The Chicago Firehouse Restaurant

1401 S Michigan Ave
Chicago, IL 60605
(312) 786-1401

Looks like I'm gonna hafta burn this mutha down. For the price point, I didn't experience anything transcendent. The meal ranged from "okay" to "OMG!! Was that poop?!" And, the rule is, anytime "poop" is invoked as a possible ingredient automatically equals 'not good'.

I came here for a friends' birthday. There was 12 of us which meant automatic gratuity. This is important. I was the last of the party to arrive. Why? The CTA decided that coming on time or at all is asking too much and it couldn't be bothered. So, I was late. Since I was late, I sat at the head/end of the table. I sat. The table tilted. I re-positioned. It tilted again. It seems that the table had uneven legs. Not a big deal - but when you're asking, no, telling me to spend $60 on a $12 bottle of wine, I expect the table not to weeble wooble. Speaking of wine, we began the meal with various appetizers ("okay"; the escargot tasted burnt and the Oysters Rockefeller weren't well shucked) and some bottles of wine. The selections were good (if overpriced) but the initial pours were laughable. Also laughable was the fact that the waitress tried to upsell everything. "Looking at a $6.99 appetizer? Pish posh. Order the $13.99 one instead!" "Ordering one entree? Kids stuff!! Order three! And put some Alaskan King Crab Legs on it!!" Back UP, lady! You're already getting a guaranteed tip. Re-lax.

The menu was rather uninspired. I was expecting really exciting dishes and I didn't find anything that aroused my imagination. French Onion soup? Fine. Wedge salad? Okay. I wanted to try the catfish special but it was no longer on the menu. With fish on the brain, I ordered the trout. I chose poorly. While my friends dined on ginormous (and very flavorful) pork chops, the waitress had something special planned for me.

"The part of trout will tonight be played by mealy ass fish in a creamy poop sauce. Bon appetit." And the description was better than the taste! I try to always finish my meal. But this, I could not get through. It was awful. Thing is, despite the rancid fecal matter in front of me, I wasn't inspired to eat off anyone else's plate (except for those pork chops). But, at that point, I suppose a boring meal is better than one you cannot finish. Seriously though, having to decide between "blah" and "poo" does not a good meal make. Especially when you're paying mucho dinero for it. Of course, the waitress didn't much care. After she pointed and giggled at my plate, she stood up on a table a bellowed, "Yeah, that's right. I got you to order mealy ass fish in a creamy poop sauce. That's right. Cry. Wail. Gnash yo' teefuses. I still get paid. Complain. I don't care. Whatever! Whatever!! I do what I want!!!" [to the busboy cheers of "Maury! Maury!"]

Or maybe not. It was late. I can't remember. But I do remember leaving that place with a hole in my wallet and hunger in my belly. And those are two things that should not go together after a dining experience. Unimpressed and underwhelmed, I would tell only my enemies to eat here. And to order the mealy ass fish. I mean, the trout.