Dear Grub Street,

This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. Because I love you, Grub Street. Even after a certain competition that my comrades and I were on the losing end of, I find it very hard to be annoyed with you.

Except when you start whining about Chicago. And you’re constantly whining about Chicago.

Listen: I was just like you once. I did my time in Brooklyn. Look in the TONY archives of 2004—I beat you to the Red Hook Soccer Fields story by years. And at the time, I, too, was under the impression that restaurants outside the five boroughs were not worth my cash.

So I understand. I know you’re just doing your duty as a New Yorker, thinking that the world begins and ends in (or at least close to) your zip code. But I got that chip off my shoulder, and you can, too. Come to Chicago, Grub Street. I will put you up in my guest room. I will take you around and we’ll eat, and we’ll drink, and we’ll replace some of that New York attitude with Midwestern kindness. You’ll come away impressed. And you’ll see that you don’t have to be intimidated by us. You’ll learn to love us. We’re big and cuddly here, I swear.

At the very least, tell me you’ll consider it. Because I really do love you. But clichés signal the intellectual death of smart men. And the only thing more cliché than yet another magazine finally calling Chicago America’s best food city is a New York food blog getting pissy about it.

Email me,
David Tamarkin
Senior Eat Out Writer
Time Out Chicago