The Glamour of Backseat Pizza

Vito and Nick’s
8433 S. Pulaski Rd.
Chicago, IL





I just want you to know something -- this gig isn’t as easy as it looks.

I know. You think it must be fun traveling the backroads of America discovering cool new places to eat, drink and have a good time.

Well it’s not all dollar beer nights and gourmet chili cheese dogs for Suit757.

It’s hard living out here on the road.

Do you think I bother to even break out the laptop to write about a sack full of McDonald’s Dollar Menu cheeseburgers when the Golden Arches are the only option open at 1am?

Or the microwaved burritos at the dive bar adjacent to my Best Western?

Or the hot dogs rotating unappetizingly on the little metal rollers behind the cash register at the airport smoking lounge?

Hell no. I only attempt to entertain you with my adventures…if they are at least somewhat entertaining.

Most of my days are spent racing across town in Pine-Sol scented rental cars, dashing through airports and having my genitals radiated by TSA bureaucrats.

Suit757’s life isn’t anywhere near as glamorous as I might lead you to believe.

Today was a perfect example.

I was in Chicago -- one of my favorite eating cities.

I was determined to squeeze a memorable dining experience into my itinerary already jam packed with four meetings spread across the Chicagoland Metro region.

I just happened to recently see an episode on the Food Network with that guy with the spiky hair featuring a popular and unique pizza joint that combines two of Chicago’s favorite delicacies: pizza and Italian beef.

Thanks to national chains like Uno’s, everyone knows about Chicago deep dish pizza, even though, not surprisingly, the real thing is much better than the stuff served at your local mall.

Italian beef is the lesser known Chicago specialty.

Chicago Italian beef is tender slowly marinated shreds of meat stuffed into a big sub roll.

If that’s all you get, it’s not bad, but a bit bland.

But “not bad” isn’t good enough for Suit757.

I always get the “combo” which adds a link of Italian sausage to the sandwich.

Oh, and you want to add another Chicago specialty, giardiniera.

Giardiniera -- or giardineer, as they spell it at Vito and Nick’s -- is mix of celery and diced peppers, either sweet or hot depending on your tolerance and/or preference.

The idea of adding the ingredients of a Chicago Italian beef sandwich to a pizza sounded like the best invention since 2am pizza delivery.

As luck would have it, Vito and Nick’s just happened to kinda sorta be on the way to one of my meetings in the southwest suburbs.

Vito and Nick’s is far enough out that you can’t really say it is in the city. But it isn’t far enough out to be in the suburbs. It’s located in that urban no man’s land where one way streets and tenements give way to medians and strip malls.

My first task was convincing my travel partner of the day to give the place a try.

This is not a problem I am used to.

We Suits usually travel alone.

If I want to risk my life and digestive track on some urban greasy spoon dive, I’m not risking anyone’s wellbeing but my own.

And if I trash the rental car? Well, that’s an Enterprise problem, not mine.

As it turned out, having a fellow Suit to chauffeur me around Chicago on this day was quite an advantage. This meal was not a one man job.

Coincidentally, my fellow Suit is a native Chicagoan.

But convincing him to try Italian beef on a pizza took a bit of Suit757 persuasion.

“I love Chicago pizza. And I love Italian beef. But I’m not sure I want them together,” he complained.

My response was, “Dude. It’s going to be awesome.

“We’re going.”

Ah, the subtle art of persuasion.

The fact that I was a mere passenger in his car did not deter me from setting the lunch itinerary.

I must admit I started to have second thoughts as soon as we walked in.

The TV show pictured a packed house with pizza guys tossing wooden pizza boards through the air frantically trying to keep up with the hordes of patrons lined up out the door.

Our experience was very different.

Only two other occupied tables in the entire restaurant. And this was the noon “lunch rush.”

“This might not be a good sign,” I mumbled to myself without letting my companion in on my self-doubt.

I mean, usually when these places make national TV it ruins it for the rest of us. You can’t even get near the place.

It didn’t take long to figure out why no one comes here for lunch.

We placed our order of Italian beef pizza with Italian sausage and “mild giardineer” at the stroke of high noon.

By 12:40 it was time to hit the road for our 1pm meeting out in the suburbs.

Just one minor problem.

We still didn’t have our pizza.

Holy crap. This is a working class neighborhood. Last time I checked, most people who work for a living don’t get more than an hour for lunch.

No wonder the place was empty. Maybe Vito and Nick’s should relocate to the Obama side of town where people don’t have jobs.

Or only open for dinner when people have time for a two hour meal.

I told the waitress we had to go. I guess we’ll eat it cold later this afternoon when all our meetings are over.

Our pizza was just coming out of the oven. The pizza man boxed it up, I threw the waitress a twenty and a ten (they don’t take credit cards) and we dashed out the door.

I tossed the pizza in the back seat of the car and I think I heard tires squealing as my fellow Suit swerved his car onto Pulaski Road heading southbound.

By the time we got to the first traffic light, my traveling companion looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked into the back seat where the most intoxicating aroma of our lives was emanating.

Stomach growing, I said, “I’m going in.”

“Hell yeah,” he said.

I unbuckled my seat belt and turned around in the passenger seat to get a better look and opened the box.

An absolute masterpiece.

Melted cheese, green giardineer, toasted sausage and beef, crust charred perfectly on the edges.

I picked up the first piece.

The traffic light turned green. My fellow Suit hit the accelerator.

I tumbled into the backseat spilling Italian beef and giardineer all over his floor boards -- and his suit coat hanging precariously just above the pizza box.

The sight, the smell and the taste of this masterful pie was too much to resist.

In our 15 minute commute through suburban Chicago, we were going to eat that pizza. To hell with the dry cleaning bills.

Eating scalding hot pizza while driving wasn’t the most difficult part (of course that’s easy for me to say since I wasn’t the one actually driving).

The difficult part was transferring steaming hot pieces of pizza intact from the back seat to the front seat of a moving vehicle swerving through an urban minefield of construction cones and red light cameras with no plates or utensils.

Fortunately, I remembered to grab a stack of napkins in our mad exit.

This was one of the most extraordinary pizzas of my life.

The crust was thin and crispy and held up well to the topping onslaught it was subjected to.

The Italian beef marinated in garlic, oregano and basil was delicious with a smoky char from the oven.

The spice from the Italian sausage married perfectly with the sweet diced giardineer peppers.

Negotiating Chicago traffic with his knees, my driver kept alternating bites with exclamations like, “This is unbelievable!”

“I never thought Italian beef on pizza could be this good!”

I was in total agreement -- if a bit nervous about the lack of available hands for turn signals and steering wheels.

We pulled up to our meeting -- alive and well -- at exactly 12:59.

We wiped ourselves down with more napkins, checked the rearview mirror for stray giardineer in our teeth and popped some breath mints.

Who knew that backseat pizza while negotiating the streets of Chicago could be one of life’s best meals?

This traveling life might not be glamorous, but it’s definitely not boring.

Rating: Would Have Bought the Shirt -- If We Had Time.

You Either Love Hot Dogs…Or You are a Communist

 

Superdawg
6363 N. Milwaukee Ave.
Chicago, IL





Some people don’t get my enthusiasm for hot dogs.

But if you don’t get excited about a trip to Chicago’s famous Superdawg…

…well…

…you just might want to consider the possibility that you are a Communist sympathizer.

How can you not love that legendary anatomical meat tube couple dressed in leopard skin and mini skirt perched high above Superdawg looking out over the corner of Milwaukee and Devon?

I get a flutter in my stomach reminiscent of my first childhood encounter with Mickey Mouse at Disney World when I round the corner in my rental car and catch a glimpse of Maurie and Flaurie mounted of the Superdawg roof.

The creepy red glow in Maurie’s eyes means my stomach is in for a treat unlike any other on Earth.

Chicago’s love affair with hot dogs and sausages can be traced back to the immigrants from Central and Eastern Europe who settled in the Windy City.

Superdawg is the quintessential hot dog joint in the quintessential hot dog city.

And an idyllic retreat on the way to that hell otherwise known as O’Hare International Airport.

Packaged in delightful red and blue boxes featuring whimsical bits of wisdom from Maurie such as “Your Superdawg lounges inside” and “From the bottom of my pure beef heart...thanks for giving me this chance to serve you…”

…the anticipation is almost unbearable as the old fashioned car hop delivers the tray of food to my rental car window.

While the convenience of rental car side service is appreciated, trying to keep the pile of condiments off of my suit proves more than a bit challenging.

In Chicago, folks like their dogs “dragged through the garden” meaning topped with an unwieldy combination of mustard, peppers, onions, tomatoes and pickles.

Fortunately the tray of food included a generous supply of napkins which I used to construct a paper barrier between my mountain of meat and produce and my Brook Brothers tie.

The hot dog was an extra thick juicy tube of beef enhanced by the tang and spice of the onions and sport peppers and balanced with the sweet neon green relish.

This is the quintessential Chicago dog.

Tightly packed into the box with the hot dog comes a mound of crinkle cut fries -- a convenient vehicle to soak up all the scattered condiments spilling all over my Chevy Impala.

Not being a huge fan of French fries, I opted also for an order of “Superonionchips”, a towering red box of fried onion petals.

Too much bread. Not enough onion. Probably won’t order those again.

But I saved the best for last.

Whoopskidawg!

Oh. Yeah.

Thanks to the large number of folks of Polish descent who settled in the Windy City, Chicago is something of a hub for good Polish Sausage.

The Whoopskidawg just might be the most delicious version I’ve ever tasted.

Smothered in diced onion and tangy sweet BBQ sauce and nestled in a top notch onion roll, the Whoopskidawg is even more exciting than the Superdawg…

…as difficult as that is to conceive.

Smokey and sweet simultaneously, my Whoopskidawg just might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in a city known for world class junk food.

And I don’t think it is a coincidence that one of the most exquisite sausages on earth is named after a country that suffered more than its share from Socialist dictators.

First Poland bore the brunt of the Nazis -- and then the Soviets.

But neither Hitler nor Stalin could snuff out the popularity of a top notch tube of processed meat.

Of course none of this history has stopped Chicago native Michelle Obama from attempting to eradicate hot dogs from America’s school cafeterias.

So say what you will about Suit757’s love affair with hot dogs, Polish sausages and chopped up pig and cow parts.

I’m on the side of the long-suffering, freedom-loving people of Poland.

Whose side are you on?

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Succumbing to the Self Righteously Hip Chicago Dog

Gene and Jude’s
2720 River Rd.
River Grove, IL





Chicago is famous for many things.

The world’s busiest airport. The country’s tallest building.

America’s first Marxist president.

And the Chicago hot dog. Of course.

Gene & Jude’s out here in the suburbs just south of O’Hare Airport was one of the earliest purveyors of Chicago’s topping-laden meat tube.

In Chicago, it’s become a hipster cliché to shun ketchup on hot dogs.

To a Chicagoan, someone who puts ketchup on hot dogs is like that drinker who prefers White Zinfandel. Or that tourist who won’t turn off his cell phone ringer on the “el”.

Or that Wrigley Field bleacher bum who refuses to throw back an opposing team home run ball. Despite the torrent of drunken boos and profanity.

In other words, ketchup is for the uncouth, unhip and unsophisticated.

Nobody wants to be THAT guy.

As a hot dog connoisseur who has been known to enjoy a bit of ketchup from time to time, I find this “holier than thou” hot dog ideology to be a bit tiresome.

It’s a freaking hot dog, for cripe’s sake.

It’s not high society cuisine.

I’m a firm believer that folks should be free to put whatever they want on their processed meat without fear of being damned to hell for an eternity of living off nothing but McDonalds Happy Meals.

That being said, I’m still a firm believer in “When in Rome” dining.

When in Chicago, go ahead and eat your hot dog as Chicagoans do.

Most of the famous Chicago hot dog joints serve them “dragged through the garden”, stacking peppers, onions, tomatoes, pickles, cucumbers, celery salt and other assorted condiments into an unwieldy pile of produce -- completely overshadowing the meat.

Gene and Jude’s sticks to a simpler -- and I believe better -- formula.

The condiments here are freshly chopped onion, relish, sport peppers and mustard.

Oh, and French fries too.

Yeah, the fries are piled on top of the dog just like all the other condiments.

But, no. You can NOT have ketchup.

Not even for your fries.

Legend has it that a Gene and Jude’s employee once smuggled a few packets of ketchup into the kitchen, probably because he was tired of saying no to all those uncouth out-of-towners asking for it.

Once the owner discovered the contraband ketchup packets, he tossed them all into the dumpster out back.

Okay. I won’t make that mistake.

Definitely don’t want to be THAT guy.

The fries are fresh cut every day and top notch -- even without any ketchup.

I’m still not sure if the fries are meant to be eaten separate or as a hot dog topping, like a Primanti Brothers Pittsburgh sandwich.

When you first unwrap your hot dog, you can’t even see it under the mountain of fries.

Eventually, I put enough of a dent in my French fried mountain that I could find my hot dog and lift it to my mouth for my first bite.

Delicious.

The relish and onion add a nice tangy crunch while the mustard compliments the meaty snap of the freshly steamed dog.

Then every few bites you get an eye opening jolt of crunchy spice when you bite into one of those famous green “sport” peppers.

It’s a lot of simultaneous flavor action, no doubt. But the star of the show – the famous Vienna Beef Chicago hot dog -- never gets lost in all the commotion.

Here at Gene and Jude’s, you can order a single or a double dog.

I got both. Of course.

The double is a bit cumbersome, but it does, if you can manage it, provide a nicer meat-to-condiment-and-fry ratio.

Inexplicably, Gene and Jude’s also sells processed industrial corn tamales.

Even more inexplicably, I ordered one. On top of my orgy of hot dogs, fries and Chicago condiments.

Produced by the Supreme Tamale Company, Inc. here in Chicago and served in a mass-produced plastic wrapper, the tamale was barely edible.

Slimy on the outside but dry as corn meal on the inside, it tasted like an oddly meat-flavored hunk of dough.

After a few bites, I tossed it in the trash. Definitely not the house specialty.

Ninety percent of the business here is take out.

If fact, there is no place to sit. Just a ledge along the window facing the expansive parking lot.

Perfect for Suit757.

I’ll be doing enough sitting the rest of the evening while crammed into seat 14A on a United Express regional jet.

After polishing off my last bite of dog and fries, I felt pretty good about myself. I just consumed several genuine Chicago hot dogs. Didn’t deviate on a single condiment.

Now I see why Chicagoans get so smug about their hot dogs. They are pretty darn good done the Chicago way.

Particularly the Gene and Jude’s way.

I walked out into the parking lot feeling hip. In the know. An insider.

The thought of that sweet tomatoey paste never even crossed my mind.

Nope. I felt darn near self-righteous. No ketchup for me.

Suit757 will never be THAT guy again.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Do as I Say…Not as I Do

Kitty O’Shea’s
720 S. Michigan Ave.

Chicago, IL

“I don’t trust no one who don’t take their own advice”
            -- Black Crowes,

                “Bad Luck, Blue Eyes, Goodbye”

That’s the trouble with being overly opinionated.

In typical rock star eloquence, Chris Robinson may have gotten the grammar all mangled, but he still somehow manages to make an insightful point.

You always have to take your own advice.

Oh well, even Suit757 can’t be that consistent.

I deserve to be put on Double Secret Suits in Strange Places Probation for this one.

My meal at Kitty O’Shea’s in the Chicago Hilton violated not one, but two inviolable Suit757 commandments:

1) Never eat at a hotel restaurant.

2) Don’t order the food at an Irish Pub.

Just think, if it had been one of those national chain pseudo-Irish restaurants like Bennigan’s or Beef O’Brady’s I could have hit the trifecta of road food sins.

The reason to avoid hotel restaurants should be obvious – most of their customers are never coming back. No incentive to create shirt-buying-worthy cuisine.

And as for Irish Pub cuisine, take it from someone who has spent his fair share of time downing pints in the deepest, darkest nooks and snugs of America’s and Ireland’s most famous Irish pubs. It’s not the food that makes them famous.

But, today, a strange set of circumstances (involving stored luggage, subway station proximity, flight schedules, an urgent call from Suit69 and the overriding desire for a cold beer, among other things) conspired to lead me to the conclusion that of all the great dining establishments the Windy City offers, Kitty O’Shea’s in the Chicago Hilton was my best option for a meal.

Apparently a lot of other people don’t take my advice either. At 5:30 on a Wednesday, the place was packed.

Mostly suit-wearing 20-somethings networking over pints of American-made light beer and breaking their best moves on their busty brunette co-workers.

Also, a few unadventurous traveling suits like me who for whatever reason had no desire to leave the confines of their hotel.

As far as Irish pub authenticity? Well, what do you expect?

Kitty O’Shea’s has dark wood paneling, a few Irish beers on tap, and a cow painted in green shamrocks.

If you are looking for more than that, then I’m afraid you are going to have to venture outside the Hilton.

I do have to give a few begrudging points to Kitty O’Shea’s for their beer selection. It’s not extensive, by any means, but it does have a couple unusual offerings you can’t find in just any old bar.

For example, forgoing my Irish Pub customary pint of Guinness, I sipped a Kilkenny while perusing the very limited menu.

Kilkenny is somewhat unusual simply because it is an Irish beer far less ubiquitous than the typical corporate Irish beer triumvirate of Guinness, Harp and Smithwicks.

When you order a Kilkenny you can still live under the illusion that you are supporting the little guy, rather than some international conglomerate.

Just don’t read the fine print on the tap handle.

Turns out Kilkenny is a part of the vast Diageo booze empire, along with the rest of the Irish corporate triumvirate.

Am I the only Irishman on the planet who finds it sacrilegious that 99.9% of all Irish beer is produced by a world-dominating beverage conglomerate headquartered in London?

Arthur Guinness (God rest his soul) must be flipping in his County Kildare grave.

Kilkenny is light, but tasty and goes down smooth (REAL smooth) because it is nitrogenated like Guinness.

(More friendly advice for you – if you ever find yourself in a beer chugging contest, always go for a nitrogen-based beer like Kilkenny or Guinness. It goes down much easier than a carbonated beer. Don’t ask me how I know this.)

My second beer was a local microbrew, Gossamer Golden Ale, from Chicago’s own Half Acre Brewing Company. A pilsner with a bit of hoppy flavor, it was okay. Certainly better than Bud Light.

When it comes to ordering food at an Irish pub, the safest bet is to eat before you get there.

The second safest is to get the fish and chips.

Kitty O’Shea’s version consisted of two beer-battered pieces of mystery fish and a handful of seasoned fries. The dipping sauce for the fish was described on the menu as an “Old Bay Sauce”. In reality, it was more like a remoulade from New Orleans.

The fish wasn’t bad. Crispy and flaky, the sauce really elevated the dish to above average.

The fries were pretty good too.

I was even thinking of giving the meal a little higher rating.

Until the check came. And I was reminded of the other reason to avoid hotel restaurants.

Would you pay $35 for two pieces of fish, two beers and a few fries?

Well, I just did.

But that’s what I get for not taking my own advice.

Rating: Would Wear A Free Shirt.

We Don't Need No Stinking Onions . . .

The Onion Pub & Brewery

22221 Pepper Rd.

Lake Barrington, IL 60010

I despise Chicago.

I despise Chicago for the traffic, the politics, and the dirty White Sox . . .

I have never had a pleasant traffic experience in Chicago.

Politically speaking, the city is absolutely atrocious. Can anyone say statism?

And as for the White Sox . . . Well, I'm a Detroit Tigers fan, so I have to hate them.

With the most annoying manager in baseball, Ozzie Guillen, that's sure not hard for me.

With that said, I will now introduce you to The Onion Pub & Brewery located in Barrington, Illinois, just about an hour northwest of downtown Chicago.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I love micro-breweries and I am willing to go out of my way to visit one.

In this case, I traveled about 40 minutes from my hotel to visit The Onion.

Now, the name of this place certainly peaked my interest . . .

Honestly, it had me concerned that it was going to serve beer brewed with onion, which I can never imagine being a good combination.

But actually, the name is a tribute to the original inhabitants of the region, the Potowatami tribe.

Apparently this area was once covered with wild onion and the Potowatami named it "Che-cau-gua", directly translating as "land of the stinking onion."
The city of Chicago derives its name from this, which seems appropriate to me.

The outside of The Onion was impressive, with giant wooden doors, a mural of foxes drinking beer, and creeping vines.

I felt like I was about to walk into black tie only restaurant.

The land that it was located on was impressive as well, green with a nice pond out back.

While I was looking over the menu, I ordered their Summer Wit, which was their version of a Belgian wheat beer.  It came standard with a slice of lemon.

It was pretty good. A nice light body for a hot summer day.

The menu was pretty impressive. They had everything from burgers, steak, and a few traditional German dishes such as Jagerschnitzel.

They also make their own barbecue sauce for their ribs and pulled pork sandwiches.

The only downside to the menu was the price.

Perhaps it was because we were close to Chicago and the prices are artificially inflated, or may be it is because everything is just so bloody expensive in Illinois because of the taxes. Either way, the prices seemed to be a bit high.

I decided to go with a BBQ Pulled Pork sandwich that was smothered in their house made lager BBQ sauce. As a side, I had a bowl of French onion soup.

I couldn't go to a placed called "The Onion" and not have a food item with onion in it.

As I waited for my food, I took a look around the place.

The inside was as impressive as the outside. The whole place has a timber interior frame, which gives it the feel of a hunting lodge, which made it cozy and relaxing.

My soup arrived first and it looked amazing, just like French onion soup should look like, cheese melted over the top, with the soup having a rich, dark color to it.

It was delicious. Easily the best French onion soup I have ever had.

Soon after finishing my soup, my pulled pork sandwich arrived.

It had pulled pork piled high, smothered in BBQ sauce, all on an onion roll.

It was wonderful, as were the pretzel rolls that came as an appetizer.

I was not disappointed by this meal.

Of course, I wish the prices were a little lower so that I could have afforded to try another one of their beers that were being brewed right beneath my feet.

That's right, this place brews its own beer in the basement of the building. Can we say guaranteed freshness?

It almost made me rethink my dislike for Chicago.

Almost.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying the Shirt, but thought that I contributed enough through the prices and up-charges on my meal to justify it.

Curing Chicago Hang-overs One Gourmet Omelet at a Time

Tempo Café
6 East Chestnut St.
Chicago, IL
Visited August 19, 2010

Beer selection: None

Food: Gourmet 24 Hour Diner Food

Every city needs a place like the Tempo Café.

What Denny’s and the Waffle House are to small town America, the Tempo Café is to the big, bustling, sophisticated city of Chicago.

A place you can get an over-stuffed omelet and an endless cup of coffee 24 hours a day to cure whatever ails you.

But much as the Windy City is one of a kind (my favorite of America’s big cities), the Tempo Café is no Denny’s or Waffle House.

No. As a true reflection of the exciting city it serves, the Tempo is, dare I say, gourmet hangover food.

Each orange juice is hand squeezed.

The omelets come with such exotic ingredient combinations as broccoli-ham-mushroom-tomato or banana-walnut-honey.

You can also get piled-high skillets of hash browns, ham, onions, green peppers and multiple types of cheese that would put your neighborhood Denny’s to shame.

I wasn’t hung-over. But I was hungry.

My choice was “The Omni”, a delicious omelet with ham, green peppers, onions, Swiss cheese and American cheese served in a huge skillet over a mound of thick sliced home fried potatoes. I couldn’t even contemplate finishing it all.

I think just to make sure no one – no matter how much fun they had the night before – confuses this place with Denny’s, each breakfast comes with an orange slice, a prune and a couple wide slices of sesame seed Greek toast with fresh butter and home-made marmalade. And a tall hand-squeezed orange juice.

All for about $12, including tax.

Heck, I’ve had pints of beer in this city that cost more than that.

A bargain meal in a city that otherwise is no bargain (bring your ATM card when you come to Chicago), is what packs them in here 24 hours a day.

Cops and crooks. Preachers and pimps. Teetotalers and drunks. Suits and sandals. Bright cheery early-morning people and Rush-Street-haven’t-gone-home-yeters.

They all have one thing in common – they appreciate a good hearty breakfast to greet the rising sun. And you can find every one of them at the Tempo.

That’s why every trip to Chicago must have the Tempo Café on the itinerary. Your stomach and wallet deserve no less.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt