I went to the Taste of Chicago this past week, (its run ended on July 8), looking for vindication and corn dogs. Though I found neither I did manage to get home unscathed and in perfect health (others weren’t so lucky). The event basically amounts to an enormous public spectacle of ambulatory gnawing, nibbling, gulping and finger-licking. It was 90 degrees and humid, and almost everyone had at least one condiment down the front of his or her shirt. Emily Post would probably have a heart attack, if not from the fried food then certainly from the logistically-unavoidable slobbery the Taste imposes on everyone. The crowd is forced to amble from booth to booth while trying to eat a rack of ribs, like roaming, kill-carrying lions. Ms. Post would tell everyone to sit down, eat with a fork, tuck in that shirt—heck, wear a shirt. But when it comes to the Taste, she’d be all wrong. Taste of Chicago may be the one place where a man in cut-off shorts and a tank top is perfectly dressed for the occasion. Logistics take a lot of the blame for the mediocre food—it’s hard to create a kitchen, much less specialized equipment like a brick-oven, in the middle of a public park for ten days. If the Taste is meant to offer discovery, then its bland pub-food slant could only be meant for some sort of cave dweller who might thump his chest and grunt quizzically at this strange thing we call a “French fry” or a “mozzarella stick.” There are more interesting booths, but not more successful—we had soggy gyros, greasy pierogis and some funky Creole catfish that I still cannot believe didn’t kill me.
If anything, Taste of Chicago made me want to prove to my sister, who was visiting from New York for the weekend, what Chicago really does have. Her sample of jerk chicken was nothing special, but it reminded me to take her to Uncle Joe’s in the South Side for the real deal. The Thai booth’s pot stickers and pad Thai were nothing better than corner take-out, but I insisted we make it up to Spoon Thai in Lincoln Park for pickled bamboo shoots and catfish custard, things she’d truly never tasted before. To be fair, we did make one discovery. Far and away the best thing we tasted was the Rainbow Cone, a South Side Chicago classic since 1926 that I knew nothing about before the Taste. The Rainbow cone consists of 5 specific scoops of ice cream including strawberry, Palmer House (cherry-walnut), and orange sherbet—all jammed into a waffle cone about the size of a league-play bowling pin. It’s almost impossible to eat before it liquefies down one’s arm. But that’s ok. It’ll match the barbecue sauce that covers your other arm like an opera glove. Emily Post can eat her heart out.
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