The Great Escape

2433 Bardstown Rd
Louisville, KY 40205
(502) 456-2216

You never forget your first and I can't forget The Great Escape. TGE is the best there is. This place, quite literally, changed my life. Before I discovered The Great Escape, I bought comic books off the spinning racks at Walgreens. Yes, it was haphazard and there was no rhyme or reason to what I was doing. I just liked the costumes, powers and stories.

When I was 7, after doing well on a spelling test, my dad took me on a 'surprise trip.' The destination was The Great Escape. I had never seen a place like this. An entire store made up of comic books, action figures, posters and more. I was transfixed. And hooked. I became a collector that day. I began to cultivate a taste for artists (George Perez), titles (The New Mutants & The Legion of Super Heroes) and authors (Chris Claremont). I discovered conventions, talked to other little kids who read comics, stretched my imagination, increased my vocabulary...and began to write. All these things were borne from my first trip to the Greatest comic store on earth.

As I grew older, I began to appreciate the books & music TGE sold. The staff (some of whom still work there) were always nice to me. That's right: comic guys who are nice to little kids! It's unheard of. They're knowledgeable, helpful, cool and friendly. The store is stocked to the gills. New books never run out and if you can't find an old book in the back stock, it doesn't exist.

After years of coveting it, I finally bought my Terra-era, pre-Judas Contract reveal, George Perez drawn New Teen Titans poster. It's one of my most prized possessions. After years of coming here, I still get the goose bumps of a little boy whose world is about to get a little brighter. The Great Escape is magic. Still.

The Zone

4121 Shelbyville Rd
Louisville, KY 40207
(502) 893-8654

Oh, Zone. I have finally had it with your broke-down ways. For years, my other comic geek friends would ask, "Why do you go to the Zone? That place sucks." I always defended you. But, I can do so no longer. You are rotten to the core.

I have had it with your lack of back stock.

I have grown tired of your haphazard hours and Three Stooges approach to customer service.

I am sick of you running out of books hours after they've been placed on the racks. This is not an every now & then problem. It's weekly. If I have to go to another comic store to purchase the books you ran out of, why not just go to that store initially?

And - Fox News on the TV? Really? I am already aggravated that you open up an hour (or more) later than the Greater Louisville comic store. I am already annoyed that 2 of the 5 books I want to pick up are already sold out. I am already ticked off by the fan boy 'tude. But, you want me to have a conniption fit by watching Ann "Is She the Live Action Gollum?" Coulter to boot? No. Not anymore.

Allow me to speak to you, comic geek to comic geek. I would rather eat Arby's for a week solid and have the Lost Smoke monster fly out of my @ss, than to patronize your wack store.

Havana Rumba

4115 Oechsli Ave
Louisville, KY 40207
(502) 897-1959

The following is an urgent message from John William: People of Louisville, STOP going to this place! My experience was not good. At all. Egads, it was awful. Yuck. Blergh. Am I making myself clear?

After getting a recommendation to come here from several friends, I decided to check it out. I love Cuban food. I eat it with some frequency and I know what I like. This place should be a home run, right? Ah ah ah. Not so fast. I came with a party of five. Even though we were no closer to free, we were still making it work (which is just as well, because Neve Campbell & Scott Wolf were not working anything. But Lacey Chabert grew up to be HOT! Wow. Wait. What am I talking about? Oh yeah). Six people. There were no available tables, so we sidled up to the bar to get a drink. Fresh off my great experience at N, I ordered a Cuba Libre. I received a "Lime" Coke. As in, add adjective "Cherry" or "Diet." The only thing libre'd from this drink was my friend's cash (thanks, Julie!).

Unamused from this gaffe, we took our seats at our now-ready table. I tried to keep an open mind, but that effort was quashed when our party of 6 was seated at a 4 top. Breathe in, breathe out. To 'rectify' the situation, the staff brought out two foldable lawn chairs. I started to laugh because, surely, they were joking. They were not. Breathe in, breathe out. A waitress sauntered up to the table an-.. Whoops. Not our waitress. "[Your waiter] is having a hectic night, so I am going to take your drink order." Lady, who's NOT having a hectic night around here? She offered to take our drink orders but our sodas-at-liquor-prices libations were full. Everyone's, that is, except my friend, Tracy. She ordered a margarita.

After another 20 minutes, our waiter finally shows up without Tracy's margarita and opens with this nugget: "What do you want?" Ha! Jokes abound at Havana Rumba. You get a show with your dinner. I see. That explains the prices. We order our food (and Tracy re-orders her margarita) and resume our conversation. After a long while, our food shows up (without Tracy's margarita) and, after redistributing our plates ourselves, everyone digs in. I ordered the lechon meal. The same meal at 90 Miles costs $9.95. It comes with three sides and it's delicious. This meal cost $12.95. It came with two sides and it was inedible. I'm guessing that this poor pig lived on a diet of Chek cola, chaw & black jelly beans as it lived a life of crime on the run. It was gray, tasteless and full of fat. Literally, half of my meat was fat. After I trimmed the fat, not only was there not much left but it was bland and seasonless. Tracy, who was still without her margarita, thought I was bellyaching without cause and tried some of my pork. Her response, "I meant to tell you to order the chicken."

Our waiter showed up (the second time of the evening we saw him; he didn't deliver our food, make sure the orders were right or check up on us) and asked how everything was. I told him. He shrugged. Again, Havana Rumba provides jokes. Maybe it can open for Dane Cook. A more disappointing and overpriced meal, I have not had in a while. Is there a Cuban version of the Chupacabra? If so, this might be the place! Be gone, Havana Rumba!!

Chicago Transit Authority CTA Part 2

567 W Lake Street
Chicago, IL 60661
(312) 664-7200

O.M.G. I d@mn near lost my mind and had a psychotic episode at CTA headquarters!! Today's episode of "Raising The Bar of Incompetence/Lowering The Depths Of Helpfulness" played out as follows:

My CTA card was stolen. I called customer 'service' to find out what to do. I found out that I should go online and "replace" the card and opt to pick a new one up the next day. *I* should do this. Fine. I went online. Placed a 'replace' order, noted the $5 fee for doing so, scowled & went to bed. I woke up this morning, got ready for work, caught the bus, paid $2.25, got off the bus, caught a train, paid $2.25, transferred train and entered the gleaming city that is CTA headquarters. Seriously, it's Ozian in its municipal opulence. By all the gltiz of the place, I could tell the CTA is hurting for funds.

I went up the stairs, waited in line and, finally, approached the window for my new card. "Hold." Wait. What? "You need to see the customer service gentleman around the corner. I can't help you." Wait. What? Disgruntled, but hopeful, I complied and made my way to the reception area. I told the man behind the desk of my plight. "Uhma, I cain't help you." Wait. What? "You went online and did yo' own card. I cain't override that." Wait. What? "You will get your new card in three or four days. You shulda never done that. You shulda came in here and did it for free. Why didn't you do that? Now you have to pay your way with cash or get a new cwhard." WAIT. WHAAATTT????!!!!

For purposes of any law enforcement reading this, words may or may not have been said. Threats may or may not have been made. A phone may or may not have been whupped upside someone's head. It's all unclear. And, isn't that all in the past (if something happened, that is)? Rather than explain to me why following customer service instructions lead me to this dark fate in the first place and it should be someone's job to fix the f up...Rather than rationalize to me why it takes 3 or 4 days for me to pick something up I could have already had in my hands 30 minutes ago and that is processed four blocks from where we stand...Rather than figuring out that giving the customer the ability to place a *hold* on his card in order to freeze the card until the customer can speak to a competent service agent & rectify the situation...Rather than all of this (and more), I was out $30, an hour of my time and a broken nail (from the phone upside the head whuppin'). All I had was a further reason to loathe the CTA.

I...I...despise the CTA so...so...much....I have..."Mrs. White" levels of hate flame on...both..sides of my...my..face. Everyday is a struggle of late buses, interrupted train service & terrible customer 'service.' The CTA, from its head management to the legion of rail 'workers' who lounge about 5 at a time ogling women and doing little other than reaping the benefits of collective bargaining, is an exercise in failure. And we get to pay MORE for it. More?! Aaa. Aaaaa! AAAAA!!!!!1111!!:(!!!!1 I say thee, nay! Nay!!

Chicago Transit Authority CTA Part 1

567 W Lake Street
Chicago, IL 60661
(312) 664-7200

I suppose I knew it would come to this: the CTA. Throughout history, epic tales have been written about great antagonists. Superman v. Lex Luthor. Batman v. The Joker. John William. v. the CTA. Yes, the CTA is my arch enemy and one day I will destroy it.

In the years I have been riding the CTA, I have come to terms with an 11 minute drive taking 40. I have found some peace with the fact that running for a bus means the driver WILL pull off that much quicker in an attempt to leave you behind. I try to remain calm as I walked the #22 route from Andersonville to Lincoln Park and NEVER.SAW.ONE.SOUTHBOUND.BUS! The same thing happened as I walked from Lincoln Park to the Loop. I almost crapped my pants when I saw two thugs beat up a Chad whose only fault was having a mouthy Trixie as a girlfriend (said gf was the reason Chad got popped). I felt for the young woman who was pick pocketed IN FRONT OF THE CPD and nothing was done (Roosevelt stop, Red Line). I channel my inner chi as I stand in sub-zero temperatures, without cover, as 30 mph winds attempt to cut me to my very soul waiting for a bus that is 35 minutes late. I put a smile in my voice when dealing with CTA customer service reps who would care less about giving you the right information or answering the phone in a timely manner. I very nearly lose my isht when I see Richard Rodriguez (and Ron Huberman before him) on the news talking about an organization he is so woefully ill-equipped to run (gotta love Chicago patronage; Rodriguez has had a different job every year for the past ten years and Huberman was a BEAT COP! He didn't even have so much as a CTA card before King Daley gave him the CTA gig!). But I stay calm because I look at this as my training. Just as the Bride suffered under the cruel tutelage of of Pai Mei, so must I suffer and train under the evil of Richard Rodriguez and the CTA. Only then will I have the skills necessary to vanquish my enemy. You see, this is about more than me and the CTA. Bring on the House of Blue Leaves and the Crazy 88. No problem. I'll handle it. This is an eternal struggle of good v. evil.

Richard Rodriguez - I call you out. The hanky, it is dropped. Cage Match. Winner takes the reins of the the tattooed beast that is the CTA. I call you out too, Huberman. At least the Trib gave CPS (your new cush job) an F!

Ñ

2977 N Elston Ave
Chicago, IL 60618
(773) 866-9898

THE perfect place to get your "grown & sexy" on. N (I don't know how to get the ~ over the letter) is a perfect combination of restaurant & lounge, but I prefer it as a lounge.

A lounge? Yes. It's dark. It's not dark like "romantic atmosphere" dark. It's dark like "are shots about to ring out up in here?" dark. There are candles on the tables, but they don't illuminate the place very well.

A lounge? Yes. It's loud. When my friend & I walked in, we were able to speak to each other in a normal voice. Then, the dj started spinning some really tight Brazilian house. And we started to shout at each other. Then, he started pumping some awesome updated samba beats. And we started screaming at each other. Then, he mashed up a Portuguese version of "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" (and it was awesome). And we held up the candle so as to speak in sign language. By the end of the night, we said "Funk it" and gave up on talking to each other, so as to eat, drink & dance.

A lounge? Yes. There are great drinks. The food is pretty good, as well. We shared empanadas (spinach, beef, chicken and ham & cheese) and this tortilla thing (not very good). She ordered a chorizo sandwich that she liked and I ordered a chicken sandwich I REALLY liked (chicken, onion, tomato, lettuce - topped with melted cheese and a fried egg). We poured chimichurri on everything and got to some serious grubbing. But, this is about the booze. We started with La Negra martinis (dry for her, regular sweetness for me). Mmm, blackberry puree. Me like. Drink # 2 was a Cuba Libre served with little ice in a large pint glass. It was chock full of liquor and it made me become one with the music. Drink # 3 was La Pina. Yeah, I was getting sauced and didn't care to keep up a macho facade. Bring on the Pineapple & Coconut rum!! I won't be judged!! Mmm, fruity. The bartender had very heavy pours and me really likey that.

A lounge? Yes. You should dance. Since I was all boozed up, I decided that I needed to tear up tha dance flo'. Armed with darkness, beats and liquor, my hips were in no mood to lie and I started shakin' it. In fact, MC Hammer came out of retirement to ask me to stop hurtin' folks. I couldn't be stopped. I'd been to Sinha's earlier in the year. I knew how to shake it like a polaroid picture. In fact, my booty shakin' was so intoxicatin', I got another La Pina - on the house! You heard me; stop hatin'! Dancing for booze? Just call me "Gator." It wasn't shame that caused me to stop dancing. It was the stitch in my side. My azz is old!! I can't shake it all night anymore.

A lounge? Yes. Yes, please!! Again and over again.

Crisp

2940 N Broadway Ave
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 697-7610

The fact that I went to Crisp and had such an enjoyable experience is proof that I am mellowing out in my old age. I'd tried going to Crisp almost a year ago. I called to get the hours of operation. I got a recording listing the times. I looked at the clock and saw that I had a good 1.5 hours to spare before closing and made my way through the cold snow & ice (remember last winter?) to get some Korean food. They were closed. That night, I swore a vendetta against Crisp and vowed to destroy it.

Fast forward nearly a year and I am hanging out with She Who Shall Not Be Named ('SWSNBN') on another terribly cold day in Chicago. After wandering in the tundra for what seemed like 40 years, she decided upon us going to Crisp. I told her that I had sworn a vendetta against the place and would not go. She gave me a side eye and walked in the door. I followed.

Right off the bat, we're greeted by the very friendly manager. He walked us through the concept and menu a couple of times. He was very patient and extremely helpful. I'd had Bi Bim Bop before (liked it) and Koren bbq before (loved it) but was unsure of the strange amalgamations I was seeing. Figuring out "when in Rome" and all that, I might as well go all out and order a Korean burrito. I asked for the spicy sauce and made it a meal with fries (huh?) and a drink. SWSNBN ordered a beef burrito and drink. Just as I was about to ask where the soda fountain was, the manager told us to pull a drink out of the cooler.

We turned around and time stood still. Not only did the cooler come equipped with various Korean sodas and libations - IT HAD TAHITIAN TREAT AND RUBY-RED SQUIRT!!!! Do you hear me? At that point, I knew, regardless of what the burrito tasted like, all would be well with my soul as long as I had one of these sodas. We snagged the sodas (TT for her, Squirt for me) and took a table. We'd just started a conversation when the manager brought us our food - and there was a lot of it. The burritos were cut in half which made pouring the sauce so that it coated the entire burrito - rather than just the immediate bite - a bit difficult. But, that's a trifling matter. The burrito tasted great. I was doubtful that a Bi Bim Bop with chicken (sans egg) in a burrito would work but it worked really well. The burrito with sauce tasted great. Whatever that sauce is, it's slamming. I tend to not like white or creamy sauces, but this was the exception. The fries tasted good. They're standard, thin-cut, fast-food fries. They were crispy and numerous.

While a burrito with fries & soda doesn't sound like a lot of food, by the time we finished our meal, I had a nice food baby growing in my belly and I felt a deep food coma coming on. You get your moneys worth at Crisp. I can appreciate that. The manager checked on us one last time before we left and I appreciated that as well. SWSNBN & I both thought that we'd be back. And with that, SWSNBN took me on a shoe shopping death march that made me realize I got the raw end of the vendetta.

You've won this round, Crisp.

Damn, DAMN, DDAAMMNN!!! Part 1

Usually, this blog will be an exercise in humor...and the DDD!!! posts will be the same. Usually. The DDD feature will *usually* be a time for me to complain about something I just can't complain about no mo'. Usually. For this inaugural DDD, though, I am going to post something more in line with the emotion Florida felt when she uttered the famous line.

Click here.

Frank Lombard, may you burn in hell.

Sorry for the seriousness. I just can't get this story out of my mind. A return to silliness is imminent.

Blue Stem Martini Lounge

1935 W Irving Park Rd
Chicago, IL 60613
(773) 880-8470

I have met my match and she is a wild-haired Greek woman. Somehow, I always knew this would be the case.

I'd read a lot about this bar before coming. I wanted to try it, but I was a bit afraid. Some of what I'd read made it seem as though Lefko was the Martini Nazi and I knew that I would not have my isht together enough to NOT screw up an order and get kicked out. I was scurred. So, I brought along two friends who were even more clueless than I about how this place worked. I figured, if I brought along some folks who had NO idea what was going on, they would befall the wrath and I would sit back and shake my head at them, all disapprovingly-like. Sacrificial lamb and all that.

We walked in and there were some people standing at the bar. Lefko was doing her thing. And we, we stood there. In the doorway. Motionless. "Man, am I not even going to make it to ONE drink before getting thrown out?" Lefko looked up and I played it off. I walked to the bar and asked for a menu. She gave me one and said she'd be with us in a bit. Whew.

I brought the menu back to the table and studied it vigorously. I knew what I wanted, but wanted to peruse the other offerings. Lefko arrived at the table. She pointed at me. "White Cosmo, please." She points at my friend. "I'll take a Pear Martini." She points at my friend's friend. "Uhm," as she drums on the table, "I don't know. I don't like sweet drinks. I think I just want a dirty martini. Do you serve those here?" I went into survival mode. Much like Jerry was forced to disavow himself of his girlfriend in order to sup at the Soup Nazi's table, I was ready to slide over one table and pretend like I rolled into Blue Stem solo. As I closed my eyes & braced myself, I heard, "I'll make you the dirtiest martini you've ever had - and you won't see it coming." One eye open. Pat myself for bullet holes. We're all still here? Right on!

Within two shakes of a lethargic lamb's tail, we had our drinks. As she delivered the drinks, Lefko stuck around for our reaction. Me: (internally, "Juice!! Yum!! Yayyy!!") "This is quite good. Thank you so much." My friend: "Wow. This is great. I can't taste the alcohol at all." My friend's friend: "This IS good." And the night went from there. Success.

Two closing thoughts: 1.) It's not juice - as evidenced by my inability to move my legs or feel my lips after my third drink and 2.) don't eat at the taqueria across the street. I think they served me dog tacos. I have *never* tasted "chicken" like that.

Czech Plaza Restaurant

7016 Cermak Rd
Berwyn, IL 60402
(708) 795-6555

Perhaps I chose poorly. I have spent time in Eastern Europe. I have had the food. I have eaten well. This was not my experience at Czech Plaza. I must admit that my motives in coming here were not pure. I was on the hunt for the next Paulina Porizkova. She was not here. My disappointment grew from this point.

I brought my friend to Berwyn the day after he got cooties from a Cocktail stripper. Neither one of us had had Czech food before, nor had we ever been to Berwyn, so we thought this would be the perfect place to catch up, have an adventure and try some ethnic food. Granted, I can miss the side of a barn when I am zoning out and driving, but I didn't see this place. It's right on Cermak/22, but unless you are studying for the numbers, you'll pass it by. It's an unassuming building, which is fine. I am not here for the party. I am here for the food.

Our really nice waitress greeted my friend and me and I was charmed by her genuine friendliness. We were the only two brown folks in the place and were the youngest by a good forty years - we stood out. Nevertheless, we were greeted and treated with nothing but courtesy. My friend ordered water and I got a big, honkin' Czech beer served in a gigantic glass. Things are looking good. Now, I had done my homework. I knew that I could get a copious amount of food for little cash. I was ready to order. I ordered...and the waitress was not feeling it. My friend had shamed me by ordering something off the superspecial™ menu. My fried porkchops were not going to cut it. I relented and ordered the 1/4 duck and pork chop with cabbage and dumplings and liver dumpling soup.

The food. There was a lot of it. But it didn't taste particularly good. In fact, it didn't taste much like anything. The soup was a broth with a GIANT liver meatball in the middle of it. Yes, I ordered a liver dumpling soup. I was ready for liver. But this? This was LLLIIIVVVEERRR. I thought happy thoughts as I carved (yep) into it. I remembered why I hadn't had liver & onions since I was a boy. It wasn't a bad taste. It was the mental game of what I was eating. They should have called it "brown candy." No problems eating that. My entree was equally laborious. The duck and pork were both boiled to brown greyness. It made me sad to look at. My dumplings were heavy and plentiful. I was hoping for light, pierogi-like fare. Nah. These were DENSE. The potato that bore these babies must have been a good fifty feet and fifty pounds. My cabbage (and I like cabbage) was awash in a thick, sweet sauce. I didn't care for it. I like my cabbage dry and crisp. Broken of spirit and out of breath from attempting to eat my meal, I perked up at the idea of dessert. Mmm, I like dessert. Not this one. I got the apple strudel. I was cold...and tasteless. Disappointing.

Again, nothing tasted bad, per se, but nothing was really good. It was culinary muzak - heavy, drab and a little depressing muzak. Hmm, maybe not muzak. Maybe it was more like a dirge. Ah man, I am sounding so mean. And I don't mean to be...but this meal was exhausting in a bad way. My food baby came by way of Rosemary. If this is indicative of Czech food, I fear that my time in Prague will be spent at Burger King.

90 Miles Cuban Cafe

3101 N Clybourn Avenue
Chicago, IL 60618
(773) 248-2822

Now, THIS is what I am talkin' about! No, "Pan Cubano? What's that?" Or, "Drink this nasty stuff we call a milkshake." No, 90 Miles is the real deal and nearly everything about it is incredible.

It was a cold, drab and dreary late-Autumn day when I found myself on the way to 90 Miles. I hadn't gone grocery shopping and rather than do it, I decided to get some Cuban food. One Belmont bus ride later, I arrived at the small, but nicely designed restaurant. The murals reminded me of Florida, the walls are covered in Cuban newspaper clippings and the blackboard has everything you need to know about that yummy food that awaits you. Judging from my open mouth stare at the blackboard, the owner offered me a menu so as to concentrate on my order - and stop my drooling. He didn't need to offer. I knew what I wanted: a pan cubano and black beans. He asked if I was cold from being outside ("yes") and suggested some soup in lieu of the beans. At the point, his wife (and co-owner) said, "He wants beans! You gotta have beans on a day like this, right?" Since the onslaught on my senses had rendered me as open mouthed and immobile as Ralphie in the presence of a department store Santa Claus, I nodded and was directed to sit at the dining room counter (along with everyone else).

I retrieved my Coke, pulled out my stool and started to take it all in. CNN was on the tv, but all I could concentrate on were the great smells, refrains of Tito Puente-esque (yes, I know he's boricua) drumming, colorful menus and relaxed atmosphere. Lost in my reverie, I almost didn't notice that my food was in front of me. There it was: crispy white bread, ham, roasted pork, cheese, pickles and mustard, cut diagonally and pressed flat. And a cup of black beans. The sandwich tasted every bit as good as I remembered from my days in the Sunshine state. The black beans were full of flavor, thick and rich. I added some hot sauce to my beans for an extra kick. I only needed a couple of drops to make it perfect. As I finished my meal, I gave the thumbs up sign to the female owner, smiled, bussed my table and, trying to be suave whilst maintaining conversation with her, threw away the basket my food came in. At least I saved the silverware from a trashy fate. Just call me, "Grace."

I'll definitely be back. Next time, I am getting the lechon sandwich...and black beans. Come to 90 Miles and get the BEST Cuban food in Chicago, hands down. The decor is inviting, the music is great and the food is outstanding. I do have one caveat you should know before coming: be prepared to preserve and up your sexy. You do not want to roll in here with a baseball cap and your 'fat sweats.' "But, John William," you ask, "why not? I am coming here to get a serious grub on." Yes, you are. BUT the owners are both so strikingly attractive, you're going to want to look good as well - just to be in their presence. Not since Brangelina took over the tabloids, have we, as a society, been faced with such a great looking couple. Bronzed skin? Check. Jet black hair. Check. Great teeth? Check. Great attitudes, amazing food and gracious personality? Check, check, check. If we're stuck with 90 months of cold winter, there's no other place better than 90 Miles to bring some needed heat to the season.

Ja' Grill

1008 West Armitage Ave
Chicago, IL 60686
(773) 929-5375

Ja Grill, Jamaican me crazy, mon! There were some really really great things but there were some things that I just can't abide at a Jamaican spot. Ergo...

Yay: I'd been wanting to come here for a really long time. When I found out that some of my friends were coming here for a birthday party for someone I didn't know, you better believe I got myself invited. I liked the fact that the restaurant is so accessible by public transportation. It's steps off of the Armitage Brown line. Thumbs up. I walked in and was psyched by the amount of extraordinarily attractive people. Jerome, hold up my mirror. Oh, I guess those extraordinarily attractive people were my friends. Thumbs up to us. And, make it a lot of thumbs because we packed that place.

To their credit, the wait staff was on point. They kept us sauced, fed and happy. And you'll be happy with whatever crosses your lips. The drAnks: yes, they're pricey...but THEY'RE AWESOME!! They're full of rum and fruit and sugary goodness and are the perfect antidote to gray Chicago winters. After a couple of these drinks, I was in the Caribbean. After five more, I was passed out. But, that's all good. Before I roofied myself, I ate. A lot. Curry Chicken patties. Yup. Chicken WAngs. Mmm hmmm. Big plate of Curry Goat, plantains, cabbage and carrots? Jump back! I tore my plate up. And Mike's plate of Jerk Chicken. And Janet's plate of Curry Chicken. And Orville's plate of Jerk Catfish. And I would have torn everyone else's plates up if I could have reached them. Whatever the chef is doing in back, he (or she) is doing it right. Pass the [redacted] on the left hand side and keep it moving. Belly full and mind swimming, I was all set to keep the party going in the downstairs club. Which leads to...

Boo: We were the first folks downstairs. Normally, that might be a problem, but since we were an army of brown folks, this should be a party. We already had the hotties. All we needed now were drAnks and music. And, we kept needing them. Since we took such good care of our server upstairs, he came downstairs to let the bartender know that we were to be served drink specials. Cool. I thought these specials extended to a variety of beverages. They did not (or, did they?). Whatever was discussed, we wound up getting $5 Montego-tinis. What's a Montego-tini? It's bright pink and nasty. It may or may not still have ice cubes served in the martini glass. It may or may not have a garnish. It will be hard to swallow. After hours of drinking fruity punch and banana surprises (free yo' mind and clean yo' thoughts!), these drinks were a major let down. Also on the 'special' discount menu: Rolling Rock and Drain-O-tinis. If this is what comes from taking care of your waiter, what happens when you stiff him?

Put out (but still drinking my Montego-tini - and making it work!), I sat down on the couch, eager to soon jump up and start shaking my groove thing to some dancehall. I was all set to dance battle Carlos, shame him, and get all the glory for having all the moves. I waited. Sipped Montego-tini. Gagged. Waited some more. The music came on and...what?? Sade?! And not baby-making Sade. This was d@mn-I-had-a-long-azz-week-and-I-need-to-listen-to-soothing-smooth-jazz Sade. I KNOW you di'in't, Mista DJ! This is a Jamaican spot! I want dancehall. I want Patra. I want Mistuh Ugly Man (Shabba!). I want to hear "Groove Me." I want to hear "Action." I want to shake my boo-tay. I want to swirl my braids. This Quiet Storm isht was _not_ the business. After four disappointing songs in a row, I laid down on the couch to get some sleep. After three more, I left. Alone. It was a disappointing end to the evening in multiple ways.

Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen

2525 Bardstown Rd
Louisville, KY 40205
(502) 459-8184

You know that part in Steel Magnolias where, one minute, Shelby's all "mah cuhluhs ahre bluhsh ahnd bahsfuhl" and the next she's frothing at the mouth, singing "More Human Than Human" and messing up the hair she just got did?

And, M'Lynn is all, "Um, is one of you heifas gonna get my daughter some OJ or candy or crack rocks or something before she falls the f out? D@mn!!"

Remember that?

Well, I acted out a similar scene at Homemade Ice Cream & Pie Kitchen. I played the part of Shelby. My friend, Julie, played the part of M'Lynn. The part of OJ/candy was played by Apple Pie and Vanilla Ice Cream. The part of diabetic attack was played by hunger, fatigue & general bitchiness.

I got my pie & all was well. It's really really good pie!!

Panty Throwing Part 2

Eeeee!!!! He won!!! He won!! He won!!! I'm throwing 50 pairs of panties - one for every state! No. Funk that! I'm throwing 365 pairs of panties. Instead of confetti....you betcha...panties!!! This was the best inauguration ever - except for the one at which I performed and was on camera (don't hate). But this was a close second.

Panty Throwing Part 1

...isn't just for women. First of all, say the word: "panty." Let it roll off the tongue and caress the lips. Is fun, yes?

While the origins of panty throwing are mired in groupie-dom (like the guitarist? Throw some panties at 'im. Is that rapper bringin' it old school? Chuck them panties!), I have started employing the technique in everyday life. Now, most women I find attractive are slightly confused when, instead of a smile, wink or bought drink, they're smacked in the face with a pair of panties (as a sign of my interest). The cool ones, however, throw a pair back and the start of a great evening is upon us.

But why limit panty throwing to the lust arena? I posit that panty throwing could be, no, SHOULD be, the recommended way of showing interest, approval and/or positive comment. It works in every area of life.

"Did you enjoy the movie?"

"Why, yes. I would throw two pairs of panties at the screen. How about you?"

"I thought it sucked. I would keep my panties on."

"Oh, daaaamn."

See? Everything. It's a fact. Politics? Forget delegates and electoral votes. Count thrown panties! Restaurant reviews? Stars are passe! Rate in thrown panties! Wedding/anniversary? Forget the blood diamond! Show her/him you care by throwing some panties hir way. It warms the heart every time.

"Huh? What was that? Oh, yeah. I have insomnia. Why do you ask?"

Reckless Records

3126 N Broadway St
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 404-5080

When it comes to music shopping, I am in a weird place. I am too cheap for the Mega™ Music stores. I am too unhip for vinyl. I am too old for mp3whatever they're called. Whatever am I to do? Shop the used bins at Reckless, that's what. And that's what I do.

Where can I buy Fantasia, the Indigo Girls, (the soundtrack to) In the Heights, Sarah Vaughan & (Robin) Thicke all for less than $20? No, I am asking. You can't do it at Reckless - but you can come pretty d@mn close. Sorta. And, in these hard economic times, that's what I am talkin' 'bout!

For these Shoe Carnival savings, I'll ignore the nasty dude sneezing over the vinyl, my need to Purell myself after handling the CD covers and the lice jumping from male emo store clerk to unwashed scowling hipster patron to the Yeti dancing to electronica at the back of the store. I am serious about savings. Perhaps my opinion and experiences would be different if I had run into some of the bad attitudes others have suffered. A couple of things about that. 1.) I only deal with the female clerks. In my experience, they're really helpful, nice & knowledgeable. Three different female clerks have helped me look for music (in the stacks!) or order it from another store. None have derided me for my tastes. 2.) I don't play that emo attitude game. As per my Santullo's recap, I am batshit crazy and quick to go circus freak insane on someone with unwarranted attitude. In other nomenclature: I am NOT the one.*

*This strategy is also applicable at The Wiener's Circle.

Honky Tonk BBQ

1213 W 18th St
Chicago, IL 60608
(312) 226-7427

Typically, I am a one woman man. But...variety is the spice of life. So, after I wrote a love letter to my honey, Smoque, I hustled down to Pilsen to get with this saucy tramp I had heard of for a while now. Her name is Honky Tonk. I'd never done anything like this before so I was a little awkward and nervous. She lured me in and made sure my experience was a good one.

It wasn't all my fault, you see. I'd had a hard day. Donna Summer was singing my song and I was exhausted, famished and in need of some bbq. I made the (easy) drive down to Pilsen, bribed the chicle kid to score me a good meter parking spot and walked into what looked like the gates of sheol. Black, flaming and gated, the entrance scared me and I worried about the folly of breaking up my happy home. The place, however, was well lit and full of ceramic pigs. Ceramic pigs can't be wrong, right? The woman at the counter walked me through what was good and what I should skip. Because I like to compare and contrast, I ordered the pulled pork sandwich, mac & cheese and cole slaw. I was getting take out, so I passed on the drink. I paid ($14 and no drink? D@mn, Gina!) and waited. And waited. And waited. It wasn't a particularly busy night. This was pre-Check, Please! and later at night so it was just me and a few other folks. But, wait I did.

Finally, after what I can only imagine was the process of grilling up the ceramic pigs, my food was ready. I hopped in my car and made my way home. I pulled out a frosty honey brown beer to accompany my food and I went to town. The pulled pork sandwich was different from my honey's. It's served in chunks, sauceless, on ciabatta bread. Interesting. The meat is well seasoned and the bread provides a chewy compliment to it. I don't know whether it was the copious amount of sauce (served on the side) I poured on the meat, but the bread disintegrated. Not a big deal. I was at home. In public, that might have been bad. The mac & cheese was perfect - very cheddary and dense. The cole slaw was light on the mayo but it wasn't the all vinegar recipe I prefer.

After I downed the last of my beer, I sat back from the table and grabbed my dead sexy belly and contemplated what I had just done. Yeah, the food was good. Yeah, I'd tell other people to try it. But it was expensive and I had to wait a long time for it. Learning my lesson from Eliot Spitzer, I decided to turn from my wandering ways and go back to my quick & affordable mainstay. Yeah, it tasted good but the extra time and money weren't worth my guilt. These are tough economic times. I can't afford to spend my whole paycheck on an afternoon debite. It was fun, Honky Tonk, but it's just this one time. I'll show myself out.

P.S. I am not really the cheating kind. We were on a break.

Toast Two

2046 N Damen Ave
Chicago, IL 60647
(773) 772-5600

*Sniff, Snniifff*

Ahh, there's nothing quite like the smell of HOT GARBAGE on a warm summer's day as a biblical plague of flies descends upon you, your friends and your food.

Just a suggestion: maybe you should move the gigantic trash cans on the other side of the fence to another location. You see, as effective as the wood fence is at blocking the view to the alley, it's not so effective at blocking the smell of smoldering garbage or the enormous tsetse fly invasion that was, obviously, bent on world domination (and winning).

The waitress was a sweet heart (really) and my food - when I didn't think about anything that was happening around me, else I'd gag - was good. But the paranoia I developed at the prospect of catching trypanosomiasis and the head injury my friend, Payal, incurred when the stench caused her to pass out...those were not good. Not.Good. But, maybe it was our fault. After waiting so long for a table, we jumped at the first one that was available. Granted, Donnie & Marie, Pat Boone and the New Kids on the Block were all sitting inside in air-conditioned, non-smelly splendor while Preet, Payal, Flavor Flav, Menudo and I sat outside in the blinding sun, heat, stench and insect invasion. But, I am sure that is all just a crazy coincidence.

Thanks, Toast. You're the best. I can't wait to come back. Will it be frogs falling from the sky next time?

Fat Black Pussycat

130 W 3rd St
New York, NY 10012
(212) 533-4790

No, I am not discouraged by the fact that Rachael Ray called this place out as being "cool." No, I wasn't accosted by an a-hole bouncer. No, I had no dealings with obnoxious frat boys.

Maybe I was there on urban brown people night? I dunno. What I do know is that I had a great time. How? I was there with my beautiful cousin (native Harlemite/Harlemess?). Her beauty rubbed off on me and Tyra Banks asked me if I wanted to be on top (always). There was no line and the Barry White-looking bouncer breezed us in with a smile. We squeezed past the crowded main room and settled in on the back room. She lounged on a ratty looking chaise and I took my rightful place on a velvety king's throne. The music was pretty chill (Brand Nubians). All this was nice enough...but here's what made me happy (in three parts):

1.) The attractive, Kimoraesque Afro-Asian waitress (yes, please);

2.) Goblet after goblet of the Fat Black Pussycatini or whatever it was. All I remember was that it was a big azz drAnk (not, "drink") that tasted and looked like Grape Kool-Aid. Grape Kool-Aid!! And, you know this...man!! Hmm. Maybe I _was_ here on urban brown people night; and

3.) 31 flavors of two-scoop booty populated the back room. Whether I looked up, down or round and round, I was surrounded by beauteous booty. Ahh, what a wonderful sight. It didn't matter that I couldn't manage so much as a "Hey...baby." I am sure my spilled drink, bloodshot eyes and alcohol breath kept all the lovelies looking my way. Y'see, I'm a catch.

Recap: I sat in a comfy chair, listened to good music, drank kool-aid and re-enacted chase scenes from Benny Hill. It was Central Park with a bar tab.

42 Degrees North Latitude

4500 N Lincoln Ave
Chicago, IL 60625
(773) 907-2226

I kept wanting to like this place more than I did. You've heard of seasonal beers? Well, this might be a seasonal restaurant.

The pros: great spring/summer location. Caught in the "V" made by Lincoln and Sunnyside, 42 Degrees has a bird's eye view of Welles park and the beautiful Lincoln Square homes. Yes, it will likely be empty inside but, rather than blaming foul smells as the reason for the empty dining room, simply trust that everyone wants to be outside and enjoy the weather and scenery. Great patio. Drinks: I like beer. I like house specialties and local bews. This place has great beer and I don't think you'll find a bad one on tap.

The cons: Menu items that don't list mayonnaise as an ingredient but - surprise, sucka - you're getting mayonnaise. Holla back, sneak attack! I purposefully chose around two otherwise tasty-sounding sandwiches because they had mayonnaise. I try not to special order as I feel it takes away from the chef's intention for the taste of the dish. If s/he intends mayo, so be it. I shan't eat it, but so be it. I compromised and selected the pork sandwich. It sounded decent enough. Pork, avocado, onion, pretzel roll. Ok. Fine. I took a bite and nearly spit it out. Mayo: my arch enemy [actually, I, like Batman and the Flash, have a Rogues Gallery]! My waitress, while very polite, didn't seem to view this secret ingredient as a big deal. She was mistaken. I ate my sandwich by taking a bite, swigging some beer and swallowing. Enjoyable? No. "Just getting through it" is not a mantra for a meal.

The mehs: The food, in general. Nothing was bad (except for the nasty globs of white fat that ruined my sandwich) but nothing made me or my dining companions flip out in gastronomical glee. Cheesy apps? Alright. Burger. Ok. Pasta? Fine. Pork sandwich with nasty™ mayo? An abomination before John William. Ok, ok, I'll let it go.

So, in review, I have been to worse (and barely survived the experience) but there was little about this place that made it a "must" return. With summer's warm caress soon to depart this Midwest land, I've gotta recommend that you check in next Spring, grab a seat outdoors and order leisurely from the beer menu. Between now and then? [shrug] I dunno. Do you like pork with mayo?

La Cocina Boricua de la Familia Galarza

420 W Fullerton Avenue
Chicago, IL 60647
(773) 235-7377

Last night, I dreamt of tostones...it all seems like yesterday, so far away...this is where I long to be (La) Cocina Boricua (de la Familia Galarza). Yep, Madonna couldn't have crooned about it better. Wait. She's British now and over her Latin fixation. Or is she? Let's ask A-Rod. *rimshot* Thank you very much. I'm here all week.

My good friend, Guy, was in town and I wanted to take him to a cool spot that was pure Chicago - but not hip. He was staying downtown, so I first thought I'd have to work my magic in the loop. When his sister showed up with her truck, I knew it was on and poppin' in Bucktown. We descended on the spot on a slow Sunday night. There was only one family in the dining room when we arrived. We walked in, our waitress greeted us with a smile and nodded us towards a booth. We slid in and started to drool.

I knew, from doing my research, that whatever we ordered, I had to have some of that garlic oil. More on that later. Our waitress (I am blanking on her name; forgive me!!) was very friendly and talkative. She brought over some chips and salsa (I know) and suggested some great appetizers and humored my Spanglish and terrible accent. The one thing I didn't need help ordering was a beverage: Pineapple Jarrito and keep 'em coming!

A short while later, we were greeted with sugary fruit soda and our apps: an order of the appetizer combo platter (natch), the garlic oil, a plate of fried pork (on the house) and an order of guachitos. What are guachitos? They are what will change your life and set you free. Picture it: tostone, topped with guacamole (don't trip) TOPPED WITH SAUSAGE! My friend and his sister almost lost fingers trying to reach for them. I wasn't playing around. And the garlic oil. Words fail. Dunk it, drizzle it, sop it...do whatever. You can't go wrong. How something so simple can taste so good and make everything it touches pop with flavor...masterful. The waitress walked up, laughed at us eating and attacking each other, conversed in Spanglish and told us our meals were coming up.

I ordered a Chicken Jibarito (w/a side of rice) and it was the best I've had. Really. When she dropped off the food, my (formerly of Texas) friend (tall, red head, very Irish looking) said, "Gracias." She then responded in some rapid fire Spanish none of us caught. She smiled, then looked at me sorta crazy and said, "You don't speak Spanish??!?" (sheepishly) "Not very well. I'm sorry." "Aren't you Puerto Rican?!?" "No, I'm not." "Oohh! That explains why your accent was so bad. Hahaha." (followed by a slap on the back) Yes, I got played by the waitress but I was getting so full I didn't care.

And she was nice because then she said, "Papa, you need another Jarrito?" Nods yes. "What flavor?" "Sangria! I am almost done with my food." "Oohh, good choice." How can you not like that?

She brought back a cold Sangria Jarrito (same company; different brand?), I feebly finished my meal, my friend and his sister did the same, then we all slouched back in the booth in comfortable pain. Even though, by this time, the restaurant was closing, our waitress let us sit there, like slugs, because she knew how much fried food we'd inhaled in furious gluttony. By the time we could waddle out, she implored us to come back again and eat more. Eat more? I don't know if that's possible, but I am always up for a challenge.

Silver Seafood

4829 N Broadway St
Chicago, IL 60640
(773) 784-0668

Here's a tip: the place is called Silver SEAfood, not Golden Beef or Diamond Chicken. The restaurant is telling you - up front and without hesitation - that you come here to eat the stuff that grows and lives in water. If you opt for something else, don't be upset that your meal wasn't all that. Likewise, I never understood folks who ordered - and complained about - chicken at Long John Silver's. With that said...

I came here on a mission. I was tired, cranky, hungry and wanted some good Chinese food. I wasn't about to drive all the way to Chinatown, so I decided to investigate Silver Seafood. I perused the seafood menu from their web site and picked out a couple of options. Then, I called and asked which of my options did the worker like. "Clams in Black Bean Sauce." You're on. I ordered. Ten minutes. Jumped in the car and drove to Uptown.

I was nervous to park in the lot. I have heard horror story after horror story about people getting towed. Park in the lot and go across the street? Tow. Park in the lot and stroll down the block? Tow. Park in the lot and go to a restaurant in the strip mall? Tow. I wasn't about to go out like that. So, I parked in the lot, exchanged side/evil eyes with the lot snitch and rounded the corner to go into Silver Seafood. To my surprise, there was a party going on, complete with a magic show (I think it was that guy from Saved by the Bell). No one was working the front counter. I looked around the dining room and didn't see any wait staff. I was starting to get nervous. The lot attendant looked like he didn't play. In fact, he walked in front of Silver Seafood, stared me in the eye, held up a cell phone and smirked. Oh, hay-ell naw! I looked again for wait staff. Nothing. I was quickly turning into DMX and my mind was about to be lost up in there, up in there.

A lightbulb went off and I called the restaurant. It rang six times before someone ambled to the front counter. She answered and I walked in to get my order. She seemed annoyed but, not only was my food getting cold, I had a car to save. And I let her know that if it was towed -- "Your car won't be towed! Now, here's your food!" Um, ok.

I grumbled all the way to my car (not towed; the attendant was clearly disappointed) and home. "I KNOW she didn't talk to me that way! I don't even WANT this food anymore! This BETTER be good. Blahblahblah." But, I was hungry and it smelled pretty good AND the dish had been recommended. I opened the bag, spooned out some rice and prepared to eat just a few clams. "Mmm. That's pretty good." Chomp chomp. "Mmm. Maybe I'll just have a few more." Chomp chomp. "Ooh, yeah. That's gooooood." Before I knew it, I was sucking on clam shells, had black bean sauce in my hair, was breathing heavily and, somehow, was wearing only a tank top and jams.

I didn't know what happened. I was confused and didn't know where I was. I felt used, dirty and cheap. But...I wasn't hungry, the food knocked the cranky right out of me and there was no awkward good-bye. Not a bad first date.

Yay - Comic Books!!

By now, you have read a couple of posts about comic shops and many other mentions of comic books. I am a comic nerd. As I have mentioned before, comic books helped teach me to read and they have fueled my imagination since the age of 3. Long before blockbuster movies, 'graphic novels' and A-list celebrities vying for some association with comics...was John William. As long as there are awesome writers (Vaughn, Johns & Simone are the best - read their work!!!) and amazing artists (Ross, Lee and Perez are still the masters), monthly storytelling in 32 pages will always be where it's at.

Berry Chill

635 N State Street
Chicago, IL 60654
(312) 266-2445

Tastes like feet. I mean...points for the health efforts and all but...feet...you know? That's sorta rank. And, no matter how much fruit or other toppings you put on feet..underneath it all...it's still feet.

Smoque BBQ

3800 N Pulaski Rd
Chicago, IL 60641
(773) 545-7427

Smokin'!! Sorry, I had to say it. This place was oh-so-good!!

I came here for lunch because I'd read that the restaurant routinely runs out of food and if I am going to travel all the way to Irving Park for food and I can't get any...well, John William (like Wayne Brady) will have to choke a bitch. And I am trying to cut down on my assaults and batteries for the year. Trying.

So, I was armed with the address and I made my way down Pulaski from the Blue Line. It was bright, I had my sunglasses on, I was strutting, saw the address, opened the door, walked in...and it was a dentists office. I tried to play cool. I told the receptionists that I was "meeting a friend." Then I had a pretend conversation on my cell phone with my 'friend' saying that "I was at the office and she could pick me up now..what was that...oh, if you are running late, that is fine. I'll walk around. I feel a little awkward waiting at this office anyway..." And I left. I am sure the receptionists were laughing at me.

Walking next door (and trying to reclaim some cool), I finally entered Smoque. There were a decent amount of people sitting but still some empty tables. I sauntered up to the register, ordered a pulled pork sandwich with slaw and fries and a soda. With tax (hi, Todd Stroger!), that was $10.14. Not bad. I went to the soda fountain, drew some SWEET TEA (the only non-alcoholic beverage to drink with bbq) and sat my happy self down. Then I remembered I'd been on the CTA and I washed my hands in the restroom. And used some towelettes.

In the midst of my hand-cleaning OCD, my order number was called! Immediately, I was impressed by the portion size. The sandwich is served on a thick wheat bun and there's a more-than-generous amount of pork and sauce awaiting your lips. Add to that a BROWN PAPER BAG full of fries, container of extra sauce and tub of slaw (with vinegar, not mayo; I hate mayo) and I was ready to dig in. Remembering my Southern upbringing, I took a bite of my sandwich without adding sauce. Yum! Tender, seasoned pork and just the right amount of sauce made for a flavor explosion in my mouth. Remembering my gluttonous ways, I dumped the rest of the sauce on the sandwich and sopped up any extra that ran off with the bread. That's how we get down in the dirty dirty.

I assume that I was eating like Homer Simpson because I caught some looks of horror as I gulped down sweet tea, made smacking noises as I ate my sandwich and stuffed fries in my mouth. I didn't care. There were free refills to take advantage of and food in front of me to eat. The looks are deceiving re the portion size. The folks at Smoque do not skimp on portion size. I'm a big eater and I was barely able to clean my plate. I was happy that I didn't order the cobbler, as I would not have been able to eat it.

Since I was in a trance-like state as I gorged, I noticed a few things on the sparsely covered wall. 1.) a crayon drawing done by a child, complete with the word "Texes." It took every bit of my self-control to not turn the "e" into an "a." I am still thinking about it. 2.) I couldn't stop giggling at one of the plaques. It was the EAT OUT AWARD for BEST BUTT. Hee. Dirty, but oh-so-humorous to my 12 year old mind, it made me laugh and laugh.

One last free refill (and giggle at the best butt to, well, you know) and I was on my way home. I barely made it back to my place before I passed out from a full belly. And, ladies & gents, that's good eatin'.

Thai Classic Restaurant

3332 N. Clark Street
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 404-2000

I've eaten here (take out and maybe dine-in? I can't remember. Being crazy takes up a lot of my gray matter) and had enjoyable experiences each time but it was what happened when I didn't eat here that prompted this recap.

In addition to being foodies, my friends and I also enjoying cooking. And competition. So, we had an Iron Chef party at my buddy, Mike's, house. It was battle: citrus and the competition was going to be fierce. I wanted to make something that highlighted the secret ingredient but was also crowd-pleasing and palette-friendly. I came up with a great recipe/idea for a Thai Citrus Curry Chicken. I experimented with the right blend of spices, meat preparation and citrus combinations for days in order to make something awesome. What I didn't plan on, however, was making the accompanying Jasmine rice; I couldn't just serve the curry by itself. Was my plan for Iron Chef dominance to be foiled? Gack!

Luckily, I called Thai Classic at the 11th hour and put in an order for a tray of Jasmine rice...about an hour before I needed it. The woman on the phone was gracious and kind and she assured me that the order wouldn't be a problem. Great! I put the final touches on my dish, got the plating together, hopped in the shower and made my way to Thai Classic. As promised, the manager had a tray of piping hot, aromatic Jasmine rice waiting for me. $10 later, I was out the door and on my way to the West Loop.

Three minutes into my drive, I got a call on my cell phone from the restaurant. Turns out that the manager was not happy with the rice that she gave me and wanted to know if I could come back and get a new tray. I wasn't that far away, so I turned around and came back. I parked in front, threw on the hazards and exchanged the rice AND got an order of crab wontons for my troubles. She was very apologetic about having to have me come back but, after I left, she discovered that she wasn't very pleased with the rice and didn't want to have me pay for anything but her best.

As I drove to the party, I couldn't stop thinking about how impressed I was with what just happened. I'd already paid. I'd driven away. It would be a while before I discovered anything 'wrong' with the rice (and who knows if I even would). But this manager's pride in her food and sense of doing right by me as a customer compelled her to give me a call. That's beyond cool. How many people would have done that? She already had my money. I was out of sight. It was a done deal. The fact that she thought enough of her food's reputation and me as a customer to call me back and give me her best...well, that's aces in my book. I'm quick to bellyache when I get screwed. It's nice to be able to report something good, for a change.

Oh yeah, the Iron Chef party. The rice was a big hit (she gave us tons). I shaped it in a small funnel, stacked it in a bowl, surrounded it by the curry and topped with (the various citrus) zest. You know I won. First place, baby! That Jack Lalanne Power Juicer prize was all mine (and it's AWESOME).

Fiestas Puertorriquenas

1400 N Sacramento Ave
Chicago, IL 60622
(773) 292-1414

If you weren't at the spot, I don't know what you were doing. Every year, the Puerto Rican Fest brings it!

First things first about the Fest, it's free. That's right. No matter where you happen upon the Park to enter into a Boricua wonderland, you won't have to pay a penny for the privilege of having some world class fun. You hear that, Art Fairs and Neighborhood fests??!! Here at the FP, there are no jack booted Chads and Trixies shaking folks down for a $20 'donation' just to enter the 'free' festival aka public streets and walkways [but what a great scam that is; wish I'd have thought of it]. If you're not a fabulous jet-setter like Vamsi or Preet (mm-hmm, that's right; I called you out for going to Puerto Rico and not taking me), this might be the next best thing.

I like to enter the Park/Fest at North & California. I walk south down California, past the shirt, corn and other vendors and then cut up into the Park at the first closed gate. This route will also let you gaze into one of the many water ways of Humboldt Park and marvel at its beauty. Walk past the big rig trucks and you'll come upon the midway. Remember when you were a kid and went to the state fair? Well, all the awesome rides of your youth are here for you to enjoy: haunted house, tilt-a-whirl, bumper cars, etc. But watch out: there are plenty of youngsters and families about and, apparently, it's bad form to push the little kids out of the way so you can cut in line. Who knew? You need tickets to ride the ride, but there are plenty of booths that will trade your money for tickets.

After you've thrown up from the rides (or been escorted out of line by the CPD, potato potatoe), play some carnival games (whack a mole, ring toss, dart throw, that water-gun-horse-game that makes no sense and a host of others) or get some grub! Games are everyday. Corn pancakes with melted cheese inside only comes once a year. There's so much food! Rice, pork, sweet plantains, pinchos (pronounce the "p"; otherwise it'll sound like you asked for a bicho which will get you either a slap or a date), empanadillas, pinonoes, alcapurrias and other fried deliciousness. As tempting as it will be to get food at the first booth you see, don't. Window shop, compare prices and go for the places with the longest lines.

Some people walk and eat. Um, no. I need a seat. You can try to blend in with the bingo-playing grandmas (prime real estate with a tarp, chairs and everything) but they tend to side-eye you if you aren't playing. There are plenty of grassy tree lounges or benches. I don't do dirt, so I recommend the bench. Be aware that they are hot and you will burn your culo. Be prepared.

Has all that food left you thirsty? If so, grab a hollowed-out pineapple filled with pina colada. They look great and are re-fillable. They're also huge (around $8). I heard that this is an alcohol-free event, but I also heard someone got a $10 strawberry daquiri that was 60% rum, 35% ice and 5% strawberries. I also heard this person fell down after drinking half of it. No, I don't have a bruise.

While you sip your fruity beverage, tour the various booths. Register to vote, buy a quality knock-off (no Fendis out of trunks at this Fest), get some body oils, various Puerto Rican flag clothing or people watch. I saw a little kid with a tricked out tricycle that played, no, BUMPED, music and had a chrome box on the back. But for the witnesses, I would have jacked him for it. It was really nice.

Still anxious for more? Good. The event producers are on top of their game and they have a ton of corporate sponsors. That means money for great music acts, quality sound systems, corporate tents (the Wrigley tent has Wii games to play, flavored oxygen to breathe and cooling centers) and various contests. My favorite contest is the reggaeton dance-for-concert-tickets contest which always devolves to an ass-shaking competition. It's awesome. There's plenty of popping, dropping, toe touching, wiggling, shaking, stripping and floor humping - and those are the men; seriously. But male contestants have to leave their shirts on. "There are kids in the audience."

I've never stayed to see the night concerts. Invariably, I am sunburned, tipsy and in the early throes of a food coma. From what I hear, the night concerts are a lot of fun...but the frolicking family atmosphere of the day is replaced by the tomfoolery of teens and young adults. Since I am a brownstone stoop away from beating those self-same youngsters with a cane, I leave before dark. But the really good reggaeton, bachata, etc. acts are at night so...choose wisely according to interest.

Forget what you heard about how 'scary' HP is and get to the Fest. It's so much fun. For a week, everyone is Puerto Rican. Get your flag, attach it to your car, cruise the circuit, honk your horn and viva boricua/Puerto Rico.