Back in the 1920’s, Fred R. Barnard jacked the adage A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words from an old Chinese proverb.  Now, like 40 Acres and a Mule, Gluttons are taking that shit back.

Yea, that’s right, we started a Flickr group for you to get down like Julie Brown n’ shit.  Its time for yall to show us what else we should be eating…not just in Chicago, but Worldwide.

Currently, we have three classifications for the CG group: the Foodfuckas, the Foodfuckery Scholars, and the Porkers.  You gotta earn your Chicago Gluttons Pro Status youngins, thus more flicks move you further up the Ladder of Gluttony.  Think of it like your daily grind, only much kooler.

The Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group:

One of our favorite submissions from Joe M500

Gluttony: Derived from the Latin gluttire meaning to gulp down or swallow, means over-indulgence and over-consumption of food, drink, or intoxicants to the point of waste. In some Christian denominations, it is considered one of the seven deadly sins—a misplaced desire of food or its withholding from the needy.  Gluttony is not universally considered a sin; depending on the culture, it can be seen as either a vice or a sign of status.

We are a Nation of fat bastards. Some folks, fat on the inside, skinny on the outside. Most folks, fat both places. Regardless of your fatrolls or lack thereof, Chicago Gluttons need you to celebrate in the gluttony and keep consuming hella cuisine.

The premise of the group is simple: eat food and take pictures of it. YOU DONT NEED TO BE FROM CHICAGO TO POST; its just our HQ. Don’t lock up those images of villagers in Juba serving up goat stew or kats in Hong Kong roasting puppies. Hells yea, we get down wit James Beard! WE WANT IT ALL. The more food you can fit into the frame, the more delicious for all. Whatever you shoot, that shit betta taste good, or we will rip your asshole out.

Things We've Eaten Chicago Gluttons, Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group

Cop one, on newstands now!  Or partake in that ish right here.

Things We've Eaten Chicago Gluttons, Foodfuckery, Front Cover, Interview, New City, Print Media

The weather this spring has been absolute horseshit, but that hasn’t stopped Gluttons from hitting the road like Kerouac. When the days get long, we get hungry for other people’s food. So we decided last weekend to head East for a minute.  We flew into Dulles Airport early, picked up a Mazda 6 (that ain’t no 3, son), rolled the windows down, and headed to Berkeley Springs, West Virginia for some nap time.

Now, I look for road food like Yogi Bear looks for picnic baskets. There’s a long list of shit I need to eat: lobster and corn on the cob on a paper plate at a picnic table in Maine, pastrami sandwich and pickle from an old-school New York deli, ceviche cooked on a beach in Mexico, cat sandwich in a dirty Beijing alley–all the good stuff. But this time around I had no idea what to look for. ‘The hell do they eat in West Virginia? Squirrell? I was just happy I’d be eating off a grill all weekend long. But fuck if I didn’t accidentally stumble into my ultimate BBQ experience. I wound up eating some roadside BBQ outside Berkeley Springs that I thought only existed in my dome. Dreams do come true, kids. And sometimes they involve BBQ sauce that’s so good you want to drop 10K on a sex change and run out to Frederick’s of Hollywood for some red satin panties just so you can cream them. Delightful shit.

I mean, the food we ate was so unexpected we stopped at a shopping center-Quiznos on the way in instead of looking for something local. And eff Quizno’s. I ate some bullshit steak sub there that came with a paper cup of au jus that tasted like liquid salt and made the sandwich look like Bea Arthur’s afterbirth. Give me Potbelly any day of the week.

Thank God we eventually left the shopping center clusterfuck behind and hit more open roads. We made a quick stop so I could have my picture snapped with a sign for English Muffin Way, the greatest return address in the world. Then a rainstorm like Niagra Falls that had us parked under a tree while locals blew by in their 4-bys. And finally, in the evening, when the sun stepped out again, as we drove through the middle of nowhere, we passed two smokers going full bore outside a little two-story general store. My brother actually spotted them first–like smoke signals that said GET. THIS. BBQ. IN. YOUR. BELLY.–and called us to arms. We rolled in with the whole family, three carloads full, and got to business. When real BBQ is on the line, you don’t fiddle fuck around. You get after that like Carl Lewis with the wind at his back.

Worms cost as much as the BBQ.

Smokers.

The joint is called Timber Ridge Grocery, but it’s a grocery only in name. Inside, half the store is dedicated to antiques, Redskins football cards from the ’80s, and taxidermy. A few half-full coolers and a couple bags of noodles are the only things that qualify it as a grocer. The main draw is behind the counter, where two steaming black cauldrons house the BBQ.

There are two options here: smoked chicken or pulled pork, in sandwich form or by the pound. There are also the requisite sides (slaw, potato salad) but beyond that nothing. Just Mike, the owner, who smokes the meat, slices and pulls it, and serves it. Mike is extremely friendly and extremely serious about his bbq. He learned how to cook it from his aunt in West Tennessee and uses a family bbq sauce recipe that’s won sauce contests in Memphis. He likes to talk, but is concise. It should also be noted that Mike was packing heat. Dude wears an apron, plastic gloves, and .45 on his belt. You want to know if this guy’s serious? Look at his waist. There’s a fucking gun on it.

Do not fuck with this guy.

Naturally, I went in first for the pulled pork. Only a fool or a Communist would do differently. I was rewarded for my choice with pulled pork that had me grunting aloud. It was shredded perfectly into stringy meat slivers. Spoonfuls clumped together like patties on plain white buns. I added a spoonful of Mike’s sauce, which falls somewhere between tomato- and vinegar-based, and of course cole slaw. I put a death grip on the sandwich and barely breathed until it sat deep inside me.

The poultry was on the table cuz some of us are less gluttonous than others. Personally, I’m no chicken hawk. Unless it’s fried or dripping wing sauce, I rarely order chicken when I’m out. It’s good and all, but who hell wants chicken breast when there are goats and ducks and pigs lining up to get in your mouth hole? I like chicken like Ike likes Tina: occasionally. But dear God, I’ve been wrong. The smoked chicken at Timber Ridge is hands down one of the best things I’ve eaten since we started this site. It was moist and smoky, thin-sliced with charred edges, almost melting it was so tender. Mike served it with a simple golden bun. I added BBQ sauce. My first instinct was to build it a nest. I kept biting it and saying, “This is chicken. Fucking chicken!” The smoky flavor in that bird will stay with me long after I’ve switched from briefs to diapers.

The kind of pulled pork you trade your sister for.

Smoked chicken sandwich

And then we went back the next day, full from breakfast, and grew immediately hungry when we stepped out of the car. We got sandwiches this time around. They came wrapped tight in wax paper. Anyone who knows sandwiches will tell you wax paper makes any sandwich taste better. Wax paper is the sandwich’s womb, where it becomes what it was meant to be. They emerge from them slightly pressed, with flavors extra-mingled like Jewish 30-somethings at a J-Date luncheon.

We give a lot of love to BBQ on ths site, and with good reason: BBQ is some of the most delicious food on the planet. But, really, in this town, we don’t have that many BBQ  joints that punch you in the balls. Timber Ridge is the kind of place we need: Dude with a gun smoking two types of meat in front of his store and serving it in sandwich form. Vouch.

Things We've Eaten

Thought I was dead?  Nah, babies.  But honestly, this recession has my funds locked up tighter than a Catholic high school girls punnany on prom night.  I’m definitely looking more like Tyrone Biggums these days…sans crack.  Gotta keep eating though.  Thank Sweet Jesus for a la Card.

With coupon book in toe, me and the lady teamed up with some CG Logan Square krew and threw a gargantuan bag of dicks at penuriousness. While in dining consultation phase, all of our palates were hollering for a “metal as fuck” spice opus and three dollar sign dining (a.k.a. $$$).

Naturally, we ended up at Mexique.

I’m bout to break off some complementary knowledge for yall:  when you roll thru Mexique, walk to the back of the restaurant and you’ll see the kitchen encased by glass on your right.  Take heed.

When you see this man:

Do This:

PUT EM ON THE GLASS

Why?  Because Carlos Gaytan is behind those glass panes cooking up Mexican-French fusion goodness!  If you get around like we do, you know that this is not the first time that we’ve witnessed this type of culinary execution within the grid (Darado…pssst…DUCK NACHOS).  But, I digress.  The Bistro 110 and Bistro Margot trained head chef brings a classy, get down wit West Town culture which spiked bats couldn’t even suppress.  Avoiding the urge to dry hump the walls before you’re sat is also tricky; but be easy and let the food do the wowing.  Its like my Moms says, “aint nuttin wrong wit a little bit of hate…white folk call that objectivity.”

We got some bottles of vino tinto and gazed at the monochromatic paintings flanked by exposed brickels (I mean, fah real, does the City of Chicago Restaurant Wizard require exposed brick?).  While scanning the apps, cayenne seasonings and chili peppers beckoned me.  Soon I found myself cocking my head upwards toward the waiter, ordering the Tartara de Carne.  Pickled red jalapenos, diced onion, cilantro, and capers..>FUCK YES.  Shit pushed my wig back.  I hate to blow load on the front end of a food review, but this shit was mos def the best dish of the night. If you skip this plate of food during your visit, you are officially un-Gluttoned.  We don’t need you and don’t want you like downs syndrome caddies at the country club.

The foodfuckery quickly grew thick like men’s balls in Tampa. If we teach you nothing, remember that dining out Chicago Gluttons style entails two things, chirrens:

1) Always order the most expensive thing on the menu.  Its expensive for a reason.

2) Always order something that cant be replicated at home.

We kicked off entree consumption with duck breast and duck leg confit con swiss chard…because, well, we love DM.  Chef did this dish proper by accompanying the sweet duck with bitter greens topped with fresh corn and cranberry tamal.

We then moved on to the grilled flank steak with spinach, asparagus, fingerlin potatoes, roasted red peppers and a spicy goat cheese fondue.  The sweet, milky cream sauce (yea, I said it) made for a smooth blend with the bloody meat.  The heat in the dish was also on time.  If a frozen ice cream treat was manufactured in the honor of this plate, I’d lick the fuck out of it.

Why the hell is that wine glass empty?

Then we had the herb crusted rack alongside the coffee braised lamb shoulder and eggplant sope.  I ain’t gonna lie, I love me some rack…especially when that shit is crusted.  These lil biddies took me to climax; the lamb was moist and succulent and easily came off the bone with a tug from my Upper Centrals.  Although the meat rub was correct, I like a bit more color in my meat.  Pun intended.

suck on deez

Finally, we unfastened our belts and let gravity take ova for the crepe enchiladas covered with a ancho chile chocolate fondue.  Let me say that last part again: ANCHO CHILE CHOCOLATE FONDUE.  Every single bite was unadulterated flavorfuck.

So what kind of knowledge was preached in this CG post?  The sermon surrounded flavor (if you’re nasty…call it flavorfuck) and how the essence of food and the end product ultimately rely on it.  Mexique gets it; many don’t.  Whats a steak with no taste?  Hard to fucking swallow.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, Mexican-French Cuisine, Mexique