Ribs that will coax your inner caveman

John Volo

As I write this, I’m sitting aboard a United Airlines flight bound

for Chicago. For the first time since 1918, the no-longer-cursed

Boston Red Sox will be visiting the friendly confines of Wrigley

Field to take on the still-cursed Chicago Cubs. Tickets for the

weekend series are harder to come by than a smile from airport

security screeners.

Fortunately for me, my brother Mike has finagled tickets to the

Friday and Saturday games.

Three days prior, I was sitting inside our Dodge minivan, bound

for dinner at Chicago Ribs (Brookhurst and Yorktown). Dinner was

meant to provide a spring training-like warmup for my gastronomical

jaunt through the Windy City.

On the drive cross-town, I envisioned Chicago Ribs as a haven for

displaced Chicagoans. I imagined the walls peppered with posters of

Michael Jordan and Ryne Sandberg, old Chicago Tribune headlines

screaming Al Capone’s exploits, and meticulously framed black and

white photos of the Sears Tower and Michigan Avenue.

Instead, the joint is adorned with swap-meet-friendly artwork,

Tiffany-styled lighting and silk plants begging for dust. The food,

however, helped mask my disappointment with the lack of memorabilia.

Before we were able to enjoy the “world famous” Chicago feast -- a

tasty smorgasbord of ribs, chicken, shrimp, wings, fries, rings,

beans, cornbread, slaw and fruit -- we had to navigate through a

confusing maze of menus (special, regular, and wall), each with

distinct pricing (chicken fingers were priced at both $4.99 and

$5.99) and ordering protocol (no coupons accepted on “special” menu,

but coupons accepted on other menus only if presented before

ordering). Multiple menus had given me a headache, yet Excedrin

wasn’t listed on any menu.

The centerpiece of our “world famous” Chicago feast was, of

course, the ribs (baby back and beef). One of the menus claims the

rib recipe has been passed down over four generations. The baby back

ribs were very good. Not falling off the bone, dripping with sauce

good, but rather expertly cooked, lightly sauced, tangy good.

I was in full caveman mode as my teeth battled to remove meat from

the Fred Flintstone-sized beef ribs. I felt much more civilized

utilizing my fork to effortlessly remove the crunchy skin and moist,

smoky white meat from our half-chicken.

Our half-dozen grilled shrimp were perfectly charred and most

enjoyable when dipped in a dish of barbecue sauce. The heavily

battered and bulky Chicago wings were coated with a sweet, but mildly

spicy, barbecue sauce that was tasty enough to forego dipping.

The kids couldn’t get enough of the waffle-like fries, while Karen

and I eagerly salted every inch of the deliciously greasy and crispy

loaf of thinly sliced onion rings.

Rounding out our feast were four pieces of cornbread that could

have been sweeter and warmer, baked bean side dishes that were more

onions and soupy liquid than beans, and an ordinary coleslaw.

Additionally, we got a chicken finger kids’ meal that was more

than tasty enough for sophisticated adult palates. The fingers’

varied sizes led me to believe they were freshly cut. The lightly

battered, well-seasoned, minimally fried fingers can satisfy eaters

of all ages.

Chicago Ribs also offers pizza (though not deep-dish), pasta and

salads, as well as family feasts for take-out.

Instead of indulging in the artificially named desserts (Windy

City sundae, Lake Michigan mud pie) we finished our feast with fresh

fruit -- juicy wedges of pineapple, cantaloupe and orange.

Although Chicago Ribs might not be able to placate those longing

for the feel of Chicago, it can certainly provide a pretty good

family feast.

* JOHN VOLO is the Independent restaurant critic. If you have

comments or suggestions, e-mail hbindependent@latimes.com