The Publican
The Publican
837 W Fulton Market | Chicago, IL 60607
I finally visited The Publican in the Fulton Market area of Chicago. From the time I moved to the area, I've heard of this place. I've walked past it, read about it, and even watched shows about it. The Publican is the tribute to food and drink. I made my way through the first good winter storm of the year to reach the destination that promised to be the savory start I needed to an otherwise bland week.
We got there a bit early, and the place was hopping for a Sunday brunch. The people waiting were calling for another round of Bloody Marys. Peeking into the main seating area, I saw pictures of hogs...big pictures of hogs. These pictures took up a large part of the massive walls that reached up to the high ceilings of this pub. But was it really a pub? It was definitely a high-end pub, not your standard hole-in-the-wall with that special character.
We were seated in the corner, the prime location to get a good look a the whole restaurant from end to end and top to bottom. A strip of lights went down the center of the ceiling. They were plentiful, but not overly bright. The Publican had wood incorporated where it could, which balanced out the metal and whites. It was comfortable. The chairs had a nice tallness to them that made them substantial. The voices from the patrons and clatter from the kitchen reached a loud pitch as the sounds bounced from ceiling to floor.
As interesting as the feel of the establishment was, it did not prepare us for or compare to what we had in store for us after we ordered. They came out with our Bloody Marys paired with our choice of beers. I ordered an ale and my partner in this adventure ordered a roasted Belgian stout of sorts. This Bloody Mary somehow suspended my deep instinct to taste the ale. The tomatoey treat approached our table with a bundle of julienned celery that was reaching out to escape. Two wonderfully green slices of pickles stood out from the redness. As I rushed to my first sip, I got a flood of flavor from the spices, the celery bitters, the...I don't know what. It was what I needed in a Bloody Mary that moment and most moments. My brain was trying to process my experience, while neglecting the ale that was brought over beside this wonderful tonic.
My mind settled, and the urgency for the tomato concoction subsided. I turned my attention toward the brown ale. It was a good ale. It was rich and bitter. This complemented the Bloody Mary as well as it could. That was until I reached across the table for my accomplices stout. It smelled roasted and complex. The flavor lingered and had no issue whatsoever standing up to its bloody pairing. Normally, two such flavorful tastes would compete and confuse. This was a perfect marriage. Strong and stubborn....reminds me of a couple I know.
As I was savoring my beverages, and that of my companion, the spicy pork rinds arrived. These delectable tidbits were warm little pillows of flavor and crunch. The bright peppering of spices brightened up the colorless and somewhat translucent rinds. As I cracked into them I could peer into the little air pockets. These rinds had the unmistakable taste that takes me back to island discoveries and long road trips. This is quality.
Just as we crunched our last pork rind the main event began. The plates hit our table, and we just stared. My eyes had to devour it before I could even touch a fork to it. I...well...I took a picture. The spread included thick French Toast smeared with hearty fruit compote, a sausage nearly bursting from its casing, thick slabs of bacon, a fried egg over potatoes, and hanger steak covered in anchovy butter laid over a healthy slice of grilled sourdough bread. The smell was entrancing. Where to start?
I smeared the fruit all over the French Toast. As I spread it the fragrance of the fruit intensified. I had to taste it sans syrup to get the full impact of the fruit. It was pure. No extra sweetness. Bare. Delicious. I poured the syrup over the plate and dug in. I passed a bite over to my companion as a bit of egg appeared on my plate. Cooked to perfection. The yoke was creamy and flavorful.
I had problem keeping my fork off of my cohort's plate and was noticing bits of food missing off of mine. After drizzling, mixing, and sopping up all that we could, we slowly reached the end of our meal. We sat back and smiled. The cacophony of our surroundings slowly returning, as we realized we weren't alone.
We wrapped up this fantastic food feat with a hot cup of tea. Our gourmet blends of leaves and spices helped us brace ourselves for reality, and the snowstorm outside.
837 W Fulton Market | Chicago, IL 60607
I finally visited The Publican in the Fulton Market area of Chicago. From the time I moved to the area, I've heard of this place. I've walked past it, read about it, and even watched shows about it. The Publican is the tribute to food and drink. I made my way through the first good winter storm of the year to reach the destination that promised to be the savory start I needed to an otherwise bland week.
We got there a bit early, and the place was hopping for a Sunday brunch. The people waiting were calling for another round of Bloody Marys. Peeking into the main seating area, I saw pictures of hogs...big pictures of hogs. These pictures took up a large part of the massive walls that reached up to the high ceilings of this pub. But was it really a pub? It was definitely a high-end pub, not your standard hole-in-the-wall with that special character.
We were seated in the corner, the prime location to get a good look a the whole restaurant from end to end and top to bottom. A strip of lights went down the center of the ceiling. They were plentiful, but not overly bright. The Publican had wood incorporated where it could, which balanced out the metal and whites. It was comfortable. The chairs had a nice tallness to them that made them substantial. The voices from the patrons and clatter from the kitchen reached a loud pitch as the sounds bounced from ceiling to floor.
As interesting as the feel of the establishment was, it did not prepare us for or compare to what we had in store for us after we ordered. They came out with our Bloody Marys paired with our choice of beers. I ordered an ale and my partner in this adventure ordered a roasted Belgian stout of sorts. This Bloody Mary somehow suspended my deep instinct to taste the ale. The tomatoey treat approached our table with a bundle of julienned celery that was reaching out to escape. Two wonderfully green slices of pickles stood out from the redness. As I rushed to my first sip, I got a flood of flavor from the spices, the celery bitters, the...I don't know what. It was what I needed in a Bloody Mary that moment and most moments. My brain was trying to process my experience, while neglecting the ale that was brought over beside this wonderful tonic.
My mind settled, and the urgency for the tomato concoction subsided. I turned my attention toward the brown ale. It was a good ale. It was rich and bitter. This complemented the Bloody Mary as well as it could. That was until I reached across the table for my accomplices stout. It smelled roasted and complex. The flavor lingered and had no issue whatsoever standing up to its bloody pairing. Normally, two such flavorful tastes would compete and confuse. This was a perfect marriage. Strong and stubborn....reminds me of a couple I know.
As I was savoring my beverages, and that of my companion, the spicy pork rinds arrived. These delectable tidbits were warm little pillows of flavor and crunch. The bright peppering of spices brightened up the colorless and somewhat translucent rinds. As I cracked into them I could peer into the little air pockets. These rinds had the unmistakable taste that takes me back to island discoveries and long road trips. This is quality.
Just as we crunched our last pork rind the main event began. The plates hit our table, and we just stared. My eyes had to devour it before I could even touch a fork to it. I...well...I took a picture. The spread included thick French Toast smeared with hearty fruit compote, a sausage nearly bursting from its casing, thick slabs of bacon, a fried egg over potatoes, and hanger steak covered in anchovy butter laid over a healthy slice of grilled sourdough bread. The smell was entrancing. Where to start?
I smeared the fruit all over the French Toast. As I spread it the fragrance of the fruit intensified. I had to taste it sans syrup to get the full impact of the fruit. It was pure. No extra sweetness. Bare. Delicious. I poured the syrup over the plate and dug in. I passed a bite over to my companion as a bit of egg appeared on my plate. Cooked to perfection. The yoke was creamy and flavorful.I had problem keeping my fork off of my cohort's plate and was noticing bits of food missing off of mine. After drizzling, mixing, and sopping up all that we could, we slowly reached the end of our meal. We sat back and smiled. The cacophony of our surroundings slowly returning, as we realized we weren't alone.
We wrapped up this fantastic food feat with a hot cup of tea. Our gourmet blends of leaves and spices helped us brace ourselves for reality, and the snowstorm outside.
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