Chicago’s Vella Cafe: It’s not just for breakfast [and lunch] anymore

The popular Bucktown breakfast/lunch/brunch spot now serves up pizza three nights a week.

Looking at Vella Cafe’s airy, inviting space, its high ceilings festooned with a dozen or more vintage school light fixtures, it’s hard to imagine the place began as a panini stand under a 10-foot by 10-foot tent at Chicago’s Green City Market a couple of years ago.

Owners Sara Voden and Melissa Yen soon expanded their repertoire by hosting a crepe brunch at Kitchen Chicago in the summer. Later, they expanded again, trading their tent for a space with four walls and central air, tucked up against the Blue Line el tracks at the Western Avenue station, offering breakfast and lunch weekdays and brunch all day Saturdays and Sundays. Vella Cafe’s menu runs the gamut, from crepes and quiche on the weekend to panini, egg dishes, pancakes, a delicious sweet potato hash, house baked pastries and coffee. There are always vegetarian offerings too. On their website, they say their goal is “to become a part of the community by providing friendly service, a comfortable atmosphere and good, affordable food.” I think they’ve already achieved that.

Now they’ve expanded again, offering dinner three nights a week [for now]. From 5pm to 9pm Wednesdays through Fridays, Vella serves up a mostly pizza menu, along with salads, mac n’ cheese and desserts. Pizzas are the definite stars, 11-inch hand tossed pies with generous toppings and big flavor. Vella claims these pies serve one or two—we found that they easily serve two, especially if you split a salad as well. But go ahead and order one per person—they’re a mere 10 or 11 bucks each, and there are worse things than leftover pizza the next day. Vella Cafe is BYOB, which makes it an even bigger bargain.

Since discovering this little gem under the el tracks, we’ve eaten there countless times for the weekend brunch [which is not your typical overblown, overpriced affair, a plus in our book]. The food is unfailingly delicious and the entire staff is wonderfully welcoming. Now that we’ve tried the pizza, we know we’ll be back for that. You should get there too, before pizza nights are as bustling as their weekend brunches. You’ll find their complete menu [minus the daily specials] on their website.

Vella Cafe
1912 N. Western Ave.
773/489-7777
Monday – Tuesday, 7am – 3pm
Wednesday – Friday, 7am – 9pm
Saturday – Sunday, 9am – 3pm
Delivery available

Forget “Walk Like an Egyptian”—it’s time to eat like an Aztec

Ready to think way outside the bun? Chicago’s Field Museum is teaming up with more than a dozen area restaurants to give us a sampling of truly old school Mexican food, a Taste of The Aztec World. This weeklong, multi-venue celebration is part of their exclusive exhibition, The Aztec World. Acclaimed and up-and-coming chefs and mixologists will create dishes and cocktails with the Aztec empire’s cuisine in mind.

That cuisine, it turns out, has a lot in common with what we think of as traditional Mexican food. Plenty of maize [or corn] for tortillas, tamales and pozoles [soups or stews], for example. Lots of legumes, vegetables and fruits. And maguey, or agave, a native Mexican plant with broad, long, spiked leaves; it resembles a cactus plant, but it’s not—in fact, it’s related to lilies. I’ve seen these large, impressive leaves [often two feet or more in length] in produce departments of Mexican supermarkets in my Logan Square neighborhood and wondered what they were for. I’m still not clear how home cooks use the leaves, but agave nectar is a very sweet syrupy liquid that you can use like honey—in tea and coffee, on pancakes or French toast or in desserts… Agave is also used for making high-end tequila as well as mezcal and pulque, fermented maguey juice whose boozy origins actually predate the Aztecs. Seafood was also an important part of the Aztec diet, as it is in modern Mexican cuisine. Continue reading “Forget “Walk Like an Egyptian”—it’s time to eat like an Aztec” →

Pigging out: The week in pork

It seemed pigs were everywhere last week. On the cover of the Chicago Reader, in front of an old favorite grocery store and, most deliciously, in a glorious bowl of Udon noodles and pork broth in a wonderful new restaurant.

Writer Mike Sula is a self-proclaimed unrepentant omnivore. Working with Chicago’s leading weekly, the Chicago Reader, he undertook “The Whole Hog Project”—a year-and-a-half-long series in which he followed the progress of three young American mulefoot pigs from piglet to plate. Mulefoots, so named for their uncloven feet, are a rare breed; they numbered fewer than 200 just two years ago. Ironically, it is the farming of them for food that will ensure the breed’s continued existence. And it is farmers like Valerie Weihman-Rock in Argyle, Wisconsin, who are undertaking the task. As Sula’s article puts it, she reasons that “raising happy, free-ranging heritage mulefoot pigs for meat made up in some way for the millions of confined swine that live short, miserable lives before they’re churned into Smithfield hams and Spam.”

“The Whole Hog Project” isn’t always an easy read. Sula describes transporting the pigs, whose names he knows, to the slaughterhouse—a small, humane operation where the animals are handled gently, but a slaughterhouse nonetheless. He and others in the project witness their demise and butchering. Then they transport them to Blackbird, an elegantly austere restaurant on Chicago’s restaurant row along Randolph Street. Here they are destined to become a six-course dinner prepared by seven of Chicago’s top chefs.

For me, the central point of the article and the issue is that if we choose to eat meat, we should honor it. Sula references a New York Times op-ed by farmer and author Verlyn Klinkenborg about “the moral necessity of watching, if not participating in, the slaughter of animals he raises.” Reading Sula’s thoughtfully written piece has given a face to the idea of humanely raised meat, or three faces, to be more precise.

Before there was Whole Foods, before there was Trader Joe’s, there was Treasure Island. The venerable Chicago chain was opened in 1963 by the brothers Kamberos with the stated mission of providing “a supermarket that would combine the conventional with the best of specialty, imported and domestic products at competitive prices.” Julia Child dubbed their creation “The Most European Supermarket in America.” Sadly for us, Treasure Island had slipped from our radar screens for a while. Well, it’s back. And here are a few reasons why. Continue reading “Pigging out: The week in pork” →

Chicago’s Field Museum presents a visual feast, “Food: A Cultural Journey”

Penny De Los Santos is an award-winning documentary photographer known for her sensitive and evocative food, travel and landscape photography. Based in Austin, Texas, she’s a regular contributor to a number of publications, including Saveur, National Geographic, Sports Illustrated, Newsweek, Time, Latina and Texas Monthly.

Recently, she spent a year traveling to 13 countries, photographing food and spending hours chatting with culinary teams—from chefs, to sauciers, to line cooks—as they shared stories of their cuisine. The result is a sumptuous journey through Mexico, Brazil, India and Europe, exploring how growing, gathering, preparing and enjoying food are rich expressions of culture and geography.

On this culinary odyssey, De Los Santos met Sweden’s Locavores—creators of the movement to eat locally, reduce the carbon footprint of food and support local growers. De Los Santos photographs everywhere—from dhabas [truck stops] in India, to all-male private dining clubs in Spain’s Basque region. Her photographs demonstrate that no matter the setting, true enjoyment of food is our most common thread.

The Field Museum in Chicago is hosting an evening with the photographer Tuesday, October 21, as part of their National Geographic Live! at The Field Museum series. The series features some of the world’s top photographers, scientists, explorers and adventurers on stage for an evening of animated conversation, multimedia presentations and audience participation. You can purchase tickets for this event online from The Field Museum.

“Food: A Cultural Journey”
Tuesday, October 21; 7:30pm
The Field Museum
James Simpson Theatre
1400 S. Lake Shore Drive
Chicago

Chicago’s Downtown Farmstand: A fresh stop for Chicago locavores and food lovers

Chicago just gets it. Quality of life, greener living, supporting local food producers… The latest proof is Chicago’s Downtown Farmstand, a city pilot program and downtown retail outlet for “edible local products, all produced within 250 miles of Chicago,” as their website says. Run by the city’s Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with Chicago’s existing local and sustainable food communities, the store just opened October 1. It promises “fresh fruits, vegetables and herbs in season; a full range of condiments, preserves, seasonings and other dry goods items; baked goods and other seasonal items as available.”

We visited this past weekend and found a wide selection of precisely that. Heirloom tomatoes from Illinois, pasta from an Amish community in Indiana… And this gorgeous partially baked pie made with cherries from Michigan, from First Slice Pie Café in Chicago, a self-funding charity that provides access to wholesome food for those living in poverty. We finished the pie in our oven at home and all but finished it off in one sitting [we did have company, I’d like to point out]. There were fresh herbs and produce, dried beans, jams, pickled mushrooms and more from small, independent local producers. One of our favorites, The Spice House, was well represented with a selection of dried herbs and spices.

There were some other surprises too, proving that pride for local food production knows no size. They carry Morton Kosher Salt and Bay’s English Muffins, for instance, both local favorites produced for decades right here in Chicago. And salsas and chips from comparative upstart Rick Bayless’ Frontera Foods.

For farmers and local producers, Chicago’s Downtown Farmstand offers an outlet besides the seasonal weekend Farmers Markets in the city. And even better, they don’t have to be on hand to make sales. But the store’s mission goes beyond selling food. Organizers say that it will “serve as a hub for the local sustainable food industry, offering educational programs and activities, including classes, discussions and seminars, designed to foster interaction between local growers/producers and Chicago residents and visitors.” The store will operate as a pilot program through mid-December this year; plans are for it to reopen full time next spring.

Chicago’s Downtown Farmstand
66 E. Randolph
Tuesday – Friday, 11am – 7pm
Saturday, 11am – 4pm

Spring, schming—It might as well be chili dogs

The lack of reliably warm weather this spring calls for comfort food, and Turkey Chili Dogs don’t just hit the spot—they obliterate it. Recipe below.

This week’s post was supposed to be a light chicken sandwich celebrating the flavors of spring. I’d already created it in my head, and just thinking of it now, I can actually taste it.

But spring is being especially coy this year. We should be flinging windows open, airing out the apartment and waking to birds singing. Instead, we awoke this weekend to a cold rain being blown hard against the windows. The temperature was in the 40s and not predicted to do a lot better than the low 50s, and besides the rain, there was a wind advisory.

I had to absolutely will myself out of the warm bed to get my day started. Clearly, some light sandwich celebrating spring was not going to happen. Comfort food was called for. And to my way of thinking, there are few foods more comforting than a chili dog on a raw day.

We’ve sung the praises of chili here before. And we’ve presented various takes on it—my three-bean chili, Marion’s amazing chili and even a white chili. Whatever your regional preferences—beans, no beans, meat, no meat—chili is just plain good.

Hot dogs are less universally understood. Growing up in St. Louis, hot dogs were what you got at the ball game or something you threw on the barbecue grill for the kids when the grown-ups were having burgers. So I was somewhat mystified when I moved to Chicago the first time [this is our second tour of duty here, as I like to put it] and there seemed to be a hot dog stand every other block or so [outrageous real estate prices have diminished the number of hot dog places severely, but Chicagoans can still find plenty of places to get a great dog].

Then I had one. The word revelation springs to mind. As Doug of Hot Doug’s says, “There are no two finer words in the English language than ‘encased meats,’ my friend.” Unless you live in Chicago or New York, you may not get this level of fervor for the seemingly lowly hot dog. And even if you do get them, you’ll get all kinds of takes on what makes the perfect dog, some of them regional. Here is how NPR’s Daniel Pinkwater, born in Chicago but now living in exile in upstate New York, describes a Chicago dog:

“First, it’s on a poppy-seed bun which is doughy and substantial, but not heavy. The bun is lightly steamed at the point of serving.

“The hot dog is all beef, spicier than the New York variety. It is steamed and has a natural casing. It snaps when you bite into it, and squirts hot deliciousness. A variant is the Polish sausage which the gods ate on Olympus.
This is what goes on it:
• Yellow mustard
• Bright green pickle relish
• Chopped onion
• A kosher pickle spear
• Two slices of tomato
• Two tiny but devastating peppers
• And all-important, celery salt

“All of this is fitted together with fiendish cleverness enabling the eater to get most of it in his mouth, and only a little on his shirt. If there are fries, they are hand cut, skinny and glorious.”

Chili + Dog: The whole equals waaaay more than the sum of its parts. Okay, we’ve established that these foods are wonderful in their own right. I’d heard that chili dogs were even better, but it took Marion to introduce me to their delights. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon, as I recall, and we suddenly found ourselves in the lovely semi-deserted darkness of the original John Barleycorn, a long, rambling bar and restaurant on Lincoln Avenue. I had a burger in mind, but Marion started exclaiming when she found chili dogs on the menu. I was skeptical, but even back then, I’d learned to trust her taste buds.

So we each ordered one. Honestly, it fell a little bit short of amazing. But it showed me amazing could be had. As with almost every chili dog you’ll find in a bar, restaurant or hot dog stand, there wasn’t enough chili. Here’s how you can tell: If you can pick up the chili dog and eat it without utensils, there’s not enough chili. Hell, if you can see the hot dog or much of the bun, there’s not enough chili. We bury them. In fact, for the photo above, I kind of skimped on the chili just so you could see the dog and bun.

But the wonder of the combined flavors was undeniable. Our first impulse was to order more there and tell them not to be so shy with the chili. But then we had a better idea. We hightailed it out of the bar, headed for the grocery store and then went home and cooked up the first of many chili dog orgies. Continue reading “Spring, schming—It might as well be chili dogs” →

Celebrate, big or small

The kitchen is closed for the holidays. We’ll be back next week with a new recipe, something new on the boombox and more. In the meantime, a quick word about big and little celebrations of the season.

The house in the picture above is an example of big. It’s in our Logan Square neighborhood in Chicago. The people living here have done this for years now, and every year it gets more involved. It now includes sound and a small working ferris wheel. People come from all over to see it; in fact, I was only able to photograph it sans a steady stream of cars because I went late at night when it was about zero degrees out, with winds gusting to 50 miles an hour.

We call the place Harry Potter’s House. When it’s not festooned with more lights than a small town, you can see the two huge bronze dragons flanking the front door and the giant fountain out front covered with little birds and perhaps more dragons. Obviously the residents favor flamboyance and celebrating in a big way.

At the opposite end of the celebration spectrum is the small, beautiful poem below by American poet e.e. cummings. I remember first hearing it when I was a child. One of the many teachers who touch our lives more than we know at the time read it to our second or third grade class. Poems were of course supposed to rhyme, so I thought she was reading us a story.

I rediscovered it in college when I stumbled on cummings’ amazing poetry, thanks to another teacher. Only this person wasn’t really a teacher—he ran a small bookstore near school. He sold my girlfriend and me only a handful of books over our many visits, but he spent countless hours sitting and reading poetry to us.

I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember either of these wonderful teachers’ names. But I will always remember the wonderful gifts they gave me. One of them was this poem.

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don’t be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i’ll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you’re quite dressed
you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they’ll stare!
oh but you’ll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel”

—e.e. cummings

Whatever holiday you celebrate and whether you celebrate it big or small, I hope it’s filled with wonderful moments and memorable gifts. I’ll see you next week. Or as we used to say in grade school and think ourselves the kings and queens of wit, “See you next year!”

Champagne, a missing cat and Abbott & Costello

We moved last weekend. Actually, the process has been ongoing in earnest for a few months now, but Saturday morning the actual movers came with the truck. We’d hired them to move the big stuff—furniture, mainly. That meant we were moving everything else, carload by exhausting carload.

Friday night we made two runs, then packed the car again to drive it full when we led the movers to the new place. We ended up getting to bed at 3 o’clock Saturday morning and got up at 7:30 to finish getting ready for the movers arriving at 9.

I don’t recommend moving on four and a half hours’ sleep.

We’d heard and read all kinds of horror stories about movers showing up late or not at all, but our crew arrived about 15 minutes early. Which was the cue for our 17-year-old cat Cosmo to add to the drama of the day by disappearing. He’s been an indoor only cat for the last ten years, but springtime always awakens the prowling gene in him, and he starts hanging out around windows and doors, sniffing the air and looking hopeful. We were afraid he’d already managed to slip out somehow—or would do so once the movers were going in and out. Finally, though, he nonchalantly sauntered out of a room we had each searched top to bottom, twice. How the hell do they do that? We promptly confined him in the room he’d just exited, and the move got under way.

The movers were amazingly efficient; when they finished unloading on the other end, it was only noon. And Marion and I were only getting started. We made another run to the old place, picking up another load, this one including Cosmo. Once he was safely installed in the new place, we unpacked boxes for a few hours, then made a run to what I’ve dubbed the holy trinity: Target, Home Depot and Petsmart [otherwise known as the cat food store in our household]. By the time we’d hit all three, it was eight o’clock and no dinner plans had been made, other than we needed to eat some. Fast. Continue reading “Champagne, a missing cat and Abbott & Costello” →

Can I get that to go?

A quick heads up—today’s post is potluck. After you read it, I expect you to bring a comment to share with everyone. Also, I’m doing a double post today, the second in honor of Valentine’s Day. So be sure to scroll down.

If you’re a regular at Blue Kitchen, I figure you either like to cook or are a friend or family member who feels honor bound to visit. Or maybe you’re C.) all of the above. But there are times even those of us who loooove to cook either don’t have the time or the energy or C.) all of the above. What do you do then? Drive through? Pizza? What are your defaults? Your delights? I’ll go first.

For us, if we’re not up to cooking, it’s usually because we’ve worked late or have umpteen things to accomplish after dinner. If that’s the case, we also don’t have the energy or time to go someplace and sit down for a nice relaxing meal. So it’s got to be fast and on the way home. Cheap is good too. Our defaults, driven more by geography and speed than desire, are usually Chipotle or Taco Bell. I know. Shut up.

But then there are the guilty pleasures. We recently rediscovered one: Egg foo yung, those pancakelike deep-fried patties of egg, vegetables and meat or seafood. A longtime staple of rather suspect Chinese American restaurants, they’re often found next to those ersatz Chinese dishes, chop suey and chow mein on the menu. And in St. Louis, they’ve even invented something called the St. Paul Sandwich—an egg foo yung patty on white bread with lettuce, tomatoes, mayo and pickles. So I was stunned to recently discover that egg foo yung is actually based on an authentic Shanghai dish.

Before going any further, I have to say that Marion and I are regulars at more than a couple of restaurants in Chicago’s Chinatown, places where we would probably not be allowed back if we ordered egg foo yung. And we tend to avoid generic food court Chinese food at all costs, in no small measure because the foods they serve tend to feature the same gloppy brown sauce that is a key ingredient of egg foo yung. But there’s something about egg foo yung that transcends national origin to become one of the world’s true comfort foods.

And never was it more comforting than one night a few years ago. In a fit of temporary insanity, we had agreed to our older daughter’s request for a sleepover birthday party with six guests. A total of seven girls, including the birthday girl, who needed all the caffeine and sugar buzz we’d also intelligently provided like a shark needs swim fins. They weren’t being bad, mind you—it was just the perfect storm of noise and energy and gross out humor. Silly me. I thought having daughters, it would be all Barbies and tea parties and I would escape the various bodily function jokes of my own childhood. I’ll wait while my women readers enjoy a good laugh at my naivete about now. That’s okay. I deserve it.

Marion and I were hunkered down in our room, grimly watching Saturday night TV and each privately longing for a tranquilizer dart gun as the party raged on outside our door.

And then we remembered the late night Chinese take-out place not two blocks from our house.

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in our room with wonderfully satisfying plates of egg foo yung, steamed rice and gloppy brown sauce. I think we must have also had a couple of glasses of some modest white wine. The world was suddenly a better place.

Okay, your turn. What’s your default take-out or delivery? What’s your guilty pleasure? Try to stick with fast and cheap and, if at all possible, greasy this time. I’m sure we’ll talk about fancier options in a future post.

Note to self: Get organized

I keep promising myself to put together an editorial calendar for Blue Kitchen, mapping out topics I want to cover, especially around the holidays. If I’d done that, last week you would have read about some romantic Valentine dinner or a sinfully rich dessert in time to perhaps actually plan for it tonight. But I didn’t. And if I’d gone ahead and written about something like that for today’s post, you’d just be pissed that there was no time to get things together. So instead, I wrote about egg foo yung.

Just so you know I’m not a total doofus, Marion and I won’t be eating egg foo yung tonight, assuming the winter weather cooperates. I made dinner reservations at one of our favorite little Chicago bistros, Red Rooster Wine Bar and Cafe. Sharing the kitchen with the [only slightly] more formal Cafe Bernard, the tiny Red Rooster offers exquisitely prepared simple French cuisine in a relaxed country atmosphere. If you ever find yourself in Chicago for dinner, you could do far worse than this cozy, friendly place.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.