3463 N. Clark
True story, comrades – I had a recurring dream about Ian’s Pizza. I had seen it on the way home from treks in the car, and for several days I went to sleep, and at the end of my dream I went to this place. Not knowing what it was like inside, I imagined Ian’s as the mecca of all pizza lovers, with god-spankingly amazing pizza that I couldn’t eat because I woke up at the end. Then I went there and I stopped having these dreams.
Apparently, some horrible brain-frying demon god – let’s say Cthulhu because he’s popular – really has taste in Pizza, and decided to do a similar thing to this food blog and recommend places to me, only he did it by invading my subconscious and risking my sanity in the process.
Sometimes I really wish I was making this up. Some people have recurring dreams that tell them to make serious changes in their life. I have those dreams about pizza. I’m fat, aren’t I. Be right back, crying for the next few years.
Okay, I’m back. When you first walk in and you see their selection: you’ll see three things wrong with Ian’s:
- They put cheese tortellini on pizza.
- They put tortilla chips and salsa on pizza.
- The above two completely amazing items are NOT IN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH YET.
And believe me, once you are given your wondrous little slice or two of Ian’s pizza, you will required by the unwritten five millionth amendment to the Constitution to be a regular customer.
They also shake things up by having a weekly special, so that you don’t get the same thing every time. Sometimes it’s the Chicago Style Hot Dog pizza (want), sometimes it’s a lackluster flavor such as the Fish & Chips pizza (can’t win every time), but you never know what you’re going to get. Or, you can just check what the upcoming next flavor is, then you’ll know. So you’ll kinda know what you’re going to get. Whatever.
My only complaint with Ian’s is their weird hours. On weekends they’re normal, but on weekdays, they open at 5 PM. Unless it’s a Cubs game, in which case they’ll have weekend hours. But the Cubs don’t play year-round, and if you’re in the middle of January and you arrive at 1 PM with your ears falling off from frostbite and you NEED something warm… go to Einstein Bros. across the street. (And they suck.)
But it’s a small price to pay for what I claim to be the best frickin’ pizza in Chicago. (And that’s counting deep dish. Let’s face it, deep dish is great sometimes, but only when you don’t care about looking like a walrus.)