She Wrote, He Wrote

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.

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:

I’ve truly had some disastrous kayaking trips. Well, maybe just one, in particular.

It took place several years ago on a trip to Thailand with a couple of girlfriends. Lucy and Holly and I were in Thailand for reasons involving a poorly executed and failed business plan, about which I won’t go into specific details. Nonetheless, one sunny morning found us on the island of Koh Chang wondering what to do with ourselves. Lucy decided to shower while Holly and I bickered out our plans and finally settled on kayaking.

The kind hotel staff, who had taken to calling us “Charlie Angel,” waved goodbye to the three of us as we set out on a kayaking mission to, what we thought, was a nearby island. Suffice to say, three hours later found us in the middle of the ocean, under the noonday sun, barely half way to the deceptively “nearby” island, all of us exhausted and arguing, Lucy keeping quiet about a fin she was sure she had just seen and me, actually toting a Coach purse along with me for God knows what reasons. I mean, really, who takes a Coach purse kayaking in Thailand?

Anyway, you would think I’ve learned my lesson about biting off more than I can chew when it comes to kayaking. Apparently not, because on Sunday when Greg and I showed up at the Chicago River Paddle boat shack to pick up our reserved kayaks for the day, I did my best to get us into another disaster of a kayaking trip.

This was our first time kayaking on the Chicago River, something we’ve been meaning to do all summer long, and only now have we gotten around to it on this the last weekend of summer. I really had my heart set on kayaking downtown to the Loop. It just seemed like such a cool idea and I felt strongly, before leaving the house, that nothing was going to sway me from getting to kayak straight through the middle of the city, all those enormous skyscrapers rising up around me.

So even after the kayaking guy told us that he strongly advised us NOT to paddle down to the Loop, as it would be at least a 5 hour round trip and there would be nowhere to use the restroom the entire time, and we would have to paddle upstream the whole way back, and they offered a lovely guided tour with a pick up at the end that we could take some time, I STILL put on my poutiest face and did a good job of *almost* convincing Greg that we should still do it, for adventure’s sake.

I’ll just say now that I’m really glad I listen to my husband sometimes. Or perhaps that he doesn’t listen to me sometimes. Needless to say, we did not paddle to the Loop and instead had a very pleasant experience paddling around for a couple of hours, heading North through our neighborhood, admiring ducks and turtles and blue heron and each other. On the way back, going downstream, my arms already sore, although I wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat, I was secretly very glad I had not won out on the adventure argument.

I think one should only have one disastrous kayaking trip in a lifetime, no?

CLAIRE WROTE:

It was Greg’s idea to take surf lessons in Costa Rica. We were in the Osa Peninsula, on a travel writing trip focusing on sustainable tourism, and we were trying to soak up (pun kind of intended) as much of the rain forest as possible. Surfing hadn’t been on the forefront of the things I wanted to do while we were there.

National Geographic calls the Osa Peninsula the “most biologically intense place on earth. Yes, on earth.” And it was. Full of monkeys and impossible-to-spot sloths, giant frogs and tree crabs…and me and Greg, sloshing through the jungle in big, black galoshes.

We were staying at an ecolodge called Lapa Rios and there was a daily list of guided tours and activities that guests could participate in. Had it not been for Greg, my eyes would have skimmed right over “Surf Lessons,” alighting perhaps on “Mangrove Kayak Tour” or “Rainforest Ridge Walk,” but Greg was hooked on the idea of taking surf lessons…and after some thought, I decided I’d rather take them too, than sit on the beach squinting at my husband as he attempted to stand up in the waves.

It’s funny that after four years of living in Venice Beach, California and watching bare-foot, sun-bleached surfers walk by my window every morning, I would try surfing for the first time in Costa Rica. But perhaps there’s good reason for that. The idea that my first attempt to stand on a moving object in the ocean would be witnessed only by strangers, rather than the potential disaster of having some cool Venice surfer guy privy to my initial foray into this competitive sport, made me feel just a bit more at ease.

We met up with our surf instructor on a pretty desolate beach around 10AM on our last day on the peninsula. His name was Oldemar and he was young and cut, with that ocean-water-scraggly hair that all surfers seem to have. He nodded sagely after speaking and said “Cali” instead of California, even though he was Costa Rican and had never traveled stateside. He tossed each of us a red surf shirt and I put mine on, feeling like one of my cats probably does when I try to make it wear some kind of outfit.

After that he threw a surfboard on the sand and began to demonstrate the various positions we would be using in our attempts to stand up on the board. I could feel my cheeks grow hot when he told us we all had to practice, right there in front of each other. There were five of us, by the way. Me and Greg and a dad with his two teenage kids, a boy and a girl. Why I would be embarrassed in front of them is anyone’s guess, but I think I would have been embarrassed to mimic standing on a surfboard in front of anyone.

As a side note, about a year ago, Greg made me pose with him in a fake surfing set-up at a festival here in Chicago. The three minutes we were on that board were truly some of the most humiliating of my entire life. However, I will always be grateful to Greg for forcing me into this, simply for the photo that came out of it.

It took both me and the other girl three tries to get the positions right, the guys only having to mimic our instructor once to feign their surf posture. Finally, we were ready to go. As I carried my board atop my head on our way to the water, visions of Keanu Reeves and Lori Petty swam through my head, the surfing lesson montage and Petty’s gravely voice saying “Pop, pop!” as Keanu struggled to stand and was mocked by the other surfers.

And then we were paddling out to the break and I quickly realized that I had no arm muscles to speak of. It was literally some of the toughest arm exercises I’d ever done. No wonder Oldemar (and every other surfer I’ve ever seen) was so ripped. Miraculously, I somehow beat everyone in our little group, husband included, out to the spot where Oldemar was waiting for us.

He immediately took hold of my board and spun me around. “You ready?!” he shouted, and shoved me off. It was so exhilarating that I literally forgot to stand up. Well, I forgot at first and then when I remembered that standing was the goal it felt like it was too late and I would look stupid if I did it now. I sheepishly rolled off the board, turning around to paddle back just in time to catch a glimpse of the teenage girl shakily rising to a crouch on her board as she coasted toward shore.

Her brother was next, immediately collapsing off his board as he tried to pop into standing and then Greg went, falling over immediately as well. The second time Oldemar shoved me out into a wave, I thought hard about the positions we had learned. Back foot forward, a planted hand, then another foot. I moved my right hand and then suddenly I was squatting on my board. Slowly, I rose up, until I was in that classic surfer pose: knees bent, one arm stretched out in front and the other in back, a sloppy grin on my face as I coasted along the wave.

I watched Greg stand on the next wave, and I caught half a dozen more myself, only finding myself standing when I really followed through with the positions our instructor had guided us through. Finally, I could paddle out no more and I took my last wave in, as close to the shore as I could get, before falling over on my side into the water, exhilarated and exhausted and totally surprised by how much fun I’d had.

CLAIRE WROTE:

I’ve been thinking about the way I eat for a long time. And, unfortunately, not so much in a calorie-counting way. More in a “Is this good for my body or is it filled with chemicals, steroids, pesticides, hormones?” kind of way. Watching two parents die of cancer will make you really suspicious of the microwave. And the beef industry. And the pesticides used on produce. And the hormones that are probably lurking in your milk. And the cancer-causing flavor-enhancer BHT (that was banned in Europe eons ago but not in the States of course) in your pack of Orbitz gum.

But even as much as I refuse to put things in the microwave, am somewhat suspicious of Saran Wrap and would, under no circumstances, ever eat at a McDonald’s, I still find it challenging to maintain a diet that is completely free of all the dangers our foods are filled with. And I’m not neurotic enough to be really diligent about it either. I simply stick to not using the microwave (yes, I’m serious about this one and won’t even stand in the same room if it’s on), buying mostly organic products and not eating red meat.

Lately though, I’ve been toying with the idea of going vegetarian. Although I can easily go a whole week, and often do, on a vegetarian diet, I’m thinking of getting pretty strict about it. I do still enjoy fish and chicken and BACON but the more I read — and I’ve been reading a lot lately — the harder of a time I have putting these animals in my body. I’ve recently read two books — The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Skinny Bitch — which both elaborate heavily on the atrocities of the current US food industry, particularly the beef, chicken and pork industries. And while I won’t repeat the facts and statistics (if you’re really interested then you can read them for yourselves), I will say that I think I’m ready to begin making a major diet change.

All of this is leading up to say how Greg and I had dinner at The Chicago Diner the other night. One of Chicago’s best and oldest vegetarian restaurants. Now, I’ve eaten at a fair amount of vegetarian restaurants, and although he likes his vegetables, I think this was Greg’s first time really trying faux meat dishes. I’d actually eaten at The Chicago Diner once before and when I lived in Los Angeles I went out for vegetarian food quite a bit. Fairly often I’d visit Real Food Daily in Santa Monica and Native Foods in Westwood — two fantastic vegan and raw restaurants.

Early on in these vegetarian forays, I discovered that eating a meat-free meal leaves you feeling much different than its alternative. I feel lighter and more energized after a vegetarian meal than I ever have consuming even just a basic chicken dish. I also discovered that I really like tofu and seitan (made from wheat gluten) and I think the reason I haven’t gone vegetarian sooner is because I haven’t really learned to cook with these things yet. (My next adventure).

Anyway, we had a great dinner. Greg will probably tell you that our service was lacking (they were really busy!) and that his margarita wasn’t awesome (it’s a vegetarian restaurant, not a Mexican joint!) but, overall, I thought it was great. We started with some fake chicken wings, which could have spicier but which I still enjoyed, and then I had and loved…

… The tender sun-dried tomato polenta, topped with oven roasted sweet potatoes, garlic sauteed spinach & onions, melted cheese, with spiced black beans & Spanish rice & marinara. ($12.95)

The polenta was perfect and the heaps of sauteed spinach and black beans left me feeling full but not heavy.

For dessert we had a really fantastic vegan carrot cake. I actually know the baker for the Chicago Diner, Malissa Winkowski– she’s the best friend of a good friend of mine and we’ll be bridesmaids together next year so I’ll probably get to know her a lot better then — but I’ve had her desserts at parties before and never doubted that whatever we ordered would be out of this world.

Our dinner at The Chicago Diner just reinforced my budding desire to go vegetarian. There are so many good reasons…and not really any bad ones.

CLAIRE WROTE:

I was never one of those girls who dreamed of getting married.

Until I met Greg, I’d never even fantasized about a wedding or what my dress would look like or what it would feel like to walk down the aisle. Truthfully, until I met Greg, I didn’t know if I ever wanted to get married.

I think I told him that on our first date. We were walking across the bridge at Millennium Park here in Chicago, holding hands, both of us already so enamored with the other, and I remember thinking, I should tell him now, just so there are no illusions about where this is going. And I did. I told him that I didn’t know if I ever wanted to get married and that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have kids. He nodded serenely and smiled, gazing out across the cityscape without even blinking an eye, and we kept walking.

It’s laughable to me to look back on that moment. Because I think every moment since has been infused with a desire to marry Greg and create a life and a family with him. Maybe he already knew that I felt that way, or knew that I would, and that’s why he didn’t react to my oh-so serious statements about the future. I think it was just after our second date when I began keeping a journal to him about our courtship. In the very first entry I promised to give the book to him on our wedding day. And last weekend I did just that. But not before reading my vows from the last pages of it.

I digress. This is supposed to be about what it felt like to walk down the aisle at my wedding. What a huge thing. Where to even begin? There are a million parts of my life that come into play just in that one moment. From my half-brother who walked with me to my mother’s sisters who stood where she was not, from the church in which we were in — the same in which my parents were married — to the silver sandals on my feet.

I think I was the calmest person out of everyone on the morning of our wedding. Everyone else was rushing around, making sure there were flowers and hair dryers, programs and tissues. I was ready to go to the church before anyone else was and lingered in my aunt’s kitchen while my maid of honor and my soon-to-be mother-in-law frantically threw their things together. It was only when I was waiting in the dressing room in the final minutes before the ceremony began that I grew nervous.

I wasn’t nervous about getting married or about Greg, rather I was just overcome with the enormity of it all, this immense thing that we were about to do. I listened to the organ playing and knew that the best man and maid of honor were probably walking down the aisle. I pictured our families in the pews, waiting for everything to begin. My half-brother, Mike, stood at the door of the dressing room, guarding me from Greg’s sight, until it was time for me to emerge.

My heart raced as he nodded at me, signaling that Greg’s parents were now walking him down the aisle. I took deep breaths, my chest feeling tight and looked into the mirror one last time. I’d never felt more beautiful, in my gorgeous dress with my hair up and veil trailing out behind me. Finally, Mike looked at me and smiled, “Let’s go, kiddo.” I nodded at him, offering a wobbly smile in return.

Together we walked out from the dressing room and into the open doorway that faced the interior of the church.

We stopped there, taking it all in, our families and friends, the high ceilings and bright midday light. I had meant to look up at Mike before we began to move forward but I forgot, my eyes scanning past everyone, searching for Greg.

He was looking back at me, moving closer to the center of the church so that he could see me. Mike and I began to walk, my arm tight around his, and I just couldn’t take my eyes of off Gregory. Standing there in his suit, a smile on his face, I recognized that same serene look he’d given me over a year ago on that bridge in Millennium Park and knew that he’d never doubted that this moment would come.

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:

Last Thursday Greg and I attended opening night of Cirque du Soleil’s new show Kooza. After a recent night at Sushi Samba Rio watching a Brazilian silk act, I realized how much Greg would probably love something like this and I sought out these tickets as a surprise for him.

I’ve probably seen Cirque du Soleil 4-5 times now and have always loved it for the sense of wonder and magic and possibility it brings me. I’m not an artistic person, nor do I seek out art. I exercise my creativity through words and cooking; through the creation of very tangible means that usually don’t manifest themselves in the abstract. I imagine that, to a lot of artists, Cirque du Soleil might seem a very palatable and mainstream form of art. In my younger, more inhibited years, going to a show like this was very liberating and easily allowed myself a vicarious sense of wild inhibition.

Being older and much less insecure than I was ten years ago, I no longer need something like this to open parts of myself that otherwise lay dormant — I feel that those are places I can now access through my own means — but all the same I do very much appreciate the way a show like Cirque lifts me out of my usual sense of place and allows me to think of the world a bit differently than I might normally.

Cirque du Soleil, for anyone who has never been or who might need a refresher, is a reinvented circus full of mystery and music and mind-boggling physical acts, old world clowning and incredibly beautiful sets. Cirque was created by two former street performers and began in Quebec in 1984. After a series of ups and downs and failures and successes, Cirque du Soleil (Circus of the Sun) eventually took off to become the privately-owned and wildly successful circus empire it is today.

With over a dozen big-top touring shows and half a dozen resident shows under its belt, Cirque has honed its concept into a seamless experience of beauty and magic that is accessible across the world. Each show explores a themed storyline — one that often depicts the inner life of an individual. The second show I ever saw, Quidam, illustrated the surrealistic daydreams of a young woman named Zoe. Alegria, the first Cirque show I ever attended, had a heavier and darker theme about the abuse of power and the struggle for freedom. And “O,” was a show based on, and in, water, and it took up residence at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

But no matter how different each show purports itself to be, I always get the same thing out of it all — the idea that the world we inhabit is much richer and filled with colors and sounds and textures than we allow ourselves to perceive. Last week, going to Kooza, I thought back over the last 15 years of my life and the various shows I’ve seen in succession…in Atlanta and New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, with my mother or a boyfriend, with friends and now with Greg. And I thought about the different incarnations of myself that have undergone their own inner-struggles and liberations throughout those years.

I thought a lot about one of my friends, Abby Freeman, whom I met while waitressing in New York ten years ago. In our early twenties she became a performer in a show called De La Guarda (), an off-Broadway show in Union Square that remains, hands-down, the most thrilling and confrontational and life-affirming theatre I’ve ever seen. I went to see it five times. And each time I walked out into the brisk New York streets, the buildings swaying overhead, the crowds and the taxicabs all a streamlined blur before me, and I never doubted how much I want this life.

Abby went on to become one of my best friends. She also went on to marry one of the performers in De La Guarda and together started their own aerial theatre company, AiRealistic. Right now Abby and her husband are in Beijing, performing in the Olympics. Over the years I have seen Abby and her friends and family create and perform in shows that require a lack of inhibition and wild talent that I will never possess. I’ve always held Abby and what she does in a place of reverence and quiet envy — her ability to release herself in such a beautiful and physical way is stunning in its capacity.

The same is true for the performers and shows I have seen through Cirque du Soleil. The truth is that we can’t all be as wild and open and liberated as what we see at a show like Kooza. But the point is that, if even just for a few hours, we can feel it.






Cirque du Soleil - Kooza
Chicago - United Center
June 26- August 10

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