While you've been worrying about Casey Anthony and watching South Park reruns, Barack Obama has been busy leaving a monumental legacy of hard grubbin as Commander-in-chief. When this brah has serious policies to administer, he prepares by rolling up his sleeves and having a serious grubbin session. We at HG are in awe of the voracity with which the President is devouring his daily duties as leader of the free world. Regardless of whether you're in agreement with his politics, there's no denying this brah knows what's up when it comes to showing a sandwich who's boss.
PRESIDENT BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA
The Presidency requires one to face difficult decisions. Fancy luncheon? White tablecloths? When a brah's hungry, instincts are key.
Barack has adopted the admirable position of ignoring the invasive press and grubbing unabashedly, even in seas of a thousand camera flashes. This palpable authenticity has made him a hero in hard grubbin communities at all socioeconomic levels.
Look at that form, he's playing that shit like a flute. This brah can make a sandwich sing.
A hidden camera catches Barack in the zone. For the haters that think it's all a show for the media.
Michelle Obama looks on in speechless admiration. Barack cites a reliable support system as key in his sustained ability to destroy any meal he encounters on the road.
Look at this champ, grubbing all alone. Showing true dedication, elimination of any and all distractions.
Even Sharpton, reknowned in certain circles for his own grubbing prowess, is caught off guard by his companion's passion.
Mazen calls. Due to the time of day and amount of booze consumed the previous night, little has to be said. My crew scoops me up, grubbin clearly in our immediate future but destination as of yet unknown. When I ask what's on the brain, I see the look in Ethan's eyes and can hear the words before they come out of his mouth: Mac Attack. I feel as if I've been hit over the head with a brick; I knew grubbin was about to go down but had no idea shit was going to get so serious so fast. Ransford is shaking.
This legendary soul food establishment likely needs no introduction to the serious HG practitioners out there. Strategically positioned in an unquestionably fucked-up area, MacArthur's is best for your health when visited during daylight hours. This particular section of Austin cannot be technically referred to as a "neighborhood" due to most of the houses being empty lots filled with garbage, and most of the neighbors being homeless brahs filled with Night Train. The immediately adjacent parking lot is key.
Once entry is gained, depending on what time and day you visit you may have to wait in an insanely long line. The after-church rush on Sunday, for example, would be an unwise choice. The line snakes along a long wall covered with photos of famous celebs risking both their personal health and that of their expensive automobiles for the sake of some serious down-home grubbin. If candid shots of T-Pain and Monique don't convince you (take a look at that shirt and you'll see this broad knows what's up), maybe the approval of a certain Barack Obama will. The fantastic southern-style food is dished up cafeteria-style from behind a long counter, served by refreshingly demeaning/sarcastic employees dressed in throwback lunchlady garb. CASH ONLY.
The first order of business is the meat selection, otherwise known as the moment of truth. The portion sizes are truly something to marvel at, making the controversial "Double Meat" method that much more of a feat. On this particular day, we stand side-by-side, each brah taking his own destiny by the horns and stepping up to the plate.
Only one thing left to do. Double up.
Heaping mounds of fried chicken, dark meat is the consensus of the day. Mazen truly goes out on a limb and doubles up with fried chicken and a large mystery sausage smothered in barbecue sauce, an arrogant choice that will soon pay off pleasantly. This is what is referred to as gambling and winning.
Next come the sides. Steaming trays of collard greens, cornbread muffins, mashed potatoes with gravy and the ghetto-tastic mac and cheese, appropriately topped with melting square slices of American cheese. Beverage of choice is a can of 7-Up on the rocks, hits the spot.
I gleefully add a regular-size container of the delectable banana pudding with vanilla wafers to my tray; Ethan has apparently opted for the large container and an additional regular-size for good measure.
At the table, the mood is much less ominous. Conversation is limited, there is work to be done. Ransford remains quiet but now visibly relaxed; he knows now the road before him, and with the help of plentiful hot sauce will tackle his task with grace and ease.
A brah is ready to get his grub on. Hunger is starting to cloud his judgement, making everything in sight look delicious, not unlike old Looney Tunes cartoons where everything Bugs Bunny sees is made of sausages. The convenience of eating what's quickest and within reach eclipses all other factors......and so the fall begins.
Common sense is an essential resource in the world of hard grubbin, and must never be thrown to the wayside in the event of a hunger attack or super-saturation in alcohol.
Take the scene below:On first impression, you're likely eyeing that BBQ and envisioning nothing but sinking your chops into that tender meat, huh? Not so fast, brah. A more thorough examination of the 'grub' and its surroundings reveals a more sinister scenario.
The sad reality is this meal was a poor, poor call, and likely could have been avoided by employing a basic checklist. Are other customers present, much less lining up? Uh-oh. Is the environment at least semi-sanitary? Ummm. Was the establishment's employee even awake before your arrival? Holy shit.
Got the hard drinkin doldrums? Tired of warm pints of flat Old Style and the tamale guy screaming in your ear? Dreading another Friday night at the Rainbo with the same hipster 4's and 5's?
A boot may be in order, brah.
Chicago Brauhaus 4732 N Lincoln Ave Lincoln Square
Grubbing options at this German-themed beer hall include schnitzels and sausages of all kinds, topped in kraut and caramelized onions galore. One particularly boss staple is steak tartare, a suspect combination of a raw egg, raw onions and raw ground beef, served stacked in a bowl for the customer to season and mix to their liking, thus starting the inevitable process of vomiting and/or extreme gastrointestinal drama. I usually pass on this tempting opportunity.
To be blunt, the rather bland grub alone will not blow you away; kind of like a Medieval Times meal, the intention is there but the main attraction has nothing to do with the quality of the grub. I also realize that for most of the Brauhaus patrons, said main attraction is most likely the lively dancefloor revelry to the sound of polka music from a trio of three seriously old dudes in lederhosen. However, take one look out at the tables and you'll see the real boozebags getting down with some serious boots.
One might assume that only the most special of occasions would justify a boot, but this is not so. While a trip to the Brauhaus can undoubtedly set a birthday or bridal shower off right, a boot can also transform an ordinary Wednesday night into an extraordinary night in hard drinkin.
The hefty $45 deposit per boot may initially seem excessive, but on further reflection is totally reasonable considering the intense level of hard dining going down. Celebratory cries such as 'DRINK THE FUCKING BOOT' and 'BOOTS BRAH' are commonplace among patrons. Walking among tables, one may overhear such popular phrases as 'DAS BOOT' or 'I'm fucking annihilated'.
I can attest that a boot is best when shared, passed around a table of brahs and consumed in one fell swoop, to be immediately followed by another. Although this almost definitely ensures someone at the table will get sick, the participants accept this risk with idiotic smiles on their faces, marveling at the size of the vessel they are preparing to battle.
And obviously yes, the first thing I did upon recovering the next day was to immediately scour eBay in hopes of securing a boot of mine own. Large crystal vases have even been implemented as improvised boots at hard socializing events, yet none elicit the same rush as conquering a Brauhaus vessel in its amber glory.
At right: Chicago's Liz Ransford shows a boot who's boss, ignoring the size ratio of the intimidating boot to her own petite frame and destroying it with one hand.
Smoque BBQ 3800 N Pulaski (2 blocks south of Irving Park Road) Chicago
This brah seconds Mazen's review(below) of an amazing grubbery, however it would be sacrilege to omit any mention of their sides, which on occasion steal the show. Don't blame Mazen for this oversight; as a connoisseur and long-time practitioner of the 'XL sandwich only' or 'double meat' method, Mazen often misses the opportunity to sample an establishment's peripheral offerings. Is he so entranced by the deliciousness of a beef? Pastrami tunnel-vision? Judge not-- a brah has to be true to himself and this is the path Mazen has chosen.
Back to the grub. Smoque cooks up some of the best beans I've ever had(with chunks of brisket mixed in), killer mac and cheese(don't let the portion size deter you), and a peach cobbler to end all cobblers. While sweets might register as an afterthought to a brah after jamming 2 pounds of delicious BBQ in his face, Smoque's small peach cobbler sets you up CORRECT for an afternoon of hard recovery on the couch.
Their proprietary BBQ sauce is really something special, a tangy vinegar-based nectar with just the right amount of kick to set that sandwich off. They always supply a small side of the sauce for sandwich dipping, because apparently these owners know exactly what a brah needs to properly get his grub on.
If this place delivered I would give it an A+ in the hangover category. But as leaving the house the morning after a night of hard socializing is not always a wise move, Pizza Hut still reigns in this realm.*
Also worthy of note is the bullshit tendency of this place to run out of meat items, often in descending order of deliciousness. Pulled pork always goes first, then sliced brisket, then St. Louis style ribs. If you've had that mouth-watering pulled pork on the brain all week, don't fuck around and go early enough to ensure you get the sandwich you deserve.
*Another of life's luxuries Mazen has not experienced in awhile. Currently blacklisted by the only Pizza Hut that delivers to his house due to repeatedly placing arrogant orders at 3AM and passing out before the booty arrives, Mazen is slightly sour about this status and it's best to leave this topic alone.
