Smoke, however, isn’t exactly what I got, except maybe in liquid form. With no pink ring to be found on the ribs at Hog Wild, I definitely wasn’t getting the slow version.
What I did find was a monster thick, salty, sweet pork chop as big as Thor’s silver hammer. It was nothing like the humble child’s fist-sized, succulent chops smothered in caramelized onion or served with a side of apple sauce and sour cream from my youth. Like Barry Bonds who one day had gone from lanky Pirate to San Francisco giant with a superhero torso, this bad boy crept up on me. Pink at the bone, brined and juicy, and featuring a California highway-like system of griddle marks, it was one of the better pork chops I’ve had in Chicago.
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