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Thursday, October 25, 2001
Sandy is spending the next four weeks in San Francisco. When he gets homesick (I give him 72 hours) he should head down to Palo Alto, where he can get his Tom Skilling fix with the Bay Area's only cable system to carry WGN and he can dine at the original Pizz'a Chicago. (When I spent two years marooned in the Bay Area, I had three reasons to live in Palo Alto: WGN and slices of Great Chicago Fire, its rope bridge of cheese yawning from pan and mouth, were two of them.)
The fantastic thing about Pizz'a Chicago -- other than its pies; how is it that my favorite Chicago-style pizza is found in California and my favorite tacos have been in Chicago? -- is that it captures Chicago's flavor in a very non-plastic way. Its walls are festooned with the standard sports memorabilia, Royko columns and El signs, but one doesn't feel like it was all assembled in a Disney lab. There is serendipity and soul that together favor the lost, heartsick Cubs fan (is there any other kind?) over the slack-jawed tourist (again, any other kind?). Shtick without shmaltz. It is an achievement, this.
If we ever decide to set up shop outside Chicago, perhaps Second City homage could be our handle. Chicago comfort food, however, is a cornucopia that transcends deep dish and franks. There would be pho and pork buns, spinach pies and falafel, elote and peeled mangoes. And, of course, a beer list of Old Style, Berghoff and Schlitz, beloved Schlitz.
posted by Luke Seemann at 10:18 AM | Comment?
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