What the hell do you mean I was gone? Also Cafecito

I couldn’t have been letting this blog sit idle, comrades! I was here the whole time! I POSTED REVIEWS OF EVERY McDONALD’S IN THE TRI-STATE AREA! WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?

Picture if you will, a blogger. He has worked tirelessly to review every McDonald's in his area. But he will find that his work isn't as real as he thought it was, just like the processed meat from the McDonald's on the corner of fate and mystery, that you'd only find in the Twilight Zone.

All right, so here’s a new restaurant for ya:

Communism never tasted so good.

26 E. Congress


My problem with south-of-the-border fare is that some people have the idea that it’s nothing but tacos and burritos and enchiladas and chalupas and tostadas and chimichangas and margaritas and el guapos and puntas and grandes tetas, arriba. In reality, most of those things are American inventions, and chaps in Spanish-speaking countries like to eat the same stupid crap we do. An average Chilean guy would sooner go to a McDonald’s than a Taco Bell if he wants something cheap.

Cuba has especially good original fare. It’s not exactly an all-American tradition to go to the corner and pick up some Cuban food, but dammit, it should be. After all, Cuba has given us some great things:

  • The Elian Gonzalez news story that was so engrossing back in its day.
  • The Cuban Missile Crisis, to make an otherwise boring Cold War spicy and exciting.
  • Cuban sandwiches.

A Cuban sandwich is a nifty little thing, comprised of pork and other meats, along with swiss cheese, mustard, and pickles. Usually not any other ingredients. Then you toast it with a press and serve it flattened like Wile E. Coyote halfway into an episode.

And damn it all, Cafecito gets it right. It’s moist, it’s warm, the bread is crunchy, and compared to Quizno’s turkey Cuban sandwich, I already feel like I want to start a 26 de Julio celebration.

This place looks a bit different than other nifty restaurants in its surroundings. In fact, it’s located inside a hostel. You’d think from first glance that it was the hostel’s cafeteria. You are wronger than wrong in that regard and should be spanked.

I go in there on an average day and the hot ladies at the counter greet me with a smile. I’m all “FEED ME, INSERT CUBANO SANDWICH HERE” and they’re all “okay” and I sure as shit get a higher-than-hell-quality Cubano for about 5 bucks.

The only trouble is, it takes long as hell for me to get my sandwich. That’s because they have to, you know, make the stuff. I appreciate the effort, but my food slot is geting antsy, woman! My teeth won’t gnash on nothing!

Then I get it and everyone does a happy dance.

Would you like to join this happy dance?


I Puke, You Lose

Bonjour, seƱoritas und herren, welcome to my ridiculous little food critic experiment. Let the show begin.

I’ve lived in Chicago all my life, and it’s the home to the best and worst of food in the United States. Thick slices of fried cheese we call “pizza” for some reason. Greasy suicide bullets we call “Italian beef” for some reason. And some of the greatest hot dogs known to mankind, just don’t put ketchup on them or the jerk next to you is going to get his panties in a wad over empty tradition. Fuck you, I will have ketchup on my hot dog if I damn well please, go back to killing yourself with that fried giardiniera or whatever it is you’re eating.

I don’t fancy myself the ultimate food guy. But I know more than a thing or two about who sucks and who anti-sucks as a provider of food.

This blog was untimely rip’d from the womb of the interwebs so that Macfoodth cannot kill it with beating around the bush and Birnam wood comes to Dunsinane…. and whatnot. It is to represent the voice of the angry and hungry Chicagoan who believes that great-tasting restaurants are not only a damn good thing, but an inalienable right to every city. (Maybe not Milwaukee, it’s full of jerks.)

Remember the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld? Think of me as his evil twin. Instead of the bitchy restaurant manager that kicks you out unless you’re perfect, I’m the bitchy customer that calls you out unless you’re fantastic. The customer may not be always right, but dammit, we’re handing you the money and we’re all hungry bastards like me in our own right.

Too harsh? Perhaps. But I’m not Simon Cowell. (He’s a jerk who hires child labor for the dandruff mine in his chest hair.) I’m not out to destroy your reputation, anonymous Mr. Manager. Every restaurant has its good and bad qualities. Even the lauded Billy Goat Tavern has a shitty bathroom. Even the fruit cart in Logan Square that gives you a tapeworm has friendly service. I’m just here to tell it like it is, so that the public can avoid the crappiest and enjoy the anti-crappiest of what Chicago has to offer.

So customers – prepare to be pointed to the awesomest of Chicago food. And managers – watch your step.