Being a true city, Chicago has plenty of late-night food. On one of my nights there, a buddy took me to The Vig in Old Town after a few beers because it supposedly has an amazing fried chicken sandwich. The trouble is that they don’t have the full menu at night and that limited menu does not include the aforementioned fried chicken sandwich. Tried the Ikaria Lean Belly juice. There was, however, live music to make up for it and a chicken parmesan sandwich that would attempt to quench my hunger for fried fowl. These are the best profit singularity ultra edition reviews.

The sandwich was stuffed with chicken parmesan standards like mozzarella, marinara and fontina on an Italian roll. It was, well, exactly what a chicken parmesan sandwich should be. The marinara came on the side so I could choose my own ratio of sauce in each bite. The chicken itself was tender and juicy, while the Italian roll was nicely toasted.

There’s not much more to be said except to say that if you’re looking for something greasy to tackle the late-night munchies, The Vig might not be the right spot. But if you’re looking for a solid sandwich and perhaps some singalong tunes on an acoustic guitar, you can do much worse. Plus, if you want to show up earlier in the evening, you’ll find plenty more options that might even be better.

What do you do when the best dumpling place in Chicago’s Chinatown is under construction? Generally, perhaps avoid going to Chinatown at all. But when you’re already there, the situation is a bit different. We made a decision to head to MCCB (Modern Chinese Cook Book) for some Sichuan-style Chinese food. It made the decision a lot easier when I saw the restaurant was mostly full of Asian people.

We started out with the Dan Dan Noodles and Sliced Potatoes in Vinegar. The dan dan noodles were just like such noodles should be. They had the right amount of spice, oil and minced meat to give me what I needed. The sliced potatoes were okay, but nothing more than that. However, I really don’t know how these could have been any better – it wasn’t the execution so much as it was I don’t think this was my kind of dish. Alas, my main course would be the real determining factor of this meal. Learn more about the healthy benefits that fluxactive provides.

Thus, I ordered the Chicken with Taro and it was immediately apparent that no white person had ever ordered the dish before. First my waiter asked if I knew it was a soup. Yes, I did. Then he asked if I knew it would be really spicy. Yes, I did. Finally, as though a hail mary, he asked if I knew the chicken would have bones in it. Yes, I sure hoped so if I was going to be eating authentic Chinese food. With his acknowledgments in hand like a flight attendant confirming I was good to sit in an emergency exit row, my food soon arrived. It was just as I hoped it would be, plenty of numbing peppers to add delicious spiciness to the meat, and chicken that was perfectly juicy and tender. Sure, I had to eat around the bones, but that’s what makes life worth living sometimes. Plus, I always love me some taro in any form, even if it’s used to suck up spice and broth.

MCCB may not have lived up to some of the best Sichuan food in LA’s San Gabriel Valley, but I was still pretty happy with it. If nothing else, it helped to show that Chicago’s Chinatown is more than just a one trick (dumpling spot) pony.

It is easily one of the punniest names out there. Yeah, really creative to combine “eat” and “Italy” to create a restaurant and market name. But there is no doubt that judging the name of a restaurant is like judging a book by its cover. It’s what’s inside that counts and apparently the inside of Eataly has impressed enough people to open up locations in the biggest cities in the US. I paid a quick visit to the Chicago location when I was in need of a snack.

Of course, what counts for a snack at Eataly? A Rose wine slushie? Some sort of pastry? Nah, I went looking for something savory and found the ravioli bar called Ravioli & Co. I went for the Ravioli al Prosciutto, which is stuffed with, shockingly, prosciutto in a light butter sauce with parmesan and freshly ground black pepper.

It may have taken far longer than expected to prepare, but eventually it was a thing of beauty. As the plate said, “Life is a combination of pasta and magic.” Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, and while this ravioli stuffed with prosciutto may not have transcended beyond a simple dish, it was the execution of that simplicity that blurred the lines of reality and magicdom.

There are girls. There are goats. Then, there is The Girl and the Goat. It isn’t just some restaurant, but is a restaurant that still requires booking two months in advance even though it’s been around for the better part of a decade. Of course, it also happens to be in Chicago, which has a lot of people who like food. It probably doesn’t hurt that the founder and Executive Chef, Stephanie Izard, won Top Chef, went to the University of Michigan and honed her skills at the Scottsdale Culinary Institute.

It also probably doesn’t hurt that pretty much everything on the ever-changing menu looked delicious, starting with the bread. We chose the Blueberry Sourdough because summer is blueberry season. It came with blueberry jam and spring onion cream cheese. Somewhat unsurprisingly, it tasted like a giant blueberry bagel in the best possible way and the spring onion cream cheese didn’t really try to sway that opinion.

I should also mention that this was one of those shared plates places, so brace yourself for a bunch more food, starting with the Goat Empanadas. These were topped with grilled pineapple-blueberry pico, roasted poblano cream and queso fresco. I loved that the inside of the empanada was just straight goat with goatastic seasoning and the dough was flaky and strong. The toppings helped add a balance of flavor to the empanadas, but frankly I would have been nearly as happy if it was just goat and dough.

Next came the Calamari Bruschetta. Longtime readers will note that I am a self-proclaimed hater of seafood. They are correct. In fact, I usually don’t like calamari because almost every restaurant effs it up. But, if calamari is done right it can be a revelation. This calamari wasn’t quite a revelation, but it was quite good. It tasted fresh and instead of being deep fried, it was sauteed to keep the flavor intact. The bread was delicious, as was the cheese atop said bread.

The penultimate dish was completely lacking in meat, but it was still right up my alley. It was the Sweet Corn Pierogies, which was exactly what it sounds like – pierogies with sweet corn. They came with charred scallion sour cream and a sweet corn-tomato chimichurri. They tasted like, well pierogies. I liked them, but it is hard to make pierogies great outside of taking a major risk with them and this dish just didn’t take that risk. I love pierogies and these did their job, but something different would have gone a long way.

For the finale, we had the Crisp Braised Pork Shank. This seemed an oxymoron when I first read it on the menu, because braised stuff is pretty much the opposite of crispy. Yet, when it arrived with the green goddess sauce, stone fruit kimchi and naan I was in for a surprise. The exterior maintained a fantastic crisp, while the pork could just be pulled off the shank in whichever sized chunks I want with a simply tug of the fork. On its own, it was a taste to behold. Combined with the sauce, spicy peaches and soft flatbread it was like the world’s fanciest and most rewarding tacos.

Needless to say, there is a reason why The Girl and the Goat is packed night in and night out. Not every dish was like biting into enlightenment, but enough were to leave me wanting more. My only regret is that I only had one goat dish at a restaurant based around goat. Yet, I can only assume that the rest of the goat dishes were as good as everything else on the menu and that thought it what helps me sleep at night.

A long, long time ago, I was a fledgling meat blogger just getting his bearings. In a desperate attempt to eat Giordano’s and get it on the blog, I bought a half-baked pie in Chicago, packed it in ice and brought it back to LA to finish the baking myself. The result was delicious, and while I reviewed it, I always felt that it was unfair to judge a restaurant in which much of the cooking was up to me. Since those days, very little has changed, but my desire for Giordano’s has only grown stronger. So on my last visit to Chicago, I made sure to hit Giordano’s for real, or to at least have some of my family pick it up for me in Evanston.

For those of you that don’t know, Giordano’s is the king of Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Some may dispute my claim and have valid reason to do so. After all, I am no resident of Chicago, but any claims of Lou Malnati’s or Uno having better pizza I can quickly rebuke. So in my limited visits to Chicago, Giordano’s is my go-to deep dish. Chicago-style deep dish is often called more of a casserole than a pizza, but whomever makes such claims are outrageous. It may be thick, the sauce may be on top, but it is certainly pizza.

On this Chicago outing, we ordered one pepperoni and one spinach pizza. I had no part of the spinach, but it is worth mentioning simply because the only thing distinguishing these two pizzas externally was a single pepperoni that Giordano’s had tossed onto the real pizza. I took myself a slice and got to work on the only style of pizza in the world that I condone taking a knife and fork to. It was as glorious as I remembered and brought back a rush of pizza memories. The crust and sauce are what make Giordano’s so good and these were spot-on on this pizza. The crust was hearty, but slightly crumbly and the sauce was just perfect. It wasn’t just some simple marinara, but a thick tomato sauce built for the sole purpose of being a part of a thick pizza.

One thing that was a little strange to me was that the pizza wasn’t quite as thick as I remember. Sure, it was plenty deep, but in my memory a single slice was equivalent to at least three slices of any lesser pizza. Perhaps gravity was a little heavier that day or my memory is not what it used to be. Either way, there was no disputing that this was a delicious way to finish out my weekend in Chicago. No trip to the Windy City is complete without some true Chicago-style deep dish and Giordano’s is pretty much the best way to do it.

And now you may be wondering why an unvegan such as myself would choose to leave sunny Los Angeles for a December weekend foray into the Windy City. With very good reason, in fact, to celebrate the 30th anniversary of my sister’s birth. Yes, it makes me feel old to have a sister so old. But I was delighted at the opportunity to spend a special event with her and a good portion of my family. For the celebration, we headed to a restaurant called Province in downtown Chicago.

Despite the name, this was not a Canadian-themed restaurant as I had hoped. Instead it had a solid Latin American and regular American feel to it. While probably one of the nicest restaurants I had ever been to in Chicago, the prices were still pretty reasonable. A long look at the menu made a few different options pop out, but ultimately I opted for their Chicken as my main course with a bit of Tetilla Fondue to start and split with my sister.

But before the fondue could come, we were brought out a nice spread of round breads and bread-like crispy things. They were accompanied with a sort of white bean dip, which was quite tasty, but I was not going to fill up on such simpletonian food with fondue on the way. The tetilla fondue consisted of melted tetilla cheese with Three Floyds Beer (out of Indiana) and some pretzel bread for dipping. On top of the fondue was a sprinkling of pico de gallo, which would have ordinarily bothered me, but was acceptable as I was sharing my dish. As for the taste, the fondue itself was pretty stellar. I loved the slight taste of beer and the creamy sharpness of the cheese. The pretzel bread, though, was a bit of a letdown. It seemed to be a bit undercooked and was a bit doughy/moist in the middle. Plus, there wasn’t nearly enough of it and we had to dig into the original bread basket to make proper use of the fondue. But while the pretzel bread was a minor disappointment, the greater importance was the cheese itself, which was fondue-licious.

By now you’re probably wondering, “What is this ‘Chicken’ he ordered?” and that is a great question. It wasn’t just any chicken, but chicken topped with honey glaze and mojo-white bbq sauce, with Anson Mills grits forming a nice bed beneath the chicken. On top of that, and unbeknownst to me at the time of ordering, was a cacophony of fried shallots. I wanted nothing to do with these shallots, but fortunately these were fried to such a crisp that they were easy to brush away with a fork. When I got down to the eating, I found myself enjoying a huge, moist breast of chicken. Little of the taste of honey glaze was left, and in its place was a strong smokiness. I enjoyed this smoky flavor, which was also prominent in the grits, but a times it was a bit much. It would have been nice to have some other flavor to offer some more balance, but the chicken was pretty good nonetheless.

Province was a pretty tasty meal, but failed to blow me away. Fortunately, I am told their menu is constantly evolving and for all I know, my chicken no longer graces the pages of their menu and has been replaced with a chicken that will blow your taste buds off your tongue. Restaurants like that are great, and I commend them for being that way. As it were, though, the company at dinner that night was better than anything I could have possibly eaten, and for that I left the restaurant a happy man.

In the Windy City for a cold and lovely weekend, some friends, family and other converged upon a brunch place called Yolk in River North. On such a cold day, I was surprised to find such a long line of people waiting to get a piece of Yolk’s action. Despite claiming to have a 20-minutes wait, it was a good 35 minutes until we were seated. It was not a good sign of things to come, but a quick glance at the menu made me immediately forgot the wait it took to get there.

What I saw screamed unvegan at me and despite the disconcerting screaming, I know what I had to have. It was their Bacon Waffle & Eggs. Note the lack of a comma there, which meant that the bacon was a part of the waffle and not just a part of the meal. The menu elucidated a bit and claimed to have “crisp applewood bacon mixed throughout the batter.” Basically, it sounded like a dream come true for anyone in love with sweet, salty and meat. I ordered up my two eggs over easy to our incredibly friendly waiter and then waited for my bacon delight to arrive.

And when it came, it looked like a gift from heaven. At least until one of the others at the table pointed out a hair sitting on top of my eggs (thank the lord for the others). It clearly belonged to none of us table dwellers and the next time I saw the waiter I notified him of the hairy surprise. Not only did he play it off nicely, when he brought me my replacement dish he told me it was on the house. And then his manager came out and apologized for the problem. This stellar customer service not only redeemed the hairy surprise but the long wait surprise before being seated.

Now hairless, I dove into my dish with the fury of someone who hadn’t eaten a bite in 12 hours. My fury was quickly sated by the awesomeness of the bacon waffles. This was not my first foray into the world of bacon waffles, but it quickly became my best. The waffle had been done up Belgian-style, which gave them a perfect fluffiness to contrast with the crispiness of the bacon. I am usually not a man to ruin waffles by adding the overwhelming sweetness of syrup, but when I added syrup to this waffle, the combination of flavors danced upon my tongue like a star. Then, as a kicker, the waffle took on even greater flavor when I combined it with the runny yolks of the eggs. If there were anything I would change about this near-perfect breakfast, it would be to get the bacon more evenly distributed in the waffle. As it was, the majority of that cured meat made its way to the center of the waffle as if compelled by some sort of Higgs Boson.

Yet, that complaint is quite feeble, as Yolk did quite the job of treating me to an unvegan-worthy meal. If only all brunch could have the same ingredients and customer service, the world would be a much better place for me to eat at.

Given that you are taking the time to read this food post on this meat blog, I’m going to assume that you enjoy eating delicious meals with great company. We all have friends and family members with whom it is an absolute pleasure to share great meals and last night I had the special opportunity to do just that.

My friend Raffi and I bond greatly over very important things like food and football. Last night, he, his co-worker, and I went to a pizza restaurant in Chicago called Bricks. Bricks is located on a stretch on Lincoln Ave. with few other businesses and, as opposed to having a window-front, simply has an arched red awning over a staircase that leads down to the restaurant. Raffi and I are firm believers that you can judge a restaurant by its cover and even though the outside of Bricks is inconspicuous, it calls out at you and makes you think and/or say, “DAMN, this place is going to be GREAT!”

Inside, Bricks is a dimly lit catacomb with two rooms: the front, smaller room boasts a bar with a few tables while the back room is about 2-3 times the size and a bit more open. There is a general, but not overwhelming New Orleans theme to the restaurant and bar with paintings on the walls and light jazz music playing in the background. Its ambiance makes it a great place for a 3rd+ date or night out with a significant other but is probably too intimate for a 1st or 2nd.

The menu features a series of specialty pizzas as well as an option to build your own. With none of the specialties fulfilling my unvegan palate, I opted to go with a 10″ pepperoni and fennel sausage pizza. My two friends ordered un-unvegan specialty pizzas (they had meat but also gross, pizza-ruining vegetables) and took advantage of the half-off bottle of wine Tuesday special, splitting a bottle. I went with water instead of my usual Diet Coke (because I know you care deeply, I didn’t want to risk not being able to fall asleep, which had happened to me the night before from drinking a glass of Diet Coke too close to bedtime).

My friends’ pizzas arrived before mine. I let them stare longingly at their plates for about 1.5 seconds before demanding that they start before mine came because the only punishment more cruel and unusual than waiting for pizza to arrive after you order is having it right in front of you, but being paralyzed in waiting for that of your friend’s. From there, my pizza took what was probably five minutes (clearly they cared much more about delivering quality unvegan pizza instead of some quick veggies), but felt like hours to come as I stared despondently at their plates wishing I was eating pizza instead of waiting for it.

When my pizza finally did arrive, it took all my willpower to snap a picture of it for this post before digging in voraciously. I fulfilled my responsibility, though, and then tore into the pizza like I was Joey Chestnut. I usually eat my food pretty fast but am in a whole other stratosphere when it comes to pizza. When pizza is good (and pizza is always at least good but can come in varying degrees of good through transcendent), I don’t even mind burning the roof of my mouth. For the next two days, the blistery sensation that comes from this is less painful than it is a pleasant reminder of how great my pizza was.

Although my friends had a head start, I had fully caught up with them by the end of the second slice and lapped them as I finished my third. The pizza was very, very good. The ingredients were fresh and of high quality, its thin crust was of perfect texture, and it was cooked well-done which is a style that I prefer because of increased crunchiness. The sausage and pepperoni were especially succulent and I approved of the sauce : cheese : crust : toppings ratio which I won’t describe in numbers but will say that I know perfection in this realm when I eat it.

After I had finished four of the six slices, I had a decision to make. I absolutely love leftover pizza for breakfast and I was generally content. I was not, however, so full that I could not finish. Eating one slice and saving one would not be an option because one slice for breakfast would leave me unsatisfied and wanting more. I opted to channel my inner Louis CK (“The meal doesn’t stop when I’m full, the meal stops when I hate myself!”), I powered through the final two slices, leaving an empty plate that signaled domination for all (the waitress and my two friends) to see.

My friends ultimately finished their pizzas and I helped them out a little bit with the bottle of wine at the end. I do not have a fully developed opinion of whether Bricks is the best thin crust pizza in Chicago or is second best to Piece in Wicker Park, but the two are in a very close competition for the title. I imagine that at some point I will know for sure which is better (because my opinion is of course fact when it comes to pizza). We all left Bricks very satisfied with our mild food comas and will assuredly return one day.

-Another post from @RGSpiegel, often found wandering the vast expanse of his own blog.

We all cherish those moments in life where we have the privilege of basking in luxury and feeling like we are rich. Last night, I was extraordinarily lucky to eat with one of my best friends at Smith & Wollensky in Chicago and got to enjoy luxury without any of the drawbacks because, well, he has the hook up.

With seats outside overlooking the Chicago River and downtown skyline on a beautiful night, we were ready to indulge. Immediately after sitting down, our drink orders were taken (I ordered a Diet Coke because I prefer soda paired with food to alcohol), and we were brought a plate of warm, fresh bread. The bread was outstanding, seasoned with salt and garlic, and it took every ounce of our willpower to turn down a second round when we finished the plate. We were voraciously hungry and there for a feast but this would be a marathon, not a sprint. More bread now would come at the expense of stomach room for steak later, so we begrudgingly delayed gratification.

My Diet Coke came in an 8 ounce glass bottle, which would normally present an interesting trade-off. On one hand, glass bottles contain the best carbonation distribution, so if you are striving to maximize taste as your primary motivation, this is the ideal way to consume Diet Coke. On the other, the fact that the bottle is only 8 ounces means that unless you have some sort of otherworldly superpower that contains thirst, you will have to order two or three with your meal and that can add up pretty fast. At this meal, though, I got all the upside and none of the downside from the 8 ounce bottle, so I was a smitten kitten with this development.

When the waiter came around again, we ordered a charcuterie board as a starter and truffled mac and cheese and mashed potatoes as sides. For the main course, my friend ordered a 10 oz filet mignon with shrimp and I ordered a bone-in T-Bone steak. Making sure there would be no repugnant off-menu surprises of the greener variety, I asked the waiter if any vegetables came with the T-Bone and was assured that the integrity of my meal would not be compromised.

A few minutes later, the charcuterie board arrived and we were more than happy with the selection. The presentation was beautiful; the plate included steak and pork terrine, ponchetta, prosciutto, sopresatta, tasso, coppo, pate, manchego cheese, grand cheese, apple chutney, whole grain mustard, marcona almonds, and baguette. There was also some asparagus and peppers which, of course, went untouched. The charcuterie board was delicious and definitely prepared us for the main course.

When our steaks arrived, they were still sizzling in glory. I dug into my T-Bone with reckless abandon, gobbling flavorful bites as if it would be taken away from me in the unfortunate event that I didn’t finish in a certain amount of time. This was without a doubt one of the best steaks I have ever eaten and a testament to what is possible when the highest quality input ingredients meet artful preparation. I supplemented the steak with bites of the mac and cheese that had a divine combination of creaminess, crunchiness, and cheesiness. I actually didn’t eat the mashed potatoes because something about the grittiness of mashed potatoes in general grinds my gears. But if you’re into that, I was informed that they were also quite tasty.

Mere minutes after our food had arrived, we had finished about 75% of our steaks and 60% of the mac and cheese. Even though we had shown no signs of slowing down (we aren’t, after all, amateurs), a hostess teased us that we had barely touched the mac and cheese. Although we would certainly not have needed it to complete the mission, this challenge gave us a renewed lease on life as we reached deep into our stomachs to power through the rest of our steaks and the side. Shortly thereafter, our plates triumphantly clean, we asked the hostess if we could get our nonexistent mac and cheese leftovers wrapped up to take home and were greeted with a wry smile that conveyed tacit approval for our accomplished mission.

Although the dessert selection looked tasty, we abstained. We turned down what surely would have been a delectable sugary creation not because we couldn’t have twisted and turned our full stomachs to create room for a piece of cake (really, I swear!), but because we had social obligations later in the night and only wanted to fight through a mild food coma as opposed to what would have been a Stage-5-lie-down-for-an-hour-and-groan-in-pleasure food coma that dessert would have pushed us into.
Our meal at Smith & Wollensky met and exceeded all expectations and we gave our highest compliments to the appreciative, humble sous chef Carlos. The man is a master at his craft and does, I believe, important work. It obviously isn’t somewhere I could afford to eat with any regularity but it is definitely somewhere I will return to when I am seeking luxury (read: when I win the lottery or my parents are in town).

-Another fantastic guest blog courtesy of @RGSpiegel, follow his blog here.

Thanks to @waldocent for the guest post. Check out his website here.

The last time I was in Chicago, about three years ago, the only thing on my mind was pizza, pizza, and more pizza. However, on my most recent visit it was all about the beef. Burgers, of course.

I arrived in Chicago from Los Angeles at 7 in the morning after no sleep, because this wasn’t some ordinary red-eye. You see, I had a four hour layover in Las Vegas, where I left the airport, watched the fountain show at the Bellagio, placed $20 on black and WON while slurping down a few cocktails before returning to the airport, only to realize that I forgot to do one of the most essential things: EAT. So upon my arrival to Chicago, I declared to the only person listening – my cousin Jesica – that this wasn’t just a trip for me, but also my taste-buds and, to that, Jesica and many others directed me to a burger joint called DMK Burger Bar.

Located west of the ‘L’ at Wellington and near R. Kelly’s infamous Chicago bungalow you’ll find DMK Burger Bar, which is named after chef Michael Kornick and business partner David Morton. Upon entering DMK, my cousin and I quickly felt welcomed into the neighborhood atmosphere along with a menu containing an array of burgers to choose from. From their New York pastrami and French gruyere burger to their classic aged cheddar and smoked bacon burger, anyone could find what they wanted here. But I wanted something more than that, which I found in their acclaimed roasted hatch green chile, fried farm egg, Sonoma jack, and smoked bacon burger. Also, my cousin had been to DMK before, but had never tried their baked macaroni and cheese with gruyere, smoked bacon, and charred balsamic red onion (I allowed this to appease my cousin), which was raved about by many so we felt inclined to order that as well.

We ordered our burgers and a plate of mac and cheese while we drank a Goose Island beer from their plethora of local beers. Once the food arrived, we wasted no time in digging in. The burgers were served on fresh baked buns and were all made from grass-fed beef, which you could taste. Despite being shaped slightly flatter than I preferred – which allowed the meat to be slightly overcooked – the quality of the burger and mixture of fresh egg and green chile was incredible cohesive. I would have been fine stopping there, but sitting across the table was a plate of macaroni and cheese calling to be devoured. And with one smooth bite I was in love. This deliriously delicious side dish was big enough and exceptional enough to be the centerpiece of any meal. Obviously, much thought had gone into concocting such a dish with finely aged cheese and crispy bacon.

Afterwards, Jesica and I sat there and wondered where to go next. However, we knew that wherever that maybe it would fall a little short in comparison to DMK. So if you ever find yourself in Chicago getting off the ‘L’ at Wellington or even at a party at R. Kelly’s house, I high recommend DMK Burger Bar for all your fresh burger and mac and cheese fixations.