Smoque

"Hey. Hey wait a second"

Engaged in conversation we turned around wondering who could be yelling at us to stop. The neighborhood, basically Pulaski and Addison, was fine so it was unlikely some fiend was after us, but just the same one never knows.

"Hey, I hear you're doing a bar be que tour!" the voice said as it caught up to us.

For this, we turned around to see none other than one of the partners of Smoque, a newish bar be que joint located on Chicago's northside.

"Yup, not sure when I'm leaving, but we're definitely going" I said.

"And get this", one of my dining companions piped in, "his daughter actually requested the trip!"

"Unbelievable, you're a lucky man".

And so, there on the sidewalk on Chicago's north side, four aficionados of the art of smoking meat spent the next 20 minutes trading stories, bar be que thoughts, and most importantly for me, recommended stops in Texas for the best in beef brisket.

Such is the passion, of the proprietors of Smoque. Despite more than one request by the staff to come back inside and help serve the crowd, our new found friend stayed with us, because when it comes to bar be que, fellow travelers take care of each other.

You can read it all in the four page manifesto on Smoque's website of course, but even then you only get a taste of the passion these boys have for their art. I was particularly interested in their Texas recommendations because, like them, I for a long time did not "get" beef brisket. And like the boys at Smoque, I dedicated myself to exploring this exotic side of bar be que because, I figured, if an entire state is dedicated to the dish, well then, there must be something there. While I limited my investigation to the repetitive smoking of countless briskets, the boys at Smoque did me one better.

They went to the motherland and ate. To hear them tell the story one gets the sense that this must have been some kind of trip. "We drove thirty miles one way for brisket and then sixty miles back the other way for more!" I'm told. Over the course of 3 days, 15 to 16 joynts were visited. When I ask for some must stops I'm told to "go to Austin", and then once there try Mikeska Bar be Que in Taylor, and Louie Muellers'. "Kruez, which we've all heard so much about, isn't all that good" is another thought.

So between my buddy Scott, and the boys at Smoque, I think I"m beginning to zero in on some very nice Texas based targets for the Pursuit Bar be Que Tour.

But what about the que at Smoque?

In a word, it is very good. Ok, that is two words but you get the idea.

The trip to Smoque began like any other. I left the office about 6pm and drove down Pulaski looking for the place. Oddly, in spite of the fact that I was looking at odd numbers (Smoque is at 3800 North Pulaski) it never registered that I was watching the wrong side of the street! For most restaurants this might have caused me to zoom right by, but of course this wasn't the case with Smoque. As I drove within a block or two of the place, the scent of burning wood began to play on my senses and I knew that I was in the right area. Realizing I was looking at the wrong side of the street, I turned my head and saw Smoque; a smallish brick building next too an auto repair place. I pulled into the lot (there was also plenty of street parking) and went inside.

The restaurant is small - no more than 20 tables. The way the deal works is that you go up to the counter place your order and then pick out a table. On the night we were there, there was a small line to the counter and all the tables were full. Happily, one of Smoque's partners was out front and came over to take our name.

"Nice bottle of wine you have there" he said noticing our 2003 Ridge Lytton Springs. "I'll take your name and then when a table opens get you seated before your order is up". True to his word, our table was ready in about 5 minutes. "Stem ware is over by the pop machine" he said pointing to the soda cups that other diners were loading with ice and pop. We all had a chuckle and took our seats. Our order was ready in about 3 more minutes.

When our que arrived, it was just as we had ordered; Pulled pork, sliced brisket, a half slab of baby back ribs, and a half slab of St. Louis ribs - each served with a different sauce. Our sides were some fabulous baked beans, corn bread, and mac cheese.

The pulled pork was very good. The smoke was just right and the pork was very tender. The good folks at Smoque paid attention to detail as well, making sure that my order contained a well balanced mix of crusty outside meat, and moist inside meat. The combination melted in my mouth, providing a sensory experience that every bar be que fan has come to know and love. Looking for a quibble, I might say the pork was a tad mushy, but this, as I said is just a quibble. After our meal was done, I went back and ordered a second batch.

Oddly, the brisket, which Smoque's manifesto says was the last addition to their repertoire, was in my view, their best dish. Unbelievably tender, with excellent smoke and a wonderful sauce, I really enjoyed the brisket and thought about ordering another batch of that as well. One of my pieces was a tad on the fatty side, but all of it was so tender - it parted at the sight of my fork - and so flavorful that I highly recommend you order it if you have a chance to go.

The ribs we quite good too. A nice rub was present on the crust, and the meat, while coming of the bone with minimal effort, had lost none of its flavor or texture. Inferior joynts never seem to learn this important lesson and do awful, criminal things to meat in order to achieve the over rated "falling off the bone status". Make no mistake, the boys at Smoque have not fallen for this ruse, and I would bet that they would agree that such people should be locked up for their crimes.

The sides were generally good. Cornbread was tasty and the mac cheese had a terrific cheddar flavor, but suffered a bit from being too grainy. The beans, however, were out of this world. Cooked in the smoker, at first taste they reveal a very sweet flavor that is then overtaken by a nice smoke and vinegar taste that leaves you wanting another spoonful immediately.

All in all I recommend Smoque as one of Chicago's finest. Knowledgeable diners will know that such a recommendation can be viewed as a sort of best hockey player in Ecuador kind of rating, since truly fine que is difficult to find in our wunnerful city. I intend no such slight, so allow me to be clear.

Go to Smoque. It is a very good example of the wonders that passionate pit masters can do when they set out to combine meat, smoke and spice with the added ingredient of patience in the pit.

Go now.

Announcing The Pursuit World BBQ Tour

Readers here will know a couple things about me. I love my wife, I love my two daughters, I just got a new Harley (perma-smile) well in place, I like to shoot guns, I fashion myself as some sort of wine sophisticate, and I am an original movement conservative.

I also love Bar-be-que.

Mad about it actually. So much so, that during my involuntary sabbatical a couple of years ago I ordered a couple 50 gallon steel drums, borrowed my brother in law's killer saw (I think he calls it a Saws-All), and proceeded to cut, punch, and screw until one drum was horizontally in place above the other drum with a big ole chimney coming out of the top. World's greatest smoker people, and its called the Big Baby.

So anyway, this year my 15 year old daughter is not going to camp and somewhere along the way I suggested a Dad and Daughter vacation while her sister is a way. Didn't really have anything planned, just kind of figured we'd put something together that would be fun. And I ended up looking at some pretty cool trips; Hiking in Utah, a dude ranch in Wyoming where we could ride, shoot and eat, Fishing in Alaska are just a few of the things we considered.

Yet none of this stuff seemed right. I mean it would have been fun, but I just didn't think a structured sort of "we ride at 8am to a chuck wagon breakfast" was really my sort of thing, and frankly PD1 (Pursuit Daughter 1), didn't seem into it either. So we talked and came up with all sorts of ideas, but nothing clicked. Nothing, that is until PD1 uttered the magic words.

"Dad, what about the BBQ tour".

For years, you see, I've been promising (threatening?) to take the family on a road trip that hit all the major BBQ spots in the US. Starting in Chicago we'd travel south to St. Louis for the famous pork steak, over to Kansas City where they do magical things to ribs with smoke and sauce, down to Texas for beef brisket and hot links, and then up to Memphis for the chopped sandwich. The cool thing about this trip is not only the food, but the side benefits. We can hit Graceland, go to the crossroads and share a beer (she is 15 after all) where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul and became the world's greatest bluesman. Speaking of the blues we can hear some great blues in Memphis and damn, if we plan it right, we could even stop by Dollywood for a hoot.

Sounds great eh? Of course it does. And the fact that my daughter thought it would sound cool to be in the car with her old man for a week of BBQ, blues and good yuks makes it a fantastic way to sample some of the best of Americana!

Here's where you come in. I need names. I must have the names of the best BBQ joints each of these locations has to offer. No spot is too seedy, out of the way or obscure for this tour. In fact the more obscure, the better. The only thing that counts is that the que must be among the best there is.

But get me this info pronto people, because like any good road trip we haven't planned the dates. We will leave at a moment's notice and hit the highway for our great adventure!

Hmmm...Now I Wonder What Ethnicity These Guys Are?

Doesn't seem to be mentioned in the story...

Sweet

As I mentioned over in the comments section at The Functional Ambivalent, I have purchased a new vehicle. For years I have wanted a Harley. Bikes would pass me on the street, and I'd oogle just as other men might leer at some young thang walking down the street. I'd see bikers give each other the cool biker wave and I'd just drive on in my Volvo 240, a Harley guy wannabe.

Those days have come to an end people, for I am the proud new owner of a 2007 Heritage Softtail (click pic for full impact cool). Smooth, sweet, and so very, very powerful. This is a lovely machine. I've had it for two weeks and already I've logged 300 miles.

Today I woke at 5:30 and by 6:00 a.m. I was out the door. I cruised down Sheridan road, onto Lake Shore Drive and into the city. At 4:00 I left a bit early and did the reverse route. Sheridan road, which runs along the west side (coast?) of Lake Michigan is truly one of the great drives in America, and I was able to enjoy it in all its splendor from the seat of my Softtail.

Behold!

A New Face

I've been a bad blogger of late, and for that I am deeply apologetic. I could blame pretty much anything; work, family obligations, etc.... but the truth is I just couldn't get with it. Lost my interest.

I think I know why this has happened. The obligation to blog just took over. It was all about the post, and not about the writing. Of course some would argue that it was never about the writing based on what I was putting up here, but that is an argument for a different time.

It all hit me today on the train home. This thing that I've done here for three years isn't about my obligation to post or even to entertain my readers. This thing is about what I'm thinking, what happens in my life and what makes life worth living. So I'm not going to feel guilty about not posting. Hell, I take back that apology!

Anyway today I had kind of a cool experience.

I've been riding the Chicago North....check that, Metra - they called it the Chicago Northwestern when my dad rode it - for years. One of the things that has not changed is that in this automated world we still have conductors on our trains. Not only do we have conductors, but the guys we have are lifers. Conducting is their career, and every day the same familiar face is there to say hello and take our tickets.

Today we had a new conductor on the train. To non-commuters this probably doesn't seem like a big deal. Guy comes into the car and announces "Tickets!" and then leaves. Perhaps we have a quick chat with him at the stop while he opens the door, but our relationship isn't really all that deep.

None-the-less these guys, and yes they're almost all men, become a daily part of our lives and we all develop a certain familiarity with each other. I remember back when my dad rode the train to between Chicago and Arlington Heights, that I was always so impressed with the conductors. They wore neat, clean uniforms, had good haircuts and went about their duties in the most professional of manners. It is no different today. In a world where male fashion generally starts with an announcement of some sort of team or brand loyalty, the Metra conductors are an important link to the past when men were men, and working an 8 hour shift was honorable duty.

And so these men have our respect and to some degree our friendship. Today, when we had a new conductor it was a moment for pause. Although he was a new guy, he obviously was from conductor central casting. Clean cut, sharply pressed white short sleeve shirt, blue pants and conductor's hat. He took our tickets quickly, unobtrusively and allowed us to continue with whatever we were doing with a minimum of disruption. When we got to our stop, he opened the door, reminded us to "watch our step" and wished us all a good night. We returned the sentiment.

As I sat there a thought hit me. I'm middle age. In 20 years, hopefully less, I'll be retiring and my years on Metra will come to an end. Hopefully, if all goes well, I may just have met the conductor that will caution me to watch my step, and instead of wishing me goodnight will say, "enjoy the rest of your life". He'll board the train, close the door and the cycle will continue.

I should probably get to know his name, don't you think?

Caption This

"Yes, let me try to explain thees one more time Meeess Nancy"

"You have theese two wires. One ees red and one ees green. Eeet ees very, very important to press at thee same time"

"At the same time Mr. Assad? Or do you mean one first and the other second"

"No Meees Nancy. Same time! You must press SAME TIME!"

"And should I have my unseasonable falling leaf scarf over my head, or fashionably draped over my shoulders, Mr Assad?"

"Who do I look like to you Mees Nancy?! I am not that Karl Lagerfeld man! I am Bakshir! Optomitrist and (alleged) murderer of Amir Taheri! You must press theee buttons Meees Nancy! Press them hard....at theee same time!"

"And tell me again what happens when I press the buttons...I seem to have forgotten"

"Ahhh, sacre bleau! You press theee buttons when you get close to Booosh. Then we will have regime change"

"Oh they're magic buttons then! Ooooh I so like magic buttons. They remind my of my coed days in the all girl dorm. Why there was this lovely young lass - talk about a magic button - who joined our floor when I was a senior. She was very impressionable, and I sort of took her under my...."

"Enough! I can't take anymore of thees. Just poosh thee buttons Mees Nancy!"

"She was blonde, and eager to learn....."

"Ahhhh why can we not find a man to do theees work?! Does anyone have John Kerry's cell number!"

"An Extra Visible Inch on My Pe***s"

How many times have you heard those words spoken in a product endorsement? Well ok, a lot, but that is just because you're spending too much time listening to under billing sports radio stations.

Check out this link to Amazon. Pretty good yucks.