Two Weeks in a Row?

O Sole Pio

Scratch one off the wish list.

Before moving to Phoenix, we spent two years in Baltimore, which hasn’t nearly the restaurant scene Phoenix does, but it blew us out of the water in one unexpected subgenre: Peruvian rotisserie chicken.

Baltimore had Peruvian pollerias all over the damn place, where you could get a cheap, delicious bird with some fries and beans and a little spicy sauce and either stuff yourself stupid at a folding table under a flickering fluorescent light or bring it home for the fam, picking off and slurping down all of the succulent, seasoned chicken skin along the way.

I’m a dark quarter guy, but the skin is so good it makes the light quarter with the wing and its gnarly skin:meat ratio very tempting. Either way, the meat is perfect — tender, juicy, pure chicken flavor — but the skin is where it’s at. It’s a gorgeous mahogany flecked with charred bits of herbs and spices, lightly crisped in places, succulent and fatty in others, and imbued with an intoxicating smoky scent. While the seasoning blend is bright and distinctive and far too complex for me to deconstruct, there’s nothing here you haven’t had in a rotisserie chicken before, you just probably haven’t ever had one this good.

And the sauces are beautiful. You have your choice of three, all spicy and tart, each with its own subtle characteristics. The most classic for this type of chicken is probably aji verde — the green one — a creamy, herbal blend that’s heavy on cilantro. There’s the bright red aji rocoto, sporting a natural sweet-heat balance, though unless it’s my imagination at work or the scent drifting over from the chicken, I think there’s something a little smoky in there as well. And then there’s aji amarillo, tangy and tart, which anyone who’s spent time at Gallo Blanco or Otro Café will quickly recognize.

It’s brand-spanking new, but the menu also features a chopped chicken sandwich built on outstanding crusty bread from Nice Buns (of course), with fresh greens, roasted garlic, a little creamy sauce, and a riff on Peruvian salsa criolla that includes pickled Fresno chiles. I... look, I’ve now cleared the thousand word mark yammering on about a four-item menu, so just eat this thing, okay? Please?

Anyway, we’ve now established that Phoenix finally has not just its first Peruvian polleria, but an absolutely outstanding one, and it’s time for me to suck it up and walk the walk.

For two decades, I have preached the gospel of Open Source Dining. First commandment? No secrets. And I realize that blowing this place up will probably make it harder for me to get my fix, particularly at a tiny corner shop where the chicken takes three days to prepare and there’s no way to quickly goose the supply. So why am I going to do it? Three reasons:

1. These people deserve it.
2. When we look back a few years from now and rejoice that we have a bunch of great Peruvian rotisserie chicken joints to choose from, we’ll be able to trace it back to when Mister Pio blew up.
3. See Number 1.

Spread the word.

Dire Predictions

Some cheer the rebirth of a nostalgic slice of Americana, some fear a return to the darkest depths of exploitative pseudo-Mex.

I am topping off my Hep A vaccination and resignedly starting the countdown until Helen Rosner wins another James Beard award for her piece titled, “Chi-Chi’s is Great, Actually.”

The Answer Might Surprise You

They are BOTH real Chicago pizza, you insufferable twits.

Calling deep dish “tourist pizza” does not signal your membership in the Secret Coven of Discerning Pizza Aficionados. I struggle daily with a tendency to gatekeep, and even *I* want to punch this kind of fictionalized pizza elitism in the face.

Individually, all Chicagoans have their preferences, and undoubtedly more thin than deep is consumed overall, but on aggregate, both styles are widely enjoyed by locals and tourists alike. This “debate” over “real pizza” vs. “tourist pizza” has nothing to do with culinary tradition and even less to do with good eating. It is ego. It is puffery. It is self-serving misinformation. It can fuck right off.

Even worse, I’m pretty sure the genesis of this revisionist history fever dream can be traced back to a segment from Jon Stewart... a NEW YORKER. Seriously, Chicago? An East Coast comedian does a (brilliant) bit poking fun at deep dish, and half the city is so thin-skinned that they immediately disown it?

Modern Redux-ury

Second Story Liquor Bar closed seven months ago.

To be fair, the editors have been lost in the aisles and aisles of Italian groceries at Andreoli, so they may not have gotten word yet.

Details, Details

Since we’re on the subject of Chicago eats today, can I take a moment to address something else?

I’m not going to name names because this is a cute little place, Chicago eats aren’t their specialty, and I appreciate what they’re trying to do. But in the interest of education and constructive criticism, when it comes to Chicago dogs, we need to talk about this:

This is the mark of an amateur.

Mustard drizzled over the top is for influencers who have never lived in Chicago. The first thing that goes in the bun is the dog. The *second* thing that goes in is the mustard — dressing the dog, not the bun.

This might seem ticky-tack, but it matters. Gently warmed in the bun, all nestled up next to a steaming hot dog, mustard is a piquant supporting accent. (It’s even better if the mustard is warmed in the steam table alongside the dogs.) Drizzled over the top, it’s a distracting, icy cold sour shock. Plus, there’s no way to eat it like this without smearing it all over your face.

This is — no joke — the first thing I look at when I’m scouting potential Chicago-style hot dog stands. Mustard in the bun? They might know what they're doing. Mustard drizzled over the top? Hard pass. It’s a dead giveaway.

(P.S. A cold bun is an even bigger no-no, wherever your dog hails from, fellas. Keep those pups warm, please.)

Do Less. Do It Better.

For that matter, since we’re also on the subject of Latin chicken joints with diminutive menus, can I take a moment to sing the praises of Kiss Pollos Estilo Sinaloa?

Kiss has been around for nearly a decade, but I was a latecomer. Just never got around to it. The place languished on my list forever, until I finally found myself in the neighborhood one day with about 20 minutes to kill, and I ended up with this:

And I’m hooked.

This is cheap chopped chicken, prefab tortillas, a little fried potato, onion and cilantro and salsa, and yet it’s so satisfying. It isn’t the kind of artistry you find at a place like Mister Pio (nor can they really be compared in any meaningful way... almost), but these tacos are cheap and delicious and they’re made with care. And if you want something else, too bad. The menu is mostly the same chopped chicken in various formats. Which calls to mind a strength that both of these spots share.

I don’t think it was intentional, but it’s right there in the name: Kiss — that dumb old adage. Keep It Simple, Stupid.

As the economics get more and more difficult, I find myself hoping — in a kind of perverse fashion — that restaurants are driven towards the kind of specialization they should have been focused on all along.

“Something for everyone” is a red flag. It has always been a trap. Operating a kitchen with a huge menu is expensive, it is difficult, and it makes it impossible to give everything the attention and care it deserves. It’s a trap for diners, too, who gaze wide-eyed at a huge selection of dishes, never stopping to consider that the food would probably be a whole lot better if their options were cut in half.

I don’t like that many restaurants are being forced to specialize to remain financially viable. I'd prefer it if they were learning this lesson by choice rather than necessity. But let’s just call it a happy side effect that we’ll probably all eat better for it.

Do less. Do it better.

That’s the mantra.

Let No Spud Go To Waste

Bonus use for leftover Mister Pio fries:

Lomo saltado, baby!

Yup... Still Kicks Ass

A regular segment, wherein I attempt to combat food media’s (and my own) recency bias.

The Sunny Burrito at Ollie Vaughn’s — Robust but not overpowering Schreiner’s chorizo and still-crispy hash browns wrapped up in a supple tortilla with melty cheddar, dripping sunny eggs, a little sting of chile oil and tart salsa verde to accompany. Yup... still kicks ass.

Dill Pickle Soup at All Pierogi Kitchen — Rich and buttery, loaded with dill and other fresh herbs, with a hefty helping of potatoes and carrots and big, smoky hunks of juicy kielbasa. Yup... still kicks ass.

Apollo Fish at City of Spice — Slices of fish battered and fried to a formidable crisp, doused in a hot and buttery sauce screaming with ginger and garlic, paired with sweet slivered onions and the sultry, pungent scent of fresh curry leaves. Yup... still kicks ass.

Holy Rapid Influx, Batman!

It appears that MXSW sent about three-quarters of a bajillion people in my direction this week (Thanks, Jess!), so for all of the StD newcomers, welcome! If you’re feeling mildly disoriented after reading a wall of chaotic, profane run-on sentences, don’t worry... that’s a