I apologize, dear readers, for my rather lengthy absence. A lot has happened in the past week. I went to 5 bars over the weekend, my computer’s hard drive seemingly crashed and I almost had a nervous breakdown, I ate a delicious Easter brunch, the Geniuses at the Apple store fixed my computer (yay!), and I have been writing reviews like it’s my job (which it is).
Whew! But anyway, here I am. There are so many places I want to talk about! I really must write more often. But alas, I have not, so I will try to be brief:
It seems my blog has inadvertently become about bacon. But who’s complaining?
Last week I went to Paddy Long’s, Chicago’s premier Beer and Bacon Bar. I’m not just saying that either. They have proclaimed themselves to be a Beer and Bacon bar because they serve excellent beer and a hell of a lot of bacon. YUM.
That’s where that crazy Bacon Bomb picture from the last post came from. Apparently they have this challenge where, if you can eat a bacon bomb and large basket of fries in under 45 minutes, you get your name on the Wall of Fame (Shame?) and a t-shirt. Only 3 have tried, and only 1 succeeded, and apparently he is a competitive eater and had to use a fake name so he wouldn’t lose his sponsorships. (I had no idea eaters had sponsorships…)
Anyway, the bacon is DELICIOUS, and they have a lovely craft beer list. So if you like bacon, there isn’t anywhere better to go.
I ate more pork last week at Sheffield’s, a fantastic BBQ place in Lakeview. This may have been my favorite place to review for my job so far. Partly because I really liked the vibe, but also because we got a free first round AND free samples of the pulled pork and Texas brisket. And by “samples” I basically mean a full serving of each. It was just a PLATE OF MEAT. Holy crap. I couldn’t finish mine, but that’s ok because Craig was there. He may have been more excited than I was. It was SO GOOD.
So for all you Southerners out there, or Southerners-at-heart, stuck in the cold and cruel city of Chicago, there is hope! Sheffield’s will serve you fantastic southern barbecue. You will feel all warm and tingly inside. Maybe because of all the beer you’re drinking along with it. But together, oh man, it’s like drugs.
If the title of this post offended you, well, I’m sorry. Ok I’m not, I can say whatever I want. My point is, I’m not trying to be sacrilegious or whatever. I just don’t do the whole let’s-go-to-church-and-be-excited-about-Jesus thing. Instead I drink and eat drunken French Toast to celebrate Easter. Also egg fights. But only when my mom is around.
(I am aware that sounded strange. Let’s just move on, shall we?)
There is this Irish Pub-turned-crazyfest in the Gold Coast called Butch McGuire’s. And they serve brunch on weekends. And the most amazing item on the menu is called Car Bomb French Toast. OH YES, I went there. Texas toast soaked in a mixture of Guinness and Bailey’s, served with Jameson-spiked maple syrup. I died a little inside. That and the double Bloody Mary, and I was drunk before noon. Best. Easter. Ever.
A WORD OF WARNING: Don’t go to Butch McGuire’s on a Thursday evening, because then you’ll be tempted to go across the street to The Lodge, which is gross and has peanut shells all over the floor, so then to make it up to yourself you’ll go to Finn McCool’s which is full of girls in short dresses and creepy guidos, and then you’ll try even harder to make it up to yourself by going back across the street to that other bar that I don’t even remember what it’s called and drink more beer and attempt to play basketball while a bunch of almost-naked chicks dance in the cage next to you, and you’ll be wasted and kind of want to cry because there are naked chicks dancing in a cage and you’re drunk in the Gold Coast and nothing makes sense anymore. Just don’t do it.
Ok, I must get back to review-writing. But expect more posts this weekend, because I have epic plans and will likely have more absurd stories to tell. Woot.