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Those horrible haunts have two things in common. One, they’re all chain restaurants. Corporate chow slingers are much less likely to give a shit about the cookie-cutter cuisine they’re hawking. Second, all those hellholes were located in the suburbs. I’ve found you can keep nasty dining outings to a happy minimum by staying away from chains, and not venturing outside city limits.
Sadly, this isn’t to say my restaurant-going experiences in The Windy City have been all unicorns and rainbows. While relatively rare, there are two visits that stick in my craw:

Before schlepping to Second City, I moseyed into an Old Town sandwich shop to grab a sub. The guy behind the counter saw me, but didn’t say hello. He didn’t say anything, actually—no ‘can I take your order?’ nothing. Being a champion of ‘the customer is king’ concept, I stood my ground and refused to greet him. I stood there and stared, waiting for him to break the silence. You’d think the guy would come out with, “Why are you just staring at me, you crazy broad?” at the least, but no. What was supposed to be a simple exchange of pleasantries, sandwich and cash, turned into the weirdest staring contest I’ve ever been party to. After a full minute of staredown, my money and I went elsewhere.

A Lincoln Ave kitschy restaurant has an exterior festooned with an outdoorsy motif—bears, lumberjacks, and other stuff hunters might fancy are painted on the walls. The theme continues inside, with log-cabin décor and a game-heavy menu. I come from a long line of people that shoot their food while drinking Old Milwaukee, so I fully support the concept. Woefully, the reality of this place was a gigantic disappointment. They were, almost literally, out of everything. I ordered buffalo—out. What about the venison? Nope. Walleye? Sorry. Pouting, I asked for the catfish platter—nearly 45 minutes later, everyone else had their food, while my placemat was still naked. Finally, the waitress practically threw a plate in front of me—it was the saddest piece of dried-up catfish, held hostage between two halves of a grocery-store bun that looked like it’d been run over by a Ford F-150. It made a Filet O’Fish look like haute damned cuisine.

Like the suburban chains I steer clear of, these two restaurants have one thing in common: Both the sub shop and gamey restaurant are closed. Gee, I wonder why?

Have you ever had a horrible experience at a Chicago restaurant? Share your thoughts with us @CETVMouthful

By

Jenni Spinner

This time of year there is not a lot you can depend on.  The March Madness Bracket that you were confidant was going to be a clear winner has gone to hell, and the weather is so wildly inconsistent that you have to leave the house in rain boots, sunglasses, gloves, and a scarf.  But, thankfully, you can always count on BYOB for a good time. I should note that I do not include places that charge you $10+ corkage fee as BYOB – seriously, when the bottle of wine I brought with me costs $10 I almost have to laugh at your attempt to charge me am equal amount to open it.  There is no better feeling than knocking back several bottle of vino with your friends after a long week and than receiving the gloriously low check.  Do you want appetizers?  Absolutely!  Dessert?  Why not.  You can rest easy (and full) when you didn’t spend $35 ordering the second cheapest¹ bottle of wine on the menu (which you know you can buy for $9 at your local grocery store).   Chicago is a city full of fantastic BYOB restaurants.  Besides the usual sushi and Asian route you can get Cuban, Mediterranean, BBQ, and some ridiculously good Argentinean steak as well.  So throw on your winter boots, pack your umbrella, grab your favorite cheap bottle of red and treat yourself to a great night out.  After this winter you deserve it.

By:
Rachel Ford

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BYOB restaurants come and go. But a place like Buzz Cafe in Oak Park has staying power. Namely because of their fresh, organic menu and you can spike your own coffee, which is encouraged!

Last week I was lucky enough to be invited to something unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was sort of like stepping into a movie… if that movie was Fight Club meets Animal House meets Spinal Tap meets a big ass bag of charcoal. I am speaking of course about an official Man-B-Que.

What is a Man-B-Que? Well, if you were to ask ten different guys exactly what a Man-B-Que is, you will most definitely get ten different answers. At its core, it is an outlet for men to eat meat, drink beer, bitch about Chicago sports teams and tell jokes that your mother would disown you for repeating.

So there I was at an apartment in Oak Park that had Black Sabbath blaring and smelled of PBR and seasoning salt. Some guys were doing serious prep work for the evening, while others were bringing up trays of sausages fresh from the grill. The fridge was filled with about 10 different parts from various mammals. I was somewhat taken a back by all of this, it couldn’t have been further from what I expected. Not that I underestimated the guys involved, but I thought I was walking into a place where a bunch of guys stand around a grill and throw down some previously frozen hot dogs and burger patties while talking about which Kardashian they would rather kick it to (the topic did come up, but I think that was my fault more than anything) but that could not be further from the truth.

A Man B Que is about great beer (which sometimes means as long as it is cold) and taking meat VERY seriously. Guys wearing dirty Blackhawks caps and old concert tees stood around talking about how they spiced there own lamb, beef, and pork sausages while others grilled Pork Tenderloins that had been in a Jerk marinade for what tasted like days, and “The Godfather” was prepping his winner for the evening, devil turds (a jalapeno stuffed with queso fresco and chorizo, wrapped in bacon, and grilled to perfection……named not so much for how they taste but for how your body reacts 6-12 hours after ingesting them.) But the most important thing to any Man-B-Que is that everyone gets a chance to try everything. You bring your meat and dishes so everyone else can enjoy them, something you don’t find at many social gatherings. The guys there genuinely want everyone to enjoy what they have to offer. There is no admission fee or rules to follow. It’s all about men being men (well boys being boys, but you get the idea.) You rarely see a napkin or plate being used. For those quick to judge, it’s not that anyone there hates women (well one guy was going through a nasty divorce so he might be excluded) but generally speaking, men (those who want to attract woman) usually try and tone down there otherwise disgusting habits (i.e. letting grease travel down their arms, chewing with their mouths full, letting beer cover their chins like it cures razor burn) but at a Man-B-Que, we can act like the animals that we are constantly eating. And that my friends, is what makes Man-B-Que an all encompassing experience. Passionate meat connoisseurs, being themselves, because that is all they are capable of.

Check them out here: Man-B-Que

Jeff Maimon

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When we wanted to feature a local neighborhood hot spot, we looked no further than Candlelite in Rogers Park. They have been making their thin crust pizza the same way for nearly 60 years, and their customers wouldn’t have it any other way.