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 script.

The long and arduous story of Revolution Brewery is a familiar one for many Logan heads.  No one could have blamed kids for being pissy like ghetto mattresses about the delays either.  Nine years is a fucking long time.  But, like a double imperial stout, time aged the concept well.  Revolution is destined to become a work of art; utilizing craft brew and eclectic cuisine to paint their masterpiece.  Take Cibak’s brewing résumé for example, which is tall enough to knock out the fucking light fixtures.  Shit includes stops at Weinkeller, Goose Island, Three Floyds, Firestone Walker and Crown Brewing Companies.  The progression culminated in May 2009, when Deth and Cibak teamed up like freedom fighters, aimed to liberate the Chicago craft brew scene, viewed by some as more restricting than a 2 inch condom on baby arm.

With their opening, Revolution pierced through ribbed latex.  A stark, minimalist space, where the only artful presence is some used wood barrels and exposed brick.  Decoration not required when you got FIST PILLARS, son.

During a 7 day period, me and the krew were able to take full advantage of the brew lineup as the ‘Iron Fist’ Pale Ale dried out, and was replaced with the ‘Bottom Up’ Wit.  “…we only have four fermenters and people are drinking the beer faster than we can make it.” said Deth, on the Revolution Blog.  For a young brewmaster with a bit to prove, nocturnal emission must be made of this.

If you are one of the busters out there that (use ninny voice) “doesn’t like flavorful beers” or “can’t stand all these high ABV brews,” you

a) should fall the fuck off like limbs infected with leprosy (T. Kweli)

b) still gotta feed that bitch ass

Apps were devoured with resistance to stagnation, raining down gluttony like some Pacman Jones and Nelly shit.

Four versions of Brushcetta: duck confit/crimini mushrooms, roasted beet/belgian endive/goat cheese, roasted cauliflower/white bean arugula, and plum tomato/red onion/ basil/fresh mozzarella.  Yessur.

My birthright: the sausage and ham plate.  Dark rye and gherkins surrounded by 4 savory meats?…That’s just plain dirty.

Bacon popcorn, what!  A harmonious mixture of kernels fried in bacon fat, then topped with crumbled bacon, sage and shaved parmesan.  My black ass needed GPS to map out the flavor country.

With three dishes south of the belt buckle, we filled up the members only mugs and forged on…

…but we didn’t know shit was going to be fierce like this.  Portions were heavier than Kristie Alley pre-Big Life, yo.  I mean, gotdamn, lets get Revolution and Maggiano’s on some head to head shit.  Gluttony skills were not ready for the revolutionary assault.  Even the vegetarian bowl of lentils, quinoa, brussel sprout, turnip, parsnip, etc. was pleasantly unsettling.

Flavor profiles were so bright, I applied SPF30. Most notable were the garlic creme cheese mash potatoes, apple-cranberry compote, and honey-jalapeno slaw.  The mustard herb chicken breast was moist and lovely which, for brewpub standards, makes less sense than bathing with a washcloth.  As I worked through my plate of Hampshire-Duroc pork chop, best believe I got touched off.  Like my Masai Mara brethren, not even the gristle was wasted.

Group concensus: Regal Fatness Status sprinkled with a dash of Glutfuckery.  After a couple-three brews and all of this goodness, I needed some man-ternity leave for the small child built up inside of me.  We Port-au-Prince shook up.  Revolution televised.

Dinner, Lunch, Things We've Eaten Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, craft beer, logan square, revolution brewery

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, fam, this post is about a gotdamn sandwich and the food scientry going on at Lockwood.  Not familiar with Philip Foss?  Wrong Answer.

Skip that $5 footlong college bullshit and head straight for the pros.

Pictured above, we have the Shortrib sandwich served along truffled potato chips, courtesy of KidItamae and the CG Flickr Group.  This flick honestly had us on some L.L. Cool J shit, licking lips every 20-30 seconds.  Be sure to peep Foss’ blog, The Pickled Tongue to see dood fulfilling his slave master duties, steadily cracking whip on the backs of the downtown culinary scene.

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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 boys Terry Alexander and Donnie Madia to continue the discipleship of straightforward dining dissemination for the masses.  As imagined, the krew focuses on quality ingredients and plates of goodness.  Everything else seems like its just a fucking waste of time to the Big Star team: wall decoration, seating assignments, debit cards, and website were all afterthoughts here.

The booze drew me in like white on rice. 

I ordered a Single Barrel Four Roses whiskey, poured neat-n-shit and panned the crowd for bar stools to open up.  Then I took a couple investment banker alcoholic style gulps to warm my bones and prepare my appetite for the blast.

I noticed that there was a service window that peered into the kitchen and I jumped on the opportunity to get a glimpse of the lab.  My biggest question: are there actually Mexicans in the kitchen at Big Star?  At first glance, it looked like they were.  I mean…they were brown.  However, I do get my Costa Ricans or Colombians jammed up.  It all became clear when they went over to the pork spit and began shaving meat into corn tortillas.  Yup, Mexican fah sho.  That kind slicing technique can’t be taught at Kendall College.

Back to the dining.  We started with the frijoles because that shit came out first.

I was immediately impressed with freshness of the frijoles charros.  I don’t give a fuck if you’re in Bhutan or Lithuania, 9 times outta 10, a solid recipe starts with tomato, onion and garlic.  Flavors of soil and sun emitted from the bowl.  I could taste the blood, sweat and tears with every bite.  I swear to God that Micheal Jackson wrote “Earth Song” for this cup of beans.

As the third glass of bourbon flowed into my veins, food began to hurricane in like a Katrina Part II, fueled by poor black folks and jazz music.  With the double tostadas, I really couldn’t see where the food stopped and the plate began.  I was honestly afraid of what might happen when I stuck my hand in…but fuck, daddys gotta eat.

The wood grilled chicken thigh, chayote, black beans and poblano cream melded well, creating multiple layers of flavor profile.  The coriander and red onion went DEEP, but I had my sexing situation sussed out for the evening, so no worries there.  Then it was on to the pescado which consisted of wood grilled basa, cucumber, onion, radish, cabbage and avocado.  Both of these dishes were complimented by the extra thin, deep fried, fresh corn tostadas and, of course, my full glass of bourbon.

And hole the hell up for a minute (needle slides off wax).  How did I not know about this bourbon and Mexican food thing?  Bakersfield, speak the fuck up!!!  Its Limp City over here.  I mean, I feel deflated like Teen Wolf when he would change back to Scott Howard.

The Mexican Liberation continued.

As yall know, we Chicago Gluttons stay close to our 3rd World, indigenous roots and fucks with the pork and lamb heavy.  As more food arrived, I pulled a Tiger Woods, cheating my way around the bar to get bites offa everyone’s plate.  I grabbed some salsa from the red topped squeeze bottle and clocked in.

I began my journey with the braised lamb shoulder.  The thinly sliced radish paired surprisingly well with the powerful marinade of the meat.  Then I hit the braised pork belly, which was supported by tomato guajillo sauce, cilantro and queso fresco.  The char on the pork created a caramelized skin that you see on most Guatemalan village boys.

While tasty, the poblano taco was a consolation prize to get to the finish.  The taco flavor was monotone due to a lack of roastiness from the pepper.  I will say, however, that it was hotter than the new Beyonce/Alicia Keys collabo.

The breadwinner was the taco al pastor with spit roasted pork shoulder, grilled pineapple, onion and cilantro.  The savory/sweet contrast was executed perfectly.  Damn the Health Care debate, lets get a “daily consumption of tacos al pastor” bill written into U.S. law…when obesity gets out of hand, we’ll just force more people to audition for The Biggest Loser.

After one last glass of W.L. Weller House Selected Single Barrel and the perfect level of marinated meats up in my belly, we stumbled out into the brisk night swearing that our next visit would be only hours away.  At CG, we shy from frugality, but we aint got no James Cameron Avatar type duckets either.  Big Star’s fare, just like Mexican street food, is for the people.  And just like Paul Kahan & Co. would tell you, food made with any other purpose is just a fucking waste of time.

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Sup Big Shoulders!  I got 99 problems but a crab aint one…

Fanny pack touting tourists who insist on calling Chicago “Chi-Town” love to talk shit about our seafood.  It is feared that because our city is landlocked, we are forced to put up with Red Lobster-style entrees that permeate like pussy lips sans douche. 

These busters just don’t know about Glenn’s Diner, The King Crab Tavern, Shaw’s Crab House, Half Shell and the great 21st century service called same day delivery.

Half Shell’s marketing message: Whether you come from around the corner or happen to be from Istanbul, Turkey, you will always enjoy our Menu.

Do Muslims eat King Crab?  I do know that the “around the corner”, busted ass Fakeview scene, loves this place.  And I concur wholeheartedly. 

Its all about the combos at Half Shell, where king crab, snow crab and beef tenderlion play off one another like Shane Sparks, Lil’ Mama and JC Chasez on America’s Best Dance Crew.  Other notable “that shit is hood” traits include white wine chilled in a plastic beer pitcher, garlic butter in a squeeze bottle and fries on top of toasted white bread with a lollipop nestled in.

You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group, Half Shell Chicago, King Crab

At CG, the job description states, “candidate must be willing to rap mad shit, speak on the goodness and fulfill other duties as assigned.”  Written next to all the analogies and metaphors is the essence of why we put pen to pad: the food.

Be it reputation, ingredients, aesthetic, or waitstaff, we have few stalwarts within the grid that exude tru dinegamery.  Long after fair-weather diners fade to black, these spots continue to dominate culinary reinvention and recreation again and again.  It should be noted that Chicago’s dining scene recently received yet another fraternal pledge with the emergence of Pilsen’s contemporary, regionally inspired, Nightwood.

One of Nightwood’s first reviewers to place grade-Chuck Sudo-inspired CG swayziness.  In the review, Chuck inferred that Nightwood was no Lula (an undeniable force within the localism experiment which helped establish Logan as a community that actually had more than just hipsters in it.  Still cant get a muhfucken cab up in that piece).  Then there was Julia Kramer and her “Lula’s sibling is a work-in-progress. That can be a good thing.” piece.  As far as Chicago Gluttons are concerned, there aint no gotdamn time on the dial for “works-in-progress”.  Crunch the digits: total number of ridiculous things to consume – average lifespan just don’t =.  CGs fully understand that restaurants take time to develop, but we felt that once Jason Hammel and Amalea Tshilds co-signed on Nightwood, it would have guaranteed instant status.  Apparently, not this go round.

But fuck it, we rolled thru anyways.

First thing that we noticed about Nightwood is how diners step into the place.  There is no grand entrance & foyer, but rather, an ADA compliant ramp leading to a simplistic wood door on the side of the building.  It looks like it should be the dry goods delivery entrance.  I don’t get it.  Does a minimalist dining space indicate crawling through a doggy door?  Still, it aint that deep; as long as the food is proper, they could beam my black ass in.

After a short wait, finding ourselves standing in everyone elses way (if you find the Nightwood bar at capacity, you’re better off heading down to Skylark for pre-sesh), we were sat at a table in the industrial metal and concrete outdoor space.  It took some time for the wait staff to get their shit together, but we don’t cry ova Yoohoo spilled as Nightwood was about to open up a culinary summer school on us.

We ordered some Old Rasputin Imperial Stout and commenced our gluttonous gang bang of the Nightwood menu.

Lets get into the appetizers.  You know the half; we go with greens first.  If the chefs aint taught how to properly construct a salad, they mos def aint going to be proficient in grilling shit.

We started with the mustard green salad with braised short ribs & a soft poached farm egg. The shit was clean and fresh like abstinent prostitutes. We were certain that chef snuck some horseradish into the vinaigrette, but no, it was the glorious bitterness of the mustard greens shining through.  You could see the energy coming offa this dish like some Celestine Prophecy shit.

Next up, the Michigan peaches with gorgonzola, almonds, arugula and aged balsamic were properly executed given the strength of each individual component.  A glorious testament to summer and all good things that emerge from it.

And finally, the pork shank ravioli with almond butter and amaretto dish which was tight like caskets.  Creating homemade pastas should definitely be considered a skilled trade; like lumberjacking or pimping.  The pork shank filling was robust and succulent and harmonized well with the pasta bathed in olive oil and fresh herbs.

Then the entrees came on in.

The smoked trout BLT on brioche with a sunny side farm egg & salad was just like Julia promised via tweet.  Hot Jehovah, the flavors blew my mind like candles at a 13 year olds birfday.  Hidden under the warm pooled oasis of yellow goodness were two thick cut bacon strips which added saltiness to the sweet brioche and sunny side egg yoke.  Full bars.

Next was the wood grilled rack of lamb with black kale, beets & rutabaga.  This meat had me working my grill like I was at a Black Expo rib booth.  The fat portion on the cuts was almost as prevalent as the meat itself, but I got into it like a NAAFA lobbist, incorporating the marbleized blubber in with the cuts of warm lamb.  Don’t let me forget the oil and beet sauce that pooled in red on the plate like Christ spoke it.

After a yellow plum sorbet with blueberry compote palate cleanser to get lamb-n-rutabaga off the breath, our server alerted us that a few dessert options had been 86ed.  Depression/suicidal tendencies were quickly replaced with elation when we were told of a chocolate bunt made with the same Russian Imperial Stout we drank before.  Seriously, after putting my lips on this, chocolate bunt will never be the same.  Gone are visions of my wrinkled grandmother sifting flour and squeezing lard; bending over into the oven, putting various saggy extremities in my face.  Ushered in are heavenly images of a Cake Product Hall-of-Fame where chocolate stout bunt joins red velvet, rum, carrot and the unfuckable classic country yellow cake.

All told, even in infancy, Nightwood got CGs properly popped.  The fact that the kitchen dives into new ventures on the daily-based on the availability of local ingredients-simply cannot be refuted.  Don’t get it twisted like phone cords, more time in the lab is required in order to perfect the deliciousness.  But, real talk, Nightwood is about to take ova the block and section and become a mainstay for years to come.

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Don’t go because of all the hype.  Don’t go beacuse their food program focuses on craft beer and pork.  Don’t go hoping to give Paul Kahn a B.J. in the walk-in. 

Go because everything looks as enticing as this:

CGs LOVE them some chicken.  Fry it, broast it, grill it, boil it.  Stick it up another chickens ass for enhanced flavor…we could really care less.  This flick from Joe M500 is like your favorite booty call: it says plenty without uttering a single word.  The juiciness which emerges from this brined, then grilled, clucker means 100% goodness and 0% sorryness.  Add summer sausage and frites and prepare to blast off Endeavor-styles.  Holler at your CG fam next time, Joe!

You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group, Lunch at The Publican