From the Board of Trade to the Western Blue Line, Ravenswood down to River North…Matt Maroni’s ‘curbside solution for your hunger’ is hotter than Silly Bandz and Kanye’s bitch ass twitter feed (you didn’t actually think we would drive traffic there, did you?).  So much naan has been consumed in the last couple months, youd think Lake Michigan was the fucking Bay of Bengal.  In short, if yall haven’t tried a naanwich yet, your officially on Lindsay Lohan status (= tired).

Gaztro Wagon as it stands is a true monopoly.  Dorothy (Gaztro’s food truck) pounds out urban food blight like a bag of Flamin’ Hots.  But change soon come.  A Food Truck Ordinance should be signed and sealed within the next few weeks, which would effectively change the way we street dine almost overnight.  In addition to Foss, Sula, Tamarkin and others, thank your boy Waugespak for the co-sign.

Being a Edgewater native, I’ve spent the last few months watching the HQ grow.  On multiple occasions I’ve witnessed customers returning for their second or third naanwich of the day.  OF THE DAY, folks.  Think muhfukas is hooked or what?

One of Gaztro’s biggest sellers is the shortrib naanwich.  Tender, succulent, flavor saturated beef accompanied by padron peppers, red onions, goat cheese, and fresh herbs.  I’m not going to spend time talking about how good this thing is, Ima just let yall get down with these here visuals.

Good looks to deep blue skies for putting this one up on the Chicago Gluttons flickr Pool.  Keep framing them lovely plates.  Daddy’s gotta eat.

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How do you officially kick summer off?  If you’ve ever been to a Eastern European pig roast, you don’t need to ask that question.

Ask chef Dan Kordula how long hes been roasting pig and he’ll respond with a chuckle.  A native of the Czech Republic, Dan is quick to explain that he was grilling swine back in the old word.  Now, more than 10 years deep into his Americanized version of the classic pig roast, one quickly understands that Dan knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing.  While prepping the meat, he compiles a mixture of butter, white onions, and mushrooms for the sautee pan.  When I inquired as to what he planned to do with the veggie concoction, and he states that the blend melds with the pork and “will help us drink more beer.”  I salute your life philosophy, Dan.

Dan’s story of how he came to roast pig in Chicago is more complex than the top kill on the Deep Water Horizon.  And what great stories they are.  From the branding, to the licensing, to locking in a solid pig farmer, Dan is animated about  his labor of love and why he wants to make this business a reality.  As he takes a pull of his chilled pilsner, he entertains the masses with a thick accent and penetrating eyes.  Dan laments, “to get logo approved, I had to contact old man in Europe who made initial design, I found out I just needed to make few changes.  Then, I go to marketing company and they tell me it cost $1,300.00 to do work.  I say no way, doode.  I call my buddy in Czech Republic, he says he can do it in couple hours for $60 bucks.”  Dan Kordula is a phenomenon.

As to the swine divine, the roast is definitely the highest level a pig will ever reach.  It’s Clark Kent after he makes his costume change…it’s Jeff Goldblum when he finally becomes The Fly.  When Dan takes the pig off the spit, you quickly realize whats good.  He begins pulling and grabbing meat like a teenage boy buffing one out.  The crackle of the skin and succulent fat and meat come falling off in one fell swoop.

After a few bites, all things make sense.  I devour my first plate and quickly run back for seconds as if the apocalypse was near.  I felt like the chosen one; like that Dutch boy on Afriqiyah Airlines Flight 771.  As the Chicago food truck debate continues to gain heat, Dan’s pig roast bidness comes in at an opportune time.  Although Dan will be focused on private parties, he says anything is possible.  Imagine ole boy slow roasting outside of your neighborhood pub or music venue…its possible that Dan just might save your life.

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For reals, thanks for showing your support, Chicago.  Now go forth and spread the gluttonous word!

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Next muhfucka who asks me if I decided to open my own soul food restaurant is gonna get to know my dull blade called Sammy Three Cuts.

For serious, go ahead and do a Google search for Dee’s Place.  Experiencing internet browsing malaise?  Let me get that for you.  Other than the industry stalwarts, Metromix, Centerstage, and Time Out Chicago, you aint gonna find shit about this new soul food, live blues/jazz spot.  One can tell that a restaurant is in it’s infancy when Yelp only has 5 reviews posted up.  On top of all that, Dee’s Place doesn’t have a website.  And that’s because they just don’t give a fuck.  10 years in the making, Dee’s plan is to let mouths spread the good word.

Wicker Park natives deserved a soul food joint such as this.  The reality is that although soul food dishes are relatively familiar kitchen fare for most, a majority still fail miserably when attempting to replicate these items at home.  Think about it.  When was the last time you successfully cooked collard greens & ham hock, stewed black eyed peas & country ham, candied yams, deep fried catfish, slow cooked pork ribs, baked decent cornbread or fried hush puppies?  The answer is very likely never.  I am excluding those who’ve hijacked grandma’s tub of lard that was stored under the kitchen sink.

What is it about soul food that makes it so gotdamn good and why are the recipes so coveted?

Well, during the antebellum period, it was illegal in many states for African slaves to read or write, so food recipes were passed on orally.  On top of that, many recipes were prepared with spontaneity; the use of a measuring cup was considered a cardinal sin.  Finally, the ingredients for soul food feature discarded selections of meat that were kicked down by the slave master: pigs feet, chitterlings, and ham hock are alien items to most, but the flavors that are created by these exotic cuts are at the essence of what we call the deliciousness.

At Dee’s Place there is no exception to this rule.  I might as well been Mike Tyson asking to eat Dee’s infant child when I made the mistake of requesting clarification from Rayland on the type of BBQ sauce used on the rib plate.  In this business, recipes are more important than the cook preparing them.  And that’s real talk, people.

I’m not even going to make an attempt at explaining the menu.  Remembering what apps, meat, and sides are available and then choosing the combination that will get you the most mileage was more intricate than Asian nail art.  Since you cant find the menu anywhere online, Chicago Gluttons got you sussed:

We started with Stone Sublimely Self-Righteous Ale and the catfish nuggets appetizer.  The seasoned breading surrounding the white fish (which I have to assume is perch, because they wouldn’t say nathen) is the kinda shit that will bring Kaczynski back.  Add a bit a Trappy’s hot sauce and let the goodness ride out, homie.

With plate one, Dee reminded us of the plantation life, featuring fatty pork ribs, fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, collard greens and cornbread.  My slave brethren would have been honored by my attempt at eating like a field negro from the 1700′s.  I multitasked this shit…seizing ribs in one hand and chicken in the other; working flesh down to the bone.  Best believe the chicken was perfectly fried and oozed juices like an abscess.  Tender ribs were seared and smothered in a sweet sauce that had my lower lip sloppy.

Fuck the wet-naps.  I used a hunk of cornbread to wipe up.

The collards were slow cooked to alleviate bitterness and kept the greens firm.  Noodles in the mac-and-cheese congealed with the cheddar and jack cheeses like Cagney & Lacey.

And with plate two, Dee took us back to the West Indies with heat and sweet, offering up jerk chicken, candied yams, jambalaya rice, and cornbread.  No bumbaclot/rasclot/gutclot present.  Ras Marley was talking about Chicago Gluttons krew when he came up with the lyrics, “them belly full, but we hungry.”  Bob know we be killing plates, son.  “A pot to cook, but the food not ‘nough.” I KNOW, BOB; we ate all that shit while you was rolling up that spliff.

And then there was the bread pudding.  Instantly sprung.  I don’t recall being this aroused since I saw the Halley Berry sex scene in Monsters Ball.  “Bread Pudding…YOU MAKE ME FEEL GOOD!”  Tech geeks, get the fuck out of the iPad line and spend your money on something that actually makes sense.

Vanilla pudding, bread, and like 6 sticks of butter.  This is what God wanted for us.  Dee’s got her bread pudding trained to swallow those who talk shit whole, so for real, just don’t do it.

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Basking under unseasonably pleasant March temps, a thick contingent developed on a creaky front porch deep within Albany Park.  A couple heads pulled out American Spirits and resh as we got lifted by the anticipation of it all.  Inside, the living room was knee deep in construction, but the naked frames added a crude beauty.  A soft glow emitted from the candle centerpieces while hard bop notes bellowed from Coltrane’s saxophone.  High heels vibrated through hardwood while the chatter grew.  A kat in the corner poured Grey Goose into his tumbler with a heavy hand; corks on Sierra Nevada’s 30th Anniversary Ale popped off like gunshots.

And there was a fragrance…an omnipresent, delicious odor which effortlessly oozed its way through Koreatown.  Braised pork, thyme, and beef stock melded together to form a cypher for the senses.  When I made it to the kitchen, I stumbled upon the organized chaos of two men nestled inside madness; effortlessly working in harmonious tandem. The goal: cook the living shit out of six courses and bust every gut in the process.

Yall know what this is.

With the passing of the winter season, a Chicago Gluttons dining club tradition experiences revivification.  The Deliciousness VII.  In typical gluttony fashion, this annual affair is like none other.  A feast that will steal your life away faster than a Toyota Camery.  Imagine Sunday Dinner and add some Black Sabbath to it.  Year after year, chefs Mike Regan and John Honkala continue to cook aggressively and without inhibition.  Couple these gentlemen with front of the house support from Heather Clark, and just call it easy street.

After a toast of gin to build appetite and enhance digestion, we unfolded napkins and clutched cutlery.  We live to consume; and nobody does it better than this bunch of kids.  So heed while we go Undercover Boss on yall, giving you a sneak peak of true, unadulterated blue collar dining.

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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 goodness?  Did you crack the duck egg yoke and let it ooze on the crispy seasoned fries?  Did you mix the leftovers into your bathwater?

Fries topped with duck fat gravy, homemade cheese curds, and duck fried egg.  Shiiiit.  Im fittin to get DUCK BUCK.  Thanks for posting this one up, cliffetters’.  Remember to VOTE GLUTTONS so we can collectively stick a dagger into 312DiningDiva’s fake titties.

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