The Shame

All food writers have some kind of secret shame. Though he’s been a diligent and extremely knowledgeable local food writer, Mike Gebert of Fooditor finally came clean in 2018 that after decades of writing, he’d never dined at Alinea. Dennis Lee, greatest food writer, that ever lived in Avondale, and operator of the Food is Stupid Substack newsletter, likes to shove food up his bunghole (to be fair, he’s proud of this and it’s not a secret). Though he hasn’t said it, I’m pretty sure, John Kessler, Chicago magazine food critic actually hates everything about the city of Chicago. I kid. He only hates Italian Beef.

I too have many dark shames, some secret, some not. Though, like Lee, mine while shameful to others is not shameful to me. As you know by now I love the entire Totinos offering. Before you come at me, deep fry a pizza roll, or drizzle a little aged balsamic on a freshly toaster oven-baked “supreme” party pizza. Admittedly the “pepperoni” on the party pizza is likely surplus rubber, the dark black bits you see stuck to the elbow protectors on running back David Montgomery anytime the Bears play an opponent on artificial turf, dyed red and dipped in chili oil. I get it, but I swear the crust is the very finest in savory toaster strudel available anywhere.

But, I am not here to speak of frozen pizza products. I am instead attempting to tell you the story of the very best food I have ever had delivered to my home. This might also seem weird given that this newsletter is usually about dining out, rather than dining in. But, like many of you, the pandemic reacquainted me with the life-changing tear-inducing joy of spending Friday night on the couch. As Covid-19 has subsided a touch, I have not forgotten that luxury.