Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!

*We’ve started a new feature called Bring It Back. We assume that’s self-explanatory.

We Gluttons eat delicious food all the time. Food that makes you dance in your chair and make noises no one ever should utter outside the privacy of their own bathroom or bedroom. Shit that makes grown men feed other men with spoons. The kind of eats that inspire you to start a freaking website dedicated to them. In a city as feastable as Chicago, it’s hard not to eat like a piranha every single night.

And still, somehow, amidst this straight up orgiastic, end-of-times, Rick-Bayless-please-fart-in-my-mouth food buffoonery, a fistful of dishes rise to the top. It’s a weird field out there: a Home Depot Italian Beef competes with Michelin-endorsed fare, a Devon Avenue grocery store is killing Cuban sandwiches, Michigan Avenue is a food destination. Eat the Windy without prejudice and you’re bound to stumble upon statue-worthy dishes. The best of these are the Honus Wagner cards of dining, and when you find them, you hang on to them.

Don’t let the shitty picture fool you. Pixels alone cannot capture this dish.

Except sometimes they disappear. Ingredients go out of season. Chefs get bored. Restaurants close. Shit happens. And like a Cavaliers fan, one is left only with the images, perhaps a filament of smell memory, and a big, fat fistful of nothing. All that time spent with your entree nonpariel, all that time taking deep, panty-sniffing gulps of its aromas, letting its essence bathe in your mouth like it’s a Real World hot tub, all that time just fucking jabbering on about the thing–all to have it snatched away by cruel, cruel fate.

Thus is the course taken by Lincoln Square’s LM and their absolutely retarded pairing of scallops and foie gras. I had it once. I wept. I went back for it. And it was (and shall always be) never more, quoth the waitress, who ruled, by the way.

And, fuck! This dish was the greatest pairing since Jerry Falwell and heart disease. This thing was so good, LM had to stainproof the underside of their napkins. The Kinsey Scale had to add a new rating: F, for Exclusively Attracted to Foie Gras and Scallops. It was so good, Terri Schiavo ate it.

LM’s foie gras and scallops: POV-style.

There were also green lentils on this plate. They were delicious, but as superfulous as the chubby kid on Modern Family. The real love making happened between the foie and the scallop. But not that Barry White shee. No, lock the front door, cue the White Zombie, and dust off the strap-on for this one. These two were on some Belladonna-style shit. Scrape a stone’s worth of the goose liver on a seared scallop quarter and before you know it, the flavor had you bent over, sweaty, makeup running down your face, unmentionables quivering for more. (If you’re a dude, it probably made you put makeup on first for this to work, but don’t doubt that it would’ve happened.) LM’s foie and scallops were gonzo porn inside a Bel-Air mansion. Elegant, pristine, silent on the outside, but an absolute fuckmob of torn blouses, saliva, and suction pops inside. The neighbors never knew, but this was the best sex of your life. Creamy foie and buttery, plump scallops seared to perfection. Mmmhmm. Plus, the lentils. They were there, too.

Bring this shit, back LM. I need this.