Trotsky, Guevara, Levski, Mao Zedong, Spartacus.  If the first few weeks of business at Revolution Brewing are any indication of what is to be expected in the years to come, historians should go ‘head and add Josh Deth and Jim Cibak to the list of muhfuckas who flipped the script.

The long and arduous story of Revolution Brewery is a familiar one for many Logan heads.  No one could have blamed kids for being pissy like ghetto mattresses about the delays either.  Nine years is a fucking long time.  But, like a double imperial stout, time aged the concept well.  Revolution is destined to become a work of art; utilizing craft brew and eclectic cuisine to paint their masterpiece.  Take Cibak’s brewing résumé for example, which is tall enough to knock out the fucking light fixtures.  Shit includes stops at Weinkeller, Goose Island, Three Floyds, Firestone Walker and Crown Brewing Companies.  The progression culminated in May 2009, when Deth and Cibak teamed up like freedom fighters, aimed to liberate the Chicago craft brew scene, viewed by some as more restricting than a 2 inch condom on baby arm.

With their opening, Revolution pierced through ribbed latex.  A stark, minimalist space, where the only artful presence is some used wood barrels and exposed brick.  Decoration not required when you got FIST PILLARS, son.

During a 7 day period, me and the krew were able to take full advantage of the brew lineup as the ‘Iron Fist’ Pale Ale dried out, and was replaced with the ‘Bottom Up’ Wit.  “…we only have four fermenters and people are drinking the beer faster than we can make it.” said Deth, on the Revolution Blog.  For a young brewmaster with a bit to prove, nocturnal emission must be made of this.

If you are one of the busters out there that (use ninny voice) “doesn’t like flavorful beers” or “can’t stand all these high ABV brews,” you

a) should fall the fuck off like limbs infected with leprosy (T. Kweli)

b) still gotta feed that bitch ass

Apps were devoured with resistance to stagnation, raining down gluttony like some Pacman Jones and Nelly shit.

Four versions of Brushcetta: duck confit/crimini mushrooms, roasted beet/belgian endive/goat cheese, roasted cauliflower/white bean arugula, and plum tomato/red onion/ basil/fresh mozzarella.  Yessur.

My birthright: the sausage and ham plate.  Dark rye and gherkins surrounded by 4 savory meats?…That’s just plain dirty.

Bacon popcorn, what!  A harmonious mixture of kernels fried in bacon fat, then topped with crumbled bacon, sage and shaved parmesan.  My black ass needed GPS to map out the flavor country.

With three dishes south of the belt buckle, we filled up the members only mugs and forged on…

…but we didn’t know shit was going to be fierce like this.  Portions were heavier than Kristie Alley pre-Big Life, yo.  I mean, gotdamn, lets get Revolution and Maggiano’s on some head to head shit.  Gluttony skills were not ready for the revolutionary assault.  Even the vegetarian bowl of lentils, quinoa, brussel sprout, turnip, parsnip, etc. was pleasantly unsettling.

Flavor profiles were so bright, I applied SPF30. Most notable were the garlic creme cheese mash potatoes, apple-cranberry compote, and honey-jalapeno slaw.  The mustard herb chicken breast was moist and lovely which, for brewpub standards, makes less sense than bathing with a washcloth.  As I worked through my plate of Hampshire-Duroc pork chop, best believe I got touched off.  Like my Masai Mara brethren, not even the gristle was wasted.

Group concensus: Regal Fatness Status sprinkled with a dash of Glutfuckery.  After a couple-three brews and all of this goodness, I needed some man-ternity leave for the small child built up inside of me.  We Port-au-Prince shook up.  Revolution televised.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, craft beer, logan square, revolution brewery

Palmer House?  The fuck?  No, this post aint about the Twentieth Annual Meeting of the Society for Text & Discourse or that time your boss told you she’d pick up a couple AWDs (after work dranks) at the Lobby Bar, then cut out early, leaving you with a healthy tab.  Nah, fam, this post is about a gotdamn sandwich and the food scientry going on at Lockwood.  Not familiar with Philip Foss?  Wrong Answer.

Skip that $5 footlong college bullshit and head straight for the pros.

Pictured above, we have the Shortrib sandwich served along truffled potato chips, courtesy of KidItamae and the CG Flickr Group.  This flick honestly had us on some L.L. Cool J shit, licking lips every 20-30 seconds.  Be sure to peep Foss’ blog, The Pickled Tongue to see dood fulfilling his slave master duties, steadily cracking whip on the backs of the downtown culinary scene.

Culinary Centerfolds, Lunch, Things We've Eaten, You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group, lockwood, palmer house, philip foss

Whiskey. Tacos. Tostadas. Shakes.  In Chicago, Big Star is now as synonymous to Tex-Mex as Dulcelandia is to Chicano Candy-land.

Paul Kahan (Blackbird, Publican, Avec + dickEverest of James Beard nominations) is back on the grindilla.  Once again, teaming up with ole boys Terry Alexander and Donnie Madia to continue the discipleship of straightforward dining dissemination for the masses.  As imagined, the krew focuses on quality ingredients and plates of goodness.  Everything else seems like its just a fucking waste of time to the Big Star team: wall decoration, seating assignments, debit cards, and website were all afterthoughts here.

The booze drew me in like white on rice. 

I ordered a Single Barrel Four Roses whiskey, poured neat-n-shit and panned the crowd for bar stools to open up.  Then I took a couple investment banker alcoholic style gulps to warm my bones and prepare my appetite for the blast.

I noticed that there was a service window that peered into the kitchen and I jumped on the opportunity to get a glimpse of the lab.  My biggest question: are there actually Mexicans in the kitchen at Big Star?  At first glance, it looked like they were.  I mean…they were brown.  However, I do get my Costa Ricans or Colombians jammed up.  It all became clear when they went over to the pork spit and began shaving meat into corn tortillas.  Yup, Mexican fah sho.  That kind slicing technique can’t be taught at Kendall College.

Back to the dining.  We started with the frijoles because that shit came out first.

I was immediately impressed with freshness of the frijoles charros.  I don’t give a fuck if you’re in Bhutan or Lithuania, 9 times outta 10, a solid recipe starts with tomato, onion and garlic.  Flavors of soil and sun emitted from the bowl.  I could taste the blood, sweat and tears with every bite.  I swear to God that Micheal Jackson wrote “Earth Song” for this cup of beans.

As the third glass of bourbon flowed into my veins, food began to hurricane in like a Katrina Part II, fueled by poor black folks and jazz music.  With the double tostadas, I really couldn’t see where the food stopped and the plate began.  I was honestly afraid of what might happen when I stuck my hand in…but fuck, daddys gotta eat.

The wood grilled chicken thigh, chayote, black beans and poblano cream melded well, creating multiple layers of flavor profile.  The coriander and red onion went DEEP, but I had my sexing situation sussed out for the evening, so no worries there.  Then it was on to the pescado which consisted of wood grilled basa, cucumber, onion, radish, cabbage and avocado.  Both of these dishes were complimented by the extra thin, deep fried, fresh corn tostadas and, of course, my full glass of bourbon.

And hole the hell up for a minute (needle slides off wax).  How did I not know about this bourbon and Mexican food thing?  Bakersfield, speak the fuck up!!!  Its Limp City over here.  I mean, I feel deflated like Teen Wolf when he would change back to Scott Howard.

The Mexican Liberation continued.

As yall know, we Chicago Gluttons stay close to our 3rd World, indigenous roots and fucks with the pork and lamb heavy.  As more food arrived, I pulled a Tiger Woods, cheating my way around the bar to get bites offa everyone’s plate.  I grabbed some salsa from the red topped squeeze bottle and clocked in.

I began my journey with the braised lamb shoulder.  The thinly sliced radish paired surprisingly well with the powerful marinade of the meat.  Then I hit the braised pork belly, which was supported by tomato guajillo sauce, cilantro and queso fresco.  The char on the pork created a caramelized skin that you see on most Guatemalan village boys.

While tasty, the poblano taco was a consolation prize to get to the finish.  The taco flavor was monotone due to a lack of roastiness from the pepper.  I will say, however, that it was hotter than the new Beyonce/Alicia Keys collabo.

The breadwinner was the taco al pastor with spit roasted pork shoulder, grilled pineapple, onion and cilantro.  The savory/sweet contrast was executed perfectly.  Damn the Health Care debate, lets get a “daily consumption of tacos al pastor” bill written into U.S. law…when obesity gets out of hand, we’ll just force more people to audition for The Biggest Loser.

After one last glass of W.L. Weller House Selected Single Barrel and the perfect level of marinated meats up in my belly, we stumbled out into the brisk night swearing that our next visit would be only hours away.  At CG, we shy from frugality, but we aint got no James Cameron Avatar type duckets either.  Big Star’s fare, just like Mexican street food, is for the people.  And just like Paul Kahan & Co. would tell you, food made with any other purpose is just a fucking waste of time.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten big star chicago, Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, chicagoist, tex-mex

Indie Cafe, your Pan-Asian cooking style is sorry!

You make my bowels pour curry juice from poor preparation technique in kitchen.

Your food is not worth two dolla.

Indie Cafe, rick my barrs.

For serious, like most of you, I desperately tried to enjoy this place.  I really did.  After returning home from Indie, I yearned to know what I had potentially missed on the menu.  I wanted to believe that the entire dining party had ordered erroneously; like hobos fresh off the Appalachian Trail, dumbfounded by hunger and hype.  My research only produced dissent.  I sat down at my box and extended my innanet arms like Inspector Gadget, quickly finding Justin N. “Yelping” his balls off.  In his comment about Indie, he wrote, “I love this place. Great combination of Japanese and Thai food.  I must admit my guilty pleasure is complimentary food.  I occasionally get cravings for different types of food at the same time.  (For example, Tacos and Pizza, Wings and Sushi, – Call me weird for that one).”

Really, Justin?  Wings and Sushi?

And then there was Peg T.: “I love this place and the best part is that its walking distance from home!…The prices here are great and the selection is a lot bigger than I thought it would be.”

Really, fam, when did we become such trifflin ass diners?  Since when was restaurant quality directly linked to home vicinity and price point?  I stay right around the corner from Somerset Place, but yall aint gonna find my black ass eating creamed spinach and candied yams the dining hall.

My fact finding escapade bout made me throw up my green curry-n-coconut milk.

But it wasn’t just bout the food for me,  it was the decor as well.  I couldn’t get down with the paintings of Asian men donning Vaudeville feather shawls or three nekked doods interconnected, hurling themselves into a bathing pool.  Even for Edgewater, the shit was disturbing.  I mean, the dining room decor had to have been picked from various leftover items at a Micheal’s Arts and Crafts 90% Off Blowout Sale (sorry, coupon expired).

Tired of my rant?  I aint even got to the dining sesh.

We started off our sub-par consumption escapade by waiting 10 minutes for a wine key.  That’s correct…they wouldn’t even let us get our imbibe on, yall.  I was about to call J.C. down from the heavens to get the evening poppin Cana Wedding styles when our server finally came over and knocked out our order in seconds.

Fortunately, the food came in like the order went out: real quick like.  But, this was not a good thing.  The fried pork dumplings and crab rangoon were par, but not worth the cost of a Forever stamp to mail a post card to Moms.  The dumplings had a decent combination of cilantro and chili to aid in savory layering, but the sweaty ass pot sticker decapitated the these components.  In all honesty, the shit was moist like douche.

The rangoon keep things moving in the same direction.  The trio of cream cheese, crab and funnel cake dough was overpowering and rambunctious.  I will, however, give them props for using a pimp cup.

Then we got down with the entrees, which further solidified the wild nature of all things Indie.  I like things buck, but if food is going to be executed in this fashion, it better fucking taste good.

With every bite, I had gluttonous remorse.  My thoughts were centered around all the delicious things that I could have been eating. I slowly came to the realization that I would never get this dining time back.  It was like a lecture from Dad.  It was like paying to eat in a curry horse trough.

The first entree, the Duck Panang Curry, was a suggestion from a fellow Edgewater Glutton.  I admit I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but this sauce was so fucking sugary, I felt the fillings in my teeth popping out.  Oh, you think that’s soft?…Willy Wonka woulda been K.O.’d by the fragrance alone.  Think Panang + Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pie filling (which will make anyone’s stomach feel hella funny).

Then it was time for the Tom Yum Kungfried rice dish with shrimp, mushroom, bell pepper, and tomato fried in a hot & sour sauce.  Its really hard to jack up fried rice, but they found a way.  Overcooked and unflavorful.  I swear every bite had at least three fucking baby corns up in it.  Blind kats with no taste buds could have prolly done better.

Then we had another interpretation of the duck curry dish that I was whining like a lil’ bitch about earlier.  This time with chicken, which was dryer than a Tim Geithner speech on U.S. monetary policy.

Yet another restaurant that I can add to the long list of Chicago Thai Food Flossery.  Chicago Thai sightings are as commonplace as GOONS, so why the fuck aren’t there more solid spots like Spoon Thai and Cozy Noodle?  Does Indie Cafe really want to try to play me for a fool?…Covering up their lack of kitchen skills with 10 ounces of Crisco Corn Oil?  Cmon nah.  Wheres my cliantro, diakon, thai chili, kaffir lime, lemon grass, tum leung, etc.?  I want to TASTE that shit in the bowl, gotdammit!  I want so much complexity on my plate that it requires 3D glasses to comprehend.  I want small morsels to pop out of my teeth three hours post-dining and make me pop a Kool-Aid smile.  Basically, I just want Thai goodness and I didn’t find anything of the sort at Indie Cafe.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten 5951 N. Broadway Ave., Chicago Gluttons, Indie Cafe, Thai Food

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:

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.

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.

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

Word is bond, my CG colleague Marilyn Lee, has been hollerin about meatloaf in cupcake form for at least the past 8-months.  Don’t try and tell ole girl that there isn’t some sort of Nanny Cam set up in her personal space snatching up culinary aspirations like some Rudy Ruettiger bullshit.  Her fears were enhanced around mid-Fall, when we starting hearing rumors revolving around the possibility of a Chi-City MILF who was finalizing plans for a meat bakery dedicated to this sole purpose.  Let’s just say that Marilyn was a bit salty.  Luckily, M has a few more culinary tricks up her sleeve which I am not allowed to divulge in this forum.

In the past, I have been quick to classify meatloaf as some PoliGrip friendly, retirement home comfort food.  And just when I thought that meatloaf would never adapt and lift itself out of junior varsity status, The Meatloaf Bakery (MB) popped up like a hernia after some showboat workouts at the LVAC.

Nestled in the heart of Lincoln Park, MB is the quintessential “Goddammit, its 6:35pm and I have no idea what to get for dinner; I got three brats and a lazy, fat ass husband to feed” spot.  Hope you weren’t thinking Eatzi’s.  Yall know they closed up shop a minute ago and they shit was on some soup kitchen diabolicalness anyway.

Upon entry, Cynthia Kallile, the creator and mastermind behind the single-item concept shop, talked me and my girl up something proper.  Cynthia was all Kool-Aid smiles and eagerly chauffeured us through her faves on the menu.  While considering our gluttonous path, Cynthia skooled us on her multi-year journey in which she readied and perfected her recipes after experiencing a professional rebirf that lead to an exodus from corporate babylonia.  While explaining the cakes, Cynthia was confident as Libya’s al-Gaddafi.  She oozed the belief that her product would keep clientele steady strolling in like baseheads did in Baltimore back in the 1990s.

The space was sleek and stylish like Saks Fifth.  There was a quaint, relatively simple design which complimented the product being slung.  Two high top tables collabed with two stools each.  If you are on the healthy side of the weight spectrum, these seats prolly won’t hold up (even my boney black ass had some issues getting the right equilibrium in this Euro-style shit).  So don’t parlay in the cut; get your call-and-order-on and heat that shit up at home, yungens.  MB has everything covered for those who are ‘oven challenged’ and provide a Baking Meat Products for Dummies sheet that they slip up in your cakeboxxx.  Mmmmm…cakeboxxx.

The rest of the space is consumed by the “cupcake cooler” which can easily be scoped on the opposite side of Clark St.  Set in front of tangerine colored background, this placement has to be intentional.  During the hour that we spent at MB, I swear at least 17 people did whiplash inducing double-takes.

Cynthia and the pastry chefs(?) (question mark b/c I still don’t really know what to call these kats) were steady grinding out different types of meatfuckery during most of our visit, only stopping to deliberate like heads going double-or-nothing up in the Cash Cab.  A significant part of MBs business is special order meat cake.  Cynthia gave us V.I.P. love and ushered us into the kitchen where it went down.  From far glance, they look like their sweet frosted cousins.   Upon closer inspection, the shit looked more like congealed mash potatoes nestled on a top hat without the brim.  But fuck me inna weird position because the masses are throwing out a grip for these manufactured meatbombs.

One of the only fucking reasons that we deal with our crazy ass parental units is so we can enjoy recipes and flavor profiles which we just cant duplicate at home (my Grandmother mos def kept a tub of lard under the kitchen sink).  Well, Cynthia not only creates a new vessel for our beloved household meats, she makes the shit correct.  Yes, you might be able to make meatloaf back at the nest for $8.69, but I can assure you that it will NOT taste like this.  Lets bless the food:

Counterclockwise, we have: The Loaf-A-Roma, A Wing and A Prayer, The Mother Loaf, and The Chicken Shish-Kaloaf.  Each comes alongside a dipping friend for emotional support.  The Loaf-A-Roma had me frowning like Celie from A Color Purple from the goodness.  The pasta, mozzarella, sun dried tomatoes, fresh basil, red wine, and Italian sausage was mouth-boggling.  A Wing and A Prayer is MBs take on the hot wang.  The crumbled blue cheese topping, ground chicken, celery and hot wing sauce was unfadeable.  I coulda taken more heat, but that’s my personal grind.  The Chicken Shish-Kaloaf is MBs attempt to replicate the classic chicken shish kabob.  MB might wanna take a hiatus and hop ova to Istanbul, because this cake needed to be blessed with a couple mo cups of sage, turmeric and rosemary.  The Mother Loaf sealed the deal and got us back to fiddy%.  The components of onions, ketchup, herbs and mash potato topping kept things traditional like elementary school teachers in boxy blazers.

Summing shit up, MB gets shine from our camp for going out on a limb and fusing two food elements harmoniously.  My only suggestion would be that they add some pork cakes to the menu.  Meatcake bakeries are not exempt from being equal opportunity.

The location might be a bitch for some, so Ima let yall in on a small observation.  There is a bus stop right in front of The Meatloaf Bakery.  Call ahead and run in right quick to get your meatbomblicioiusness.  For those who depend on CTA like my broke ass, sit awhile and let them heat that shit up for yah.  Once them aromas hit the air, you will understand why you actually trekked to one of the gheyest neighborhoods in Chicago to get bombed by meat.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten carryout, Chicago comfort food, Lincoln Park, meatbombs, meatloaf cupcakes, The Meatloaf Bakery