Tag: food

Al’s Beef


Little Italy, Chicago, Illinois

I went to Al’s Beef with my sons today. Why? Because my sons asked me to take them. Why? Well, I was wondering the same thing myself. They heard about Al’s Beef from the Travel Channel, a restaurant TV show, that showcased Al’s Italian Beef. When they first mentioned going to Al’s Beef, I said okay, nonchalantly. They probably thought I wouldn’t take them because I didn’t sound that enthusiastic. They even doubted if I had ever heard of Al’s Beef. But, nay, I had stories to tell them about Al’s Beef. And told them, I did. Hesitantly. I really thought they would cut me off. But they didn’t. In fact, they kept asking me for more details. This was the longest we had talked in a long time. Luckily, it was about a subject that was near and dear to my heart. Chicago food!

Ah, the memories! I have been going to Al’s Beef since the 1970s, but I couldn’t tell you the exact date. They may be getting a lot of television exposure now, but Al’s Beef is a veritable ghost town in comparison to when I used to go in the 1980s. The place used to be packed, especially in the summer. I remember going there with my friends Jim and Vito. Sometimes I went with my running friends after track practice. We would eat in the parking lot and go across the street to Mario’s Italian Ice for dessert. Then, we’d sit in the parking lot drinking beer! Those were the days.

Al’s Beef is a little different today. It’s the same building. It still has the same charming decor. And, for as long as I can remember, they always have someone working behind the counter who speaks Spanish. It is a universally acknowledged fact that Italian beef tastes better when it’s served by a Spanish speaker. I remember my friend Jim had a crush on a Mexican girl who used to work there. As single men, we often ate at restaurants. But when he discovered this Mexican girl at Al’s Beef, we ate there at least three times a week! I must admit that she was pretty, and she had this cute Mexicana accent. I asked Jim, “If you married her–” “Do you really think I have a chance with her?” he asked me hopefully. “Let me finish! If you married her, would you really enjoy her coming home smelling like Al’s Italian Beef?” He smiled so I could see a sweet pepper stuck in his teeth and said, “That would be like dying and going to heaven!”

DDR

Tortillas in space


Tortillas de Chicago

Well, I was watching the ABC World News the other night when the announcer told me not to go away because the next segment would feature the latest space shuttle mission to repair the Hubble space telescope. Of course, I continued watching because I have always been fascinated by space stories and not because I was merely obeying the announcer’s order to stay tuned. So, they talked about how the astronauts trained for the mission and how they picked different foods over the course of a year. The astronauts got to choose foods they liked, but the foods had to be practical. I was extremely surprised that one food to make the trip to outer space was the tortilla, which the astronauts really liked. And it was practical because it didn’t leave many crumbs and they take up less space than bread. I really didn’t think that NASA would be all that concerned about space since they can fit the Hubble space telescope, the size of a school bus, in the cargo bay. Bread wouldn’t take up that much space. Besides, they were going to outer space that extends to infinity. Or even further. But tortillas beat out the bread anyway. Knowing the average intelligence of the average American, I would be surprised if any Americans even know that tortillas are the staple food of México.

DDR

Eat healthy, die anyway


Even the sign points to White Castle

I’m hungry. But I’m on the way to the doctor today to get an echo something or other to kind of test on my heart when I realize that I’m hungry because I forgot to eat earlier. I pull into White Castle because it’s the only “restaurant” near the doctor’s office. Well, since I’m going to the doctor anyway, why not have a few sliders? The reason the doctor recommended the test was because I went for a physical and he recommended an EKG in his office. It was quite painless until he read the results–you know that chart that just has a bunch of squiggly lines. He spotted an “event” in those lines. He said it could be nothing, but I should take another test just to be sure I was healthy. I wondered if my diet contributed to my “event.” I only worry about these things whenever I go to the doctor. However, I haven’t worried about this for years because I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the doctor. I know I stopped going quite a few years ago when my family physician died of a heart attack.

Anyway, a man–I didn’t even know his official title–did an ultrasound of my heart in the doctor’s office. He wanted to know why I was having this test done and I told him about the “event” that could be nothing at all. Well, he told me that a cardiologist would look at the pictures of my heart and then determine if I had any problems. This ultrasound guy gave me his unofficial opinion; he didn’t see anything wrong with my heart. So, I worried for nothing about taking the test. I probably took it for nothing, but I felt comforted by the fact that I have health insurance. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so guilty about eating those sliders.

DDR

¡Buen provecho!


Back of the Yards, Chicago, Illinois

What I love about going to Mexico is all the attention I receive from my relatives who are genuinely happy to see me. They ask me many questions about my life, in particular, and life, in general, in America. The only problem with this is that they tend to ask me these questions while I’m eating. So I am always the last one done eating.

I’m a slow eater anyway, but answering questions slows me down even more. And they ask rather personal questions, too. But everyone is so honest when speaking that I feel compelled to answer their questions honestly. And no one judges anyone about each other’s behavior. At least not that I noticed.

So, how did I enjoy a good home-cooked Mexican meal with everyone insisting that I answer their questions? Well, I didn’t want to be rude, so I answered every question immediately. Of course, sometimes I answered with my mouth full of food because I was caught off guard by the timing of the questions. I guess I was being rude by talking with my mouth full just because I didn’t want to be rude!

DDR

Division of labor


Flautas con arroz y frijoles.

In Mexico, whenever I sit at the kitchen table, the first female who sees me immediately asks me what I want to eat, whether I’m hungry or not. As an American, I feel guilty. No matter whose house I visit, the same thing always happens. As a guest on vacation, I don’t really have a schedule to follow, so I spend a lot of time in the morning just hanging out, which I don’t mind at all because I’m on vacation to rest up for when I get back. And I just plain like hanging around doing nothing anyway. Usually, I don’t sit in the living room. Most Mexican living rooms resemble museums because they are on display, but they are not meant to be entered except on those very special occasions when the entire family is present. So, when I wake up at my host’s house, I tend to go to the kitchen to talk to an uncle or cousin. If we make a mess in the kitchen, no one really cares. If the living room gets messed up, heads will roll!

Well, in Mexico, the woman is responsible for many of the household chores. So if I’m sitting in the kitchen with my uncle, the first female who enters the kitchen fires up the stove and asks what we’d like to eat. She then looks in the fridge and lists the possibilities for breakfast. I usually don’t eat breakfast, so I always say that I’m not hungry. But no one ever seems to believe me and they continue cooking anyway.

I must admit that I did enjoy all this attention and I actually started to like eating breakfast first thing in the morning. I was served breakfast at every house I visited. One cousin once served me breakfast, but forgot to give me silverware. The kitchen was full of hungry guests, so I got up and got my own silverware. When my cousin sat down, she saw me eating my soup with a spoon. She suddenly realized that she forgot to give me silverware. She apologized profusely and wondered how I got my silverware. I said, “I have feet and I have hands. I got my own silverware.” Everyone stared at me in amazement!

Then came all these questions about my life in Chicago. Everyone knew I was divorced and lived alone. Who prepared my breakfast? Who cleaned my house? Who did my laundry? They were amazed when I told them that I did most things for myself. This idea was so foreign to them. A man taking care of himself? How could this be? I don’t think any of the females really believed me.

DDR