Bridgeport was exactly what we had hoped for when we came up with the idea of this challenge: novel foods, good brews and new friends.We took the red line to 35th, hopped off and caught the bus over to Halsted, heading toward the Healthy Food Lithuanian Restaurant to honor a quarter of Zack’s ancestry. As we walked up the street to the restaurant, I checked out the scenery: not too exciting. But I was ecstatic when we walked into
Healthy Food to find a scene that I like to imagine Zack’s great-great-grandmother’s kitchen resembled. The walls were adorned with pictures of family, wood carvings of pastoral women, giant bronze depictions of what I can only guess were medieval Lithuanian kings, woven basket-medallions, maps of Lithuania, and red, yellow and green Lithuanian flags. Fresh bacon buns beckoned us from the counter. Soft Lithuanian music played on the radio.
The grandmotherly waitress (she was so warm, welcoming and eager to stuff us with food) approached us to take our order. We knew we had a long day of eating ahead, so we decided to split one of their combo platters. After a sauerkraut soup starter, we were served our meal of Koldunai (boiled meat dumplings) and Kugelis (potatoes and bacon grilled and baked — not sure in what order — and served with sour cream). Staring down at the bacon-smothered plate, Zack commented, “It’s ironic this place is called ‘Healthy Food.’” Healthy shmealthy, the food was delicious.
Next we wandered around a bit and stumbled upon Pancho Pistolas, a surprisingly trendy Mexican place. The walls were exposed brick and decorated with abstract paintings. The place was packed with young people chatting over the Spanish pop music. I figured out why this place was so popular: incredible, fresh, cilantro-y pico de gallo and salsa! Best I’ve had in a long time. We tried to limit ourselves on the chips and salsa (since we were already full of potatoes and bacon) as we sipped down some margaritas.
We left Pancho Pistolas for Mitchell’s Tap (formerly Puffer’s, as it were). Mitchell’s has an excellent beer menu, so we ordered a couple favorites and settled in at the bar. Up until this point, this neighborhood had been like many others — a restaurant, a few drinks, and then let’s go home. But then the day took a turn for the better.
Suddenly, a guy at the other end of the bar yelled out to Zack, “Hey man you wanna do a shot with us? Come do a shot of tequila!” Zack isn’t a huge fan of tequila shots, so he declined respectfully — but I am a fan of tequila, and baited by his offer to buy a shot of Patrón Añejo, I shot out of my seat and went over to claim it. Turns out he was bluffing on the Añejo part, but he did buy me a shot of some other tequila — and this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.We spent the rest of the day hanging out with this guy (who will remain nameless for a few reasons) and his friend. After a while we were joined by several others — Bridgeport townies who all knew each other for many years. They were true Chicagoans — thick accents, born and bred in Bridgeport. They had an open animosity toward people from the next neighborhood over, as well as affection for the Sox and Mayor Daley (raised in Bridgeport himself). One guy was genuinely ashamed to tell us he’d moved across the technical border of Bridgeport into Canaryville — blasphemy! They were fervently proud of their Irish heritage and invited us to their homes for the South Side St. Patrick’s Day Parade festivities. We bonded over beers, argued about controversies and laughed it off later.
It’s sort of a shame we were having too much fun for me to remember the day in its entirety (and I admit, I’m writing this many days after the fact) but Zack and I had a great time at Mitchell’s getting to know these Bridgeporters. Several hours later, after phone numbers were exchanged and hugs were had, Zack and I left Mitchell’s and headed toward the Ramova Grill (a local diner recommended by all) for some dinner.
Unfortunately, Ramova was closed. Instead we went to the Bridgeport Diner, which reminded me, as much as any place in Chicago could, of a diner in New Jersey. It was what it was. They had an impossibly long menu encompassing entrées like Reubens and chopped liver sandwiches (which, until I worked at a diner in NJ, I never believed anyone actually ordered). Zack and I sat at the counter and enjoyed our greasy meals, soaking in the victory that was Bridgeport.We had friends to meet, and so we left Bridgeport regretfully — yet more than satisfied with our experience.
