She Wrote, He Wrote

CLAIRE WROTE:

The thing about being a vegetarian (which I admittedly am only about 80% of the time) is that you end up eating a lot of side dishes. Mashed potatoes, rice, pasta, greens, salad, hunks of crusty bread, extra cheese and crackers, all because you’re in search of something filling.

Creating a complete vegetarian meal, something that feels as fulfilling as your mom’s Sunday chicken dinner, is a hard thing to do. I don’t necessarily believe that each meal needs to represent the classic protein-carbohydrate-vegetable portion plan, but when your menu is so often relegated to a sampling of side dishes, the three-portion plan starts to seem like a rare treat.

And that’s why–and I hate to say this–I was disappointed with my dining experience at Shawn McClain’s upscale vegetarian restaurant, Green Zebra. It’s not that the food wasn’t wonderful. It definitely was. Bright flavors, local and seasonal offerings, diverse ingredients. It’s just that the whole menu is arranged a series of small dishes and it made me feel like I do when I end up at a dinner party where steak is the main course: resigned to an evening of side dishes.

The way the menu works: The dishes at Green Zebra increase in size and guests are advised to kind of design their own five-course menu from offerings like fresh burrata cheese with piparras peppers and oregano, ricotta gnocchi with honey-roasted figs, potato tots with a sunny-side up egg and heirloom tomatoes. Our party of four shared these, along with some of the slightly larger small plates like the squash tortellini with purple cabbage and a mushroom popover with blue cheese and browned butter.

But as good each dish truly was, I left with a fully belly, still wanting for a meal.

CLAIRE WROTE:
I grew up going to dinner parties. As the only child of two much older parents who loved to entertain, I think half of my childhood was spent flouncing around the living room while my parents’ guests sipped cocktails and mingled in their Saturday night finest.

Growing up in that environment did two things for me: not only do I now love to host my own little soirees, but I’m very appreciative of the details that go into someone else doing the same. Throwing a dinner party isn’t just about the food. Even though the evening may revolve around that very thing, there are so many other factors that come into play when designing a successful get-together in your home. From the people you invite, to the lighting, the music and even the arrangement of furniture, each angle must be accounted for, otherwise your party may end up feeling a little off, like a table with one leg too short. On the other hand, there’s nothing quite like attending a truly successful dinner party. The feeling you have, upon walking out the door, still slipping your coat on, a warm glow rising up through you, a smile lingering on your face…there’s nothing quite like that.

We went one such dinner party just the other night. Andrea Newberry of the blog Forkably Hip, hosted a fantastic evening in her home in Humbolt Park with her fiance Ira on Sunday. Andrea’s blog is billed as “Slow Food for Fast Living” and uses these events to demonstrate exactly what she means by that. Sunday night’s event was deemed “Forkably Hip” and was co-hosted by fashion blog writer Amber Mortenson of Painfully Hip, thus ensuring that not only would the food be good but the guests would be fabulous (and well-dressed). The menu was French Provincial (a caramelized onion tart to begin, Coq au Vin as the main dish and a luscious dessert of plum dumplings) and Andrea had cleared out the living room, giving way to space for three long tables at which we all sat.

There was only one person that Greg somewhat knew at the party and I knew no one; the rest of the guests were a really interesting mix of magazine editors, aerial theatre performers and historical book restorers. Conversation, as well as wine flowed through the night and Andrea disappeared and reappeared throughout night, presenting us with a delectable meal. As Greg and I pulled on our coats at the end of the night and walked down the steps outside of her apartment, a smile graced both our faces — a sure sign that Andrea Newberry knows what she’s doing.

CLAIRE WROTE:

The last political fundraiser I went to was for Howard Dean back in 2004. The fundraiser was in the shape of a fancy party held at director David O. Russell’s (Three Kings, I Heart Huckabees) house in Beverly Hills. I was there under the pretense of working with the caterer, but really I was there to see Howard Dean.

This was before he’d lost his credibility as a candidate and he was still, in my opinion, the most interesting candidate to choose from. When he spoke at the party that night, Dean was funny and frank, his short stature giving him a kind of solid presence I hadn’t expected. David O. Russell was impulsive and strange, sitting and standing at wildly inappropriate moments throughout Dean’s speech on his manicured back patio. I stood quietly on the fringe of the small crowd in my caterer’s black pants and white button down shirt.

Last week, attending a Barack Obama fundraiser deemed “The Audacity of Beer” at The Galway Arms in Lincoln Park, was quite a different experience. Rather than spending an evening with the Hollywood elite, Greg and I joined a few friends for a laid back night of Irish ale and Obama enthusiasm. It’s certainly not hard to find Barack supporters in Chicago these days, but nonetheless it was nice to be around a large and enthusiastic group of them.

We all got something to eat downstairs before heading up to the second floor to peruse the games and tables that had been set up. There were bumper stickers and pins to be acquired, voter registration information to be gleaned, life-size George W. Bush cutouts to pin things on, George W. Bush voodoo dolls to stick pins into (all the pins, save one in his heart, were stuck in his crotch), a Dick Cheney-as-the-devil poster to pin a tail on, and lots of little games like Connect Four featuring Barack’s and McCain’s faces.

Although it wasn’t the most amazing event I’ve ever been to, it was nice to be around like-minded people. It was kind of fun to take some jabs at the soon-to-be-former administration. It was satisfying to donate money to Barack Obama’s campaign and it was great to enjoy an evening out with friends while supporting a political figure I whole-heartedly believe in.

While there’s still more I could be doing, and more I plan on doing, to support Barack Obama’s campaign, I was glad to do at least this small thing: drink beer in the name of the man I hope will run soon run this country.

So, I’ve been mostly vegetarian for the last month or 6 weeks or so and I’ve been feeling really good about it, physically and mentally. There have, however, been a couple of times in the last weeks in which I’ve strayed from a vegetable-friendly diet. One of those times was last week when Greg and I dined at Powerhouse in the West Loop. And man, did I deviate.

But here’s why: At the start of our meal, before we’d even really ordered actually, Chef Jeff Mauro came out to chat with us and tell us a little bit about himself and his vision for the menu at Powerhouse. He spoke of utilizing Chicago’s fantastic farmer’s markets and he talked about the dishes he felt really confident in on the menu, and he even had the humility to admit which ones he felt hadn’t quite found their place yet. He also talked about his dedication to food resourcefulness and to teaching his staff how to truly appreciate the produce that comes into his kitchen.

Chef Mauro looks a little like a young Edward Norton. He speaks quickly, as if he’s afraid that if he doesn’t say everything all at once, he may not get up the gumption to do it in two breaths. I liked him right away and I leaned forward in my seat, as he spoke, in rapt attention to the way he talked about his kitchen. For instance, he recounted the story of an entire pig that they brought in recently. I showed the staff how to use the entire animal, he said and he talked about the difference in seeing the animal in its full form, as opposed to fillets shrink-wrapped in plastic. His eyes glowed with respect and reverence. We even named it, he said. I had to ask. Hank, he replied. I smiled.

And I ordered it. Wild Boar Rack and Loin with Artisanal Rice Grits, Poached Farm Egg, Truffled Pecorino & Ancho Chile Sauce:

One (not all) of my issues with eating meat these days is the way in which its treated before it arrives on your plate. I just can’t stand to think about the inhumane ways in which animals are grown, kept and slaughtered, and I’d like to think that I can do my small part to keep from perpetuating this problem. Now, that may sound silly to you, but cultivating a respect and reverence for all life has become important to me.

And when I have strayed these past few weeks and eaten or cooked some form of meat, I’ve made an effort to truly think about the animal I’m preparing and ingesting. As Chef Mauro said, it’s such a different experience to just cut open a plastic package containing a bloodless chicken breast or a slab of bacon. It’s so easy not to think about the animal from which it came. It’s so easy to dismiss the life that was lived. But when Chef said that he’d even named the boar I was about to eat, I recognized a man after my own heart… or at least my palate.

And so with gusto, I ate the perfectly tender Hank with his delightfully runny poached egg and rich ancho chile sauce, and with each bite, I savored and gave thanks for the animal gracing my evening.

CLAIRE WROTE:

Day Three of Lollapalooza was, by far, my favorite day. We didn’t go.

Instead, I spent the most gloriously mundane Sunday at home. In the morning I made a frittata and watched Greg ice his ankle which had swollen up even more. Eventually I rustled up an ace bandage and wrapped him, good and tight.

Even though I didn’t want Greg to be in pain, I was secretly excited by his new club foot. I knew it meant that we probably wouldn’t go to Day Three of Lollapalooza, and even though I would be sorry to miss Iron and Wine and The National, I was much more enthused about a day at home.

In the late morning we got a new addition to the household: a young Russian Blue kitten that we named Lincoln. Getting a third cat was totally Greg’s idea and he was so fired up that he even put an ad on craigslist.org looking for the perfect one. Turns out he actually did a great job. One of our older cats, Reynold, has taken to Lincoln like a big brother, and the two of them can’t get enough of each other.

The rest of the day was spent amusingly watching Greg and his friends watch “Cable Guy” in preparation for their outing to Medieval Times. When they finally left, the house was blissfully quiet and peaceful. I nursed my summer cold (which had only been exacerbated by Lollapalooza) on the couch while I worked on our wedding photo album. I then read through a stack of magazines on the coffee table that I’d been meaning to read through, wrote a couple of of thank you notes and made a grocery list.

Perfectly mundane and boring. And so the opposite of hot, crazy Lollapalooza.

I don’t think that I’ll go back next year. In fact, I’m sure that I won’t. I’ll probably never attend another music festival unless there are special VIP circumstances involved. That said, I think it’s great for some people. I’m glad all those sweaty, college boys have a reason to go outside once a year. And I know that Greg has fun with his buddies, and I’ll fully support his decision if wants to go next year.

And I’m glad for the experience of it. I mean, it sounded really great — all those bands, one big, exciting weekend. I loved hearing Radiohead flood through the nighttime streets of Chicago. I’m glad I finally registered to vote in Chicago. I’m glad I now know that if I start to black out in line for tacos, my husband will make sure I’m okay. I loved tapping my flip-flops to Sharon Jones and I loved the tears that slipped down my cheeks listening to Wilco, huge against the night sky.

There are good things to be found in every experience. Some experiences are just a lot sweatier and more crowded than others.

Lollapalooza
Grant Park, Chicago
August 1-3





Medieval Times
2001 N Roselle Ave
Schaumburg, IL 60195
(888) WE-JOUST

CLAIRE WROTE:

Last night I wasn’t feeling well. I have one of those summer colds that feels so wrong to have when it’s so nice outside. It’s one of those colds that would normally keep you home for the evening, on the couch surfing through reality television, while simultaneously flipping through an old US Weekly. But instead, last night found me in a window seat at Perennial. Greg and I had plans to dine there and there was no way I was backing out, cold or no cold.

Perennial is the new restaurant by Rob Katz and Kevin Boehm, the guys behind BOKA and Landmark. Giuseppe Tentori, the chef at BOKA, who was recently named one of Food & Wine’s Best New Chefs, oversees the menu at Perennial but leaves the dirty work to Ryan Poli (formerly of Butter).

Perennial is located in one of my favorite spots in Chicago — right on the intersection where Lincoln Avenue and Clark Street intersect. The restaurant is housed in the yet-to-open Park View Hotel and is just across the street from Lincoln Park where the Green City Farmer’s Market is held every Saturday and Wednesday (Alice Waters just named Green City one of the top 10 best farmers markets in the country). We had a booth in the window with fantastic views shooting straight up both Lincoln and Clark, the kind of views that remind you that you are sitting in a sexy new restaurant on a warm summer evening in one of the greatest cities in the world.

The four of us who were dining started off with a slew of appetizers including pillowy beet gnocchi with goat cheese, a smoky and refreshing gazpacho, creamy risotto with gulf shrimp and the already renowned raw surf and turf (big eye tuna and Angus Strip loin). Since I wasn’t feel well, I opted for a vegetarian entree hoping that it wouldn’t weigh me down too much and my choice didn’t disappoint. House-made agnolotti with a creamy asparagus-based sauce was perfectly soothing and delicately rich. Sides of watermelon and tomato salad, truffled mac and cheese, potato puree, a green bean salad and ratatouille were equally blissful — I literally couldn’t decide which to stop eating first.

And one of the best parts of the whole evening is that throughout dinner, while I sat next to Greg, I was facing A New Leaf, the event space where we were planning to get married next April but which swiftly became too complicated and costly. It was a surreal and validating experience to look across at that place and know that all the fretting and agonizing is over, and that the wonderfully funny and sweet man beside me is already my husband.

Perrenial
1800 N Lincoln Ave
312.981.7071

CLAIRE WROTE:
Greg and I recently went to Corosh for dinner. It was a rare night in which Greg chose our dining location and I was excited to see where we would end up. It turned out to be Corosh in the Ukrainian Village.

Greg had made a reservation for our party of four — a seemingly important necessity at 8pm on a Thursday night in Chicago — but which turned out to be completely unnecessary. The place, with its high ceilings and lengthy bar, was fairly empty. We’d heard the patio was nice but upon inspection looked depressing with its concrete and empty picnic tables. It was unseasonably cold out anyway so we chose to eat inside.

I had no idea what to expect with this place — a rare thing these days when I go out — and I originally even thought the place might be Middle Eastern. The menu, however, dictated a very conventional Italian theme: insalata, antipasti, pasta, secondi… you get the picture. I hadn’t been out for Italian food in quite a while — I usually deem it too fattening and also, I enjoy making my own pasta dishes at home so much that it seems like too much of a luxury to order it somewhere.

In any case, the four of us settled in to our rustic little table in the center of the restaurant and took in our surroundings. I again noted the high ceilings, the random art on the walls, the long, narrow room, the empty tables. There was no music playing and the room felt awkwardly quiet. I feel like there was a moment, just before our waiter arrived, when we all wondered if perhaps this was the wrong choice and that maybe we should leave while we still had time. But something shifted and I think we all decided not to care and to just see where the night took us.

Our waiter approached and we ordered a round of cocktails — mojitos for me and Greg. While we waited for our drinks we perused the menu, picking out a caprese salad, or maybe it was the bruschetta, from the list. I mentally settled on Linguini Carbonara for my main dish (I had just run 7 miles that afternoon and felt that I could get away with eating a little heavy cream). I briefly considered the Capellini di Pomodoro and the Fusili Corosh with sausage, peppers, escarole and cannellini beans.

I think it was then that I realized how long our drinks were taking. Greg was getting agitated and one of our guest’s drinks had already arrived, making it even more apparent that ours had not. When they finally did show up, after an inordinate length of time for such an empty restaurant, they were surprisingly good. And thus arrived the true theme of the evening: late or non-existent, but surprisingly good.

Upon ordering our antipasti we were informed that there were no tomatoes. Not because of a salmonella scare… just because. After some grumbling (on Greg’s behalf) we rearranged our wants and ordered calamari and grilled portobellos… which turned out to be surprisingly good. Now, I keep saying “surprisingly good” because my expectations for this place diminished by the minute. The muted ambiance, lack of attentive service and complete unavailability of dishes continued to persuade me to give up on Corosh.

But with each dish that arrived, I was reminded why I could not. When my enormous plate of Linguini Carbonara was finally placed in front of me, after too long a time waiting for the bottle of wine we ordered, I was once again feeling discontent (by this time I had actually inquired as to whether they had any music they could play but it seems the stereo wasn’t working properly because it only played for a moment before shutting off again). However, one bite of my pasta had me settling in to my chair, not caring at all if there was music in the air.

Corosh
1072 N Milwaukee Ave
Chicago
773.235.0600

CLAIRE WROTE:

So, I was dragged (somewhat reluctantly) to the U Lucky Dawg hot dog stand on the 4th of July with Greg, his Uncle Ron and cousin Mandy.

I say “dragged” because, as American as it might be, getting hot dogs on the 4th of July isn’t my idea of perfection. I would have much preferred to take a picnic basket to the lake to watch fireworks. (We did go to the lake that night to watch fireworks, but by then all we had with us was some bottles of water, a king-sized bag of almond M&Ms and several moderate cases of indigestion.)

What I would have liked to take with us in a picnic basket had we not gone to U Lucky Dawg:

* A wedge of Humbolt Fog
* Crackers
* Olives
* Possibly some aged salami
* Marcona almonds in olive oil & sea salt
* Loaf of crusty French bread
* Strawberries
* Chocolate
* A bottle or two of Rosé

In place of the above, I sat outside at a picnic table on a fairly noisy stretch of Western and ate a charred chili-cheese hot dog.

Now, I may sound snobby with my bourgeois picnic basket up there, but I ate that hot dog as though I’d been waiting for it all day. I hadn’t had a hot dog in a long time, since I only have one maybe every couple of years, and I can’t actually remember the last time I had one before this chili cheese dog. But suddenly there we were in line in front of the counter, all of us gazing up at the menu board, and Greg and Ron were set on ordering the famous Chicago-style dog, which I’m sure Greg will explain the components of in his post. I had already decided against ordering it, and was trying to decide on what exactly I would order, when I flashed on a childhood memory.

When I was a kid growing up in Sandy Springs, a suburb of Atlanta, my Dad used to take me to a hot dog place called G.D. Ritzy’s, which has since all but disappeared (although a comeback is rumored), and we always ordered the chili-cheese dog with shoestring fries and chocolate milkshakes. And it was like this thing that my Dad and I did together — one of those things that becomes forever encompassed by a little bubble of nostalgia, making it so that every time you are ever forced to order a hot dog you always go for the chili-cheese, no matter that you are 30 years old and no longer eat hot dogs and it’s the 4th of July and you just hosted a vegetarian yoga brunch on your deck.

And so I ate the chili-cheese hot dog and it was just okay, all dripping with that processed nacho cheese sauce and swimming in some kind of bland chili. In fact, I ate it so fast that Greg was still reveling in his Chicago-style dog when I was done, so I asked for a bite and immediately realized that I’d fallen into a terrible nacho cheese-flavored trap of nostalgia and should’ve just listened to my fiance when he suggested I get the Chicago-style. And then I think it was Ron who suggested we order another round. Seven minutes later found me still sitting on a picnic bench on a noisy stretch of Western on the 4th of July now splitting a Chicago-style hot dog with Mandy, my stomach already beginning to churn, as it would continue to do so for the next eight or so hours.

All in all, I’m glad we went, if even just for the memory of going to G.D. Ritzy’s with my Dad (and perhaps for the reminder that I shouldn’t eat hot dogs for another few years). Next year we’re doing the 4th bourgeois-picnic-style, and if anyone insists on hot dogs I’ll make some pigs-n-blankets with a nice grainy mustard.

U Lucky Dawg
6821 N Western Ave, Chicago
773.274.3652

CLAIRE WROTE:

On Tuesday night Greg and I went to Jack Rabbit in Lincoln Square. I really want to like this restaurant. I’ve wanted to like it ever since I first walked by its first incarnation, close to eight months ago, when it was called Brioso and billed itself as “Modern Mexican.”

The restaurant I’m referring to, now called Jack Rabbit and billed as a “Southwest Grill,” is located on a bustling little corner in Lincoln Square. Greg and I first happened upon this place last fall on a stroll through the Square, back when neither of us even lived in the neighborhood. I remember spotting its storefront from across the street and pulling Greg over by the arm to check it out with me. Brioso, Modern Mexican. I scanned the menu noting the goat cheese enchiladas and the green chile cheeseburger. YUM, right? Greg shrugged.

I love Mexican food. That and Indian food are my two favorite cuisines. And I’m always interested to see a modern version of them (Marigold is a great example of this). So last fall, after finally finding a job 3 torturous months after moving to Chicago, when Greg asked me where I wanted to celebrate, I said Brioso! We were both excited, dreaming of sparkly, tart margaritas and creamy goat cheese enchiladas, green chiles and homemade salsas. Even Greg, who bills himself as someone who doesn’t get excited about food, was excited.

So, last fall, for my celebratory dinner Greg and I found ourselves at a corner window table at Brioso. And I can’t help but just say it now: What a let down. I haven’t been this disappointed in a restaurant in a long time. The evening began well but quickly gained downhill momentum with the arrival of each dish. The margaritas, although flavorful, had no discernible alcohol in them. The chips were tasty but the heavier sort that require the balance of a bright salsa — unfortunately, the salsas before us were bland and boring. An ahi tuna appetizer could have been fresher and also failed to balance the heavy chips it was served with. And my beloved goat cheese enchiladas that I had dreamed about ever since hearing the words, “We’d like to offer you the position,” were dry and tasteless things swimming in an equally bland red sauce that pooled into a flavorless muck against the rice.

I remember putting down my fork with a sigh. Isn’t it just the worst to be that disappointed by a meal?

I’m one of the nicest critics you’ll come across. Having been raised by a chef mother who ran her own restaurant when I was a kid, I always give the restaurant the benefit of the doubt. I’ve got a decade’s worth of time spent working behind the scenes of the restaurant business and I know first hand how hard it can be to plate a good serving of food. But the flipside is that I also know an uninspired dish when I taste one. And the dinner we shared at Brioso last fall was exactly that: uninspired.

So, earlier this spring, when on a stroll through our new neighborhood of Lincoln Square, we both noticed a new sign over the spot where Brioso had been, we were intrigued. Jack Rabbit, huh? Southwest Grill? We crossed the street to check out the menu. I scanned its contents and noted the goat cheese enchiladas and the green chile cheeseburger. What?! Startlingly similar menu, vaguely different sign. We peered into the restaurant itself. It looked the same. I looked at the menu again. The “Brioso” margarita was even still there on the left-hand side of the menu. Weird. Troubling. Slightly intriguing. Kind of enraging.

I felt even more incensed when I read the review in Time Out Chicago that week, which deemed Jack Rabbit a welcome replacement to its so-so predecessor Brioso. Hmmm…could it be true? For months I didn’t really care that much and Greg and I stayed on our side of the street. But last night after a long discussion about where to get married (destination wedding in Mexico?!) and where to eat dinner, we decided to finally check out Jack Rabbit. I was in a bad mood and looking forward to having something to bitch about. Not the most objective attitude for trying out a new restaurant but what’s a girl to do?

I’ll cut right to it. It wasn’t bad. Greg and I sat in the same spot and we both ordered the Brioso margarita which had adopted a much pulpier mix but tasted less tart and more sweet than I generally like. We started with chips and three “hand-crafted” salsas — all of them still quite bland and still accompanied by their heavier tortilla counterpart. As we munch, I poured over the menu.

Man, it’s a good menu. I still really wanted to like this place. Standout items that made my mouth water included an appetizer of a roasted beet salad with goat cheese, fajitas with marinated free-range chicken breast, again with the green chile cheeseburger, a Monterey jack and parmesan encrusted ribeye served with buttermilk mashed potatoes and zucchini, and lastly, a pan roasted chicken breast with green beans and spicy mac and cheese. YUM, right?

I ordered the free-range chicken fajitas and Greg ordered off the specials menu — a chile relleno with wild mushrooms. While we waited I noticed the woman next to me had what appeared to be the chicken breast with mac & cheese. When I queried her about it she reported that it was delicious and that she and her dining partner had been to Jack Rabbit several times, much to their enjoyment. We then asked the waiter about the changes done to the restaurant, and in a bored and unfriendly way, he repeated more than once that he wasn’t there when it was Brioso and all he could tell us was that the owners had revamped the menu.

Greg and I both ate our entrees as we sucked down a second round of margaritas. My chicken fajitas were tender and flavorful but were accompanied by a tiny little plate featuring some wilting lettuce, my favorite bland salsa and a little cup of dryly shredded cheese. I requested some guacamole which ended up being the best part of it all, and I tried a bite of Greg’s rellenos which tasted okay but not amazing. We both cleaned our plates despite not loving our dishes.

The bottom line is that I don’t think I’d go back. For a two-person dinner that averages around $75, I’d much rather go somewhere else. I’m a person who believes that anyone can change…but in the case of Brioso/Jack Rabbit, not so much.

Jack Rabbit
4603 N Lincoln Ave, Chicago
773.989.9000

CLAIRE WROTE:

Saturday Greg and I went to Mayfest in Lincoln Square.

I’ve been living in Chicago for 9 months now. My first month here, aside from unpacking and job hunting, was spent letting the slowly creeping realization that I’d officially moved to the Midwest sink in. Truthfully it just didn’t really occur to me before moving here — that I was moving not just to Chicago, but to the Midwest.

I grew up in Atlanta which, if you’re not from the South, is officially the South. Just as if you’re not from the Midwest, Chicago definitely feels as though it is of the essence. After Atlanta I moved to New York City and then after that to Los Angeles — both of those cities quite regional as well. Los Angeles is as West Coast as New York City is East Coast.

And Saturday, at Mayfest, I realized quite how Midwest Chicago is. Nothing written here by me about the Midwest or Chicago is intended as criticism, merely as observation from someone who has lived in numerous big cities. People like to ask me which city I’ve liked the best and I always answer as I will right now: they’re all different and not really worth comparing. They are each their own city unto themselves.

Why the long introduction, you may be wondering to yourself? Is it because Greg always uses so many pictures in his posts causing me to expound in text? Perhaps. But really I suppose it’s just to get you ready for my assessment of what Midwesterners seem to like to do more than most things: eat bratwurst and drink beer during the day.

Ouch. That sounded a little harsh. I didn’t quite mean it that way.

Let’s move on.

Three things I’ve been exposed to more than anything else in this, The Windy City.

1. The Cubs. Don’t drive on Clark Street during Cubs season, I’ve learned. I tend to try to go somewhere using Clark only when there is a Cubs game, and each time I get stuck for half hours watching Cubs fans criss-cross said street in their sporty jerseys with rosy cheeks and hot dog-ready fists.

2. Book Clubs. I’d never been invited to a book club until I moved to Chicago. I’ve since been invited to 5 and have attended 3. Each time I tended to drink too much and talk too much and feel like that “Greg Boose’s weird girlfriend who just moved here from LA” too much.

3. Street Festivals. I’m not kidding: there is a street festival EVERY weekend during the summer months in Chicago.

Which brings us to Saturday. The Mayfest street festival that Greg and I attended right in our very own neighborhood, Lincoln Square. Lincoln Square is an old German neighborhood replete with a long standing German bakery and the occasional cantankerous German old-timer who claims that it’s nothing compared to what it all used to be.

Oh, and replete with the annual two-day drunken sausage/beer festival called Mayfest.

This probably sounds like I didn’t enjoy myself, but actually I did. Greg and I wandered right into the heart of it all, ordering up some brat sandwiches and grabbing plastic steins of Hofbrauhaus beer which we took into the tent so that we might better hear the German band in their lederhosen up on the stage. I kept getting flashes of that scene in “National Lampoon’s European Vacation” when they’re in Germany and Rusty makes out with that hot, boobilicious German girl, and then I remembered that the Griswold family totally lived in the Midwest and suddenly it all made sense.

There were guys everywhere wearing funny little German hats and double-fisting steins and there were moms with strollers and old cantankerous Germans who’ve probably lived in the neighborhood for half a century. There were terrible street festival games which we totally played and won and lost.

There was incredible people watching no matter where you turned your head, and by the time we decided to leave I was perfectly tipsy from my two beers. And in my Hofbrauhaus daze the Midwest seemed like a good place to have landed. A solid place where people like to watch sports and read books and drink beer in the middle of the day just to celebrate a long lost heritage.

(Greg included too many pictures. Again.)






























Mayfest Chicago
Lincoln Square
Last weekend in May
Free!