Cafe 787

6019 W Fullerton Ave
Chicago, IL 60639
(773) 237-0787

COME HERE!! If you think you'll find better Puerto Rican food in Chicago, you are one crazy MOFOngo. Seriously, hands down, THE best Puerto Rican fare I have had in the Second City. Cafe 787 hits on all points.

Yes, it's a drive. No, it's not in Humboldt Park. Yes, you will come here again and again. I was not ready for this jelly. Cafe 787 was too Boricua-licious for me. My friend had been fiending for some mofongo. Y'see, I'd taken her to a recommended Southside Rican spot - for mofongo. We were served matzah balls and told it was mofongo. We were unamused. After we set it off in there (and went on the run to avoid prosecution), we decided to give the search another try. We made the long drive west on Fullerton and found a parking spot right in front.

Visually, this place is awesome. Hardwood floors, exposed brick walls, Puerto Rican masks, paintings of Puerto Rico, mounted tvs, black wood seats, comfy & plush booths - the place is decorated really nicely. Even the bathrooms are nice - Kohler faucets, high tech hand dryers, sparkly black tile floor... I was in a good mood from sight alone.

My friends and I ascended to the second level, settled in and got to the business of ordering. Champagne cola, mango juice, Malta, aranitas (with garlic bread & sauce already mixed), el trio (maduros topped with creole chicken and bbq pork - OFF THE FREAKING CHAIN good), three orders of mofongo (two pork, one chicken; ask for it because it's not currently on the menu) and three orders of arroz con gandules. Our waitress repeated the order as though to verify we knew what we were ordering. Yep! We weren't scurred. We wanted to eat like we were chillin' with Don Omar in Old San Juan as we plotted to backhand that f00l, Daddy Yankee.

Seeing we weren't playing around, she put in the order. The owner came out to chat us up and he found out we were for real when a member of my party made some bioluminescence from Vieques magically appear in her Malta. Impressed, he went back to the kitchen to make sure our food was on point.

How good was it? We didn't speak for nearly twenty minutes after the food came out. We barely used utensils and managed only to grunt for hot sauce for the pork and mofongo. Unbelievably good. The maduros were sweet and huge & the meat on top served as perfect savory compliments to every bite. The aranitas were crunchy, filling and nicely seasoned. My Cola Champagne on ice was the nectar of kings. And the mofongo...oh me oh my. It was HUGE. Gigantic portion of the plantain delight (full of cracklins) and the pork and chicken that accompanied it could have fed two people each. Add to this: salad AND three orders of arroz con gandules? Wow. I'm flashing back to the eating and I am both ashamed and proud of myself. We took so much food down that Kobiyashi bowed down to us and took notes.

After we gorged ourselves and stretched out to lie down (you think I'm kidding; we had grease on our mouths & fingers and in our hair and our bellies were distended), the owner and waitress came out to have a conversation. We found out that they've been open about a year. A liquor license is a couple of weeks away and they have plans to keep the place open to 2 on the weekends with live music and dancing. All this food AND Puerto Rican Rum AND booty shaking? It's about to be on & poppin' - literally! Even though we didn't have room for dessert, the owner gave my friend a huge container of freshly made sofrito just because it came up in conversation. And, oh yeah, tax & tip came out to $30 a person. That's right.

There is no other place in Chicago one should go for Puerto Rican food. Great decor, nice music, friendly service, COOL owner and fantastic food. Man, I am getting hungry again just thinking about it. Come here and bring me along. Think of it as a finder's fee.

Let Me Tell You 'Bout You Part 1

Another break from the restaurant recaps for another feature on whatilovetohate: Let Me Tell You 'Bout You. In this feature...I tell people about themselves. Simple.

For the inaugural telling - Holly Robinson Peete.

I *know*!

She was on 21 Jump Street.

She's Gordon from Sesame Street's daughter.

She's beautiful.

And she's wrong.

In the aftermath of the Steve McNair homicide, she tweeted (that just sounds nasty) something to the effect that if he were her husband, she & the kids will skip the funeral. Well, Holly Robinson Peete...

Let Me Tell You 'Bout You.

If you think, if you *really* think, your man never ran (or, doesn't run) around on you, you're trippin'. Almost all professional athletes cheat. It's part of the culture of the profession. Groupies, jump offs, baby mamas and the like go hand in hand with the wife™. It's a fact. Look it up. And, stop playing yourself. You'd hate to get embarrassed by one of Rodney's jump offs. Your tweet was disrespectful to Mrs. McNair and rife for schadenfreude. Be careful.

Am I advocating cheating? Of course not. But, to Ms. Peete, I suggest she speak on things pertinent to her at the appropriate time. And, when the jump offs come out of the wood work...be prepared to walk.

St Adalbert's Church

1650 W 17th St
Chicago, IL 60608
(312) 226-0340

I haven't been to church in a while. I am still trying to work through some hurts that haven't fully healed. I'm not Catholic. I don't know the tenets. I don't live on the South Side. This place is nowhere near my home. Yet, I was drawn to this church. I dunno why. Maybe just...because.

If churches, cathedrals, are supposed to be monuments - no, testaments - to God's grace, mercy, power & majesty...well, whoever built this one got it right. It's located in Pilsen and, as evidence of the neighborhood's Slavic and Mexican communities, has scripture and sentiment written languages befitting the people it serves.

The inside is stunning: stained glass as far as the eye can see, lacquered pews, flying buttresses, colossal painted ceiling, ornate carvings and etches. No detail was spared and there's beauty in every view. I walked through the doors and into the sanctuary and I was the only person there. In that magnificent stillness, I felt so small but so cared for. I felt vulnerable but protected. I felt like crying...but I also felt like rejoicing.

Was it a religious experience? Maybe. Was it God? Perhaps (I'd like to think so). Was it what I needed? Absolutely. In that beautiful stillness, I felt a penetrating peace that filled my heart. I have no snarky anecdotes. I have no bitter words. I have only an appreciation to have experienced...something...I can't quite put into words.

Molly's Cupcakes

2536 N Clark St
Chicago, IL 60614
(773) 883-7220

Do you believe in fate? In destiny? That, no matter what you do or what choices you make, you're going to wind up at the same spot? I am not speaking of scary horror movies or scarier Gwyneth Paltrow vehicles. No. I speak of something much more sinister: Molly's Cupcakes.

I went here about a year ago. I'd had a tough day and wanted to eat some cupcakes to cheer me up. I bought two. During the walk home, I came across a homeless man who was begging for change or food. I gave him a cupcake. I thought to myself, "I did some good and I still have one left." When I arrived at my building, my doorman told me that he was starving (after I asked him how he was doing). I gave him the second cupcake. I went upstairs to my place and poured myself a vodka. No, I didn't have a cupcake but the vodka did me better than the sugar and I was able to make some days brighter.

Everyone won.

Well, maybe just me. You see, after finally eating one of Molly's cupcakes, I realized I dodged a bullet back then but that all changed today. Much like Alex Luthor trying to reset the multiverse after the Crisis, the universe deemed it so that I should have a cupcake from Molly - and that I should suffer what should have happened back then. Today, at work, there was a multitude of Molly's cupcakes - chocolate, white, red velvet, carrot. They were all adorned with thick icing and pretty sprinkles. I chose a chocolate cupcake with white icing that reminded me of the one I would have had a year ago. Thanks to this cupcake, I received an a$$-whuppin' that was a year in the making. The cupcake was AWFUL. It was, simultaneously greasy and dry, bitter lemony tasting and stale. The cupcake was a paradox. It broke the space-time continuum. The icing was like eating cream cheese from the tub. I had to gulp down hot coffee in order to keep myself from wretching. Not satisfied to just upset my stomach, the evil cupcake deigned to wreck havoc upon my lower intestines.

No good deed goes unpunished and you can't outrun your fate. I received a lesson in existentialism and a case of food poisoning all at the same time. What did I ever do to you, universe?

Pho Xua

1020 W Argyle St
Chicago, IL 60640
(773) 271-9828

Knock knock!

Who's there?

Banana. (repeat 2 times)

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Orange.

Orange who?

The decor inside Pho Xua is a relaxing orange color. I didn't think that I would care for it, but I found it rather relaxing. What I found better than relaxing was the Pineapple Coconut smoothie! Wooo!! That is pure fruity yumminess. I advise to get it without the tapioca balls. Why ruin perfectly good liquid fruit with, what looks like, you know what. Mmm, appetizing...only...not at all. Get it without the balls. During the week, PX offers what might be the best value on Argyle Street: appetizer, soup, rice & entree for UNDER SIX DOLLARS!!! You heard me right. Lots of food. Minimum cash. PX is my new best friend. The rice, apps and entrees are flavorful but the Egg Drop Soup is out of this world. And, if the soup tastes this good, you KNOW the pho has got to be outta sight.*

PX gets an extra star for its management. Unbeknownst to it, many cold, hungry and potty mouthed city tourists were going to scare away its usual clientele on a Saturday afternoon. The management bent over backwards to make sure that we had a pleasant experience and good food. I can't say enough nice things about the way this restaurant is run. Patronize this wonderful place - and, please, refrain from discussing minnows, blue colored spherical objects and Japanese video stars who attempt to break world records.

*Orange you glad I didn't say banana?

Chicago's Home of Chicken and Waffles

3947 S King Dr
Chicago, IL 60653
(773) 536-3300

Mmm hmm. This is not the contented "Mmm hmm" of a full belly and happy thoughts. This is the "Mmm hmm" of an "I see you & your triflin' self" side-eye. To be fair, this place was already on my "Mmm hmm" radar after its shady RosScoe's beginnings. While it's sorta humorous that the CHoC&W ptb tried to pull such a sorry fast one, it should give the public a glimpse of the kind of business tptb are trying to run. I've eaten at Roscoe's. I've eaten at Sylvia's. Depending on whom you ask, I am from the South. I am pretty well acquainted with fried chicken & waffles. The sides were slammin'. The chicken was pretty good. The waffles were pitiful, verging on "sorry."

I ordered the white chicken dinner with mac & cheese, greens and red beans & rice (complimentary cornbread). The dinner came out really quickly. I was impressed - and a little suspicious - by how quickly it came out, but I wasn't going to complain. I was here to eat. The mac & cheese was delicious. It was buttery, firm & starchy-cheesy. It was definitely reminiscent of post-baptism dinners in the church basement. I added hot sauce to the red beans. I didn't do so out of disrespect. It's how I grew accustomed to eating them in NOLA. They were great. The bean to rice ratio was a *little* dry, but nothing to complain about. The greens were well seasoned, slightly bitter and served with meat hocks in the bowl. Just right.

The chicken was pretty good. I ordered the white pieces, so I was prepared for them to be slightly dry. It was nothing a little hot sauce couldn't handle. The skin was the same consistency as KFC Original Recipe, but didn't have the flavor. Thumbs down for that. I was expecting the crunchy fried chicken that comes as a result of a hot skillet, flour, seasoning and several grease pop/splatters that taught me not to go by the stove when my grandma was making chicken. I was confused by the 'smooth' skin. The cornbread portion was healthy, but the cornbread was dry. I could take or leave it.

The waffle. Hmph. This wasn't a waffle. This was a tortilla with Sharpie-drawn squares. It cost $4.95! That's more than a waffle at Roscoe's! That's a five dollah foot-a-looonguh. For $4.95, I was expecting a waffle steak. Or, a waffle sheet cake. This pitiful thing came out cold, flat, small and soggy with a couple of pats of hard butter. Pitiful. I tried spreading the butter on the waffle. It looked at me as if to say, "I don't know what you're trying to do, but while you do it, I'm just gonna sit here and not move. Oohh-kayyy?!" Yes, the butter had an attitude problem. I wound up dousing the waffle with syrup and throwing my cut up chicken on top of it in order to wolf it down. This was *not* the C&W experience of my west coast, east coast and southern lives. In fact, it singularly dampened my experience here.

Yeah, the chicken & sides are good but this is not Chicago's Home of Chicken & Sides. When you only deliver on half of your namesake, either change the name or improve the quality of your product. That being said, I was considering a complimentary recap. Then, the waiter hovered over us and, repeatedly, asked us for "[our] money so [he could] go home." So so place. Then, after being shaken down for our cash, my friend was told that her credit card was denied three times and she needed to pay with cash. Fine. She got home to discover her card had been charged twice. The third time, the credit card took it upon itself to deny the charge. Pitiful, trifling, sorry-ass place. Shady.

Mmm hmm.

Outlook Inn

916 Baxter Ave
Louisville, KY 40204
(502) 583-4661

What happened here? In my day, the Outlook Inn was a fun, divey little bar at the tail end of the Bardstown Rd/Baxter Ave drinkapalooza. It was the de facto meet up my for my friends & I during the holiday post-eating rituals we had with our families. It was a little dirty, low key and fun. Not anymore.

Imagine my surprise to find the Outlook filled - from doorguy (a bouncer at the Outlook??) to patron - with huge meatheads. Que? No no no. This isn't Molly Malone's. This is the Outlook. The only _____heads that should be here are "pot" or "crack."

With the change in clientele came a change in the music. I get it. I'm not 21 anymore. I shouldn't expect to hear The Pixies or the Beasties on the jukebox while some of my friends play pool and the others catch up on gossip and avoid people from high school. I know. But, I shouldn't be blasted out of my seat by whatever high decibel Garth Brooks/Gwar hellmeld that was playing. No, Outlook. Bad, Outlook.

Frightened by 'roidheads, deafened by the musical stylings of whatever that was, I attempted to get a drink. Nope. Person to my left. Served. Person to my right. Served. Person down the block at Cahoots. Served. Greatly annoyed and standing by myself, the bartender finally acknowledges me. "Oh. I didn't see you." Cannotstrangleherandgetarrested. Cannotstrangleherandgetarrested. Mmm, what? Oh. Sorry. That's my version of deep, cleansing breaths.

Scared? Strike one. Deafened? Strike two. Thirsty? Strike three. You're out and I'm out of here. I found out that the hipsters have fled the Outlook for Butcher/Smoke/Germantown. I can't say that I blame them. Oh, Outlook, what happened to you while I was gone? They paved paradise and put up a parking lot - and stuck a syringe full of steroids in its ass.