A Reluctant Goodbye to City Provisions

Cleetus Friedman's collaboration brew with New Holland

 Brewery - Marsha Mallow's Malted Milk Stout.

I’ve only written two blog posts so far on here, and as it happens, they’ve both been about places I like to patronize. One of those places just closed its doors for good. 

City Provisions was one of a kind. It began over four years ago as a catering company, and quickly expanded to comprise elements of a deli, coffee shop, cafe, restaurant, bar, and artisanal market. It was a local business in the truest sense. Cleetus Friedman, the chef/proprietor, had incredibly high standards for the sourcing of his ingredients and supplies. Much has been said about the food movement of the past several years, and the buzz words are used sincerely as often as they are in jest - sustainable, local, seasonal, ethically raised, environmentally friendly, organic - but all of those words could have been easily and honestly applied to City Provisions, and they were. What is often lost in the conversation about these concepts is that they are not for themselves, but are intrinsic to food that is, simply put, great. It’s obvious to anyone involved in the production of food that fresh tomatoes are only worth eating in July, August, and September, and any fresh tomato in February is invariably a spongy impostor. Cleetus embraced sustainability and all that it implies, but the reason sustainability is such a good idea when it comes to food is because it makes the best food. Chefs at fine dining restaurants already know this, and have known this for many years; seeking out the farmers themselves in many cases, buying directly from the guys growing the stuff, and only when it’s worth eating. Cleetus was doing it in a neighborhood cafe and deli. His place was excellent in the most ordinary way, which is exactly what made it extraordinary.

One of my all-time favorite City Provisions pictures. A 

delicious Americano on one of their beautifully imperfect

wooden tables.

Small businesses come and go. Restaurants come and go. Good places come and go. Places I like have come and gone, but this one was different. 

Almost two years ago, I experienced a paradigm shift in my philosophy about and daily approach to food. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, reading Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma changed my life. I would imagine I’m only one of the many who have made such a statement. Grass-fed, pasture-raised, local, seasonal; for me these words became guiding principles in the grocery aisles, not simply disingenuous marketing terms.

A sinfully delicious cuban sandwich, Oct. 6, 2012

I grew up eating good food, and participating in lots of the types of activities that Barbara Kingsolver describes in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Things like freezing, canning, and pickling. June activities like pulling the tops off of 25 pounds of strawberries that we picked ourselves for eating throughout the summer, and freezing for use until the following June. August activities like shucking 50 ears of sweet corn, boiling them all, and then cutting the cooked kernels off of the cob and stuffing them into ziploc bags to be stashed in the freezer, hopefully to last until the following August. Activities such as these marked the passage of time, the changing of the seasons, and held an important place in our lives. Food was important to us in a way that was, unbeknownst to me, unusual. Restaurants were something we did twice a year on I-94 in between Minneapolis and Milwaukee. At home my parents cooked every meal we ate. But not all of them were based on entirely sustainable, ethically produced, seasonal ingredients. Many were, but not all. We didn’t buy grass-fed beef or pastured poultry. The produce wasn’t organic necessarily. We sure as hell didn’t buy fresh berries in January (an oxymoron if there ever was one), but it wasn’t out of ecological or ethical principle, it was because fresh berries in January suck. My parents cared about the quality of good food, and made choices accordingly. It just so happened that good food often meant those other things as well. But after reading Omnivore’s Dilemma, the memory of my parent’s passion for all things food related made it easier to return to what I grew up eating, and even go beyond to what Pollan was advocating. In a sense it was easy, because I knew how important it was that I do it. 

Smoked pork heart/tongue tacos, Oct. 27, 2012

When it came to restaurants it was more difficult in some ways. I’ve always loved restaurants, everything about them: the various ways to create atmosphere, the lighting, the decor/furniture; the presentation of a menu be it elegantly showcased in a tri-fold leather portfolio with reinforced metal corners, a simple white piece of paper with a sans serif font, a giant chalkboard above a deli, or just the food itself sitting behind glass; the entirely unique aroma of a particular place created by both the building and the kitchen; the people of the staff and the relationships you can forge through something as common as needing to eat; and obviously, I loved the food. Now there were so many good restaurants at which, because of my new rules for myself, I could no longer eat. No more Al’s #1 Italian Beef. No more Philly’s Best. It wasn’t that I was so much depriving myself of things I loved, but rather that I knew I wouldn’t enjoy them anymore, knowing more about their food’s origins. When I found City Provisions about a year into my new food life, I almost couldn’t believe it. My brother (who visited it for the first time only a month ago) said “it’s perfect.”

Corned beef ruben, Oct. 30, 2012

I proudly brought my family there on visits from out of town. I brought friends there and bragged about how close it was to my apartment, “just a three minute walk!” I introduced them to Cleetus, the warm, incredibly hospitable, friendly proprietor extraordinaire. I became a regular along with my wife, and we got to know the rest of the wonderful staff as well. I spent hundreds there over the past 12 months without giving it a second thought, and would spend twice as much in the next 6 months given the chance. This place was special.

Who knows, six months from now I may not even be living here in Chicago anymore. But wherever I end up, I envisioned myself returning to Chicago frequently, going back to City Provisions again and again. It was the only place that I felt completely confident that I could buy anything on the menu without contributing to the industrial food economy in any way. It was the only place I felt that I could order any meat on the menu without worrying about where it might have come from. (And yet I usually asked anyhow because not only did they know, but they loved to tell you all about its provenance.) It was the only place I felt confident that everything I bought and ate or drank was produced, grown, cultivated, butchered, hand-processed, hand-crafted, cooked, pickled, smoked, brewed, grilled, braised, baked, pulled, assembled, and served with the utmost care and passion. It was the only place like it.

A City Provisions specialty: Sunday Brunch. Simply the best 
eggs benedict I've had anywhere. Ever.

Part of why this one bothers me so much is because it feels like a defeat. Defeat of the “food movement” (whatever that means) in some small way. Cleetus himself said, “I found that sustainability - an undying commitment to what that means - wasn't sustainable.” I’ve spent so much time talking to people about food, our food culture, our food industry, and everything that I think is wrong with it, and everything that I’d like it to be. Many of the arguments against such a dramatic change in the way we do things have been economically based, and I’ve tried to argue that they’re unfounded, that doing things differently is economically viable. What has happened here has raised the uncomfortable question, “well, are they?”

cp italian, with Carburetor Rye Bock.

Cleetus Heetus Aquavit Bloody Mary 
with charcuterie spear.

On Sunday afternoon, January 27, 2013, at about 2:30 p.m., I was headed back into the city from Glenview, hungry for a belated lunch. It occurred to me that they were open until 3 pm on Sundays, and a sandwich from City Provisions sounded perfect. I called in and talked to Eric, one of the guys who had been working there as long as I had been going there. I ordered a cp Italian: “assorted cured and smoked meats, parmesan, seasonal vegetable giardinera, oregano balsamic, baguette.” They had been out of the giardinera for a little while, which I knew, and as such they hadn’t been serving too many cp italians as of late. But I really wanted one anyhow and pressed on. Eric suggested getting it with some pickled red onions in lieu of the giardinera, and although the giardinera is an integral part of it, in my yearning for a cp italian I accepted his suggestion. I picked it up at about 2:58 pm, right before they closed. I briefly chatted with everyone as usual. Then I took it home, cut it in half, carefully plated it up like I always do with all take out - always - and enjoyed the hell out of it, sandwich, delicious homemade chips, wonderfully and curiously spiced pickle spear and all. Of course it was delicious. 

The last "cp italian," and the last

sandwich made by City Provisions.

I don’t know if I would have preferred to have known that it was the last sandwich that City Provisions would make. I probably would have been more sad while eating it, and thus unable to really enjoy it. I supposed I’m glad it happened the way it did, if it had to happen at all. I was the last customer at City Provisions, and as soon as Cleetus figures out what he’s doing next, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure I’m one of the first customers at his next stop.

Cheers to you, Cleetus. Thanks for an incredible place!