Zack and Megan's Chicago Challenge

Bridgeport

2008-03-06T20:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Sister City

2008-03-05T10:49:00.000-08:00

Check out our sister New York City blog (or, should I say, my sister's New York City blog). My sister, Lauren, decided to embark on a similar challenge in her beloved city of residence. She's funny and her blog is quite entertaining.

Belmont Cragin

2008-02-26T14:58:00.000-08:00

I don't want to use the term "phoned-in"...but Megan and I didn't exactly explore every nook and cranny of Belmont Cragin. On our way home from a vigorous Bockfest celebration in Madison over the weekend, we decided to swing by the far west side neighborhood for lunch. After skipping ahead to Bridgeport several weeks ago and with the St. Paddy's Day Parade in Beverly coming up, we needed to get Belmont Cragin out of the way. Our apologies for the shoddy job, Belmont Craginites.

That said, I think we chose the right restaurant. We came across Staropolska Restaurant by scanning for restaurants in the area on the GPS on our way back into the city. We knew that Belmont Cragin was a historically Polish neighborhood, so Staropolska ("Old Poland") seemed like a fitting choice. The bland storefront with the faded sign was surrounded by hardware stores, dollar stores, and other nondescript or closed businesses. The only place that caught my eye was a homemade sausage store. Had it not been for the indulgent weekend of brats and beers with the cheeseheads, we probably would have stopped in after our meal.

Inside the restaurant Megan and I plopped down in a cozy booth on the opposite side of the restaurant from the buffet. There were also seats on the buffet side and a private party room in the back. Most of the signs we saw were in Polish and everyone else we overheard talking in the restaurant was speaking Polish. The buffet ("smorgasbord", I should say) had all of the classic Polish staples: pierogies, sausages, stews, stuffed cabbage, and of course, lots of sauerkraut. There was also a salad bar (more sauerkraut) and a dessert bar with pudding, jello, and traditional Polish pastries and cakes.

We filled our plates with pierogies, chicken, sausages, stuffed cabbage, dumplings, and a few random mystery dishes that just looked appetizing (there were no labels at the buffet). The food was outstanding. This is the second Polish restaurant we've visited during the Challenge and I've loved both of them. Who knew I liked stuffed cabbage so much?

For lunch, it ended up being a little more expensive than we expected (~$10 each). But according to a sign at the cash register, we just came on the wrong day of the week. Sunday is more expensive than Saturday, which is more expensive than weekdays. That's what we think it said anyway. The sign was in Polish, but Megan assured me that the days of the week were close enough to Czech that she could make it out.

So if you find yourself on the west side of Chicago (especially on a weekday) we highly recommend stopping in Staropolska for an authentic Polish smorgasbord experience. As for the rest of Belmont Cragin...maybe try the sausage place?

Avondale — Beer, Burgers and Black Sabbath

2008-02-14T18:19:00.000-08:00

After a few weeks of less-than-thrilling neighborhoods, Zack and I were a bit disillusioned, you could say. We were glad that Avondale was next — a neighborhood we’d heard of, relatively close by, with restaurant and bar reviews available. This was charted territory, and we were thankful for that. Avondale is a somewhat suburb-y neighborhood that straddles the Kennedy Expressway, just north of Logan Square. Most importantly to us, it isn’t the ghetto and it has bars.

We hopped on the Belmont bus near our apartment and took it west to Kuma’s Corner at Francisco. We had barely had time to do any research before this trip, so all we knew was that Kuma’s had a decent beer list — which is all we really needed to know. As we approached the door, Kuma’s appeared to be a quiet pub — so we were surprised upon entering to find ourselves in a heavy metal bar. The radio loudly played Slayer (I know because as the song ended, a tattooed/pierced female bartender screamed “MORE SLAYER!”), Judas Priest, Pantera and the like. A sign on the wall read “Die Emo, Die” beneath charcoal sketches of dominatrices and the album art of Mastodon, Municipal Waste, Aloke and so on.

The hostess told us it would be 30 minutes for a table, so we put our name in and went to the bar for a beer. I ordered a Surly, which, according to the bushy-bearded bartender, is “probably the best beer in history.” Zack ordered Great Lakes’ Nosferatu, and we stood by the bar observing the patrons packed into the place. It was an interesting mix of heavy metal and yuppy — biker chic, if you will.

One beer turned into a few more (Lagunita’s Censored, Eliot Ness, etc.) as our 30-min wait turned into over an hour. Eventually we were able to snag a couple seats at the bar and called for some menus. After an hour of watching these incredible burgers arrive at other people’s tables, we were ravenous for our own. Each burger on the list came on a pretzel bun and was named after a band: Black Sabbath, Dark Throne, Iron Maiden, etc. The burger of the month was the Lair of the Minotaur, whose ingredients (brie, pears, prosciutto and caramelized onions) weren’t as hard-core as its namesake. I got the Metallica burger (bleu cheese, buffalo sauce and bacon) and Zack got the Slayer — a huge pile of chili, fries, andouille and, as the menu claimed, “anger.” After finishing only half his plate, Zack gave into defeat (“Wow…that was the most demoralizing meal I’ve ever eaten”).

We were reluctant to leave Kuma’s — the beer was great and the burgers were amazing — but it was time to move on. We hopped back on the bus and headed further west to Pulaski, where we found the Belford Tavern — a bar that felt more like a liquor store. The fluorescent lights were on and the bar was stocked with bottom-shelf liquor (with the price of a shot listed beneath each bottle) and cigarettes. I was thankful for the Chicago smoking ban — this place was surely a cloud of smoke just a few weeks ago.
We didn’t stay long at the Belford Tavern — just long enough for a drink each. Next stop was Brudders, a big sports bar with lots of old-school TVs (no flat screens) and dance music playing loudly for the relatively sparse crowd. (Go to the website for an idea of what this bar was like: SPORTS BAR... NITE CLUB.... COMPLETE PACKAGE!) After just a beer each, we were ready to retire. The night had pretty much gone downhill after we left Kuma’s — but I guess it was hard to live up to.

Avondale wasn’t the most exciting neighborhood, but after the desolation of the last couple weeks it was a relief. I’ll definitely bring my metal/burger-loving friends there sometime.

Avalon Park

2008-01-31T19:39:00.000-08:00

I hate to say it, but there’s not much to say about Avalon Park. We almost didn’t go. Zack was convinced it was a bad neighborhood — but I didn’t think we had enough evidence to assume that. In fact, we didn’t have much evidence of anything — there was very little information to be found on Avalon Park. We figured, in addition to its location on the South Side (close to some notoriously dangerous neighborhoods), the lack of information was proof that Avalon Park was a neighborhood to skip. But I still wasn’t convinced. Hadn’t we been surprised at how nice Ashburn was, right next to the destitute Auburn Gresham? I pressed on, googling “avalon park crime” and the like. All I found were a few articles about how Avalon Park was safer than its reputation would have you believe. But what did this really mean? I clung to the “innocent until proven guilty” idea — if I couldn’t find any information about crime in Avalon Park, it couldn’t be that bad. I was determined to go, but Zack was grumbling.

Then Zack found the neighborhood crime statistics on ChicagoPolice.org, and we discovered Avalon Park is actually less crime-ridden than our own neighborhood, Lakeview, as well as many of the other neighborhoods we’d visited recently. To my surprise, Austin is one of the worst, statistically speaking — so I figured, if we could do Austin, we could do Avalon Park. Zack finally gave in, mumbling something about missing basketball.

We hopped in the car that sunny Sunday afternoon with the GPS leading us to Krispie’s Steak & Lemonade. We’d seen several steak and lemonade joints in Austin, and the combo had piqued our interest. I’d never thought about having steak and lemonade together specifically, but it sounded good. Unfortunately, Krispie’s was closed when we arrived. We couldn’t tell if it was closed forever, just for the winter (as it was more of a stand than a restaurant) or closed just for Sunday. We looked around the scene, searching for another place nearby. There was Uncle Joe’s Jerk Chicken, J&J Fish (a place I’d never heard of before this challenge, but apparently it’s a Chicago staple), Wendy’s, McDonalds and Ray’s Steak ‘n Shake. Lots of chains. Half were closed.

We settled on Ray’s, a place that looked like a chain by all measures, but, as far as I can tell, is actually one-of-a-kind. Pretty standard menu: burgers, chicken fingers, fries, onion rings, Philly steaks, etc. I ordered the Ray’s Charbroiled burger with fries, and Zack got the steak wrap. After quite a long wait in the mostly empty fast food restaurant, we got our food — not bad. Real burger, seasoned fries, greasy wrap. As we ate, some men in blue jumpsuits from the Crystal Glass place next door came in for food to go. That’s about all I can report about our first stop in Avalon Park.

Before heading to the next stop, we drove around the neighborhood — pretty decent place, actually. We drove through the namesake Avalon Park and scoped out the surrounding neighborhood with its nice, humble houses.

Unfortunately, our second stop never happened. I’d done some research and found a vegetarian place on East 87th – Vegetarian Fun Foods Supreme — where we’d planned to get a smoothie before we headed home. I found a website with menus and reviews. It was on Google Maps and in the GPS system. But as the GPS chimed, “Your destination is on the left,” there was nothing on our left. We drove up and down the street a few times, reading store signs out loud (“Teacher Supply Store,” “Classy Lady Clothes & Shoes,” “Black Stars Hair Salon,” “Tubs R Us,” “Pee Wee's Hot Dogs,” etc.) — but no luck.

We decided to call it a day and head home. We tried — but Avalon Park just didn’t have much to offer on a Sunday afternoon. I can’t believe I was able to write so much about it.

On the plus side, we made it back in time for Zack to watch the end of the game.

Austin

2008-01-27T20:30:00.001-08:00

With 117,527 residents, Austin is the most populous neighborhood in Chicago. Yet neither Megan nor I, nor any of the friends we talked to before we went, had ever heard of it. For a while it looked as though we may even skip the neighborhood entirely. The articles that we read told us that Austin was a poor, predominantly African-American neighborhood with drug trafficking and gang problems. Eventually though, curiosity prevailed and we decided to drive out there for lunch on a Saturday afternoon.

As we exited I-290 and drove north into Austin, it was immediately evident that this was not an affluent neighborhood. The advertisement on a park bench read: "Addicted? We can help." The storefront signs were all cracked and fading, and there was no shortage of boarded up buildings. But unlike Auburn-Gresham, it didn't feel especially dangerous or hopeless. In fact, hope seemed to be a theme. There were churches everywhere. On nearly every corner there were large, sometimes ornate, houses of worship, each one enough to satisfy the spiritual needs of entire neighborhoods elsewhere in Chicago. But that wasn't enough in Austin. There were also storefront churches in the middle of blocks between the larger churches. In places there were two of these mini-churches (which could have been restaurants or hair salons weeks earlier) right next to each other. It seemed as though there were entire blocks where the only storefronts open for business were churches. And they weren’t just for show. Most of the people we saw on the street were dressed up in suits and dresses, mingling outside of churches. Did I mention this was a Saturday?

Our first (and as it would turn out, only) stop of the day was MacArthur's Restaurant for some “Fine Southern Cuisine”. The restaurant was set up like a cafeteria. Upon entering, we waited in a line that wound its way to the back of the restaurant to a long counter with the day’s selection of food sitting in warming trays behind glass. As we made our way to the counter we passed pictures on the walls of celebrities and political figures who had dined at MacArthur’s (Governor Blagojevich was one of the few we recognized). There were also several small flat screens that scrolled the day’s menu and prices (an entrée and 2 side dishes for $8). The wide selection included entrees from Salisbury steak to fried catfish and sides of vegetables, pastas and potatoes. As we waited in line, Megan and I became aware of a situation that doesn’t occur very often in Lakeview—of the 50 or so patrons and employees in the restaurant, we were the only white people. But how often, we wondered, do white people come out to Austin for soul food? “Well, we can’t be the first ones,” I said to Megan as we waited in line. “Governor Blagojevich was here.” We also realized that we were under-dressed for the occasion. Like the majority of the people we saw on the sidewalks, the patrons of MacArthur’s were all dressed up, presumably coming from church (where else?).

For lunch, I ordered the pork chops with mashed potatoes and spaghetti (I know. It was a bad combination at the time, and it was a bad combination for the rest of the day. But how could one resist?) Opting for the classic soul food experience, Megan went with the fried chicken, yams, and collard greens. We sat at a small table near the front window of the crowded, but quiet, dining room. At the table were plastic bottles of two condiments - vinegar and Tabasco sauce. We both really enjoyed our meals. Megan made it about halfway through her big plate of fried chicken, and I crammed down the majority of my enormous portions of pork chops and spaghetti. As expected, neither one of us particularly liked the collard greens, but we’re glad we tried them (like cooked spinach but with a bitter aftertaste). The cornbread that came with both of our plates was also pretty good.

Our bellies bursting at the seams, we left MacArthur’s and hopped back in the car to explore Austin. We drove south through Columbus Park--a huge, well-landscaped expanse in the southwest corner of the neighborhood--then back north up Austin Ave past the dignified old brownstones along the boarder of Oak Park. As we made our way east, we saw some of the rougher parts of the neighborhood that reminded us more of Auburn-Gresham. The one big difference was that everything was more spread out. But there were still the tell-tale blue CPD strobe lights atop street lights and the groups of young men hanging out on corners. By and large though, we thought Austin was a surprisingly nice neighborhood. During our brief visit we felt a strong sense of community and always felt safe.

With the pork chop/spaghetti combo making my stomach feel uneasy, and not many other options in the area for entertainment, we decided to break rule #2 and call it a day, glad that we had opted to visit Austin after all. On our way back home we debated just how nice the neighborhood really was in relation to the rest of Chicago--Megan focusing on the churches and the nice parks, while I argued that the groups of young men standing on the corners likely weren't just waiting for a bus. We decided to use the internet to find out what gave Austin such a bad rap.

The verdict: Not only is Austin a rough neighborhood, but by many measurements, it's the worst in Chicago. With 30 homicides in the last year, Austin is the deadliest neighborhood in Chicago (Greater Grand Crossings is 2nd with 23). Granted, it has the largest population, but even per capita it is in the same company as some of the notorious South Side neighborhoods. In fact, according to the Chicago Police Department, on that Saturday alone, a total of 51 crimes were committed in the neighborhood of Austin. The list of offenses included a robbery, an aggravated assault, two aggravated batteries, two burglaries, three vehicle thefts, an arson, two simple assaults, 17 drug arrests, and a host of other crimes. Even during the few hours we were there a car was stolen two streets away from where we ate, and someone was stabbed on the sidewalk 6 blocks away. (Note: if you live in Chicago, check out that link above. You'll be amazed at the kind of stuff that goes on in your neighborhood on any given Saturday night.)

So it turns out we were both right (me more so than Megan, of course). Austin was an interesting place and we enjoyed our afternoon there. If you're craving some tasty soul food or a good ol' fashion church crawl, Austin may be the place for you. Just don't push your luck.

Ashburn (via Auburn Gresham)

2008-01-24T18:59:00.001-08:00

This was an interesting one.

As we looked into Ashburn, we realized there wasn’t an easy way to get there using public transportation. There was a way to do it, of course, but not a very palatable way: we’d have to get off the red line at 79th and take the bus west. We weren’t up for waiting for a bus in an unknown neighborhood on the South Side for God knows how long — so we decided to drive instead. Good call.

We weren’t sure about Ashburn. Reports on the state of the neighborhood were somewhat conflicting. But we did some research on the next neighborhood — Auburn Gresham — and realized it was definitely a skipper, so we figured we couldn’t skip two in a row. And besides, Ashburn seemed okay by most accounts.

What we didn’t realize, however, is that in order to get to Ashburn, we’d have to drive through Auburn Gresham. We only discovered this as we were stuck at a red light in the middle of it, staring out the windows at the boarded-up, abandoned stores, the rickety cars with flat tires rolling violently down the street, the seemingly aimless people standing on corners. The only establishments that seemed to thrive there (“thrive” being a relative term) were fast food chicken and fish places. One of them had a guy in a chicken costume standing out front and waving — which seemed to me an embarrassing alternative to unemployment, but an alternative nonetheless. Needless to say, we tried to lay low as we made our way west on 79th through the neighborhood — feeling more hopeless about society with each block. We did not take our cameras out.

The depressing scenery slowly made way for something nicer — though I wouldn’t say it was a “nice” neighborhood. Nice wasn’t the word. It was comfortable. It was simple. Boxy houses adorned with Christmas lawn ornaments, open shops (as opposed to their Auburn Gresham counterparts), signs for the Ford City Mall. Perhaps it was just the relief I felt to get out of the ghetto, but something about Ashburn felt safe and warm.

This welcoming atmosphere was amplified when we finally reached Vito & Nick’s — a family restaurant we’d read had good thin crust pizza. A fridge full of cans of RC Cola, Orange and Grape Crush and Diet Rite stood by the window to the kitchen, where gray-haired Italians put pizzas into the blazing ovens. We rounded the corner into the dining room with its full bar, simple round tables and turquoise booths, instantly feeling as though we’d stumbled upon a Chicago secret. There was a community vibe: a group of elderly people gathered at one table while teenagers cackled at a booth in the corner and an exhausted mother attempted to keep her kids in their chairs as they ate.

Starving by this point, Zack and I ordered zucchini sticks to start, followed by a half homemade Italian sausage, half fresh spinach pizza. The food was great. Really good pizza. I ate a bit too much. As I ate, I admired the paintings of Italy, the Old Style signs and the big “CASH ONLY” posters. Humble décor.

Afterwards we drove around for a bit, looking for Jersey Joe’s, a bar we’d found on Google Maps. No luck. The Jersey in me was disappointed. We did, however, see plenty of competing pizza places, nice houses and a huge cemetery before we ended up at Angie’s bar.

The place was empty except for three old men sitting at the bar chatting with the young female bartender. All seemed very familiar with each other. It was a bit awkward at first, but as we sipped our Miller Light and Old Style a few tables of teenagers came in and ordered pizza. The place wasn’t much to write about – brick walls, sports posters and neon signs, Miller High Life glass lamps… pretty much everything was stamped with a beer brand. Not feeling any need to stay too long, we left after one drink and bid adieu to Ashburn and Auburn Gresham.

We took an alternate route home.

Armour Square

2008-01-17T18:32:00.000-08:00

On the morning of New Year's Eve Megan, Ally and I hopped in my car for a quick trip down to Armour Square. Armour Square includes several diverse enclaves, but is best known as the home of Chicago's Chinatown. This area is where we would spend the entirety of our trip. We parked in a pay-lot at the corner of Cermack and Wentworth, right below the Red Line El stop, and crossed Cermack into the heart of Chinatown.

When you walk down the streets of Chinatown, nobody needs to tell you you're in Chinatown. Our trek south down Wentworth Ave began by walking underneath a 25-foot tall red steel gate with green pagoda tops spanning the width of the street. Four large Chinese characters at the top of the gate either welcomed or mocked tourists, we imagined. Most of the signs were in Chinese, usually with smaller English translations below them. Whole chicken carcasses hung by their legs in storefront windows. Many of Chinatown's 6,000+ Chinese-American residents hurried along the crowded sidewalks minding their daily routines as occasional groups of tourists like ourselves ambled along slowly, gawking at the sights and stopping to take pictures.

The prime real estate near the big gate was taken up by some of the larger restaurants like Three Happiness and Panang Cuisine, several souvenir shops, and the ornate On Leong Merchant Association Building. But as we made our way down the street the scenery changed to more utilitarian establishments -- grocery stores, dental clinics, hardware stores, etc. After a leisurely 10-minute walk, we turned around and headed back to Royal Dragon Restaurant.

Royal Dragon is a nondescript Chinese Restaurant half a block down from the big gate on Wentworth. Around noon on a Sunday it was about 70% full with a mostly Chinese clientele (a good sign?). We still waited about 10 minutes for a table for some reason. As we waited near the small (but fully stocked) bar in the front of the restaurant, we perused the English versions of their take-out menus. Like many of the restaurants in Chinatown, Royal Dragon specializes in dim sum, a traditional Cantonese lunch consisting of many light dishes served family style. Though the dim sum looked fun, we were starving and ended up opting for the Americanized lunch specials. Once we were seated the service was quick and the hot and sour soup was excellent, but the main courses were mediocre at best. Then again, that's what I get for ordering sesame chicken in Chinatown...

We decided to get some dessert at a Chinese bakery for our obligatory second stop of the trip. We found the Wan Shi Da Bakery two doors down from Royal Dragon. Determined to get an authentic Chinese dessert after our unadventurous lunch choices, we browsed the display cases of the small shop. Nothing. The buns, cookies, and tarts just weren't doing it for us. I wasn't even up for the sweet and sour chicken legs that were soaking in a jar in the corner of the display case. After some deliberation, we crossed the street to try our luck at the Feida Bakery. There, we were greeted with the exact same choices--even the sweet and sour chicken legs. As Ally and Megan weighed their choices in the front of the store, I poked my head around a barrier to see what was happening in the back. The dingy back room was packed with old men sitting around circular tables drinking coffee, reading newspapers, and chatting away. I thought it an odd place for such a lively social gathering, but I guess it beats dropping $4 on a coffee at Starbucks. Finally, we settled on, of all things.....a chocolate chip cookie.

Hanging our heads in shame, we made a hasty retreat back to the car, laughing about our exotic trip to Chinatown. Even though we weren't our normal "when in Rome" selves, Megan and I had a good time on the brief trip catching up with Ally and observing the quirkiness of the neighborhood. So we'll let the lack of culinary adventure slide this time. After all, there was New Year's Eve-ing to do that night.

Archer Heights

2008-01-03T18:48:00.000-08:00

Zack and I knew so little of Archer Heights before this week that we kept calling it "Archer Square." I was ready for a dud neighborhood. But after reading a bit about the area, I became pretty excited to take the Orange line to Pulaski (the last stop before Midway Airport) in southwest Chicago.

We arrived at Pulaski on that frigid winter night and headed down the winding Archer Avenue — past Polish bakeries and Polish bars advertising "piwo" rather than it's English translation (beer) — and up to the heavy wooden door of Szalas, a Polish Highlander restaurant. Yes, Polish Highlanders — something else I'd never heard of until this trip. Apparently the Polish people of the Carpathian Mountains, which run along Poland, Slovakia and the Czech Republic, have a distinct culture from that of other Poles — and this culture was represented proudly at Szalas.

In order to get into the place we had to pull on a thick rope from the door that rang a brass bell inside. The doormen (dressed in traditional garb) greeted us with "Dobry vecer!" as we entered, and to their disappointment we responded in English, asking for a table. There were no tables, however, because a Polish-American wedding reception was taking place in the main dining room, so we took a couple seats in the bar. The rooms were separated from each other by a wooden facade of a cottage, a stuffed black bear and a turning water mill. The log cabin interior was adorned with a various mounted animal heads — bison, deer, etc. Traditional Polish Highlander clothes (one must assume) were displayed, and some sort of ancient automobile hung from the ceiling (for some reason). This was ambience.

We chose Okocim from the list of beers on tap, which included Golden Pheasant and Weissbeer. The bartender served us our pints and went off to chat with some other patrons before taking our dinner orders — and this is when we realized we were probably the only English-speaking, non-Polish clientele. But besides the fact that everyone was Polish, it was an otherwise diverse crowd: young guys with tatoos wearing White Sox jerseys, an attractive middle-aged couple, a group of thirty-somethings sipping wine, children in formal dress running in from the reception.

When the bartender explained that soup came with the meal, he told us our choices were broccoli or chicken noodle. Not a huge fan of broccoli, I went with the chicken — only to find later when Zack received his "broccoli" soup that the bartender meant to say "cabbage." My soup was much like any chicken soup you'll ever have, but Zack's soup was great! It came with this big hunk of meaty pork in it. Ah, Polish Highlander cuisine.

The potato pancakes with sour cream and applesauce came next - even better. And then our meals came: I ordered the Hunter's Stew (bacon, pork, beef and sauerkraut in a tomato base) and Zack got the Cabbage Roll (pork and beef rolled in cabbage). Mine was pretty good, although I was completely stuffed by then and couldn't eat any more. Zack's was amazing. Trust me. Much better than it sounded on the menu.

Sufficiently stuffed, we hung out and tried to understand the Polish TV channel on the small TV behind the bar and listened to the traditional Polish band — two violins, an accordion and a cello. The man next to me tried to start a conversation, but as he spoke very little English, the only thing I could get from him is that he's from 80 km outside of Krakow and has lived in Chicago for 4 months. The convo awkwardly fizzled and Zack and I headed out for our next Archer Heights adventure down the street at Tony O's Studio 31 Lounge.

An adventure it certainly was. The first thing that hit me as we walked into the bar was the overpowering smoke (we were just a few days away from the Chicago smoking ban). Tony Bennett crooned from the jukebox, neon lights lit up the bar lined with bottles from Amstel Light to Zwiec. Electronic slot machines stood along the perimeter like wallflowers. We were probably the youngest people in there by 10 years, but most patrons were about 20 years older than us.

We took two seats at the bar. Within a minute, Tony Orlando, the owner and retired cop, introduced himself to us. He was dressed in a sharp suit with slick hair. "Check out the sports bar, and on the other side we have a dance club. Very reputable," he said. "If at any time you feel uncomfortable out here, feel free to join us in the back." Interesting. Very friendly guy. He even bought us a round of drinks, which he signaled to the bartender by placing shot glasses upside down in front of us.

A minute later, a man I'll call "Richie" (he asked me not to reveal his name) sat down next to me and sparked a conversation with us. He told us about Tony Orlando ("A total class act. Very classy guy."), the 2.5 years he spent in jail for being a bookie ("My partner only got 6 months — and he was the one who beat everyone up! You know why? It's 'cause I'm Italian."), his father, the Chicago bank robber ("My teacher called him in for a parent-teacher conference. He beat me in front of her. They never scheduled one of those conferences again."), and his brothers, all of whom he hates and one of whom died from drug use. I told him he should write a book.

I was so entertained by Richie's somewhat tragic stories that I hardly noticed him chain smoking Parliaments in my face. Soon after he left, however, I felt pretty sick. We checked out the dance club half of the bar, thanked Tony for the drinks and hospitality, and headed back to the El.

Andersonville

2007-12-16T18:49:00.000-08:00

For our second adventure, Megan and I hopped on the northbound #22 bus and headed up to Andersonville. After our first expedition into the bar-less wonder that is Albany Park, it was comforting to be back in a neighborhood that celebrates beer as much as our native Lakeview.

Andersonville is a small, vibrant neighborhood on Chicago's north side. Born an affluent Chicago suburb in the 1880's, Andersonville's original Swedish immigrant population has melded together with Hispanic, Middle Eastern, Gay, and Lesbian cultures. This diverse mix of people is well-represented by a line of hip, eclectic storefronts along Clark St, stretching from Winnemac to Bryn Mawr. In recent years the shops, restaurants and bars here have seen a remarkable renaissance, transforming Andersonville from a gritty north side residential area into a bustling shopping, dining and nightlife destination.

Megan and I arrived in the heart of Andersonville around 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon. The blizzard that was due to hammer the Chicago area was already coating the streets and sidewalks in a sheet of white. We wandered our way north on Clark, stopping in a few shops before settling in at Simon's Tavern for a drink. Simon's is a friendly neighborhood pub that proudly flies the Swedish flag next to its neon sign. Even though it was before 5 on a Saturday, the place had a good crowd. There were only a few scattered seats available at the long bar running the length of the tavern, so Megan and I plopped down at a small table near the back. As we stood at the bar studying the beer list, an older man sitting nearby reminded us, "don't forget, it's glögg season!" Sold. "2 glöggs please." Glögg is the Scandanavian version of mulled wine--basically, red wine seasoned with cinnamon and raisins and served warm. It was the perfect warm-up drink for a snowy night. After the glögg, we took advantage of Simon's modest, but well-chosen selection of beers on tap and ordered a round of Rogue Hazelnut Brown.

We headed back out into the blizzard and up the street a few hundred yards to Charlie's Ale House. I'll admit, we weren't sure about Charlie's at first. In our neighborhood adventures we try to stick to the must-see attractions and the smaller unique shops, avoiding the chains. In this case, the weather made up our minds for us. It was too cold and windy to walk any further. Once we saw the beer list we were glad we stopped. Charlie's has 25 beers on tap and another 50 or so in bottles. Unable to choose from the massive list, I went with the Bottle Beer of the Month: a Left Hand Brewing Co. Deep Cover Brown Ale, while Megan chose a Unibroue La Fin du Monde. Our waiter, a recent transplant to Andersonville, chatted with us about beer and the neighborhood, gave us free bread, and offered us samples of one of the craft beers on tap. Not bad service for only ordering two drinks.

We had noticed what we thought was a Lebanese restaurant on our way up to Charlie's and decided to double back and have dinner there. The Icosium Cafe turned out to be an Algerian restaurant...run by Russians...that only serves crepes... They made a mean crepe though. I had a Crepe Marrakech, and Megan's had the Cheka Chouka. Both were crammed full of fresh spinach, veggies, Algerian sausage, and cheese, and were surprisingly filling. Since it was only 7:00 and we already had a few drinks in us, we decided to head up to a hookah lounge to relax before meeting up with friends for a few more beers.

At the very north end of Andersonville we found Basement Hookah Lounge. The "basement" lounge turned out to be at street level and seemed to be run by teenagers. When Megan and I entered there were 7 or 8 high school age kids sitting on couches around a flat panel tv watching an episode of Charmed. Upon noticing us, one of them jumped off the couch, seemingly surprised to have customers, and fetched us some menus. We decided to spend the extra $2 for the StarBuzz tobacco and ordered the apple flavor ($12) along with a Hawaiian Punch ($1). As we sat there puffing on the hookah on comfy couches in the corner of the lounge, the Charmed episode gave way to late-90's hip hop music videos (was this for our benefit? like us putting on a Run DMC album for people 10 years older than us?) and more teenagers began to fill the remaining couches. We never did ask (solid journalism), but the name of the place started to make sense to me -- this was like hanging out in your friend's basement in high school. All of the kids seemed to know each other, and Megan and I both had the feeling that we were crashing a high school party. That said, it was a solid hookah bar. The tobacco was absolutely top notch, the decor was comfy, the tunes were good, and the non-alcoholic drinks were dirt cheap. The kids all seemed friendly too, and happy to have us join their party. I'd go back if I were in the neighborhood.

After an hour of hookah, we found our way through the cloud of smoke and back out into the blizzard. As we waited for the bus in the snow, a woman waiting at the stop noticed Megan's choice of footwear (pumps) leaving the tops of her bare feet exposed to the elements. "Ooooiiiiee, child! You gonna freeze!" Megan assured the woman that we wouldn't be outside for long, but she persisted as we boarded the bus. "If I was your momma, I would beat you! Is that your boyfriend? [looking at me as she steps onto the bus] Do you beat her? I would beat her!" The woman later assured us that "you should beat her" is just an expression, but I don't think anyone else on the #22 bus knew that either. After a quick, but interesting bus ride down the street, Megan and I hopped off the bus at the corner of Foster and Clark for our last stop of the night.

Megan had already been to the Hopleaf Bar several times and was a big fan. This was my first time there, and it didn't disappoint. Any guess why? Yeah, the beer. This place put Charlie's selection to shame. They specialize in Belgian beer, but I doubt I could think of a single beer from any country that they didn't have. Lucy and Andy met up with us in the small upstairs room since the downstairs was already packed at 9:00. The four of us spent the next two hours imbibing a wide variety of delicious brews like Brewery Riva Lucifer, Unibroue Maudite, Allagash White, and Lauginitas Imperial Red Ale. I was disappointed to see that the vintage jukebox upstairs with honkey-tonk songs from the 1940's was broken, but the atmosphere in the whole bar was lively.

Overall, Andersonville was a friendly, energetic, interesting place to spend an evening. All of the locals we met were friendly enough and seemed happy to show off their little stretch of Clark St. The food was good, the beers were plentiful, and the hookah was smooth. Can't ask for much more than that. Chalk up another successful weekend for the Chicago Challenge. Next stop: Altgeld Gardens! ....okay, so we skipped that one. We'll be heading to Archer Heights next, and then Armour Square just before the New Year.

Albany Park

2007-12-09T12:50:00.000-08:00

I don't think I had actually ever heard of Albany Park before this little project. After some extensive research (read: Wikipedia) we discovered it's one of the most ethnically diverse neighborhoods in the country - with particular representation from Mexico, the Middle East and Korea. In fact, Albany Park happens to contain Chicago's own Koreatown, which I also, until this point, didn't know existed. So on Saturday Zack and I hopped onto the Brown Line and headed toward the end of the line - Kimball - determined to get an authentic taste of Korea.

Thanks to Google's street view, we had an idea of what we were getting into - and as we pulled into the Kimball station our expectations were met. There was a dingy little diner, the Huddle House; a big strip mall with shops like the Donut Doctor and Subway; several currency exchanges; and some taquerias. It didn't seem like much of a Koreatown - and until I saw the sign for Honorary Seoul Drive, I was wondering if we were mistaken.

As we walked around, however, we noticed the Korean shop signs and newspapers, along with a few actual Koreans (or so I assumed). Satisfied, we headed to the restaurant we'd picked out in advance, Kang Nam. We'd read they make the food in front of you on charcoal Korean BBQs - sounded interesting. Of course, the place was in a strip mall. Not a good sign, I thought. But once we found it, tucked away in the corner of the strip mall, I was pleasantly surprised at the ambience.

I've never been a Korean-food junkie. I had a really bad experience with bi bim bop at a Korean place in New York City, and since then I've pretty much run in the opposite direction when someone mentions the cuisine. So I stayed pretty conservative on this attempt, ordering the Beef Bolgaki lunch special - basically BBQ beef. Zack got the Kolbi special, BBQ beef short ribs. To our dismay, they didn't cook the food in the little charcoal grill/hole thing in the middle of our table, but rather brought the food out ready for eating.

I'll give the whole experience a 3 out of 10 - mostly for the novelty. The beef and rice were ok, and there were these soy-soaked potatos that I could eat, and a little iceberg-lettuce salad - but I found it largely unpalatable. Zack, as usual, ate every bite of his and enjoyed it for the most part. I was glad I'd at least tried it - until I realized I paid $10 for it. That's not a very special lunch special in my book.

Along with the check, the waitress/hostess plopped down a couple little plastic bottles of some kind of drink called Biofeel. The ingredients were mostly high fructose corn syrup and water, along with some kind of lactose bacillus something or other. I figured they were either trying to aid with our digestion or kill us with biological warfare. We shrugged our shoulders and tested it out. Kind of weird. Orangey sweet with an aftertaste of milk. Not bad, but just weird enough that I decided not to finish it. Zack, of course, liked it enough to finish his (but not enough to drink the rest of mine).

Zack and I forged on after lunch, searching out our next stop in Albany Park - preferably a bar. From what we could see, there were absolutely zero bars in the entire neighborhood. Google maps had a few suggestions, all several blocks away. We headed toward one of the closer ones - a Hookah Bar up on Foster. The walk north on Kedzie was not very scenic. Sketchy, if anything. Then suddenly we came across a campus - North Park University's. It was actually kind of nice! Very campus-y. Zack and I were both impressed. There was even a Starbucks - and now I'm wondering which neighborhoods we visit won't have one. But even in this college environment we couldn't find a bar - The Hookah Bar was closed. We almost shouted out to a student, "You there! Coed! Where do you drink?"

Instead we wandered around in disbelief that this entire neighborhood was utterly bar-less. We ended up circling back to the Kimball stop and nearly giving up, when there, right by the el stop, was a Bud Light sign beckoning us in from the cold. There was no sign on the bar to indicate which bar it was - just the Bud Light one, an Old Style sign and a flourescent rainbow Heineken sign. We stood there for a minute wondering if this was the lesbian bar we'd read was in the area - until an old, scraggly man came stumbling out from inside the dark bar. This was the only bar we'd found all day, and we were going in.

I wish we could have taken pictures of the inside of this place. It was one of those smoke-filled bars where everyone seems to know each other and everyone seems to be down on his luck. Everyone there was a scraggly man by himself, tossing back a bottle of Bud while Nirvana played loudly over the Jukebox. The bar was dark but festive, with decor like James Dean posters, street signs and vodka ads. Zack and I each got a beer and thought about playing a game of pool, ultimately deciding to play a couple games of Pac-man instead. No one seemed to mind us, but I think they were wondering what we were doing there. After finishing our beers we got up, slipped out into the daylight and hopped back on the Brown Line.

I had a great time in Albany Park, as did Zack - but we agreed we'd probably never return. I mean, come on, no bars?

The Challenge

2007-12-03T21:07:00.000-08:00

Chicago is a city of neighborhoods. These neighborhoods function as miniature cities within a city, with their own mini-histories, mini-heritages, and mini-civic pride. Depending on who you talk to, Chicago has between 58 and 228 neighborhoods. For better or worse (read: worse), Megan and I tend to stick to the neighborhoods full of other 20-somethings who shop at Crate & Barrel and J. Crew. It's high time we branched out.

In the coming weeks, months and fortnights, we will, in alphabetical order, explore as many of these other neighborhoods as possible. How is that a challenge? It's Chicago in the winter. Megan hates the cold, and I hate missing college basketball.

Rules (subject to change or blatant disregard):

For a neighborhood to count, both Megan and I have to go
We have to visit at least 2 establishments
We have to hit the neighborhoods in alphabetical order according to our arbitrary master list

Rule #3 can be temporarily disregarded if there is some kind of once-a-year event going on in a neighborhood further down the list that warrants skipping ahead

We don't have to go to any neighborhoods where you need a gun

Unless we get a gun

Albany Park, here we come.

The Idea

2007-12-03T19:18:00.000-08:00

I sat down to dinner tonight and turned on the TV to find that nothing was on - so I flipped through the channels until a show on WTTW caught my eye: "The Foods of Chicago: A Delicious History." Right up my alley. I switched to the station, which, to my chagrin, was right in the middle of a telethon - the part where they ask for money and read notes from viewers. Each viewer who donated money also made a Chicago restaurant suggestion from various neighborhoods. Hearing the names of these neighborhoods got me thinking: I've lived in the Chicago area for over six years now and I really haven't explored it much beyond the few neighborhoods in which I've lived. Just then, Zack came into the room - and together we came up with a plan.