The 70s were about excess. Big hair, big stupid lapels, and even bigger piles of cocaine. (At least that’s what I’ve been told; I didn’t appear on planet earth until the early 80s.) I suppose it makes sense, then, that a French bread pizza would be excessively expensive at the Brass Monkey, a spendy West Loop spot that channels Me Decade cuisine, from classed-up versions of processed foods loved by kids to elevated French dishes popularized by Julia Child and her ilk. What’s less sensible: the French bread pizza doesn’t actually involve French bread. Say what you will about Stouffer’s version—chewy as a bao if you cook it in the microwave, hard enough out of the oven to pull your gums away from your teeth—at least it meets expectations.
The meat loaf TV dinner, served in the requisite compartmentalized tray, is easily the kitschiest thing on the menu, and at $22 it’s a costly helping of nostalgia. The meat loaf itself is a texturally off-putting patty of shredded short rib bound together by mysterious means and slathered in a house-made A.1. sauce that dulls the taste buds. The peas and mashed potatoes could’ve been scooped out of an actual Swanson frozen meal, although the powerfully beefy gravy on the potatoes helped. The creamed corn transcends by leaps and bounds the flavorless gelatinous ooze Gen-Xers were raised on; here it’s sweet and creamy, more like a corn pudding.
401 N. Morgan 312-763-3316brassmonkeychicago.com
