#big jones

[pretentious-ravioli]

Went out for Louisiana soul food in Chicago in honor of Mardi Gras and had the most exquisite meal, it healed my soul. There was also a 5year-old kid selling candy in the cold right outside the window. Him and his sister came in asking if I wanted to buy some candy from them. “Sorry buddy, I don’t carry cash.” Louis Armstrong blares in the background.

“Here’s your drink sir”

“Thanks! :D”

[eater]

Big Jones is the only southern restaurant outside the South that Bill Addison will actually eat in. 

[fatandfatter]

Brunch 6/7/2014: Big Jones, 5347 N. Clark Street, Chicago

Me: Eggs New Orleans.

The fiance: Bayou Teche omelet.

Shared: Beignets (free!).

MMMMMMM. This meal left me dying to go to New Orleans. Lots of big flavors in our dishes. The free powdered beignets were a nice start to the meal. I loved my poached eggs, which sat on top of Pontchartrain blue crab cakes and popovers. His omelet was so meaty, stuffed with Louisiana crawfish, andouille sausage, and cream cheese. Super crisp potatoes came with both of our entrees. So much for eating a light meal before our wedding cake tasting! 

[ellenmalloy]

A Bold Idea on Reviews

I got an email from an acquaintance in my tech world the other day. He was looking to get a reservation at a perennially booked restaurant and wanted to know if I could help.

I suggested that, of point in fact, if he was interested in celebrating his birthday at that restaurant, but couldn't get in, that he should go to Nightwood. He was sure to enjoy Nightwood a lot better anyway.

His response: the reviews at Celebrity Restaurant X were consistently good. At Nightwood, they were hit or miss. 

My response, after I recovered from the fact a guy who wanted to spend his birthday at Celebrity Restaurant X was mansplaining to me how to pick a decent restaurant: Actual food people eat at Nightwood and don't post reviews.

Paul Fehribach had a different take: Nightwood is a neighborhood restaurant. Random people likely stumble in and have no idea what they are walking into ... when they can't get a boneless, skinless chicken breast, they get mad and post a bad review.

Reviews. So scorned by insiders and so relied on by everyone else. 

I was reminded the level of how much everyone relies on reviews when I read about Yahoo!'s move to add Yelp reviews to searches. Ostensibly to keep up with the Googles, who integrated Zagat reviews a year or two ago.

So, just to be clear, now reviews for restaurants show up for anyone Googling or Yahoo!ing a restaurant, not just for the folks who actually take the time to look them up.

Although a lot of people look them up. And trust them.

Which makes me think that maybe, us food industry folks need to ban together and start posting reviews. For the sake of supporting the best of our industry if not just to start offsetting the din of drivel currently dished up.

Just a thought.

[surinam-unity]

Big Jones. De goede oude tijden

[rosetheclaw]

Fava beans, chicken wings and dandelions

Part of the allure of moving to Chicago was the chance to lap up all the cosmopolitan experiences I couldn’t get in Beverly Hills, Mich: sitting in lawn chairs in my apartment’s living room, running along the lake next to skyscrapers, getting humped on a crowded city bus.

But when I was invited to two dinner parties at my neighbor Matan’s apartment, I had my first taste of real big city experiences—the chance to be around a diverse group with ever diverse-r food.

The first dinner party was Passover. I got to schmooze in a pot-infused room with Matan’s friends from the University of Chicago, his California hipster roommates, and three large southern Indiana farm boys/chefs, who slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels next to half-drunk wine bottles.

“At my dinner parties, we eat ridiculous amounts of food and drink ridiculous amounts of wine!” Matan said with a grin.

 And ate and drank we did. We used our fingers to eat never-ending lines of juicy flank steaks, dandelion salad, homemade babaganoush, and grilled pineapples.

As I slumped back in my chair in a wine and food stupor, meat juice dripping from my lips, I thought in a wide-eyed Pollyanna way how lucky I was to there, to be around all these people and experience this amazing food—some of which I ‘d never heard of (you eat dandelions?)

The second dinner party was even better. My roommate and I went to Matan’s for a Monday night poker/BBQ night with two of his chef-friends, Drew and Adam, who cook with him at Big Jones.

This time, there was just as much food, but I had a more acute, sober realization. As an aspiring food writer, I had the rare opportunity to soak up these chef’s masterful food knowledge, to learn about the inner workings of restaurants, to see their techniques up close, and most of all, to be around this smoking circle of food fetish-ers. And I’d get to eat.

I grabbed my camera and a 6x4 sheet of paper, and eagerly followed the chefs around the kitchen, peering over their shoulders, interrupting their salt sprinkling by snapping pictures, scribbling down everything they said, and, like a 3rd grader, pointing at every dish and asking, “What’s that?” “What’s that?” I even pointed to a tube of mysterious green, mossy-looking balls, and asked my roommate, “What’s that?” “Weed.” she said. Oh. Do I sound like I’m from Beverly Hills yet?

All three chefs wanted to cook this feast on their one day off, and had been preparing for it since the a.m.

“I woke up this morning, and my hands were just going!” Drew said. “I couldn’t wait to cook.”

Being around these chefs was like hanging with the brothers from “Car Talk:” They were passionate, giggly, and knowledgeable. And like Car Talk callers, my roommate and I peppered the chefs with questions. But instead of getting irritated, they extrapolated on how to grill goat meat, what “fonde” means, and how to avoid getting burned or crying in the kitchen. I was in awe.

But the best part, other than learning how to grill goat meat, was the food.

I ate rich chicken livers with bacon, beech mushrooms and baby bok choy, sampled Matan’s homemade kimchi and homemade beer—a citrus blend that’s less bitter and much better than Blue Moon.

I dipped a soft pita into a creamy cucumber and fennel salad, and then tried a sweetly paired peach tomato pico de gallo, before diving into my favorite dish, grilled romaine and asparagus with cracked pepper and rice wine vinegar. So simple. But incredibly flavorful.

We ate a roasted goat’s leg stuffed with burnt garlic, a warm heirloom corn (which I learned is Mexican) and fava bean salad with dates and roasted garlic, and spicy smoked wings, rubbed with Louisiana hot sauce. And they still had to cook flank steak and brats. Whew!

As we finished, Adam rubbed his protruding tummy and grinned, “I love food. I love being full.”

Me too. Here I was, sitting with three chefs, eating fava beans and chicken wings. Could life get any better?

[matildazq]

I always say that if I had a time machine I'd use it for trivial things like going back to see my dog as supercute hound puppy. I might also use it to relive this dinner.