Drown your sorrows in Tacos and Whiskey: Big Star

I’m just as guilty as the next schlep for utilizing YELP to find my next food fix. But truthfully, I much prefer the stumble upon method. Walk, talk, and happen upon what could be the next memorable thing in your life. That is how some of the greatest restaurants came in to my life, like Cozy’s, C.B.A., DMK, and other places with acronyms for names. This little gem, like the others, came into my life in that very same way. It was fate. Killing time in the bustling neighborhood that is Wicker Park, we saw hoards of people drinking beers, downing tacos, and smiling ear to ear from what was apparently a very pleasurable experience. Not knowing anything except there were tacos on the menu, we stepped up, grabbed two stools at the bar and began our journey to yet another hour of culinary bliss.  

The place was Big Star. We only found this out by following a series of clues stemming from our own investigation. Not that it matters, this place is difficult to miss, in particular in the summer. This was a Sunday, around 3, and given the lack of an early bird special, it was shocking how many 35 and under folks were waiting for a highly coveted seat, basting in the sun. We opted for the bar, in the shade, wafts of taco scented air occasionally making it’s way past our bodies from the slew of fans operating from each corner of the very high ceilings. The bar was rectangular, run by 6 attractive scenesters attending to their designated section. I’m a proponent for normalcy; genuine human interaction. I despise role-playing, I’m the customer, you’re my server, let’s act accordingly. I prefer to joke, make a connection with my fellow human being, get their advice, and enjoy the experience collectively. Our guy seemed to be on the same page. He was unassuming, offered a great beer selection, provided their small but enticing menu and then let us be.

I’ll pass along now this place values their whiskey and their tequila. I’m not equipped to provide examples as I’m a beer drinker; good beer, no Coors light if I can help it, but beyond knowing my uncle drinks the disgusting piss-tasting poison that is Wild Turkey, I know nothing. Sure, I’ll down some margaritas and mojitos, but do I know what goes into them? No. I do not. Nor do I care. So, check out their site if this tickles your fancy and then pass it along to your alcoholic friends who give a shit. This girl does not. Apologies for the vitriol. I’m back. It’s been too long.

Ok, the grub. As I mentioned, it’s a short menu. I fricken love this. Some of the best places do a few things but they do them so damn well the variety does not matter. It’s a taco shack, with some additional Mexican treats peppered in there. I’m happy to report to my strict veggie friends there are some options for you, albeit never as interesting as what us animal homicide enthusiasts get to enjoy, but you probably won’t know the difference. The homemade guac is great, and it has Serrano pepper, which is my #1 pepper at the moment. Congrats to Serrano, and to all others, campaign harder next time. You must earn my vote, I don’t give freebies.

I ordered 1 taco al pastor and 1 fish taco. I’m such a damn sucker for fish tacos, I see it on a menu and it’s as if the Old Spice guy walked into a crowded room; no one else exists. Their pastor tacos have pineapple, so yeah, they’re my new favorite al pastor tacos in the city. Juicy, salty, warm, soft tortillas with the right accompaniment of onion, cilantro, lime and pineapple. When I eat I make faces like I’m receiving the best massage or some other form of intense pleasure. I’m often made fun of for this. It’s instinctual. I like it, my eyes are rolling, guttural sounds are emerging from my throat, hypothalamus sufficiently stimulated. Thanks, Big Star.

My brother is a grade-A fatty like me. Probably worse. Something in that ectomorph tells his appetite to give his heart and digestive system the challenge of its life. He orders the  Sonoran Dog. It’s a bacon wrapped hot dog, slathered in pinto beans, onions, lime, hot sauce and probably some secret, dirty ingredient no one dares to find out. It looks like death on a plate, delivered with a side of baby aspirin and a phone to dial 911 when your heart says fuck you and gives up. He ate it like a champ, and some bites of my tacos, greedy little ass.

So there you have it. 7 apps, 7 “entrees”, 1 dessert, a ridiculous amount of whiskey, tequila and a modest selection of beer. Get drunk and full on a Sunday, you’ll be released from the hospital by Monday. It’ll be worth it. Suck it up and eat.

Thanks for the support. Thanks to the 2 or 3 of you who read these articles consistently and waited patiently for me to get out of my funk and back onto the internet. I’m so grateful for infinite reasons right now. All good things. When in doubt, think of Love.

Davis Love

As tears seemingly rush to escape my face I’m struck by the magnitude of the last 36 hours. At no time previously have I felt such a wretched cocktail of emotions. Fear, sadness, anger, hope. The rest of us are in survival mode along with Davis, but just emotionally. I spent many slow minutes yesterday feeling angry. For the life of me I cannot fathom why this would happen to him, to one of the most genuine, kind, loving, present souls I’ve been fortunate enough to meet. Visuals of him dancing and performing are playing on a reel in my mind along with the usually happy and beautiful whysowhite sounds. I cannot remove him. He was already becoming a big part of my life and therefore on my mind and heart, but now, there’s no turning back. I don’t want to think of anything or anyone else. I’m re-living the laughs and the sincere joy in our conversations and hoping like hell that energy channels into his healing.

I have three jobs. I can’t muster up the concentration or the general giving a shit it requires to fulfill any of those duties. I have no physical or mental energy to teach, certainly no patience to serve mothers and children, and no motivation to write except about Davis. Give me a task involving him or his family. I don’t want a way out of this because I’m in it to win it (like Dennis Kucinich) and I may not get one of his amazing hugs for a while, but I will squeeze his hand and look into his eyes very soon.

I’m still searching and grasping for meaning. Time has slowed significantly so although it’s only been 1-2 days, it’s played like weeks and I’ve had nothing but time to ruminate and feel, for better or worse. What has uplifted me is not only the strength and optimism his family carries (not surprising given how wonderful Davis is) and encountering people all around Chicago who have someway been affected by Davis’ presence. The customers at Savor, the employees at establishments he frequents, my friends and family who’ve maybe only met him once, all giving an outpour of concern and love over one human being. That’s the lesson. You want a legacy? You curious who cares about you, who shows up if something tragic happens to you? Well you get what you give and Davis and the Haines family are being inundated with the evidence of his affect on the world and people around him. Davis is all about love, he expresses this all the time, and I hope with every fiber of my being that he feels one tenth of what he’s given us, because we are all trying like hell to get our message across.

Davis has no lessons to learn or perspective to gain. He’s got it. He’s our 1000 year old Buddha in a talented, sweet, adorable package. So the universe is not sending one man a message. The lesson is for the remaining thousands who are sick over the potential of losing him and inspired to not only express that appreciation for him, but for others and perhaps even for ourselves. Yes I’m wearing a helmet, riding cautiously, walking with tremendous gratitude, breathing with humility, but the breakthrough of awareness inside is bringing about a shift in consciousness only Davis could inspire. He once told me I was a beacon of light. As I reflect upon this moment I can’t help but sob. I told him it was merely his light reflecting off of me and we ultimately decided it was a wash. Regardless who actually had the light (my bet is on him) that moment changed me. It motivated me to be that light all the time. Somehow Davis brings out the best in me and in others and I want that version of myself to show %100 of the time, not just with him.

I’ve also learned that wisdom and bliss can be learned and experienced by people of all ages, from anywhere. Learning both Davis and his twin brother Charles were not only from Alabama but also had only 21 years on this planet threw me for many crazy loops. They’re both ageless, genderless, colorless. They impact you in the best way, by walking the walk, being who they inherently are; goodness. Eckhart Tolle has taught me you cannot identify or define yourself with forms and expect to be truly happy or egoless. Somehow Davis and Charles know this, not just understanding it, but living it, from the inside out. Screw under my skin, Davis gets into your heart and stays, and that’s fine because with him there I exude more love and kindness than I thought I could. He’s impacted and changed my life significantly in such a short period of time. I can’t imagine the subsequent changes from now on. I wish I could adopt him. Or that I had a younger sister I could somehow convince him to marry. Our bond feels familial and the instincts and sensations coursing through my veins during this time has only given proof to that connection. Like many others, I will wait as long as it takes to see him again, to laugh with him, to learn from him, and I’ll keep going back, everyday, like my daily vitamins or health regime, I’ll show my love and support, and he will heal my soul.

Shui Wah: Yum yum dim sum in Chicago's Chinatown

My goal is to always live in a city that has a Chinatown. I’m not one to pass up mediocre Chinese-American delivery. Cheap, salty, mysterious. But if I have the time and someone willing to make the journey I’ll hit up the non-English speaking sector of any city with enough immigrants to create one. And that’s what we did on a breezy, Monday afternoon. It seems far living in a densely populated, busy city, but truth be told a 35 minute ride on Chicago’s Red Line is just enough to build that deep anticipation you need to get the most out of an authentic meal. The longer the train ride, the more interesting and memorable it proves to be, in particular if you can stomach riding without headphones and have a cohort to commiserate. So journeying from the Northside of Lakeview past Lincoln Park, the Loop and South Loop to emerge at the Cermak-Chinatown stop did not disappoint. Similar to New York City, except a bit cleaner and with more space, you no longer speak the native language, let alone read it; you’re wandering around like an amnesic idiot, sticking out like a very hungry, sore thumb. Amidst the wandering we stumble into what looks like an enclosed, yet outdoor mall. There are dentists, doctors, lawyers, store-fronts, and restaurants galore. Based on the dim sum sign, we wisely chose Shui Wah.

Upon entering you’re welcomed by 5 or 6 eager Chinese employees, quickly overwhelming you with what should be simple questions. “2? Table for 2? Dine in? To go?” Ahh, yes? Funnily enough we were sat near the only other white people in the dim sum house. It’s a good sign if the majority of diners are actually Chinese. You won’t find the same at Panda Express. So we sat, were greeted by a friendly waitress asking what kind of tea we wanted. Another easy but somehow overwhelming question with so many potential responses. I think I muttered jasmine and we were quickly gifted with a pot full of piping hot tea. We slurped as we grazed the menu we did not understand.

We decided on 5 items all from different categories, 2 of which we were familiar. The first food to be delivered was a scrumptious bowl of Chinese porridge. It was a murky white, thick mixture of short grain white rice, some sort of meat (crossing my fingers no dogs or cats were harmed in the making of my meal), and topped off with this delicious, orange, tangy hot sauce. It sounds like nothing. In fact, it probably sounds disgusting. It’s not particularly inspiring to look at, but I’ve found the best surprises in this life are when you’re blessed with substance over style. So many people, places and things are providing a heavy dose of the opposite.

Soon we were bombarded with a crash-course of incredible dim sum. Sticky rice is already a favorite. Wrapped in bamboo leaves, steamed, served piping hot, sticky rice is served with tender chunks of pork and chop sticks. It’s all you need. Another delightful surprise. We consumed shrimp and vegetable dumplings in about 12 seconds and moved on to a shrimp bread ball, consisting of shrimp, tangy bbq sauce, and surrounded by the softest, whitest, pillow-like squishy dough. It was sweet, the insides were salty. Again, delectable.

If I’m remembering correctly our bill was 18 American dollars. For two, 5 food items, porridge leftovers in a doggie bag, pot of tea, tax, 18 bucks. Can’t. Be. Beat. Loved it.

We walked around, window shopped in some really random stores and left with a bright, refreshing Sprite with cut up kiwi and strawberry. Our conversation on the train ride back consisted of re-living each joy-filled bite. I enjoyed the leftover porridge immensely, that night I believe.

If you can’t travel, at least broaden your mind by exploring foods. The rewards far exceed any potential risks.

Awkwardly use chop sticks. Slurp your tea. Fit a whole dim sum dumpling in your mouth. Enjoy

Quality always beats quantity when you buy/sell at Wolfbait & B-girls

Taking a large side-step from food and the all verbs involving culinary pursuits, I’m going to fem this place up for a few paragraphs and write about something I don’t usually care for or concern myself with; shopping. I deeply appreciate the adorable hoards of people scampering around Chicago in their effortless style. Like with many trends, I’m late to the “in” style. I don’t care enough. My fashion usually reflects that of something who could not have put in less effort, rather than effortless. But semi-annually to quarterly I jump in the game and pretend to care and this recent weekend of birthday/independence madness sparked something in me. Donning some frocks from major retailers aside, I’d mostly like to give big credit and ups to a great little shop where you can not only buy, but also sell, local. Wolfbait & B-girls to the rescue! Spending a heap of hours being ridiculously feminine, my lady friends and I celebrated a friend in doing both brunch and a nail salon for her birthday. I know, it’s almost nauseating. You judge and then you do and then you know. It’s lovely, my alien feet have never looked better. Well, as good as they can look. After a warm breakfast/ lunch collecting UV Rays and wrinkles, we expelled more sweat out of our pores finding the salon, cooled off, and then braved the influx of Vitamin D again for the walk back to the car. On our summer stroll down the beautiful streets of Logan Squared popped a delightful little surprise, the warm and enticing threads and accessories of Wolfbait and B-girls. Why not stop in and ramp up this girliness?

If I were to adopt a style, this place would be it. Eclectic, well-made, artistically inspired pieces all hand-crafted by Chicago artisans and fair-trade companies. The irony is it is geared toward people like me and my friends who are pursuing art themselves and therefore cannot afford other people’s art. It’s a cruel, cruel world. Nonetheless I scrounged some change for some beautifully made jewelry items (I find it cheaper to accessorize well and clothe myself via Target and H&M). The bracelet photographed is made via some metal and glass process and the earrings by a Chicago resident from Africa, who recycled her mailing material and made something beautiful for someone else, me. Every so often I intend to reward my hard work with another piece from this place and my wardrobe will hopefully then reflect my inner belief that quality always supersedes quantity.

What makes W&B-g even more special is that they’re run by two badass women who are contributing to the process themselves. The shop is not only in a great up-and-coming neighborhood with gorgeous surroundings, but the inside is so indicative of the love and passion that went in to each piece. I’m so in awe of the artists who contribute and have the deepest respect for the women who run it. Who runs the world? Men, but we’re closing in. Watch out!

Rounding out its greatness, W&B-g offers workshops for those interested in making their own pieces of art and potentially getting in on the distribution, along with artist trunk shows many weekends out of the month. I just may attend and learn the process of making the beautiful bracelet I now am only admiring. What an accomplishment to have the courage to create a piece of work and put it out there. Might seem easy to some but those like me may relate. My incredible, talented friends here in Chicago are teaching me art takes many forms and even appreciating art is an art. Whatever, geniuses like them and the creative experts at Wolfbait & B-girls are walking the walk and I’m happy to talk their talk. If you’re in Chicago, temporarily or permanently, pay them a visit.

Buy local. Sell local. Eat local. Drink local. Enjoy local.

Quirky with a side of pad thai: Cozy Noodle and Rice

At times Wrigleyville is uninspiring, frustrating, limiting. But at others, it’s un-worldly, unapologetic, unbelievable. Despite the feverishly inebriated crowd that gathers outside my, and many others’, doors in the streets surrounding Wrigley field, I maintain my semblance of optimism as I experience the sheer electricity and possibility this city offers. There are a few local treasures that warm my slowly beating heart and my ever-expanding belly (not pregnant, just hungry), and one is Cozy Noodles and Rice. Just before the right field corner of Wrigley Field, where Addison and Sheffield collide, lays a quirky, small facade with an eclectic, inviting sign, welcoming you into a Thai heaven. Sensory overload doesn’t begin to describe the decor and atmosphere Cozy’s is providing. I frequent this place too often and I always find something new. Each table is made out of old Singer sewing machines, shellacked with cement, topped with broken tiles, stones, or photographs, then covered in glass, finished off with comfy chairs. The collection of novelty items, light fixtures, puppets and paintings will keep you busy as you take in the delicious scents and await your appetizing dish.

I’m a sucker for a deal. You won’t see me mall or department store shopping. And as much as I love spending my hard-earned money on a fancy meal, I relish the opportunity to find high-quality food at a low prize. Cozy’s is by far the best bang for your buck I’ve experienced here in the very expensive city that is Chicago. Not only do I receive buy-one-get-one-free coupons from my grocery store, but their lunch deal continues to blow my mind and spare my wallet. For $4.99 you choose between 7 hearty, tasty noodle dishes with your choice of appetizer. What?! Seriously.

It should be noted that Cozy’s is BYOB; so grab some wine or beer, your coups, and join your friends for a super inexpensive and beyond satisfying meal in a comfortable, friendly, bizarre environment. Cozy’s is family run, often their adorable son is hanging out amidst the lunch chaos. Every server, male or female, is adorable, affable, and so efficient. My meal has never been wrong, cold, bad, or late. I love this place.

As far as what to eat I’d say try anything. I’ve had so many noodle and rice dishes there that I cannot simply recommend one, but instead I’ll recommend all. I love their veggie fried rice, pad Thai, crazy noodles, chicken soup ($1.99 for a big bowl with an app!), dumpling noodles, and any of their curries are top-notch, just to name a few. The table comes stocked with Sriracha, soy sauce, chili peppers, jalapeno, and frequently refilled iced water. Be sure to visit the bathroom, as they're a visual joy along with the tables, walls, floors and food.

I love supporting local efforts, family run businesses, and seeing the blood, sweat, tears and passion in their faces as they serve customers with a smile. I cannot think of a better way to spend money. It’s the ultimate win-win. The great people behind Cozy’s deserve every dollar and every bit of success they’ve acquired. I’ll be a loyal consumer for as long as I live in Chicago.

Twirl that fork. Slurp those noodles. Eat your baby-corn with chop sticks. Enjoy.

Mastic8onChicago

What a weekend I had; hell, WEEK! It was full of insanity, fun, laughter, music, and of course, food. I pulled a cliché tourist move and went to the Taste of Chicago, on a Saturday, yeah. After a busy morning and early afternoon of teaching, I returned home to a sleeping brother, my visiting guests were out exploring, and I opted to wake that lazy fool up and take the El downtown to squeeze through the diverse, at times large, crowd to taste Chicago. The red line was murder that day. I’m still confused. It was ridiculous. We stopped at Clark and Division and just didn’t move. At all. For minutes on end. It was one of those spaces of time where you make a decision who you’re going to be: the person who huffs and puffs and queries and rolls the eyes, the person who pretends nothing is happening and they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be, or the person who keeps rubbing their belly in hunger, making snarky comments to passersby, and who calls the huffers and puffers who must know all out. Being in good company I chose somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd option. My stomach growled, impatience slowly built, but me and my bro kept our wits about us. We kept the eye on the prize. We got out and walked along the busy streets of downtown Chicago until we approached Columbus Circle and the multi-colored arches donning the festival’s name.

Now, if you ask most seasoned Chicagoans, the thought of attending Taste activates their gag-reflex. I just wanted to recognize this and say, I don’t care. I had fun. I came. I ate. I conquered. Armored with my trusted entourage, we approached the long line for the food and beverage ticket tent, waited, bought, moved on. $8 buys you 12 tickets. I bought 48 for me and my hunk of man love. First, beverage. Beer was 11 tickets. Um, no. Wine was 7. That’s more like it. A thimble of Pinot grigio later and we were ready to munch.

The format of the festival is almost t-shaped, well kind of cross I guess, the head of which leads toward Millennium Park. With approximately 60 food vendors, multiple beverage tents, musical guests, demonstrations and thousands of people, to say it was overwhelming would be a drastic understatement. We stood around like farm animals not knowing where to go or what to do. We just knew we smelled food and wanted to put it in our mouths. The biggest obstacle in the way of culinary bliss, and most other dreams, were strollers. Man if it wasn’t illegal I’d...nevermind. Happy thoughts. We circumvented them well. Again, eye on the prize.

Our first choice was a classic American hand-held delight, full of fat, cholesterol, death and deliciousness; a corn dog. Then we moved on to samosas, spicey, potatoey, saucey (these are all words by the way). What came next was this turkey and herb meatball cupcake topped with a swirl of creamy mashed potatoes. Given the quick swallowing of the shot of wine, we became thirsty and irritable. We got some orange and grape drink and continued on our quest. What came next was a delectable little pocket of heaven; a fried pork and banana dumpling, so full of warmth and soul, I loved it! Sweet potato fries encourage anything down and while we vigorously chewed those we dropped 4 tickets on some plantain and meat concoction. Also delicious.

There were some other items; amazing pot stickers, meat on a stick, random desserts, icy beverages. It made the squeezing through parents and kids on wheels much less chaotic. We were ready for naps, just like the children. Rounding off the weekend with a great BBQ and the celebration of gay PRIDE with our friends on Halsted, it was one of our more memorable weekends. My hope is that my life reflects a sense of quality and while I haven’t acquired many things, since becoming an adult I’ve brought with me some tremendous memories from travels, meals and interesting people. Taste tries to encapsulate that sentiment and therefore I’m on board. Ahoy!

Eat your face off! Enjoy =)

Feel the rhythm, feel the Pride, get on up, it's brunch time.

The most important meal of the day has yet to be reviewed by me. I’m not sure why, I love breakfast, the almighty knows I love me some crispy bacon. I think it’s because I rarely go out to breakfast so mostly I’m eating a banana and drinking tea and that’s hardly interesting to anyone, me in particular. But that ends today. I have had sincere satisfaction dining at a few very special breakfast, lunch and/or brunch restaurants here in Chicago. And Jam is one of them. I live in Lakeview, near Wrigley Field, and as much as I love dining with cops and drunks, I much prefer to venture out of my boisterous neighborhood and wander elsewhere, somewhere more adult, sober even. And by sober I mean lightly buzzed on some flamboyant drink like a bellini or a mimosa. I’m a big beer drinker, but not for breakfast. I find the beginning of the day to be the classiest and then it gets progressively trashier. At the end I’m in a corner, alone, drinking canned Milwaukee’s Best, banging my head against a wall without a clue where I am.*

And so I made the lofty pilgrimage (via an air-conditioned car with friends) to the Ukranian Village, a neighborhood as understated as it is hard to find. Drive south on Damen toward Wicker Park, where there are tons of restaurants, bars, shops, and people, and then just keep going, and going, until it seems as if there’s nothing. Then stop, get out, walk, and see what happens. I actually love this quiet, peaceful neighborhood, despite my facetiousness.

Jam has no sign on the street. It’s literally daring you to find it. As if there’s a V.I.P. list of loyal locals and only through very special words of mouth can you even hear of this place’s very existence and then somehow find the time and energy to hunt it down. For me, a dear friend met the owner’s brother somehow, that may not even be right, at any rate, we found it, sandwiched between a gas station and some scaffolding. The neighborhood is filled with early 20th century northern homes and tons of trees, but the approach to the restaurant is not as impressive as the inside; the opposite of most people, places and things.

Once you question whether you’re in the right place 14 times, you reluctantly enter and are pleasantly surprised by the clean, white, pristine surroundings that is Jam. Probably capable of housing at max 60 people, Jam gives each seat in the house a great view into the kitchen, which is open and bustling, producing aromas and flavors only the most creative and passionate minds could conjure up. The staff all seem to be handsome, thoughtful, kind men, who have no desire to speed up your experience. You can eat like a European here, relax and enjoy.

As with every grubbery worth its salt in this city, the food is of the highest quality and full-fledged imagination. They take comfort foods you know and love and then challenge your palette with intriguing ingredients and methods of execution. The menu changes seasonally, which I fricken LOVE, and so my first experience involved sharing various items with friends, including their savory and sweet scones of the day, some form of an omelet, benedict and french toast. All were positively delightful, surprising, satisfying. My follow-up trip topped the initial as we had more people and therefore more to share. A Quiche with white cuttlefish and truffle, an egg and pork shoulder sandwich with rhubarb and a side of fingerling potatoes, buckwheat pancakes with an unexpected fruit and herb combination. All left me bewildered and enthralled.

Jump start your day the right way, with a spot of tea, and a unique breakfast from a secretive little gem known as Jam. Enjoy.

Allow this menu to enliven your appetite.

* That never happened...to me

A reality show worth watching: So You Think You Can Dance

It pains me to admit my life has become almost too busy for television. I'm a fan. I'm certainly not too cool to watch or own a TV and I've long stated my difficultly in relating to those who shun it. In many ways there are higher quality pieces of art in those beams of light than on the Silver Screen, canvas or stage in this country. Of course this isn't always the case, just simply stating there are a few good shows out there and one is So You Think You Can Dance. Life has a sense of humor because it always seems to make a hypocrite out of me. My 18 jobs and random schedule have led to the dissolution of my and Sam's (the Samsung television whose radio waves I intercept) tightly woven bond. I do my best to focus on quality over quantity as you've read me describe in many restaurant reviews and it is no less true in the pursuit of art. There is no American Idol, Keeping up with the Kardashians or Two and a Half Men in my DVR; but rather a hodge-podge of quirky delights like Children's Hospital, Conan, Breaking Bad (fine-tuning my review of that AMC gem currently) and one of the very few reality and/or reality competition shows worth it's salt: SYTYCD.

Avid readers will cite the previous fantasy tangents in which I explain my deep love and appreciation for everything dance. I don't believe in regrets. Every decision has led me to this moment, writing on my computer; however, I wish I'd stuck with dance when I was younger because there's this dark heaviness in my gut that yearns to pursue some feeble means toward 15 minutes of fame just to potentially join bodies in a dance with Derek Hough. Dancing with the Stars has some major flaws. I mostly fast-forward through the mindless chit-chat and background to watch the best dancers, but Derek makes that show worth watching. He's the most incredible choreographer and exudes such charisma and raw sexuality I simply cannot look away. The best dancers and performers do this. But (as usual), I digress.

Watch both of these beasts kick your heart's ass!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-6WR7-W2-g

Right, SYTYCD. I've been a loyal viewer of the program since it's beginning, when the strange woman with copious amounts of facial and body surgery hosted and there was only a Top 10. Since that time, I've evolved with the show, both as a dancer and as a woman, and I've witnessed some of the most beautiful pieces of mastery in motion that have literally rendered me breathless. I get time away from my own thoughts by letting the aptly chosen music, ingenious choreography and profound artistry of the dances take me over and somehow catechize me how to feel.

Not only does this competition showcase some of the best undiscovered talent this country has to offer, but it also broadens the mind of the audience by exposing all genres of dance from all around the world. You begin to soak in the dance vernacular, become familiar with the most respected choreographers in the business, and witness the force that is the highest athleticism with elite creativity. I thought I loved dance before (So You Think You Love Dance?) but I fall deeper into the abyss each season and Season 8 is no exception.

Whether you prefer an Argentine tango, a sassy Broadway number, a heart-wrenching contemporary piece, the passion and aggression of hip-hop, or some jazz hands, you will be happier and better after watching. I can't get enough. Go getcha some.

The best of this season thus far...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s30Wn6-mWqc&feature=related

Dance. Laugh. Eat. Enjoy.

Tweet

The other white meat brings some color into your life.

Until this point in time, I’ve yet to review any restaurants beyond casual dining. I’ve kept the dollar signs at one, or between one and two. Today is different. Today is special. This culinary eatery may bring you into the 3 dollar sign range, but truthfully you’ll most likely hover in $$-$$$. Don’t let that frighten you. You’re treating yourself. You deserve it. We all do. This place also brings collaboration and community into the mix. You’ll be sharing a plethora of flavorful dishes. Bite bite pass. Welcome to the world that is the Purple Pig. I’ll caution vegetarians now. This is a pork centered-place; hopefully the name tipped you off. Their focus is cheese, swine and wine; so feel free to join, drink, eat some cheese and veggie focused spreads, but if this disturbs or disgusts you in any way, don’t ruin your friends' trip, simply move on or stay home. See: Pick-Me-Up, Chicago Diner, Pequod’s, or Panes Bread Cafe. Plenty to choose from friends. :)

Back on message. I’ve had the sheer masticating pleasure of the Purple Pig 3 times now. Each visit was full of surprises and beyond spectacular food. If you’re visiting the Chicago area, TPP is a great option as it’s located right in the heart of the Loop on Michigan Avenue and East Illinois Street. Just past Michigan Ave’s breathtaking bridge across the Chicago river, after you’ve craned your neck to glance in awe at the Carbide and Carbon building, on to the historic Tribune and a quick look across to Wrigley’s dual structure facade, you’ll amble north and see the purple arch on the west side of the avenue. Early birds are probably the only chance of sitting immediately; if you’re willing to wait and enjoy the atmosphere at its most potent, then arrive around 730-8, squeeze past the tiny waiting area to the hostess, grab some wine and be patient. As always, it’s worth it.

The Purple Pig mostly consists of long, high, rectangular wood tables with fairly comfortable stools. You end up sitting right next to perfect strangers which is an excellent chance to look, hear and smell what they’re eating and emulate if you so choose. As with any restaurant experience, you’ll cut costs tremendously by not ordering alcohol, but that’s fun for no one. The high quality wine will make you less irritated by the noise and more appreciative of the flavors and scents wafting through the air. Plus it may make the company you keep seem more interesting. Just kidding of course, the company I choose to keep could not be more interesting. There’s something in sharing wine with the people you love; it imbues the occasion with even more magic and, in moderation, more memories.

Their menu is broken down into: Antipasti, Salad, Fried Items, Paninis, Cured Meats, Cheeses, Smears, A La Plancha and of course, Dulci. Being grade “A” fatties the salad portion was not even perused. Doesn’t mean it should’t be, just means I won’t be reviewing it. Let me just boldly recommend now that you go for weird. If you read it and it causes you to make a face, that means you need to face your judgments and fears and put that item in your mouth! My favorite items at the Purple Pig are the Roasted Bone Marrow with Herbs, Pigs Ear with Crispy Kale, Pickled Cherry Peppers and Fried Egg, and Pig Tails Braised in Balsamic. My argument to those thinking any of these items sound cruel is if you’re going to eat an animal, honor it, appreciate it, and don’t waste it. To those simply thinking they sound gross, give your palette a chance to mature, your tongue will not be disappointed.

To those with slightly closed minds and weak hearts, there are a slew of enticing dishes that will serve as food to your soul, comforting and satisfying. The cavalcade of choices from the Antipasti, Fried Foods and Cured Meat sections will stimulate any red-blooded American or International and leave you yearning for more. Whatever you choose, I can guarantee you won’t be disappointed. The tapas style portions are all well-balanced, savory, not too big, not too small. If I were to recommend just one dish, at this or any food merchant in Chicago, it’d have to be the Milk Braised Pork Shoulder with Mashed Potatoes. My mouth is salivating like Pavlov’s dog just at the thought, at the split-second memory of the vision, sizzle, aroma, and pure masticating nirvana this feature provides. My Mom makes a great roast, unbelievable mashed potatoes, and perfect complimentary sauces, rues, or gravies; and this conjures up sweet memories of childhood, of pork shank in an Italian restaurant, of family dinners, and settles in my heart that wholesome, safe, healthy feeling. I love it. Please try it.

Few things in life are more pleasurable than sharing a meal with people you enjoy. When I reflect on my life to this point, I don’t reminisce about cars I’ve had, homes I’ve lived in, clothes I’ve worn or overall consumer related items. Those are all transient and meaningless. Food is sustenance. It is necessary for survival and also pivotal in the enjoyment of the beauty this planet provides. I reflect fondly on laughs and meals I’ve shared. I’ll take that with me as I approach the end of my life.

Chew on this.

Eat consciously. Eat passionately. Laugh and chew. Drink a brew. Enjoy.

Alright America, medic8onthis. Laughter series 101 w/ Patrice O' Neal

Between the multitude of podcasts, memoirs and stand-ups I watch, read and listen on a daily basis, plus 27 years surrounded by a humorous family who passed on their own comedic influences, comedy may just be a through-line in my inspiration to write. Sarcasm is my defense mechanism. Upon meeting someone new not only do I size them up by seeing which humor they can handle, I exert what I perceive to be my strength in my words. Making someone laugh has an addictive quality and I’ve fallen in love with both sides of humor. Sure I’ve made mistakes, scared boys away, created tension with girls (I’m saying girls because women can’t be bothered with that high school nonsense), pissed my mother off, received A’s in academics and N’s in conduct. If you recall an N is not acceptable or non-sufficient or naughty. I don’t know but it’s fairly contradictory to the studious grades and attributes I also employed. Regardless, my sense of humor has served me. Sure, I’ve learned some harsh lessons about tact and timing, but mostly it’s saved me. Having or causing a legitimate laugh is not easy, nor should it be. And it is with that sentiment that I highly recommend Patrice O’Neal’s stand-up special, Elephant in the Room. Similar to food, I’m a bit of a comedy snob. Unlike music and clothing and other pursuits, I actually seek comedy out, read about it, check out up-and-comers, watch documentaries, old stand-ups, and have a great little collection of DVDs and memoirs of my favorites. Comedy is an art-form and therefore you’ll hear umpteen opinions about any given piece of art that comes your way. No opinion is wrong, just as if you’re listening to music or glancing at a painting; but as with food, there is a level of experience and acquired taste that comes into play. And as with food, I feel you can trust my knowledge and opinions on this subject.

A Massachusetts born comedian, Patrice filtered into the comedic world roughly ten years ago. It was about that time I discovered him and many other geniuses on VH1’s I Love the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s series and subsequent spin-offs and sequel/prequels. He’s had numerous appearances on Def Comedy Jam, Colin Quinn’s old Comedy Central show Tough Crowd, The Chappelle Show (where is Dave Chappelle? Man I miss him. Brilliant.), Shorties watching Shorties, and characters in films like Scream 4 and Head of State. He portrayed a warehouse worker in multiple episodes of the Office and earned some of the best ‘make Michael Scott’ squirm moments. Real comedy nerds may remember him from an episode of the greatest television show to ever be broadcast (tragically cancelled due to lack of an intelligent audience, movie still in the works), Arrested Development. His IMDB page reads like most actors but where he shines is as himself, on stage, making us laugh.

Elephant in the Room is his first hour-long special on Comedy Central. The title being both literal and figurative, pointing to both his body reflecting that of an elephant’s (assuming he also has a trunk to match) and bolding pointing out cultural norms we’re all too afraid to admit. It’s the quintessential ‘funny because it’s true’ laughter but without being obvious. It feels fresh, pulls from a new perspective. Patrice provides the most spot-on analogies that you take with you. During one point he describes men working amongst women being like grizzly bears working with salmon who happened to be covered in honey. The bear is not allowed to want the salmon, or god forbid express that desire in any way shape or form, but they’re forced to expose themselves to their greatest desire day in and day out, creating an exhausting level of tension.

The greatest and perhaps most pivotal trait in Patrice’s success is the delivery, as is the case with any humor. The tone, inflection, word choice, volume all has to be appropriately expressed to your specific audience. With Patrice, you feel he’s having a one-way conversation with you. He’s relaxed, casual, and builds on his jokes as if they come to him in that moment. And he tops it all off with the most outstanding facial expressions. Those eyes tell the story and with one look, he’s got you in stitches.

The most prolific and memorable comedians are typically the most irreverent. They’re pointing out truths they observe, like em or not, they point right to the elephant in the room. A pervasive topic for hundreds of years and no less intense than right now is the topic of racism. Whether we want to admit it or not, it’s still there, sad but true. It’s disguised and subtle, under the hats of people who’d never admit or recognize it, but damn does it still exist. And racism in all directions. Sexism, like women, is a close 2nd to racism, followed closely by homophobia and slightly off but still related topic of animal rights. It all comes back to the treatment of beings on our society and the best of the best show us our errors while simultaneously busting our guts. I can 100% admit my advantages in this society; as a woman, white, young, not horrifying to look at, I can pretty much get whatever I want and probably could give up working on it. White men have it the best and yet they’re the most sensitive about it. Get over it men, enjoy it. It won’t last much longer. We’re all privy to these societal norms. The most logical option is to recognize it, laugh at it and then continue to progress.

The material covered in Elephant in the Room speaks to our truths on the most raw level. It hurts to laugh. You laugh and then immediately say awww and make a frowney face. But the truth shall set you free and getting to that “can’t we all just get along?” goal will only approach quicker with a dialogue and comedy opens up the floor for that to happen. The only thing better than eating good food with great people is eating good food with great people while laughing. We’ve been quoting Patrice for weeks now. I look forward to watching the special again.

Below is so poignant, so true, so funny. And it came from interacting with the crowd, seemingly out of nowhere. White baby on a key-chain. Genius.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeCMCJc5-jg Burn the calories as you ingest them. Eat. Laugh. Enjoy.