Smell My Fingers--The Stinkiest Food Porn Ever!

Fish crack. It was all it promised to be and so much more. Join me and SWC regular, Luke Baggins, on a Food Porn Field Trip to Chicago's rarely-referenced East Side. We arrived at Calumet Fisheries, located on 3259 E 95th Street at around noon on Saturday.



Tucked away in an industrial corner of the city that smells like the Calumet and sun-baked steel mills, it was hard to believe such an unimpressive shack could house such historic gustatory hedonism. One of only three riverfront fish shacks left in Chicago, CF has earned quite the reputation. Even my fake boyfriend and sole celebrity crush, Anthony Bourdain came to sample the fish crack. How could we go wrong?



Upon entry, we were greeted by two friendly guys who were more than happy to indulge our desire to know more about the famous Calumet Fisheries. As we looked into the refrigerated cases at the offerings, they gave recommendations. I immediately zoned in on smelt, remembering those little silvery fishes, deep fried and delish, from my youth. I'd long since forgotten what they tasted like and I asked to try one to see if we wanted a batch. They threw down a sample for us and continued fielding questions. They were eager to tell us about the process and tell their favorite selections.

Renowned for their smoked chubs (tee hee--smoked chub!), our gracious host allowed us to sample one. Apparently, they weren't representative of the best and biggest chubs they usually offered, but we had to try the house specialty. Here's what it looked like before Luke and I set upon it like vultures.



Our Guy instructed us on the proper chub-eating technique. First, snap off the head and tail (thank you for taking on that task, Luke). Then peel the skin, flake gently and begin to eat. Look out for bones!



The meat was smoky, tender and quite delicious. Luke was enamored, but I quickly bypassed the chub when Our Guy brought out a hunk of salmon for us to sample. Soon, we were picking over the scraps like alley cats.



The salmon was incredible. Sweet, buttery and perfect; the smoke couldn't even begin to overwhelm that incomparable salmon flavor. About the time we were starting in on the salmon, they brought us our "sample" of smelts. We each got a healthy handful of fishies, about the size of steak fries. They were awesome. We were given the house's signature "mild sauce" for dipping, but the french-fry-esque fish didn't require condiments.

We got on the topic of salmon, and I decided to get my parents a huge chunk-ola of garlic and pepper smoked salmon as a thank you for watching my little Baby Cakes while we were on our food adventure. Then we got down to the business of ordering. We decided to try an order of their famous smoked shrimp, a batch of smelt in place of french fries, a thing of cole slaw and tartar, hot and mild dipping sauces. We were already full from our samples, but we weren't about to walk out of the place without trying the smoked shrimp.

Calumet Fisheries doesn't offer seating, and I didn't want to stink up my car. We looked around the side of the building and decided sitting on the concrete staircase by the dumpsters and the smokehouse was the way to go. We figured we'd be good to go after we ate about three pounds of fish.



Downright giddy, I set up our food on the steps so we could eat and enjoy the scenic vista of the Calumet River.



Just looking at this picture makes me itch for more fish crack. I was unsure about the smoked shrimp, but let me tell you how wrong I was to doubt. They were huge, sweet and succulent.It had the taste and texture of lobster and crab together as one, a combination I often dream about. I loved them dipped in my hot sauce/tarter mix. Luke was so obsessed, he wouldn't dare dip after he finally managed to get them peeled.



The only thing more beautiful than our feast was our view.



At a certain point, I was so full I wanted to rock out like the Romans. But the thought of insulting such fabulous food seemed so wrong that I refrained. I just kept eating. That's my look of shame.



Luke didn't even have the decency to pretend he was ashamed. This is him ripping the shell off the last of the smoked shrimp.


After the shrimp was killed, we were left with the only casualties of our binge.



It hurt so good. It was hot as hell on those concrete steps, and I immediately began to sweat smoked fish. We cleaned up our mess and hit the road to tour the East Side. My grandpa, Juderonomy's dad, used to live in the East Side and she gave us some addresses to see if we could find out more about his old stompin' grounds.

Driving up and down Ewing, looking for Lakeside Tavern, we realized that we stunk. Bad. Like a waterfront whorehouse at low tide. We sniffed our chub-laced fingers and reared back from the potent stank, yet kept going back for more.

Lakeside Tavern was no more, but I remembered hearing stories about T's Tap across the street. I pulled into the parking lot looked over where Lakeside used to be. It's now a day care center. I later remarked to the bartender, it always was a day care of sorts. Smiling to the heavens, I knew Papa would have approved of our journey.



We entered the classic Chicago tavern, dark and cavernous, lit by neon beer signs and three televieion screens. We beelined for the toilets. Handwashing was priority number one. After several pumps of pink soap and scalding hot water, I still smelled fishy. But no matter, I was thirsty. It was indeed Miller time.

I bellied up to the bar, and two guys looked at me.

"Wow. You two musta had to go, just running to the bathroom like dat."

"Nah, we went to the fish shack and it stunk our hands up." I walked toward the guy and lifted my hand. "Here. Smell my fingers."

He backed away with grimace. His eyes watered. "Been a long time since anyone's said dat to me," he said. His friend and the two bartenders laughed.

Luke emerged from the washroom sniffing his fingers. "Man, three washes and I still smell."

Mmm, fishy!



Just call it a souvenir, Luke.



After a few of the most refreshing beers we've ever had, and a few more futile handwashings, we bid T's Tap farewell. I promised to return, and the bartender shouted a goodbye after us, labeling me forever "Fish Fingers." I don't know how I'm going to top that filthy, dirty food porn in the future, folks. I'd have to say the East Side adventure to Calumet Fisheries is the new standard bearer. Smell ya later, everyone! But not unless you smell me first.

Food Porn Bonanza

What's up, suckas? You know I'm here to talk about food ... again. It seems I don't have a whole lot else going on in my life beyond food, glorious food, marvelous food. I love my food.

Anyhow, it was Lady's birthday last night, so Hot Buns Murphy and I went downtown to take Lady to Bob San. While I feel decent, tasty sushi is available every ten yards in the greater metropolitan area, I have to say, Bob San is consistently awesome. We tore it up.

We started with the classic appetizers, edamame and seaweed salad. To the uninitiated, edamame are soy beans served in the pod, steamed in salt water. You just pop them out of the pod into your slobbering, slavering mouth and yum. Delicious. Careful, though, guys--don't hit them too hard. Soy beans have estrogen-mimicking phytogens in them, and I'd hate to see you grow some tits over dinner.

I know seaweed salad sounds gross, but dudes, it's awesome. The texture is singular--toothsome, al dente strips of tangy seaweed marinated in sesame and rice wine vinegar, served with thin cucumber discs, garnished with strings of daikon radish and sprinkled with sesame seeds. We also got the rainbow roll, a sushi classic, but we got ours with real king crab. I refuse to eat Krab Stik in any seafood restaurant. Ever. That shit is nasty. We also got the House Crunch roll, which is a spicy mayo roll rolled in Panko crumbs. I forget what kind of fish was in it, probably tuna, but who cares? It was delicious.

Our sashimi was perfect. We got our standard tuna and salmon sashimi style, because rice only gets in the way of the divine goodness of raw fish that has the consistency of buttah. We finally convinced Lady to try the ama ebi, that is, shrimp sushi with the heads served seperately--deep fried and delicious. Raw shrimp requires the rice, so get it nigiri style. The rice helps offset the slightly slimy nature of the shrimp while allowing you to enjoy the raw shrimp flava.

Eating the heads is the most fun. The eyeballs stare at you from their little dried out stalks, seeming to say, "Whyyyy? Why do you want to eaaaaat meeeee?" But the crunch is not to be missed. I will only eat shrimp heads when deep fried. That is my standard. But get 'em while they're hot. The antennae get mad sharp once they cool off too much. Get those down quick or it's like swallowing needles.

I finally got the guts to try salmon roe, those big, globular orange eggs. I love most caviar, when it's crunchy and little, like the flying fish eggs used ubiquitously on sushi, but those salmon eggs are so big and juicy...I only tried one, but it was as I suspected. A salty, juicy pop, too viscous for my liking--salmon roe truly is the tomato of the sea, and henceforth, not for me. It was ok. I didn't gag. But I didn't love it. It joins sea urchin roe as the other item in sushi that I won't eat. Oh, and makerel. It tastes too fishy. I know, raw fish that tastes fishy? Go figure. But I think it's nasty and I won't eat it. Besides, raw fish is supposed to neither smell nor taste fishy. It's supposed to smell clean and oceany. If your fish smells fishy, something fishy is going on. So there.

Anyway, that was the third seafood dinner I had this week. Monday, Slippy and I hit Tin Fish for her birthday. I introduced her to oysters. You know how I feel about oysters, right? Well, she loved them, too. Another addict! I knew I could turn her out ... Tuesday, the Mr and I went to dinner and I had substandard fish at the Limestone City Grill. Overcooked and boney. But whatever. No biggie. Last night was sushi and tomorrow ... Tomorrow Luke Baggins and I are taking on the Calumet Fishery for "Fish Crack". Smoked chub (best food item name EVER!), smoked shrimp and more. Stay tuned. We're getting down and dirty on the East Side, bitches, and we'll have the pictures to prove it!

Full of Crepe

Mmm, crepes. If you read the Recrap, you know that my friend Season and I went out on the town with SWC regular, Luke Baggins. He's in town from Seattle, and to welcome him, we arranged for steady rainfall and a food porn menage a trois. The polite thing to do would have been to let him make the call, since he's in town for a limited time only. During his tenure in Chi-town, Luke became well-versed in all of the fine foods our city has to offer. But Season and I got it in our heads that it was a crepe day, and I think he got my not-so-subtle suggestions that crepes were the way to go.

Icosium Kafe in the Andersonville neighborhood suited our needs perfectly. Centrally located between Season's Lincoln Square apartment and Luke's Rogers Park location, the Algerian creperie seemed the logical choice. We had some Turkish coffee, which started off good, but the second batch was a bit watery. No worries, though. Out came the vegetable puree soup, which was delicate and slightly spicy. If you like more than slightly spicy, the waitress brought out a dish of chili paste that even a pepper-lover such as myself had to respect.

The crepes were stuffed with sauteed peppers, onions, spinach, tomatoes, goat cheese and sprinkled with pine nuts. Luke and I added to the hedonism with lamb sausage. Although Season doesn't usually enjoy eating babies, even she had to agree that it was delicious.



The crepe was paper thin and caramelized perfectly. It was slightly sweet with crisp edges, which contrasted nicely with the salty-liciousness inside. I hurt myself on food, but not so much that I could refuse to share a lemon crepe with my friends. That would just be rude. I lobbied hard for the classic Nutella crepe, but Season was kind enough to remind me that we had had Nutella that very morning with brunch at my house. Her suggestion made the most sense.

Just when we thought we knew how to overdo it, we were informed that the crepe was served with our choice of ice cream. As the waitress mentioned "pistachio", Season and I both piped up that she could list no more. We were sold. Luke, to his credit, realized he was no match for the two of us brash and bossy broads. He diplomatically agreed to go with the flow.

Mmm. Lemon crepes. I'd never had one before, because I am so grievously addicted to Nutella. But what lovely tastes and textures I've been missing! With the same delicate crepe shell, the lemon seemed to be mixed in with sugar, so each bite had a crunchy, sweet and pure lemon flavor. I said it reminded me of powdered Lemonheads, and Season agreed, but added that it was, "Without the classic Ferrara Pan cardboard taste." The pistachio ice cream was more like gelato. Smooth and melty with ginormous chunks of pistachio, surrounded by whipped cream.



God, I am so hungry.

After stuffing ourselves like true Food Porn champs, we staggered out into the warm, rainy night to decide where to have an after-dinner drink. Staring at us was a neon fish wearing a Viking helmet, tippling a martini. Bingo. Simon's. Luke commented on the classic tavern smell, and though the smoking ban has been in effect for some time, the blissful odor of almost eighty years of smoking and boozing wafted out of the open doors. Luke huffed the air deeply and said, "I think that must be my favorite smell."

This photo is of Season's and Luke's drinks, Maker's and Jameson's respectively, and mine, an IPA. I don't have the sophisticated boozer palate these guys do, but I must say, it made for a lovely composition. I call it Liquid Junk:




It was a fabulous evening of gluttony that didn't stop with an after dinner drink. I must confess that our sins also included a few six packs, a midnight Pete's run that included a combo beef and sausage sandwich with red and hot, and a sausage, mushroom, green pepper and onion pizza. What? We couldn't let our good buddy come back all the way from Seattle and NOT help him gorge on all of Chicago's finest gustatory offerings. What kind of friends would we be?

Well, stay tuned, my fellow Food Pervs. Tonight it is Slippy Olter's birthday celebration. It is time for more oysters. I may not need to go into gross detail about my favorite mollusks, but I'm sure we'll find something new to try and to rave about in Food Porn Part Eight. And then it's Lady's birthday celebration on Thursday, where we shall be dining at Bob San on the best sushi in the city.

Thanks for reading. I'm off to run eight miles and swim sixty-four laps. Can't let all this "research" go to my ass, now, can I?

A Fieldtrip to Chinatown

Today, my new friend Sweets and I took our babies to Chinatown for a little culture and some good eats. Lately, I've been throwing Kenny into the deep end, culinarily speaking, and he is doing his mama proud. Today was no exception.

We started in New Chinatown, on the north side of Archer Avenue.



Sweets explained that that it's cleaner and cooler than Old Chinatown on the South side of Archer Ave. It's where all the cool kids hang out, you see. She moved here from Hong Kong when she was ten years old, and has close ties to the people in the St. Anne Cafe. Not the most Chinese sounding name in the world, but it's authentic for sure. We ordered ying-yang, or half coffee and half tea. I had mine cold and sweet. It was delicious. If you love caffeine, you must try ying yang. It's bitchin'. Here's Kenny scoping out the baked goods.



We continued around the plaza, checking out the Chinese Zodiac statues, comparing our personal traits to those of our signs. Though I was born in the year of the snake, I see very little in common with most of the snake's characteristics. Good with money; graceful and soft-spoken. Ha! If you know me, tell me if you think I'm snake-y and then check out your Chinese sign here.

I had to check out a shop that sells bulk herbs and dried ... stuff.

Ginseng--some of the better stuff sold for almost a thousand dollars a pound. According to Sweets, the more the root resembles a human shape, the more potent it is. The stuff in the barrels was rather pedestrian. It just looked like twigs.



Who knows what's in all these jars?



What, the recipe doesn't call for dried squid?



Here, fishy, fishy, fishy! A bin of dried anchovies:



Little delicacies like dried fruits, candied plums, yellow(!) olives, etc.:



Barrels of ginseng, bins of dried seafood, vegetables and other exotic produce, teas of the world and herbal remedies for about any ailment or condition imaginable, including the tragic affliction of having no boobs. I checked out their boob-growing cream with interest until I saw the price: $89.00 for a tube of shit I bet a million dollars won't work any better than gaining fifteen pounds. Although I'm sure Ken would have overlooked that expenditure, I think I'll pass on the boob cream for now. Still, it's nice to know where to get it if I ever decide to give it a try. *whispers* Maybe I'm snakey, after all ...

We then trekked over to Old Chinatown across the street.



It's more congested, way older but cooler looking from an architectural and design standpoint. It does, however, smell. I think the city of Chicago should check out the drainage situation.




After peering into various windows (my favorite featured a sweet-faced woman with a little hatchet slamming off pieces of a roasted pig quarter) we took the increasingly cranky babies back to St. Anne's for lunch.

Stirfried noodles, rice crepes with dried shrimps, tender beef and scallions, curried fish balls and Chinese french toast for the babies. I told Sweets I wasn't interested in fake, Americanized Chinese food, and homegirl delivered. The noodles were superthin and delicious. The crepes, drizzled in a sweet and salty sauce, were melty, slightly gelatinous and strangely delicious. The curried fish balls (spheres, not testicles) were slightly rubbery, yet not in a bad way. They were deep fried and served with a rich and sweet curry sauce. Heavenly.

Kenny and Baby K charmed all in the family-run restaurant with their cuteness. Between his major-league eating chops, friendly disposition and general cuteness and her half-Chinese delicate prettiness and generosity with the smooches, we felt right at home. My next stop in training my child to eat like me (that is to say, anything and everything at any time at all) is to hit Devon on the far North side of the city for Indian food with my friend, SZ. Stay tuned for reportage on saris, bindis and vindaloo.