The Chicagoist

The drive down to Chicago on Saturday was fairly relaxing. I'd burned some BBC radio documentaries on CD for the journey's soundtrack. The adjacent westbound lanes mired in construction flew by as I listened to a history of the Templars and about the excavation of a large cemetery in London which used to service the city's largest medieval hospital. It's amazing what bones can tell us. (Hint: there was a lot of syphilis going around back then.) The occasion for my trip was to see my mother, brother, and friends and to help my cousin clean out my aunt's old place. My aunt had moved into an assisted living facility and my cousin wants to get her house onto the market. It was a matter of seconds after I'd gone through the Elgin toll stop that I'd switched into Chicago driving mode. I know people who are absolutely terrified at the prospect of driving in Chicagoland but all it takes is a bit more speed and a slightly keener eye to watch out for dipshits going 90 mph who cut you off as they traverse 3 or 4 lanes in one fell swoop. Traffic was pretty decent until the standard standstill once the Kennedy Expressway is within a mile. You creep along past Cumberland Ave as all those folks going downtown jockey for the pole position. Luckily my mom lives on the north side which means by the time traffic picks up at Harlem Avenue, I'm almost at my exit.

I got to my mother's place in good time. We chatted a bit and she gave me a bar of Scharffen Berger chocolate. Limited Series Bar #9: 75% Cacao Antilles, to be exact. (Number 9…number 9…number 9…) It was nice to see her again but it was slightly bittersweet. My aunt, whose house I was to help empty, had lost the use of her right hand and, if this wasn't bad enough, she was extremely unhappy with the assisted living center she resided in. It was full of old people. Being in her mid-60s, she had little in common with people 80+. My grandmother too wasn't doing well. She lives in an apartment complex for senior citizens and recently her friend of 20+ years had been whisked away to an assisted living complex. I can't imagine what it must be like to be 92 and to have seen so many friends arrive and disappear and to see ambulances pull up to take your neighbors away. Yet somehow everyone moves on. My mom is sort of stuck in the middle having a sister and mother to attend to. And she keeps on keeping on despite her favorite son living in Wisconsin. (Ahem.)

Of course the weekend I zip to Chicago is the one my mother has all sorts of things afoot – a wedding to attend, a luncheon, etc. Still we have some time together and decide to walk over to Andy's Deli to grab a bite to eat. On the way there, we stopped at the doorway of one business that tapes Xerox lore on one of its windows. Included in the bunch was one of those "You know you're from Wisconsin if…" lists.

Walking into Andy's we found is very busy, as per usual. We ambled over to the side of the deli counter which has a variety of hot & cold foods available and some seating. Despite being primarily a grocery store, they have a smorgasbord of hot foods for take away. Scanning the selection, I spied a variety of Polish food - cabbage rolls, bigos, roasted chicken, etc. But I also noticed some decidedly non-Slavic dishes such as BBQ ribs. It all looked so tasty and I was having a hard time deciding what to get. Then I saw it. I had no idea what it was but it was wrapped in bacon and that was all I needed. The women behind the counter were all blondes in their early 20s and I was helped by one who was described by the Reverend Horton Heat in the song "Big Little Baby". She was probably 6'3" and her callipygian figure was served well by the tight jeans which she wore. Bacon and beautiful Polish women – my weekend was going very well indeed.

My mother got some ribs while I got the bacon hoolie and we split some cabbage salad. The ribs were actually pretty decent, I must admit. And my bacon-wrapped delight was excellent. While I cannot recall the Polish name for the dish, it is a chicken dumpling. You make a seasoned dumpling out of ground chicken, wrap in bacon, and then cook. It was incredibly tasty.

After lunch we headed over to a produce store where I bought some quinces to make more quince marmalade. With that being done, my mom headed to a wedding and I to my brother Carl's place.

When I arrived, my brother was asleep but his roommate Andrew was up and about. Eventually the sleeper awakened and I was able to present him the gift from The Dulcinea. It was a red t-shirt with a top hat and fancy moustache emblazoned on the front. Your generic villain apparel. We spent the afternoon hanging out, essentially, which was just what I needed. There was much discussion about various topics including politics, music, and film. In addition we watched Fido which featured Billy Connolly as a 1950's domestic servant zombie. It was really funny. The plan for the evening was to head to Glenn's house for some gaming and to check out his new Kegerator which had some Goose Island Honkers Ale waiting for us. I had, however, once stipulation: Carl had to buy me Italian beef for dinner. My demand was born out of frustration with finding a good Italian beef here in Madison. Considering the large number of ex-pats from Chicago, you'd think the odds of finding the good stuff would be more than a snowball's chance in hell. Luckily you can't swing a dead cat in Chicago without hitting a stand which sells the sandwiches along with Polishes, Chicago dogs, and the like.

A couple months ago I started to get that hankering for an Italian beef. Having grown up in Chicago, I need one periodically to maintain my bodily integrity. So I started seeking out it out. I began with Poppa Coronofoulos over on Buckeye. For some reason the heretical Mr. Coronofoulos serves their beef with gravy that is a brown liquid derived from bouillon cubes. It is overly salty, tastes vaguely like beef, and has absolutely no seasoning. WTF?

Next up was Mad Dog's before class one day last month. Former Chicagoan and ex-mayor Paul Soglin noted that they do the Chicago dog correctly so I had high hopes. Things got better when I approached the joint and found that they had an Italian beef special. I walk in, gleefully order the special, and take a seat. In short order my dinner was ready and tragedy struck. What should have been the culinary equivalent of my wedding day ended up a disaster. At least the gravy had some seasoning. Just not the right seasoning and not enough. It was close to bland and had a funny taste. Where was the oregano? From where comes the fear of adding leafy flavors? To top things off, the fries were horrible as well. Instead of standing proud and erect as they were dipped into ketchup, they were flaccid and just drooped into my condiment when placed near. I'll give Mad Dog's another shot because they could have been having an off evening. But I'm going Chicago dog all the way.

My attempts at finding a good Italian beef at an eatery having been thwarted, I went to the venerable Fraboni's. I have a love-hate relationship with Fraboni's. Their Italian sausage, actually. For some reason they put fennel only in the hot stuff but not the mild. Now, I love spicy foods but occasionally cook for folks who don't enjoy the curative properties of capsaicin for some odd reason. In those times, I want the mild. But Italian sausage isn't Italian sausage if there's no fennel. Anyway, I bought a big bucket of Italian beef gravy. I let it thaw overnight because I'm so patient. This also gave me time to get some beef. When the special day arrived, I heated the gravy and then put the beef in so it too could heat up. There's no cooking involved here, just warming. When it was done, I put the beef on some bread and ladled a bit of the gravy on it as well. Up to my mouth the sandwich goes and I take a bite. I then immediately wince? "What the hell is this?" The gravy tasted like beef bouillon with some odd spices. Again, where are my leafy herbs?! I dumped the thing out. What a waste.

OK. Italian beef is an American creation. In fact, I think it was invented in Chicago. Thusly one needn't fly to Italy and seek out some tiny, obscure ancestral village to learn how to make it. All you have to do is go to Chicago. Or getting the stuff from Sysco and import it from Chitown. Rocket science it ain't.

And so on Saturday night my brother and I drove to Jay's Beef, his favorite. I got the hot version with a goodly dose of hot giardiniera and couldn't wait to get to Glenn's place to dig into it. But, when I did, it was heaven. The beef was succulent and the gravy was delicious with all its herbal goodness. Plus the fries were fresh. This was good eats. My next stop will be the FIBs food cart down at Library Mall. It's apparently run by a woman named Betty who is from Illinois. All my beefy hopes and dreams lay with her.

In addition to eating heartily at Glenn's we watch the Brewers lose. And after that we played a couple rounds of Merchants of Amsterdam. I'd never played it before but found it easy to pick up the rules. Players take turns turning cards over and then either placing markers on various spots or moving them along a chart thingy. Oh, and there's the Dutch auction too where the bidding works in reverse to what we're used to. The counter starts at 200,000 guilder and works its way down. Get the bargains while you can. It was fun. While gameplay is good, my critique is that the game doesn't provide much incentive to spend and be entrepreneurial. Saving your cash and being conservative seems to reap greater financial rewards.

On Sunday it was out to Arlington Heights to help empty out my aunt's place. But before that, I sat around drinking coffee with Andrew and trading theories about the identity of Jacob on LOST. We then went to a Golden Nugget for breakfast. Since my hair was a mess, I grabbed the nearest hat – a Milwaukee Brewers cap. (For his part, Andrew had a Sox cap on.) Walking in, I was hit by a blast from the past. I hadn't been to a Golden Nugget in ages. The entire waitstaff was wearing Cubs jerseys so I feared that we'd never get seated. But we did. I had chocolate chocolate chip pancakes and hash browns while Andrew had an omelet. And we split an order of biscuits & gravy. Needless to say, we made gluttons of ourselves. But I also got to read the Tribune and look all urban.

After breaking my fast, it was off to my aunt's place in the burbs. My cousin was there digging around and she said that she'd found our grandfather's tax returns dating back to the late 1940s. My aunt was a pack rat. It was a real trip down memory lane going through all the stuff. There were lots of kitchen items that brought back fond memories. For instance, there was the hoolie my aunt used to make rosettes. I recall eating them as a kid very well. A good find for me was a copy of a thesis paper written by some gentleman called "The Russians of Buckner". The aunt in question is my mom's sister and their paternal grandparents immigrated from Galicia to America and ended up in Buckner, Illinois which is in the far southern part of the state. By "Russians", the author refers to folks coming from the Imperial Russian Empire or ethnic Slavs coming from the Austro-Hungarian Empire which describes my great-grandparents. I've been reading the paper on the bus and it's pretty interesting. Oddly enough, my great-grandfather and a couple of my great-uncles are mentioned as having been in a brass band in Buckner during the late 1920s. The paper describes Buckner as sleepy little farming town until the coal mine there opened and many Slavic immigrants ended up finding work there. A Russian Orthodox church was established and a Russian school was opened that Russian children would attend on the weekends to learn their parents' native tongue and customs. There was also a large number of Poles who landed in Buckner. By contrast, their schools were held during the week after normal public school classes.

I suppose the Russian immigrant experience detailed in the paper resembles that of other ethnic groups at other times, including today. People hold fast onto traditions from their homelands but, with successive generations, they become more Americanized. One section details the problems the immigrants had with one particular bit of Americanization – adjusting to Prohibition. One custom these people brought with them was the distillation of vodka and they were damned if they were going to give it up. There was the odd arrest but most folks got on with the business of home distilling without a hassle despite one local judge who sought to deport any immigrant caught hanging out with John Barleycorn.

All in all, a very interesting read; not just because my family is involved, but rather because it gives some insight into how culture and traditions change over time and place, one of my favorite subjects.

My next step is to try the FIBs food cart down on Library Mall. I think the students are gone so the scene should be less crowded. Anyone who's read this far try it out yet?

A few things I learned while in Chicago:

--Bowzer Dog has closed. R.I.P.

--The Chicago Reader is apparently not as good as it was before having been bought out.

--A half-theatre/half-circus rendition of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere is playing at the Noyes Cultural Arts Center in Evanston.

--Ozric Tentacles will be playing at the Abbey Pub next month on the 11th.