The elevated train thrums overhead. Every sidewalk grease patch and water stain starts to look like dried puke. Trash blows down Chicago Avenue; condo dwellers hail cabs. The sky darkens. The overgrown children of River North rub empty stomachs, wet cracked lips. Stoplights change, a lime squeezes into a bottle of Corona, a round of shots is ordered. A hungry city wonders: Who is Billy Dec?
A general theme pervades: it’s tiny and it’s not very good. Tacos, tortas, taquitos, a couple seafood things, quesadillas—they look to be a great deal, right up till the moment they hit the table. At eight dollars, two shrimp tacos were so puny I wanted to put a jacket on them and feed them a home-cooked meal; with the addition of “corn tomato cream,” they tasted like Krab. Carnitas tacos were bland and watery. “The Gomez shrimp” at least sounded intriguing—mustard is involved. But they’re just a few overcooked shrimp with yellow mustard on them, managing to be far less than the sum of their parts.
Lago’s antipasto plate made me think about how important atmosphere is to the way you experience food. This dish—a pile of cold cuts, a hard-boiled egg, some pink tomatoes—couldn’t be called exceptional. It was a 50s-era appetizer tray. But nobody noticed, really; we were happy to be there. Nearby, drunk scenesters overpaid for tiny, lousy food, with little to redeem it and little worth redeeming. But plenty of customers to eat it. They come, they go. They wake with dreams of tequila and real estate. The city, ever thrumming, thrums on.
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