I have a friend who nearly planted his face in a pile of corned beef hash during a late dinner at Stephanie Izard’s Little Goat. For him, the restorative powers of this and other greasy-good, massively portioned, amplified American diner classics (and mutant innovations) came several bourbons too late, and his wingwoman quickly ushered him out the door before he nodded into the crab dip. This left the rest of us with a daunting task. Whiskey-goggled and invincible, we’d already overordered, but two mouths down we were about to get clobbered by a surplus of supersized, animal-fat-saturated food created for eating under the influence.
But while there is no Saint Louis slinger on the menu, its most memorable and attractive dishes are similarly outlandish dares, the sort of things that don’t make the hungry hammered blink. For a time earlier this month, the Little Goat was running a blue plate special: a fist-sized chunk of pork butt fused to a pigtail that looked like it had burst from John Hurt’s chest before Steph subdued it in the deep fryer.
Animal fat appears everywhere, even where you least expect it. The towering club sandwich is built on bread made from dough worked with duck fat, beer, mustard, and caraway seeds (you can buy this meaty loaf in the bakery). But this deliberate deluge of adipose tissue isn’t only for savory items: there’s a smoky milk shake made with pork-fat ice cream. Other desserts run the gamut from outrageous sundaes, such as a Thai-chile-and-mint-seasoned chocolate brownie construction made with Black Dog gelato, to more delicate sweets, like a dainty but potent blood orange meringue pie.
820 W. Randolph 312-888-3455littlegoatchicago.com
