Archive for the 'Things that are gross' Category

Lillie’s Q Hates You; Wants You and Your Jerk Friends to Eat Somewhere Else

The following is an imagined conversation between the owner/manager of Lillie’s Q and his mentor, who is well-versed in the protocol and procedure of managing a dining establishment.

Lillie’s Q Owner:

Okay, so what about treatment of the customers? You’re supposed to be nice to them, right?


Nice? Are you joking? No, no.  Your job as  manager, owner, what have you, is to make the customers feel like it’s their privilege to be dining at your establishment. They are the lucky ones, not you. They are blessed to be given the golden, shining opportunity to eat your crappily-prepared and awkwardly-presented barbeque. Treat them like crap and they’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand.


Huh. So treat them like crap? Interesting. Never thought of that. (Scribbles furiously on pad.)

So being accommodating, being friendly, making sure the customer is taken care of, all that stuff is out, right? I should probably just be super rude to everyone and ignore them at all costs?


You learn quickly, my boy. Just live by these rules and you’ll make piles of money; so much money you’ll be swimming in it, like Scrooge McDuck. Oh, and another thing! Make sure your restaurant doesn’t take reservations. Reservations are for losers. You  must always cultivate an air of superiority, even it means making tables wait for upwards of two hours. This is key, son. Always make them wait.


Wow. I’m so glad we had this conversation. But wait, I have a question. What if I serve all the beverages in Ball jars? Will that help mask my dickish attitude towards customers?


Oh, absolutely. People fucking love drinking out of those jars. “Aww, look,” they’ll say,”how charming and Southern! Instead of regular old glasses, they’ve given us JARS to drink out of! I’m totally doing this at home from now on. I’m going to buy Ball jars off the internet and use them as glasses at home. It’ll be so cute and quaint!”



Aaaaaaaaand scene.

Well, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered from that little scene study up there, I had a bad experience at Lillie’s Q this weekend. BBQ is really hot right now, and this place has been commended as being the latest in Chicago’s roster of awesome BBQ joints; with phrases like “new Southern” and “barbecue reimagined” being thrown around. I’d heard some buzz about this place and jumped at the chance to try it for myself on Saturday for my friend T.’s birthday.

Things started off on a sour note when we were told that, as a large party (we had maybe 10? 12 people?) we could expect a wait of about two hours, seeing as they don’t accept reservations. No matter, I said to myself, and decided to just start ordering drinks as we stood smashed up against the bar. I noticed that the bartender was blatantly ignoring us as we jockeyed for his attention over other people at the bar, and at one point he refused to even calculate what I owed him for drinks, ignoring me when I said I wanted to pay for my drinks as I had them instead of having them added to a tab.

After about an hour and a half of these shenannigans, we sensed they were starting to assemble our seating area. The bartender (who I later learned was also the owner) handed us our tab and as we settled up, he informed me that the management staff were thisclose to telling us to “go eat somewhere else”, as they “generally don’t seat large parties”. I gave this guy the side-eye as my brain tried to gauge whether or not he was joking with me, nodding and half-laughing as I wondered to myself “what kind of business owner turns down what could essentially be a very large tab, bringing in more money to the establishment and lining the server’s pocket?”

To me, it seemed as though he was suggesting we should be kissing his ass, falling over ourselves in gratitude that he and his blessed staff deigned to allow us to pay them for their services. My friend K. and I both agreed that this was the kind of thing you generally don’t share with your customers, as it could potentially be considered a rude thing to say. This basic rule of social interaction–taking care not to offend–didn’t seem to be on this guy’s radar.

We sat, we ordered, we ate. K. deemed the hush puppies “not as good as Red Lobster’s”, and was put off when her shredded chicken entrée arrived as a glob of chicken on  tray. Literally. That was it. No garnish, no nothing, just a blorp of shredded chicken on a piece of butcher paper, served on a small metal tray. It looked like cat vomit.

My pulled pork sandwich was pretty good, though Twin Anchors’ is better. I ordered it with a side of macaroni, which both K. and I agreed lacked flavor and was mushy and overcooked. I did enjoy the selection of five different barbecue sauces on the table, and glugged the spiciest one over my sandwich after every bite. The fried pickles were good in theory, but the breading flaked off as soon as I took a fork to it, leaving me with a hot, floppy, wet pickle slice.

Now, because it was T.’s birthday celebration dinner, we figured it would be fun to order a birthday dessert for him, perhaps with a candle for him to blow out. We were told that Lillie’s Q “doesn’t do that”, and subsequently sent out not one but two people from our table to scout down a pack of birthday candles to give to our server so he could place it atop the fucking cobbler or crumble or whatever it was. It was maybe an hour-long ordeal, during which our server was very patient, but I could tell that the rest of the staff was making fun of us. I even overheard another server in the kitchen talking about it like she’d never seen such a production before.

I get that we weren’t dining at Chuck E. Cheese, but come on. People celebrate birthdays at restaurants, and yes, even adults appreciate a chance to blow out some birthday candles. Get over yourselves, Lillie’s Q! We weren’t asking you to clap and sing! We simply wanted ONE GODDAMN CANDLE. Gah.

So. By the time the bill came, I was getting super anxious to leave. I also noticed that the later it became, the more the place basically had become a hangout for the owner and his friends, and they all stood at the bar shooting us dirty looks for breathing and being paying customers and having the audacity to exist. We paid and vamoosed. I don’t think I’ll be going back, unless I hear that the place has overgone a major ‘tude overhaul.

This, for me, is a worrying trend that I’m noticing more and more as new restaurants open in Chicago. I’m not sure what happened, but all of a sudden it became de rigueur for dining establishments to treat their customers like total crap, and act like they could give two shits about repeat business or food quality. It’s like everyone who opens a new restaurant is required to fail Hospitality 101 and instead get their masters in Advanced Topics in Being a Dick to Patrons.

It’s not cute or charming, and for a place that prides itself on serving down-home Southern food, the blatant disregard for the enjoyment of customers that I witnessed at Lillie’s Q was completely incongruous and frankly absurd. This place needs a reality check, and soon.


This worries me.

The implication here is that, at one point in time, this soup maybe didn’t taste so great.


Herbacious Liasons

Getting sick of my punny titles yet? No? Good.

Allow me to introduce my distaste for the herb pictured above, the odious cilantro. Growing up, I remember there being a certain taste that I had a distinct aversion to; a sharp, toxic, biting flavor that showed up when my mom made Mexican or Middle Eastern food. I could never really pinpoint or articulate what exactly this ingredient was, or why I felt like coughing or gagging every time I consumed it. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of college when my roommate and I had somehow stumbled across the topic of cilantro in the course of our Adderall and Diet Coke-fueled late night conversations. “It tastes like toxic soap,” she said, scrunching her face up in distaste. BING! A lightbulb flicked on over my head, the heavens opened up and a choir belted out that ubiquitous note of revelation. YES. She had hit the nail on the head.

At first I thought myself a freak, an outcast, a (God forbid) picky eater due to my aberrant distaste of anything containing cilantro. Then, as I did a little research, I uncovered communities of like-minded individuals similarly committed to shaking the poor, hapless masses out of their cilantro-induced stupor and alerting them to the error of their ways. This happens to be one of my favorite anti-cilantro websites, a pseudo-revoultionary, almost politically-tinged dumping ground fervently devoted to “supporting the fight against cilantro.” Its commenters submit missives chronicling their hate of the herb, likening it to anything from burnt rubber to industrial stripping solvent, to my own association, “toxic soap.”

The site reads almost like a community of outsiders desperately happy to have found common ground in cilantro hate, commiserating in their shared sense of freakishness in a cilantro-centric world. Further research on my part unveils a very scientific reason behind the strong divide between lovers and haters: genetics. Apparently, there’s something in my genetic code that predisposes me to absolutely hating cilantro. I blame you, mom and dad.

Okay, okay. Maybe I’m being a little too vehement here, giving you the impression that I’m prone to fits of rage every time a cilantro leave crosses my path. Not true, not true. I’ve grown increasingly more attuned to the depth and earthy flavor it can bring to certain dishes, especially when combined in a salsa containing mangoes, onions, guacamole, and beans. That tang that is so indicative of a cilantro presence would be missed if left out, leaving the concontion slightly bland and one-note. I admit to a love/hate relationship with this herb, and one that has grown from complete and utter disdain and avoidance to a more wary, shifty-eyed tolerance, as if we’re ex-lovers trapped in an elevator together, unspoken tension simmering beneath the surface.

I don’t TRUST you, cilantro! But I will tolerate you in small doses.


Just how often are things described as “chunky” also things that are delicious? Not very often, let me tell you. Busy day today, but I just wanted to hop on and express my distaste for one odious bearer of the “chunky” moniker: Jif EXTRA Chunky Peanut butter.
Having skipped breakfast this morning due to my tardy arrival to work which was in turn caused by my Nyquil coma, I was frickin’ starving by the time 10:00 rolled around. Like, stomach-growling-so-loud-my-coworkers-looked-at-me-funny starving. Having only grabbed an apple on my way out the door, I opted to stop by my neighborhood sandwich/wine/grocery store hoping for a package of English muffins and a jar of smooth, creamy peanut butter to supplement said apple. The store yielded no English muffins, so I settled for a weirdly-hued, supposedly “whole wheat” bagel and grabbed what I THOUGHT was creamy peanut butter from the shelf.
Once back at the office, I sliced the crumbly bagel in half (whole wheat my aunt Fanny), toasted it, and opened the jar of Jif. To my horror and dismay, I had grabbed EXTRA CHUNKY PEANUT BUTTER. I seriously debated my options for a minute. Do I return? Do I sigh resignedly and smear the stuff on the bagel? Do I pitch the whole jar, thinking not of the starving children? I went with the second choice, knifing out just enough peanut butter to cover both faces of the bagel. I found myself getting annoyed at how difficult it was to spread, and increasingly frustrated at the bits of whole peanut that kept catching on my knife. Back at my desk, I plowed through both halves of the bagel, alternating with gulps of water to ease the carb-y, peanutty lumps down my throat.

My distaste for this version of PB stems from not only the gross name, but also the unexpected crunch you get when you bite into something smeared with the concoction. I hate chunky peanut butter. There, I said it. And if you happent to be one of those freaks who choose chunky over smooth, may God have mercy on your soul.

Who is Hungrypants?

Hungry Tweets