Shortly after hearing that Top Chef: Chicago winner Stephanie Izard’s new joint, the highly anticipated Girl and the Goat, had opened, I rushed to get my reservation and still waited about three weeks for an 8 PM spot. The hype machine in Chicago dining spools up mighty quick these days. I’m no starfucker and I understand that winning a reality TV show on basic cable is not often the most reliable indicator for expertise in your chosen field, but who in the sleazy city didn’t blush with pride when a hometown girl took top prize on judgment day. Colicchio’s bald bear head beamed and Padma’s ample bosom heaved and all was right in the culinary metaverse because the whole world (or the small, white, grotesquely privileged corner of it that slavishly laps up whatever bowl Bravo lays out for it) knew for a brief moment what many of us hold near and dear – Chicago can cook as well as it can eat. Besides, I had heard really good things about Izard’s time at Scylla.

Me and the pre-Missus skipped on down to Randolph Street, past the recently deceased Marche, and bounded through the revolving door with empty bellies and high joy. The place was sardines, which worried me before we even got to the host’s station. “I’m really sorry. There are several tables ahead of you. You can wait in the lounge or at the bar or…” He trailed off as I looked at the completely full lounge area and the three-ass-deep bar. I turned back to him and said, “Right.” This gave us plenty of time to survey the décor. The place has a pleasant lofty layout with high ceilings and canister lights centered over every single table (note: I really wish more restaurants would to this, btw, as it is perfect for seeing your food, taking no-flash pictures and maintaining privacy in a busy establishment). Big win on the vast open kitchen, sadly something of a rarity in Chicago, which featured THE Stephanie Izard personally inspecting and physically blessing every single dish that left it. Didn’t love the dowdy centerpieces placed sporadically around the place or the giant painting of a girl and a goat in the grotesque style. I am a huge fan of haunting low-brow art, and Quang is my neighbor, but creepy skulls and a dead-eyed goat looming over your dining experience seems way off tone in an otherwise understated joint. We were seated at about 8:45 – unacceptable, even for a place this new. To their credit, everyone was very apologetic about the wait. Not sorry enough to buy us drinks or comp our dessert, but certainly better than nothing.

I started with the best Sazerac I’ve ever had (trumping even the mix nerds at Violet Hour) and moved on to Corny Goat bread with goat cheese butter and corn relish. This was better than it had any right to be and our spirits raised immediately with some quality food in our gullets. Also tossed down a few raw oysters (note: most common group in a restaurant is divisible by two, please serve the right number of oysters so nobody gets hurt in the violent roshambo for the odd bivalve out) with a satisfying mignonette.

Cauliflower with pickled peppers came out next. I speared a bit of cauliflower and threw down. Eh. It was roasted cauliflower. Just, you know, some cauliflower with pretty blackened bits. No seasoning, no sauce, no nothing to speak. Bland, if fresh, and uninspired. I got worried. We had four or five more dishes coming and this was a bad precedent. I wondered if I had done something wrong. For the second bite, I deftly balanced a bit of cauliflower, a pickled pepper and a couple pine nuts on the fork (no mean feat), and my mouth was filled with omfgwtflol. It dawned on me. This crazy, fuzzy-headed, young turk may have done this on purpose. In many fine dining experiences, each component stands well enough on its own that it can be eaten somewhat willy-nilly. Not so at Girl and the Goat. You better bring your manual dexterity and your reading glasses because you are going to have to carefully construct each bite for the ideal experience. If I sound annoyed, it’s because I am not still at that table eating that food. I actually appreciate the reward for my effort and this method of cooking ensures that each component remains true to itself, spurning the butter bath and salt shower.

The Chickpeas Three Ways followed on the theme. It was tasty, but a little forced and the ménage-a-trois of legumes (fresh and green, battered and fried, and deep-fried hummus) was upstaged by the cherry tomatoes and mozzarella. I think this dish would have been just as good without the chickpeas. Veggies out of the way, it was time for pleasures of the flesh.

Grilled Baby Octopus probably hovers near the five-spot on the ‘list of shit I never thought I would eat when I was six years old.’ Lo and behold, I absolutely adore the little alien fuckers. The taste is often spot on, but the texture can be tough to get right. Gum should be chewy, octoveal should not be chewy. Izard pretty much nailed it. Because it was grilled, the texture was a bit uneven, but it was mostly excellent and completely delicious. If they braised it (or braised it longer) before grilling, it would have achieved some kind of orgasmic perfection. It was served with big, fat, lima beans, some onion shoots and other vegetable matter. Again, constructing the perfect bite was rewarded, but well-seasoned grilled octopus almost needs no supporting cast.

We hit a wall in the form of lamb ribs next. Lamb ribs are like pork ribs, but a lot richer. The lamb these ribs came from probably died from a heart attack. I liked it, but it was heavy. Heavy like a movie about war crimes. Heavy like an airplane full of grandmothers crashing into an orphanage. This plate was delicious, but tough to deal with at this stage of the gluttony and it is the one dish I would leave out next time in order to make room for the one below.

This brings us to Pig Face. Let that just sink in a bit before I continue. Pig Face. This dish is what you might expect…if you were a serial killer or a cutter. Pig Face is a goddamned pig face, torn off the pig, snout and all. The pig’s tongue is then rolled up in the middle of the pig face and wrapped tightly in cheese cloth rendering something akin to a hell sausage. This unholy talisman is then braised for a day (alternatively, it can be nailed to your enemy’s front door as a warning) and finished in the impressive wood-burning stove, sliced into innocent-looking bologna-shaped pieces and served to you with a sunny-side up egg on top. The egg seems to be saying, “Hey! Hi there! Nothing sinister here! Happiness! Joy! I am not hiding the face flesh of a swine ripped from its brain pan and wrapped around its own tongue! No way, buddy!” Oh, and if lamb ribs are rich, this dish is Scrooge McFuckingDuck spliced with Daddy Warbucks and wearing Richie Rich’s skull as a crown. Pig Face might just kill you. I almost ordered another. The construction thing is especially important as munching down on Pig Face without a little egg-y help to tone down the situation could make your brain melt. Pig Face is the girl at the party that looks either stunningly gorgeous or horribly disfigured depending on the angle of light and how many Vodka tonics you’ve choked down. She will blow your mind and leave you for dead in a trash-filled alley for the rats to finish off and, make no mistake, she will sleep well, friend. Oh, yes.

Still reeling from the full-frontal porcine assault, we settled in for a delicious dessert featuring goat cheese, blueberry compote and brown sugar cake. It was served in a crockery. I barely remember the details, but I am pretty sure I really liked it.

Girl and the Goat made me wait longer than is acceptable, but the disappointment stopped there. I had high hopes for this place and it presented me with a dining experience fresh enough to dazzle my jaded buds. It is clear Izard loves her work and I am not sure if she is a genius or this was accidental, but she slapped, flipped and rubbed down my expectations and all for a check at the end that came in under what I thought the meal was worth. Top marks, cable television starlet and Chicago’s very own. Top marks.

(Glutton’s note: I apologize for the picture quality. It’s a new Apple iPhone and, while it is not a bad phone camera, it is not for low-light situations. It won’t happen again.)

Dinner, Things We've Eaten Chicago, stephanie izard, the girl and the goat

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.

Things We've Eaten, You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, GD pig roasts, memorial day

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

Shine best indie food blog, Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, eat out awards 2010, time out chicago

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.

Dinner, Things We've Eaten Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, dee's place, Dinner, live blues, live jazz, soul food, wicker park

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.

Culinary Centerfolds, Lunch, Things We've Eaten, You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, Chicago Gluttons Flickr Group, lockwood, palmer house, philip foss