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

As you may have guessed, Chicago Gluttons primarily reps people of various colors. Take heed dough; we aint no puh ass, pigeon feeding fools. Be it hot dogs or foie gras, we only fuck wit the best. So, yea shunn, last week we transported the krew to Japonais to get all Kristy Yamaguchi with it. Pops was right…you get what cha pay fuh.

Don’t mind ole boy in the pleated $29.99 Dockers. He was in town from Jersey City.

Five of us ate $415.00 deep into the menu. It was like culinary rape; tearing through dishes like the Father, Son and Holy Ghost ordained it. The menu became our Koran…and we read thoroughly. That said, I’m not going to feature everything here…this is just some highlights to get your mouth yearning for compensatory time.

Out the gate, the Ahi Tuna Ceviche and “The Sushi Bar Special” (both pictured above) got full bars. Both dishes were extremely fresh and light; a perfect compliment to a duckbutter filled, dishrag Sunday. The tempura shallots and english peas showed prowess and guile by the dueling kitchens (Japonais has two different kitchens; two different chefs).

When the lab-with-knives brought out the Kani Kani, we were B. Gumped. IQ’s reduced exponentially; drool ran profusely. The crab claws were wrapped in skrimps and crab mousse, then stacked for aesthetic presence. A tru delicatessen not for the light hearted. Think seafood lambchop and you’re pretty close.

Oh no, you are not seeing things…the plate featured two baby crabs fried hard n’ shit.

Mains featured the Salmon Japonais and Chilean Seabass Cartoccio. That oil-like substance you’re viewing is “curry oil” which the USDA will soon be marketing as our next sustainable fuel source. The salmon rested on two sticks of melted butter and whole cream. Our hearts made valiant attempts to avoid the cholesterol surge and the hypertension which would soon ensue. A few chest pounds treated our palpitations to a potent laxative.

I’m not even going to say anything bout the “Le Quack Japonais.” My fellow Gluttons will let cha ya know what I’m taumbout:

Rary- “You heard the duck was good? Good? I lived that shit last weekend brah. . good is a huge understatement, this shit is the motherfuckin’ white knight. Lets put this shit in SAT format so you can understand:
Michael Jordan is to basketball as Japonais is to Duck. Wooh . . I just got goosebumps. I gotta take a shower now.”

Rin Rin- “I don’t know what they did to that duck, but when Punchy and I went I wanted slap him in the face with a piece of that poultry because it was so dank!”

By the time dessert arrived, the Glutton krew was weak but not skurred in the slightest. We chop down gluttony like ya boy Paul Bunyan (No axes. CGs savage uncharted territories and plant pork in developing nations). You know how we do before the shop closes: sugar coated, chocolate filled doughnuts complimented by fresh green tea ice cream.

Japonais did us correct. I might consider a second visit if I can avert taking out a second mortgage.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten

So how fresh can fresh get? I guess it would have to be on some “only Jesus touched this shit and now I am eating it.” Of course, with farmers markets becoming all the rage these days, spots like Mado in Wicker Park/Bucktown are not falling too far from the tree. The owners call themselves, “green market dorks” and everyday, a chalkboard details farms which they will utilize for the evenings plates.

Even The Hambugler gets down wit dat fresh shit.

Keeping with the minimalist theme, Mado’s dining room is bare as a Alberqurque trailerpark commune. But the Mado team gets er done with scatterings of abstract realism oil paintings prolly created by some hipster named Wes (who also happens to play in a respectable streetfest indie band). The place only sits approximately 60 patrons, so there is a quaint/homey feel created by soft track lighting and exposed brick. Micheal Jackson’s “Don’t Stop (Till You Get Enough)” played softly on the Aiwa mini-stero somewhere behind the bar.

Seats please. We order antipasti and seafood delicatessen:

The smoked steelhead trout featuring beets and sorrel was redonkulous. Flavor profiles and the combination of savory and sweet took this dish intergalactic. The chef got Copernicus on us, bringing various elements of the stellar spectra on IKEA dinner plates.

Going green, we took bunny-nibbles off the snap peas and pea tendrils with lemon and mint. This dish was fresher than Crazy Legs and the Rock Steady Crew. The lemon and mint added sharpness to the uncooked peas. Who wants veggies that sag like Phil Michelson’s man titties? Not me. Simple and clean crunchiness resonated throughout.

Oh, you thought I forget that swine. Cured swine. Nah shunn. Europeans call this gourmet sausage; I call it a well seasoned meat stick. Sodium nitrate, HOLLER.

The main courses were lamb with braised swiss chard and California white sea bass with pea puree arugula and chillies. The lamb was fatty and succulent as a Southside White Sox fan. For da bass, it was all about the chillies; a perfect compliment to the pea puree. After consuming these two dishes, my belly was bewildered by this type of nutritional gluttony. Expedient signals were sent to the rest of my body that it was time break my structure back down to its normal peasant status.

I told my belly to fall back; gots to get that dessert on:

Yessir. Chocolate panna cotta with fresh cherries and almonds. This shit was so rich and gluttonous, I wanted go out and buy a Dollarmation.

Mado did have its faults: there wasn’t an ice bucket for our white wine, the fish was a bit raw, and I ordered the rosemary roasted potatoes not the creamy polenta, but we sure as hell ate the hellouttit when it arrived erroneously.

Don’t forget your brown bag of various liquor, cuz this spot is BYO for the time being.

Mado works on the food philosophy that “the restaurant has an Italian grandmother with distant relatives from Spain, North Africa and southern France.” The dishes won’t blow your top off, but if these green chefs decide to get all Ag wit it and slap some vegans around, this could def become Chi-City’s new fresher than fresh.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten