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:
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.