Food Digest

Bologna sandwich on white, with mayo and tomato slices. Also, barbecue Ruffles chips, red grapes, three mini dill pickles and a can of Throwback Mountain Dew. This has been a strange week. I’m trying to reign it back in with a little over-the-top normalcy here. (It ain’t workin’.)

I really feel like the Depot American Diner is one of Chicago’s best-kept secrets. The pot roast sandwich is heaven on a plate. The gravy, the fried onion strings, the ever-so-slightly seasoned fries. I’m sure everything here is good, but I have no reason to branch out and try new things — especially since I rarely come here.

That’s only because it’s out of the way, on the far west side of the city. I happened to have a company meeting in the western ‘burbs, and made plans to meet a colleague here on the drive back to town. Best decision I’ve made all day.

I’m trying to save money, can you tell? A thrifty bowl of store-brand Italian style wedding (with meatballs) soup and a hastily cobbled together turkey sandwich on thumb-impressed white bread. There is no shame in this.

Salami sandwich. Grapes. Carrots. Chips. Monday.

Best corned beef sandwich I’ve had in a long time — Moon’s Sandwich Shop, on Chicago’s West Side.

Fresh, thin-sliced corned beef on rye bread, with ample mustard, lettuce, tomato and pickles. Also had a bag of Vitner’s potato chips and an RC cola.

This is my kind of place. Old school diner. Counter seating only — maybe 15 stools, total. Breakfast, lunch and hearty dinners on the menu. A friendly atmosphere that feels heavy on regulars.

Case in point: During my lunch with a couple friends, a guy popped in the front door, announced the recent Pick Four lottery numbers, took a stool next to me and dropped down a pile of tickets he’d just bought. Probably like 50 receipts. He went through them, while chit-chatting with the cooks, weeding out the winners from the losers, which he tossed toward a garbage can behind the counter. (He missed, and got a stern look from the waitress, to which he grinned and said, “Help a brother out?”) Then, without ordering a single thing, sauntered back out the front door, offering everyone a goodbye.

If I lived closer, I’d eat here all the time. And I’m slightly bummed that I’ve been in Chicago 12 years and only now discovered the place. (It’s been around far longer than me — since 1933, according to the sign outside.)

The fastest sandwich ever eaten.

Well, maybe not. But it felt that way. Had to cancel my lunch plans when a story blew up and required a ton more work than I’d anticipated. Barely had time to mayo up a slice of bread, slap on some bologna, salami and cheese, snarf it down and hop in the car to get to an assignment. Not very glamorous, but part of a productive day nonetheless.