Inaugural post, daddy.

I read in an interview with some sort of walking-cliche-reformed-bad-boy-chef that “smoking deadens the palette” and that was the reason for his quitting. I quit when I moved to Chicago, simply because it’s too damn expensive to smoke here. Luckily, my roommate rolls his own cigarettes and was generous enough so that I was able to have a cigarette both before and after my meal last night at Smoque. Perhaps, if my precious palette hadn’t been so delicately deadened, my meal would have blown me away with something they were calling “slow and low” St. Louis BBQ. Or, perhaps, I would have been equally, if not more so, disappointed with the sad suburban excuse for a snack that they seem to have plopped down recently in my darling Avondale. Now, I am aware that Smoque opened up roughly a year ago, and that perhaps I am a little late jumping on this proverbial BBQ bandwagon, but damnit, I was touched and I have something to say.

After (foolishly) driving past one of my favorite meals (at the cafe in the back of Chicago Foods), I turned left on Addison and right on Pulaski, parking in front of the much talked-about and quite stupidly spelled “Smoque.” Now, the first thing I notice when I enter is that it is all white people. Aside from the single African American cook I would later see outside, also enjoying a cigarette, I wouldn’t see anything but pasty white faces and mostly blonde (and grey) hair for my entire meal there. Now, don’t get me wrong, despite the fact that I share a name with the darkest member of the Rat Pack, I am a honky. I do know, however, that there should never be mostly people that look like me at a good BBQ joint.

I grew up in Los Angeles, privileged with the greasy maroon sauces that can be found all across Crenshaw Boulevard. Additionally, my entire family is from Kansas City, and for Chicago residents, I needn’t explain what that city has done for BBQ, probably rivaled only by certain places in North Carolina and Memphis. I have twice taken “BBQ Tours” of our fair nation, coming back, full, greasy, and opinionated. Smoque would barely even make it onto a BBQ Tour of our own city, as far as I’m concerned.

After ordering, I sat down next to a balding man and his balding son, who between the two of them probably upped the value of both North Face and J. Crew stock prices a significant number of points each year. They were decadently chowing down on what looked like some seriously delicious ribs. Apparently so filling that neither could finish their meal. As any BBQ nut knows, half of the experience is in the sides and I observed that their mac’n'cheese looked particularly good, as did their “Mini Peach Cobblers,” of which they had three between the two of them. Logically, I was proud of myself for ordering both of these sides and ashamed at having not ordered the ribs; Both of these men seemed very happy. I, however, would not share their happiness.

When number 73 was called, I forced my way through the throngs of both selfishly immobile tweens and innocently immobile elderly. I picked up my pulled pork sandwich, slaw, and aforementioned sides, already becoming disappointed upon peering down at the tray below me. At first bite, I noticed two things about my sandwich: Firstly, it was falling apart on me. Not in that way that a pulled pork sandwich is supposed to fall apart on you, creating a sort of escapist competition between you and your food (”Oh yes I can eat you, you little shit”) as the stringy redbrown filling oozes out the back of your sandwich as you take your first cautious bites. No, this sandwich was falling apart because of the second thing I noticed: it was too dry. On the menu, it was printed that the pulled pork was cooked (presumably “low and slow,” which I believe is also a cheesy late era Beastie Boys song) for a total 12 hours. This is less time than my local carniceria cooks its carnitas, but more than I use to soften my pork/veal bolognese I use to impress girls when I cook for them. I don’t have to tell you it wasn’t a happy-medium.

Dry pork is easy to get yourself into, but always a crime, kind of like getting stuck in the middle of an intersection during rush hour traffic. A lackluster amount of mediocre sauce seemed to have been carelessly (but knowingly desperately) squirted onto the too-pale meat I stared down at, and soon, would regretfully be swallowing. The bread was good, sure. It was soft and squishy and even tasted fresh. It could not, however, contain the dry clumping chunks of pork that fell out of it every time I tried to add more sauce or open the thing up to rearrange the poor excuse for moisture contained within. As with most mediocre -but not necessarily awful- food, I finished it quickly.

Moving onto the sides, I can tell you that the mac’n'cheese was exquisite. Individually baked into adorable tin cups and crusted over with breadcrumbs(? tasty dirt?) and a minimum of overbearing spices (I’m looking at you, most-of-Wicker-Park). The noodles were contained sloppily underneath, all coated equally and not chewily in a sharp creamy cheese combo that I actually couldn’t even begin to identify past my pleasure in eating it. As to the miniature peach cobbler, it tasted like a yuppie mixed drink with two much fruit and concocted by an overexcited bartender too proud of his new tiny brown bottle of almond extract. What’s wrong regular peach cobbler done right? Putting it in a tiny tin cup would have been enough for me, guys.

My cigarette rolling dining partner had the half chicken and a side of fries. His fries were great. Crispy, greasy and an endearing dark brown that makes you think of potatoes and not fries. The chicken was the fowly equivalent of my sandwich, too dry and with a bad vinegary sauce. A friendly young guy with spiky hair and a choker took our trays (unexpected) and as I walked out, I noticed that the line for ordering had become even longer than when we had arrived. I felt an immediate pang of pity. Didn’t these people know? Hadn’t they ever had BBQ before? Didn’t they have friends with good taste?

As I got outside, I lit my cigarette and my pity turned to anger. I was incredibly full for a reasonable price, sure, but I can do that at Taco Bell and probably be happier about it. I felt as though an hour had been robbed from me, like having the TVs malfunction on a boring flight. I looked down at my hairy potbelly, hidden behind the screenprinted visage of a growling bear and knew that I was supposed to be skeptical, but I also wanted to be optimistic, and so did my belly. Before I knew it, the bear had lifted its head and my stomach was pressed offensively against Smoque’s large window. I wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t high. I was indignant and I wanted both tweens and fogeys within to realize that they deserved better and that they lived in Chicago, for Christ’s sake. Even if they were too a-feared to scoot their Jettas and Audis further south than Division, they could have Honey 1, Fat Willy’s, and even Calvin’s without the sort of passive guilt that comes with eating at a place called Smoque.

For potbellied jerks everywhere, this has been Sam Davis. Maybe next time I’ll have the ribs. Stay hungry.