Off the Map: There Is No Good Way to Have a Plague

Plague Bringer Burger -- Kuma's Corner, Chicago, IL
Kuma's Corner

Shocking as it may be, we do not make a habit of frequenting biker bars.

Now, calling Kuma's Corner in Chicago a "biker bar" might be a bit of a stretch, but we have no better name for a place which features a smattering of motorcycles out front, a seemingly strict "employees must be covered in tattoos" rule, and cartooned nudity masquerading as "art" on the walls.

In essence, this is not really our kind of place.

They Don't Make a Motorcycle with TWO Sidecars and NO Bike, Do They?

Nevertheless, we haul ourselves up to the bar and get down to ordering the first cocktails of our Chicago adventure.  Unfortunately, all Kuma's Corner seems interested in serving is beer.

We Would Find This Tap More Amusing Had It Featured Absolut and Grey Goose Bottles

"Do you have wine?" we ask the not-exactly-genial bartender.

"Red and white," she answers.

Asking for elaboration on what exactly the "white" or "red" varieties taste like (enlightening as her initial description is...), we receive little more than a grunt.

Her Answer Is Essentially "It's Not Beer"

We take this as a cue to shut up and suffer through the mystery white variety, along with one plague bringer burger, as recommended by Adam Gertler on the WITH GARLIC episode of Best Thing I Ever Ate.

Thankfully, With All This Garlic, Nobody In This Place Is Showing Any Interest In Kissing Us

Glancing around the restaurant, we are shocked to find almost all of the tables packed, considering it is only 11:45am on a weekday and we just left the nearly-empty Urban Belly.  Presumably, Kuma's Corner's clientele does not work for a living.

I Don't Wanna Work, I Just Wanna Chew on Some Meat All Day

Instead, what they do is crave massive, Honey-I-Shrunk-My-Mouth-size burgers, a sentiment to which Ginger can generally relate.

"The only thing I ever really crave is a hamburger," she admits.  "Well, and anything with sugar on it."  Which, when you think about it, does not narrow down the variety much at all. 

In contrast, Vodka's craving is much more specific.  "I crave pasta.  And I pretty much eat it daily, so it works out."

With food cravings like this, it is astounding that we have not yet been targeted by Jenny Craig.

Though the Same Can Be Said for Anyone Capable of Finishing This Thing

Our wine, which tastes suspiciously like a "house" variety, eventually arrives, followed by our plague bringer burger and fries.   The burger, just to look at, is completely overwhelming: a thick beef patty smothered in pepper jack cheese and sandwiched between a pretzel roll, lettuce, tomato, roasted garlic mayo, jalapenos, hot sauce, and tortilla strips.  In theory, we should love this thing.

In practice, we essentially hate it.

Well, Except for the Ketchup

Now, this plague bringer burger is a real conundrum.  Every component of it sounds delicious.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong with a Burger Featuring a Pretzel Bun AND Tortilla Strips?!

Therefore, when we finally manage to wrap our jaws around the entirety of it in order to take a bite, we can't tell at first if it is the best thing or the worst thing we have ever eaten.

As we finish our second bite, our decision is fairly clear.

Ding Ding Ding, We Don't Have a Winner!

In total, we each like exactly one thing about this burger: Ginger is taken with the pretzel bun (which Vodka finds uselessly devoid of salt), and Vodka with the tortilla strips.

We'll Just Take a Bowl of These Strips and Some Guacamole, Thanks in Advance

Every other feature of the burger, we despise, separately but equally.  The meat itself is so unevenly cooked that it is virtually inedible -- some parts gray and dry, and others nearly alive.  Even had it been grilled properly, the texture is much more like that of a meatball than of a burger patty, and the juicy greasiness is sorely lacking.

Funky Looking Meat, Much?

However, what this burger lacks in grease, it makes up for in pure, unadulterated torture.  The roasted garlic mayo -- the part of the burger we had been most excited about -- tastes as if a full head of raw garlic has been stuffed into the bun.

Take Off At Least Half These Ingredients, and We'll Talk

The pepper jack cheese and hot sauce add a completely unnecessary level of heat -- unnecessary because the raw jalapenos are enough to kill one's tastebuds in a single bite.

"I am truly breathing fire," Ginger admits.

"Eat the mediocre fries," Vodka suggests.  "They help take away the sting."

"No.  I have enough reflux from this thing as it is," Ginger states.  Indeed, by the third bites of our burgers, our lips sting, our breath reeks, and our hands are smothered in plague.

The Aftermath of the Burger Torture Chamber

"They could've spared a wet nap," Vodka complains, rubbing her hands on one paper napkin and then another.  "I hate any dish that I can't eat like a human."  In truth, there is no possible way to consume this burger without making a complete mess of one's appearance (let alone one's internal organs).  This fact renders Kuma's Corner generous portions a moot point, as we believe it would be impossible for anyone to finish this thing without a stain on her clothes and a hole in her esophagus.

This Disaster Should Come With Its Own Government Warning

"Ugh, that was awful," Ginger bemoans as we traipse back through Logan Square.  "That burger really was a plague.  Not in a good way.  Cause there's no good way to have a plague."

The Culprit Behind the Great Epidemic of 2012

Unless, of course, one's goal is to create a plague that will wipe out people's tastebuds and arteries in one fell swoop.  In that case, Kuma's Corner is winning by a tattoo.
 
Kuma's Corner Plague Bringer Burger: 1 star

Off the Map: We're Not in Kansas Anymore. Or We Are

Rice Noodles with Hominy, Kimchi and Spicy Pork Broth -- Urban Belly, Chicago, IL
Urban Belly

It is not easy to be too early for lunch at a place that opens at 11am.  It is even harder to be too early for lunch at a place that opens at 11am IN CHICAGO.  Yet here we are.

Our Kind of Town? Only Time Will Tell

After an early morning flight from New York and an entirely-too-pleasant-for-a-subway ride ("We're not in Kansas anymore.  Or we are"), we are now in the midst of dragging our suitcases around Logan Square, wasting time until Urban Belly opens their doors.

Outdoor Subways? Did We Take a Wrong Turn and End Up in Queens?

After a pit stop to drink iced tea in the equivalent of a sidewalk crate, and another to purchase new sunscreen after the TSA unceremoniously stole Vodka's, we wander our way up the the strip mall in which Urban Belly is located.

Jailhouse-Style Iced Tea

Helpfully Located Next to a Dry Cleaners In Case We Spill Food on Our Luggage

At exactly 11:02am, we pry open the front doors of the establishment and are greeted by the employees' quizzical looks.

So What You're Saying Is Not Everyone Drags Rolling Suitcases Through Your Door the Second You Open?

We approach the counter with purpose and order chicken and mushroom dumplings, along with Art Smith's HOT AND SPICY Best Thing I Ever Ate choice of rice noodles with hominy, kimchi, and spicy pork broth. 

When in Rome, Do Like the Ramen

It soon becomes clear to us that we have actually chosen the ideal time to dine at Urban Belly, because the place features only communal tables for eating.  As we hate to socialize with anyone but ourselves, this situation would be far from ideal had any other customers actually been present.

We Never Received Top Marks for "Plays Well With Others"

Luckily, not only are we completely alone, but we are the prestigious recipients of the  "#1" table marker -- you know, in case it were not obvious who had ordered the mid-morning kimchi noodles.

Everybody Cross Your Fingers That That Don't Deliver Our Soup to the Wrong People!

When our food arrives, we place our spoons into the soup tentatively, visions of sliced fish szechuan style and mirchi ka salan dancing in our spice-intolerant heads.  Transferring small portions of the concoction into smaller bowls, we dabble bits of the broth on our lips, trying to discern what we are up against.

Multiple Bowls + No Ladle = Not All That Helpful

When our insides do not scald on impact, we venture deeper inside, making our way through the long, chewy noodles, the kimchi leaves, and the balls of hominy.  The soup is somehow refreshing despite its level of spice, and while it eventually does make our noses run, we are pleasantly surprised by how much flavor it maintains.

In Other Words, We're Not Dead Yet

Sprinkled in the soup are thick, chewy white ovals which we are too uncultured to identify, yet mildly obsessed with their taste and texture.

The Inner Workings of the Sinus-Clearing Ramen

The same holds true for the rice noodles, as our only complaint about them is that there should be more of them.

For Future Reference, We Will Never Dispute a Large Helping of Carbs

Gulping glass after glass of water, we make it about halfway through the large bowl before giving up, which is no small feat concerning our near-death experiences with the other Best Thing I Ever Ate HOT AND SPICY dishes.

Ten Points for the Self-Serve Water, By the Way

Turning to the chicken and mushroom dumplings, we find them even more enjoyable than the soup.

Urban Belly's Answer to the Pierogie

Crispy and pan-fried on the outside with ground meat and scallions on the inside, they rest atop mushroom slices, and if given the opportunity, we could have eaten a full dozen of them.

And Were We Not Still Inconspicuously Urban Belly's Only Diners, We Just Might Have Tried

As we finish our lunch, Ginger begins rambling some narcissistic accolades concerning our mission, summing up our service, "This is useful information -- after all, people need to eat.  It's not like we're just buying shoes."

No, Rating the Country's Population of Dumplings Is a Much More Significant Cultural Contribution....

A waitress arrives with our bill and some ginger candies, which make Ginger entirely too excited.  After we procure our change, Vodka asks Ginger, with notable panic in her voice, "Did you take your cash?"

"No, the other patrons stole it," Ginger answers, gesturing around the empty restaurant.

Safety First When It Comes to Loose Change!

Apparently, crossing state lines and time zones is not enough to curb our penchant for odd behavior, especially when it comes to irregular eating times.  We stumble through the door and the employees call goodbye to us in a decidedly "thank goodness the weirdos are finally leaving" tone.

It's Okay -- After All, This Is What You People Call a "Beach"

"They knew there was something up with us," we surmise.  But this underlying sense of bemused judgment has never stopped us before, Chicago, and you're most certainly not going to slap the crazy out of us now.
 
Urban Belly's Rice Noodles with Hominy, Kimchi and Spicy Pork Broth: 4 stars

Into the "Boroughs": Hoboken - We Liked It for a Second

Smoked Mutz Hero -- Vito's Deli, Hoboken, NJ
Vito's Deli

Dear Food Network Stars,

From now on, please refrain from choosing Best Thing I Ever Ate dishes across the river(s) from Manhattan so we can stop making idiots of ourselves.

Best wishes,
Vodka and Ginger

Time to Start Swimming

As our ventures to previous non-Manhattan NYC boroughs have indicated, we are not the most adept at finding our way off of the island on which we live.  The minute we encounter bridges, tunnels, and subways that run outdoors or under rivers, we feel as though we have suddenly been thrust into Tomorrowland, and we begin to lose both our ways and our minds.

Against these odds, we have decided to make our way to Hoboken, NJ.

Hoboken Is Practically An Outer Borough, Right?

Now, getting to and from Hoboken should be a simple process -- after all, hundreds of commuters make the trek every day.  But we, true to form, have to make a project out of the endeavor.

Hours of Steadfast Research Have Led to This Moment

After careful consultation with multiple Hoboken residents and an entirely-too-in-depth perusal of Google Street View, we manage to meet outside the 33rd Street PATH station, skip down the stairs to the trains, swipe our Metrocards... and then become completely befuddled.

In Need of a Hoboken Tour Guide

In a process that remains unclear, it seems the PATH trains go to places other than Hoboken (news to us), and in a moment of panic, we are incapable of figuring out which train we're supposed to board.

Here's a hint, morons: it's the one marked "Hoboken."

Palm, Meet Forehead

When we finally settle on the correct train, we make a mad dash across the platforms in order to get ourselves into the last car before the doors close.  This faulty level of desperation (as the train does not leave the station for at least another ten minutes) causes looks of bemused annoyance to be shot in our direction by our fellow Hoboken "commuters," so we settle in our seats and try to remain inconspicuous.

Well, as "inconspicuous" as one can be while whipping bags of beef jerky out of one's handbag.

Not the Way to "Blend In" on Public Transportation

As Ginger bemoans her current level of starvation (translation: she hasn't eaten in an hour), Vodka begins rummaging through her bag.

"I forgot, I brought these for you," Vodka says, tossing two bags of jerky onto Ginger's lap.

What? Not Everyone Travels with Jerky?

With not nearly enough questions based on the absurdity of this circumstance, Ginger begins munching through the jerky happily, partially satiating her hunger (said jerky, if anyone would like to purchase some for your own "commutes," can be found here: Lawless Jerky).

Jerky Is Useful for the Next Time You Find Yourself Crossing a River Against Your Will

Eventually, we arrive at the Hoboken train station and begin making our way down Washington Street towards Vito's Deli, where we're supposed to eat Ted Allen's chosen SMOKY dish, the smoked mutz hero.

Sandwich with Cigarette Flavoring?

Along our route, we encounter yet another problem that we never have in Manhattan: understanding traffic patterns.  Somehow, without the fear of being run down by taxi drivers and the palliative presence of "Walk" signs, we are incapable of crossing the street.  Based on the number of times we are almost run over by Hoboken's seemingly random traffic flow, we suppose we should be grateful if we make it out of this place alive.

The Irony Being That We Consider Maneuvering Through This Island a Figurative Walk in the Park

As we dodge our way through the losing side of vehicular manslaughter, we decide that Hoboken is quaint, sweet, perfectly enjoyable.  We love any place that offers a plethora of sidewalk dining options and a view of the river, so for a solid ten blocks, we are feeling remarkably content.

And then Hoboken starts denying us alcohol left and right, and we turn against the place in one fell swoop.

A Sign Which Would Have Been Useful at This Particular Point in Time

First, there is the matter of Vito's Deli "false advertising."  A sandwich board stationed outside of the place proclaims a "Happy Hour" pricing policy, about which we are instantly excited.  "Ooh, they have alcohol?!" Ginger practically skips inside the front door.

In a word, "No."

Don't Tempt Us Like That, Vito!

How Did These Boards Possibly Get So Smeared Way Up on the Ceiling?!

Vito's apparently prices some of their deli concoctions at "Happy Hour" prices -- not our elusive alcohol.  Settling for two glass bottles of soda instead, we place our order for one smoked mutz hero, which features homemade smoked mozzarella cheese, tomato, and pesto on an Italian roll.

Anyone Have Any Rum?

Say "Cheese"

If anything, we have to hand it to Vito's on one point: they are all about the generous portion.  In truth, we don't know the last time we have seen so much cheese on a sandwich, and we are instantly thrilled.

Cheese Tends to Have This Thrilling Effect on Us

This cheese is just about everything Ted Allen had described -- soft and nimble, with the lightest hint of smoke as an afterthought, it tastes unmistakably of freshness.

New Jersey: We Do Hoagies Right

When combined with the tomatoes, pesto, and a hearty dose of seasoning, it makes for a pretty solid sandwich, particularly because the roll is our preferred texture of soft and moldable rather than crunchy and crumbly.

Note: We Like a "Moldable" Roll; Not a "Moldy" Roll. Vital Difference

The smoked mutz hero is very good, yes, but it is missing a key element: alcohol.

"I should've brought vodka," Ginger complains halfway through her portion.

"I have a flask and everything," Vodka agrees.  "I was just so intent on the jerky that I didn't think."

For Future Reference, Never Let Dried Meet Take Priority Over Booze

Once we have polished off our full cheese hero, we decide to track down Hoboken's Mexican population in an effort to celebrate Cinco de Mayo a day early via our beloved margaritas.  Finding a restaurant two blocks away, we saunter up Washington Street.

Only to be turned away by the BYOB establishment.  BYOB?!  What the heck, Hoboken?

Does No One Around Here Have Their Priorities Straight?!

Environmentally Friendly Bags for Miles, But Not a Lick of Alcohol

"Is this a dry town?  Is this like Magic Kingdom?" Vodka is incredulous that not one but two Hoboken establishments have now denied us our desired beverages.  We frantically punch our phones until we find another, hopefully non-BYOB Mexican restaurant ten blocks away, and we begin making our way there, simultaneously hating Hoboken and mumbling the word "margarita" the whole way.

It Is, After All, Cuatro de Mayo

Earlier in the evening, Ginger had been grieving the lack of irony in her life - "I say, 'Wouldn't it be ironic if...?' and then the 'if' never happens.  You say, 'Wouldn't it be ironic if I saw Bernadette Peters on the street today?' and then you almost run into her.'  My life is without irony."

And then, as if gifted to her from the Ironic Gods, "Marghertia Restaurant" appears before us, a place that serves margherita pizzas but no margarita drinks.  Thanks, Hoboken.

This "Irony" Would Have Been Funnier Had We Had Some Margaritas In Us

Rather than celebrating the newfound dose of irony in Ginger's life, Vodka practically yells, "No one likes an ironic cocktail!" and we continue our march down Washington Street.  After entirely too many blocks, we stumble upon East L.A., a certifiable Mexican restaurant that serves certifiable margaritas.  Hallelujah.

Glory Be, It's Tequila Time

Requesting a place on the sidewalk, we are escorted to what has to be the slantiest table this side of the Hudson River, one that could cause both our drinks and our sanity to go sliding onto the ground at any moment.  The host rather apologetically sticks a wad of napkins under one of the legs, which improves the issue only slightly.

Pure Class

By this point, our great journey on the PATH train and our hour-long quest for a margarita have made us inexplicably giddy, as if at a certain point, we just begin acting tipsy because the clock says we should be.  We order a pitcher of regular margaritas and are handed -- wait for it -- a pitcher of frozen margaritas.

Three times, Hoboken?!  Three times you're going to thwart us on the drink front?

This Sort of Cocktail Calamity Is Why We Don't Cross Rivers

Our waiter returns with our requested 'on the rocks' pitcher, and we start consuming some of the worst margaritas we've ever tasted.  Despite their medicinal flavor, said margaritas soon give us the confidence we need to wander down to the waterfront and hop aboard the ferry back to Manhattan, despite our lack of prior research into the ferry procedure.

Don't Know How We'll Fight Our Way Past the Massive Crowds (...)

This ride provides us with the greatest deal of fun known outside of Disney World for a few reasons: 1) we are on the ferry completely by ourselves, 2) we insist on standing on the outside deck the whole time, despite the fierce wind and rough waters, 3) the ride gives us the opportunity to be judgmental ("When people post pictures of the NYC skyline, I'm always like 'Obviously, you don't live here, cause no one in Manhattan can SEE IT'"), and 4) we love an adventure -- well, when we feel comfortable.

The Happiest We've Been All Night

When we reach our homeland of Manhattan once again, we wander aimlessly through the streets of Tribeca in search of the subway.  Along the way, we stumble upon a group of high school girls playing softball in the park.  "Ahh, youth," Vodka begins.  "Look at their wholesome Friday night activity."

Ginger pauses for a moment.  "Don't worry.  When they turn 21, they will abandon all physical activity for booze and the Hoboken ferry."

Vito's Deli's Smoked Mutz Hero: 4 stars