Bridgeport

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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.