, the opportunity arises to return. Visiting relatives are already downtown, drenched in humidity, jaded from fellow tourists, ready to eat and drink in air conditioning. Conveniently leaving their car in my neighborhood gave me the opportunity to chauffeur them around, choosing today to take Lakeshore drive, a consistent reminder of why I love Chicago. I squeezed myself amongst a billion cabbies on the hectic Michigan avenue, a quick trigger as to why I hate driving in Chicago, picked up my dinner mates and continued south to 18th street.

Sitting at a round table, perfect for the 5 of us, I was pleased to see the Southpaws were both in house and playing that evening. I quickly ordered a trough of sweet tea, one of their delectable, home-made corn bread muffins, and some fried green tomatoes for the entire clan. I can vouch for the pulled pork, the ribs, brisket, rib tips and every single side available. I love when a restaurant surprises you, adding a few little gems to the menu you wouldn’t expect. On this occasion I opted for the green BLT, a sandwich consisting of fried green tomato, peppercorn bacon, fresh greens, and garlic mayo on two ciabatta rolls. It was the best BLT I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a few variations, even making my own on panini nights. This takes the cake. Scarfing it down with mac n cheese, slaw, greens or yams puts icing on that hickory smoked cake. Another little surprising delight, bacon candy. Unbelievable. Try it. I wish I lived closer.

The only thing I care for and appreciate more than food, is the people I choose to eat with. On both occasions we had great company, open-minded folks game for whatever slabs of meat or butter filled concoction you can imagine. It made the sweet tea even sweeter and the emergence of the inevitable food baby that much easier to take care of. It takes a village, and in our case loved ones from all over the globe join us for the sacred act of eating, and the following act of nurturing the aforementioned food fetus. Honky Tonk provides a great atmosphere, quality music, and heart challenging meals. I suggest wherever you’re from, you make the trip.

Whether you’re from the north or south, there is sustenance to be ingested. Fast food will always be there, make it an event, get pumped up for what you’re about to experience. Make the drive, make the room, enjoy.

A reason to hit up the DMV: Smokey Bear BBQ

I struggle to think of any positive outcome from going to the DMV, other than I’ve successfully allowed the government to track me, I can vote for the next shitty politician, I can drive legally (operative word being LEGALLY), and I can proudly proclaim my residency in the wide-assed, corn-filled stretch of land that is the Midwest. Go me. I’m so thankful and excited to write about a little piece of magic the DMV indirectly bestowed upon me the other day. Naturally, it’s food. Even more obvious is the type of food it was. In the grand tradition of being American, we trekked west, thankfully in a car, to Northwest Chicago, past the safe neighborhoods, the dangerous ones, back into safety, finally to cozy up to the brink of hostile where the ugly bureaucracy sits, dormant and inefficient, like most government institutions. Similar to previous ventures into federally run establishments, this was largely unsuccessful, as soon as we stepped in the door. Depression set in immediately as we saw the no less than 131 people waiting their turn. Eff this noise. How can we get out of this? We waited in a long line to get to the longer line only to be told we forgot a 2nd form of ID. Well, truthfully, I didn’t, but the half-wit man-children I choose to share my life with did, so, much to our dismay we were forced to leave that cramped warehouse where dreams go to die and moved on to our own fantasies, for full bellies and satisfied taste-buds. We left, quickly, happily, back to the car, back on the road through the roller-coaster of security that is Chicago streets, to find our next meal. We set our minds on a specific neighborhood, searching the interweb for suggestions. And then, like the parting of the Red Sea, we saw just where we needed to go. The place was Smokey Bear BBQ.

Located on West Foster, near the Kimball brown-line stop (always makes me think of the Fugitive), Smokey Bear is wedged between a slew of other store-fronts, unassuming yet inviting, doors and windows open, you had us at BBQ. We parked, for free (bonus to being off the beaten path), followed the smell of butter and pork to what is sure to be heaven on Earth. Walking in I was immediately transported back to my childhood, back to Little Italy pizza and other lunch favorites, with the menu written on the wall, the cook calling out orders, and a nice older woman running the register. The selection was small, including just a few classics and some of their own specialties, the perfect amount to execute effectively and efficiently. We parked our sure to be expanding gluts in front of their big screen and anxiously awaited our feast.

Some meals require a clearing of the schedule. This was a Monday, my day off, so I was able to put down some major chow without suffering too many consequences (see: Kuma’s Corner). I was fully prepared to hibernate this away later, sleeping through digestion and any other process this food would take in my body. I knew it’d be worth it. And it was.

We each went for their half and half sandwiches. I’d never seen this before. Half pulled pork, half brisket sandwich. Their counter proudly boasts a variety of BBQ sauces, sweet, savory, smokey, spicy. I elected none of those options. The meat in my sandwich was so flavorful, so tender and juicy, a sauce would have simply masked it’s natural beauty and wonder, like putting a loin cloth over the sculpture of David, pointless, disrespectful even. Accompanying our barbarian sandwich was a side of slaw, North Carolina style, thank you St. Lorenzo, patron saint of chefs! Nothing better than vinegar slaw in my mind, my heart will always belong to NC BBQ, even though I have much love for Memphis and Texas as well. In addition to the 2 lb sandwich and slaw, we each received an additional side, two of us going for sweet potato fries, hand-cut, thick, crunchy, salty and sweet, and I, being a champion of mastication, went for mac ‘n’ cheese. The mac was made with small shell pasta and was so damn creamy and cheesy, I almost died. Not to be outdone was our “appetizer,” the Bear Paw. A coaster shaped disk of fried southern goodness. Mashed potatoes, meat, cheese, sour cream and something else I can’t recall. It doesn’t matter, just put it in your mouth, chew, swallow, repeat.

Food is absolutely a drug for me. If I had an allergy to vegetables or whole grains, a sedentary lifestyle, or a genetic predisposition for weight gain, I may not be able to enjoy the kaleidoscope of eats I currently do. I’m grateful I enjoy every single type of food there is and relish the opportunities to stuff myself in a memorable way. Normally, I eat like a standard human being, never like a lady, but like something resembling a homo-sapien at 27. On occasion, when I deserve it, I eat big and I go home, to reminisce and sleep it off. Then I write about it. There’s nothing more I appreciate in this experience we call life than happening upon truly incredible food, by surprise. That was exactly the case with Smokey Bear. We spent very little and in turn received so much. I will be back.

Walk. Stretch. Move. Then eat. Sleep while you digest. 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.