The Bleeding Heart Bakery

1955 W Belmont Ave
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 327-6934

The food was fine...good, even. What stopped this from being a gotta-tell-everyone-about-it was the way this place was run. I wasn't impressed. In fact, I was rather put out.

I made plans to have coffee with a friend at Bleeding Heart. One disabled CTA card later, I rolled up on the Roscoe Village bakery, ready to eat some morning treats. But the place wasn't ready for me. What it was ready for was a tour. Of a lot of people. Of varying temperments (but most were gruff). I was, literally, body checked hockey-style by one gentleman as I attempted to come into the place. Seriously, this guy pushed me out of the way and then blocked the door so no one else could come in. A younger, hippier and larger man took offense at this and began to have words with this gentleman. Turns out the body-checker didn't speak English - but he was ready to argue anyway. I have not yet had my coffee/baked goods and there's already an international incident. Nice.

I wiggle into the door but I can't get near the counter. Turns out, group one (!) of this tour is snaked all around the small eating space, taking pictures and spreading out. The other patrons and I looked at each other. Is this place closed? Were we there on the wrong day? No. Just extremely bad planning. I called my friend to prepare her for the scene inside. After some bumps and glares, I finally made my way to the counter, ordered my food and sat down. My friend made her way into the bakery shortly thereafter. Ten "Excuse me's" later, she was able to sit down - and was almost smacked in the head by a backpack. You see, people kept streaming into the bakery. Hipsters with backpacks, parents with small children, grumpy 20somethings...and another crop of tourists all pushed and pulled their way into the shop. All the while, the owner is talking to the crowd about the bakery unaware or uncaring that her customers are cramped, unhappy and ignored. That's just not good enough. If I am paying $12 for a teacake, mocha and croissant (what? It's breakfast), I'd like to eat on a table top I don't have to clean and bus myself and have enough room to get my own cuttlery rather than asking the clerk to get some for me - because there was no way I could wade through the crowd to get it.

And the thing about it, is that all this could have been solved with 10 minutes of Microsoft Word. A printed piece of paper on the door detailing that the bakery was closed to customers for an hour for a private tour is all it took to avoid the chaos and confusion. Or, if that was too much to ask, a perfectly demarcated area for the tour and one for clients would have ensured customers would get in and out and the tourists could hear/see what was going on. Never the two would have to meet. That's it. Little effort. Nothing was done. The decision was made to have the tour and customer dollars and we both lost out. One gentleman who was on the tour angrily raised his hand (after the presentation) and requested it be made again because, being near the door, he couldn't hear what was said in the first place. My friend, being the kind soul she is, started talking with him and his wife (?) about the tour, their frustration with the set up and their commiseration with us for our side of the annoyance. My friend, for her efforts, got a phat hookup of candy goods for her Gallant-like kindness to a stranger. Being Goofus, I got nothing - but I shook my fist a lot. In any case, if the first-time-visitor tourist noted a problem, why didn't the owner? In fact, the owner mentioned a lot of motivators in her speech (I heard it twice); all great goals. But how about the more immediate goal of being *present* in what's happening in front of you? Considering most everyone outside her direct line of sight had expressions ranging from "wtf" to "bring it! c'mon!!", I didn't take much of the presentation seriously. Think globally. Act locally. And control the chaos happening all around you.

It sorta sucks that rather than remembering the tasty chocolate/vanilla teacake and filling ham & cheese croissant, I remember being body checked in a foreign language, while my dining partner was hit the head, children ran amok, tourists were disgruntled and the owner watched it all unfold and did nothing. It made me feel unappreciated and under valued as a customer. I realize this was a special circumstance - but, handle your business, lady. Even though the food was tasty, if I were a candy maker from Indiana on the tour...I don't know that I would tell my friends and neighbors to rush to this place. And that's too bad.

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.

Habana Libre

1440 W Chicago Ave
Chicago, IL 60686
(312) 243-3303

I wrestled with writing this. But...it just wasn't good. It was a pretty day in West Town (yes, West Town NOT Noble Square. And, by the way, it's Uptown NOT Buena Park and Humboldt Park NOT West Bucktown) and the livin' was easy. I met my friend and we were in the mood for some great Cuban eats. We walked in and smelled amazing food. Spices, meat and veggies all added together to make an intoxicating blend of heavenly aromas. Upon reflection, I wonder if the smells came from an aerosol can. Bamboozled, I was!

Since we were having lunch, I decided upon a sandwich. I used to live in Orlando and, thanks to its Cuban community, became fond of the Cuban sandwich. "I'll get that," I thought to myself. It's gotta be good - after all, it's advertised all over the restaurant (banners reading "Pan Cubano" grace the walls). I ordered it and...they were out of it. Huh? You're out of ham, mustard, pickles, bread, cheese and roast pork? What? How is that even possible? It's the trademark sandwich. Trying to be kind, the waitress told me I could order a jibarito. Thing is, if I wanted a jibarito, I would be at Boriquen. I wanted a Cuban sandwich, ergo, I am at Habana Libre! Seeing that I wasn't biting at the jibarito suggestion, she suggested I order a hot pork dish. Jigga what? Rather than asking how and why I should order a hot pork dish when I can't order a hot (pressed) pork sandwich, I decided to chill out and order the chicken steak sandwich. Eh. Tasted like Chicken. Thing is, I didn't take three buses to travel from Lakeview to West Town to eat a &^%*&() chicken sandwich!

Trying to end the meal on an up note, I ordered a milkshake for dessert. I figured, if it worked for Daniel Day-Lewis, I, too, would DRINK YO MILKSHAKE and all would be well. Well, Danny didn't drink THIS milkshake. Like I said, I used to live in Florida and know that Cuban milkshakes tend to be sweeter than your standard US milkshakes. That's why I like them. They way I have had them, they were served deep-freeze cold and the fruit flavor really popped. I'd only glanced at the options earlier in the meal but the waitress told me that there were only Banana, Papaya and Mango. I could have sworn Coconut and/or Chocolate were options as well. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe they were out. I ordered a Banana Mango shake and thought all was well. I got a glass of yellow milkwater and a straw. Where was the super cold super sweet treat I remember from Florida? This was so nasty. My stomach curdled as I swigged the lukewarm milk. There were no fruit chunks, no explosion of flavor...only threats from my stomach to make me pay for my folly. By this time, my face couldn't hide my disgust...but I had to keep pretending like I was drinking because the waitress was giving me a serious side eye. I felt like Craig in the Malcolm in the Middle episode where he is being 'helped' by an evil monkey and the monkey put poison in the milkshake he made for Craig. The monkey watched as Craig 'drank' it. That was me! I was Craig and the waitress...well, it's not nice to call someone an evil monkey so I won't...but she was watching. I asked for a to-go cup. I felt guilty throwing the 'milkshake' (if that's what it was; no boys would be coming to the yard for that) away so I decided to freeze it. Three hours later, it is finally solidifying in my freezer. I don't know what that liquid is/was.

The whole meal ranged from disappointing to nasty. The only saving grace was I had view of the CUTEST baby who smiled, giggled and drooled at me throughout the meal. My clock is TICKING! I need some babies! Um, that's another review. In any case, that sweet baby was the only thing that saved Habana Libre from some serious isht going down. He was so cute!!

Sam Swope BMW

3 Swope Autocenter Dr
Louisville, KY 40299
(502) 499-5080

You know the feeling you get when doing a job well done? Or, perhaps, the warm fuzzies that overtake you by knowing that you've put in a honest day's work?

Yeah, the crooks at Saw Swope BMW don't either.

My car ("The B") is 22 years old. She is an old-school BMW (325i). She has seen me through road trips, auto accidents, caravanning, job changes, new schools, booty calls and the resultant coyote mornings. Despite my inability to wash her in a timely and regular manner, I have deep love for The B. I want the best for her.

During my last car trip back home for the holidays, my driver's side front door lock froze up. It's happened before. The tumbler is old and worn out. Usually, I can get by with greasing it and the problem's solved. This time, however, the lock wouldn't budge. I drove home getting in and out of my car like a Duke boy (ahh, those Kentucky stereotypes seem to always creep back into my life) and resolved to get the lock fixed before driving back. In addition, I thought my passenger side front tire looked low. My usual mechanics were closed for the holidays so, against my better judgment, I ventured over to the dealer (NOT where my dad bought The B) to get it fixed. After an hour and a half 'review' that cost me $141.11, the criminals at SS (draw your own conclusions) told me that I had a "big" problem.

"Big? How big?"

$1286.94. I kid you not. To open my car door would cost me $1200. I kept the itemized receipt. You see, not only would my door never open by mortal means, but everything about The B was failing - except for the tire. The tire was fine. Now understanding the meaning of 'gobsmacked', I paid $141.11 to SS for unlocking my car (but I couldn't relock it because it would freeze up again), filling my tire with air ("no puncture") and shocking the curl out of my hair. Freaked out, I contemplated putting in the big bucks. I drove back to Chicago and planned on contacting the local BMW dealer so I could get the work done. Thing is, I noticed my tire was low again. This time, it was nearly flat. I took it to a tire shop and discovered a 2 inch piece of hanger-wire (or something like that) which had PUNCTURED my tire. God watches over babies and idiots. I was cruising for a blow out. Incensed that the 'professionals' at SS let me get back on the interstate with a dangerous tire, I thought I should reconsider the $1200. I asked the tire guy if he knew of a good car place. He told me about a European import shop that "does everything and is staffed by no-nonsense (but honest) Europeans." That was all I needed to hear. I took The B to the shop and had my new best friend, Bob, check her out. He found the problem, ordered the parts, did the work and had her back to me in two days. Total cost (even with high-ass Chicago, IL tax): $222.46. I.kid.you.not. I thought back to a story told to me by the mechanic who worked on my car when I lived in Nashville. He told me that he had his car *towed* from Louisville to Nashville rather than have the SS BMW boys work on it. What does that tell you?

Either the dummies at SS BMW are *that* incompetent or *that* shady. In either case, you should give them neither your business nor your hard-earned money. I understand a little dealer mark up. It's expected. This? Is borderline criminal. For shame, SS! Complete shame! On YOU, sir(s)!

County Line Orchard

200 County Line Road
Hobart, IN 46342
(219) 947-4477

I really LOVE this place. Way back in the stone ages, when John William was a boy growing up in Kentucky, we used to go 'pick' a lot of our vegetables and fruit. It was so much fun. The summers were all about picking berries (straw and blue) & watermelon and the fall had apples and pumpkins. Despite my best efforts, my parents would pick all sorts of vegetables for me to eat (in addition to the yummy, sweet fruit). All this is to say, we used to know where we got our food. It's too bad that we, as a society/country, have gotten away from connecting with our food.

That's why I love County Line. It reminds me of the farms I used to go to when I was a kid. The place is huge. It's about a 40 minute drive from downtown Chicago and it has plenty of land and parking. I haven't gone there in the summer, but Autumn is a great time to visit. The farm offers tons of attractions for kids of all ages. There's a tractor ride ($1) that'll drop you off in the middle of a gigantic orchard. If you get to Hobart after the beginning of October, I suggest buying a bag of apples and just walking the orchard (rather than trying to pick your own apples). Getting to the orchard late in the season guarantees you small, insect-riddled apples that are better suited for throwing at your friends (tip: the small, green ones with bug holes are HILARIOUS to beam off your buddy's head when he's not looking) than eating. There's pumpkin picking, animal petting (you know I don't go anywhere near them) and a corn maze. I must warn you about the corn maze: you may see a strange, pale, red-headed boy in the maze. His name is Malachai. Avoid him at all costs.

If throwing rotten fruit at your buddies, lugging heavy pumpkins and running away from homicidal children have made you hungry, you're in the right place. The farm offers a full on store of country-cookin' delights: jams, cakes, fruit, veggies, fudge, gourmet food items and more. But who needs all that when you can eat APPLE CIDER DONUTS AND PUMPKIN DONUTS! I don't know who first made these heavenly delights, but they're incredible. I buy a dozen (6 of each kind) donuts, bag of apples, apple cider and some fudge. Because I can't leave there without eating, I'll order two warm donuts TOPPED with ice cream (and possibly fudge and whipped cream). It's ridiculously good. And as I eat the sugary goodness, I enjoy tempting the passing-by children who, after seeing what I am eating, demand their parents give them the same thing. Oh, how I enjoy the dirty looks I get from exasperated parents, forced to give into their screaming children's demands. I am the donut Pied Piper. I make no apologies.

County Line offers a BRILLIANT way to enjoy a crisp Fall day, get out of the city, breathe some clean air and get re-connected to a rapidly-disappearing American treasure: the working, sustainable farm. I promise, you'll become a believer. Just don't become a Child of the Corn (again. Malachai. Avoid).

Lockwood

17 E Monroe St
Chicago, IL 60603
(312) 726-7500

So this is the "flossy, flossy" of which Fergie purrs. Interesting.

I came here for the soft opening (you already know the kid isn't plonking down this kind of money; I'm...frugal) and wasn't sure what to expect. I knew the Palmer House was a really ritzy place, so I figured that it's signature restaurant would be ritzy as well. I also expected it to be stuffy and boring - but I was wrong.

[waiting for shock to pass....aaand, continue]

I stepped in and was immediately impressed by the layout. It's purty! The bar (with cool seating) is to the sharp right and to the right and left are small tables and booths. On the other side of the dividing wall are more small tables and booths on either side of the aisle. The wait staff all seemed professional but I don't know how happy they were to be there that night. My friends and I are in our early 30s. We dress nicely, chew with our mouths closed and only cuss every OTHER word. We're refined. This evening, however, the wait staff avoided us on every turn. You see, at these soft openings, the wait staff mingle about the customers and offer them food and drink. Some see this as an elegant dance. I see it as a video game: Asteroid, Space Invaders, Frogger...something like that. The goal is to hit up as many servers as possible within a set amount of time. But, since I am klassy, I don't chase them down. I just 'happen' to always be where they are. Not these servers; they were not having it. I moved to the left, so did they. I faked right, they went backwards. I was working up a sweat just trying to get my free food on (spare me the indignation: you know you do it too). I can't help it. I'm skinny. I need nourishment.

Amused by watching me Step (in the Name of Food), one server stood out from the rest and kept me hooked up. Musharruf Shah - you are a gentleman and a scholar! If you're dining at Lockwood, ask for Musharruf and tip him well!!

As I proceeded to eat, drink and be merry, I noticed that money makes things taste better. For example: one of the selections was a quail egg. Yes, a quail's egg yolk sitting in it's embryonic fluid in a half shell. Tipsy from champagne as I was, I was not about to slurp down a salmonella surprise. Musharruf sensed my disgust and replied, "It has truffle oil in it." The correct response to this is, "So? That is still nasty." The +money response is, "Truffle oil? Let me at it!!" I respectively declined the offer just in time to get out of the way as people of all ages and backgrounds leapt at the not-quite-a-bird. Gross. But I had plenty of other food to keep me happy. Everything was delicious but my favorite was the crab cake. Delectable.

Since this was the soft open, the chef came out of the kitchen, made a speech and mingled. As I started to approach him to congratulate him on his food, I spied with my eagle eye some servers laying out desserts in the back room. Compliments...chocolate...like I even weighed it. I RAN to the back and saw desserts of all sorts: Palmer House brownie, creme brulee, lemon bar, chocolate mousse thingie, something apple...I don't know. I just remember coming to at my table with a tray of desserts. They weren't all for me (in theory); I let my friends have some (one. To split).

As a paying customer, I don't know how I'd feel about this place. As a soft open invitee, I was GREATLY impressed.

Hopleaf Bar

5148 N Clark St
Chicago, IL 60640
(773) 334-9851

Knowing how packed Hopleaf is now, I am psyched that I discovered this place pre-Check, Please! (it loses something if you can't hear the lilt of "Check") because crowds make me crazy and crazy makes me cut folks and that's no fun - for the victim. Anywhoo - this place is truth!

Each time I come here is an exercise in gluttony. I suppose I shouldn't revel such tawdry details, but they are true. I came upon Hopleaf in a rather auspicious way. Some of my college friends were in town and they told me about a fabled Belgian beer garden in Andersonville. Really? In Andersonville? I'll check it out. The cab dropped us off a few blocks away and I looked to the left and right. On one side of the street was a garage/laundry/sweatshop/mob cover of some kind. On the other side was a leather bar. Immediately, I thought that my friends had played a cruel joke on me but our fearless leader implored us to move onward.

We walked a few blocks and arrived at our destination. Since this was a pre-Check, Please! event, we didn't have to wait long. But our wait wasn't that bad because we went upstairs and started drinking. And then we came downstairs and started drinking. And the we ordered food and started drinking. And then we unbuckled our belts, leaned back and started drinking. My friends stuck to the tried and true European goodies. I like variety, so I wandered from old school European to classic Belgian to fruity cherry to smoky chocolate to lagers to porters to ales to stouts. It was exciting and intoxicating (*rimshot*) to experience such great beers. Then we got in a cab, went to Lincoln Park and hit on college coeds. Yeah. Not one of my finer moments.

Another not-so-fine-moment of pure gluttony at Hopleaf: the mussels. I went there (again, pre-Check, Please!) with three other guys. We ordered the mussels for two. The waitress erroneously thought we needed two buckets. No. We needed four. And sausage. And cheese. And lots of beer. Just when I thought the evening couldn't get any more disgusting, two of my party DRANK the mussel bucket juice. I was shocked and sickened into sobriety. Surprisingly, one of them threw up.

Hopleaf: great food, amazing beer, poor choices.