The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
The Bronx is usually a great place to watch a ballgame. But when Randy Johnson pitches, it can be extremely unpleasant. Thankfully, The Bronx is always a great place to eat jerk, no matter who is pitching.
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/29/the_hungry_cabb_17.php
Explore the rest of The Bronx too on a five borough eating tour
I’m warning you, the wad of wet roast beef you get on a soggy bun at Brennan and Carr doesn’t look like a million bucks. But read today’s Gothamist’s column because it sure tastes like it:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/27/the_hungry_cabb_16.php
Go to www.famousfatdave.com for eating tour options
Even in my ancestral homeland of Chicago, a town that is stamped on my D.N.A and etched in my heart, I have to face angry questions about my loyalties from New York haters. When I’m visiting with my extended, deep-dish-loving family, people know that I’ve declared New York my adopted hometown. They know that I have a warm place in my heart for Chicago, but I am fully in LOVE with New York.
As I ate my second Wieners Circle hot dog at 2 a.m. last week, one of my cousin Jeremy’s friends from high school started talking pizza. I wanted to concentrate on my delicious hot dog, so I wasn’t about to start debating. But this guy, fortified with a few Jager bombs and a Chicago accent, forced the issue.
I tried to explain to him that Chicago food is in my blood, that grease runs thick in my veins (and arteries), and there was no reason for him to be defensive. But by this point it was more of a monologue on his part. I let him go for a while, but the last straw was when he broke into a Vinnie Barbarino style over-the-top New York goomba voice, bobbed his head like a chicken, and mocked me with, “Hey, OOOH, Dis pizza is good, yeah sure, but it ain’t as good a Ray’s on 59th Street no how.”
First of all, Ray’s on 59th Street, if it exists, is not good. Second of all, I am a lot of things, but I am no food snob. I’m always open to trying new things. And if I find the taste is superior, I’m not afraid to change my mind about what’s better. Plus, I never even said New York has better anything as far as this guy knew.
But since he brought it up, I thought I’d indulge this New York hater. So today I’m going to compare a few of the foods I ate in Chicago recently with some similar foods I ate in New York recently. And since he dropped the pizza bomb, I’ll start with that.
I am well aware that many of the denizens of each city harbor very strong, often irrational, feelings on the pizza issue. And not everyone will be happy with the pizzerias I’ve chosen to compare. But Due’s is where the majority of my family recommended I eat when I was in Chicago (although certain members of my family urged me to go elsewhere- Lou Malnati’s, Edwardo’s, Baccino’s, or Gino’s to name a few). And John’s is where I last ate pizza in New York solely because it’s around the corner from my house.
I have had great deep-dish pizza in Chicago. It is amazing. The sheer amount of cheese is staggering. The flavor of the sausage has made my heart skip a beat. The thick crust can be delicious.
But at Due’s none of those things were true. The crust, though my Aunt Linda loved the buttermilk quality of it, was way too thick and dry for my (and my Chicago-born mother’s) liking. The bland crust overwhelmed the whole pizza. Deep-dish offers the possibility of voluminous cheese, sauce, and sausage, but the proportion of crust to everything else was way out of whack at Due’s.
(LOOKS really good right? But even with all that cheese the pizza was too bready)
John’s, though all anyone seems to write about it anymore is that it isn’t as good as it used to be, is a classic New York thin crust pizza. Maybe it’s not as good as an authentic Napolitana pizza, but the proportions are right on. The crust is thin but not floppy, the cheese is plentiful but not so much as to overshadow the rest of the pie, the sauce is spread to the edge but the pizza isn’t swimming in it. My John’s pie just had more flavor than my Due’s pies did, even though there was less of everthing on my John’s pie.
Plus, if you so desire, you can find a perfectly proportioned, cheesey, saucy, chewy thick slice at L&B Spumoni Gardens in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.
(Spumoni goes so well with a thick slice no matter where you are from)
I admit, however, if you crave great Chicago pizza, Spumoni Gardens won’t do.
I also tried a cherry lime ricky at Due’s. This drink, had at an old-fashioned soda jerk like Tom’s in Brooklyn, can be incredibly tasty and refreshing. A classic New York cherry lime ricky is just selzer, syrup, ice cubes, and a lime slice. Due’s made their’s like a frozen smoothie.
(Chicago on the left; New York on the righ)
Generally I love smoothies, but the one I had at Due’s was weak. It melted way too quickly, and it left me in the mood for a real New York style cherry lime ricky.
Billygoat Tavern is a famous old Chicago institution from the 30s on the level of Tom’s Diner in Brooklyn. Billygoat was even parodied on Saturday Night Live in the 70s (because all the good cast members on SNL in New York came out of Second City in Chicago), yet my branch of the family had never been there. The moment we walked in, I immediately realized that it had been a terrible mistake that it’d taken us this long.
(smoke obscured the view of our “doubles” on the grill)
The grill man actually did yell “Cheezeborger, cheezeborger, cheezeborger, cheezeborger” the way John Belushi did in that SNL sketch. Classic old Chicago characters in suspenders and fedoras sat in every dark corner watching the Cubs getting slaughtered by the Mets. And the burgers were delicious.
(Here is my branch of the family, every member with a full mouth of Billygoat burger aside from Milo whose mouth is full of Goldfish)
(Milo will move onto burgers soon enough if I do my job as his uncle)
The host suggested we (and everyone else who came through the door) order “doubles.” My sister-in-law didn’t come up to the counter to see that each patty was McDonalds thin, so she ordered a “single” and ended up being fairly disappointed. The doubles, with cheese between the patties and a fixin’ bar of chopped onions, relish, and sliced pickles, were tasty for sure. But I think, like the Due’s pizza, there was too much bread. My sister-in-law and I decided to go back for a second round and split a “triple,” and we were both duly impressed.
(Melissa shows off the “double” and I show off the “triple”; I think it is clear who makes the better spokesmodel)
The “triple” was delightfully meaty and cheesy, and I think the host should be recommending those. But I must say that even a “triple” can’t compare with a Corner Bistro “bistro burger.” The bistro burger is the premier burger in New York if not the world. Admittedly, it has a leg up on a Billygoat burger because the bistro burger comes with three stips of bacon. But the real difference is in the beef.
I saw the Billygoat burgers come out of stacks of patties with slices of paper in between before they hit the grill, making me suspicious that they had been frozen at some point in their history. Corner Bistro ground beef is stored in a vat. I used to order mine medium, but one night at around 3am I witnessed the owner drop by, put a rubber glove on, grab a handful of ground beef out of the vat, and eat it raw. Since then, I always order my bistro burger rare.
One thing Billygoat has on Corner Bistro is that they offer much crunchier, tastier pickle chips (I think the above pictures make that clear). And crunchy pickles go a long way toward a good burger experience for me. So now might be a good time to compare New York pickles to Chicago pickles.
Let me begin by saying Chicago wins the prize for best utilization of pickles. If New Yorker put a entire pickle spear along side each of their Sabretts, they’d be a much happier bunch. But I can’t say the Puckered Pickle Co., “Made With Pride In Chicago,” that my Aunt Linda keep in her fridge are as good as the Gus Pickles I keep in mine. And I know of no place in Chicago that sells pickles out of the barrel on the sidewalk the way nature intended.
It seems like I’m saying Chicago’s food is inferior to New York’s. But I assure I think no such thing. It so happens that I like John’s better than Due’s, Corner Bistro better than Billygoat Tavern, and Gus Pickles better than Puckered Pickles. But Chicagoans can take for granted some foods that New Yorkers can’t even hope to find at near that quality (Italian beef sandwiches for one).
And more importantly, Chicagoans know how to eat. Where else can I go where people don’t bat an eyelash when I eat ribs for breakfast:
(You can tell it’s breakfast because my hair is wet from the shower)
(My aunt Linda makes sure to bring ribs home from the black part of town)
Had I picked different places, Chicago might have come out on top in every category. But I did give Chicago a fair shake. The places I review here are institutions in that town. And I didn’t even bother to compare hot dogs or ribs because I think Chicago takes those columns with no competition. So you New York haters need to cool out. Still though, New York is a great place to come home to.
Due’s, 619 N Wabash, Chicago
John’s, Bleeker Street and Jones Street, West Village, Manhattan
L&B Spumoni Gardens, 86th Street and West 9th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
Billygoat Tavern, 430 N Michigan Avenue Lower Level (SERIOUSLY, GO DOWN SOME STAIRS THAT DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD GO DOWN THEM, DON’T BE DISCOURAGED IF YOU CAN’T FIND IT AT FIRST) Chicago
Corner Bistro, West 4th Street and Jane Street, West Village, Manhattan
Gus Pickles, Orchard Street and Broome Street, Lower East Side, Manhattan
Hecky’s, 1902 Green Bay Road, Evanston
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for an eating tour of New York City
I am sitting in the morning at the diner on the corner. I am waiting at the counter for the man to pour the coffee. And he fills it only half way, and before I even argue, he is looking out the window at somebody coming in. “It is always nice to see you,” says the man behind the counter to the woman who has come in. She is shaking her umbrella. And I look the other way as they are kissing their hellos. I’m pretending not to see them. Instead I pour the milk.- Suzanne Vega, Tom’s Diner, 1987.
These are the words Tom’s Diner inspired me to write:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/23/the_hungry_cabb_14.php
Corona is a neighborhood in Queens. In today’s Gothamist, I review the Mexican sweet bread at The Corona Bakery . . . in Astoria.
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/20/the_hungry_cabb_11.php
Famous Fat Dave’s Five Borough Eating Tour On The Wheels Of Steel
Chicago is where I learned how to be a cabbie. Not how to drive, but how to act. Visiting Chicago about once a year to spend time with my large (and growing) extended family has resulted in my taking countless cabs in that town. But the single most influential cab ride of my life came just before I got my own hack license in 2001. From downtown Chicago, I took a cab to the airport after my cousin Laurie’s wedding.
My Sri Lankan cabbie was keen to chat with me once I showed interest in the profession we were soon to share. We talked of life and love and Chicago winters. He told me about his Tamil mother and Sinhalese father, and how, even though he was half Tamil, he blamed the Tamil Tigers for the endless violence in his homeland. He hoped that now, after September 11th, America would understand Sri Lanka’s enduring plight and come to its aid.
Knowing that was an unlikely proposition, I tried to move on to a lighter topic, so I asked him where to find the greatest Chicago hot dog. With that, his sad eyes lit up. He told me we were about to pass his favorite place. I was ready to take a mental note and make a trip to this Superdawg the next time I was in town, but my super cabbie suggested that we pull off the tollway and grab a couple of dogs for the road.
I’d never heard of such a thing. Aren’t cab drivers always in a hurry? Aren’t they always grumps who just talk on their cell phones, drive recklessly, and never dream of taking a break to dine with a fare? I was shocked, but I accepted the invitation just in time for us to swerve off the highway and make the exit.
(Superdawg picture from their website because I didn’t have a digital camera back in the day)
I immediately saw Superdawg’s appeal to a cab driver: it was a drive-in. Not a drive-thru, but a drive-in. A hold out from 1948 complete with “Suddenserv” car hops. The hot dogs were, in a word, heavenly. But I couldn’t desribe them any better than Superdawg does:
“Not a wiener – not a frankfurter – not a red hot – but our exclusive… Superdawg™. On a poppy seed bun, we tenderly place the loveliest, juiciest creation of pure beef hot dog (no pork, no veal, no cereal, no filler), formally dressed with all the trimmings, escorted by our often imitated, but never equaled, Superfries™. Served with all the trimmings – golden mustard, tangy piccalilli, kosher dill pickle, chopped Spanish onions and a memorable hot pepper.”
My cabbie devoured his Superdawg in about 60 seconds flat, a skill I would have to master if I was going to be a real cabbie back in New York. I was still polishing off my second dog as we rolled into O’Hare with just minutes to spare. That Sri Lankan Superdawg-loving peace-loving kinda-smelly cabbie is my role model to this day. He’d fit neatly into my family too.
My uncle Norm is a major Superdawg fan, but the rest of the family is loyal to Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace in Skokie. Usually, Big Herm’s is the first stop we make upon our arrival. Big Herm’s hot dogs aren’t as thick or juicy as that Superdawg I had, but they are more flavorful and have more snap. To me, Big Herm’s serves the quintessential Chicago dogs.
(A char dog on the left; a classic steamed dog on the right)
And unlike at Superdawg, Big Herm’s puts a couple slices of tomato on the dog (note to New Yorkers who put ketchup on their hot dogs: actual tomatoes are better). My family is never as comfortable and at ease with itself as it is when it’s chowing down at Big Herm’s. Chicago, more specifically Chicago hot dogs, are in my blood. Here, a small sampling of the family can’t be bothered to smile for the picture because everyone is too busy eating:
My cousin Anna eats her hot dogs with nothing but ketchup, and the shame of it all is stamped clearly on her face.
I’d been to Big Herm’s a couple dozen times, and I was in the mood to explore. So my cousin Jeremy Weinstein, back from Hollywood where he is on his way to collecting a mantle full of Best Editor Oscars, took me to The Wieners Cirlce after a night out on the North Side.
I’d heard stories about the Wieners Circle, but I had a hard time believing them. I’d heard that drunken hoardes of white Chicagoans descend upon the black counter girls every night to shout whatever wretched, base thoughts come into their meatheads.
If you give a counter girl $10, you could order a “chocolate shake” that is not on the menu. Now, I love milk shakes, so I was excited to hear of a special shake that’s not on the menu the way The In And Out Burger offers things not on the menu. But at The Wieners Circle, the chocolate shake is just a counter girl who lifts her shirt up and shakes her saggy boobs in everyone’s face for a nanosecond.
(This woman’s official job is to pour the melted cheese, but she also serves chocolate shakes)
When I arrived, I found the stories to be true. Actually, it was much crazier than I had heard. Racist comments are shouted out like orders Insults of every type are hurled back and forth. I was treated to a “chocolate shake” because the guy in front of me ordered one. I wish he hadn’t. I had my camera turned off when the “chocolate shake” came, but take a look at what happened just afterwards and you’ll get a better idea of the atmosphere in there:
Wieners Circle Vanilla Shake Video (18 seconds)
(A char dog that I bought “for the table,” and then proceeded to eat all but one bite of myself)
I noticed there was one black girl there eating hot dogs with her white friends at a picnic table out front. She did not look happy. Jeremy and I decided she must be dying a little on the inside. Appalled as I was, I got over it soon after a counter girl flicked me off and called me the “NEXT C*CKSUCKER IN LINE.”
(The screen is a new addition; They’ve taken their cue from the chicken wire protecting the Blues Brothers on stage)
The hot dogs, though they didn’t compare to Superdawg or Big Herm’s, were so good. After muscling my way through a dangerously drunk crowd of overweight Chicagoans, they really hit the spot. Any dog that comes with an entire pickle spear (or two on occasion in the Wieners Circle’s case) is just fine as far as I’m concerned. Chicagoans eat their hot dogs the way New Yorkers eat their pizza. So in my yellow cab, thanks in large part to my Chicago cabbie role model, I wouldn’t hesistate to stop and grab a slice with my fare.
Superdawg, 6363 N. Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago, IL
Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace, 3406 Dempster St., Skokie, IL
The Wieners Circle, 2622 N. Clark Street, Chicago, IL
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for an eating tour on which we can stop for New York hot dogs/ Chicago style hot dogs/ and deep fried Jersey hot dogs
How many articles can one food writer do that revolve around pickles? There may be no limit:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/16/the_hungry_cabb_13.php
Click www.famousfatdave.com for limitless eating tour possibilities
Take it from a pickle man, Brighton Beach is a good place to pick a pickle:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/13/the_hungry_cabb_12.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to book an personalized eating tour. May I suggest the Pickle Tickle Tour
