Chicago Gluttons - Chicago Restaurant Review & Obsession

I need to start this post off with an apology.  Gluttons readers, I’m sorry, I’ve been holding out on you.

I’ve eaten at San Soo Gap San three times a week, for the last six months.  I’ve spent over five grand on korean bbq in 2008.  I am not joking.  But guess what mf’s?   I regret nothing.  If anything, I want it even more.  That’s the severity of mouth boner that I have for San Soo Gap San.  Let it be known that I’m a streaky eater.  I once ate the Qdoba Poblano-Pesto Chicken Burrito 3 times a week for 4 months straight and loved every minute of it (ignoring my friend’s pleas to stop.)  But this, my friends,  is something else entirely.

Let’s start off with this litte introductory video to set the pace and give perspective.   (if you have 3d glasses, put them on now)

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Welcome back!  So as you can see, this place doesn’t fuck around.  And yes, you saw it correctly, each table is equipped with its own ultra-hot wood burning grill.  I am not sure what type of wood this is, or what type of delicious-ass forest it grows in, or what scrumptious log cabin it might have been scavenged from . . . but christ all, I freakin’ love that wood . . . nay . . . i need that wood.  (I’m confident enough with my sexuality where I can write things like that.)

Anyhoo, the way that shit works at San Soo Gap San is slightly different than at other restaurants.  For example, at a Mexican restaurant, after you order your entrée, you are often rewarded with a basket of chips and salsa to help pass the time.  At San Soo, the free chips and salsa looks like this:

unidentified deliciousness

This is the part of the meal where the more sheltered diners start to panic.  The average American will most likely only recognize 1 of the 25 complimentary side dishes.  (potato salad) . .and honestly after eating these items dozens of times, I still have no idea what they are called and have only the slightest guess what they are made of.  My advice to you is to taste the things identified in the image above first and then venture into no-mans land.   As for items to avoid: anything that is translucent or reminds you of Predator’s active camouflage, imo is pretty gag nasty. . . so steer clear unless you’ve lost a bet.  Please remember, this is all a dick tease.  The reason for the season is coming up next. (sorry jesus)

Lets talk about MEAT (cue the death metal):

Resist the urge to eat it raw.

Either one with the brown sauce. Prepare for paradigm shift.

mysterious brown goo that makes everything better

Dip the ribeye in oil for increased meat viscosity.

What you should order the first time you visit (in order of importance):

Appetizer:
- Chop Chae (gummy beefy noodle dish) - *warning - this seems easy to choke on, but it is worth the risk.
- Pajun (seafood filled pancakelike disc)

Main Course:
- Large ribeye (dip in the oil)
- Kalbi (marinated short ribs, dip in the brown goo)
- Dak Kalbi (spicy chicken, dip in the brown goo)

In conclusion, San Soo Gap San is the greatest restaurant in the world.  All other restaurants are bullshit in comparison.  I love it so much.  I am gay for it.  I would marry it.

• Name: San Soo Gap San
• Phone Number: (773) 334-1589
• Where: 5251 N Western Ave Chicago, IL 60625

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.

• Name: Japonais Restaurant
• Where: 600 W Chicago Ave Chicago, IL 60610
•  Phone Number: (312) 822-9600

Mixteco Grill needs a new sign. I mean, look at that thing. You wanna eat at this place? I didn’t. Looks like another little Mexican joint in a spot that, historically, has rotated shitty restaurants like gyro meat. Don’t get me wrong—I love a good taco joint—but it’s not like the North side is swimming with them. Up here, we’re usually stuck dousing passable tacos carne asada in hot sauce and pretending that the al pastor we ordered isn’t a shriveled mess of sinewy dog breath. A taco done right answers a lot of questions, but we’ve got to travel south or west to get at that.

So, yeah, the Mixteco sign is very misleading. Because here’s the thing about Mixteco Grill: it’s fucking amazing. And it ain’t no taco joint. This is classy Mexican–the good shit–the food that makes you want to sit down with a bottle of white out and grandma’s old pot pie recipes so you can work some mole into that shit. I’ve been three times now, tried six different entrees and four appetizers, and every single one of them has been hands-down, sigh-out-loud delicious. These dudes put their foot in this place.

This is at 1030 PM. Every seat is packed from open to 930.

This place is done right all the way around. The space itself is small and plain-ish, tight without being cramped. Always full. BYO. Affordable. The kitchen is open, grill-style, but the countertop is high and with my back to it, I practically forgot it was there. The chef, Raul Arreola, formerly of Fonda del Mar and Topolobampo, was on the floor during two my visits, greeting tables and working the door. Service was fast, especially for a newly-opened joint, and friendly as hell.

Uchepos Gratinados, or corn tamales to whitey, and (right) marlin ceviche.

First course: Corn tamales with roasted corn that starts sweet and almost creamy but grows smoky and rich as it’s devoured. Eats like a desert, really. And the ceviche–Jesus. I order ceviche all the time and it’s a rare occasion that it works out. Usually it’s a tomato-y mess, or overloaded with mango or whatever fruit the chef decided to ruin the dish with. But not here. The marlin ceviche (with julliened radishes!) is so spot-on I gave the serving bowl a rim job to get the last bits out. The trio of sopes, too, is retarded good. They’re not pictured here because angels don’t show up in the photos of mere mortals. Oh, and here’s a picture of some empanadas. True.

Mixteco empanadas: So comfortable you can eat them while crying.

Peel and eat, nephew!

Last time out, I hit the wood-grilled shrimp with sweet garlic sauce and black beans, avocado, grilled green onions, cilantro, and red pepper. See those char bits on the prawns? Those is black tiger skrimps cooked right, joe! The whole plate was sick like that. Even the white rice, which is typically the most boring food item on the planet (next to the communion wafer) was flavorful.

Time before that I had God’s gift to himself: wood-grilled rack of lamb in Oaxaca black mole. You know old boy’s chillin’ up top with like a coffee can full of the black sauce, dipping lamb lollipops like Lik-m-aid. This entree is unstoppable. I was using tortilla chips to scoop up the mole once the lamb was gone.

And then there’s this, the fish of the day, Mahi Mahi, wood-grilled and served in a puddle of green mole. That ain’t no enchilada mole, either. Another time out, I ate the cochinita pibil with achiote and sour orange juice and black beans, pickled onions, and a habanero sauce hotter than your grandma. Again, no pics of this one, but imagine a photograph of a beautiful secret garden full of bacon trees and hugs. That pretty much approximates it.

If this were life size, I would live in a place like this.

Last trip we finished with a Tres Leches cake that was cool and moist, fresh with a hint of sourness. Fellow gluttons tell me the flan of the day was good enough to take home and bury in the backyard for the cold season.

Not one, not two, but three milks in this one.

I’ve talked up restaurants before, but if it seems like I’m fluffing this joint extra hard it’s because I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve found a restaurant with multiple dishes that blow me away. I ain’t hit food this fast and hard since the days when I’d two-hand the sippy cup of Kool-Aid and drink ’til I was out of breath. Easily one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago.

• Name: Mixteco Grill
• Where: 1601 W Montrose Ave Chicago, IL 60613
•  Phone Number: (773) 868-1601

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.

• Name: Mado
• Where: 1647 N Milwaukee Ave Chicago, IL 60622
•  Phone Number: (312) 342-2340