In the parking lot of one of the Windy City’s better-known Italian beef sandwich stands, while waiting for my Uncle Joe to arrive for lunch, Uncle Charlie added the terms “juice loan” and “bag drop” to my vocabulary, as if Mafia-style extortion and illicit payoffs are part and parcel of a Chicago beef tour.
Inside the kitchen of one of these restaurants, someone politely told me, “You won’t be taking a picture of him,” and I stuck my camera right back into its bag, no questions asked.
As ubiquitous and popular a Chicago institution as pizza and Vienna hot dogs, Italian beef needs a guide. I’ve got family.
The sandwiches, made of shaved wet-roasted beef, heated in an au jus style sauce, served in a roll and decorated with sweet peppers or a spicy vegetable mix known as giardiniera, are a Chicago institution. While the city doesn’t have a monopoly on hot dogs and pizza, beef is strictly Chicagoland. Everybody’s got a favorite place. Nobody’s list of the top spots is the same.
I met my uncles Charlie and Joe Ray, a pair of lifelong Chicagoans, at Johnnie’s Beef in Elmwood Park. It’s a low-slung building that clearly hasn’t changed much in years, with grilled sausage smoke billowing from the chimney, poured-concrete picnic tables and a line snaking from the parking lot into the glassed-in front counter area.
We queued up and heard customers execute orders in a few clipped words, lest they lose their spots. Though the lingo varies wildly from person to person and place to place, Uncle Charlie explained his version of how it works.
“‘Dry’ is just beef and the gravy that clings to the beef. ‘Juicy’ is a ladleful of gravy poured over the top. ‘Dipped’ or ‘dunked’ is a sodden mass where they hold the whole thing with the tongs and dip it into the gravy,” he explained, demonstrating the last variation with his hands as if he was holding someone underwater.
From there, “plain” comes out unadorned, “sweet” is topped with bell peppers and “hot” comes with the spicy, vinegary giardiniera.
“I like it sweet, but some like it with giardiniera,” said Charlie. “That’s why they make chocolate and vanilla.”
Joe ordered three juicy and sweet with lemon ices, a semi-solid, sorbet-like drink that’s a Johnnie’s specialty, we made our way to a table and dug in.
I took a bite and was met head on with a garlicky blast, tender beefy depth and the peppers’ pleasing sweetness. Neophytes quickly learn never to set the sandwich down, lest the whole thing flop to soggy pieces between bites. Experts master the “Chicago lean’” — a tripod-like tipping of the whole body onto a counter to keep clothes free from drippings.
After we downed our first sandwiches, Uncle Joe headed back to work, and Charlie and I, following a tip, went to a joint named Beefy’s, where we found that if a beef sandwich could lack a soul, these would be prime examples.
“Got another one in you?” Charlie asked a few bites in, and we put our half-eaten sandwiches down and scrammed.
We drove toward downtown for what would effectively be our third lunch of the day at Carm’s in Little Italy. There used to be another Carm’s (no relation to this one) out in the suburbs, but, as Charlie put it in an email, “Your Dad’s favorite, Carm’s, is no longer in business. It seems like they had a run in with the tax man and they lost.”
This Carm’s, some 35 years young, draws a big slice-of-life crowd, a mix of local high schoolers, Chinese tourists and a family whose most petite member clocks in at about 250 pounds. The underage customers were greeted by owner Mary De Vivo’s daughter Carmella with a “You coming in for the air or you gonna buy something?” but then were allowed to buy their pop on credit.
Mary, known in these parts as “Mary Carm,” handed me a hot and juicy, and I started homing in on my personal preference. Hers is a big, blunt sandwich that commands attention as the heat of the giardiniera lifts up every part of the sandwich, balanced out by the gravy.
I asked De Vivo how she does it, and she looked at me like I should already know.
“I put the beef [in rounds] in a big pan, I put some water in, I put my spices in and, depending on the cut, it spends about three hours in the oven.”
“My spices?” I repeated, seeking precision.
“Garlic, oregano, salt, pepper, other spices,” she said, looking me square in the eye. “I’m not telling you!”
I walked out, rebuffed and smitten.
To try this at home, I headed over to see Uncle Charlie’s son, my cousin Chris, out in Elgin. Once I explained my “beef tour” idea to him, he had one additional question: “Is any of your story going to be on the nutritional factors of beef?”
I shook my head no.
“OK, good. You want me to just start talking?”
Making a beef sandwich at home seemed only slightly more complicated than making a Chicago dog. Chris put a saucepot of gravy on the stove (he uses the Vienna brand, an effective cheat), put garlic butter on French bread and threw it under the broiler until the edges browned. He dunked the meat in the gravy to heat it, put generous heaps on the bread, used the hollow of the tongs to spoon extra gravy on each sandwich, added giardiniera, covered the whole thing with two slices of provolone and popped it back under the broiler just long enough to melt the cheese.
Is cheese heretical? Only to some.
“Naw. It’s not like ketchup on a hot dog,” he said, alluding to another local phobia. While cheese turns out to be something of a personal preference, Chris didn’t use so much as to be distracting. I piled some extra giardiniera on mine — he likes the Dell’Alpe brand with the zealous label description, “the ultimate condiment for pepper enthusiasts.”
Chris’ sandwich was a solid one, and as a classy touch, he served small bowls of gravy next to each plate, allowing us to dip a bit at a time, avoiding a soggy mess. What’s most important to him, cheese or not, dipped or not, is simply making a good sandwich.
“Ya need da beef, ya need da bread,” he said, letting his native accent shine, “after that, it’s personal preference.”
With little need for breakfast the following morning, I wandered down to Mr. Beef on North Orleans, a shoebox setup whose north wall is filled with celebrity photos — everyone from George Wendt and Pat Sajak to a local deejay named Mancow and a 25-shot Jay Leno shrine.
The celebs on the wall aren’t idiots. My Mr. Beef hot and juicy had the best meat of the whole trip — rich, garlicky and deeply flavored — a veritable cornerstone of Chicago beef. Yet Christopher Zucchero, the son of Mr. Beef himself, Joseph Zucchero, was excited to give “shout outs” to two of his favorite spots, Chickie’s and Scatch- ell’s.
After five sandwiches in under 30 hours, and ever more places to check out, I felt the weight of the world on my esophagus. As with Seattle coffee or New York City pizza, you could spend months or years obsessing over finding the perfect spot.
Fortunately, I found mine half a block away.
Al’s Beef on West Ontario skated into instant first place. Despite being a wildly un-photogenic spot with tons of fluorescent lighting and empty tables with leftover cup rings and grease stains, its sandwich was a masterpiece. I unrolled my hot, dipped “Little Al” from its paper sheath and as soon as it appeared, it belched steam toward the ceiling, a dragon’s breath fired by giardiniera, heavily charged with red pepper flakes. There was a trail of gravy, colored red-orange by the peppers, that trailed off the wrapper onto the plastic tray. The beef was mille-feuille thin. I let out a low, unconscious “wow,” knowing I’d found what I came to Chicago for, and tucked in.
I tasted the garlic. I tasted the heat to the point where my lips tingled and sweat beaded on the top of my head. The vinegary smack of the giardiniera and the flaming heat combined to deepen the flavor of the beef. Heartburn’s hints weren’t subtle, and I was completely full, but the Little Al was so good that I ordered another. The bottom blew out of this one, leaving me to eat it like a caveman cradling his meal in his hands. To clean up afterward I’d simply take a shower. No matter. It was phenomenal.
As I left Al’s, two 30-something guys, one clearly local and one trailing a suitcase with Midway Airport luggage tags, walked up. On a hunch, I asked what they were up to.
“I just picked him up from the airport,” said the local, “Where else would we go?”
Inside the kitchen of one of these restaurants, someone politely told me, “You won’t be taking a picture of him,” and I stuck my camera right back into its bag, no questions asked.
As ubiquitous and popular a Chicago institution as pizza and Vienna hot dogs, Italian beef needs a guide. I’ve got family.
The sandwiches, made of shaved wet-roasted beef, heated in an au jus style sauce, served in a roll and decorated with sweet peppers or a spicy vegetable mix known as giardiniera, are a Chicago institution. While the city doesn’t have a monopoly on hot dogs and pizza, beef is strictly Chicagoland. Everybody’s got a favorite place. Nobody’s list of the top spots is the same.
I met my uncles Charlie and Joe Ray, a pair of lifelong Chicagoans, at Johnnie’s Beef in Elmwood Park. It’s a low-slung building that clearly hasn’t changed much in years, with grilled sausage smoke billowing from the chimney, poured-concrete picnic tables and a line snaking from the parking lot into the glassed-in front counter area.
We queued up and heard customers execute orders in a few clipped words, lest they lose their spots. Though the lingo varies wildly from person to person and place to place, Uncle Charlie explained his version of how it works.
“‘Dry’ is just beef and the gravy that clings to the beef. ‘Juicy’ is a ladleful of gravy poured over the top. ‘Dipped’ or ‘dunked’ is a sodden mass where they hold the whole thing with the tongs and dip it into the gravy,” he explained, demonstrating the last variation with his hands as if he was holding someone underwater.
From there, “plain” comes out unadorned, “sweet” is topped with bell peppers and “hot” comes with the spicy, vinegary giardiniera.
“I like it sweet, but some like it with giardiniera,” said Charlie. “That’s why they make chocolate and vanilla.”
Joe ordered three juicy and sweet with lemon ices, a semi-solid, sorbet-like drink that’s a Johnnie’s specialty, we made our way to a table and dug in.
I took a bite and was met head on with a garlicky blast, tender beefy depth and the peppers’ pleasing sweetness. Neophytes quickly learn never to set the sandwich down, lest the whole thing flop to soggy pieces between bites. Experts master the “Chicago lean’” — a tripod-like tipping of the whole body onto a counter to keep clothes free from drippings.
After we downed our first sandwiches, Uncle Joe headed back to work, and Charlie and I, following a tip, went to a joint named Beefy’s, where we found that if a beef sandwich could lack a soul, these would be prime examples.
“Got another one in you?” Charlie asked a few bites in, and we put our half-eaten sandwiches down and scrammed.
We drove toward downtown for what would effectively be our third lunch of the day at Carm’s in Little Italy. There used to be another Carm’s (no relation to this one) out in the suburbs, but, as Charlie put it in an email, “Your Dad’s favorite, Carm’s, is no longer in business. It seems like they had a run in with the tax man and they lost.”
This Carm’s, some 35 years young, draws a big slice-of-life crowd, a mix of local high schoolers, Chinese tourists and a family whose most petite member clocks in at about 250 pounds. The underage customers were greeted by owner Mary De Vivo’s daughter Carmella with a “You coming in for the air or you gonna buy something?” but then were allowed to buy their pop on credit.
Mary, known in these parts as “Mary Carm,” handed me a hot and juicy, and I started homing in on my personal preference. Hers is a big, blunt sandwich that commands attention as the heat of the giardiniera lifts up every part of the sandwich, balanced out by the gravy.
I asked De Vivo how she does it, and she looked at me like I should already know.
“I put the beef [in rounds] in a big pan, I put some water in, I put my spices in and, depending on the cut, it spends about three hours in the oven.”
“My spices?” I repeated, seeking precision.
“Garlic, oregano, salt, pepper, other spices,” she said, looking me square in the eye. “I’m not telling you!”
I walked out, rebuffed and smitten.
To try this at home, I headed over to see Uncle Charlie’s son, my cousin Chris, out in Elgin. Once I explained my “beef tour” idea to him, he had one additional question: “Is any of your story going to be on the nutritional factors of beef?”
I shook my head no.
“OK, good. You want me to just start talking?”
Making a beef sandwich at home seemed only slightly more complicated than making a Chicago dog. Chris put a saucepot of gravy on the stove (he uses the Vienna brand, an effective cheat), put garlic butter on French bread and threw it under the broiler until the edges browned. He dunked the meat in the gravy to heat it, put generous heaps on the bread, used the hollow of the tongs to spoon extra gravy on each sandwich, added giardiniera, covered the whole thing with two slices of provolone and popped it back under the broiler just long enough to melt the cheese.
Is cheese heretical? Only to some.
“Naw. It’s not like ketchup on a hot dog,” he said, alluding to another local phobia. While cheese turns out to be something of a personal preference, Chris didn’t use so much as to be distracting. I piled some extra giardiniera on mine — he likes the Dell’Alpe brand with the zealous label description, “the ultimate condiment for pepper enthusiasts.”
Chris’ sandwich was a solid one, and as a classy touch, he served small bowls of gravy next to each plate, allowing us to dip a bit at a time, avoiding a soggy mess. What’s most important to him, cheese or not, dipped or not, is simply making a good sandwich.
“Ya need da beef, ya need da bread,” he said, letting his native accent shine, “after that, it’s personal preference.”
With little need for breakfast the following morning, I wandered down to Mr. Beef on North Orleans, a shoebox setup whose north wall is filled with celebrity photos — everyone from George Wendt and Pat Sajak to a local deejay named Mancow and a 25-shot Jay Leno shrine.
The celebs on the wall aren’t idiots. My Mr. Beef hot and juicy had the best meat of the whole trip — rich, garlicky and deeply flavored — a veritable cornerstone of Chicago beef. Yet Christopher Zucchero, the son of Mr. Beef himself, Joseph Zucchero, was excited to give “shout outs” to two of his favorite spots, Chickie’s and Scatch- ell’s.
After five sandwiches in under 30 hours, and ever more places to check out, I felt the weight of the world on my esophagus. As with Seattle coffee or New York City pizza, you could spend months or years obsessing over finding the perfect spot.
Fortunately, I found mine half a block away.
Al’s Beef on West Ontario skated into instant first place. Despite being a wildly un-photogenic spot with tons of fluorescent lighting and empty tables with leftover cup rings and grease stains, its sandwich was a masterpiece. I unrolled my hot, dipped “Little Al” from its paper sheath and as soon as it appeared, it belched steam toward the ceiling, a dragon’s breath fired by giardiniera, heavily charged with red pepper flakes. There was a trail of gravy, colored red-orange by the peppers, that trailed off the wrapper onto the plastic tray. The beef was mille-feuille thin. I let out a low, unconscious “wow,” knowing I’d found what I came to Chicago for, and tucked in.
I tasted the garlic. I tasted the heat to the point where my lips tingled and sweat beaded on the top of my head. The vinegary smack of the giardiniera and the flaming heat combined to deepen the flavor of the beef. Heartburn’s hints weren’t subtle, and I was completely full, but the Little Al was so good that I ordered another. The bottom blew out of this one, leaving me to eat it like a caveman cradling his meal in his hands. To clean up afterward I’d simply take a shower. No matter. It was phenomenal.
As I left Al’s, two 30-something guys, one clearly local and one trailing a suitcase with Midway Airport luggage tags, walked up. On a hunch, I asked what they were up to.
“I just picked him up from the airport,” said the local, “Where else would we go?”
