(With my apologies to Robert Cormier, whose batshit insane books informed at least a hearty sliver of puberty, and as such, my most nostalgic of chocolate eating days.)

photo: Scott Beale/United Hemispheres, Jan. 2010

It seems like everyone is talking chocolate lately. Chocolate, like beer and burgers before it, is the latest consumer product to be run through an intense marketing sieve—netting a whole crop of ambitious artisanal upstarts. All well and good, the question for me is, “Five bucks for chocolate?!”

San Francisco-based TCHO is that $5 chocolate bar, the latest entry to a mass-tege market that has come a long way from Godiva. United’s Hemispheres Magazine dedicated serious real estate in this month’s issue to wax poetic on the company’s science-meets-art approach to chocolate making. And, that’s true: TCHO isn’t your traditional chocolatier: founded by a former NASA engineer and in San Francisco, they don’t tweak; they beta release. Where other factories run on cranks and pulleys, they use an iPhone application. In developing release 1.0 as they called it, they ‘crowd-sourced’, just like lousy news agencies do on twitter. They gave the chocolate out to everyone and gathered opinions and observations. The prevailing theme: ‘chocolatey’, which is painfully useless, given the product they were asked to survey, is, uh…chocolate. Still, crowd sourcing, iPhone apps—that’s cool, absolutely. Tons of nerd love for all that. To me, however, the most important thing isn’t some sleek package or a confusing name.

How does it taste? It is quite good, and it grows on me. There’s a fruity, bitter, dark chocolate bite that gives way to a milky, almost malt-ball aftertaste. The lingering taste in my mouth far surpasses the first bite. After the chocolate breaks down in your mouth, you get this taste vaguely reminiscent of brownies—the chocolate, yes, but that almost fudge or cake-like quality brownies can have.

Where the trend in boutique chocolate seemed to slamming crap into our chocolate a la Vosges (bacon and cheese in your chocolate, anyone?), TCHO is about a fetish for purity; no hiding the chocolate with flavors or nuts. Just really high quality, fair-trade chocolate.

Overall, $5 is a touch on the steep side for chocolate, but this is slow food. Scarfing down the whole chunk won’t satiate your appetite nor will you have a chance to appreciate all the nuance they’ve managed to stuff in here. Consider it a special treat—as chocolate always was growing up, and know that this is a chocolate that takes itself very seriously.

Portland is a foodie’s paradise. No secret here. And with a prime location close to the coast, wine country, and mountains, localvores can rejoice at a bevy of tasty local treats, even in the dead of winter. After all, we need something to eat with all that coffee.

Lovejoy Bakers: In the heart of Northwest (and all the yuppifying condo construction that’s been going on), a new bakery cafe has sprouted up. Service was a touch frosty, but is quickly forgiven—this is a place that takes bread seriously. The stuff on the bread has to match up. The Lovejoy Deluxe is a light and fluffy ciabatta roll packed with blue cheese, bacon, egg, frisee lettuce, and a touch of balsamic vinegar. It’s a somewhat off kilter taste: at once decidely sloppy breakfast (eggs, bacon), and a crunchy lunchtime treat (blue cheese, balsamic vinegar, lettuce). It’s wonderfully filling, the kind of sandwich that you keep eating as much to feed your appetite as because it piques your interest. As you munch, enjoy contemplating a snack (or two) from the playful wall of samples. 939 NW 10th Avenue lovejoybakers.com

The Lovejoy Deluxe is a sandwich to be reckoned with.

Samples! On Spoons! Betcha can’t eat just one.

Por que no: Up in Northeast Mississippi, in a tiny storefront, is a quaint cave of Mexican grub. It meets all my criteria for dining: it’s cheap, it’s tasty, it’s made of real food. Por que no is a bit off the beaten path, but folks from all over the city were pressed in to the 20 seat eatery when my friend Jennie and I stopped in. Unfussy, quirky, if not unpretentious, the low ceilings feel ready to fall down with all the bric-a-brac they’ve stuffed on to the walls. Sure, living in Chicago, I’ve had more authentically Mexican food—and one could argue that with Akon blaring on the speakers and fruity drinks on offer, this is Mexican for white people. More aptly, it’s accessible, fresh, and tasty, and for that I left stuffed, happy, and my wallet, only $7 lighter. 3524 N. Mississippi. porquenotacos.com

Serious fixin’s: Plenty of ways to deck out your taco.

Voodoo Doughnuts: Nevermind the fact they spell ‘donut’ funny. Everything about Voodoo is a bit theatre of the absurd, bit college humor, and a heavy dose of irony in the form of ugly looking donuts. There, I said it. These aren’t donuts that you look at and go, “Damn, I really want a cake donut covered in Fruit Loops” or “Shucks, that Bacon-wrapped Maple Log is going to spoil dinner!” But, likely, I, and the 30 minute line we were slogging through hadn’t heard of Voodoo because of Fruit Loops. No, their fame was more likely assured upon creating the cock ‘n balls doughnut. Yes, you heard me. (Allison Weiss and Lauren Zettler made a video devouring the dessert dong during their Pacific Northwest tour last Spring). A few observations, having now consumed my first chocolate-frosted phallus:

1. Who said this was life size? Cue the penis envy.
2. The white Boston Creme filling is both a wonderful counterbalance to the fried dough, however disgustingly dirty you feel slopping it off your bottom lip.
3. The balls are tastier than the, eh, um, shaft.

After waiting in line for twenty minutes, my friend and I smelled like donut. And if the stink of fried dough on your sweater isn’t enough to make you queasy, the folks at Voodoo will sell you a bucket, a heaping bucket, of day old doughnuts for $5. I’m thinking this would be great for parties and entertaining, but the folks rifling through buckets in the shop didn’t seem quite as socially inclined. It’s fun, but there’s a huge kitsch-tourism element here. Something to cross off my list? Two locations, but less crowded at 1501 NE Davis. voodoodoughnut.com

A Bucket of Day Olds, $5. The fat ass that follows is included at no additional cost.

Some of the offerings: Yes the donut penis does say “EAT MEAT”.

Greetings from Chicago! Thanks to a chorus of friends (a librarian, ad-man, a pastor, and a nanny, for starters), we reminded this city who’s boss. That’d be me. Chicago means a few things, and mostly, it’s eating incredibly delicious and oh-so-bad for you food and buying knick-knacks.

Success on all fronts! First, to Ann Sather’s for a gooey cinnamon-bun inspired breakfast. A honking omelet or egg mess as big as my face, buoyed by two massive fists of dough covered in hot icing. This is not the kind of meal I tell mom about. But, Ann’s is also very much apart of the college narrative I have with this city. It’s a place even we Southsiders went to, late on Sunday morning, when our roommates had locked us out of the shower. Again. In that way, Ann Sather’s—whatever the location, mind you, it is those sticky, gooey, cinnamon buns that matter—is like an older sister: quietly rolling her eyes at our youthful shenanigans, happy to have us when outgrown spoons on our noses.

Next, the main event: the Renegade Craft Fair, back in all it’s Blue Liney, cooler than thou, splendor. And, there are pros and cons I want to put out there to my fellow crafters before day two gets under way. This Winter version of the fall favorite is in the Pulaski Park Fieldhouse—down Division the other way. Not that far. And, I’m not worried—you likely have an iPhone or hipster radar, so you’ll find it. But, the whole indoors thing—taking what was just a few months back a bazar in the streets and stuffing it in to a winding park building with choppy rooms was aggravating. I kept wondering if I had seen said letterpress artist because it appeared I was walking around in circles. But, I picked up some fun stationary and holiday cards from Chicago letterpress Pearl & Marmalade, and even a gift or two. This Renegade, like many others, the buzz was around city pride. The once darling of the craft world, ORK Posters was here with its beautifully typeset maps of Chicago (and now about 20 other cities). But, after buying one of their shirts in September only to notice little holes in it, I wasn’t too keen on a reprise.

Chicago flag goodies were everywhere, capitalizing on our love of this failed Olympic city. But it was Chicagoan and Etsy seller Diffraction Fiber who won my excitement with this:

Um, yes, that’d be the Chicago flag in stitched goodness! I figured if my friend could have a New Orleans doormat in Kentucky, I could have this pillow to show my Chi-town pride wherever I go. Even with a fun an eclectic stock, it was these darling flag pillows that were, by three hours after opening, sold out. Anyone looking to get me a holiday gift could start with a matching Illinois, perhaps? Inevitably more to say, not enough time to say it.

But, coming soon: a bar, with bourbon on tap, sells hamburgers with a three hour wait. And grown men cry. I’m still working on the leftovers. Stay tuned.

Few restaurants in Chicago, to my knowledge, command as much intensity of emotion as that on an otherwise unassuming corner of Belmont Avenue in Avondale. The fans and even those who spew venom made the hajj to the West Side and endured the interminable waits for a table. From the city that waxed encased meats in to an act of dining and tourism and one, a restaurant with so much buzz around one item is nothing new. We’ve done dogs. Kuma’s Corner answers with burgers.

I was among the detractors as we entered who thought a two hour wait for hamburger was insufferable and downright silly. Especially since Kuma’s Corner is but a stone’s throw from a Burger King. The irony of their apparent arrogant perversion of “fast food” was on full display as soon as we were stopped upon entry. The two hours actually moved much quicker, and in reality was probably 45 minutes, but I am told by loyal fans that this is a bit of an anomaly. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

So, we weaseled our way through the walk-in-closet sized restaurant and headed to make our presence known to the barkeep. And, this, is the first thing I noticed:

Yes, those taps say “Buffalo Trace”, “Jack Daniels”, and “Woodford Reserve” as is bourbon on tap. Why? I have no clue, because as best I could tell, the bourbon tasted the same, and worked about well as regular bottled stuff. I’d like to think that we utilize technology and gadgetry to make things taste better/work better, but it doesn’t appear either was the case. It was largely an aesthetic device, sucker though I am for such things.

Oddly, most of the beers were bottled. Happily, most of the rich selection is from the Midwest—culling intrepid selections from Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, and Illinois. The few I tried were complicated, nuanced, and layered with comfortable tastes to create something entirely new and still somewhat awkward.

So, with death metal blaring, we pondered the menu. One glance at the menu, with burgers named after metal acts including the Mastadon, Iron Maiden, and Slayer, you realize (in case you weren’t sure) this is a serious burger joint—and as the music pounds overhead and manga blasts from the flat screen TV over the bar—you realize this is not a place to shoot the breeze with your pals. It is the place to catch your pals covered in barbecue sauce and loving every minute of it.

I do not think I’ve ever had, nor ever will have, as delicious a hamburger as I had at Kuma’s Corner. I ordered the Plague Bringer: Roasted Garlic Mayo, Tortilla Strips, Hot Sauce, Fresh Garlic, Pepper Jack Cheese, and Sliced Jalapenos on a homemade Pretzel Roll. Three of us split a heaping order of Kuma’s waffle cut fries covered in cheese and pulled pork.

Yes, all rather unapologetically carnivorous in a post-PETA world. But, unapologetic is the shtick at Kuma’s Corner—for the wait, the piercing music, and ultimately, the narrow menu—which is neither grounded in health or morality. No matter—for everyone who rolls their eyes, there are plenty more who appreciate the simplicity and deliciousness of ground beef, a salty sweet pretzel roll, and crispy waffle cut french fries. This isn’t Charlie Trotter’s after all, and no one in the Chicago apartment-sized kitchen is claiming to be a gourmand.

The taunt at the beginning was that I would not be able to finish my burger. This proved to be true—for me, and most, save the bulky guy at the bar on a date with his Blackberry as much as a grinning girl.

2 hours and $12 for a burger? Seems crazy, yes? Well, I thought so, until the kitchen at Kuma’s Corner promptly replied with a hot steaming plate of “oh no!”. I left contrite, stuffed, and with horrendously offensive breath, a convert among the cynics. This is not an everyday sustenance kind-of-place, but hey, when you’re ready to seriously chow, a distinctive and delicious choice.

Greetings from St. Louis, Missouri. I’m in a hotel room that is some respects criminally luxurious. Perhaps I should explain: I’m cozied up by a fireplace in a two-bedroom, two bathroom suite overlooking the city’s Forest Park. It is the kind of hotel room that in fact does not encourage the kind of exploration I am if not prone to, then at the least, find myself ultimately yearning for.

Still, I’m not one to swat away a nice hotel room, and when you’re in town, I’d encourage you to find a fireplace at the Chase Park Plaza to snuggle up by. The movie theatre but a few floors down has allowed for an ever so slight scent of popcorn oil to waft up through the air vents. Films and food: I’m hooked.

Just like the smell of popcorn triggers a memory, rekindles fiery emotions left to otherwise char in ignorance—so too do many smells and tastes for me. Food and in fact the travel associated with food is about people and about place, the core, elemental values of (my) memory.

I have just returned from an adventure to, unbelievably given the frigid rain outside, Ted Drewes Frozen Custard. It’s a custard stand, and I wouldn’t be the first to sing its praises. But, perhaps more importantly—it is fervently anchored in its surroundings. Ted’s sweet, milky custard whipped up to a stiff mix called a ‘concrete’ is a taste that defines this place. Surely, one could get a custard in many places, but that Ted Drewes taste seems to anchor itself to this city, and the city to Ted.

City loyalists abound sing the praises of their local treats: Skyline Chili (3-ways) and of course, the meat and oats mix of goetta in Cincinnati, the boiled Sabrett hot dogs of New York, Al’s Italian Beef in Chicago. Indeed, one taste of any of these foods is not simply sustenance, nor is it about fine dining in the least—its about celebrating the local and the unchanged in spite of or in light of tremendous urban turbulence around us.

On this cold night, scarfing down a concrete in the company of friends, we are undeniably in St. Louis. We didn’t really need ice cream, and I’m the first to admit my sweet tooth has probably lost its nerve endings. But, for a guy on the road, a foodie on the road, a taste like this reminds us all of where we’ve been and allows us to pause before picking up a napkin and considering where we’re headed.

Cooking and I had for a long time a love-hate relationship. Cooking was the name given to that which stood in between my lover, eating, and I. Cooking was the reason for the mess in the kitchen, the pots to be scrubbed, and thus, the hands that curled like raisins around a pillow of suds and heap of steel. Eating was my harlequin lover, the one who played to my senses and the only one for whom such an impending cleanup seemed acceptable. I’ve long romanticized eating—but with a recent appreciation for process, the mere act of cooking quickly awakens the soul like a knife across a bundle of basil: breathing odor across the cutting board, wafting up my spine.

When I was kid and my friends were purchasing comic books, I was purchasing cookbooks—or perhaps more embarrassingly, I was writing rock star chefs who would then in time send me autographed copies of their latest tomes. While some prized Spiderman and the Hulk, I kept Jean Georges and Ming Tsai snug behind Lucite next to my bed. When I went away to college, I did not at first pack the cookbooks, perhaps thinking food would be about sustenance, and there would be no time for the slow courtship of ingredients and personality I had long savored. Yet, I couldn’t stop buying new cookbooks, sometimes staring for hours at the pictures wondering where the vision to create these things began. I spent most of my time in college in the dining hall; surrounded by the people and the smells I enjoyed so much. Sometimes, I would sit through meals, holding court over a mountain of dirty plates and half-full glasses.

On today’s trip, my local farmer’s market produces several interesting finds, including a handful of leeks too fragrant, too beautiful, to merely turn over to someone else’s care. I found them, tucked in between bags of mixed greens and just beside the butternut squash. Everyone wanted the butternut squash. I lurched for the leeks. My mind raced, and I dashed three stalls down: fresh butter, creamy like fudge.

Back in the kitchen, it’s a symphony of noises: the crack of a pepper grinder, the groan of boiling water, the hiss of a blender. There is a calming way these noises flood over me. There is ritual and there is practice in the seemingly mundane: chop, stir, pour. Today, there’s no recipe, just simple ingredients and the patience to keep tasting and tweaking. And when it’s my mother’s macaroni and cheese recipe, still kept on the oil stained note card she wrote it on years ago, it is a dialog between past and present—reinvigorating the tastes and smells that called me to the table so long ago. Cooking is about a ritual, the most essential of human practices—it’s about knowing what our food looks like before we play with it and knowing how to be ready to take risks and slice.