Many stories have been told throughout the restaurateur and food review scene about hush mouth, underground alley side joints.  Even The Wrestler couldn’t help you get into some of these places.  In Chicago, these dining rooms represent the epicenter of the food scene.  Spots like Schwa and dem shits with no sign, have shifted some of the dining focus away from fine dining Goliaths.

Being connoisseurs, we dig deeper into culinary culture and find ourselves at the gates of a closed door dining club.  On the opposite side of a thick oak door and foggy windows, I hear ambient vibes layered with cackles and chatter.  A lovey lady with blue shoes welcomes us in and we melt into the scene.  Hella garlic instantly slaps us upside the head.  We walk through the dining room which yearns for the lose party to become 8 and 3 tops.  Pork tenderloin takes a nap in the storage closet while wrapped in thick blankets of bacon.

In this same vein, Chicago Gluttons hold an annual dinner on the 4th floor of an unforgettable art deco building which basks over the neighborhood of Edgewater.  In its 6th year of operation, Chefs John Honkala and Mike Regan have created a yearly mecca for which foodies eagerly make the pilgrimage though 3 foot snow banks and gale force winds (aka The Hawk).  This food session is known as The Deliciousness.

Over the years, our readers have hopefully had some complimentary laughs on us and tasted a killer plate of food, or ten.  Just like yall, we have a distinct passion for food which will never abate.  We go to Japan and Namibia and Peru to see whats brewing up in other peoples cast iron pots.  We wake sweaty from nightmares about dishes that have yet to be savored.  We are active members of the ‘Clean Plate Club’ and pay our dues on the steady.  And on February 21, 2009, we sat down at the table across from friends who are like family to do what we all do best: EAT.

In-home supper clubbing is like the one night stand: one must gorge their foodhole on items that may never be savored again.  This is the allure to and hesitance from dining in such a venue.  Within this environment, even multi-pack Newport smokers can distinguish every note and tone within the components of the dish.  The fresh salt in sea bass, the ripeness of the squash and the soil of the peanut are all enhanced.

Come screen salivate along with us…

Peruvian Ceviche. Bay Scallops, Key Lime Juice, Onions, Chilies, Garlic

Smoky Acorn Squash. Acorn Squash, Morita Chilies, Bacon, Tortilla Chips, Creme Fraiche

Shrimp Ragout. Chorizo, Roasted Chicken, Shrimp, Roasted Tomatos, Poblanos, Paella

Bacon Wrapped Tenderloin. Bacon, Pork Ternderloin, Peanut Gastric, Roasted Picked Apples, Spring Onions

Cheese Plate. Homemade Jerky, Pholla Farm Elk Mountain, Meadow Creek Dairy Greyson

Trio of Chocolate Truffles. Bacon/Smoked Sea Salt/Ancho Powder

I’ve come to the conclusion that the apartment dining experience is where culinary geniuses are birfed.  On this night, the CG cooks did not hold back and I got lifted off their desire to create, experiment and just be downright pompous with their flavor components.  This is the way dining should be; food intensified by the environment and an unforgettable human dynamic.  CG dedicates this post to great food and stellar company and more great fucking food…it really is the only way.

Things We've Eaten Chicago Gluttons Annual Dinner, Dinner Party, John Honkala's The Deliciousness, Supper Club, Underground Dining

Yea, Curtis Mayfield said it best: right on for that darkness.  No doubt, if I could have shit my way on the daily, Id skip on breakfast and lunch to gorge my orifices with items offa unlimited selection of dinner plates.  Something like Old Country Buffet without the sub-par Sysco flavors and 4 year old brats screaming for more soft serve.  I’m a brudda who steady co-signs on meals accompanied by candlelight, bottles of red wine, and hearty ass entrees, so the shit I’m bout to speak on is all me.

I’ve lived/traveled in various places across the globe, but fah real…there’s no fucking place like Uptown.  Many people lament that this ungentrifiable community is where crazy was born; consistently breeding mayhem on the steady.  On Sheridan Road, between Argyle and Carmen, there is a restaurant which greets brown bagged malt-brew and slurred speech with a smile.  The place is called Tweet.  On February 6th, this neighborhood brunch spot opened its doors at 5:30pm to do something it hadn’t done in years: serve dinner.  Yes, we have covered Tweet’s culinary terrorism befo, but the reincarnation of post meridiem eats deserves considerable merit and re-up.

After a thick greeting and fist pounds to explosion, we fell into the family reunion that was popping off like some July 4th, Hyde Park shit.  Robust convi and elation was spread, comical comments were made about the wait staff donned in all black, and Uptown-drunkenness became compulsory.  We willingly caught up on liquids to even the scoreboard with our fellow diners.  In order to avoid stomach alienation, we ordered somethang to munch on.

Yessir, we shelled out abuse on the grilled calamari like West Virginia step-dads, gobbling up the roasted goodness, quickly abating all table-side manners.  The squid was properly marinated in olive oil, S&P, and then nestled down wit some mesculin greens and balsamic.  A tru seafood sesh.

Its tru yunguns, the weather might be warm as hell these days, but here in Chi-City we never shift too far from chicken soup.  In typical Tweet fashion, the shit was on time.  Chicken stock, carrots, spinach and the essential mouth-fuck for all hearty soups: cheese tortellini’s.  Classic supper club shit.

US Airways Flight 1549, Land Here!

Long John Silvers...Eat A Dick

Our desire was to get deep like R. Kelly on the mains.  Ole Rary’s advice has always been that you gotta just buck-the-dumb-shit and order up the most expensive things on the menu.  We held close to this ordering philosophy like Mr. Miyagi did Karate Kid.  Plate one was the 10oz. New York strip steak served with Tweet’s special rub of rosemary and garlic and some udda shits.  When it comes to my meat, I’m on the Ruth Chris side of the spectrum…I want my meat big, bold and gnarly.  My meat must inflict pain on me like Chet & the ol’ 96er.  Tweet avoided fu-fu style butchery by keeping 90% of the fat on their cuts of meat; body and character flowed from the steak like fat kids bleed marshmallow fluff.

Surprisingly dough, plate two, which featured grilled salmon topped with bruschetta sauce, took the heavyweight belt for the evening.  The fish was buttery, moist, and flaky…reminding  me of my freshman roommate at Ball State.  I quickly deduced that these kats must be taking weekly trips to see the fish guy, cuz this goodness was for damn sure NOT coming from the Dominick’s on Foster Ave.

Tweet’s dinner is mos def for a select krew of supper club sluts.  The menu does not boast many cheap dishes, which can make for an awkward read when the bill hits the dining table.  What you do get are plates selected from a heavy hand alongside a family vibe, where Michelle Fire and her glorious wait staff (who also pull shifts ova at Sola) throw in mad love anna slice of red velvet cake if its your birfday.  If you haven’t spent much time in the neighborhood, its worth the jaunt to get some sundown food love from a team that truly rocks the best.  As days pass, this menu will most likely adapt to the seasons and mock its slim, flowing brunette haired, 6′ 4″ mama known as Tweet breakfast fare.  I implore you to avoid that 1100 SAT score shit and partake in the gluttony while everythang else simply to fades to black.

Dinner, Things We've Eaten New Dinner Menu, Supper Club, Tweet Chicago, Uptown