Shortly after hearing that Top Chef: Chicago winner Stephanie Izard’s new joint, the highly anticipated Girl and the Goat, had opened, I rushed to get my reservation and still waited about three weeks for an 8 PM spot. The hype machine in Chicago dining spools up mighty quick these days. I’m no starfucker and I understand that winning a reality TV show on basic cable is not often the most reliable indicator for expertise in your chosen field, but who in the sleazy city didn’t blush with pride when a hometown girl took top prize on judgment day. Colicchio’s bald bear head beamed and Padma’s ample bosom heaved and all was right in the culinary metaverse because the whole world (or the small, white, grotesquely privileged corner of it that slavishly laps up whatever bowl Bravo lays out for it) knew for a brief moment what many of us hold near and dear – Chicago can cook as well as it can eat. Besides, I had heard really good things about Izard’s time at Scylla.

Me and the pre-Missus skipped on down to Randolph Street, past the recently deceased Marche, and bounded through the revolving door with empty bellies and high joy. The place was sardines, which worried me before we even got to the host’s station. “I’m really sorry. There are several tables ahead of you. You can wait in the lounge or at the bar or…” He trailed off as I looked at the completely full lounge area and the three-ass-deep bar. I turned back to him and said, “Right.” This gave us plenty of time to survey the décor. The place has a pleasant lofty layout with high ceilings and canister lights centered over every single table (note: I really wish more restaurants would to this, btw, as it is perfect for seeing your food, taking no-flash pictures and maintaining privacy in a busy establishment). Big win on the vast open kitchen, sadly something of a rarity in Chicago, which featured THE Stephanie Izard personally inspecting and physically blessing every single dish that left it. Didn’t love the dowdy centerpieces placed sporadically around the place or the giant painting of a girl and a goat in the grotesque style. I am a huge fan of haunting low-brow art, and Quang is my neighbor, but creepy skulls and a dead-eyed goat looming over your dining experience seems way off tone in an otherwise understated joint. We were seated at about 8:45 – unacceptable, even for a place this new. To their credit, everyone was very apologetic about the wait. Not sorry enough to buy us drinks or comp our dessert, but certainly better than nothing.

I started with the best Sazerac I’ve ever had (trumping even the mix nerds at Violet Hour) and moved on to Corny Goat bread with goat cheese butter and corn relish. This was better than it had any right to be and our spirits raised immediately with some quality food in our gullets. Also tossed down a few raw oysters (note: most common group in a restaurant is divisible by two, please serve the right number of oysters so nobody gets hurt in the violent roshambo for the odd bivalve out) with a satisfying mignonette.

Cauliflower with pickled peppers came out next. I speared a bit of cauliflower and threw down. Eh. It was roasted cauliflower. Just, you know, some cauliflower with pretty blackened bits. No seasoning, no sauce, no nothing to speak. Bland, if fresh, and uninspired. I got worried. We had four or five more dishes coming and this was a bad precedent. I wondered if I had done something wrong. For the second bite, I deftly balanced a bit of cauliflower, a pickled pepper and a couple pine nuts on the fork (no mean feat), and my mouth was filled with omfgwtflol. It dawned on me. This crazy, fuzzy-headed, young turk may have done this on purpose. In many fine dining experiences, each component stands well enough on its own that it can be eaten somewhat willy-nilly. Not so at Girl and the Goat. You better bring your manual dexterity and your reading glasses because you are going to have to carefully construct each bite for the ideal experience. If I sound annoyed, it’s because I am not still at that table eating that food. I actually appreciate the reward for my effort and this method of cooking ensures that each component remains true to itself, spurning the butter bath and salt shower.

The Chickpeas Three Ways followed on the theme. It was tasty, but a little forced and the ménage-a-trois of legumes (fresh and green, battered and fried, and deep-fried hummus) was upstaged by the cherry tomatoes and mozzarella. I think this dish would have been just as good without the chickpeas. Veggies out of the way, it was time for pleasures of the flesh.

Grilled Baby Octopus probably hovers near the five-spot on the ‘list of shit I never thought I would eat when I was six years old.’ Lo and behold, I absolutely adore the little alien fuckers. The taste is often spot on, but the texture can be tough to get right. Gum should be chewy, octoveal should not be chewy. Izard pretty much nailed it. Because it was grilled, the texture was a bit uneven, but it was mostly excellent and completely delicious. If they braised it (or braised it longer) before grilling, it would have achieved some kind of orgasmic perfection. It was served with big, fat, lima beans, some onion shoots and other vegetable matter. Again, constructing the perfect bite was rewarded, but well-seasoned grilled octopus almost needs no supporting cast.

We hit a wall in the form of lamb ribs next. Lamb ribs are like pork ribs, but a lot richer. The lamb these ribs came from probably died from a heart attack. I liked it, but it was heavy. Heavy like a movie about war crimes. Heavy like an airplane full of grandmothers crashing into an orphanage. This plate was delicious, but tough to deal with at this stage of the gluttony and it is the one dish I would leave out next time in order to make room for the one below.

This brings us to Pig Face. Let that just sink in a bit before I continue. Pig Face. This dish is what you might expect…if you were a serial killer or a cutter. Pig Face is a goddamned pig face, torn off the pig, snout and all. The pig’s tongue is then rolled up in the middle of the pig face and wrapped tightly in cheese cloth rendering something akin to a hell sausage. This unholy talisman is then braised for a day (alternatively, it can be nailed to your enemy’s front door as a warning) and finished in the impressive wood-burning stove, sliced into innocent-looking bologna-shaped pieces and served to you with a sunny-side up egg on top. The egg seems to be saying, “Hey! Hi there! Nothing sinister here! Happiness! Joy! I am not hiding the face flesh of a swine ripped from its brain pan and wrapped around its own tongue! No way, buddy!” Oh, and if lamb ribs are rich, this dish is Scrooge McFuckingDuck spliced with Daddy Warbucks and wearing Richie Rich’s skull as a crown. Pig Face might just kill you. I almost ordered another. The construction thing is especially important as munching down on Pig Face without a little egg-y help to tone down the situation could make your brain melt. Pig Face is the girl at the party that looks either stunningly gorgeous or horribly disfigured depending on the angle of light and how many Vodka tonics you’ve choked down. She will blow your mind and leave you for dead in a trash-filled alley for the rats to finish off and, make no mistake, she will sleep well, friend. Oh, yes.

Still reeling from the full-frontal porcine assault, we settled in for a delicious dessert featuring goat cheese, blueberry compote and brown sugar cake. It was served in a crockery. I barely remember the details, but I am pretty sure I really liked it.

Girl and the Goat made me wait longer than is acceptable, but the disappointment stopped there. I had high hopes for this place and it presented me with a dining experience fresh enough to dazzle my jaded buds. It is clear Izard loves her work and I am not sure if she is a genius or this was accidental, but she slapped, flipped and rubbed down my expectations and all for a check at the end that came in under what I thought the meal was worth. Top marks, cable television starlet and Chicago’s very own. Top marks.

(Glutton’s note: I apologize for the picture quality. It’s a new Apple iPhone and, while it is not a bad phone camera, it is not for low-light situations. It won’t happen again.)

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From the Board of Trade to the Western Blue Line, Ravenswood down to River North…Matt Maroni’s ‘curbside solution for your hunger’ is hotter than Silly Bandz and Kanye’s bitch ass twitter feed (you didn’t actually think we would drive traffic there, did you?).  So much naan has been consumed in the last couple months, youd think Lake Michigan was the fucking Bay of Bengal.  In short, if yall haven’t tried a naanwich yet, your officially on Lindsay Lohan status (= tired).

Gaztro Wagon as it stands is a true monopoly.  Dorothy (Gaztro’s food truck) pounds out urban food blight like a bag of Flamin’ Hots.  But change soon come.  A Food Truck Ordinance should be signed and sealed within the next few weeks, which would effectively change the way we street dine almost overnight.  In addition to Foss, Sula, Tamarkin and others, thank your boy Waugespak for the co-sign.

Being a Edgewater native, I’ve spent the last few months watching the HQ grow.  On multiple occasions I’ve witnessed customers returning for their second or third naanwich of the day.  OF THE DAY, folks.  Think muhfukas is hooked or what?

One of Gaztro’s biggest sellers is the shortrib naanwich.  Tender, succulent, flavor saturated beef accompanied by padron peppers, red onions, goat cheese, and fresh herbs.  I’m not going to spend time talking about how good this thing is, Ima just let yall get down with these here visuals.

Good looks to deep blue skies for putting this one up on the Chicago Gluttons flickr Pool.  Keep framing them lovely plates.  Daddy’s gotta eat.

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Morchellas! (insert preferred onomonopia here)!  The molly moocher, dryland fish, merkle, the sponge, or simply known as the morel.  Only Madlib’s got more aliases.  Trip up on these in the forest and consider it an edible 1849. No worries though, North Pond’s Bruce Sherman will happily pay ole’ Barry (Appleton, Minnesota’s finest) to “hunt” um down for you.

(Said in Spicoli voice) But its not just about the shrooms, dude, its about the journey, the total gnarlyness, bro!

And its true; morels kinda taste like kneepit without a solid accompaniment.  But don’t bread and fry that shit.  That’s remedial.  Top the forest jewels with sheeps milk, ricotta-parmesan gnocchi, cinnamon and watercress and suddenly the sun, moon, and stars seem more boring than old people sex. We’d work this dish down like cherry twizzlers.

Solid grab by Kidltamae.  Stay up on the Chicago Gluttons flickr group and culinary centerfold, babies.  Its more controversial than the Chicago Eyeball.  Oh, and never forget, the digital camera to deliciousness ratio always favors the documentarian.

Culinary Centerfolds, Dinner, You Have to Fucking Try This

Next muhfucka who asks me if I decided to open my own soul food restaurant is gonna get to know my dull blade called Sammy Three Cuts.

For serious, go ahead and do a Google search for Dee’s Place.  Experiencing internet browsing malaise?  Let me get that for you.  Other than the industry stalwarts, Metromix, Centerstage, and Time Out Chicago, you aint gonna find shit about this new soul food, live blues/jazz spot.  One can tell that a restaurant is in it’s infancy when Yelp only has 5 reviews posted up.  On top of all that, Dee’s Place doesn’t have a website.  And that’s because they just don’t give a fuck.  10 years in the making, Dee’s plan is to let mouths spread the good word.

Wicker Park natives deserved a soul food joint such as this.  The reality is that although soul food dishes are relatively familiar kitchen fare for most, a majority still fail miserably when attempting to replicate these items at home.  Think about it.  When was the last time you successfully cooked collard greens & ham hock, stewed black eyed peas & country ham, candied yams, deep fried catfish, slow cooked pork ribs, baked decent cornbread or fried hush puppies?  The answer is very likely never.  I am excluding those who’ve hijacked grandma’s tub of lard that was stored under the kitchen sink.

What is it about soul food that makes it so gotdamn good and why are the recipes so coveted?

Well, during the antebellum period, it was illegal in many states for African slaves to read or write, so food recipes were passed on orally.  On top of that, many recipes were prepared with spontaneity; the use of a measuring cup was considered a cardinal sin.  Finally, the ingredients for soul food feature discarded selections of meat that were kicked down by the slave master: pigs feet, chitterlings, and ham hock are alien items to most, but the flavors that are created by these exotic cuts are at the essence of what we call the deliciousness.

At Dee’s Place there is no exception to this rule.  I might as well been Mike Tyson asking to eat Dee’s infant child when I made the mistake of requesting clarification from Rayland on the type of BBQ sauce used on the rib plate.  In this business, recipes are more important than the cook preparing them.  And that’s real talk, people.

I’m not even going to make an attempt at explaining the menu.  Remembering what apps, meat, and sides are available and then choosing the combination that will get you the most mileage was more intricate than Asian nail art.  Since you cant find the menu anywhere online, Chicago Gluttons got you sussed:

We started with Stone Sublimely Self-Righteous Ale and the catfish nuggets appetizer.  The seasoned breading surrounding the white fish (which I have to assume is perch, because they wouldn’t say nathen) is the kinda shit that will bring Kaczynski back.  Add a bit a Trappy’s hot sauce and let the goodness ride out, homie.

With plate one, Dee reminded us of the plantation life, featuring fatty pork ribs, fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, collard greens and cornbread.  My slave brethren would have been honored by my attempt at eating like a field negro from the 1700′s.  I multitasked this shit…seizing ribs in one hand and chicken in the other; working flesh down to the bone.  Best believe the chicken was perfectly fried and oozed juices like an abscess.  Tender ribs were seared and smothered in a sweet sauce that had my lower lip sloppy.

Fuck the wet-naps.  I used a hunk of cornbread to wipe up.

The collards were slow cooked to alleviate bitterness and kept the greens firm.  Noodles in the mac-and-cheese congealed with the cheddar and jack cheeses like Cagney & Lacey.

And with plate two, Dee took us back to the West Indies with heat and sweet, offering up jerk chicken, candied yams, jambalaya rice, and cornbread.  No bumbaclot/rasclot/gutclot present.  Ras Marley was talking about Chicago Gluttons krew when he came up with the lyrics, “them belly full, but we hungry.”  Bob know we be killing plates, son.  “A pot to cook, but the food not ‘nough.” I KNOW, BOB; we ate all that shit while you was rolling up that spliff.

And then there was the bread pudding.  Instantly sprung.  I don’t recall being this aroused since I saw the Halley Berry sex scene in Monsters Ball.  “Bread Pudding…YOU MAKE ME FEEL GOOD!”  Tech geeks, get the fuck out of the iPad line and spend your money on something that actually makes sense.

Vanilla pudding, bread, and like 6 sticks of butter.  This is what God wanted for us.  Dee’s got her bread pudding trained to swallow those who talk shit whole, so for real, just don’t do it.

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Basking under unseasonably pleasant March temps, a thick contingent developed on a creaky front porch deep within Albany Park.  A couple heads pulled out American Spirits and resh as we got lifted by the anticipation of it all.  Inside, the living room was knee deep in construction, but the naked frames added a crude beauty.  A soft glow emitted from the candle centerpieces while hard bop notes bellowed from Coltrane’s saxophone.  High heels vibrated through hardwood while the chatter grew.  A kat in the corner poured Grey Goose into his tumbler with a heavy hand; corks on Sierra Nevada’s 30th Anniversary Ale popped off like gunshots.

And there was a fragrance…an omnipresent, delicious odor which effortlessly oozed its way through Koreatown.  Braised pork, thyme, and beef stock melded together to form a cypher for the senses.  When I made it to the kitchen, I stumbled upon the organized chaos of two men nestled inside madness; effortlessly working in harmonious tandem. The goal: cook the living shit out of six courses and bust every gut in the process.

Yall know what this is.

With the passing of the winter season, a Chicago Gluttons dining club tradition experiences revivification.  The Deliciousness VII.  In typical gluttony fashion, this annual affair is like none other.  A feast that will steal your life away faster than a Toyota Camery.  Imagine Sunday Dinner and add some Black Sabbath to it.  Year after year, chefs Mike Regan and John Honkala continue to cook aggressively and without inhibition.  Couple these gentlemen with front of the house support from Heather Clark, and just call it easy street.

After a toast of gin to build appetite and enhance digestion, we unfolded napkins and clutched cutlery.  We live to consume; and nobody does it better than this bunch of kids.  So heed while we go Undercover Boss on yall, giving you a sneak peak of true, unadulterated blue collar dining.

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Gilt Bar is real talk, peoples.  Realer than a 3rd mortgage.  Realer than a drunk krew of community organizers.  Realer than ole boy who hacked into Baracks and B. Spears Twitter accounts.  Realer than the HIV+, son.

Have you all seen this menu?  How are we not fucking with this place?  I’ll commit 1st-4th degree murder for this deliciousness.  Lemme get that roasted bone marrow and red onion jam on toast.  And them Anson Mills heirloom white grits w/ local white cheddar.  Oh, and I’ll holler hard at those Kennebec Frites…I like my shits Kennebec’ed.  While at it, add some Maple & bourbon glazed red wattle pork and the coal fired beef rib eye.  Hook my plate up, waiter!  And never forget my balls.

Ya heard? Thats the oven roasted, hand cut pork meatballs with brown butter and thyme.  As Roy say, we’ll race you to the grave with this one cuz we’ll be ordering multiple plates of this.  We’ll consume so heavy, ball sweat will be inevitable.

Props to Kidltamae and the CG Flickr Pool for bringing the heat .  Our sweaty dreams will be happily be disturbed from here on out.

Culinary Centerfolds, Dinner, You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group, Gilt Bar, Kidltame, Pork Meatballs