Big Jones

(clockwise, from bottom left: wood-fired oysters, tete de cochon, cornbread, pickled vegetables)

The following is a paraphrased transcript of a recent conversation I had with the missus:

Mrs. Hackknife: We've been eating out too much.
Me: How do you figure?
Mrs. Hackknife: We're supposed to be saving money for a new house, yet I think we've been eating at expensive restaurants more frequently this year. Do the math. How much do you think we've spent eating out over the last 3 months?
Me: Well, let's see.....there's been Next, iNG, Vera, Mercat, Vie, the Portage, Yusho, Goosefoot, El Ideas, oh, and that whole Grand Cayman food fest thing, which pretty much dwarfed the rest. Hmmmm....I see your point.
Mrs. Hackknife: Starting now, we need to dial it back some. No more $200+ meals for a while.
Me: What about Father's Day? Do we need to go to Arby's?
Mrs. Hackknife: No, just try to find a place that's not so....extravagant for a change.

So, my quest for a cheaper Father's Day dinner began. The beautiful thing about living in Chicago is that we can eat well at all price points; thus, it wasn't exactly a chore for me to locate an in-demand restaurant that wouldn't empty the wallet. My choice: Big Jones (5347 N. Clark), the city's best (and only, I think) eatery devoted to Southern heritage cooking. What is that, you may ask? Southern heritage is a new trend advanced primarily by Chef Sean Brock that showcases historic dishes from the southern United States, sometimes using once-prominent, but now-nearly forgotten grains (such as Charleston gold rice) and vegetables. This movement is big not only on the farm-to-table, use-the-entire-animal ethos that's in practice almost everywhere now, but also includes the focus on foraging made famous by Chef Rene Redzepi at Noma in Copenhagen. Chef Brock and his two restaurants (Husk and McCready's in Charleston, SC) were the focus of an amazing article in the New Yorker last year; if his recent level of national attention is any indication, he's become the chef most likely to de-throne Grant Achatz as this country's culinary pacesetter for the near future.

Having read enough about Southern heritage cooking to want a piece of the action and with no money for a trip to South Carolina in the budget (well, other than that one already planned for July, and don't think I didn't try to schedule a detour through Charleston), I figured Big Jones (helmed by Chef Paul Fehribach) would be the next best way to experience it. So, Mrs. Hackknife and I headed up to Andersonville one warm Friday night for our foray into Dixieland dining. The annual Midsommerfest (celebrating all things Sweden, whose emigrants once resided here in large numbers) was in full swing just up the street from the restaurant and I was surprised to see how upscale the neighborhood had become, chock full of antique stores, trendy bars, and specialty stores catering to yuppies/alternative-lifestyle practitioners. We settled into our table at a half-empty Big Jones as I studied the decor, which seemed to be a Disney-esque representation of a New Orleans parlor room. After a thorough menu review, Mrs. Hackknife and I decided to order a selection of spectacular-sounding appetizers in lieu of larger entrees.

My wife cradled a martini and I sipped on my first-ever Sazerac (from a circa 1850s recipe - rye, absinthe, burnt orange, cane syrup, and bitters, definitely stiffer than the sweet bourbon cocktail I enjoyed at Vie not long ago) as the plates arrived. First up were some complimentary cornbread muffins, baked with cornmeal and hominy, clearly more flavorful than your average Jiff cornbread from a box. This was followed by a slew of terrific house-pickled vegetables, including ramps, red onions, asparagus, chow chow (a southern version of piccalilli, a relish of various chopped pickled veggies mixed with spices), okra, and, of course, plain pickles, although there was nothing plain about this dish, all spice and crunch and acid. Sadly less successful was the Cajun-style tete de cochon (hog's head pate), which was surprisingly bland despite its having brandy and peppercorns in the meat blend - even the homemade rye bread and bourbon/brown sugar mustard couldn't rescue it. The situation greatly improved with the emergence of a knockout seafood plate: a half-dozen Virginia oysters, grilled over pecan wood and topped with a decadent Creole mignonette, bread crumbs, and garlic butter. The smoky, rich oysters paired perfectly with a glass of Tyranena Rocky's Revenge bourbon brown ale. Slightly less laudable, but plenty good Deviled Crab a la McGee's Branch (circa 1940, from an old Savannah, GA cookbook) came next, containing lump blue crab meat, cream, house-made Worcestershire sauce, white wine, and mustard (like spinach artichoke dip on steroids) accompanied by hickory toasted bread.

We managed to swallow down one more savory platter (Cajun boudin balls, a mix of spicy pork liver and rice sausage breaded and deep-fried) before moving on to the tremendous desserts, when Mrs. Hackknife had her best-ever strawberry shortcake and I overindulged on warm dark chocolate and black walnut tart, served with salted caramel, puffed rice, and smoked buttermilk ice cream (they really like using smoke here). Other than the misstep on the pate, the vast majority of the meal really excelled and I'm looking forward to our next visit (which may include the progeny at brunchtime). If Southerners eat this way all the time, I'm starting to rethink the outcome of that whole Civil War thing....

Shrimp Scampi

Every now and again, I'll hit a road block when meal planning. The severity of the block is usually in direct proportion to the number of factors I'm juggling in my mind when trying to identify possible recipes (Is is relatively simple? Can I make it while the progeny are preoccupied with an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba? Will they eat it? Will Mrs. Hackknife be out of town? What needs to be used up in the farmbox/pantry/refrigerator? Do I really need to eat more beef this week? Do I own a springform pan?). You get the idea. This past week's block seemed more excruciating than most, even to the point where I may have threatened to swear off cooking indefinitely (at which time Mrs. Hackknife told me to stop stressing and just by more "pre-fab" stuff like Stouffer's, a comment that resulted in the veins nearly popping through my forehead). After wild forays flipping through numerous cookbooks (some of which, such as "Irish Pub Cooking", rarely see the light of day), I finally stumbled upon something that satisfied whatever outrageous criteria I was grappling with: shrimp scampi. The recipe in question appears in a volume of Food & Wine dishes (entitled "Reinventing the Classics") that was included in the swag we brought home from Grand Cayman. Right up at the top of the page are all of the bullets that I like to see when assessing a new recipe: "Basic-Easy!" "Fast!" "Make-Ahead!" "Staff Favorite!". Not needing further convincing, I forged ahead with plans to make my first-ever batch of shrimp scampi, something I'd hardly ever eaten outside the walls of Red Lobster.

I quickly discovered that this shrimp prep is about as idiot-proof as you can get; it's basically shrimp cooked in compound butter. I found a 1-lb bag of large (22-30), raw, tail-on frozen shrimp on sale at the local ethnic grocery store, thawed them, peeled off the shells and pulled out the poop chutes as best I could, dabbed the compound butter over them, and baked them in the oven at 450F for 10 minutes. The recipe calls for 3 lb of shrimp, so I scaled ingredient quantities down for a smaller amount, using only about 6 Tbsp. of butter, 2 garlic cloves, 1 tsp. of chopped parsley, 3/4 tsp. of lemon zest, 1/2 tsp. of lemon juice, and a dash of dried thyme. With an imitation Italian loaf from Trader Joe's (not my first choice, but it was the best I could do on short notice) and some braised celery w/pancetta, we had ourselves a fine mid-week meal (at least Hackknife Jr. and I did - Hackknifette poignantly declined to touch her shrimp) and several days of lunch leftovers. Given the high cholesterol in the shrimp and butter (not to mention the pancetta - ay, caramba), this won't be a frequent dish in the Commissaary, but I believe it'll make a tasty appearance, say, 3 times annually...

The Portage

For a couple of years now, a core group of managers from Mrs. Hackknife's department at work and their respective spouses have tried to get together at least annually for a nice dinner out (it was during one of these dinners that I posted about The Publican back in late 2010). Now that word has gotten around the office that I maintain a food blog, the job of picking the restaurant for this group has fallen largely on my shoulders (which I'm happy to do, of course - I relish the rare opportunity to receive positive feedback from adults instead of continually absorbing abuse from my kids like most days). For this go-round, I chose an American bistro named The Portage (3938 N. Central), an option that I've kept in my back pocket for a while. The Portage opened in 2010 in our old neighborhood of Portage Park (hence the name), located only about a mile away from the townhouse on Milwaukee Ct. that we used to call home (they could have had the decency to open up BEFORE we moved away, but I'm not bitter or anything). It's conveniently situated in-between Edison Park and Roscoe Village, which is where the other two couples in the group reside (i.e., no complaints about having to travel to some far-flung locale), has garnered its fair share of positive attention from the local foodie press, and is also featured in our magic $10 off coupon deck, making it a slam dunk for this year's manager dinner (as we call them) this past Friday night.

I'd read in some of the reviews that the place was cramped and I'm here to tell you that they weren't kidding. Somehow, the owners managed to fit (not comfortably, I might add) a host stand, around 10 tables for seating, and a small bar with approximately 6 barstools in a relatively small front room. While waiting for the remainder of our party to arrive, I simultaneously sipped on a Founder's Dirty Bastard Scottish ale (which was quite refreshing) and repeatedly dodged out of the path of oncoming patrons and servers that had little space to maneuver. Once seated at our table, things became a little more comfortable (although I did have to beg my way out of the corner once to desperately use the restroom towards the end of the meal). Since we had a large group, we took advantage of the kitchen's propensity towards small plates and ordered a barrage of them to share. Most of the dishes sounded and looked delicious; sadly, not all of them hit the mark. A scrumptious pile of thick duck fat fries with aioli for dipping were soft and lacked the outer crispiness that I normally crave from fries. The house-made bacon crackers that our server assured us was "the most difficult item for the cooks to make" were oddly bland and grainy. Better were the bacon-wrapped dates with blue cheese sauce and an apple cider gastrique (a vinegar and caramelized sugar sauce). I was also won over by two off-menu specials: a zingy lump crab salad (alas, I only managed to snag about 2 bites) and a house-made gnocchi (ditto). I also bit (so to speak) on our server's sultry description of a pork barley soup featuring 4 different cuts of the pig - the soup consisted of a rich (not greasy) broth, tender barley, and savory chunks of said pig.

While there were many entrees to consider (fried chicken and Idaho brook trout among them), I went for the grilled octopus special with fried fingerling potatoes and cornmeal okra. Unfortunately, I wasn't enthralled with my decision. While the okra was good and the octopus was nicely charred, its tentacles remained very chewy, almost rubbery in some cases (I felt like my jaw got a pretty good workout). The dark and fruity Les Abeilles de Colombo Cotes du Rhone I washed it down with helped ease the situation. The meal also improved during dessert - most of the table went gaga over house-made ice creams featuring flavors like buttered popcorn, bacon, and goat cheese, but I was perfectly happy with my decadent (but small) flourless chocolate cake topped with a scoop of custard-like Maker's Mark ice cream. All told, despite the inconsistencies of the food, the service was solid and attentive, keeping the members of our party from getting thirsty (I think we must have nearly cleaned out their entire allotment of North Coast Scrimshaw Ale) and bringing out complimentary tastes of certain requested items (like that Maker's Mark ice cream). I'd like to give The Portage another shot to win me over at some point, but I will definitely avoid grilled cephalopods for a while...

Art of Pizza/Belly Shack/Margie's Candies

My career as a Chicago Greeter was only 1 visit old before I had been asked to conduct my first-ever food-focused tour (apparently, when you tell the people in charge that you have a food blog, they tend to steer the foodie tours your way). A young couple from Toronto was all set to go on a "non-touristy" dining jaunt with me on a Sunday afternoon, perfectly timed to hit the street taco vendors at the new Maxwell Street Market (allegedly the best in town) and the tail end of the weekly Pilsen Farmer's Market (probably more good tacos, plus exotic fruit drinks, Latino baked goods, etc.). My stomach quivered in anticipation as the day approached. Unfortunately, on the morning of the tour, my guests had to cancel due to injury (a sprained ankle kept one of them laid up in the hotel in lieu of pigging out). Luckily, I had already been scheduled for a 2nd food-only tour later in the week, this one taking a young medical student from Australia around to find deep-dish pizza, ice cream, and some example of our varied ethnic cuisine (a broad topic, for sure). While not quite as adventurous as my earlier planned tour, I was still eager to take up the challenge of crafting a dining itinerary for us that seemed to fit the bill.

My guest and I left the Chicago Cultural Center (C3) on a sunny Tuesday afternoon and hopped on the Brown Line towards our first destination. Although you can get deep-dish pizza in lots of places around the city, I discovered that very few of them sell it by the slice (and as much as I wanted to indulge in a whole 5,000 calorie pie in a single sitting, I thought it prudent not to do so). One of them is called Art of Pizza (AOP) (3033 N. Ashland), which happens to be a favorite of ours from our city dweller days way back when. The restaurant is located in a strip mall only about 6 blocks away from the Paulina stop in the Roscoe Village neighborhood. When we arrived about 2p, the place was pretty much empty and we had our pick of the deep dish pie selections rotating in glass cases behind the counter. My guest went for the cheese and pepperoni, while I opted for cheese and sausage. By the slice, AOP only charges $3.50, even for deep dish, which is clearly the best deal in town. The pizza was just as good as I remembered, delicious crust, sauce, and cheese, well-balanced and studded with tasty pieces of sausage. Although Australia guy didn't say much about it (too happy enjoying his slice), he seemed very pleased with my recommendation. Since I anticipate that lots of out-of-town visitors will be jonesing for our local specialty pizza, I suspect I'll be making AOP a regular stop on my food tours.

From pizza blistonia on Ashland, we hopped on the No. 9 bus southward to Armitage Ave., then walked about a mile westward through Wicker Park until we reached one of Chicago's better 6-corner intersections for foodies (that would be Milwaukee, Western, and Armitage). To satisfy my guest's ethnic food request, I tried to kill 2 birds with 1 stone by bringing us to Belly Shack (1912 N. Western), a self-styled Korean-Puerto Rican Fusion cafe with casual eats and a hipster vibe. Founder and chef Bill Kim is Chicago's answer to David Chang, finding a niche in taking traditional Korean food and making it accessible to the uninitiated locals in more well-known forms (such as meatballs, hot dogs, and barbecue). We both chose the #1 Special, succulent slices of Korean barbecue beef served with kimchi, ssam paste, scallions, and flatbread on which to make little sandwiches. Everything on the plate had amazing depth of flavor and I had difficulty stopping myself from clearing my dish (still needed to save room for ice cream, you know).

Feeling pretty full, but in obvious need of a palate cleanser, we walked a short distance north to the historic Margie's Candies (1960 N. Western), one of the city's best-known ice cream parlors. In business since 1921, Margie's was a favorite haunt of both Al Capone (alleged) and the Beatles (not alleged - the Fab Four stopped in after their 1965 show at Comiskey Park with some female "fans" they picked up to get a few atomic sundaes). When we entered the store (which is much smaller than I expected), we saw dusty cases filled with Beatle memorabilia and other bric-a-brac collected over the years (reminding me very much of the old basement decorating style seen at Burt's Place). Other than the candy counter and a few booths, there really wasn't room for much else. Decor issues aside, my guest and I each ordered small sundaes, which arrived at our table in white clamshell-type dishes and, of course, were much too big for the $5 or so that each cost. I stuck with the traditional vanilla ice cream, dipping my spoonfuls (and the complimentary wafer cookie stuck into the sundae like a lightning rod) in the sinfully-good hot fudge/marshmallow sauce mixture in a little gravy boat next to my scoops. I quickly ran out of steam, but was totally satisfied by the experience and made a mental note to bring the progeny by at some point (they're both ice cream aficionados). Just in case we were still hungry, I had lined up a 4th stop on the food tour (Barcito in River North for some Basque-style tapas); however, we agreed that this wasn't necessary (burp) and began making our return towards C3. Hopefully, word will get around Australia that Chicago food tours are now in effect and I'll be getting requests from many visiting Aussies for nosh enlightenment....

Mercat a la Planxa

As part of Mrs. Hackknife's promotion last year, her firm began paying dues for an annual club membership to assist her with client relations (because nothing promotes business development more than a steak and a glass of nice Bordeaux). The club that she chose, the Union League Club of Chicago, has an impressive list of member benefits, including access to a fine dining restaurant in the club's building called the Wigwam. We received a packet of coupons to use as new members, one of which was a complimentary 3-course meal at the Wigwam with the purchase of a second comparable meal. With the coupon expiration date fast approaching, we decided to book an online reservation to eat there this past Memorial Day, right after attending the Cubs' 11-7 drubbing of the equally-horrendous Padres (thus ending the North Siders' 12-game losing streak - you can call us slumpbusters if you want). After a quick change of outfits from ballpark casual to business casual in the club restrooms (dress code, you know), we proceeded to the 3rd floor of the club to find a completely dark and deserted Wigwam, closed for the holiday. After some consultation with the bell desk, we came to the conclusion that the online reservation system failed to recognize the fact that the restaurant wouldn't be open on Memorial Day, leaving us out of luck for dinner. On the bright side, however, this gaffe left us free to choose another dining option in the Loop; after some brainstorming, I came up with the idea to walk about 7 blocks towards the lakeshore and stop in at the historic Blackstone Hotel (best known for its infamous "smoke-filled room" where Warren Harding was selected as the Republican nominee for the 1920 presidential election, plus the Al Capone baseball bat-bludgeoning scene in "The Untouchables"). The Blackstone is where Chicago-born (and now Philadelphia-based) chef Jose Garces chose to open his first hometown restaurant back in 2008, a Catalan tapas bar called Mercat a la Planxa. Now in its 5th year, I had long kept it on my to-dine list, but never had the opportunity to try it until fate intervened in the form of garbled holiday dinner plans.

When we entered the hotel lobby, we found the entrance for the restaurant somewhat hidden through its small 1st floor bar (called Bodega No. 5), then up the stairs to the soaring dining room on the 2nd floor, a trendy space with an open kitchen (described somewhat cryptically on the website as "mod-Mediterranean") and big windows overlooking Michigan Avenue/Grant Park. As it was fairly early for dinner (5:30p), we pretty much had our pick of tables, settling into a corner banquette. Since tapas was being served, sangria must be drunk (I think it's a law or something), so I chose a glass of the house seasonal sangria (featuring strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries) with my lovely wife picking the house white version (with bartlett pear, peach, and sage), both of which were refreshing. Our server brought us a complimentary appetizer of toasted bread covered with a spread of fresh tomato and olive oil puree that was divine and I inhaled my slice without leaving any crumbs behind. Looking over the menu, we settled on a number of different small plates in lieu of the specialty entrees (such as paella and cochinillo asado, or whole roasted suckling pig), which began to arrive in quick succession. A tumbler contained two almond-stuffed and bacon-wrapped dates, each skewered and resting on a bed of chopped slaw (jicama?) - our server poured a melted cheese sauce over them, adding a rich creamy element to the smoky/sweet dates. This was followed by a vegetable course (although that's a bit misleading since it came in fried form) of an empanada stuffed with spinach and cheese, served with piquillo pepper and tangy artichoke escabeche (i.e., fried and marinated). A braised rabbit agnolotti (something that you're more likely to see on a menu at a Northern Italian restaurant) came next, served with a smear of roasted chestnut puree, studded with brandied cherries, and topped with brown butter foam - the slightly-precious presentation did nothing to diminish the knockout flavor combination of the parts involved. Our subsequent plate was the obligatory pork belly (by this time, I'd moved on to the house red sangria, not as good as the first one), covered in a sweet cider glaze and accompanied by a crunchy Granny Smith apple-black truffle slaw. The pork belly was slightly better than the lamb meatballs we selected to close out our initial round of ordering, which were just average (and a tad undercooked).

To finish things up, Mrs. Hackknife suggested that we get the cheese plate instead of dessert - as always, the smart lady made a good call. We picked the chef's selection of 3 cheeses: a Cadi Urgelia (raw cow's milk) with a sherry-bacon caramel, a Garrotxa (goat's milk) with a roasted garlic dulce de leche, and an Ombra (sheep's milk) with an orange-guindilla pepper marmalade. All three cheeses were great and paired phenomenally with their respective dipping sauces, with the sherry-bacon caramel receiving Mrs. Hackknife's vote for best stuff on Earth. In fact, the cheese plate was so good (and a pretty good value at $16 to boot) that we mentally noted our return just for this item at some point when a late-night snack was needed following a special occasion (like after the opera, for example, or Thursdays). Overall, Mercat may not be our favorite tapas bar in town (I believe Vera currently holds that title), but it certainly belongs on the short list...

Fennel, Chili, and Yogurt Roast Chicken/Nutzie's Pulled Pork

It's springtime, and that means farm chicken time at the Commissary. Two 4-lb beauties from J&D Moore's farm in Watseka were waiting for me in a cooler next to my weekly vegetables the last time I made a pickup. Frequent readers of this blog will recall that I'm always looking for new and ingenious ways to cook up chicken beyond the standard roasted or fried varieties - Wall Street Journal's May 10-11 weekend section again came to my rescue with a recipe for fennel, chili, and yogurt roast chicken, provided courtesy of Chef Ignacio Matto from Brooklyn's Isa Restaurant (there are also instructions for a parsley salad, but I skipped that this time). The recipe prep is really simple, consisting of using a mortar and pestle to grind whole black peppercorns, fennel seed, garlic, red pepper flakes, and salt into a paste that coats the chicken (along with a little olive oil). After 10 minutes on a hot broiler pan in the oven, Greek-style yogurt is spread on the pieces to further tenderize, flavor, and cut some of the spice. You can see my results in the photo above (which, granted, doesn't look all that appetizing - my photo skills could use some work). The final dish was a little more aggressively spicy than I was expecting (the progeny, loath to touch anything with more flavor than a Grape-nut, of course declined to participate), but certainly not unpleasant. The 10 chicken pieces I managed to (sloppily, I might add) butcher from the whole bird were nicely tender, juicy, and fully cooked after only 25 minutes of oven time. I suspect we'll be eating this variety of roast chicken again sometime, possibly marinating the chicken for a couple of hours in advance per the chef's advice.

In the same newspaper issue (a page or two farther in), I found a nice recipe for mom-and-pop pulled pork, developed over the years by a Massachusetts restauranteur nicknamed "Nutzi", whose version includes a pork loin (with or without bone) roasted in the oven for several hours in lieu of wood smoking (the addition of liquid smoke provides the missing wood flavoring), then slathered in homemade barbecue sauce. I wasn't exactly seeking a new pulled pork prep, but I clipped the recipe nonetheless and filed it for a future occasion where I might need to feed a large group. Coincidentally, that occasion arrived sooner than I planned as 10 adults and 7 kids came by the Commissary for a little Indy 500 watching party this past Sunday. I was able to track down a 5.5 lb bone-in pork shoulder (no loins around) at my local ethnic grocery and brought it home. I placed it in a Dutch oven with about 2 cups of beef stock to help keep it moist and about a tablespoon of the liquid smoke (which is pretty potent stuff, I soon figured out, making the house smell like a bonfire in short order), covered it, and cooked it until it was fall-apart tender, about 4 hours. Once the pork is ready, the instructions call for you to combine it with a generous helping of the barbecue sauce, a bright red and tangy concoction with ketchup, Dijon mustard, apple cider vinegar, onions, garlic, brown sugar, honey, tomato paste, Worcestershire sauce, chili powder, salt, and black pepper (whew). The meat tasted pretty good to me without it, but not wanting to deviate, I took a leap of faith and dumped in the sauce, which melded pretty well with the pork (although I might tone it down a little next time). For chow time, I served the sauced meat with hamburger buns, sliced gherkins, and a mustard cole slaw from one of my Saveur issues (I think I wrote about it here last November). Feedback from the visitors was pretty positive, with about 4 of the 5.5 lb of meat disappearing into the ether. As of this posting, I'm still happily working on the leftovers and waiting for the wood smell to completely fade from the family room upholstery....

Lucky's Sandwich Company

In my never-ending quest to utilize my frequent Cubs tickets as an excuse to explore the dining minutiae of Wrigleyville, I stopped in at a relatively new joint for dinner before first pitch at a recent evening game. Lucky's Sandwich Company popped up on my radar screen when the family on one of my greeter tours mentioned that they had to try it while in town because "it had been featured on Man vs. Food". Now, I don't usually rely on that show as my most reputable measure of approval (if you haven't ever seen it, the places that the host, Adam Richman, visits all have some sort of mega-eating gimmick), but given that one of its two locations is close to the ballpark (3472 N. Clark) and their showcase menu items are sandwiches piled high with meat, cheese, fries, AND cole slaw (a la Pittsburgh's Primanti Bros., the originator of this sandwich style, allegedly devised so that truckers could eat the whole meal with a single hand while driving), I made a mental note to try it sometime this season.

When I arrived at Lucky's about an hour prior to gametime, I found a small bar/restaurant styled in the faux rustic manner now most commonly found all around the ballpark (What happened to the Mongolian bbq place? Where are the sushi bars of my 2002?) packed with Cubs fans, most of whom looked to be in for a long night of drinking. I squeezed into a single seat at the corner of the bar and placed my order, a pastrami and cheese with a complimentary glass of Chicago's finest tap water. The sandwich arrived as advertised (see above), a monster in a basket. Napkins in tow, I proceeded to eat about 3/4 of the thing before calling it quits. Quality-wise, it wasn't the worst sandwich I'd ever had and the price (only $7.50) was certainly right, especially for this neighborhood. The fries weren't bad (although I doubt they were hand-cut in the little kitchen, given the daily volume they must go through) and the slaw had a nice crunch/tang to it. My two main complaints were 1) they sure didn't use much meat and 2) the bread was just plain white, a little thicker than your average supermarket loaf, but really nothing special. After doing a little post-meal analysis on the web, I saw some pictures of comparable Primanti Bros. sandwiches that appeared to have similar meat mass/bread type, yet I recall its version (from my one and only encounter with it in 2008) to be much more satisfying. Could it be that the 70+ years of practice in Pittsburgh results in a better product? Higher-quality ingredients? The answer may be one or both of these things. In any case, I wouldn't recommend Lucky's outright for a meal, but I could see myself returning with a group of friends for a late night snack to soak up some excess beer....