Restaurant Review: Andalous (Monkey v. Dr. Bunsen Honeydew & Beaker)

So my blogging career restarts not with a bang, but a whimper. I haven’t even bothered to let people know I’ve even set up this address. Since I have nothing especially poetic to whine about at the moment, I’ll recount a recent dining experience I had in Chicago.

My Review

The first time I tasted the offerings of Andalous was around New Year’s Eve when my collegiate BFF’s (Sparklygrrl) parents catered their shindig with a sampling of their menu. All I remember is that I ate and drank way too much, but that the food was really good. Standouts from said evening included the carrot appetiser (chermoula) and some sort of chicken pastry I later ferreted out to be Chicken Pastilla. There were also several lamb tagines and mountains of couscous and ohhhhhhhhhh, readers, Sparky’s parents throw the BEST parties and you have to see her house to believe it. It looks like something out of a HG tv show.

They never explicitly told me where they catered the food from but I knew it was Moroccan and some clever internet sleuthing a few weeks later convinced me that they had obtained all things ridiculously yummy from Andalous. Mainly because I couldn’t find many restaurants in Chicago that focused exclusively on Moroccan cuisine. Besides, I remember Sparky’s step-mom talking about how they needed cash to pay for the dinner since the restaurant doesn’t accept credit cards which led me directly to the culprit. Readers, remember this point if you go. Everyone who has reviewed the restaurant on the internets mentions this point and while I LOVED this place, I’ll state that it irritates the hell out of me when places don’t take cards. I was actually pretty irritated with myself for not remembering this during a recent foray since I fully intended to pay for dinner but didn’t have the bloody cash on hand so my date ended up paying even though he had already paid the night before for a rather expensive outing and I felt really really bad.

The thing is, before I went out to Chicago I warned my dining companion (hereinafter known as Lt. Hightower due to freakishly gigantic stature…PLEASE stop laughing as you imagine me standing next to him) that we “needed a plan”. Because you know that thing that happens when you meet someone for the first time and you’re like “oh what do you want to do/no what do YOU want to do?” and then you both stand around eyeing each other not wanting to make suggestions the other might find offensive, so you sort of end up meandering around aimlessly and then when people ask you what you did on your date you sort of stare at them glassy-eyed because, seriously, what did you do and why is it so embarrassing that you can’t actually list an exciting itinerary for this super annoying person who is trying to ferret out the details of your date? And you know, this situation MIGHT and I say just MIGHT be complicated by the fact that PRIOR to the date, one person (and this is all conjecture but it might be the GIRL) huffily informs the other (MIGHT be an outlandishly tall boy) that they need a plan, and subsequent to said declaration, plans may have been hatched, but rendered moot by the fact that the girl chose to show up an hour and a half late on account of losing time straightening her hair (which the boy later informed her he hated anyway, but he might just be saying that because he figures she’ll only be an hour late the next time) and hoping that her really really really cute combo of Benefit lip tint + Nymphette lip glass will make up for the fact that the boy fell asleep on a park bench in the Lincoln Park zoo with a magazine over his head like a hobo whilst waiting for her.

The operative word here is MIGHT.

So anyway, all plans for the weekend having been dumped in the rubbish bins of projects-never-completed on account of someone’s propensity for tardiness, we found ourselves at a loss for restaurant options on Saturday night. So, genius that I am, I suggested Andalous for dinner on Saturday. We stopped by my sister’s house to squirrel around on the internets (and also for her to inspect him and determine he was neither in a wheelchair, nor serial killer like) and after some debate, decided to stick with our choice of exploring the world of Moroccan food for that night (Lt. Hightower had never had it, actually). We caught a ride with my sister and brother-in-law down to Lakeview, but only AFTER my sister, yammering a mile a minute on all and sundry, faux-hawked my brother’s hair with palmfuls of gel right in front of Hightower and he strongly reconsidered ever having anything to do with the women in my family because clearly we’re all cut from the same handloomed cloth of CRAZY (if he chooses to comment, as Hightower, this is also an excellent opp. for someone to testify to the fact that I am NOT MAKING THEM UP).

 Anyway, what a great choice for the evening, really. The only odd thing was that we called ahead of time to be like “can we make a reservation” and someone in thick tones of equal parts Frog and equal parts Pelt was all “whazzz time you vant to kom eeen?” and when faced with the response “around 9:15 p.m.” responded only with a “weeee no make les reservations, but eeet should not be bizzzeee arownd dat time. *click*” But see, I didn’t tell Hightower that because he was already watching my sister lovingly shape Beaker’s hair into properly gelled tufts in mute horror and debating HOW much a fabulous rack could really make up for the fact that even if I don’t have HER particular eccentricities, my bloodline definitely points to something somewhere coming up along the way. So, you know, “the restaurateur was all ‘I’ll make reservations for you, no I won’t’ tease right before we leave lalalala” didn’t seem like it would go over well at the time. Plus, he was giving me a look like a cat waiting for a can of tuna and I didn’t want to open the can and be like “it’s all empty baby!” because then he would have bitten me on my ankles and I don’t know if I have an up to date rabies shot.

So where was I? OH, the food. Right.

Ambiance: nice, first meet appropriate. Basically an ethnic restaurant that had put some thought into decor. So while it isn’t snooty-in-the-Sofitel, it’s more than plastic tablecloths and rickety tables. Soft lighting. The only complaints I have is that it’s really really crowded, and even though we lucked out and got a table for two right by the window (could the date gods have been throwing more love my way that night???), I have to point out that the waiter had to interrupt the table next to us so one person in the party could physically get up and move his chair so as to let my date into his corner seat. Also, want to point out that between the proximity of other parties and the fact that the window seats are those “high tables” with matching high chairs, the Lt.’s knees seemed like they were up by his ears. But that’s his fault for being so freakishly gigantic for a desi.

We started off with the combo appetizer platter and a pot of mint tea to start. Appetizer platter was great-it came with a basket of pita and included carrot a la chermoula, bakoula (chopped spinach), taktouka (tomato and red pepper based dip) and zalouk (grilled mashed eggplant). I make carrots a la chermoula at home and prefer mine-maybe it’s because I’m used to going a little heavy on the spices and lemon juice or because I buy the organic steamed carrots at TJs to make it, but I thought it was forgettable. Not offensive, but forgettable. It’s sort of funny because I really remember liking the carrots dish during New Year’s but a week ago I found that the carrots were a little too hard and there wasn’t enough parsley-lemon flavour. The addition of green olives, though, was quite nice. Spinach was a winner-although it reminded me of a tart saag-like dip. The tart notes continued with the pepper-tomato-onion mash and I think that one also had green olives diced up into it, balancing the acidic flavours with a salty note. The eggplant, I think, will be a crowd pleaser but I have never been a fan of baba ghanoush, which is what it tasted like. I think for what you get, the appetizer is a good deal. It’s definitely enough for 2 people (we didn’t finish stuff), quite adequate for three and provides a bite or a bite and a half of each concoction for a party of four (I guess that makes it an unwitting amuse bouche).

Normally I’d say “skip the appetizers because you will be served a TON of food,” not to mention that Andalous gives you a straight up “free” appetizer or fava beans in red paste and oil, but get the appetizer. Because this meal will take you a long time. The service here is GREAT (at least, we had a great experience) but it’s slow. It’s like having dinner in a real French restaurant IN France, in a way. I’m pretty certain our entrees came out between 45 minutes to an hour after we finished our appetizer and we were lingering over that for close to half an hour. You aren’t there just to get food in your stomach and be gone. Nope, you’re there to dine. So allot about 2 to 2.5 hours for this meal. This is another thing that irritated me about the online reviews since many of the negative reviews focused on how slow the restaurant is-but in my mind that doesn’t necessarily mean “shitty restaurant” automatically. The food was great, the servers were nice and it really felt like we sat down and dined. Anyway…

Oooh, the mint tea. I’m wondering if this might have been the greatest hit of the night as we went through a couple of pots of it. They do the whole ritual for you, straight up, from serving it in a proper silver samovar with teeny tiny little cups (that have a fresh mint leaf in them that releases oils each time you repour) to the cooling of the tea by pouring from high etc. Lightly sweetened and refreshing…I wish it had been a little hotter but Hightower pointed out that instead of burning the roof of your mouth you actually get to taste the flavours when it’s just steaming but not boiling. I’ll give them major points for not oversweetening it and the fresh mint leaf in the cup (which I ate as we greedily gulped down the last of our last pot) gave it an extra mintiness without being overwhelming. The tea itself, was only lightly minted, which I liked, but that fresh leaf saturated each cup with essential oils to heighten the flavour naturally, rather than through artificial ingredients.

As we sat, Hightower babbled away about something (god knows what) and I smiled gently at him and debated exactly how many vials of HGH I’d have to consume to get anywhere close to his shoulder. And then, our entrees arrived. In aluminum tureens. Which, when you are seated at the world’s tiniest table and your date has his legs wrapped yoga style around his forehead due to lack of space ANYWHERE, is a might ill advised. Andalous, I LOVE the plates, no kidding, but reconsider given how tiny your place and tables are. I will, however, give the owner (I’m pretty sure it was him) major props for taking the time to steer us on our choices while we were ordering. I opted immediately for the Chicken Pastilla, a savoury-sweet meat pastry baked in phyllo dough and topped with confectioner’s sugar, as I’d had it at Sparky’s house that night and spend two weeks AFTER the party thinking about whether or not to make it before giving it up as too complicated. Hightower initially jabbed his finger at some sort of sweet savoury lamb tagine on the menu but the owner (internet sleuthing reveals his name to be Hadj) was all “no no no, yew do not vant dat!” and proceeded to recommend the Zagora Tagine and assured us that it was as spicey as it needed to be. But I guess we were wearing our Peltish Faces of Complete Disbelief as to that statement so he relented and brought over a maple syrup pour bottle of harissa for us before our appetizers got to the table.

Amusing part of this charade? Before he lets us have it (Hightower’s ears perked straight up when he saw hawt sawce) he does this whole “but first you try the food and I tell you it’s perfect before you pour this on” and we assented mutely like “yes yes, we won’t douse your perfectly prepared concoctions with hot sauce” even though we poured it all over the appetizers like Aunt Jemima the moment his poor back was turned. Oh, and then later he came back and asked Hightower how the lamb was and actually says “and it doesn’t need no hot sauce, no?” and Hightower, who not ten seconds before had frocking GARGLED with harissa and then dumped a 1/4 into his ice water to “spice it up” smiles at him while exhaling harissa all over his muscle-shirt front and is all “yes, you’re perfectly right” and I’m sitting there in complete shock like “Dude, can you not smell the cloud of harissa on his breath? Because the table next to us is swilling cheap plonk but we’ve been having your harissa as cocktails tonight!” (PS, it’s BYOB with no corkage)

Oh, and a note about the help. It’s all dark meat, of course and the restaurant uniform seems to be a) Tight jeans b) Tight muscle shirts c) Tufts of peekaboo chest hair d) Drakkar noir sponge baths  e) L.A. looks ducky-flipped hair and f) greasy smiles. Seeing as how I was sitting in front of pelt garbed in same (minus tight jeans but plus flat front khakhis) you may as well assume that I LIKE this look so in my opinion the waitstaff is quite adorable and I don’t mean that in a leering type way (esp. since a restaurant full of them makes me wonder a bit…but they may be related as I think it’s a family enterprise) but just in a it-makes-me-smile type way. Of course, I also found comments on the internets about the way the waiters dress and it’s like PLEASE, don’t go to pelt belt restaurants then. Les costumes de pelterie, c’est adorable!!!!

So, before that detour I was waxing on and on about the entrees. I don’t remember much of Hightower’s, although the bites I had of the lamb itself seemed quite succulent and tender and the first thing he moaned when he had a chance was “it’s melting in my mouth” so I’m guessing Lamb Tagine = Good at this restaurant. I was somewhat surprised that they didn’t bring it with couscous so I suppose that they’re like those Chinese restaurants that charge you a $1.00 for boiled white rice on the side but c’est la vie. We didn’t actually get an order of couscous though, since we already had so much food on the table and when faced with my gigantic pastilla, I just cut it in half and dumped it in Hightower’s tureen, whereupon he said he would make do and use the phyllo dough to sop up the tagine gravy.

The pastilla comes in poultry, fish and veggie but if you are a carnivore I highly highly suggest you try the chicken version. I read up on this dish a bit and it seems that in Morocco it’s made with pidgeons but for your comfort, Andalous makes it with chicken…chicken shredded and delicately spiced with almonds and cinnamon and I’m guessing either nutmeg or allspice,  and god knows what else. I can’t even describe this dish. The meat filling is layered through the phyllo and then it’s all baked up like a pastry and tossed with powdered sugar and it sounds really really gross as I’m describing it but it’s not. When done right, sweet and meat can go together quite well and I really love the way this tastes. And I did NOT put harissa on it . I think it’s because I love the flavour of almonds. The phyllo dough was really really nice that night too, crispy but not burnt and not overly oily/buttery. It is very rich though, and I couldn’t even finish the half that I had left after I gave the other half to Hightower (he couldn’t finish his food either. They give you a lot of food. Neither of us live in Chicago so we had to leave the leftovers).

We didn’t have dessert since I’m not big on Middle Eastern sweets and we were both full up anyway. The whole night I’d been badgering Hightower to try shisha with me because I am a bad bad influence but when we asked about it, the waiter said they only allow it on the patio which hadn’t opened yet. Too bad, shisha and another pot of mint tea would have been a nice way to finish off.

Dr. Bunsen Honeydew’s Review (with bonus Meeps! by Beaker)

My sister hated the restaurant. HATED it. I came back and dreamily told her how great our meal was while braiding and unbraiding my hair and smiling like a big doofus over the ’spensive Japanese lunch I took her out to the next day to make up for the fact that I had swooped in to Chicago to spend all my time with someone else. She called me this Sunday 4 times in a row (at 7 Pacific, hence me not picking up) until I picked up and started off the conversation with “WERE YOU ON DRUGS THE NIGHT YOU ATE THERE???????”

I don’t know how exactly to make her litany of complaints into any sort of proper narrative so I’ll just summarise our convo for you below.

Bunsen: Were you on drugs the night you ate there?

Monkey: whaaa? Whaaa dugggs? Whaa you talking ‘bow? *keep in mind I was still asleep*

Bunsen: that terrible restaurant you recommended, Andalous.

Monkey: TERRIBLE?

Bunsen: absolutely wretched.

Beaker: MEEP!

Bunsen: right-o’ Beaks, Monkey it was absolutely horrendous. Everything was off about it…the food, the service, the ambiance.

Beaker: MEEP! MEEP MEEP!

Bunsen: That’s right baby! They seated us in the back right by some horrible swingey door they kept going in and out of! And they were ungodly slow. We asked for a coke and it came thirty minutes later and it was flat!

Monkey: I thought it was…

Bunsen: and I tried that horrible pie you kept going on about, it was disgusting. I couldn’t even put it in my mouth!!

Beaker: Meep!

Bunsen: That’s right, and Beaky tried to order kebabs but they were like we don’t make kebabs on Fridays and every fourth Saturday. What kind of restaurant doesn’t make a fourth of their menu based on the waxing and waning of the moon?

Beaker: MEEP!

Monkey: you know, even Hightower liked the food…

Bunsen: NO, you know what? The two of you had a good date. You were looking at that restaurant through lust-coloured glasses, that’s why you liked it.

Monkey: okay, first of all, your italics are totally out of control Bunsey, and second he expressly said he liked the food.

Bunsen: That’s because he was too busy staring at your tits to notice what he was shovelling in his mouth and you were too busy mooning about meeting a desi boy over 5′8″.

Beaker: Meeeeeep! *sadly*

Bunsen: *baby voice* Oh babypoopoo, you know I love you the height you are!! Can’t you see she looks like a midget next to him? I’d laugh like a seal watching them walk down the street together.

Monkey: *groggily upset* Heyyyyyyyyy

Bunsen: So I am not trusting you. I am not trusting you till you get over this…and you stop gazing happily at him over disgusting meat pies and get back to your regular self of planning on how you’re going to throw out all his clothes and make him buy ones you like.

Monkey: I like his clothes…

Bunsen: Okay, I’ll give you the zippered top. But his hair could use a FAUX HAWK and you know it. Okay…laterz!!!!!!

So there you have it, my sister’s review, complete with italics I am not making up. Take it for what it is, the review of someone who gells her husband’s hair into tufts before leaving the house. I’m not the one on crack, yo.