If you’ve been to a bar that stocks more than one kind of bitters in the last three years, you’ve probably left thinking the same thing I have: What’s up with the mustaches? Or maybe more specifically, What’s up with the turn-of-the-century gear, bartender-guy? Since when is looking like Teddy …
Spaghetti and Meatballs at Glenn’s Diner
Ciao Bello Motherfuckers, today I want to talk to you about pasta. For years, I’ve been searching for the perfect spaghetti and meatballs. Not some fancy ass Slagel Farms Anti-Biotic Free, Carbon Neutral, Organic Meatball horse pucky. . . I want that salty …
Forecast for the weekend: sixty degrees and sunny in late October. Now that’s some apple picking weather, son.
No, I did not go all Chauncey on y’all while I was on the Gluttons hiatus. Don’t even think for a second that my black ass will be out at Wood Orchard…
May 27th, 1940 was a day of impossibly vivid colors at Dunkirk. The cool azure of the sky above contrasting grotesquely with the shock red blood of the soldiers who battled below it. King Leopold III, without the consult of his advisors, his people, or the prime minister of England …
Bevin back in this! After popping out 7 kids, Moms finally decided to get that hysterectomy on, so I had to play nurse while her pussy healed... Fuck all that nonsense, lets talk gluttony. Have your lips been blessed with the honor of sliding over this creamy duck...
Leo's begins the long voyage across Lake Michigan to Chicago In 1984, when I was a just a shorty with a banana seat bicycle, I cared about one thing and one thing only: the Detroit Tigers. Growing up when I did, when the Bengals were on top, when Jack Morris was twirlin'...
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...
To the surprise of nearly everyone involved, ChicagoGluttons.com has been nominated for "Best Indie Food Blog" by Time Out Chicago. Guys, we want this . . . we're not sure why . . . but we want it. And now we need your help. People died to give you the right to vote....
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,...
2009 is done, son! Time to pick our favorite restaurants of the year. Roy Big Star Nearly the same great pastor taste of El Tizconcito but full of non-eating hipsters instead of actual people. If you can get past the ironic Care Bear tshirts and silly faux hawks,...
Its been 20K Leagues since CG has doled out shine for those who share in gluttony. This week, we suss belly with the real from KidItamae who gets blasted by authentic, raw flavors like nappy doo under hot comb. Gluttony Haiku: Annihilated duck legs with battery...
It's December in Chicago, which means temperatures are dipping lower than Patrick Swayze's white blood cell count. Time to get out your soups spoons, gluttons. Roy already pushed matzo ball. I'm gonna talk tom yum koong. Specifically, the tom yum at Opart Thai on Western, where...
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...
Holy shit it's getting cold outside. It's weather like this that makes you wonder who had the nards to settle in Chicago in the first place. I mean before gas furnaces, snuggies, and dog snuggies, how was this survivable? Step one would probably be cutting your way into a...
Aaaaaannd . . we're back. Sorry about that little hiatus faithful readers, we were on a diet. Now that I've widdled my man boobs down to a supple B-cup we can get back to business. But wait. I have to get something (else) off my chest. Let me start with this...
Pregunta: What the eff is huarache, joe? Respuesta: Masa as fresh as Rappers Delight, stuck into a grimy ass tortilla press, all jammed together by frijoles fritos, cousin. You could easily throw some chimichurri on this flatbread fucker and call it nap time, but go head...
When I moved here, I stayed with my Aunt Lucinda who has a spot in La Grange Park. On Sunday afternoons, after 6 hours of sweaty Baptist church service, we'd hop on the 20 north bound, up in the Cut, with a propensity for consumption (Aunt Lucinda puts food DOWN, yall) headed...
