The first thing I loved about Sunshine Cafe was that the guy didn't think G Wiv's jokes were funny. Okay, that's nothing unusual, heck I do it every day, but it was the
way he didn't think they were funny-- this sort of street-smart Chicawgah kind of way of saying "Okay buddy, I'll play along because you're a customer, but don't push it." Which is nothing unusual in Chicago, except for the minor detail that the guy giving him that South Side attitude was Japanese-American.
Which makes the point that Sunshine Cafe is a little slice of living history. Well, that's not that unusual either, part of what we all love about dining out in Chicago, I think, is the way it lets us time travel, both in history (have breakfast in the 50s, lunch in the 70s, dinner in 2025) and in our own lives (eat breakfast like you're 70, lunch like you're 12, dinner like you're yourself but fancier). But there's history and then there's History, and one example of History is the fact that Japanese-Americans came to Chicago in the 1940s because it was somewhere they could leave the internment camps of the west coast for. When I moved to Lakeview north of Belmont in the late 80s there was still plenty of that community around that area; it's almost gone now except for a few spots like Hamburger King. But where most ethnic restaurants are run by first-generation immigrants, a, a place like Sunshine Cafe stands out because it shows you a community that's been here for decades, maintaining Japanese traditions and foodways and yet as American as the Dodgers, Frank Sinatra and
hey buddy are you gonna order already or you just gonna flap your trap all day?
G Wiv, Nr706 and I stopped in for lunch today and absolutely enjoyed it. We had-- oh hell, I don't know what all this stuff is. Homemade pickled stuff, sweet delectable goma-ae, feathery-soft tofu with bonito flakes on it...
Katsu-don (pork with a little egg and a bowl of rice), potato croquettes with sauce from a squeeze bottle, but the standout was grilled mackerel whose salty crispy crunchy skin and tender white flesh was perfection, a neon sign for the idea that nobody does more with stark simplicity than the Japanese:
Sunshine Cafe is the kind of corner restaurant you find all over America where cops and grandmas and dolled-up teenagers and gay guys with spiky hair cross paths, a place that couldn't be more American and yet a place that lets you take a half-hour break in a completely different culture. I'm glad the nomination of it for a Great Neighborhood Restaurant award made me go there today, and I enthusiastically second it as one of the little cross-cultural (and cross-temporal) treasures of our restaurant scene.