Short Cuts

Although few posts have made it onto the blog lately, we've been busy collecting material to add over the past month. Here's a snapshot writeup of several places where we've dined during this time (Ed. note - the brevity is not to suggest that these eateries are not each worthy of a full posting; rather, I've just reached the point where I can't catch up anymore and need to do a brain dump for sanity's sake as we approach the end of the year):

Reel Club - Oakbrook, IL

Reel Club is a relatively new venture for the folks at Lettuce Entertain You, popping up in the old Papagus space at Oakbrook Court Mall. My old friend Chad (who works across the street at McDonald's HQ) and I met up for a rare midweek lunch not too long ago and I suggested that we try it out. The focus here is on seafood and they seem to do it fairly well - I had a cup of the house gumbo to start, followed by a lobster roll (lobster salad served on a buttered brioche sandwich-style) that's probably among the better versions that you'll find west of the Adirondacks (it was served with tasty fried potato strings on the side). My friend's entree (pan-roasted tilapia in a creamy Shrimp Bienville sauce) was just ok according to him; however, we ate well enough to consider a return visit at some point.

Rudy's Hot Dog - Toledo, OH

The photo on top says it all - Hackknife Jr. is happily noshing on an original Rudy's Hot Dog (he rarely happily eats anything) while chili dogs await consumption on the tray in front of me. When we travel to eastern Ohio for Thanksgiving, the missus and I like to plan our meal stops at non-chain restaurants when time (and the progeny) allows. This year, we were passing through the greater Toledo area near dinnertime and decided to give Rudy's a go. The original location (not the one we stopped at, which wasn't far from the Ohio Turnpike) opened in 1971 and had the distinction of hosting the Commander-in-Chief earlier this year as he passed through town (this is how I first got wind of their existence). House specialties are the chili dogs and chili mac (chili served on a bed of noodles, like they do in Cincinnati). Our restaurant was pretty much empty (not surprising for 7:30 pm on a Tuesday night) when we arrived, so we had the run of the place, a good thing considering we needed to change Hackknifette's pull-up in the middle of our booth. Rudy's environs can be described as blue-collar casual with a lunch counter vibe, right down to the cafeteria trays and the rotating dessert case containing jello and pudding. My apologies to my Toledo peeps (sorry, Rob D., Mr. & Mrs. G, Tony J., etc.), but I have to play the Chicago hot dog snob card and say that I was disappointed in the hot dog itself, which appeared to be steamed instead of grilled and pork-based (we're spoiled with the prevailing Vienna Beef and kosher beef dogs around here). The fries were also somewhat mediocre, but props go out to the chili - if we come back next time through, I'll be sure to sample a plate of chili mac.

Howe Restaurant - Howe, IN

Our return trip from Ohio found us careening off of the Indiana Toll Road to the quaint hamlet of Howe (best known for a 19th-Century military academy with its doors still open) a few miles south of Exit 121. Mrs. Hackknife found online a potential lunch spot for us that was simply called "Howe Restaurant", yet had some surprisingly good reviews. The unpaved parking lot was jammed as we walked in to find a place even more blue-collar than Rudy's with a curtained-off smoking section to the left (I wasn't aware that such things even existed anymore). The food offerings were diner-esque, simple and American traditional. I tried the meatloaf platter, which consisted of a large slab of mediocre meatloaf atop a slice of white bread, drowning in a pool of gravy the color of espresso. Much better was Mrs. Hackknife's plate, swapping a gargantuan fried pork tenderloin (delicious, I might add) for the meatloaf on the same bread and gravy. Also happy were the elderly diners at the table next to us, all of whom seemed to be enjoying sinful-looking burgers. While the kids were making a pit stop, I had an interesting conversation with the owner, who was an ingratiating fellow channeling Robert DeNiro in both appearance and speaking manner. He told me he used to own Hollywood Grill (corner of North and Ashland) in Chicago, but got fed up with the crime/big-city headaches and decided to relocate to Howe in hopes of achieving a more laid-back lifestyle (he confided that he had been an "informant" for the government at one point and might have been joking, although after a minute or two of talking with him, I got the impression that this might actually be plausible). DeNiro's alter ego wished us well, thanked us profusely for stopping in, and sent us on our way with lollipops for the progeny.

Sprecher's Restaurant - Lake Geneva, WI

The kids, missus, and I recently took a weekend getaway trip to the water park (indoor water park, that is - we're talking about December in Wisconsin) at the Grand Geneva Resort in Lake Geneva, only about a 2-hour drive from the Commissary. The food onsite was what you'd expect from a place that caters primarily to children, namely mediocre pizza, burgers, and the like. On Saturday evening, for a change of pace, we ventured into town and had dinner at Sprecher's Restaurant and Pub, a dining outpost of the well-respected microbrewery of the same name in Milwaukee. Of course, we were able to sample some of their fine beers, including the El Rey Mexican, Octoberfest, and the Pub Ale. Mrs. Hackknife quite enjoyed her wienerschnitzel and spaetzle, served Holstein-style with a fried egg on top (ick), while I tried the drunken chicken, marinated in hefe weiss beer and accompanied by beer cheese potatoes with roasted vegetables (it was a little difficult to carve up a roast chicken with one hand occupied by a cranky and tired Hackknifette in my lap). We skipped dessert at the restaurant in favor of Snickers ice cream bars and local cheeses back at the resort following progeny bedtime.

Grand Geneva Brunch - Lake Geneva, WI

Our last meal before skipping town was brunch with Santa and Mrs. Claus at the Grand Geneva's steakhouse, a very classy operation in a very classy setting (as long as you overlook the fact that the resort used to be a Playboy Club back in the day). The spread offered here was impressive, with a food selection rivaling the better brunches I've had in Vegas. Some standouts that I recall were Chicken Cordon Bleu, a waffle station, crab cakes, prime rib, lots of fresh seafood, a bouche de noel (Xmas chocolate cake shaped like a Yule log), and a giant chocolate fountain with lots of dipping options, including pretzel rods (perfect for Hackknife Jr.) and pieces of Twinkie (perfect for me).

Roka Akor - Chicago, IL

A holiday cocktail party for Mrs. Hackknife's department on Friday night happened to deposit us right in the heart of the River North dining district with a few hours to kill before heading home to the babysitter (cue "Ode to Joy" here). Appetizers and a few drinks were not enough to take the edge off our appetites, so we mulled over a plethora of outstanding restaurant options within a short walk (Cafe Iberico, Frontera Grill, Naha, G&T Oyster Bar, Cyrano, and Crofton on Wells just to name a few) before settling on Roka Akor for dinner. Roka is a new place that bills itself as a "steak and sushi" parlor (although, up until recently, I believe it was "sushi and steak". Hmmm.) and it's been generating significant buzz since it opened the doors this past summer. Unquestionably trendy and filled with attractive-looking sorts (somehow, they decided to let me in), the main draw is the kitchen's robata grill that cooks food over imported Japanese wood (not unlike what we experienced at Raku in Vegas earlier this year). Given the waiting crowd, it appeared unlikely that we'd sit down anytime soon when we checked in, but the hostess managed to wedge us into a small table in the lounge almost immediately. Over a carafe of sake, we ordered a bunch of small plates per the server's recommendations, including wagyu beef and kimchi dumplings (very good), butterfish tataki with white asparagus and yuzu (extremely good, clean and citrusy and unlike anything you'd find at run-of-the-mill sushi bars), robata-grilled pork belly with marinated beet roots (sinfully good), crispy fried squid with chili and lime (just ok, pretty standard kalamari), and a tasty bowl of seasonal vegetables served tempura-style with a complex dipping sauce that Mrs. Hackknife said she hadn't had outside of Tokyo before. All told, the great food made us forget about the cramped quarters, ear-splitting din, and show ponies (and I'm conveniently ignoring the fact that I woke up very nauseous later that night, not sure which food item(s) to pin it on).

LM Restaurant/Paciugo Gelato

With the holidays closing in and Mrs. Hackknife traveling for work more than usual, we here at the Commissary have had little opportunity to post updates during the month of December. As a result, I've got a backlog of material waiting to be hashed out for your reading pleasure. In an attempt to catch up, I'm planning soon to do a multi-restaurant dump where I write maybe a paragraph or two about each in a single posting (I know, it's crude and a bit lazy on my part, but I don't see any other way to crawl out from beneath the ever-growing pile). Until then, I sit down this evening to pen a regular report that's been waiting for its due for almost a month.

As we are frequent diners and, by extension, frequent users of Open Table (OT), earlier this year Mrs. Hackknife earned a dining certificate from the good folks at OT entitling us to $20 off dinner at LM Restaurant, located in the Chicago neighborhood of Lincoln Square. During 2011, we tried a number of times to cash in said certificate, but we were never quite able to find an evening where we were both available and could get a reservation. With the expiration date looming in early January, I finally took the liberty of reserving a table for us on a Saturday night in November just so we could use it up. I'd heard decent things about LM, which bills itself as a "gasto bistro", a term that I'm not sure I fully understand (although it seems to involve fine French-inspired dining without the stuffiness - I'm ok with this). In my mind, I had images of steak frites and other good things that one can get at your average Parisian bistro; however, that perception wasn't entirely accurate as I'll get to in a minute. The restaurant itself is located on a busy stretch of Lincoln Avenue and isn't very big, at least not in the front dining room where we were seated. The decor is bright (yellow walls, orange booths) and modern, with tables close together and a relatively high level of background noise (not surprising given the small space). After settling in, we ordered our starters - I chose the salt cod brandade (garnished with piquillo pepper puree, olive oil, and brioche) and Mrs. Hackknife picked the foie gras torchon (served with red onion confit, strawberry, basil, and toasted brioche), both of which were very good. For the entrees, my lovely bride swooned over the prime tenderloin (she's a steak girl through and through), which was accompanied by pont neuf potatoes, wild mushrooms, and a bearnaise sauce; I opted for the Amish chicken, served atop sweet potatoes, chestnut and ham ragout, candied pecans, and topped with a few Brussels sprout leaves (see photo above). The bite of tenderloin that Mrs. Hackknife graciously shared with me was good (I'm not as much of a steak enthusiast as she is), but my chicken was absolutely fantastic (I commented to our server that I wished I could cook chicken like this at home - he agreed). In lieu of dessert, we did the French thing and ordered the cheese plate. We were presented with 3 varieties of cheese (Brie, Hook's Blue from Wisconsin, and Tarentaise from Vermont) with date/banana compote, more candied pecans, and nice bread. All told, with our certificate, it was a very affordable meal that certainly met our expectations on quality (I sense we'll be back).

As you might imagine, we were pretty full after all that indulgence, but not too full to have a little gelato on the way back to the car. It turns out that one of the better gelato chains around (Paciugo, currently 38 locations with one probably coming soon to a place near you) happened to be just up the street, so we ducked in for a little sweet refreshment. Paciugo started in Dallas in 2000, a scant 2 years after I left the Lone Star State (figures), and they offer a plethora of unique gelato flavors. I tried a sample of the triple chocolate and I was immediately blown away by it, while Mrs. Hackknife happily noshed on a Mediterranean sea salt caramel. While we've already designated Black Dog as our favorite downtown gelato stand and Zarlengo's as our close-to-home gelato fix, I'm pretty sure Paciugo will get our business anytime we're seeking dessert on the North Side...

Cushaw Squash-Apple Butter

The easiest way to tell that we're in the death throes of another farmbox season is that the squashes are showing up fast and furious. This year so far, we've received acorn, butternut, buttercup, and, just this past week, a lesser-known variety like the one seen in the photo above known as a green-striped Cushaw. At first, I hadn't the slightest clue what this monster gourd (about the size of a canned ham and weighing in around 8 lb) in my garage was nor did I have any idea what to do with it. After a bit of investigation, I determined that it's actually an heirloom (i.e., once popular, but now rarely found) squash variety that's now mostly favored in Southern locales like Tennessee, New Mexico, and Louisiana, primarily as a substitute for pumpkin (in fact, you might be able to find a Cushaw pie somewhere in Cajun country if you look hard enough). Some more digging turned up a recipe for pumpkin (or other winter squash) apple butter on a vegan cooking blog. I'm not normally in the practice of seeking out vegan recipes, but it looked appetizing/not terribly challenging and was a change of pace from the usual stuffed squash or roasted squash that are my fallback preps.

Like many squash dishes, the hardest part involves reducing the squash into a usable pulp for cooking. With this one, I simply chopped off the long neck, (carefully) sliced open the body and dug the seeds/guts out of the cavity, and roasted the halves face-down in a glass baking dish at 350F until tender (about 45 minutes). Once it cooled a bit, I peeled off the skin using a vegetable peeler, then sliced the meat into roughly 1-inch cubes. After plumping the raisins (which didn't really plump much) in apple juice, I threw the squash pieces along with the juice and raisins into a food processor and turned it on, praying that the liquid in the bowl wouldn't overflow onto my counter and cabinets (the mixture was above the danger level marked on the side, giving me a bit of pause - I had a bad experience once that started out like this). Luckily, no leakage occurred and I completed the recipe without incident.

When finished, the resulting mish-mash of applesauce, heirloom squash, sweeteners, and spices resembled not so much a butter as a spread or a slurry, if you will. Despite its appearance, it was actually quite tasty. I tried it on wheat toast, English muffin, and even straight up as a sweet side along with dinner. My favorite use ended up being as a topping for vanilla ice cream, echoed by Mrs. Hackknife. Tastewise, you couldn't tell that there was squash in there instead of pumpkin, and I think that the squash bits gave it a nice texture, almost comparable to coconut flakes. A week after the fact, I'm still enjoying the remnants (viva la vegan!)....

Once Upon a Bagel/Arriva Dolce

It's become clear to me that Highland Park (an upper-class suburb located on the lakefront north of Chicago, if you're an out-of-towner) has emerged in 2011 as the epicenter of foodie culture outside of the city limits. About every other week, I'm seemingly reading snippets about new cupcake shops, pizzerias, barbecue joints, diners, ice cream parlors, and farm-to-table bistros opening up in Highland Park, which already had a decent concentration of well-respected restaurants even before this flurry of activity. Fortunately for us here at the Commissary, Mrs. Hackknife's brother Dan and his family (including wife Michelle, friend of the blog) reside in Highland Park, providing us with convenient access to the nearby culinary delights. It was with that in mind that the progeny and I stopped by the house a few Fridays ago for a lunch date with Michelle and cousin Connor. The 5 of us trucked over in the minivan to a local delicatessen called Once Upon A Bagel (OUAB), which was recently cited in a Chicago Tribune article by food writer Kevin Pang as having some of the best bagels in town. When we walked in the front door, my first impression was that this was simply a bakery, with racks upon racks of fresh bagels lining the narrow walkway behind the counter (the aroma was, well, striking). Towards the back of the restaurant, however, were many tables for patrons stopping by for a meal, whether it be breakfast, lunch, or dinner - the menu is extensive enough that you could probably eat here daily for a month and not repeat a food selection. The portions were huge and were very reasonably priced, even taking into account the North Shore address. I opted for what is described on the menu as a grilled boat sandwich, that is, a meat (or tuna salad, in my case) topped with melted cheese and toasted on a fresh bialy (like a bagel, but longer), served with a pickle wrapped in butcher paper. The tuna salad was great, not gloppy with mayo like so many other places serve it, loaded with chunks of tuna. Hackknife Jr. dove into a large platter of chicken tenders with fries, while Hackknifette consumed an adult-sized hot dog in its entirety (that's my girl). Michelle was kind enough to let me sample both her matzo ball soup and her pastrami sandwich, both of which were delicious. On our way out, it was everything I could do to prevent myself from ordering a dozen bagels to go. I'm filled with sorrow that we have no comparable deli option within a 30-mile radius of the Commissary (support for moving north, I guess).

Although the day was gray, cool, and breezy, the kids had been good enough in a crowded restaurant during Friday lunchtime rush that us parents promised them a treat within walking distance of OUAB. About 4 blocks away is the newly-opened Arriva Dolce, a gelato and coffee bar that we were pleased to find open on a Friday afternoon in the middle of November (not exactly peak consumption time for gelato). Although they don't make their gelato in-house (according to their website, Palazzolo's in Fernville, MI provides the goods), what we sampled was excellent, including chocolate hazelnut, mint chocolate chip, and pumpkin cheesecake (my ultimate choice) for Fall. All told, this was a terrific way to cap off a terrific lunch date with the family. Now we only need to make about 16 more trips to Highland Park to visit the rest of the dining establishments....

Carolina Barbecued Pork/Cabbage-Kohlrabi Slaw with Salsa Verde

The dog days of summer mean 2 things (well, more than 2 things, really, but let's just assume that's true for the sake of this posting): last-ditch cookout recipes start appearing in the food publications and the humble kohlrabi starts showing up in my farmbox. Not content to simply chop it, boil it, and combine it with butter/Parmesan cheese (not a bad way to go, by the way), Wall Street Journal was kind enough back in July to publish a collection of cookout recipes that included a novel use for kohlrabi; that is, in a spicy cole slaw with salsa verde (see recipe here). This prep calls for combining shredded cabbage (also from my farmbox), grated kohlrabi, red onion, sea salt, mint leaves, parsley, thyme, extra-virgin olive oil, Dijon mustard, garlic, lemon juice, and shallot soaked in champagne vinegar. As far as cole slaws go, it's not creamy, but it packs quite a zing and marries well with barbecued meats, especially the pulled pork I made with it. The pulled pork recipe (see here) is provided courtesy of the folks at Crock-Pot and is the 2nd version I've tried. It's pretty much idiot-proof and requires no overnight marinading like the other recipe I attempted a while back. The Crock-Pot does all of the work and the meat is doubly enhanced by the Carolina-style bbq sauce, which is a mixture of cider vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, red pepper flakes, sugar, dry mustard, garlic salt, and a touch of cayenne pepper. Some of the sauce goes over the pork while cooking, with the rest reserved for mealtime. For an added flavor boost, I tried making a couple of pulled pork sandwiches with the slaw on the sandwich like they do in the South and it was mighty delicious (which is good, since, with a 4-to-6 pound shoulder, you'll be eating pork for a long time).

Chilled Beet Gazpacho

Way back in August (which seems a long time ago - it was 43F outside the Commissary today), Wall Street Journal published a one-page article on cold summer soups, including a chilled corn soup with fresh nutmeg, asparagus vichyssoise, chilled sake cucumber honeydew soup, chilled almond soup, and a chilled beet gazpacho. I don't have much experience doing soups (there was that basil-zucchini one not so long ago, which, oddly enough, didn't show up in this article), but we do get a lot of beets from the farm, so I made a mental note to try the gazpacho the next time we got some. Lo and behold, less than a month went by before some red beauties showed up - I decided to throw together our house meatloaf and pair it with gazpacho for a little change of pace at the dinner table.

The recipe (see here) was pretty much a snap. I roasted the beets in the oven (my usual prep for them) rather than steam them, with the end result being the same. The trickiest part was finding sherry vinegar (which, to this day, I still haven't located after checking numerous food stores) - I was able to determine via Internet search that red wine vinegar is a suitable substitute in its absence. The author states in the article that the gazpacho "has a pickled quality that is not for the faint of heart" and they're not just whistling Dixie. It does, in fact, have a pretty good bite to it if you prep it according to the instructions (Mrs. Hackknife was a bit turned off by this, but I soldiered on and was able to eat several servings of it over the next few days). Given the onion and garlic content, you'll be assured of keeping most people a safe distance away for a while following consumption....

Burt's Place

There is little dispute that Chicago is a pizza town. As a kid, I ate a lot of frozen pizza (Tombstone or Tony's were our mainstays) and a fair amount of delivered thin crust (from a place in Mt. Prospect called Rosati's), especially on Saturday nights when Mom was getting ready to go out with the girls and didn't want to fuss in the kitchen. Every other month or so, as a special treat, we'd pick up our favorite - deep-dish sausage from Geno's East, which conveniently opened a restaurant in Rolling Meadows not more than 10 minutes from the house (prior to that, if you wanted Geno's, you had to go to the original Superior St. location). This was the pizza I dreamed about when I was away at college or living in Dallas, where the best pie one could get (not to mention afford) was Pizza Hut or Domino's (shudder). Now back in Chicago, as a middle-aged adult with deeper pockets, I've had the pleasure of branching out a little beyond Geno's to try other great pizzas that the city has to offer, several of which I've written about in this blog (Louisa's, Pequod's, Stop 50, and Apart, to name a few).

A recent (September 29, 2011) article in the Tribune, however, reminded me that there are still plenty of untried options out there, for example, Burt's Place in Morton Grove. Burt's first appeared on my radar screen almost 3 years ago when watching a No Reservations episode filmed in Chicago. In the segment, Burt Katz (owner and head chef) comes off as something of a cranky crackpot, moody and seemingly unconcerned with small details such as consistent operating hours for the restaurant or even bothering to answer the phone for orders. In spite of these rough edges, Anthony Bourdain loved the pizza, speaking about it in hushed, reverential tones. I'd lived here almost my whole life and fancied myself something of a pizza expert - how had I not heard of this place, in the Northwest Suburbs (my neck of the woods), no less? Needless to say, I was intrigued and I filed the notion away for future reference that we needed to eat there sometime. Fast forward to September 29. The Tribune article is released and I get the vibe from reading it that Burt, now 74, may be starting to get the retirement itch. If this local elder statesman of the pizza arts (who opened his first place, Gulliver's, way back in 1965, and the original Pequod's, around the corner from his current place, in 1971) were to hang up his apron before I'd had the chance to try his food, would I be able to live with myself? Absolutely not. Would my readers ever forgive me? Don't answer that. Thus, I made the executive decision that Mrs. Hackknife and I would be going to Burt's for pizza as soon as possible, writing down Friday, October 21 as the date.

Burt's has no website, so I trolled the foodie boards looking for advice on how to secure a reservation. Since Burt does everything himself, you can't simply show up and demand to be fed, you need to call ahead a day or two in advance with your order. Many people posted that the line was always busy or just rang continuously. I tried getting through on the Tuesday before the 21st and got a recorded message that the restaurant is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Undaunted, I tried again on Wednesday at about 11:30a - Burt himself answered the phone (apparently, they run a lean operation). He wasn't cranky. He wasn't moody. He didn't spout off gibberish about how Kraft is controlling the world's population by dispensing inferior Mozzarella. He was cordial, polite, and patient, even as I hemmed and hawed over how many jalapeno poppers to get as an appetizer (2 or 4? No pizza for me?). I gave him my pizza order (pan style, sausage, bell peppers, and onions, extra large) and he told me to arrive 15 minutes before my requested reservation time of 7 pm so he could "get your drinks and get you drunk". I hung up the phone feeling relieved. It was almost charming to talk with him. I couldn't wait until Friday.

Friday night arrived and I drove to Morton Grove (about 45 minutes from the Commissary) to meet Mrs. Hackknife. I was early, so I made a little detour into a large Asian marketplace (much like Mitsuwa in Arlington Heights) in Niles that I happened to pass, stopping just long enough to pick up an 8-pack of little ping pong ball-sized walnut cakes from a food stand inside (dessert, you know). Burt's is located in an old blacksmith's shop (circa 1880) near downtown Morton Grove on a relatively-quiet residential street - it could be a neighborhood bar in any town anywhere. Upon entering, you can see why they want you to call ahead. It's small. The dining room fits about 10 mismatched tables that are pretty much on top of one another. There's a coat rack, a table to hold finished pizza pans (no room for them on the dining tables), and a plethora of clutter (old radios, model trains, autographed pictures) conjuring images of a long-departed elderly relative's basement. Some bloggers have complained that the place isn't clean, but I thought of it more as dusty character, no different than a hundred taverns/pizzerias that I visited as a kid all throughout the Midwest.

Burt's wife (who waits tables) came by to get my drink order. Not wanting to come off as elitist in this homage to lowbrow dining, I ordered a Miller Lite - she chuckled a little, explaining that they only offered better beers, like North Coast's Scrimshaw Pilsner (which I was happy to take in its place - the dining may be lowbrow, but the beer selection isn't). Out came the poppers and they weren't bad, but clearly this isn't why you come here. By this time, Mrs. Hackknife had arrived (she was about 10 minutes late) and a relieved waitstaff brought out our pizza. I think they were starting to get nervous and I suspect I know why - I had read in the Tribune article that Burt's kitchen is about as big as one might find on a submarine, so I suspect that they were taking up valuable oven space keeping our pizza warm. In any case, it arrived at our table fresh, hot, and, pardon my French, f^&*%#g delicious (see photo above). Most accounts I've seen regarding the characteristics of a Burt pie say that it's somewhere between thin and deep dish (sort of a "medium" dish) and I would call that accurate. The peppers were bright and flavorful, as was the sausage, which was randomly scattered atop the crust in large chunks. The sauce had a bit of sweetness to it and the cheese was well-distributed, not overly thick like you'd find in the typical deep-dish variety. The crust was rich, but not cloyingly so, and the signature band of burnt caramelized cheese was there, encircling the rim of the pie (subtly, I might add, not as prominent as Pequod's version). Every bite was perfectly harmonious - if there ever were a pizza that was precisely balanced between the crust, cheese, sauce, and toppings, this was it. It was so harmonious that I didn't think twice about downing two gigantic slices, behavior that would normally keep me close to a restroom the next day after eating deep-dish (no gastrointestinal distress here). Lucky for us, we had ordered the extra large, so there were precious leftovers to bring home.

Towards the end of the meal, I happened to glance towards the kitchen door and saw Burt standing there, briefly surveying his dominion before retreating back to the galley. Did it matter that he resembled an indigent Santa Claus? Did it matter that his pizza was served on plates bearing the IHOP logo? Did it matter that I had to jump through a few minor hoops to get this experience? Heavens, no. My only regret is that I can't eat this amazing pizza every week and I might only be fortunate enough to have it a time or two more before the ovens go cold and Burt wanders off into the sunset. Do yourself a favor, dear readers - get this pizza, get it now, don't wait. There may not be another chance....