Shortly after hearing that Top Chef: Chicago winner Stephanie Izard’s new joint, the highly anticipated Girl and the Goat, had opened, I rushed to get my reservation and still waited about three weeks for an 8 PM spot. The hype machine in Chicago dining spools up mighty quick these days. I’m no starfucker and I understand that winning a reality TV show on basic cable is not often the most reliable indicator for expertise in your chosen field, but who in the sleazy city didn’t blush with pride when a hometown girl took top prize on judgment day. Colicchio’s bald bear head beamed and Padma’s ample bosom heaved and all was right in the culinary metaverse because the whole world (or the small, white, grotesquely privileged corner of it that slavishly laps up whatever bowl Bravo lays out for it) knew for a brief moment what many of us hold near and dear – Chicago can cook as well as it can eat. Besides, I had heard really good things about Izard’s time at Scylla.

Me and the pre-Missus skipped on down to Randolph Street, past the recently deceased Marche, and bounded through the revolving door with empty bellies and high joy. The place was sardines, which worried me before we even got to the host’s station. “I’m really sorry. There are several tables ahead of you. You can wait in the lounge or at the bar or…” He trailed off as I looked at the completely full lounge area and the three-ass-deep bar. I turned back to him and said, “Right.” This gave us plenty of time to survey the décor. The place has a pleasant lofty layout with high ceilings and canister lights centered over every single table (note: I really wish more restaurants would to this, btw, as it is perfect for seeing your food, taking no-flash pictures and maintaining privacy in a busy establishment). Big win on the vast open kitchen, sadly something of a rarity in Chicago, which featured THE Stephanie Izard personally inspecting and physically blessing every single dish that left it. Didn’t love the dowdy centerpieces placed sporadically around the place or the giant painting of a girl and a goat in the grotesque style. I am a huge fan of haunting low-brow art, and Quang is my neighbor, but creepy skulls and a dead-eyed goat looming over your dining experience seems way off tone in an otherwise understated joint. We were seated at about 8:45 – unacceptable, even for a place this new. To their credit, everyone was very apologetic about the wait. Not sorry enough to buy us drinks or comp our dessert, but certainly better than nothing.

I started with the best Sazerac I’ve ever had (trumping even the mix nerds at Violet Hour) and moved on to Corny Goat bread with goat cheese butter and corn relish. This was better than it had any right to be and our spirits raised immediately with some quality food in our gullets. Also tossed down a few raw oysters (note: most common group in a restaurant is divisible by two, please serve the right number of oysters so nobody gets hurt in the violent roshambo for the odd bivalve out) with a satisfying mignonette.

Cauliflower with pickled peppers came out next. I speared a bit of cauliflower and threw down. Eh. It was roasted cauliflower. Just, you know, some cauliflower with pretty blackened bits. No seasoning, no sauce, no nothing to speak. Bland, if fresh, and uninspired. I got worried. We had four or five more dishes coming and this was a bad precedent. I wondered if I had done something wrong. For the second bite, I deftly balanced a bit of cauliflower, a pickled pepper and a couple pine nuts on the fork (no mean feat), and my mouth was filled with omfgwtflol. It dawned on me. This crazy, fuzzy-headed, young turk may have done this on purpose. In many fine dining experiences, each component stands well enough on its own that it can be eaten somewhat willy-nilly. Not so at Girl and the Goat. You better bring your manual dexterity and your reading glasses because you are going to have to carefully construct each bite for the ideal experience. If I sound annoyed, it’s because I am not still at that table eating that food. I actually appreciate the reward for my effort and this method of cooking ensures that each component remains true to itself, spurning the butter bath and salt shower.

The Chickpeas Three Ways followed on the theme. It was tasty, but a little forced and the ménage-a-trois of legumes (fresh and green, battered and fried, and deep-fried hummus) was upstaged by the cherry tomatoes and mozzarella. I think this dish would have been just as good without the chickpeas. Veggies out of the way, it was time for pleasures of the flesh.

Grilled Baby Octopus probably hovers near the five-spot on the ‘list of shit I never thought I would eat when I was six years old.’ Lo and behold, I absolutely adore the little alien fuckers. The taste is often spot on, but the texture can be tough to get right. Gum should be chewy, octoveal should not be chewy. Izard pretty much nailed it. Because it was grilled, the texture was a bit uneven, but it was mostly excellent and completely delicious. If they braised it (or braised it longer) before grilling, it would have achieved some kind of orgasmic perfection. It was served with big, fat, lima beans, some onion shoots and other vegetable matter. Again, constructing the perfect bite was rewarded, but well-seasoned grilled octopus almost needs no supporting cast.

We hit a wall in the form of lamb ribs next. Lamb ribs are like pork ribs, but a lot richer. The lamb these ribs came from probably died from a heart attack. I liked it, but it was heavy. Heavy like a movie about war crimes. Heavy like an airplane full of grandmothers crashing into an orphanage. This plate was delicious, but tough to deal with at this stage of the gluttony and it is the one dish I would leave out next time in order to make room for the one below.

This brings us to Pig Face. Let that just sink in a bit before I continue. Pig Face. This dish is what you might expect…if you were a serial killer or a cutter. Pig Face is a goddamned pig face, torn off the pig, snout and all. The pig’s tongue is then rolled up in the middle of the pig face and wrapped tightly in cheese cloth rendering something akin to a hell sausage. This unholy talisman is then braised for a day (alternatively, it can be nailed to your enemy’s front door as a warning) and finished in the impressive wood-burning stove, sliced into innocent-looking bologna-shaped pieces and served to you with a sunny-side up egg on top. The egg seems to be saying, “Hey! Hi there! Nothing sinister here! Happiness! Joy! I am not hiding the face flesh of a swine ripped from its brain pan and wrapped around its own tongue! No way, buddy!” Oh, and if lamb ribs are rich, this dish is Scrooge McFuckingDuck spliced with Daddy Warbucks and wearing Richie Rich’s skull as a crown. Pig Face might just kill you. I almost ordered another. The construction thing is especially important as munching down on Pig Face without a little egg-y help to tone down the situation could make your brain melt. Pig Face is the girl at the party that looks either stunningly gorgeous or horribly disfigured depending on the angle of light and how many Vodka tonics you’ve choked down. She will blow your mind and leave you for dead in a trash-filled alley for the rats to finish off and, make no mistake, she will sleep well, friend. Oh, yes.

Still reeling from the full-frontal porcine assault, we settled in for a delicious dessert featuring goat cheese, blueberry compote and brown sugar cake. It was served in a crockery. I barely remember the details, but I am pretty sure I really liked it.

Girl and the Goat made me wait longer than is acceptable, but the disappointment stopped there. I had high hopes for this place and it presented me with a dining experience fresh enough to dazzle my jaded buds. It is clear Izard loves her work and I am not sure if she is a genius or this was accidental, but she slapped, flipped and rubbed down my expectations and all for a check at the end that came in under what I thought the meal was worth. Top marks, cable television starlet and Chicago’s very own. Top marks.

(Glutton’s note: I apologize for the picture quality. It’s a new Apple iPhone and, while it is not a bad phone camera, it is not for low-light situations. It won’t happen again.)

Dinner, Things We've Eaten Chicago, stephanie izard, the girl and the goat

From the Board of Trade to the Western Blue Line, Ravenswood down to River North…Matt Maroni’s ‘curbside solution for your hunger’ is hotter than Silly Bandz and Kanye’s bitch ass twitter feed (you didn’t actually think we would drive traffic there, did you?).  So much naan has been consumed in the last couple months, youd think Lake Michigan was the fucking Bay of Bengal.  In short, if yall haven’t tried a naanwich yet, your officially on Lindsay Lohan status (= tired).

Gaztro Wagon as it stands is a true monopoly.  Dorothy (Gaztro’s food truck) pounds out urban food blight like a bag of Flamin’ Hots.  But change soon come.  A Food Truck Ordinance should be signed and sealed within the next few weeks, which would effectively change the way we street dine almost overnight.  In addition to Foss, Sula, Tamarkin and others, thank your boy Waugespak for the co-sign.

Being a Edgewater native, I’ve spent the last few months watching the HQ grow.  On multiple occasions I’ve witnessed customers returning for their second or third naanwich of the day.  OF THE DAY, folks.  Think muhfukas is hooked or what?

One of Gaztro’s biggest sellers is the shortrib naanwich.  Tender, succulent, flavor saturated beef accompanied by padron peppers, red onions, goat cheese, and fresh herbs.  I’m not going to spend time talking about how good this thing is, Ima just let yall get down with these here visuals.

Good looks to deep blue skies for putting this one up on the Chicago Gluttons flickr Pool.  Keep framing them lovely plates.  Daddy’s gotta eat.

Dinner, Lunch CG Flickr Group, Chicago Gluttons, foodtrucks, gaztro wagon, naanwich

Morchellas! (insert preferred onomonopia here)!  The molly moocher, dryland fish, merkle, the sponge, or simply known as the morel.  Only Madlib’s got more aliases.  Trip up on these in the forest and consider it an edible 1849. No worries though, North Pond’s Bruce Sherman will happily pay ole’ Barry (Appleton, Minnesota’s finest) to “hunt” um down for you.

(Said in Spicoli voice) But its not just about the shrooms, dude, its about the journey, the total gnarlyness, bro!

And its true; morels kinda taste like kneepit without a solid accompaniment.  But don’t bread and fry that shit.  That’s remedial.  Top the forest jewels with sheeps milk, ricotta-parmesan gnocchi, cinnamon and watercress and suddenly the sun, moon, and stars seem more boring than old people sex. We’d work this dish down like cherry twizzlers.

Solid grab by Kidltamae.  Stay up on the Chicago Gluttons flickr group and culinary centerfold, babies.  Its more controversial than the Chicago Eyeball.  Oh, and never forget, the digital camera to deliciousness ratio always favors the documentarian.

Culinary Centerfolds, Dinner, You Have to Fucking Try This

Hello Glutton’s readers, naw we aint dead we’ve been trapped in the walk in freezer at the Long John Silver’s in Schaumburg. Television was right, it IS a great way to work out petty differences. I also learned that frozen hush puppies taste nearly the same.

Anyhoo, I got some shit that I recently stumbled upon that you ought to load into the ol’ crap factory.

Behold, the Moo Platter from Fountainhead.

More arrows means more delicious.

Supposedly this platter is for sharing, though I’ve since fantasized about having one all to myself. Here’s what you get:

1. Some bunk ass, tasteless, sweet potato chips. You’d have to be high as hell to eat these things plain. Thank the lord there was something retardedly delicious to dip them in, which leads us to . . .

2. India Pale Ale Cheese scoop.
Now this shit is pungent and addictive. Honestly, it even made the aforementioned butt-scab of a chip taste heavenly. To make things better, you’re given an unmanageable portion, considering the amount of dipping devices provided. It’s like the scoop you get at Baskin’ Robbins when you got connections.

It was inevitable that we ran out of dipping supplies. I was forced to give the old cheese pile the stink finger.

No, I didn’t wash my hands.

3. Next up is the smoked mac & cheese, the exact opposite of what you get from a box of Kraft. They’re not kidding when they say smokey, it’s like they scraped a little camp fire into this mf. Pro Tip: Try mixing a little ale dip in this shit.

4. Finally, probably the greatest thing that I’ve put in my mouth since winter, Monkey Bread bitches.
I can’t put my finger on it, but this tastes like some sort of adult party appetizer i tried as a kid. Though this looks like a solid on the outside, the inside is a gooey, pudding like mess of pungent cheese and bacon. I didn’t eat the inside, I went down on it. If only they made a larger version, I’d spend the day wearing it around like a helmet. Yes. It’s that good.

Anyway, check out Fountainhead if you want some beers and are craving something new . . full review coming soon!

You Have to Fucking Try This Cheese, Fountainhead, Gross Chips, Moo Platter

How do you officially kick summer off?  If you’ve ever been to a Eastern European pig roast, you don’t need to ask that question.

Ask chef Dan Kordula how long hes been roasting pig and he’ll respond with a chuckle.  A native of the Czech Republic, Dan is quick to explain that he was grilling swine back in the old word.  Now, more than 10 years deep into his Americanized version of the classic pig roast, one quickly understands that Dan knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing.  While prepping the meat, he compiles a mixture of butter, white onions, and mushrooms for the sautee pan.  When I inquired as to what he planned to do with the veggie concoction, and he states that the blend melds with the pork and “will help us drink more beer.”  I salute your life philosophy, Dan.

Dan’s story of how he came to roast pig in Chicago is more complex than the top kill on the Deep Water Horizon.  And what great stories they are.  From the branding, to the licensing, to locking in a solid pig farmer, Dan is animated about  his labor of love and why he wants to make this business a reality.  As he takes a pull of his chilled pilsner, he entertains the masses with a thick accent and penetrating eyes.  Dan laments, “to get logo approved, I had to contact old man in Europe who made initial design, I found out I just needed to make few changes.  Then, I go to marketing company and they tell me it cost $1,300.00 to do work.  I say no way, doode.  I call my buddy in Czech Republic, he says he can do it in couple hours for $60 bucks.”  Dan Kordula is a phenomenon.

As to the swine divine, the roast is definitely the highest level a pig will ever reach.  It’s Clark Kent after he makes his costume change…it’s Jeff Goldblum when he finally becomes The Fly.  When Dan takes the pig off the spit, you quickly realize whats good.  He begins pulling and grabbing meat like a teenage boy buffing one out.  The crackle of the skin and succulent fat and meat come falling off in one fell swoop.

After a few bites, all things make sense.  I devour my first plate and quickly run back for seconds as if the apocalypse was near.  I felt like the chosen one; like that Dutch boy on Afriqiyah Airlines Flight 771.  As the Chicago food truck debate continues to gain heat, Dan’s pig roast bidness comes in at an opportune time.  Although Dan will be focused on private parties, he says anything is possible.  Imagine ole boy slow roasting outside of your neighborhood pub or music venue…its possible that Dan just might save your life.

Things We've Eaten, You Have to Fucking Try This Chicago, Chicago Gluttons, GD pig roasts, memorial day

Growing up, if someone had had the chutzpa to tell me I’d one day live within a 2 mile radius of not one, not two, but TWO gourmet hot dog restaurants, I’d have called him a liar and nut-punched him. Who gives little kids unobtainable dreams like that?

Now, us north-siders know that living within a short drive of Hot Dougs makes us extremely lucky. Nowhere else on this planet has a Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium been wrapped up into one glorious gruyere-cajun-remoulade-topped delight. And that’s part of the fun, knowing that fancy shmancy hot dog stands don’t open up anywhere else other than the corner of Roscoe & California. Like a republican with a good health care plan, that shit is ours and fuck everybody else. Hell, those roasted garlic andouilles with truffle ailoi wouldn’t taste quite as good if we could get them somewhere else… Or would they?

A few weeks ago, local legend and nationally reknown fancy sausage phenomenon Hot Dougs got some company/competition in the gourmet dog racket, and only a few grid squares away. Now making your friends in other parts of the country extra jealous: Franks N Dawgs.

I rolled up to this place on a Friday after work, ready to taste life for the second time. As a semi-regular patron of our old friend H. Doug, the Pavlov in me was conditioned and prepared for the 2 and a half hour wait. Walking inside though, this place was emptier than the upper deck at a Jaguar game. I waltzed right up to the counter and uttered the four words I’d been aching to say since lunch, “the Foss Hog, please.”

A pork link, cob-smoked bacon, a fried egg and maple mayo. And all on a thick-ass bun that was more white bread than a 5k fun run in Bucktown.

And you knew it would photograph well; shit – fried eggs are the shaved beavers of food porn. And there’s just something about the consistency and flavor of runny egg yolk that enhances any kind of meat you wanna put it on (Gibson’s, take notes).

But a beautiful embryonic yellow can’t fancy up a hot dog on its own. No, this thing was special for a variety of reasons, not least among them was the fat fucking PVC pipe of a bun I used to stuff it from its styrofoam container home into my face. Fluffy and thick, (but not too thick) and strong enough to hold the whole thing together – maybe the most brilliant part is how they butter the roll up, and then diner griddle the outside of it for a little extra texture and flavor. The maple mayo is easily the best maple mayo you or anyone you know has ever had, and dont sleep on the bacon either. A little chew, a little crunch, and smokey enough to discern itself from the flavor of the pork link.

Now, as an American and a Chicagoan, I like my cars big, my internet porn inter-racial, and my sandwiches to be accompanied by some muthafuckin FRIES. And this might be where Franks N Dawgs really carries the torch. These cheese fries do NOT fuck around.

They taste way better than that picture, I swear it. Twice fried-spuds, F’ND has nailed down the Boardwalk style I grew up with in south central suburban Maryland. Not too greasy, not too cheesy, but as tasty and crunchy as all get-out. These fries alone are worth the trip. Shame on my fat ass for not getting them topped with chili.

The hubris involved in getting some poor shmo to pay $8.50 for a hotdog outside of a baseball stadium will likely prevent the “gourmet prepared sausage” craze from ever taking off like so much bacon-mania. And while the opening of a second one isn’t quite a trend, it’d be easy to label FND as just a “copycat.” But the attention to the buns, the uniqueness of the toppings – they’re doing it in their own way and the results are pretty spectacular after only one visit. And our little encased meat obsessed part of the world is better off for it.

Honorary Gluttons, Things We've Eaten franks n dawgs, greasy sausage, hot dogs chicago, specialty hot dogs