A few weeks ago, I joined a panel discussion with the hosts of the “Unorthodox” podcast, my first public appearance since I became restaurant reviewer for Chicago Magazine.
The conversation quickly got around to a favorite topic in Chicago dining — the FX Hulu series “The Bear.” If you haven’t seen the show, it concerns a young, hotshot chef who returns home to the Windy City to take over his family’s failing Italian beef restaurant.
I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever: My Italian beef moment had come. Before the conversation went too far, I admitted that I was the wrong person to ask for recommendations on this enduring Chicago specialty, because I’d never had one.
Later, I realized that wasn’t true: I had ordered and eaten most of a bad Italian beef when I first moved to Chicago from Atlanta, and I passively had tried a few bites of other people’s. “Not my thing,” I thought at the time, and I promptly forgot all about those soggy sandwiches.
Yet, now I found myself in a position where I should have some sort of opinion on the local, um, delicacies.
Such has been my life as a food writer.
When I got my first reviewing job in Denver 30-some years ago, a charity asked me to judge a Rocky Mountain oyster contest. Mmm, spongy. By the time the 10th serving arrived, I was just praying for it to be fried and served with spicy cocktail sauce. I haven’t eaten one since, and — because I no longer live in Colorado — I never will.
Credit: MICHAEL GEBERT
Credit: MICHAEL GEBERT
I soon whipped up some serious ire when my editor asked me to review a much loved Colo-Mex restaurant that was a longtime fixture in its neighborhood. I found it notable for its long wait times, dank ground beef, watery green chili and abundant use of yellow cheese. All in all: eh. Readers wrote some colorful letters to the editor, suggesting creative places for me to stick my next smothered burrito.
Soon after arriving in Atlanta to write for this paper, I made the not-very-smart move to snark on several old-timey Southern restaurants, including the beloved Dillard House in Rabun County. What was with all the canned and frozen vegetables, the soup bases and the packaged gravies? Why are green beans always cooked to mush?
The emails, postcards and letters came pouring in. What right did I have to criticize Southern food? I will say that Southerners were, by and large, more polite in their outrage than Coloradans, but many ended their letters with, “Delta is ready when you are.” One man wrote a long missive that started out brimming with vitriol, and then turned into an ode to his mama’s Lane cake. I wish I had kept it, because it was a beautifully penned cri de coeur.
As an outsider, you come into the discussion with a palate formed elsewhere, so smothered chicken and overcooked vegetables remind you of a junior high cafeteria, not your grandmother’s table. Nostalgia is a powerful seasoning. When you write with your own preferences and discernment about the dishes in front of you, the locals just might question your credentials.
That is why I’m choosing to make the weenie-butt move of opening a discussion on Italian beef in Atlanta, rather than in my adoptive city. But, really, Chicagoans don’t need to hear a single word about beefs from me.
Credit: JOHN KESSLER FOR THE ATLANTA JOURNAL-CONSTITUTION
Credit: JOHN KESSLER FOR THE ATLANTA JOURNAL-CONSTITUTION
Yes, that is the preferred plural: one beef, two beefs, which is the number I chose to eat for this article. I picked the two that the city’s beef cognoscenti considered the best, and left it at that.
Al’s #1 Italian Beef has franchises throughout the city and elsewhere, but the original location in Chicago’s Little Italy has the best, according to locals. Here, the thinly sliced, falling-apart meat is cooked in-house in a flavorful, ruddy broth that has a bit of a cinnamon kick. You can order it dry, or dipped in the gravy; you may choose to add a charcoal-grilled sausage for a combo; and you can add sweet or hot peppers. The hot “peppers” there seem to be giardiniera made exclusively of celery, while the sweet peppers are fat strips of roasted bells.
I ordered my beef dipped, with both peppers. After unwrapping a double layer of paper, I had a handful of warm meat mush. It’s the kind of thing you need to eat without ever putting it down. It was pretty tasty — I didn’t want to get up on the outdoor picnic table and dance for the gods in appreciation, but hot meat and spice is tasty, and soggy bread is tasty, and, boy, I would’ve killed for a moist towelette.
Credit: Michael Gebert
Credit: Michael Gebert
Next, I went to Johnnie’s Beef in nearby Elmwood Park — a close-in suburb that draws beef lovers from all over the area. I biked the 10 miles out there, so I would be good and hungry when I arrived.
There was a line out the door, but it moved briskly. I ordered the classic combo of a “juicy” (i.e., dipped) beef and a small lemon ice paddled into a paper cup.
This sandwich had a bit more integrity — wet, but cohesive — and its pepper-and-carrot giardiniera was liberally applied. The gravy tasted like punched up beef bouillon. Nothing wrong with that, and I ate it with gusto.
I found it eminently snarfable, rather an object of interest like, say, a hoagie or a banh mi. Those sandwiches make me think more about the composition and crunch, and the million ineffable factors that can mean greatness.
Credit: MICHAEL GEBERT
Credit: MICHAEL GEBERT
I don’t know if I ever will have huge enthusiasm for well-done roast beef and soggy bread. When I next find myself in a typical Chicago street food emporium, I plan to go back to hot dogs — “dragged through the garden,” as I’ve never heard anyone actually say. I love Chicago hot dogs. Chicago has the best hot dogs. Yay, hot dogs!
Please don’t ask me about deep-dish.
And, who knows? Maybe I’ll change my mind. On my most recent visit to Atlanta, I ate lunch at Paschal’s in the airport and felt genuine joy at the sight of falling-apart green beans, with all their little white peas floating in the potlikker. Sometimes, green beans should be crisp-tender and garlicky, and, sometimes, they should be porky in flavor and mushable with the tines of your fork. I haven’t yet found beans like that in Chicago, but, thankfully, I always can come back. Delta is ready when I am.
John Kessler worked at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution from 1997 to 2015 as a food writer and dining critic. He now lives in Chicago.
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