You Can't Nosh On Nostalgia

One of my best friends is a stalwart Democratic, Harvard-educated, Jewish, Transcendental Meditating, pacifist US Army officer, which is to say, he'd make the perfect restaurateur. Or, more specifically, if he were a restaurateur, his stew of seemingly contradictory interests and affiliations would make for the perfect food section profile.

With over 6,000+ restaurants in Chicago and a burgeoning national foodie revolution that's hotter than pictures of Brad and Angelina's latest genetically perfect love children, cooking good food, it seems, is no longer enough to capture the hearts of foodies and journalists, and more importantly the hard-earned bucks of repeat customers.

This is because many food obsessed folks are too easily blinded by the charms of cheap nostalgia or the story about a Chinatown cook who was once Chairman Mao's personal chef.

In the last year, national magazines have lauded Lou Mitchell's and Margie's Candies as the best breakfast and ice cream spots in Chicago. If anyone saw the Top Chef episode where they showed the disgusting curdled egg white laden poaching liquid in the kitchen at Mitchell's, I don't think they'd agree. Margie's is ok, but hell even the relatively milquetoast fake parlor aesthetic that is Oberweis serves better ice cream than Margie's. But, alas it hasn't been open for 90 years, nor did it serve the Beatles.

People are too often looking for "mama" or "nonna" in the kitchen. Considering that the post '70's dual earning household culture left most parents exhausted from their day jobs with very little opportunity to master Julia Child's Art of French Cooking or the time to peruse the Ladies Home Journal, having mom or dad in the kitchen is more likely a recipe for disaster. I've often found that the more family members mentioned in the menu or the number of generations who run an eatery is usually inversely related to the quality of the food.

Consider Tufano's Vernon Park Tap, the venerable 77 year old red sauce joint in Little Italy. It's so regarded, that the James Beard foundation dubbed it an American Classic last year. Tufano's once served Jack Nicholson and Frank Sinatra, so it must be good, right? Having dined there myself a few times, I wonder if these two dudes thought they were being poisoned. The flavorless red sauce here tastes as if the kitchen dumps out canned peeled whole tomatoes, chops them up and warmed them through, and the special salad features limp red peppers and iceberg lettuce swimming in watered-down vinaigrette.

A couple days after eating at Tufano's I ate down the street at Francesca's on Taylor (1400 W. Taylor), part of the local Mia Francesca chain founded less than 16 years ago, and only one generation strong. Though there were no pictures of former Yankee's skipper Joe Torre (the patron saint of Italian restaurants, since he, or at least his glossy 8 x 10 has seemingly eaten in everyone) the service experience and the quality of the food, from braised pork in creamy porcini sauce to standard crispy calamari, was incredible. Though I'd guess if I were to laud Francesca's in a foodie forum or in a local newspaper, I'd be shot, seasoned, and hung out to dry like a prosciutto.

I'm not decrying this nostalgia phenomenon as an uninterested third party either. In fact the reason I feel so strongly about fighting it, is that a week or so ago, I fell victim to it hard. Ed Levine, former New York Times food writer, TV personality, Iron Chef Judge, and owner/editor of www.seriouseats.com dropped in to town and wanted to sample some of Chicago's iconic Mexican taqueria fare.

One of the places I took him was the much lauded Carniceria Leon, the iron barred bodega (1402 N. Ashland) that looks like a cross between a prison and a grocery store. It's universally considered as having some of the best tacos al pastor or spit roasted pork in Chicago. Walk past the stacks of Doritos, Jarritos, and lottery tickets in the convenience store portion, and you'll find a dingy taqueria counter topped with bowls of fire roasted jalapenos, behind which wary eyed dudes build achiote slathered pork cones and slice off chunks of meat with samurai sized knives.

I'd been here a handful of times, and I've maybe had one good pastor. My last three times have yielded super greasy under salted pastor. Still, the place was so charming, so singular, that I was sure somehow the food would be good this time and that Ed would be bowled over. But he saw through the bullshit immediately and dubbed the taco just OK. I had to agree. Despite looking like a Mexican street stand dream, the pastor wasn't good.

While I made up for it by taking him to Cemitas Puebla (3619 W. North Ave.) for a tacos arabe and a cemita and Huaraches Dona Chio for a fresh griddled chicken tinga huarache (1547 W. Elmdale), both places which incorporate nostalgia and taste in perfect balance, I was still haunted by my poor decision to choose fantasy over flavor. I should have taken him to Taqueria Moran (2226 N. California) for their excellent griddled pastor, aka adobado, or their juicy carnitas, but with Moran's cheesy Jose Cuervo decorations and mariachi inflected soundtrack, it seemed more like Chi Chi's than Chichen Itza. For some reason, that mattered. It shouldn't have.

Comments

[johnf]

I had dinner at Huaraches Dona Chio last night and thought the meal fantastic and pleasantly easy on the wallet.
Dinner for eight (we filled the entire place), drinks not included as it's byob, set us back a whopping $48.00 + tax and tip. I probably shouldn't be posting this because I may never get seated again when word gets out.

[Totto]

Remember Ashkenaz on Morse? Paul's Umbrella for hot dogs? Davidson's Bakeries? Imperial Rye (the very best)? The Maler's bldg. restaurant (their "grilled" hot dogs) and dairy plates?