She Wrote, He Wrote

I’ve been told that I tend to order the most expensive thing on the menu. Or that I at least attempt to. Greg was slightly horrified to discover this about me. When I was born the doctor told my mother that I would have expensive feet because they were so long and slender. He should have just told her that I’d be expensive. Period.

Case in point: The first drink I attempted to order off of Tavern at the Park’s new cocktail menu last night was something called the “Cloud Gate” which was made with Grey Goose Le Poivre Vodka and Champagne. That sounds good, I thought. I’m always up for Champagne. And I like clouds, I thought, glancing at the name of the drink again. That’s when I noticed the price: $199. For a cocktail.

But upon further inspection and inquiry, $199 for the Cloud Gate turned out to be absolutely justified by the Elsa Peretti “Bean” pendant necklace that comes draped over the side of the glass.

Tavern at the Park faces Chicago’s Millennium Park and the famous Cloud Gate, a.k.a. “The Bean.” Greg took me to see the Bean on our very first date and I’ve subsequently taken all of my Chicago visitors to see it. I’m a big fan of the Bean. And of Elsa Peretti.

If I didn’t already have one of Peretti’s bean necklace’s (which used to belong to my mother), I probably would have ordered the Cloud Gate. And Greg might have broken off our engagement. All the same, I’m more than pleased that this drink exists.

When Greg and I were deciding on which tours we wanted to do with Chukka Adventures in Jamaica, I immediately knew I wanted to go horseback riding. I think Greg’s first choice was some kind of under-water helmet situation but, to me, the idea of riding horses through the mountains and along the ocean on a Caribbean island seemed irresistibly romantic and soothing.

Well, I clearly won out on my horseback riding preference and the second morning of our vacation found both me and Greg saddled up and coated in not enough suntan lotion for our three hour riding session. The majority of the tour led us through the small fishing village of Sandy Bay and surrounding countryside. And it was just lovely. The gentle sway of the horse beneath me and the wide open, impossibly blue sky curving overhead served to remind me just how possible life can seem. Our guides galloped around us on their horses, pointing out various landmarks and trees and plucking leaves for us to smell, flooding our nostrils with verbena and all-spice.

I patted my horse softly on the neck sometimes and scolded Greg on occasion for coming up too close behind me with his. We sauntered through a little mountain village where goats dozed in the shade and kids waved to us from the side of the road. I felt far away from my life in Chicago, my desk at work and the sound of coffee percolating on a Tuesday morning.

The end of the tour led us back along the ocean, the mangrove trees rustling in the sea breeze and the water a cool, pale turquoise. We briefly disembarked from our horses and mounted them once more for a bareback ride into the ocean. Greg had been talking about this part of the tour all along but until I was waist deep in the ocean on a galloping horse that I realized I hadn’t really thought about it.

It was absolutely thrilling! I was first in line, my horse pulled along by a guide on horseback in front of me. At first we were just wading through the water, my knees pressed tight against the horse’s abdomen and then suddenly we were galloping and I was clinging on for dear life, laughing and laughing, as we descended into water that rose to my thighs. I looked back at Greg who was laughing just as hard, streaming through the ocean behind me on his horse and I smiled and thought about all the things you can do in this life.

Greg was excited about this book before I even started it. I remember the day he bought it at The Book Cellar, its simple pink cover held up proudly for me to see. His enthusiasm only grew as he buried himself in it on the couch that same evening and before he was even half-way through it he was suggesting (re: demanding) that I read it myself.

Inwardly I sighed. Even though I’ve been an avid reader all my life there’s nothing I dislike more than being sternly encouraged to read a book — suddenly there’s this obligation to read the thing, and what if I don’t like it or what if I get bored and want to start reading something else? How do I explain that to my friend who holds one out to me, tears shimmering in her eyes as she recounted how it completely changed her life?

Well, Greg wasn’t that dramatic but nonetheless, I felt mighty obliged to pick up and read that damn pink book a week or so after he did.

And it was good. Really good.

“The Little Girl and the Cigarette” is a simple story, a dark satire on our society’s obsession with being politically correct and all the Catch-22s that come with trying to be so.

Taking place in an anonymous contemporary European city, the story follows two characters: the first a death row inmate whose last request is to smoke a cigarette. Smoking has been banned in the prisons, but there is also a rule that a prisoner’s last request must be granted, thus throwing the entire system into chaos. The second storyline follows a middle-aged man, annoyed by the restrictions that a workplace smoking ban has placed on this small enjoyment of his.

The story spirals from there — the demise and uplift of each character more sarcastic and strangely believable than the last, until you have finally closed that pretty, pink cover. Reminiscent in tone of both Kundera and Kafka, “The Little Girl & the Cigarette” is a lovely escape from the duplicitous post-modern tomes I’ve been crowding my bookshelves with.

I’ve been a fan of Bloody Marys since long before it was legal for me to drink them. I can still remember the summer after my junior year of high school when my best friend Liz and I would make a giant thermos of them, sneaking the vodka from my father’s wet bar, and carefully mixing in a hefty portion of Mr. & Mrs. T’s. We’d spend the whole day at the neighborhood pool subtly drinking from our plastic thermos cups while we tipsily waved at moms we sometimes babysat for.

And the history of Bloody Marys in my family goes back farther than that. Back to June of 1975 actually, when my father, who’d been stood up by my mother on a blind date the night before, persistently rang her Manhattan buzzer at 10AM the next morning. “Who dares ring anyone before noon on a Sunday in New York,” my mother famously wrote in a detailed story of their courtship. “It had to be you, as they say, and I answered the door with wet hair asking if you wanted a Bloody Mary, which thank god, you did.”

So even more than the briny taste of cold tomato juice spiked with pepper and spices and cool, clear vodka, it’s the essence of the drink that I’m in love with, the self-validating morning juice tinged with enough alcohol to at once wake you up and mellow you out.

Needless to say that when I heard about the Bloody Mary flights at Bin 36 Cafe in Wicker Park, I became mildly obsessed with the idea of holding in my hands, each of those four-different flavored Marys. I even heard rumors of an Asian-inspired choice and I knew, having been to Bin Wine Cafe and Bin 36 already, that it would be good.

Now, the best Bloody Mary I’ve ever had was in an old courtyard hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans. I’ve never forgotten that perfect blend of horseradish and pepper, the zing of Worcestershire, the bobbing olive and even the pickled green bean nestled in against the stalk of celery. That particular Bloody Mary has grown and grown in my head until I’m not sure that I’ll ever encounter its likeness again.

BUT….the Bloody Marys at Bin are spectacular in that there are four of them all at once. Included are the Bucktown Mary (original style with horseradish, Tabasco & celery), the Italian Mary (with balsamic vinegar, fresh basil and parmesan), the Asian Mary (with pickled ginger and wasabi) and the Consuela Mary (extra-spicy, Chipoltle flavors with a choice of tequila or vodka). They arrived in stemless Reidel glasses laid out neatly with the name of each version written on Bin’s signature flight mat.

I tried them one at a time all in a row. Before I tasted them I was betting that my favorite would be the Italian Mary. But it wasn’t. I was imaging my own homemade tomato sauce, bright and popping with basil and garlic, but Bin’s actually wasn’t as flavorful. The original Mary was fantastic — classic and spicy — and the Asian Mary was interesting, the ginger adding a layer of unexpected depth. But it was the Consuelo Mary, oh the Consuelo Mary — smoky with chipotle peppers and so deeply spicy and rich, that I had no choice but to favor it above all the rest.

I may not have been 16 and tipsy at the pool with Liz but sitting before my four glorious Marys, I felt just as giddy.

I said yes.

Drake Bros.
The Drake Hotel
140 E Walton Place
(312-787-2200)

When I first moved to LA almost six years ago I got a job as an editorial assistant at Vanity Fair. As part of my job requirement I had to attend almost every event we were invited to. And there were a lot. Every week I received dozens of chic, artfully crafted invites in my little office mailbox, beckoning me to r.s.v.p. for movie premieres, screenings, art receptions, restaurant openings and random thousand-dollar cell phone parties in brightly lit, star-studded galleries on Rodeo Drive.

The sleek black, multi-paged invite I received in the mail last month for the opening of ZED451 flashed me right back to my days at Vanity Fair. The truth is, I adored those invites. I even saved them all in a plastic folder…that I think still exists in a file cabinet somewhere. I was 24 years old and I had never been to events like these. I felt absolutely thrilled and sometimes quite humiliated. I often wore the same outfit; my one pair of Michael Kors pumps, a little Coach clutch — these accessories I so desperately hoped would help me blend in with the likes of Hollywood’s finest. But nonetheless, I was hooked. The parties, the food, the places — this was a world I wanted to be a part of.

So on Friday night, pulling up to the impressive exterior of ZED451 on Clark and Superior in the Loop, I felt that old familiar twinge in my gut — do I look okay? Am I wearing the right outfit? Are the valet guys judging Greg’s Honda?

But before I could really start to spiral into a den of insecurity we were being ushered into the foyer of the restaurant and I was being handed a glass of Champagne and nodding a greeting in response to the line of hostesses smiling brightly at us.

There were people everywhere; the place was packed. We wandered past an enclosed glass wine tasting room and into the bustle of the main dining room where stylish guests double-fisted incredible looking cocktails and plates of fanciful foods. It was all a blur in the beginning. There was just so much to take in.

After a tour with a hostess that led us through the high-ceilinged bar area, across a little path of rocks near a modern, blazing fireplace and up a staircase where we stepped gingerly over the (real!) grass-covered floor to gaze up in awe at the surrounding nighttime cityscape, we sought refuge in the upstairs Harvest Table. I was in heaven, loading up my plate with wedges of Humbolt Fog, Brie and aged cheddar, delectable little heaps of all manner of salads, grilled vegetables, sliced baguettes, handmade ravioli and fruits.

Okay, here’s where I’m going to explain the concept of ZED451, even though we ourselves didn’t quite get it until later. When you visit the restaurant as a regular guest, it’s a prix fixe dinner. You visit the above described Harvest Table where you can help yourself to as much or as little of what you want. And then chefs (CHEFS!) come around to your table offering all variety of meats, which I’ll talk about it in a minute. And here again, you can accept as little or as much as you’d like. And so the dining experience goes.

After our fill of the Harvest Table, Greg and I wandered back downstairs where we finished off two of the best cocktails I’ve had in a long time. Mine was some sort of strawberry-kiwi martini with real bits of fruit and Greg’s was some dreamy orange drink that tasted like cold, liquid Tic-Tacs — and I mean that in the best possible way. We accidentally stumbled into a private wine tasting, were poured some incredible red that I don’t think I ever even knew the varietal of, and shortly thereafter tottered off to the Chef’s Bar…or what I kept calling “the meat bar.”

At the meat bar we had the opportunity to sit right in front a beautifully designed grill area that featured racks upon racks built specifically to cook skewered meats. The chefs then came around with the various steaming skewers and forked it right onto our plates. We sampled marinated lamb and pork loin, sizzling sausages and tender sirloin, flaky salmon and juicy chicken. It just kept coming, each morsel more delicious than the last.

And finally we were sated. Draining the last dregs of whatever that heavenly glass of red had been we sauntered right into the middle of it all, taking in the spectacle around us. The modern and intimate space, the throngs of beautiful, stylish people, the gorgeous plates of food. And I think it was there…or maybe it was at the meat bar, when I heard Greg say that he would totally come back and thought that the $49 prix fixe meal was more than acceptable.

If I’d still had that glass of wine in my hand, I might have dropped it. My farm-raised, financially conservative boyfriend thinks $49 per person sounds great? I studied him, wondering if he was possibly the same guy who, at the start of our relationship, expressed his anxiety about my serious (and often expensive) relationship with food. I thought back to my Vanity Fair days and I could see in Greg that same realization that came over me all those years ago.

Namely, when you’ve had dining this good, you can’t go back.

Greg and I had brunch today at Over Easy Cafe with one of our favorite couples to eat with, Hanna and Chris. Although we’d all heard of it, none of us had yet visited this well-reputed Ravenswood brunch spot.

Over Easy has been open for a couple of years and sits on a pretty, tree-lined stretch of Damen. What I’d heard about it was from Greg’s best friend Tarek who reported that it was the best breakfast he’s ever had in Chicago. “Oh my God, you have to get the Sassy Eggs,” he said last night when we told him we were going.

I was pretty hungry by the time we got there, having gotten up early and having forgone breakfast in order to fully give myself over to something hopefully sublime. I was secretly hoping there would be a breakfast burrito on the menu — I haven’t had a good one since moving here from California and it’s in the back of my mind every time I’m out for brunch.

And I was kind of hoping to order a mimosa as well. Greg tends to frown just a little whenever I order alcohol in the morning–in this cute way that makes me think he doesn’t think it shows–but I figured that at least Chris would order one as well and then I wouldn’t look so bad.

No such luck. No breakfast burritos (although I truly think the menu could use one) and no alcohol (BYOB).

But I have to say that my Nueva Mexican Omelet with red onion, tomato, cilantro, goat cheese, corn and salsa verde completely made me forget about all things bubbly and burrito-shaped. The omelet was fluffy and in each bite: the perfect amount of warm, oozing chevre. Hanna’s Banana Spiked French Toast with banana cream, rum caramel sauce and candied pecans was surprisingly light — and the slices of French Toast themselves perfect just on their own.

Julius Meinl coffee while you wait and the bite (okay, three bites) of Greg’s oh-so Sassy Eggs (eggs any way you want them over chorizo, potato hash, red peppers, jalapenos, ancho ketchup and a generous dollop of guacamole) confirmed that we’d definitely be coming back.

Over Easy Cafe
4943 N. Damen Ave. b/t Argyle & Ainslie
(773-506-2605)
Sassy Eggs, $10
Open until 3 pm every day