Mattsland

I don’t keep my apathy towards food trucks a secret. In fact, I find the obsession with food trucks more than a little bizarre. I guess I just don’t understand the urge to scarf food on-the-go from a goofily named food truck that sounds like a reject character from Mario Kart. If I wanted to eat things on the street that badly, I’d just get something to-go from a cafe/restaurant/bakery. No shortage of those, people. However (and this is a big “however”), I make an exception for Isla de Cafe, a marvelous food trailer parked in Humboldt Park. 

                                     (Now that’s a food truck)

Unlike most other trucks, which scamper around town like frantic bumper cars, Isla de Cafe’s permanent spot in the park makes it reliably easy to find. Also, being within park parameters allows it to cook on board. Why more trucks don’t park it in a park is beyond me. The menu is concise and smart, with only a handful of Puerto Rican sandwiches, coffee drinks and pastries. Simple, simple, simple. And nary a thing on the menu reaches $4. 

Within two to three visits, I’ve become ceaselessly bloodthirsty for a couple favorites: the malloraca sandwich and cafe coco moka. The sandwich is much more than a sandwich. It’s my friend. And my crutch. Served on sweet, yeasty bread, the ham and cheese sandwich tastes more like a gooey ham and cheese doughnut. The sprinkling of powdered sugar over the bread may very well be sweetened cocaine, because this sandwich is ludicrously addictive. Regardless of the weather, a hot cup of cafe coco moka is the perfect foil to the malloraca. It’s basically a rich, thick mocha, but with the added delight of coconut! It tastes like vacation. 

         (Buttery sweet bread + ham + cheese = sweet and savory picnic fun!)

Isla’s convenient, sensible park location makes it perfect for a picnic. Which is just what I love to do. The rest of the city can chase after all those other food trucks. I’m happy with my Isla de Cafe. 

Some folks get excited for sceney Italian restaurants and the next stage of Next. Me? I give nary a damn. I just want pie. The most exciting Chicago food opening in recent memory for me is Bang Bang Pie Shop. At their quaint, cottage-like space in Logan Square, the Bang Bang peeps are serving up the kind of homey pies and biscuits that dominate bake sales and make Girl Scouts weep tears of jealousy. 

First off, the Bang Bang peeps are some of the nicest around. The primary forces behind the pie shop are a husband-wife duo. Their personalities and their vision makes for a hospitable, cozy environment in which to savor pie and kiss your will power good-bye. Trust me, I garnered the dubious honor of spending the most money on their opening day than any other patron. I know a thing or two about not having self-control. 

                               (Shaker lemon pie and a pig bowl)

The shaker lemon pie is unlike any lemon pie I’ve had before. The filling is marmalade-y meets custard-y, interspersed with sweet, chewy slivers of Meyer lemon. The sugary tang of the filling is the perfect yin to the flaky crust, which is thick and buttery, almost like a crisp cookie. Get in on that action. I also snagged a whole chocolate chess pie to-go. Infused with blood orange and olive oil, and flecked with Maldon sea salt, this is no typical bake sale chocolate pie. All together, it tastes and feels like a fruity slice of fudge. Here’s how good it is: when I tried to take a forkful, a large bite fell on the ground and I came dangerously close to eating it. Also, I wove a bracelet out of the twine used to secure the pie box. Delicious pie really calls to question the state of my psyche.

                                     (Let’s play chocolate chess!)

Bang Bang also has biscuits, “pie fries” (pieces of pie crust that are fried) and kickass coffee. I’m so smitten to have such an adoring pie shop in the hood, and I anticipate making this place my new “Cheers,” subbing coffee for beer and pie for Rhea Pearlman.   

Brunch at Belly Shack is kind of a big deal. First off, they only do brunch once in a blue moon or so. So when they do, it’s more special than church. This is counter service brunch with a concise menu that can stand up to and surpass most sit-down and obsessed-over brunch options in town. And nary a stroller in sight! Yet. 

Yesterday’s brunch featured a menu of 10 or so items. We wanted to eat all of them. We ordered about half the menu, so I guess that sufficed. To start, jalapeño cornbread with Belly Fire honey butter. The flavors were great (and that BUTTER!), but the texture of the cornbread sort of had the texture of an eight-year old’s vanilla birthday cake. Nothing wrong with that. Just noting it was more cake-y than bread-y. 

(Belly Shack’s signature Belly Fire sauce takes honey butter to sexy, spicy new levels)

I ordered the crispy shrimp and grits for my entree. I found it strange this was listed as a “special,” since essentially everything on the menu was a “special” that day. But OK. The grits punched me in the face with Asian flavors of kimchi and mushrooms. Almost overwhelming, had the grits not been so ethereally creamy and rich. The crispy shrimp is what TGI Friday’s crispy shrimp aspires to be (I assume. I know nothing of TGIF). Perfectly juicy and succulent, while enrobed in a thin sheath of crispy panko.

                              (Shrimp ‘n’ grits goes on vacay to Asia)

My boyfriend ordered the al pastor chicken sandwich with Chihuahua cheese. The bread was murderously crusty, so he set it aside and ate it open-faced. Still delicious. And we also shared the crispy French toast with mango. This thing out-crisps the crunchiest of crispy treats. And somehow, it all tastes like a well-fried doughnut. Served with sweet pieces of juicy mango and a velvety mango puree (maple has no place here). Ridiculous. I ate until I hurt. As is par for the course with Belly Shack brunch.

(Crispy is an understatement. French toast at Belly Shack is downright doughnut-y)

Restaurants, bars and barstaurants with ampersand-y names are nothing new. But this past week, I inadvertently took it upon myself to binge on ampersands and hit up three spots with &’s in their titles. It’s true what they say: food really does taste better with ampersands! 

Bread & Wine is a new contempo American restaurant in Irving Park. Kudos to them for opening a good restaurant in a neighborhood that needs it. Though the fact that this place used to be a laundromat is jarringly obvious. Weird store-meets-restaurant decor aside, I love the open kitchen — much more open than most open kitchens, actually. Menu is short and sweet, outfitted with obligatory cheeses, charcuterie, small plates and a few large. Blah blah blah? Not really. Our cheese/charcuterie plate was elegant and delicious, and my Southern-y pork loin with cornbread puree, Brussels sprout chow-chow and baked beans was bomb-tastic. Pork was perfectly cooked and tender, albeit a bit fatty in parts. Cornbread puree is so not the same thing as polenta, in case you’re wondering. Creamier, butteryer (sp? who cares) and just plain yummier. Sorry, Italy. We also ordered/enjoyed striped bass with fingerling potatoes, and a beef-chorizo burger (actually, beef patty topped with small chorizo patty. yay!) on a pretzel bun. Desserts were… dessert-y. Sweet potato doughnuts tasted like puffed nothingness, and the s’mores-inspired dessert looked like a soupy, gelatinous mess fit for a blind infant, if that. Popcorn panna cotta was fantastic, though the actual panna cotta part needed to set a little more. Or a lot. 

      (Bread & Wine “pork ‘n’ beans.” That innocent little chile is the devil.)

Go figure that after I move from Uptown, a darling cafe/bakery called Baker & Nosh opens shop in the neighborhood. I never thought I’d see the day Uptown got its own ampersand! Well done, guys. I heart this place. Love the open baking area, viewable via windows facing the street. Love the bracing La Colombe coffee and the array of fresh breads adorning the counters. Foccacia was the fluffiest foccacia I’ve ever seen. I could have napped on that thing, if it weren’t for the artichokes and the fact that I would have been ostracized. The pecan sticky buns were perfection. Nothing dry or boring about this thing. It looks wee and compact, but it’s loaded with caramel-y flavor, dense texture and ooey gooey-ness. To get technical. 

                     (Noshing on buns and things at Baker & Nosh.)

Lastly, I finally finally FINALLY made it to Owen & Engine. This lauded British barstaurant is basically down the street from me, so it’s ridiculous it took me forever and a half to get there. And now that I finally did, and now that I’ve experienced the best burger of my life, I’m planning on hating myself forever for all the wasted nights of not eating here. Firstly, the decor at this place is exquisite and mansion-like. Makes me want to play Clue: Real Life Edition. And then snuggle up on a lounge chair with a good monocle. Until then, I’ll just continue to stuff my face with more of that burger. My friend described it appropriately as “beef butter on crack,” which is spot-on, served on a warm, housemade bun as soft as a hug from an angel. Oh, and speaking of housemade buns, the bread plate has usurped Olive Garden to handily become the greatest “bread basket” of my life. Don’t pretend you don’t love O.G. bread sticks. You love(d) them too. Dessert was a tasty-ish punch in the face: double chocolate stout cake with barley ice cream. EXTREMELY stout-y. Be warned. 

                (Owen’s double chocolate stout cake: yow to the zer.)

I inadvertently celebrated St. Patrick’s Day this year. Every “holiday,” I only wear colors on the opposite side of the color wheel from green, I never eat Lucky Charms and I walk away from any rainbow I see. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten corned beef in my life, and this year was the first time I have ever eaten corned beef on March 17. I’d feel debased, but the fact that it was 2Sparrows’ corned beef sandwich on beer-rye bread quickly shut up my inner dialogue and kept me feeling above the green-clad drunken floozies stumbling around outside. I also picked up a few loaves of Boston brown bread from Floriole. For all you non-New Englanders, brown bread is a dense, molasses-y bread baked in cans and (ideally) slathered in buttah. And it’s a big fricken deal. Especially in the brown bread-deprived Midwest. Later that night, as the day’s revelers crawled into ditches, I picked up a couple chocolate-mint cupcakes from Real Kitchen. The frosting was blindingly green, yet miraculously didn’t taste like St. Patrick’s Day poison. Exquisite, actually. This is how decent human beings celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. 

         (Corned beefwich at 2Sparrows, complete with tater tots and dignity)