So with the weekend of Gastronomic Hype behind us, XV and I headed into the next weekend without much of an idea what we were going to do. The doldrums of our shitbag winter were setting in, and even worse I had just undergone a pretty massive surgery on the Monday of that week. XV had plans with the girls on Saturday for a Gilt Bar/BarrellHouse Flat evening, and I was left behind with only my fresh surgical incisions to comfort me. Alas, dear readers, this is where the socially elite rise to the challenge and make it out in spite of the obstacles. I consulted with some of the Significant Others of the ladies group heading to Gilt, and we all decided to rendezvous at Chicago Q for a low-key, hyper-masculine dinner.
It has been a warm winter by any standards here in the glorious 312, feeling more like Atlanta than the brutal January’s and February’s Chi-town residents have grown used to. Nevertheless, this particular Saturday happened to be one of the coldest of the Winter season, and bundling up was critical since my immune system was already in near shutdown mode after the surgery. Typically I’ll throw long underwear and a base layer under whatever I’m wearing, but on this fair evening I ran into a serious problem…..The surgery being fresh, I couldn’t wear layers, I couldn’t wear jeans, I couldn’t bend down to put decent shoes on, and overall, my wardrobe was fucked. Ready to throw in the towel and crawl back into bed, XV, looking gorgeous in a slouchy Vince shirt, sexy leggings and leg warmers, black YSL pumps, and a vibrant shade of Tom Ford lipstick, made this exact comment “Babe, it’s a BBQ spot. I’m sure you’ll be fine in Lululemon’s and a pull over.” I knew she was wrong, I knew I was going into the belly of the River North social scene, and I knew I’d regret it, but I decided to allow her advice and ridiculously well dressed sexy encouragement to puff out my chest far enough to ferret my hapless and surgically damaged self out the door……wearing Lululemon black Astro pants, Nike running shoes, and an Oakland Hills CC fleece pullover. I was fucked and I knew it.
I arrived on the scene early for our 8:30 meet up, and tossed the keys to the valet out front. $12 later I was inside Chicago Q and I was immediately impressed. The space was open, tastefully decorated, and struck an excellent balance; remaining an upscale city restaurant and still being a shit-ton nicer than the “nice” BBQ joint that exist down South. Having lived in the South I’ve been to the “nice” BBQ places and I’m well aware of their lame ass game. Usually you get something akin to a kitschy chain restaurant, modeled in a Chili’s or Friday’s style, that serves better than average BBQ. Thankfully I haven’t run into this level of impermissibly pathetic southern kitsch here in the 312, and Chicago Q was no exception. Places like Smoque, and Lillie’s (Go Noles!), do an excellent job and each have a cool urban vibe with outstanding culinary renditions of classic American BBQ, unlike their backwoods Southern progeny. If you think a BBQ shack can’t be a mix of urban hip and awesome BBQ, just ask Grant Achatz, chef/owner of arguably the best restaurant in the world, Alinea. Chef Achatz is a regular at Lillie’s and Q. Anyways, I digress…..
Arriving without a reservation was problematic, as I was quoted an hour and a half wait, at minimum. As my dining partners Queef and Jefe arrived I realized that my energy was waning, even in spite of the Puerto Rican gangster stash of Oxy I had in my pocket to keep me pain free. Not wanting to dip too far into my stash, I played the sympathy card on the moronic, would be sorority girl but couldn’t get into college so she’s hostessing hostess and her Men’s Warehouse cum Jos. A. Bank suit sporting manager who both assured me that they’d get my party seated ASAP. With a big smile on my face I began to survey the dining room and I immediately noticed two important things; 1) I knew at least 10 people between the dining room and the bar, and all were girls from my heydays back at the Bernardin 2) I was hopelessly underdressed, and even worse my outfit looked almost identical to the ones the valet were wearing. At least I didn’t have to talk to anybody I thought. That was of course, until two of my oldest Greek friends, Ev-$ and Metro walked in, dressed really nicely, with their very well dressed wives in tow. Kill me.
By 8:45 we were seated in a discreet corner and I was happily out of the line of social shame fire. Finally, I could focus on the deliciousness that was about to ensue. A quick look at the menu and we all settled on the same thing…RIBS. After consulting with the waiter we ordered up three slabs of competition St. Louis ribs, recently named one of the 100 best Chicago menu items in the city by TimeOut magazine. As the waiter placed an amazing set of BBQ style amuse on the table (house made bread and butter pickles and BBQ potato chips) I was left to ponder how this temple of BBQ came to grace our dining scene. In a nutshell, Chicago Q is just what it attests to be. A perfectly upscale Chicago restaurant, serving amazing BBQ. Chef Lee Ann Whippen is a pit master with a serious pedigree, having taken home trophies from some of the most prestigious BBQ Competitions in the world. Considering she is a graduate of the Culinary Institute of Arts, this makes her particularly dangerous, as she has a pedigree in both BBQ and fine dining, and it shows. Carefully constructing a menu that you rarely see in BBQ joint (Kobe Beef Brisket, “Competition” Style Ribs dutifully watched over for an entire day by a designated Pit Master), she has created a restaurant that brings the deliciousness of television BBQ competitions that have made millions salivate on their sofa’s, into reality.
I couldn’t imbibe but my dining partners ordered up a couple of Daisy Cutters off the affable, but somewhat limited beer menu, and before they were even half way finished the entrees arrived. Sauces came in little ramekin’s placed in the middle of the table, and while delicious, they weren’t even needed. As each of us bit into our first bite of ribs we all began to moan like whores. They were that good. The fall off the bone meat glistened from a day long lacquering of sauce and attention, tasting far better than I could have ever imagined. They were so good in fact, that I chose to not finish my dinner (not something I would ever do) so I could take a few ribs home to XV. I absolutely had to share the experience with her. Needless to say I haven’t been this impressed with BBQ, let alone with an item such as a rib, in long time. Maybe ever. I’m not kidding one bit when I say this, Chicago Q’s St. Louis ribs were one of the best things I’ve eaten in the last year. So good in fact, that I didn’t care about the delicious hand cut fries that came with order, nor the little bit of vinegary pickled red onions adorning the plate to cut the richness of the meat and cleanse the palate, or even the order of amazing cornbread and honey butter we ordered as a side. Shit, I even almost forgot about the much better than average macaroni and cheese we ordered when I was writing this….too busy dreaming about those magnificent ribs.
Considering the aforesaid, run, don’t walk to Chicago Q. IT’S THAT FUCKING GOOD. Mind you, this isn’t Kevin from the Office writing this review. I’m not some super fatass who loves the Bears and the Cubs, walking around looking for Italian Beef or some Wicker Park Beer Pig all day long….This is coming from an experienced palate, who’s eaten at some of the finest restaurants all across the globe. Knowing this, take my advice and find room to fit a BBQ night into your weekend. Oh, and for you idiot girls that won’t consider making Q a girls night out, there were tons of gorgeous girls there that night. In fact, I’ll take the people at Chicago Q over the people at Tavernita any day.
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