Here’s to the Swine

That Animal Divine

who through Mud and Slime

Grit and Grime

Gorges over Time

Into Meats Divine

The Publican

When Chicago Gluttons caught rumor that Paul Kahan and his boy Brian Houston (masterminds of Blackbird and Avec) were forming like Voltron with Donnie Madia and Terry Alexander (creators of del Toro and Sonotheque) we expediently readied our cutlery.

TOC and MenuPages blogs’ success in predicting The Publican’s opening closely resembled CBS & NBC 2000 Presidential election coverage.  After various sample menus and weeks of correspondence from dem crazy kids ova at the “Yelp Sewing Circle”, we finally sat down to reap harvest.  Don’t get it twisted, caution still reigned.  As we’ve learned before, hype and swine can quickly turn into smoke and mirrors.

After putting our names in (there are no reservations at The Publican) we were ushered to the bar.  Knowing that the brew list was as daunting as House legislation, we strong armed our way past the mob to the fertile crescent.  This area had two “high tables” where patrons could dine on the light menu which featured 3 aged hams and 7 types of oysters from the ball we call Earf.

Break me off a slice Sista!

Because heads were either waiting to be sat or had no intention of being sat, the bar area was as constipated as my Pops after a week sans-Metamucil.  Much like Avec, the wait staff intermingled with the crowd, scooping up drinks and small plates from the open kitchen creating a Wii-like interactive experience.  Sound reverberated off the high ceilings providing an audio score which trumped the various .mp3s pumped out of the sound system.

Paul showing the krew he shines glass like Windex

The aesthetic at The Publican is neo-public house fused with swank hotel ballroom.  The walls and ceiling are topped with textured wallpaper.  Brass separates the two tones and also suspends the globes which light the room.  4-top booths line the wall and long communal tables fill the rest of the dining area.  Many people have complained about the lack of ornaments at The Publican, but I interpreted this differently.  It’s almost like the people actually BECOME the art in this space.

As we chatted it up with some of Chi-Tilla’s finest, the second hand on the clock turned profusely.  Word to the wise: hit The Publican with a large party and seatability increases exponentially.  While schwilling micro-brews, we noticed that there were two seats open for at least 40 minutes…of course, these were the very seats that ended up as our dining space.  Was this planned or mere oversight?

Whatever the fuck, I quickly got over my saltiness.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5
4, 3
2…1
Injection, Fellas.

We started off with the Scallop Crudo which featured scallops, Pacific Sun extra virgin olive oil, pinenuts, yuzu, and scallions.  Placing all components of the dish on a forkful allowed me to fully comprehend why this was the evening’s “catch of the day.”  The scallops shared the spotlight of the dish with the pinenut’s roasted flavor as well as the sharpness of the scallions.

Our sea voyage continued with the Chef’s selection of Oysters.  Adjectives like, “sweet, buttery, briny, and rich” described our smorgasbord of oysters from Hood Canal to New Zealand.  I can’t even front that I could taste the differences between each of these mollusks…but then again, I aint seeing no ADP paycheck in my mailbox for these food reviews.

At halftime, we asked for the server’s choice.  Five minutes later he came out with the Burrata; a dish composed with KinniKinnick Farms finest produce.  Simple and straightforward.  Brussel sprouts, pecans, balsamic, and fresh mozzarella.  Moms around the World need to cop this recipe, QUICK.

After ordering up a bomber of Three Floyd’s Moloko Milk Stout we popped and locked our way to the meat portion of the menu.

First up was the Crispy Sweetbread Schnitzel.  At first bite, this tasted much like Shake ‘n’ Bake Country Fried Steak.  People, what’s IN the breaded coating is what truly matters.  Well its name is thymus gland…never forget that shit like 9/11.  Buttery, bouncy, boisterous.

We closed our digestion traps with some Wagyu Steak Tartare, aggressively working organic egg into the meat like Grandma spoons lard into her buttermilk biscuits.  The steak collabed with a couple handfuls of frites fried in duck fat.  All the rawness made my stomach fear for daylight hours.  But no worries on the back end, CG fam.  From here on out, Ima go old school and start ordering ALL my meats uncooked neanderthal styles.  Public school administrators worried about sagging SAT scores?  Try serving up 5 oz. patties of this shit at lunchtime.

Sitting on 70-100 varieties of local, regional, and international beers alongside 12 rotating taps, The Publican has become a new beacon for those who frequent Fulton Market on the steady and just want a decent snifter or two.  When dining, get to know your neighbors; swap dishes and sample brew…we sure as hell did.

The Publican could be interpreted as the antithesis of Hopleaf: food first; beer second.  On the contrary, the Blackbird Group creates a dining experience where beer and cuisine compliment each other exquisitely.  In Joe Six-Pack terms, The Publican is Hopleaf with a pimpsuit on.  Neat, loud as hell, elegant at times, moderate bling, and def all business (AB).  Really do’, a pork belly cookoff would clear this argument right up.

Dinner, Things We've Eaten publican, The Publican Chicago

Which is it? A Cuban Restaurant or the Mess Hall for Ringling Bros.

I recently came to the revelation that my Grandfather (a.k.a. PaPa) was a fantastic cook. His cooking ability was not attributable to the best recipes or a pantry full of spices. Nah, the man had another skill up in his repertoire: patience. When cooking for the fam, PaPa’s prep consisted of waking up at 3am, strolling down to the pigpen and slaughtering lil’ Wilber. By 5am, he would have the spit going and that distinct aroma of swine would fill the plantation like herron in Harlem. PaPa didn’t give a fuck if people got hungry and the side dishes got cold. The meat was always to be cooked correct, even if it wasn’t ready until 10pm.

Nowadays, when we cook, its all about 4-minute rice and Punjab Choley in a fucking pouch. Kids don’t even wait for water to boil anymore.

Where am I going with this? La Habana superimposed in Chicago: Habana Libre (they even spell the shit with a “b” shunn!). Whats their secret? These kats emancipate their meats like Kunta Kente by significantly extending cooking time.

Now don’t go hollerin at George Bush Jr., but a few years back, I made the trek down to the beautiful isle of Cuba. For accommodation, we stayed at casas particulares, which are essentially B&Bs. For meals, you can select from a few options that your hosts predetermine. Straight up, during my two week jaunt, I honestly don’t recall placing anything in my mouth that could potentially compare to Habana Libre’s food.

Break open a Tecate and lets get down to it young bucks:

After glancing over the menu, we opted to begin with the “sampler platter” which featured fried plantains, fried yuca, beef empanadas, and croquettes. Whoa kid! The empananas and croquettes were crazy good…Moist and succulent with a proper meat/dough ratio. If forced to choose a favorite, Id probably pick everythang on my mutherfuckin plate doused with that garlic sauce you see in the right side of the picture. Why? Because that’s just how we do.

Prior to visiting HL, I read mixed reviews on the innanet about their Cuban sandwiches. I have to say that I just don’t understand all the fuss. Take a long Care Bear Stare at the Ropa Vieja (pictured below). What are your eyes drawn to? If you were thinking about the french bread, you need to hop on over to this Ninny Ass Blog cuz Chicago Gluttons don’t play that shit.

My point is, its not really about what type of bread is utilized; it is about what is inside of it. And the contents inside this sandwich were fire. The shredded beef chunks were cooked slow-and-low in cumin and communistic cans of tomato sauce. HL added spunk to the happy food party by packing in slices of onion as well as red and green peppers.

After consuming the sandy, our main course arrived, further complimenting HL’s “Take Some Fucking Time With Your Meat” theme.

Um, pretty much dude. The Oxtail was screaming for a mouth tutorial and I obliged. Again, the tomato, garlic, onion, cumin and coriander seed sopa served as the foundation of the dish. Anything that sits in an oven this long needs to have something substantial to lean on. Fidel and Raul’s regime propelled my plate consumption something fierce. The fat was hidden in the tail cuts (yall know that’s where the flavor is at) and I found myself placing whole bones in my mouth, sucking away any potential bovine lifeforms.

Hey yo, don’t go thinking that this progression only applies to meat products…didn’t Karl Marx say that there’s something for everyone? HL’s menu also features a significant portion of options for you pescatarian heads out there.

I know this recession has got that billfold blowing tumbleweeds, but no worries. The restaurant is BYO, so fill a brown bag with some clankies (bottles) before dining and put those savings in your mattress. There was so much menu left untouched that next time Chicago Gluttons makes a guest appearance at HL, we’ll be bringing our Somalian sized hunger.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten best cuban restaurants chicago, cuban food chicago, cuban restaurants, Habana Libre

Sup CG fam!…Its been a minute.  My ass was kept at bay due to a recent B&E at “Darwensi’s Nest.”  A few items got-got, including my better half: the Canon SD790.  But, the Allstate check came strong this weekend, so I’m back like Mortimer and Randolph Duke.  One lesson learned is that extensive time off of food review is perilous.  Gluttony ensues.  Heed.

There is something to be said about a restaurant that a) moves across the street from its competition, b) uses essentially the same name as its competition, c) serves pretty much the same food as its competition and d) utilizes the same gaudy ass Red Lobster decor as its competition.  Mariscos El Veneno really shouda named their restaurant “Los Cojones Grandes.”  Instead, they went with “The Seafood Poison.”  I don’t know bout yall, but this kind of name made me inquisitive.  I pondered, “does the name imply that sting rays or jelly fish might be on the menu?”  A bit ambitious…I know.

It was just two of us.  We were planning on an extensive night of dranking, so we wanted to keep it light.  Like some fish tacos, skrimps cocktail, and seafood empanadas.  But then, Chef Amadeus walked over with this shit:

Seafood shunnn…WHAT!^$*#

There was an awkward silence in the restaurant as Amadus described a master plan to prepare this 6 pound bitch.  We knew what was about to pop off…a night of gluttony was about to spawn.  As we gave lobster confirmation nods, all patrons turned and began to clap.  It was like being transported back to my 6th Grade Science Fair project on soil erosion or State Championships at da Boy Scouts Pinewood Derby.  Sometimes strangers have to stop and admire true shine.

I digress.  Mariscos poisonous namesake is rooted in the homemade habanero sauces.  The salsa was uber crisp and didn’t give BJs to a bunch of cilantro for integrity.  But hey, be easy on the quantities kid; this shit holds mo heat than clap bathroom sessions.  We also devoured complimentary tuna ceviche tostadas which soothed the fiesta caliente taking place in our mouths.

Our server came ova and informed us that our table was too small for the dish and that we would need to move to a six top.  She smirked, then headed back to the silverware wrapping station next to the Latin-filled digital jukebox.  The nervousness and tension was building.  It’s like when you reach the cusp of a roller coaster and begin to have second thoughts.  Wanna get off?  Naw mang, it’s too late for that vagina bidness.

Shorty after, Amadeus appeared like Moses on Mt. Sinai.  Instead of the Ten Commandments, ole boy came with a different type of lesson.

Thou shalt consumeth lobster until thou puketh before mine eyes.

Yessir, the “langosta gigante” lived up to its name.  The body was boiled to perfection, split down the middle and served with a mixture of fresh bay scallops, calamari, skrimps and a whole bunch of other shit I couldn’t identify.  The seafood stew was a bit garlicky, but I assume this was done in order to flavor the body of the lobster, which was bout the size of newborn baby.  Overall, the lobster meat achieved proper sweetness…no garlic butter necessary.  The Frugal Gourmet would have co-signed.

Mariscos El Veneno leans on distinct village style prep in order to make El Barco appear colossal and dumb (much like Cancun).  So, if you’re in Ukrainian Village with 5 friends, or you’re alone and cravin lobster leftovas for two weeks, this is your joint.  I implore you to schwill down all that BYO brew and/or liqqah, and go take a huge Calvin style leak on the Joneses.

Consider these verbals as more of a disclaimer than anything else…Drunkenness is mos def welcome, just dont fuck up the decor.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten best latin seafood, el barco mariscos, huge lobster, latin seafood chicago

When I was in college, I rarely told people that I grew up in Indianapolis. Then my fam moved to NOVA, and I was quick to rep a city that had Go-Go and crack far above a city that featured the Indy 500. But alas, things change. People change. After my pseudo-exodus from Indy, a southern mom-and-pop joint opened up two locations in downtown Indianapolis called Yats; transforming the “Capitol of Conventions” into a neo-Bourbon street. Soon after, I made the pilgrimage back to Nap-Town. I tasted Yats and yucked it up like some fat mom jokes.

But hey, hold that gas money or Megabus fare playa, because a few weeks ago, the cajun crazies appeared in the West Loop.

Don’t let the location fool you…this is a restaurant built for the common man who likes to throw some chilies into the bowl called life every now and again. Half orders are $4.50, full plates are $5.50, and its $6.50 for any combination. There are no printed menus because the shit changes up everyday.

I didn’t catch Joe Vuskovich-the New Orleans owner/restauranteer-up in the fray, but he has effectively infused classic Southern hospitality with Midwestern corn values. A kat called Nate greeted me promptly as I finished pouring my Country Time Lemonade via fountain, showing me love for rollin thru. Wall decor was plentiful but the room still felt bare. It musta been a lack of sweat filled groans of pleasure that I am used to experiencing at the Indy locations. Soon come dough.

Enough non-food talk, peepith:

Above, we have the round robin shot by my boy drooo (a Nap-Town transplant who co-signs on the goodness). The plates-of-Yat clockwise: B&B, White Chili w/ Cheese (sour cream added), Pazole Stew, Curry Mushroom Ettoufee, Ropa Vieja (behind the Sriracha), Chicken Maque Choux, and Chili Cheese Ettoufee w/ crawfish.

It ain’t no muhfuckin fire drill at Yats; these kids slang flavors like Sysco Foods slangs frozen buffalo wings. Every flavor in the dish is clean, not muddled. Cajun spices are balanced by layering at various stages during creation of the dish which yields a flow of flavors. Taking a bite of a Yats dish is much like slamming the last bowl from a box of Count Chocula. You get the marshmallows AND the toy. Any haters out there that think its not possible to have that cake and eat it too? Well, its time for you to step the fuck off.

And now we gon get all up in Yats’ personal:

I call this my “Trio of Glory Laced in Styrofoam.” I ripped through the containers like it was Christmas ‘83, trying to get at what was lofting behind the wrap. The Chicken Maque Choux ended up taking gold. Listen, I don’t eat corn. I consider it a waist of time for my bicuspids to chew something that is going to come out with the same identity that it went in with. But these little yellow biddies were on some wow-me-now shit. The ettoufee was a perfect balance of sweet and spicy dankness which mentally transported me back to Indy and reminded me that there is more than corn in Indiana (and it is not at Indiana Beach).

Word is bond, this restaurant is going to blow like Mount St. Helens. Yes, it is BYO, and I am also told that delivery into Loop will begin shortly so you fools can get your corporate cajun on.

We’re going bless Yats with our gold placard of Solid Food Goldness, but unfortunately doesn’t exist yet, so hold tight Joe. Utmost props for creating a product and making that shit fucking correct. Lastly, a welcome to the fine city of Chicago. We can’t wait for January when you will electric blanket our cold souls.

Dinner, Lunch yats, yats chicago