If something in the deli aisle makes you cry
Of course I'll put my arm around you
And I'll walk you outside
Through the sliding doors
Why would I mind?- "Parentheses" by The Blow (2006)
In a short but memorable scene in the penultimate episode of Season 2 of "The Bear," titled "Omelette," pastry chef Marcus (Lionel Boyce) gathers Carmy (Jeremy Allen White) and Sydney (Ayo Edebiri) to go over the four signature desserts he's created for the opening of their beef sandwich shop turned fine dining experience in the River North area of Chicago.
Newly returned from a work expensed sojourn to Copenhagen, which required him to leave his ailing mother's bedside for a time of investment into his own future, Marcus puts the experience to the best of use, looking proud to showcase his offerings of "Mom's Honeybun," an individually wrapped sweet treat; the "Copenhagen Sundae," a high-end take on the ice cream classic; "Sydney's Donut," a fancy donut hole of sorts topped with a sugary red dusting and, as the grand finale, a savory cannoli in honor of Carmy's dead brother called "The Michael."
"This one is a little bit of all of us," he says as he plates the fourth dessert. "Everything that we all kinda know about each other."
Up until that moment, Carmy hated cannolis because he associated them with a Christmas dinner made particularly grim by his mentally ill alcoholic mother Donna (Jamie Lee Curtis) years ago, when his brother was still alive. But now, in his own adulthood, standing in his own business, they've taken on a new meaning that he can stomach.
The magic ingredient of food is so often sentimentality, which is why "The Bear" hits so hard. Some can look at a cannoli and it registers as nothing more than a delicious way to top off a meal, but for Carmy, it's instant transportation to the best and worst moments of his life.
For me — born in Chicago, the only child of a butcher — I can't get anywhere close to the deli aisle of a grocery store without wanting to plant my face into the first blood-stained white smock I see.
I cried about hot dogs the other day.
It's a thing.
Depending on where you're from, there's likely a very specific food that encapsulates the experience of "going home."
In Bourbonnais/Kankakee, two towns so near each other in Illinois that they're basically the same place, Jaenicke's is all that's left of my home now that the majority of my core family has passed on.
Best known for their "Red Hots" — steamed beef franks with a natural casing, served in a steamed split-top bun, and topped with a minced meat chili, and Sauce Buns — same as above, minus the hot dog — Jaenicke's has two locations in between where my parents used to live and where my gramma and papa used to live. And up until roughly ten years ago, we'd go to one or the other of them whenever the mood struck, which was often.
In an interview with Derek and Kris Jaenicke conducted by the "Live with Mike and Jim" YouTube channel, they break down the history of the Chicagoland staple that, since 1940, has become a little piece of home for so many.
The original location at 390 E. River St. in Kankakee was the passion project of the grandparents of Kris' husband Alan Jaenicke and the keys were handed down the family line until eventually one of Alan's younger sisters sold out. As of 2018, when this interview took place, the Bourbonnais location at 605 Armour Rd was the only one out of the two still in the Jaenicke family, run by Kris, Alan and their son Derek.
The last time I ate at Jaenicke's, it was at this newer Bourbonnais location, which opened in 1987, and while sitting at one of their picnic tables out front feasting on my usual order of a Red Hot with fries and a chocolate shake, It felt likely that I'd never be back again. But now I'm not so sure.
On May 31, 2018, myself and other members of my family flew in to Illinois from a variety of coasts to convene in Bourbonnais for my gramma's funeral. Having previously lost my papa, mom and dad, she was the last core relative tying me to that locale and, over the course of a week spent boxing up her house and finalizing service arrangements, every move through that town felt like the last.
During one of those pre-funeral days, we paused our work to break for food. Being that I'm the youngest out of the bunch, even though I'm in my mid-40s, I was given the opportunity to pick where we'd eat.
"Let's go to Jaenicke's," I said. There was no second choice.
Although I was born in Illinois, I've lived the majority of my life elsewhere. That being said, whenever someone asks where I'm from, I say Chicago, which is a city name used to describe any location from Michigan Ave. to the Indiana border, famously.
I've lived in Batavia, Schaumburg, DeKalb, Bourbonnais, Barrington and Wrigleyville. Cross that all out and just say "Chicago." The "Chicagoland area" has a singular feel. And along with it, a singular food memory. Sure there's deep dish pizza, tightly wrapped tamales from "the tamale guy" and beef sandwiches. But thinking of those foods as friends, Jaenicke's is the emergency contact. Jaenicke's is that turn on the off-ramp home.
Over the course of my lifetime I couldn't even begin to count the amount of times I ate there. My parents and I would usually order from the window and then sit in the car, making fun of people walking by inbetween bites, as was our way. Other times, with my gramma, papa, aunts, uncles and cousins, we'd maybe sit on the picnic tables out front, or take the food back to the house to eat in front of the TV. It was casual. The kind of good food that's so tried and true as to be taken for granted.
Why would I go back there now that my family exists only in memory?
It would just take one bite.
One bite.
