The Original Beef of Chicagoland

The rust on the outside marquee of the Original Beef of Chicagoland is enough exposition to say this indoctrinated Chicago staple has been used and abused, gone through the ringer, and still stands loud and proud because it’s North Star guides it through the darkest nights of the soul. 

That North Star being a sandwich. More specifically, a Chicago Italian Beef.

Inside, the Original Beef of Chicagoland impresses nothing and no one, especially the health department. After your nostrils get accustomed to the funk of old burnt onions and cigarettes you take in the tiny kitchen. The dull knives should come with a, “Use if you Dare,” warning. Staff aprons stained with grease and giardiniera mix hang. Grime and burnt nasty bits crust over the narrow kitchen’s salamander, burners, and fry station. Sports posters and jerseys cover some of the wall space like a wrinkled old Tribune section. A couple of niche 1980s arcade games wait to eat up sucker’s hard earned extra coin. 

And with all of these red flags, you still turn a blind eye because your mind, body, and spirit align when it comes to taking a bite into their indistinguishable Sammie. 

The toughest and cheapest top round is purchased like a corner-boy drug deal, trimmed, seasoned, seared, and then braised low and slow with Michelin star finesse. The Original Beef of Chicagoland makes it very clear it is not a place that originated the Italian beef, but they did perfect it. Giardiniera mix, hot and sweet peppers, as well as the French loaves are made from scratch with unconditional love. 

Soaked in salty pan drippings, the behemoth is for someone’s internal savage. Hot, hand cut meat, almost as tender as pot roast but still with integrity, mingles with the aforementioned garnishes between the bread. It’s beefy and balanced. Dense, comforting, fatty and hearty. Soft, sweet, and squishy.

Regulars watch service like a ballet of organized chaos. Yells, screams, and cussing overshadow whatever hip hop plays on the analog boom box. At times there is an order, a method to the madness, and then, it all goes to hell, and people do whatever they can to get through a lunch rush.

And if you stay awhile, you might be invited to family meal where the dysfunctional soldiers put all of their angst, drama, anxieties, worries and stresses aside for a blip moment in time to smile, meet each other in the eye and truly tell one another subconsciously, “I see you. I’m here with you and for you. We are not going to let each other stay down even after we fall. We put our blood, sweat and tears in this, in a sandwich, because we want to contribute to what makes Chicago pretty God damn special.” 

It does so with flying colors.