And of course, I can’t just go out on a whimper — being the list-maker that I am, I couldn’t resist the indulgence to make a meta list — a top 10 of what I consider to be my best pieces of writing from thirteen years of year end lists. Besides from adding a few paragraph breaks for ease of reading, I present these writings, warts, misused punctuation, and all, to preserve the evolution of my writing from 2008 to present.

2008 #9 Mondays at the Depot American Diner

What’s not to love about the Depot- fresh fried donuts to order with piping hot mocha sauce, house made roasted turkey and corned beef for the sammies, blue plate specials, gravy on fries, brisket sandwiches with frizzled onions, coke in a bottle- this place is the real deal for hand made American classic diner food. In less considerate hands, this kind of fare can be a little pedestrian for my tastes. The real lure, though, is the company. Monday is a good day for us gallery folk to extend out the weekend a little- at least for the morning. Danny, Carmen, and I often adhere to this leisurely schedule and try to at least once a month do a lunch out together- in 08 the Depot was our spot. Its a great moment- good friends, good food, enjoying each other’s company without booze, guiltlessly slacking off just a wee bit. And the staff at the Depot is as warm and inviting as the grub- but what ever happened to Alex? We miss her.

2010 #2 Ye’s Bluegills

Every year during our last week at Ox-Bow we have a staff picnic, it’s the only day of the summer when the entire staff has the day off to bond and relax together before we are off to the “real world”. So the tradition goes that in order for kitchen staff to be able to chill, everyone has to pitch in on the task of feeding ourselves. This is a lot of fun, we can sit back and enjoy the day and everybody else gets a chance to show off their skills in the kitchen, after being fed three meals a day by us for three months. And inevitably we eat a lot of junk food- chips and dip, the kind of stuff that normally doesn’t grace our sophisticated from-scratch table.

I usually offer to pick up supplies for people’s particular dishes in the week before the picnic and this year one of our fellows had an unusual request, Ye Qin Zhu wanted a whole tilapia. Okay, it’s not that weird- if we had been in Chicago I could have wandered down to the corner and procured a whole fish from any of a number of Mexican or Asian grocers. But it was already the day before the picnic and I didn’t have time to drive around Holland aimlessly looking for one fish. It just so happened that a couple of the other fellows had some skills with the old fishing rods and had collected bluegills to fry up for breakfast that day. They were kind enough to lend one to Ye and he did it up.

A native of Guangzhou, China, Ye cooked it in a style that he says is popular all over southeast Asia, a quick boiling of the whole, gutted fish. On the side he prepared a tangle of aromatics- ginger, garlic, scallions, which were then scattered on the cooked fish. He heated oil and poured this on the fish and aromatics, releasing their bright flavors. A few splashes of soy sauce and a garnish of cilantro complete the dish. It was really lovely. I had never eaten bluegill meat and had completely avoided Ox-Bow lagoon fish after tasting bites of muddy bass and pike. This meat was sweet and tender, though scarce on the tiny fish, in a way, quite precious. Ye’s recipe is both simple and upfront with clean, bold flavors, just amazing- I’ve used the same prep for other fish at home since.

This dish spoke to me on so many levels- eating fish from our own waters, sampling an everyday dish from a culture on the other side of the world, and connecting with Ye, a brilliant guy that I had not found enough time to get to know during that hectic season. Ye spent that afternoon pulling up a bucket load of more bluegills. After sundown, when we were all weary from a day’s activities in the sun and starved of real nutrition from eating French onion dip all morning, another round of invigorating and healthful fish was the perfect end to a perfect day. Thanks Ye.

2012 #5 The ‘Burbs

I grew up in the ‘burbs, surrounded mostly by other white kids like me. I had access to other cultures though- our nextdoor neighbors were Greek and welcomed my family to many of their celebrations. My best friend was from Poland and his mother was a tremendous cook. My sister and I had Korean, Filipino, and Indian friends and occasionally we’d be lucky enough to join their holiday parties to sample new treats like lumpia or samosas.

A life in the suburbs still represents the ideal of the American dream to many, regardless if folks like my parents are too hip to live there nowadays (they moved to the city six years ago). New populations are always taking root and bringing their cultural traditions with them. The area I grew up in, the Southwest suburbs, is now home to the largest Arabic speaking population in Metropolitan Chicago and if you take a ride down Harlem through Bridgeview, Worth, and Palos Heights you’ll see plenty of signage for Arabic owned businesses. The diner formerly know as the Sandpiper- where we used to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee in high school- now houses, in my estimation, the area’s finest Middle Eastern restaurant, Al Mawal. One bite of their muthawama, an aioli like spread related to toum, and you’ll understand what I’m saying, pure ambrosia. Everything I’ve eaten there is perfection, from light and crisp kibbeh to deeply spiced and caramelized chicken shawerma.

Looking to the west suburbs you find strip malls filled with Indian and Chinese grocers and restaurants, a long time foodie favorite is Katy’s Dumpling House in Westmont for their hand pulled noodles in fiery broths and handmade dumplings. Hop off the Kennedy on Dempster and you’ll find a plethora of Korean eateries specializing in particular dishes, like jeuk suk yum so bokkeum- goat hotpot- at Chun Ju in Morton Grove or my favorite Cho Jung in Glenview for pajeon- scallion pancake and various Korean stews like soon dubu- tofu and seafood stew.

On my trip to LA this year, most of our food adventures took us out to the burbs, areas such as the San Gabriel Valley for its Northern Chinese cuisines. Most notable was a spot called Shen Yang, recommended to me by LTHer TonyC where we attacked piles of chicken bone with cumin, which were literally piles of deep fried bones, which you gnawed at to get at bits of hidden gems of remaining meat. I also ate one of the more challenging meals of my life at Japanese izakaya restaurant, Torihei in Torrance where I met my match in a bowl of fermented squid guts. Fortunately, the chicken skin yakitori was a great palette cleanser. In Torrance I also spotted an outpost of Mitsuwa Marketplace, which along with our local Arlington Heights location is a one- stop shop for all things Japanese.

Mitsuwa is also the home to Chicago’s best (only good?) bowl of ramen at the Santouka franchise in their food court, the best reason I can think of for braving 294 to shop at nearby IKEA! Bomb the suburbs? Nah, wouldn’t want to live there again, but willing to drive there for the food!

2013 #2 Community-based Eateries

Pardon me for inventing a term. Its kind of a vague one at that, I mean this could mean many things: a school cafeteria, a coffee shop (succeeding the diner in contemporary America), a neighborhood tavern with pub grub, a Somali cabbie joint, a grocery store taqueria. Chinatown… If we accept the definition of community as a group of people with a particular interest in common, we could argue that someone’s interest in the same restaurant as someone else makes them a community.

My interest is in places that aim to serve communities– have a role greater than just feeding their clientele, becoming convivial nexuses of their neighborhoods, that encourage people to hang out. I have two examples that I witnessed recently at two pretty old restaurants that exemplify this kind of hospitality:

Podhalanka is one of my favorite places to have a leisurely lunch in my neighborhood. On any given day you can witness a cross section of the neighborhood’s demographic dining there: an amalgam of old timers, cops, Polish speakers, young families, and the young, hip, and upwardly mobile. As gentrified as most of the surrounding area may seem though, the “triangle” at Ashland, Division, and Milwaukee remains a gathering place for the daytime drinking crowd. Podhalanka remains mostly unchanged to how it felt when I first dined there in the late 90s and has a frozen-in-amber vibe that harkens back to the bygone heyday of old “Polish Downtown”.

In the past, the room was always lovingly presided over by owner Helena, who would offer complimentary compote juice as you took to your table. In the past few years a younger member of the family has relieved Helena of the lion’s share of the front of the house duties. I, and other longtime patrons I know, have had a rough transition dealing with the new server. He treats much of the clientele like noobs who have never heard of a pierogi before, upselling you multiple plates of food before you have a chance to crack open the menu. I was worried this favorite place of mine was losing its hospitable charms. But the new guy got to know me, picked up on my typical order and now things feel cozy as always.

A few months ago I witnessed just how important this place is to its community, though, when a down-and-out denizen of the triangle plopped down at the bar for coffee. He was in a bad way. The server guy emerged from the back with two packed to-go bags and gave them to the homeless man. He insisted that the food was free and reminded the man that they’d be closed on Sunday, so he packed him enough food for two days. This moment made me care a lot less about that time I felt like I was treated like just another naïve walk in hipster.

My other example is not in my neighborhood and I’ve only been once, but based on the collective love from guys I know who grew up eating there in the 70s and 80s as well as younger Roger’s Park natives, Noon Hour Grill holds a warm and fuzzy place in a lot of Chicagoan’s hearts. This cozy diner, formerly known as Pusan House is owned and run by Susie Lee, a one woman force who cooks up mighty fine bibimbap and while we’re talking Korean fusion, crazy omelet concoctions like bulgogi/kimchi/American cheese. When we walked through the front door I immediately ran into a former student of mine who lives in the neighborhood. I asked him what his go-to order is and he said “bibimbap, Susie knows”. Apparently she remembers every face that walks though her door. This place is a real gem.

My tribute projects got me thinking about how eateries function in artist’s communities– starting with FOOD in the early 70s, a restaurant run by artists serving other artists, creating a social hub. These places seem to come and go with the movement of artists in cities. Leo’s Lunchroom, for instance, existed in a golden time and place: an on-the-cusp-of- gentrifying part of town that attracted a lot of creative talent in a moment when Chicago was attracting and exporting much of this talent.  The place reflected the neighborhood and its customers: a cheap, slightly dingy hole in the wall of a coffee shop turning out scratch made, creative food. Literally nourishing the vibrancy of the scene. But the neighborhood changed and as artists and musicians were priced out the need for Leo’s waned. Sonny’s may have had a captive audience of being the only eatery situated within an institution, but again, he offered cheap, homemade food to a customer base that he took the time to interact with and get to know. I suppose I long for my own cozy hole in the wall serving honest, from scratch grub by a friendly face where I can feel comfortable to hang up my hat and hang for awhile. For now, I’ve got Podhalanka and Susie’s, hopefully they’ll stick around for awhile…

2014 #8 Cortez Mullet

The oceans seem to be dying. There are many environmental factors, but irresponsible fishing practices are a major issue for many fish species. Imperatively, we must look at sustainable alternatives to overfishing, which will require us to make sacrifices and look at other types of fish ~if any at all~ to help turn this impending crisis around. You know I’m a champion of finding the nutritious and delicious in undesirable sources. Ever eat mullet before? They’re a bit lean and a bit bony, but abundant, fished sustainably (in the gulf of Mexico), and enjoyed since Roman times. I hadn’t thought too much about mullet until I read last year’s top ten list by John T. Edge, the director of the Southern Foodways Alliance and one of my favorite food writers. What caught my eye was not mullet as an ingredient specifically, but the location where he discovered it. A pizza shop in Cortez, Florida was serving a grilled Caesar salad with mullet roe. My parents winter in Anna Maria Island Florida, a sundrenched place of infinite oceanic views with a fairly redundant food scene. I like a grouper reuben as much as the next guy, but after night five, you crave stuff like, well, pizza.

The story doesn’t stop with Village Idiot Pizza. After a bit of Googling, I discovered a piece in the New York Times about a cool dude named Seth Cripe, who supplies Village Idiot Pizza with their mullet roe. Mr. Cripe salts and sun dries the roe sacs, producing a product called bottarga, which you might know as an Italian delicacy, typically used sparingly as a garnish due to its intense flavor and high price tag. Mullet is the primary catch in the fishing town of Cortez, which is just east of my parents place, where we frequent fish shacks for not-so-local grouper and cheap beers. I got to try that salad at Village Idiot and it was fantastic, the bottarga subbing not only the brininess of traditional anchovy, but also the cheesiness of the parmesan.

Little did I know my mullet quest had just begun? We also happened to be in town the weekend of the Cortez Mullet Festival. This event looked like a typical flea market/ country fair type of event, with cheap crafts for sale, expensive shitty drinks, and a fairly decent variety of food vendors both local and from the big city, Sarasota. We had a few bites of decent food, but I needed to know where the mullet was at, finding it strange that the namesake fish was sorta underrepresented. Not wiling to throw in the towel, my unstoppable appetite led me to the mullet culture. Fairly central to the fest, I had misinterpreted a couple of extra wide smoker rigs for a BBQ set up. These old dudes were stoking the wood fire and dutifully manning their smoker. Once I started poking around with my camera phone they waved me over to check out the rows of small golden, butterflied fish enveloped in the caress of smoke. Awesome. I ordered a whole one. It was smoky, oily, and assertive, drizzled with a mild BBQ type sauce. Hell, why can’t fish be BBQ, because that’s exactly what was going down. Next, I strolled over to the pier and found a group of mullet fishermen engaging with the crowd about their work and hawking what was called a “Cortez hotdog”, a corn meal encrusted, perfectly fried skinny filet of mullet on a cheap bun with tartar sauce and a scattering of diced onion. A delicious lesson in making do with what you’ve got.

2014 #2 Midwest Melting Pot

I did not travel very far this year besides a few trips to visit friends and family. I filled in the gaps with a couple of day and overnight trips to nearby cities with some of my buds. Clearly, Chicago has one of the best food scenes in the world. But as I get around the cities of the greater Midwest, I am increasingly stoked to eat amazingly across the board no matter where I am. I mean, you can get a decent bowl of bun cha in tiny Holland Michigan at a pool hall attached to a grocer that sells durian and frozen giant water bugs.

I know that dining-wise, fancy chefs are opening up spots in flyovers across the country, but you know me, I’m looking for the homespun traditions and the cuisines of recently transplanted cultures, the down home and the cheap. I’ve done Detroit a few times in the past few years. You’ve got the classic, working class chow of the Coney’s, sliders, and Mike’s ham place. Travel into the burbs to Dearborn and you’ll find the country’s largest Middle Eastern population with the bakeries and kebab shops to prove it. The little hamlet of Hamtramck, nestled inside the city’s borders is a patchwork of immigrant populations as disparate as Polish and Bangladeshi.

Milwaukee, just an hour and a half north up the lake has a killer food scene. Of course there’s the brats, tavern style thin crust pizzas, and butter burgers, but also old school Jewish deli. Jake’s on North Division is almost sixty years old and has remained a stalwart of the neighborhood offering stacked hand cut corned beef sandwiches to the shifting populations of the neighborhood. Just up the street at another corned beef spot, House of Corned Beef you can taste the old world cohabiting with the new in a Jim Shoe sandwich, overflowing with hand cut corned beef, Italian beef, and gyros.

Did you know Milwaukee has a Southeast Asian Hmong population? There’s a grocery store called Phongsavan to prove it where you can buy frozen beef bile, dragonfruit, black chickens, and locally produced Hmong bacon. After shopping, take a load off at their food court and enjoy freshly pounded papaya salad in your choice of styles: Lao, Hmong, or Thai with a side of salty Hmong sausage. My favorite spot in the Milwaukee area has got to be Ono Kine Grinz in Wauwatosa, which is proudly gay owned and serves the native Hawaiian cuisine of one of the owners. His mom does the cooking in the back of this very charming (if not somewhat cluttered with tchotchkes) converted house turning out soul and belly filling plate lunches piled with kahlua pork, mango chicken, yes more corned beef, and poke with sides of macaroni salad, purple rice, and kimchi.

I had the pleasure of joining Matt Zatkoff for a tour of his hometown of Indianapolis, which also, very surprisingly offered an incredible range of grub. There’s stuff you’d expect to find in the Midwest, like southern style barbecue at Hank’s Smoked Briskets, deli, you bet, at Shapiro’s, old school German at the Rathskeller. But there are also spots in outlying neighborhoods serving more recent immigrant communities like a Pakistani owned grocery called Bombay Bazaar with an attached catering business and like 3 greasy tables squeezed in amongst stacks of Bollywood DVDs in the back. Here we were treated to luscious goat biryani, sizzling lamb chops, and deeply aromatic spinach and goat curry. Matt’s buds recently discovered a Northern Thai spot masquerading as an average Ameri-Thai restaurant in a converted Sizzler, where I sampled many new-to-me flavors like fermented chicken wings, stuffed bitter melon soup, and a coconut rice dessert sprinkled with shaved, salty, dried shrimp.

My favorite Midwest bites this year were served to me from a take out window in the parking lot behind a liquor store– the best jerk I’ve ever had at Jamaican Jerk. Around the picnic table, we didn’t talk much, grunting our way with greasy hands through Styrofoam trays of smoky, aggressively spicy jerk chicken and ribs served atop the best peas and rice and deep, deeply savory stewed oxtail or curry goat. On a sunny day with some Mavado testing the limits of a set of computer speakers, you’ll forget you’re in Indiana. Next stop, St. Louis.

2014 #1 I See You Chicago

White people like me generally don’t venture to the Westside or the Southside. Sure, we’re all used to taking over Pilsen by now. But for real, giant, I mean giant swaths of the West and South sides of the city are inaccessible to the imaginations of those confined to the comfy conveniences of their Northside neighborhoods. Over 90% of these neighborhoods are black. I’m not the best person to give you a history lesson here, but a century ago realtors set horribly racist, restrictive policies to not rent or sell to black people in white neighborhoods, not to mention the straight up violence met by blacks moving into white neighborhoods. Then midcentury came strategically placed, oppressive housing projects. Overpopulation, unemployment, poverty, race riots, “shoot to kill” orders, a vicious cycle ensued. Unfortunately these conditions have not changed much, concentrated poverty plus economic decline plus the systemic lock up of black men plus a steady supply of guns plus plus plus has put Chicago back in the news the past few years with spiking murder rates.

These conditions are abstract to most well off white folks.

I believe that by visiting these neighborhoods and actually getting out of the car and looking people in the eye, this is the first step to understanding segregation and where racism lies within yourself.

I found the kernel of racism in myself this year. I found myself in Austin, one of the most fabled bad neighborhoods on the Westside. I knew kids in high school that used to cop their heroin there. You can see the corner boys, the junkies, the undercover cops, they are there. I was there to try this jerk chicken taco that I’d heard my friends rave about. We pulled up on a fairly busy stretch of Cicero, the place was jumping. I was nervous to go in, my innermost racist fears were quaking. I caught myself about to tell Jessica– who was waiting in the car while we were double parked– to lock the doors. But I refrained. There it was. The classic “lock your doors, this is a bad neighborhood” hang up. 

The customers inside were really nice people. One guy advised me to order an extra shell, since the tacos were so overstuffed with chicken. Another dude, rubbing his hands in anticipation, exclaimed that I was in for a treat. Sure, as I ordered, I was too soft spoken and got hollered at by the counter lady about what I wanted on my taco and my wrist got slammed in the revolving door of the bullet proof glass as I picked up my order. But I survived. But you know what? Fuck that, ordering tacos is not even something I should have to feel proud of surviving. Survival? Please. I ordered tacos. I had pleasant encounters with other folks ordering tacos. End of story.

I don’t care if you want to call my approach touristic. You are not going to see the world if you do not get out there. You are not going to firsthand confront your subjective judgments and prejudices if you do not get face to face with real people. And I could go on and on about how the experience of food connects people culturally, which I believe it does. This is simpler than that– its about seeing, looking fellow human beings in the eye.

Hit me up, I know where the good hand formed burger spot is in the South Shore; the real deal Belizean Garifuna cuisine in Marquette Park (and yes a Jim Shoe too); best jerk chicken in the city in Chatham; don’t even tell me you haven’t tried the apple fritter at Old Fashioned Donuts in Roseland; real Chicago BBQ? gotta get to Greater Grand Crossing! You’ll eat well and see what Chicago really looks like. And you’ll meet some real nice people while you’re there.

2015 #2 Return to New Orleans

I had not been back to New Orleans since the spring of 2005. And I’m not here to construct a before-and-after the storm think piece. Although I had a handful of friends living down there, I mostly agonizingly experienced the narrative through the media. On this trip, we did not visit the 9^th Ward, though an artist friend recently bought a house there, which must mean something. There was a whole lot of building happening all over the place. It was a little weird seeing a giant shiny condo development in the Bywater, though much of that neighborhood had the same funky, slightly festering, but colorfully vibrant vibe as it did when I used to stay there last decade. Mostly the city felt bustling, tourist money greasing the wheels of one of the most service-based economies I’ve encountered anywhere.

New Orleans is part of my food DNA and this recent trip was a great reminder of that. Although we didn’t partake, we found ourselves strolling past the Victorian turquoise of Commander’s Palace and I reflected that the chef who trained me worked there, so it’s likely that some of my technique is indebted to that famous kitchen. Chef and another co-worker native to New Orleans, were early mentors to me at Ox-Bow and however complicated those relationships have played out in my life, I am indebted to their influence, whether that be the way I make a roux, my love of reggae music (more on the New Orleans/ Jamaica connection another time), or a sense of waste-not in my cooking practice.

New Orleans cooking for me is one of the truest expressions of an American cuisine, one of my very favorites. And we did it right on this three day jaunt. Armed with a recommendation list from my NO native bud, Fredo Noguiera, chef at Chicago’s Analogue, we made no haste on our ravenous path. The new school spots provided some good bites– grilled oysters and fried boudin at Cochon and an Asian leaning spicy catfish dish at Peche, but the sweetest eats were found at the down home neighborhood spots. Within an hour of landing we found our way to Fredo’s favorite, Lil’ Dizzy’s in the Treme. A perfect intro– they were hosting a packed-to-the-rafters graduation party, so we had to take an al fresco seat on the sidewalk, on a 75 degree, sunny day in December, poor us. We giddily dispatched of plates of crispy fried chicken and bowls of deep creole gumbo, rich with filé and a seafood-based stock, chock full of all sorts of meaty bits like shrimp, tasso ham, andouille, and was that a second type of sausage?

Lunch was digested over an eye-opening trip to the homespun, psychedelic temple to the Mardi Gras Indians at the Backstreet Cultural museum. It was everything, New Orleans culture in a two block radius.

A sandwich 1-2 the next day found us across town on Magazine street. A roast beef po boy at Guy’s was a kissing cousin to the Italian beef, subbing peppers for the “dressed” style of lettuce, tomato, mayo, as unmannered of a messy of a sandwich as I’ve met. Gut buster sandwich #2 arrived at Casamento’s, a beautifully tiled, 98 year old canteen, specializing in local seafood, particularly oysters. The banter is as thick as the lines are long, but it’s worth it. The signature oyster loaf is a two handed beast of a sandwich seemingly built on half a loaf of bread stuffed with brittly corn-breaded oysters that are sweet as can be.

I’ve gotta say though, my other favorite meal was back in the Treme at the institution that is Dooky Chase. I knew about its famous guests, its importance to the neighborhood, the Chase family’s philanthropy, and their commitment to local art. I was not prepared for how damn good the food was. Chicken creole with jambalaya was even more complex than that gumbo down the street– its like the best sauces down there just sit on the stove for weeks on end, with new bits and seasonings thrown in the pot each morning. As good as that was I couldn’t keep my hands off of Jessica’s perfectly fried chicken that was surely brined, so juicy with a hit of garlic. And you have to talk about hospitality in New Orleans. We had a couple of snags in our service at Dooky Chase, which the floor manager, making rounds of the dining room, was quick to realize. To make it up to us, she invited us back into the kitchen to meet head chef and matriarch, Leah Chase, who well into her 90’s, was still donning an apron. Like Ms. Chase in her kitchen, New Orleans perseveres, as does my love for the place.

2017 RIP Perez

I started working in the West Loop in 1999 as an apprentice mosaic maker. The area was then in its nascent stage as a hot spot for restaurants and art galleries. Our studio was based out of my boss’s apartment on the second floor of 119 N Peoria, a building that a few years later would become a major art world hub where many friends ran, worked for, and showed at galleries. The studio I worked for made a bunch of mosaics for Red Light, which was probably the 2^nd fancy restaurant on Randolph (after Marché.) As poor, young art students, we couldn’t afford to eat at those places. There were two spots we frequented, a dingy grill called S&S at Green on Randolph and a cheery Mexican spot at Peoria, Perez.

At that point in my budding foodie-ism, Perez was about as good as it got. On the table with chips, they offered this salsa negra, which to this day I’ve never been able to reverse engineer (La Pasadita makes a similar version.) Just a kiss of smoke, it was really rather bright and fresh tasting, just the best. I’ve always loved huevos dishes and Perez made my favorite in town, machacado con huevo, which is common in Mexico but not so much in taquerias in Chicago. Most versions employ a chewy, reconstituted beef jerky, which is tasty, but Perez used a pleasantly stringy but tender beef, almost like a ropa vieja. And big old chunks of hot jalapeño. It was my go-to order for 18 years! They did a few other things well– I ate my first goat birria tacos there, which still tasted pretty good on a recent visit to my now birria-sophisticated palate. Seafood was always fresh, shrimp in particular in ceviche or a big bowl of caldo.

Mostly, though, they were a serviceable gringo-type spot slinging big plates of cheesy enchiladas and burritos suizos and margs galore. The perfect post gallery-hopping haunt. As I got around more, I knew there was better stuff out there, but Perez remained a convenient stalwart. Even after prices jacked up, it was still the cheapest spot around there to grab a bite and a drink.

Alas, development took hold of the neighborhood. Every restaurateur with the capital opens there. Google, the fancy hotels. Many of the galleries my friends ran were edged out for tenants paying higher rents. At this point, I can’t even handle parking around there. RIP West Loop.

Perez was there 33 years. I tried to chitchat with the owner on my last visit and he seemed more than ready to go. He told me “never get into this business.” Sage advice from a veteran of the hottest restaurant neighborhood in the city.

2018 Intro

I felt like we were at the edge of the world, a dystopian future-world, the kind that I’ve unfortunately had negative fantasies about too often in the past two years–perched on a wobbly stool in an unheated trailer getting weird looks from the Slavic truckers waiting around us. We traveled far to get here, to a windswept stretch of truck stops off 80/94 in Gary Indiana. We traipsed through the thick mud of an ambiguous parking lot, confused by how to find our way into the elevated yellow trailer. Once inside, the wiry, tattooed counter guy, likely years younger than his grizzled demeanor would suggest, spoke in unintelligible grunts, barely cocking an eye through the fogged Plexi partition between us.

Balkan Grill is a way station for Serbian truck drivers to fuel up on calorie-dense charred meats and thick flat breads. I’d read about it in a piece by Mike Sula and it was high on my list. But as we waited twenty minutes for our orders of cevapcici–uncased, hand formed beef sausages and pljeskavica, an oversized onion-y burger, stuffed with cheese, contemplating where the grilling was happening considering there was no obvious exhaust in the back of the trailer, I wondered why we were doing this.

The food was good– hearty, simple, and satisfying. But something else drew us here. Call it a Bourdain-ian compulsion to find culture wherever you can get to it. In these xenophobic times, like cutting yourself to remind yourself that you can feel.

It was a fucked up week. Some food critic I had never heard of wrote a five point take down of the entire culinary landscape of Chicago. With too much time on my hands (wife and kid away for two weeks) I took the bait and indulged in a bit of online trollery, I’ll spare you the tit for tat. But aghast at some egregiously uninformed statements with tinges of racism, I couldn’t help but say something.

What have we come to? Everybody has something to yell about. And it’s too easy for everyone else to yell back. Truly informed criticism is dying. Facts don’t count. This is the pre-apocalyptic environment that makes me want to drive to a trailer in Gary Indiana and clear my head, uncomfortable as it may be.

I also turned to a recently fallen hero, Jonathan Gold, and watched “City of Gold.” Not only was I reminded of true journalistic integrity, but humility. Gold understood that the eateries he championed– humble, mom-and-pop run, immigrant-owned, were not doing it for him, but to serve their communities. And he acknowledged the tremendous work that is put into running these businesses.

John and Tony are gone. When Bourdain died, I thought hard about how much he inspired me and why. It came down to his ego-less-ness, which might sound odd considering his out-size personality. But he put everything aside to give the world a view into culture and platform the way that everyday people around the world ate and lived.