Nothing can beat encased meat

I love food. All kinds. All animals. All plants. I suppose I can exclude insects, sea anemones, bark, mud, feces, and anything from a species’ scrotum. But beyond that I’m not picky. At least in the sense that I don’t just eat ground meat, or no meat, or no meat and cheese together, or no cheese at all, or just wonder bread with the crust cut off peanut butter sandwiches. I’ve met a person who only eats the aforementioned things. They are in fact weirdos. I feel the deepest pity for them. They shall remain nameless to protect the guilty. So beyond needing quality, I’m open. I also happen to love men. Even when they’re so mind-numbingly stupid, mean, or boring, I find myself fascinated and drawn in. Women I can take only the highest quality, but men, I need. So it should come as no surprise that I love food that also reflects phallic shapes. Sorry, Dad. Oh, hey, speaking oh phallic like foods, Chicago has made hot dogs and encased meat their bitch. They own it, rule it, slap it, rip it, and rub it down. They kick New York’s ass, Germany’s kippe, and anywhere else who claims the #1 spot on tubey meat charts. The highly opinionated, well-traveled New York chef and author, Anthony Bourdain, has resigned this very fact and given Chicago the credit it’s due.

And so upon moving to Chicago and now approaching a year of frigid bliss here, I’ve done copious amounts of research on this very subject, among all other foods. Where can I find the best hot dogs and phallic formed meat in this crazy town? The consensus among foodies, smarties, and most Chicagoans is Hot Doug’s. Located at 3324 N. California Avenue in between neighborhoods but within none, Hot Doug’s large, plain sign is a beacon of light in an otherwise uninteresting district. Not to offend the residents of this area, it’s filled with great restaurants like the previously reviewed Kuma’s Corner, and the highly anticipated review of Urban Belly, but set somewhat outside of the Loop and on the outskirts of more populated neighborhoods, Doug’s is on a less beaten path. All the better because parking is free!

And so, much to the chagrin of pigs, ducks, yaks, chickens, cows, ducks’ livers, Elk, baby cows, lamb, and most edible sea creatures, I ventured west to brave the long line for what would be some delicious mastication. Joining me in this sweet, sweet carnivorous exploration were my parents and brother, the original fab four. Again, they shall remain nameless, to protect the guilty. Most of them are foodies, or just game for good meat. We drove, parked, walked, stood, waited, entered, read the menu, drooled in anticipated and then finally approached the almighty Doug himself. Super friendly, unassuming, hard-working and passionate, Doug is providing the public with high quality, equally creative, monumentally delicious dogs and sausages Monday through Saturday, 1030-4 pm. It’s also cash only, so prepare accordingly.

To say we were eager is an understatement. The feeling was almost primal, as if the instinct to consume could only be thwarted by some sort of attack, atomic in nature. Luckily no one wanted to ruin this special occasion. The four of us ordered 6 dogs/sausages, two orders of Doug’s famous duck-fat fries, and 4 sodas. Can you say God Bless America?!

We had some classics, like the Chicago-dog, which you can find almost anywhere. Wrigley has a good one, but Doug kicks it up a notch making every ingredient the deepest quality. All beef dog, natural casing, spicy pickles, tomatoes, grilled onions, yellow mustard, neon relish and celery fricken salt. I bought celery salt after I had a Chicago dog. The seasoning alone is that good! Doug’s corn dog didn’t disappoint either. But where he really earns his stripes is with the specials. I can’t even ring off what we all had because I stupidly forgot to write it down and entered such tremendous food bliss, transitioning into comatose food bliss, that my body has decided to protect my heart and other vital organs by making me forget. Suffice it to say there was some duck and pork sausage, yak sausage I believe, with great little additions like lemon mayonnaise, goat cheese, havarti cheese, drinkable bbq sauce, and the ingredient that improves any meal you could ever conjure up, caramelized onions.

The specials change each day but never lack in ingenuity, love or execution. They all smell, look, sound, feel and most importantly, taste, great. This place is truly a visceral, all-sensing experience. It even moves beyond sensing into this deep-seeded consciousness, a place I find when practicing yoga, meditating, and mostly by eating tremendous food such as this. Sorry vegetarians. I have deep compassion and love for animals, but being I only have so many years to live and so much food to taste, I honor their lives when I enthusiastically swish their flesh around my tongue and into my digestive tract. And perhaps it’s nature’s karma to give us increased toilet time, but I’m fully prepared to do the time since I committed the tasty, tasty crime.

Check out their site and today’s ingenious menu!

Open wide. Gaze. Smell. Listen. Feel. Taste. Enjoy.

Support the little guy, screw the man.

Usually on hump-day I spend my few hours off between teaching and work writing about a film, song, TV show, book, artistic endeavor, or some entertainment related experience I want to pass along for your info-tainment. Today, I will not. I had such a lovely morning in this beautiful city I am compelled to write from my heart (mainly my stomach) and write another pseudo food blog. It doesn't involve a restaurant or meal, but something much greater and more influential; the Lincoln Park Farmer's Market. I taught my Sunrise Yoga bright and early and eagerly hopped on my bike to ride further downtown, further into the downright gorgeous neighborhood that is Lincoln Park. A mere 2 miles from my apartment in Lakeview, on the way to Chicago's famous Loop, which is another 2 miles from LP itself, the market resides at the southern most point, just beyond the zoo. Approximately where Clark street crashes into both the park and the lake is where these hard-working vendors set up bright and early, Wednesdays and Saturdays, 7 am to noon.

Upon arrival I park my bike and am greeted by the smell of fresh strawberries, blueberries, rhubarb, and a cavalcade of exquisite flowers. I saddle up to the smoothie tent, purchase a $5 blueberry and mint smoothie and am off to peruse. The smoothie has such a bright, bold flavor, and the nutritious effects set in almost instantly. No longer am I tired from my hot-yoga class, I am renewed and ready to spend my hard-earned dollars.

I decide to do a lap before I commit to a location (nerds will recognize the movie reference). I greet and overlook each vendor and their goods, taking a strawberry, some greens and some tasty cheese as I move along. The slender, bright green asparagus is calling my name. I buy an organic bunch from a cheerful woman for $4 and continue my hunt. Next is a small, L-shaped pavilion with some of the most plump, argent, juicy looking tomatoes I'd ever had the fortune to see. They spanned multiple colors of the rainbow and I snatched them up real fast and in a hurry. I also grabbed some basil, sprouts, a lush variety of greens, and a pint of strawberries for what shall be a damn healthy week.

Taking a side-step from health for a moment if I may, I'd like to succinctly discuss my time with a local Wisconsin cheese merchant. Holy monkey balls. I love cheese. I get that it's not healthy. Sure I convince myself of its benefits by saying it's natural, it has protein, and there's certainly a chemical effect in my brain while consuming it, but I'm well aware it's merely a treat, and should be treated as an actual food group. My quest for cheese has landed me in the windmill dusted hills of Holland, the vineyard lined landscape of Italy, the blue-roofed homes in Santorini, but I will sit at this desk and take my hat off to Wisconsin. They have every right to wear that ridiculous cheese hat on their heads. When I approached the tent, the vendor was sauteing this soft, milky looking cheese that smelled so potent I could almost taste it. There was a diverse array of samples so I grabbed a toothpick and went on my way. Some cheeses were infused with such nuances as garlic, dill, mustard, tomato and basil, smoked bacon, and some were just brilliant as they were, but all were savory and delicious. I relished each morsel as it bounced around my taste buds and traveled to my throat. I ended up purchasing the sautéed cheese, rendered of his moisture, and harnessed with its flavor. MMM, life is good.

At this time in the morning it was about 80 degrees, the Lake Michigan breeze wafting through my hair, birds chirping, the air crisp. Chicago residents brought their dogs, significant others, kids, friends, and their happy hearts. Everyone was smiling, friendly, very happy to support this local effort, knowing not only the top quality, wholesome food they were investing in, but the benefactors being those who really deserved it, those who earned it with their own two hands. It was so satisfying to chat briefly with each vendor, see the passion in their eyes and hear it in their voices. I can tell you for certain the Wal-Mart CEO doesn't give a shit what's in your food, nor does whatever large grocery store you frequent. So if you can take time and perhaps a modicum of extra income, you and others will reap the benefits ten-fold.

Green City Market

Masticate. Eat consciously. Chew well. Purchase wisely. Enjoy.

Food Coma curtesy of Kuma's Corner

I’ve done a burger place in a previous review. THIS is a burger joint. Unapologetic, no-nonsense, huge, juicy, meaty, make a man outta you burgers that will ruin you. Forever! This place speaks to my cactus sensibility, rough around the edges, but a satisfying center, if you can survive the 2 hour wait, ultra loud metal blasting, shuffling in between bodies in the 4 square feet of waiting space trying to get an aloof bartender’s attention to fill your stomach with something during which the rage hunger is building incrementally with each song, each minute, each burger that wafts by. Only the strong survive. And I mean the hours before, the 5 minutes you spend scarfing, and the hours after, for this better be a day off for you because productivity is out the door as soon as you commit to this place. I wish you luck, strength, and patience. It’s worth it. I could describe my first experience at Kuma’s, which you’d undoubtedly assume is where the most interesting story is. That’s simply not the case. Went with my mom, brother and husband, waited a bit as expected, ate, enjoyed, left, slept. The most interesting Kuma’s endeavor was with three other ladies, on a cold Sunday afternoon. Well, morning into afternoon truthfully.

A special friend from Minneawfulous (the well-known town in Minnesota) was visiting a warmer climate here in Chicago back in the grey days of March. I was stoked to see her, and my other smart and funny friends, but they were just obstacles, or I should say, avenues, on the way to an amazing burger. We left at 1115 in the morning. Luckily we drove, as it’s west of California so public trans is out of the question. Kuma’s opens “around” 12. Again, unapologetic.

We arrive minutes before noon to the shock and horror of an open and running restaurant, stuffed like sausage with people, and the scent of greasy meat and spilled beer. The best. You can barely walk in, that’s how many true fatties for food there are in Chicago and there is truly no better winter remedy than hot, melty, big food. So we yell our name to the girl with gauged ears and the asymmetrical hair-cut, she shouts something about an hour and forty-five minutes and we walk back outside, feeling stung by the cold air and excited about the relatively short wait.

After minutes of red noses and bouncy knees we decide to brave the crowd, force our way to the bar and spend this 105 minutes the right way, by drinking. We all have boobs, if we can’t make way and get served, something’s wrong with this country. Naturally, all is right and we had delicious brews in our now warm hands within minutes. It should be mentioned here that I deliberately went on an empty stomach. It was a Sunday morning at this point, I’d barely been up for significant amounts of time and knew I had a heaping hot mess of food about to enter my hot mess of a mouth. I do not recommend it as a diet plan, it’s actually counter-productive, but this is about taking advantage of an experience and I needed room to challenge the shit out of my digestive system.

Kuma’s is small. They proudly boast about a 16x6’ kitchen and implore, rather demand, patience. Shut up and wait, do it nicely, or go home. Seriously, I’ve included the link to their site, read it. So blunt and wonderful. What they lack in horizontal space they make up for in the vertical. This place has pretty damn tall ceilings, interesting and provocative art-work, including multiple breasts, the aforementioned borderline death metal breaking sound barriers, and maybe 45-50 seats, including the few at the bar, for the fortunate single or double who wonders in and lands a coveted stool.

Back to the booze. They have really fricken fantastic Bloody Mary’s. I’m a beer and wine girl and I tried a sip of my friend’s and fell immediately in love. I’m in awe of this drink. I stuck with beer as they have a unique and high quality selection on tap. I had 3 pints. On an empty stomach. Yeah.

The over two-hour wait flew by! We had fun catching up. And drinking. Now for my 1st favorite verb. Eating. We snagged a four top, a nearly as cool server covered in tattoos and attitude, more beer (don’t judge me) and the glorious menus. We started with their famous jalapeno poppers, keeping it classy. We continued with our genius burger selections, all with clever names, assaulting your senses, and intelligence. Most are metal inspired, the “Megadeth”, the “Black Sabbath”, the “Goatwhore”. You get it.

On my 2nd quest for burger nirvana I opted for the Kuma Burger, #1 on the list, right out of the gate, in your face, 10 ounces of ground beef, bacon, cheddar, fried egg. Now for whatever reason it didn’t read as enough fat to me, so I added avocado. Haha. I laughed when I recollected that little memory. What a fatty. Oh well. This isn’t everyday, its quarterly, like my taxes. It also comes with delicious french fries, which I ate. Naturally.

So I finished the burger, on my own, no sharing, no doggie bag, just me and my belly in it to win it. I’m so strangely proud of this accomplishment. In my food and beer delirium I forgot that I had a class to teach at 630 that evening. It never occurred to me as a factor because this was intended to be lunch; but by the time we finished our meal it was almost 3! I was done. Gone. Sto finito, as my beloved Italians say. I mumbled some goodbyes to my friends and immediately threw my wrecked body on the couch, waved so-long to my mind as well and took a nearly 3 hour nap. I had to be shoved awake and somehow made my way to the yoga studio. A hot yoga studio, by the way. Beer, beef, cheese, fried potatoes and jalapeno poppers all somehow trying to get along and make their way through my intestinal tract while flowing upside down, side to side, and god knows what directions in 97 degrees with 40% humidity is not a recommended combination.

All of the above considered it was still beyond worth it. The burger is so damn juicy. Did I mention it’s served on a pretzel bread bun? The beer is so refreshing, makes the waiting, and the chewing, much easier. This happened months ago and the memory is still so profound despite alcohol use and coma causing food. This is because of the defiantly bold atmosphere and flavors and who you choose to take it all in with. I can’t wait until my quarterly return.

Burgers are about $10-12 a pop, including fries, and if you’re not a glutinous pig like the author of this review you may stretch it into 2 meals, as the burgers are large. Perhaps you can split one and share their mac n cheese, which is as aggressively delightful as everything else at Kuma’s.

Life is too short to eat mediocre or boring food and the same goes with the company you keep. Set the standards high and your life will be memorable, to you, which is most important. There’s Dr. Danielle’s advice for the month.

Mmmmm!

Unlock your jaw. Bite into a high quality burger. Wipe your face. Wash it down with equally high quality beer. Enjoy.

For the twinkle toes in all of us.

Ahhh, dance. Last week I had the tremendous pleasure of attending the ballet at the Harris Theatre here in Chicago. I’d never attended the ballet before, in any capacity or at any stage, and to have the opportunity to witness such artistry in a city that gathers the best talent in the world filled me with such gratitude and inspiration.

I’m a dancer in my head. Sure I dabbled in the usual tap/jazz/ballet nonsense all kids explore at some point; but I equate it to those first few years of t-ball and soccer. There are few proud parents in those bunches, watching their children pick grass, score goals for the other team, whiff 5 times swinging at a ball perched on a tee, or perhaps garnering the prestigious MVP by kicking the ball once or actually hitting that squishy stationary baseball to their family’s delight. I was a very serious child and what I did, I did well. That being said I did a couple years of recital type dancing and moved on to boyish activities like baseball, basketball and playing in the dirt.

My awkward penmanship, heightened mathematic skills, and forceful leadership allowed me to fit well in the sports arena and therefore my creativity was not fostered. No need, I was too busy asking for homework, catching fly-balls and dressing in baggy pants. It’s a wonder how I’m not either a lesbian or a transgender at this point. My affinity for home depot aside, as I became an adult my love and appreciation for the arts, dance in particular, grew exponentially. I’ve since achieved a bronze skill level in ballroom and latin dance (hold your applause) and taught my very own concoction of a hip-hop, latin inspired cardio dance class. Those were good times.

Now approaching the latter half of my third decade my body isn’t what it used to be. Just kidding, I’m strong as an ox and have wicked balance thanks to Yoga, but unfortunately I’m at too advanced an age to truly pursue dance for anything beyond pleasure or hobby. So I soak it in wherever I can. I’m fortunate to have a close, unbelievably talented friend here in Chicago who’s a member of a modern dance company called the Seldoms. Check them out! I’ve seen two of their performances, one heading to New York City next weekend that was so astonishing. I felt like my mother I was so proud to be her friend. Below is just an excerpt.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPlmPHDf_lo

Cut to last week. A studio owner and friend of mine knew of my love for dance (those who can’t do, watch) and generously offered me two extra tickets to the ballet. My initial thought was for my Seldoms buddy to attend with me but due to a scheduling conflict I was forced to bring my very open-minded, albeit reluctant piece of man love along for the toe pointed ride. We journeyed downtown to Millennium Park, right off Randolph street, backing up to the amphitheater. From the outside, you’re not even sure you’re in the right space, but we entered the very open lobby, met my friend and made our descent into the balletic abyss. What makes the Harris Theatre interesting is the better seats you have, the more stairs you decline; so you’re walking underground and emerge into this grand theatre with a hidden orchestra above the stage, and the curtain cascading down. We had excellent seats, stage right (yes, I took theatre in college!), no tall people in front of us and we settled in our seats with anticipation.

There were three performances that evening, all from various members of the Aspen Santa Fe Ballet. All three were mind-boggling. The discipline it takes to perform at that level is staggering, let alone the creativity and passion exuded by the dancers and musicians. The Harris showcases music and dance specifically and each show had the heart-melting accompaniment of the orchestra above.

The first number had some of the most beautiful partner work; amongst men and women, men and men, women and women, and with some simple but very haunting piano. The lifts, the flow, the strength and ease with which it was all executed left me breathless. I literally had to remind myself to breathe. If this was the first show, boy were we in for a good night.

The following number did not disappoint and I feel elevated in mere creativity. It was very primal, animalistic. Each artist emerged from this incredible flowing metal curtain, alone, crouched, with such a focused gaze. The lines they were creating by placing and moving their bodies somewhat awkwardly, in combination with quick direction changes was astonishing. There were sounds generating from stomping, clapping, sliding and all sealed with great humor with a sudden direction change with their heads, eyes and bodies. Suddenly the character would see another and gradually more and more emerged. This was all in silence until the entire ensemble was on stage and the orchestra set in. I loved the story, the humor, and how polar opposite it was from what most assume ballet to be. It was exactly what art is and what art evokes. I was enraptured. I still am.

The final performance was as liquid and effortless as the first, but as if the liquid was Niagara Falls. Talk about ease, precision, grace, and general holy shit moments. Sense perception was so heightened at this point and my face hurt from smiling and crying (yes, I cry more from positive emotion than negative strangely enough), and I just wanted to be in the presence of these people longer, forever if they’d let me. I can’t even detail it my mind was so blown after all three. It was beautiful. It was the best professional athletes amalgamated with the most brilliant artistic minds and giving you their best. They should be making millions and not struggling, taking their mind and bodies to the brink for decades to barely make ends meet. I love sports deeply but Terrell Owens can make a few million less, get rid of that monster ego, and pass along the dough to those who could not only use it, but damn well deserve it.

More than taking away deep admiration and respect for these people I loved the response from the gentleman who sat next to me, also called my husband. He’s a modern man, in a modern relationship, who’s an artist himself with high regard for other artists and no ego requiring him to hang on to his masculine man card and refuse to attend the ballet or other events with feminine undertones (see article: Bitch is the New Black, and Black is Back). It may not have been what he would have sought out himself, but he went with an open mind and left thoroughly pleased and blown away. Just as travel broadens the mind, so does art. I highly recommend you all surprise yourself in this way as well. Check out films, books (please continue to read), museums, and any form of art you don’t understand or aren’t drawn to. You may get more out of it than simple entertainment. I certainly did.

Also, it should be expressed here that ballet dancers, if you didn’t know, have incredible bodies, especially the gluteal region. Wow. That alone rendered me speechless. Oogle below. Amazing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9oSfH84JoQ&feature=related

Dance. Don’t be uptight. It extracts joy. If you need inspiration, watch it in some capacity. Enjoy.

Traveling from the City that Never Heats to the City that Never Sleeps.

Chicago to New York City. And Back.

Days after the dust has settled on my trip east to the Big Apple, I’m still in a foggy, moderate depression over how much I miss and need New York City. I’m just a drop in the ocean regarding that opinion. Millions flock in and out of Manhattan everyday hoping to soak in the energy and that after-glow the city leaves behind. Many squeeze themselves into oversized boxes literally shitting where they eat just to feel the achievement of living in the toughest, most alive city in the world.

This was not my first trip. At this point I’ve lost count. I was fortunate enough to visit shortly after 9/11/2001 for my high school graduation; which, needless to say, profoundly impacted my adolescent mind and left me yearning for more. I’ve made subsequent trips to keep feeding my new addiction, including exploring on my own while my Dad worked, attending the U.S. Open tennis tournament with my Mom in 2005, and taking a memorable honeymoon in the fall of 2006. During these long weekends I did all the cliché things. We went to the Empire State Building, carriage ride in Central Park, watched the Yankees beat the Red Sox, beamed from ear to ear watching the immense talent Broadway has to offer, and ate our way from Midtown out.

None of the previous times in the city ever compared to my 6 week respite living on the Upper West Side in the Lincoln Towers while I attended Sonic Yoga’s 200 hour teacher training. I lived in a small space, took the subway everywhere my feet couldn’t, had a regimented schedule, and most importantly, I met friends. I cannot possibly encapsulate what this experience meant to me and how it’s affected who I am today, but suffice it to say I’ll never be the same. I live in a great city now, with endless options for food, sports, people and entertainment and yet I still dream of New York. So my return for a reunion with yoga teachers and friends conjured up so much anticipation, nostalgia, and ultimately, another awe-inspiring experience.

The Best Yoga Studio in New York City: Sonic Yoga

In lieu of my usual review or story about a particular restaurant or experience, I’m going to give a nod to those which are memorable and those which I highly recommend, in both the caloric and entertainment fields.

Amarone’s Italian Ristorante: Located in Hell’s Kitchen, west Midtown on 9th avenue between 47th and 48th street lies the most satisfying, soul-stirring, flavorful 2 hours you can acquire without actually flying to Northern Italy yourself. It was the first restaurant I ever enjoyed in the city and I’ve continued to support their efforts in my subsequent visits. I’ve also recommended it to many friends and family who’ve had the pleasure of dining themselves, with nothing less than stellar reviews as well. Because it’s such a challenging dish to replicate or find in good quality, I highly recommend the Gnocchi di Sorrentino. First off, Gnocchi should be pronounced like you’ve got peanut butter stuck to the roof of your mouth, hold on to the N, try not to pronounce it like every other white person and say Noki, the G is there for a reason, to give it the ole Italian gangsta nyokki, emphasis on awesome. Secondly, it’s a dumpling made with potatoes and if you’ve never had the pleasure of consuming these little pasta pillows I have deep sympathy for you and urge you emphatically to seek it out, but only via reputable Italian restaurants or Grandmothers. Mine of course makes the very best, here, NYC, or Italy is no match for her. I’m a very lucky lady. The staff is Italian, friendly, relaxed, and passionate about what matters in life, good sustenance with people of substance. Do yourself a favor and enjoy. Tell them I sent you. Just kidding, they have no clue who the hell I am. :)

Delizioso

Azuri Cafe: Not far from the above entry is a typical New York stop; tiny, lunch based, executed impeccably by minorities in which English is not their first language, reasonably priced, and damn delicious. I have my beautiful yogi teachers and friends to thank for this one as we’d scurry to 51st street between 9th and 10th avenue during our lunch breaks to walk and talk and scarf. It’s very veggie friendly but I believe they have meat options. What I recommend is the falafel pita. Whole wheat pita, fried balls of chickpeas and herbs, then combined with grilled peppers, tabbouleh, babaganush, spicy mystery sauce, herbs and topped with spicy pickles. Honestly, I never really know what I’m eating besides falafel and pita mixed with a flavorful supporting cast, but I love the texture, flavors and nutrition this hand-held meal provides. Also for fans of Seinfeld, the owner is a total falafel nazi, exuding pure disdain for all human kind, but I always mess with him and get him to smile. Make it a game and see if you can too!

Lombardi’s Pizza: Let’s head downtown now, near Soho, 32 Spring street to be exact, and eat at what’s understood to be the first pizza establishment in New York City and therefore emerging the first NYC style pizza. Walking around Little Italy and China town with visiting relatives is what first landed me at Lombardi’s, a serendipitous occasion, a very happy accident indeed. I’m a simple girl. Part of being Italian has led me to appreciate simple, fresh ingredients, and certainly acquired a snobby chip on my shoulder watching American’s pretend to be Italian and forcing 85 ingredients into something only needing 4. This is precisely why I order the basic, Margarita thin-crust pizza baked to perfection in a wood-burning oven. Thin crispy crust, delicious, not too sweet sauce, topped with circles of fresh mozzarella and basil shavings. Simple and so perfect. It makes me think of Italy, Napoli in particular, where pizza was perfected and is still the very best. Enjoy the history, the neighborhood, have a beer, share with a friend.

Yum!

While you’re in Hell’s Kitchen if you are feeling hummus, hit up the Hummus Kitchen. Best in the world, creamy and delicious. Get their lemonade and mint frozen adult beverage, positively delightful!

Head toward 57th if you’re feeling burritos. The Burrito Box is where it’s at. OMFG. I dream about it. So great.

Tu Va Bien for excellent French, also in Hell’s Kitchen.

Gray’s Papaya, besides an authentic Chicago dog, is the best hot dog in NYC hands down. The flavor of the beef itself, matched with a good quality, not oversized bun, is unbeatable. And so is the price.

Anything in Chinatown is above and beyond authentic.

Cafe Lalo: This may be a slightly cliché place, only because it featured in You’ve Got Mail. Meg Ryan anxiously awaits the arrival of her online beau and finds Tom Hanks instead. During the film Lalo is almost empty. This is not typical as any time of day I’ve visited it is hopping, vibrant with sugar and energy. Situated in the Upper West Side, W. 83rd Street between Amsterdam and Broadway, the amber lit trees in front of the large wood-framed windows will lead you down the path to enlightenment. For lack of a better description, this place is just too damn cute. It’s fricken adorable, and you feel adorable being there. The antique cash register, the tall round tables, stools along the often open windows, or the tiny two tops enveloping this L-shaped dessert shop are just a few of the nuances giving this place life. The clear, also L-shaped glass case proudly distributing the pastry chefs finest work is what keeps people like me coming back for more. I can’t make a specific recommendation for dessert because they have everything for every taste, be open but also go with your gut. What I will recommend is the hot chocolate with Bailey’s Irish Cream. My last trip we not only visited Lalo twice in one day but I believe 5 times in total and we enjoyed the warm alcoholic beverage every single time. The wait staff is friendly albeit busy, and remembered me. I’m not sure whether to feel embarrassed or encouraged by this, so I’ll settle on neither. Humans and labeling everything, ridiculous. Enjoy.

I’ve had the pleasure of attending Yankees games at both the old and the new stadium. Given the old stadium is no longer an option for you I’d highly recommend watching a game from the beautiful new Yankee Stadium, rooting strongly against them as New Yorkers LOVE visitors and Yankee haters, and getting some soft serve ice-cream in a tiny Yankee helmet. I’ve enjoyed the beer and pretzels too, but New York has nothing on a Chicago dog. Sorry. You win at almost everything else, including fricken baseball!

Everyone who considers themselves a star, or the most skilled and talented of their generation makes it their business to succeed in the Big Apple. As we’ve heard Frank Sinatra croon a million times, and now Jay Z, if I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere. This is certainly true. And therefore you’re overwhelmed with a plethora of talent to feast your eyes, ears, nose, and brain on. Those who can’t do, enjoy. Although I do not consider myself to be über girly, even from a young age, I do have an intrinsic love for the arts, musicals in particular. Over the years I’ve enjoyed musicals such as: Chicago, Mamma Mia, Hairspray, West Side Story, the Phantom of the Opera, Moving Up, Wicked, Billy Elliot, All Shook Up, Come Fly Away, Fosse, Promises Promises, Avenue Q, We Will Rock You in London, and various dance and music productions off-Broadway. I’ve enjoyed each and every performance immensely; but nothing compares to the musical I was lucky enough to catch recently. Amidst the hype, pomp and circumstance, a great friend and I braved a long line of hopefuls waiting for a standing room only ticket to the Book of Mormon. Written by the brilliant comic minds behind South Park, the Book of Mormon surrounds two young Elders about to embark on a mission trip to Uganda. Not only is it the most hysterical piece of live theatre I’ve ever witnessed, but it’s also deeply poignant and resonates so much with what is going on in the world today. I will not detail the story, or recount some of the genius songs and lyrics to emerge from the very talented cast, but I will say it’s what musicals should be. By poking a bit of fun at a ridiculous book of beliefs, written entirely by a pathological narcissist since being proved by every logical mind to be false, it not only is one of the most inclusive pieces of art performed for the masses, but the most provocative, conversation inducing material I’ve had the joy to come across. I cannot encourage everyone to see this enough. Give yourself the gift of this show.

The Book of Mormon

I tapped into maybe .000001% of what NYC has to offer. All of this exuberance and sheer pleasure would not be possible without the city itself. You may be more of a suburb, small-town, or even quiet, nature type of person, but I still implore you to broaden your mind and heart by visiting this city. Sure it’ll chew you up and spit you out but like anything worth working for, you’ll want and need more. You’ll come through the Midtown tunnel a better, more evolved, more interesting person. And you’d have had one hell of a time.

Eat. Drink. Travel. Dance. Explore. Enjoy.

Filling the childhood sized hole in your heart.

Yesterday I spent the better part of the morning watching Oprah’s last few episodes and crying like I had an actual reason. At times I choose to hide my love and dedication for the show but for the most part I hold my head high and say, Yes, I’ve grown up watching Oprah and I love her. Like many in myself and my Mom’s generations, the Oprah show has sewn on the fabric of our being, affected and molded who we are. For better or worse, I am partially who I am because of her. Of course the bulk of the credit (or blame depending on your opinion of me) is awarded to my parents and family, and myself; but like stand-out teachers and coaches, Oprah stirred the pot of my youth adding her own ingredients to my complicated recipe. The show was one of many bonding mechanisms for me and my Mom. We watched every day at 4, after school. That was my break time. Snack time. Time for Oprah to tell me what book to read, which John Travolta movie I probably won’t be seeing, how to spot a child molester (you can’t, they look, smell, and sound like everyone else), what it’s like to be oppressed in any way, in any society, and how my bowel movements better be s-shaped. I often shared a large cushiony chair and ottoman with my Mom and we discussed what we were seeing. Until recently we still drank hot tea and watched DVRed episodes of Oprah and I cherish all those memories and subsequent conversations.

Even though at times I wear an F U on my forehead, with sharpened sarcasm that I can skewer whomever I deem deserving, I’m quite a softy at heart. My parents raised me to be compassionate and grateful for all I had. Oprah broadened that compassion by letting us all into not just the misfortunate in our country, but the truly destitute, endangered, and suffering of those in many others. The show was a catalyst to give more and complain less. What can ever be wrong with that?

It's easy to dislike someone so successful, so popular, often times so opinionated and I enjoy getting in on those bandwagons, but I grew up with this show. It ending affects me and many others. I'll move on of course, already have, but the end of an era inspired me to write and so I am.

Even though I’ve watched and learned most from her in the last decade or so, the loss of the Oprah show conjured up such nostalgia. My oldest best friend and I reached out to each other yesterday because we’ve nerdily been discussing the show since our pre-teens. We’ve passed along book, film, and television selections, let alone the complex array of information we gleaned in 20 years. In some bizarre way Oprah was America’s mother, and the world’s step-mother. She’s done more for women around the world, not to mention any human being in need of inspiration and strength, than any other human being in our recent history. It may be easy to parody and mock her “favorite things” shows or when she gives everyone a car, but it all comes from an enormously generous place, and her intention is only for good. I believe that wholeheartedly.

I found myself crying and resonating with so much of what she passed along on her final show Wednesday. I’ve learned from her many guests, just as she has. And I find myself getting in my own way and accepting real happiness or success that comes. I’ll never forget those words and will do my best to remind myself to just relax, suck it up and enjoy. The simple and beautiful message to merely follow your bliss, whatever that may be, big or small, is something I’m striving for and do not want to let go. The fact that her success only began in her 30’s is admirable and reminds me to be patient, continue to learn, work hard, and just enjoy the ride.

We could all die tomorrow, not in some rapture BS, but in some cruel and tragic way that always gives humans 30 seconds of perspective. If I did I could honestly say I’ve lived better because of Oprah. And like millions, I thank her for it. I’ll hopefully continue to channel her work ethic and her philanthropic spirit as I aim to pave my own success and mark on my little world.

I hope those of you reading have felt my appreciation and love for you and nothing less.

Script from her final show.

Flexitarianism

Chicago Diner Journeying to the tail-end of boys town (pun intended), at the corner of Roscoe and Halsted, you’ll find a charming building where the Chicago Diner resides. This being one of the few places I’d heard of before moving to the city, I was eager to try their veggie friendly fare. The Diner was recently listed as the #3 diner in the entire country, my parents enthusiastically passed that gem along while helping me pack some of my childhood boxes that were lingering behind. Not only is it situated in the neighborhood with which I inhabit, but I’m also a well-known flexitarian, always looking for delicious and creative vegetable based options.

This 1983 Lakeview establishment brings in customers of all ages and backgrounds, my last visit I watched a human new to this planet vigorously consuming milk from its mother’s breast. So there you go. Given the neighborhood, street, employees and fare, you can gather upon seconds of walking in that the key demographic is twenties hipsters. Boy if you don’t have visible tattoos or cut your own hair good luck trying to get a job there. I have visible tattoos and I still feel like an ordinary square in there. But it doesn’t take away, the scenester servers are very friendly, knowledgable and as it turns out quite skilled at cutting their own hair or piercing their own body parts.

It’s very simple inside but not without charm. It’s narrow and doesn’t seat many, like most city restaurants and bars, but has a few diner style tables, about 6 four-top booths, and a few backless barstools. The ceiling is tall and the booth side wall is brick, with windows so high you can’t see out of, each with beautiful painted glass window frames hanging over. There’s a large cooler with a variety of bottled beers, sodas and juices if you want to pass on Lake Michigan’s finest tap water.

At night this place is a mad house; you will wait, and if you don’t, it’s for one of two reasons. 1: You’re by yourself and can sit at one of the four barstools by the diner’s bar. or 2: Someone is waiting for you and already been blessed with a table. But at lunch it is only moderately packed and I’ve never waited for a table during the day. They do have an enclosed riff-raff waiting area with heaters and pitchers of water or tea. The hosts are apathetic and sarcastic and mostly fun to mess with, by all means test your boundaries. I have.

Down to the nitty, gritty. The grub. It’s pretty damn good. As previously mentioned, it’s a vegetarian/vegan diner. Meat free since 83 is their hippie slogan. What’s great about it is they’ve made a concerted effort to give you the flavors and comfort foods you like from all regions of the country without the animal or environmental sacrifice. They have a slew of sandwiches and “burgers” from “Steak and Cheese” to “Ruebens.” They have “country-fried steak,” “biscuits ‘n’ gravy,” and a “BBQ bacon burger.” These options are in quotations on the menu to give you the idea of flavor they’re going for, making you feel comfortable and familiar. You should know you have the option of vegan or dairy cheese, or none at all, for the real health nut.

They also have a plethora of creative, healthy vegetable options with no promise of meat flavor or substitute. I’ve had the avocado and black bean tostada, pot stickers, nachos and my personal favorite of everything I’ve tried is this “soul bowl.” This thing packs a health punch along with great flavor. It has red quinoa (pronounces KeenWah, not kwinOA), smashed sweet potato, avocado, flashed greens (kale and spinach sauteed in onions, garlic and ginger), black bean puree and walnuts. I went crazy and mixed it all together and really enjoyed the flavors bouncing around my taste buds, let alone how energized the nutrient rich food left me.

In true diner style they have shakes and other home-made desserts as well, made with non-dairy forms of milk. I loved the s’more shake and plain ole vanilla and chocolate do not disappoint either.

With the American waist band and cholesterol on the never-ending rise, it’s important we recognize how much our diet is the culprit, never mind the endless environmental implications factory farming has caused. As one who is very compassionate toward animals, even more so than humans at times, I’m the hypocrite who could never slaughter, shoot, or kill the animal myself. I’d be eating the poisonous berries and suffocating before I looked them in the eye, so I often unconsciously stuff my face without thinking what those poor creatures are suffering through so I can eat their hormone, antibiotic and no doubt fecal filled body parts. Cutting down our meat consumption would have many obvious benefits, to individuals and society as a whole, and to have healthy, tasty, awareness-driven eateries run by cool kids like the Chicago Diner is making our city, and world, a better place. And I thank them for it.

Check it out.

Eat. Drink. Open your eyes. And ears. Enjoy.

Bitch is the new black. And black is back.

I’m going to go against my previous regime and decided to bore you with a forceful recommendation of the funniest movie I’ve seen in many years, let alone this mediocre one (for movies, not for me, I’m having a great 2011!). This movie is widely acclaimed by critics, is continuing to kick ass at the box office, despite hunky opponents like Thor and whatever Will Ferrell decided to distribute this week, and has the most talented cast since Inception, without all the mind confusion. If you haven’t figured it out yet, please read something else. Duh, Bridesmaids! Jesus this movie is damn funny. I just saw it on Monday, after a delicious lunch (dim sum to be reviewed soon). I usually like to visit the cinema before noon, as the tickets are only $6, and I love saving 5 bucks and then putting it toward food later. But not on Monday. I knew Bridesmaids deserved my full $11.50 (that’s right suburbanites, the movies cost $11.50 when you live somewhere awesome! Bit of a drag but worth it.). So I ponied up my hard-earned dough, scored a bucket of popcorn from Garrets, not the crappy kind from the movie theatre, and settled in to give my abdominals and cheeks (facial, not gluteal) the work-out they’d been craving.

I’d be remiss if I did not mention the cavalcade of press surrounding this film and the gender heavy commentary. It’s so old news. It’s as if no one even remembers Gilda Radner or Lucille Ball. Or Ellen Degeneres and every other brilliant comic and sketch artist that has graced us with their talent since the mid 20th century. And that was when women weren’t even allowed to work, let alone would people ever admit they were funny. But they were, god dammit. And in similar ways to men, being physical and silly, and in new slinky feminine ways. They were a total comedic package, and the public begrudgingly laughed along.

Now its 2011. And much to the chagrin of some seriously backasswards folks, we have not only an African American (proven by a long form birth certificate) president, lady Secretary of State and other important, powerful rolls, but we’ve also been privy to a decade of uniquely funny, strong people, men and women. In real life most people are boring, semi-educated, broadly funny, and in general uninspiring. Both sexes. Not just women. Not just men. Everyone.

Tina Fey was the head-writer on SNL for years, now garnering tremendous success on her hilarious TV show (please stop watching How I Met Your Mother and watch something actually funny like 30 Rock), wrote the very funny Mean Girls, starred in one of my personal favorites from 2008, Baby Mama, and currently released her memoir Bossypants, which I enjoyed immensely. And during her reign at SNL she nourished and fostered the talents of many people, but really paved the way for Kristen Wiig, Maya Rudolf, Amy Pohler, and Rachel Dratch to not only shine, but, sorry to say it, kick the men’s asses. Big time.

Kristen, the star of Bridesmaids, has proven her comedic and acting chops not only as a variety of repeat characters on SNL, but also in supporting rolls in great films like Adventureland, Ghost Town, MacGruber, and the recent release Paul. You may also remember her as the mean-spirited but wickedly funny co-worker of Katherine Heigl’s in Knocked Up. She stood out to many in that role, then garnered additional attention at SNL and her career really started to bloom. She’s a genuine talent, and although she is leggy and attractive, she always serves comedy first, is not afraid to look or sound stupid, and her humorous confidence makes her even more attractive. Her, Tina and Amy’s success is proving a great trend in our society, so the talk of this movie being a “chick flick” or some sort of “comedy for women” is insulting and just plain stupid. Women are funny. Get over it.

I genuinely laugh at men and women's very apparent shortcomings. Some of my favorite comedians will blatantly make fun of women and how they’re inferior to men. I personally don’t enjoy the WNBA either and I’m fine with that. I don’t take it that seriously, otherwise I’d be offended 97% of the time. Comedians like Daniel Tosh are making these jokes in irony, not sincerity, and hopefully most are smart enough recognize that. But the general question of whether women are funny is a bit tired and I think the question has been answered. Many times over. Many years ago.

Off the soap box and on to the movie. My intention here was to express my feelings on this bullshit debate and rhetoric and to implore you to see this film. There’s nothing I can write about the movie, the plot, the characters, or any other detail that you can’t find in another review out there. The important thing to know is this movie is a comedy, for everyone, not just women. Yes the cast is mostly composed of women, like most comedies have been with men up to this point, but it’s not geared to any specific audience. Just one with a sense of humor. Me and my big hunk of man love went together and we both laughed til our cheeks (facial) hurt. Each of the bridesmaids could lead their own movie or show, they all contribute valuably both in character and in humor. Kristen is the star here, though, and she deserves to be. She remains likable despite some major flaws and breakdowns. And holy hell in a hand basket is she fricken funny.

Big ups to Jon Hamm, my current #1 crush after watching not only his brilliance in Mad Men, his sexy assholiness in the Town, and a secret dream I had, but more so for his foray into comedy. He’s delivered above average performances twice on SNL, had a uber funny re-occurring guest role on 30 Rock, and his performance here is uncanny and disturbingly funny. He plays an asshole we’ve all either dated, wanted to date, or watched a friend stupidly date. Not much else needs to be said, but the 19 year old in me wants him in this movie; it brings me back to a sad time when sexy was enough and substance went by the waste-side. I think most men know exactly what I mean. Ha. Ya burnt!

As Tina Fey so eloquently stated during her appearance on SNL’s Weekend Update back in early 2008, “Bitch is the new Black!” And black is back people, like it or not. Just surrender and enjoy it.

Also, movies like Something Borrowed and He's Just Not That Into You and other formulaic RomComs are awful. If those are chick flicks, fine. They're deplorable and should be shipped to GITMO to torture terrorists. Shouldn't need to be mentioned but that's another reason this movie is so great. It projects people as they are, raunchy, confused, funny, with sometimes challenging bowel movements. The following clip is one of the trailers you may have seen. The beauty of this is there are many funny moments but most are not in the film, so all you "i'm afraid all the funny parts are in the previews" people can rest easy. It's all funny.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrRd2QSsGc4

I love men. I love women. Most are blah. Some are special. Some are funny. Watch some of them be funny in Bridesmaids. Enjoy.

Sandwiches, Salads, Soups and Soul at Panes Bread Cafe

Ahhh, bread. So simple, yet to vital. And so easy to f*ck up. There’s some colossally shitty bread out there. You know who you are. And if your idea of good bread is of the Wonder variety then you may as well move on and read the Wal Mart blog for food recommendations. This isn’t about bread though, this is also about sandwiches. Bread is very obviously the essential component in a sandwich, without it, it’d be like a hug with no arms. Apologies to my amputee friends out there. Panes bread cafe is a little Chicago gem run by a group of feisty European women. Clearly, I love them. We have the same cynicism for lesser food and the same enthusiasm for real quality food and simple ingredients. A great sandwich should not be hard to come by, but in many ways it is. Panes is attempting to make that craving for a mind-blowing sandwich an attainable reality by providing Lakeview customers with the best of the best at a great price.

Located on the 3000 block of Sheffield Ave, just south of Belmont, Panes has a small, modest sign out front, and an almost equally small operation inside. This only adds to its charm as inside is brightly painted in a beautiful Tuscan yellow, with industrial beams painted in a complimentary rustic red. It maybe sits 30 people, mostly those finding time on their lunch hour to scarf down something that will brighten their day, and their pallet. Upon approaching the counter you see a slew of freshly made breads, spanning from Spain, France, Italy and Greece inspired and cornering even the banana market. The menu is on the wall to the right and beyond selling bread, they serve appetizers, soups, salads, pastas, and of course, sandwiches.

I first had the privilege of a Panes experience about 6 months ago, when a great friend who has now left Chicago ordered it for our co-workers at my 2nd job. For $5.95 I got a large sandwich with grilled portabella mushrooms, homemade pesto, tomato, fresh mozzarella on tomato bread. It also came with a side of chips. I was so amazed the bread was not soggy in the least, despite the 1.5 mile delivery length and 30-40 minute wait. It was delicious, plain and simple. I could not wait to order again. When I did, I ordered their roast beef, which is home cooked and sliced, served with avocado, spicy mayo, grilled onions and monterey jack. Oh man, so good!

Just recently I went to Panes in person. It’s even better because you can pick up fresh bread and peruse their selection of hand-crafted desserts. I’m a whore for sweets so naturally I took home one of their “monster cookies.” I’m salivating just thinking of this. It’s a large cookie, as you probably imagined, made of peanut butter, oats, M&M’s and chocolate chips. It’s fricken fantastic. This trip I picked up a Sunny California and Super Panes sandwich and we enjoyed every finger licking bite. Not a bad item in this place, just no nonsense women giving you their best. They’re my heros.

If I’m slumming and forced to be in suburban America I’ll settle for a Quizno’s or Firehouse sub, but if I’m in Chicago and I’m fortunate to have such incredible options, I’ll ride out of my way or have Panes delivered. Every. Single. Time.

They don't even have a website, so here's a link to their menu.

Raise your expectations. And standards. Quality of life is important. Especially with food. Enjoy.

Murder, Humor and Belgium with Colin Farrell

Feast your eyes, ears, hearts and heads... I’m finding it ridiculously easy to write about food. I’ve discussed previously how music and other trends just happen to me rather than me seeking it out. That doesn’t diminish its importance in my life, my love and need for it, or my hard edged opinions on said things; I just happen to eat multiple times a day, every single day, in a great city and most experiences inspire my mind and my heart to express it. Most films, TV shows, music and other forms of entertainment simply aren’t as inspiring, as frequently. That is why I aim to be selective in my reviews and suggestions to you on certain pieces of work.

With that being said I’d like to highly recommend a little 2008 film called In Bruges (soft G, like ginger, silent S). This film is brilliantly funny, contains an unusual story you’ve never seen filmed before, and takes place in a gothic and quaint European city in Belgium. It also stars the delectable Colin Farrell, a cheeky and talented Irish actor we got used to seeing in multiple films in early 2000’s. A child and a public struggle with sobriety led Colin out of the spotlight for quite a few years and this film was his quiet yet triumphant return. And man am I grateful.

Colin is just one half of a two man hit team in Ireland, his partner played by the endlessly skilled actor Brendan Gleeson. The two operate under the violent guidance and tutelage of their Big Boss, and when a hit goes awry, they’re forced to flee to Bruges, Belgium. Much to the chagrin of Colin’s character, they’re ordered to hide out in Bruges until the dust settles, during which Brendan’s character insists on exploring Bruges’ culture, seeing the sites. Many of the films laughs come from Colin’s wickedly funny and hateful comments involving his pure disdain for Bruges. This especially includes visiting tourists, some of them American, some stereotypically overweight and under-cultured, and the few confrontations with them alone make this film utterly entertaining. Caution: Let’s all get over ourselves. Harsh, I know. If you cannot laugh at yourself, if you cannot love your country and also recognize its shortcomings and therefore laugh at those shortcomings, then don’t watch or listen to any comedy whatsoever. If you find yourself getting offended at the maybe 90 seconds worth of jokes at American’s expense, ask yourself why? Why am I letting my ego get too attached to something that actually has a big foot in reality? I’m continuously learning this lesson and getting over myself, whether it be regarding jokes about women, stereotypes about yoga teachers, or anything. I recognize my hypocrisy and contradictions constantly! And to that I remember Walt Whitman and I say, eh well, I contradict myself! For the sake of comedy and a content life, I’m getting over myself, and so should you.

This film takes place during the Christmas holiday season. It’s this beautiful juxtaposition of a happy, colorful time mixed with bleak gray skies, incessant bickering amongst the stars, hooker drug-dealer dating, fighting midgets (little people, sorry. get over it.), fighting with thugs, and partying with all these people at some point. It’s grouchy and mean-spirited but so dry and clever. You will not be told when to laugh, this is not a CBS comedy with a laugh track helping you along, it’s blunt, flat, thick Irish accented delivery and it’s 90 minutes of heart-breaking genius. Not only is Colin Farrell back and as adorable as ever, he’s speaking in his native accent and dialect. Listen carefully Americans, he is speaking English.

Just when the surprise over your enjoyment can’t get better, Ralph Fiennes enters the picture. He’s the Big Boss, the original cunning asshole, spitting vitriol and venom when he’s not ordering deaths or committing them himself. He puts Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder to big time shame. He has these bazaar, sociopathic principles, that he adheres to feverishly despite leaving a throng of human beings in his wake. He’s like the tone, setting and characters throughout this film: bitterly funny, deeply depressed, and anxiously awaiting whatever is next.

I’m keeping this review fairly vague on purpose. The movie is very convoluted, it’s heavy and light all at once, and the culminating scenes are again approaching such tremendous dynamics, leaving me somber, leaving me laughing. There are so many experiences in life that evoke emotions and even tears, where you find it difficult to put your finger on the Why. Why am I feeling this way? Often the answer is complex and involves opposing emotions, sadness and joy, frustration and emergence, love and hate. In Bruges represents that dichotomy excellently.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jh2Xct8AMo

Open your eyes, ears, mind and heart. Let yourself laugh and cry. Enjoy.