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.