Tuesday Night Dinner Club: The Purple Pig/Bandera

Four of my college friends-Amy, Alyssa, Neha and Meghan-and I have formed the Tuesday Night Dinner Club. Every other Tuesday, we’ll go to a different restaurant in Chicago with a rotation of who chooses each time. If you can make it, great. If not, no big deal. It’s a great way to try new restaurants.

Last night was the first meeting of the club, and all members were in attendance but Amy, who got tied up at work. It was my choice, and I picked The Purple Pig, 500 N. Michigan Ave.

The Purple Pig is one of THE hottest restaurants in Chicago right now. Bon Appetit named it one of the best 10 new restaurants in America; it was a 2011 Michelin Guide Chicago Bib Gourmand winner; and it’s been featured on numerous other lists as one of the best restaurants in the city.

Naturally, we were excited.

The Purple Pig does not accept reservations, but initially, we weren’t too worried since we were meeting at 6 p.m. on a Tuesday. City-dwellers rarely eat dinner before 7 p.m. any day of the week.

The original plan was for me, Meghan and Neha Blossom to meet for drinks at Rock Bottom before our 6 p.m. dinner. We all get off work before 5 p.m., so we usually like to have few spirits before we meet Amy and Alyssa.

But then the more I started to think about the no reservation thing, the more worried I got. So we changed plans and decided to have our drinks at the bar at The Purple Pig. That way we could either get a table right away or they would see us there and know we were serious about eating there that night.

I was the first arrive at the restaurant (big surprise). I immediately congratulated myself for having such a good idea because this place was teeny tiny. And it was already filling up before 5 p.m. I informed the hostess there would be three for drinks but eventually five for dinner. Jerk Hostess said she could only seat our full party. I told her the fifth probably wouldn’t arrive until after we had ordered (at that time Amy was still in the mix but was going to get there late) and she repeated she would only seat the full party. So I put our name down for four, hoping Amy might arrive before we were seated or that they could pull up a chair when she got there.

I parked myself at the bar, ordered the bartender’s red wine recommendation and waited for my ladies. Meghan arrived next and agreed to help cure my starvation by ordering some prosciutto bread balls. They were OK, tasted more like spinach bread balls than anything. At that point, Amy texted us she wouldn’t be able to make it.

Alyssa arrived next and then Neha, after wandering aimlessly down Michigan Avenue claiming to be lost (not seeing the big sign that said “The Purple Pig). By this time, the place is packed, but there are still seats available. We inform Jerk Hostess that our entire party has arrived and she gives a “yup” and a nod as if she’s going to seat us ASAP. After five minutes, she tells us she’s just seated everybody waiting and it would be about an hour wait for a table for us.

(Cue head explosion).

I pound my glass of wine, and we immediately left. I found the entire exercise ridiculous, considering she knew we wanted to eat dinner there, we already had a $60 bar tab and were the first to arrive among the people she seated. Sorry, Purple Pig, but we won’t be back for a club meeting. And yes, I’ve told my friends about this bad experience. I’m close to posting this entry on Yelp.

We walked over to Bandera, 535 N. Michigan Ave., which is a sleek-looking upscale Latin (I think) restaurant that overlooks the Mag Mile. The food was good but quite pricey for what they offered. I had the steak and enchilada platter, which I thought was deceiving. To me, platter means an entire platter of meat and enchiladas. What I got was a very tasty cut up filet and one chicken, cheese and spinach enchilada. That was combined with some Spanish rice and a vegetable medley tossed in a champagne vinaigrette. For $28. Too much.

So that concluded the first, lackluster meeting of the Tuesday Night Dinner Club. Here’s hoping the March 1 meeting at Gilt Bar, 230 W. Kinzie, will be better.

Jake's Pizza

As you know, I’m weathering Soderlund Construction 2010 at Grandpa's house Franklin Park while Bernardo is wintering in St. Petersburg. As a resident,it’s my job to check out the sights and local eateries. My parents insisted this include Jake's Pizza.

So, after a longer than usual day at work, I decided to order a pizza and a small salad tonight. Twenty-five minutes later, me and the Corolla are on our way down the block to pick up dinner.

Jake’s is on Grand Avenue, and there is only street parking available. Actually, there are two spots on Grand Avenue available to park in. For those of you not familiar with Franklin Park, parking on Grand Avenue would be like parking on Lake Street or parallel parking on Coliseum and Coldwater in Fort Wayne. Luckily, there was a space.

I walk into Jake’s, and I immediately question whether Jake’s sells pizza or is more equipt to dry clean my clothes. You walk in, and it's just a counter. Not a counter with pictures of the pizza or a menu at the top; just the front of a cream tiled, white walled room with a ledge. Total hole in the wall.

A man comes out and tells me my pizza will be ready in a couple minutes.
"What kinda pop you want?" he asks
"I get a pop?"
"Everybody gets a pop."
"Uhhhh..."
Alas, I see the Helen of Troy of pops for me: Squirt.
"I'll take a Squirt."

So, I'm standing there, ready to ask for a menu to take back to Grandpa's, when I notice the menu. To the right of the counter is a single white piece of paper, with the menu typed from a typewriter. I guarantee the same one has been there since my parents were ordering pizza there in the 70s.

The guy comes back out with the bill and says he might as well ring me up while I'm waiting. I hand him my debit card, and he cringes.

"I don't do enough business to keep a credit card machine, honey."
"Do you take a check?"
"Do you live here in town?"
"Yeah, I'm living on Emerson."
"Oh fine."
"How much is it?"
"$14.50. Oh just give me $14."

He takes the check, which, if he read the address would say Roselle instead of Franklin Park, and walks to the back. I then notice the sign above the counter that says "Due to the unethical and unscrupulous practices of the credit card industry, Jake's only takes American currency." Classic.

The pizza was freakin' fantastic. My parents, who said they used to split a large every night and demanded I bring Jake's the next time I come over, were right. Super simple, thin crust and just really good. I'm not a huge crust person but this was some of the best I've ever had: flaky and flavorful at the same time.

Jake's has an average five-star review on Yelp (OK only two people reviewed it but this place has enough word-of-mouth where I didn't need to go on Yelp to prove my point).

And whoa ... as I'm writing this, I discovered something really cool. There's an article from the Chicago Tribune hanging on the wall in Jake's. It features a comedian named Monte who writes a food blog and named Jake's his top pizza place in Chicago. I Googled the article so I could paste it here and stumbled upon Monte's blog. Turns out he was at Jake's ... today! Bonkers!

The article is here: http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2009-10-22/entertainment/0910200292_1_monte-food-network-lincoln-square

Monte's blog is here: http://monteism.blogspot.com/

Celebrity skin

When you work in the media, you’re bound to come across some celebrities. When you work for a small or mid-size daily newspaper, the celebrities you meet and interview are usually B-list or less. Regardless, I’ve always thought it was cool to meet in person the people you see on TV, the big screen or in magazines.

I’ve seen or met a couple celebs in my non-work life: Mike Ditka (buying baseball hats at the Bloomingdale K-Mart after playing golf at Indian Lakes); Jerry Springer twice (once when I saw “The Jerry Springer Show” and once in Cancun when he was the judge of a bikini contest at Le Boom); David Spade (outside of the same Cancun club, where Lauren had to be physically restrained by the bouncer after she tried to jump the velvet rope to go talk to him); Brandy, Gabrielle Union, some guy from “ER” and a couple of sports stars (playing in a C-list at best poker tournament in Vegas); The Fridge (who I would have not even known was The Fridge if there wasn’t a sign above him with an arrow pointing down that said “The Fridge is here.” He was signing books in Vegas); and Bill Rancic (winner of the first season of “The Apprentice,” who was at the grand opening of Sprinkles cupcakes).

The above were just sightings, no real conversations involved. But as a reporter, I got to interview a few.

*Hilary Duff: She’s a spokeswoman for Blessings in a Backpack, which is a national program that provides backpacks full of food every Friday so low-income kids can eat on the weekend. Duff visited a Fort Wayne elementary school to announce it would be added to the program. My first impression of her was that she is itty bitty in person. When I saw her picture in magazines, by no means did I think she was fat, but she was definitely an actress I thought had some meat on her bones. In “real life” she’s super short and super skinny. And much prettie. I’m gonna go a little gay here, but she really did have mesmerizing eyes. Substance? The verdict is out. I interviewed her for about five minutes (see picture above where I look like a sewer troll next to her), and I got very packaged and rehearsed answers about the program. I was tempted to ask her if she was jealous that her ex Benji Madden was shacking up with Nicole Richie, but I remained professional.

*Jack Hanna: I’ll get right to it: he stared at my boobs the entire interview. Jungle Jack was very interested in the mammal before him. He was in Fort Wayne to do a fundraiser for Black Pine Animal Park, which houses retired circus animals or wild pets. He talks very fast, and I think if I didn’t have boobs (nice ones at that), our interview would have been shorter than it was. My favorite line was when I asked him why he did the fund raiser and he very snarkily said “Because they asked me,” and walked off.

*Alfre Woodard: Gave a lecture in Fort Wayne, and I observed when she worked with a class of drama students at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne. I don’t have many memories of this. Sorry.

*Marlee Matlin and Henry Winkler: These two also did a lecture at IPFW. Apparently they’ve been friends for 25 years, so they go on the lecture circuit together. Matlin was very pretty and very tiny in person. The Fonz was very short, 5’6” at best. They’re cute together, kind of have a brother/sister vibe and play off each other well. The Fonz had a lot of sincere and heartfelt advice for the acting students.

*Sandra Day O’Conner: I didn’t get to personally interview the former Supreme Court justice, but I had a nearly front row seat when I covered her lecture. Talk about a saucy lady! During the Q&A portion, she had absolutely no patience for questions she deemed stupid and either wouldn’t answer them or mocked the person who asked them. A lot of people thought she was a bitch, but I found her quite entertaining.

*Cheech Marin: The nation’s top pot smoker gave a lecture on Chicana art. Apparently he’s a huge collector. I don’t know about you, but I could care less what Cheech has to say on the subject. But he was very nice during the press conference and answered all my questions about his entertainment career and what he had coming up.

*Marie Osmond: Marie was the keynote speaker during a women’s event in Fort Wayne, and I had the opportunity to interview her before her speech (Thank God because her speech was one of the most disorganized and rambling I’ve ever heard). Again, she was very short and tiny and had gorgeous hair. You could tell she’d been in show business her whole life, because she was “on” the entire time. I brought my mom to the event because she adores The Osmonds. During our interview, people started taking pictures with Marie, and the photographer with me asked my mom if she wanted her picture taken. She stood there like a deer in the headlights and just shook her head. It was like watching Alex P. Keaton on “Family Ties” when he freezes during the game show.

*Clinton Kelly: Prior to meeting him, I had never seen “What Not to Wear,” but I knew the premise of the show. So obviously I was very concerned about what to wear for the interview. I kept it simple with a white shirt, tan pants and some brown, crocodile peep-toe heels, but I’m still convinced he was judging me the entire time. I chickened out on asking him to evaluate my outfit, in fear he would reduce me to a puddle of cotton.

*The Kerry sisters, Cate Edwards and Andre Heinz: These four were stumping for the John Kerry/John Edwards ticket during the 2004 election and did a rally at East Carolina University when I worked in North Carolina. They were about an hour late, provided minimal information during the rally and spoke to the media after. I didn’t have any interaction with Cate but had some interesting moments with the rest of them. Alexandra Kerry, the older filmmaker sister, seemed like she was on drugs. The younger one, Vanessa, mistook me for a handler at one point. Someone brought her a coffee, and she complained out loud that it had Sweet and Low instead of sugar, and I told her I also did not like fake sugar. She responded with “No sweetie I’m fine, I don’t need anything else.” Excuse me? This was all made up for when Andre came up to me. We shook hands, and he held on way longer than was socially acceptable. Then he started talking to me about 7-11 and Krispy Kreme donuts. (This is love people). All the while I’m figuring out how I will explain to my editors that I cannot write this story because the heir to the Heinz ketchup fortune has whisked me away on the Kerry/Edwards jet. I wrote the damn story.

Soderlund estate=Ground Zero

My parents have been unsatisfied with our house since I was probably 9 years old. We moved in when I was around 3, they paid about $68,000 for the house, and it’s since appreciated to probably the mid-$200Ks (yay expensive Chicago housing market!).

Jan and John never intended to stay there for 26 years. They even tried to sell it at one point, but since my dad refuses to take anything less than what he thinks the house is worth (usually an extraordinary amount more than what it’s actually worth) you can see why they got nowhere.

Periodically, they abandoned the idea of moving and zeroed in on putting an addition on the house. It started with the idea of building on to the back of the house but because of a “Communist Roselle” rule that your house can only cover a certain percentage of your property, the Soderlunds had to take to the village board. In the early 90s, the village deemed the plan too grand and the plan was aborted.

Earlier this year, they decided to revisit the idea but put a twist on it: they’d build on to the front and side of the house instead of the back. Again, the Soderlunds stormed village hall and asked for a variance. After a little finagling, some stern looks to crotchety board members, they were granted their wish minus three feet.

The moral of this story is that construction began on said addition last month and Chach and I have had an unwanted front row seat for the action. Living in Ground Zero was not on the terms of the lease we signed when we moved home in March. But being good little soldiers, we decided to endure it for the sake of the cause.

I’m having a hard time conceptualizing the project, but I’ll try to explain: downstairs will have a new powder room, utility room for the washer and dryer, living room, dining room and large family room. A master bathroom will be added upstairs and they’re also completely gutting and redoing the kitchen.

Lovely right? Once it’s done, yeah. So far, the workers have built the frame of the addition, and it hasn’t affected us outside of some dust, strange men in our front yard and people slowing down to gawk at our display. The workers arrive at the house after I leave for work and leave before I get home, so I don’t really care.

Chach is a different issue. Anyone who knows Chach knows he needs his kitty sleep during the day. He can usually be found under the covers in the bed in his “his room” (guest bedroom) or in my parents’ bed. He likes it quiet, and he likes it dark. (For example, I overslept today so I interrupted his morning bedtime by having the lights and TV on in my room. In lieu of a kitty mask, he slept under the bed until I left). So the noise has greatly disrupted the prince’s sleep. Anyone who knows Chach also knows he is the personification of a scaredy cat. So when he sees people outside, he heads for the hills (a.k.a. the nearest bed with blankets).

The outside part is done, and the workers are ready to storm the inside. What this means is our living room will become uninhabitable. My dad’s “Real Housewives of New Jersey” marathons will have to be watched elsewhere since we won’t have power, and the furniture and TV will have to be moved somewhere. At some point, we also won’t have water downstairs. Scratch Laundry Saturdays and cooking dinner (power will also eventually be gone in the kitchen).

Once they start tackling the upstairs master bathroom, my parents will be evicted from their room. Their tentative plan is to move their mattress into Chach’s room (guest bedroom) and sleep there. That means Chach’s toys and his litter box have to be moved into my room.

There’s talk of us possibly relocating to my grandpa’s house in Franklin Park while he’s in Florida. This would be great for me because it would lessen my train commute by 30 minutes. I’m on board with this plan under two conditions: 1.) Just me and Chach go; and 2.) There is DVR and Internet available. However, I am concerned about the dinner situation since my mom has been making me dinner since I moved home (Spoiled? Yes, and proud of it). In all seriousness, I suppose if the slumlords/roommates came with it wouldn’t be horrible.

In the end, it really will all be worth it. Although I think Chach and I are going to discover a new meaning of the word roommates when it comes to my parents. Ugh.

Covering a presidential candidate

This post is less to make me seem like a showboat and more to get on paper my memories of covering Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton during the 2008 election. And I don't really care if you think I'm showing off. Maybe I am-it's really freakin' cool to cover a presidential candidate. Even cooler to cover a sitting president, which I'll expound on in a separate post. And the coolest visitor was, of course, Ted "Sam Malone" Danson.

The Democratic primary dragged on a lot longer than many wanted or anticipated. Mostly because Hillary would not give up. I gots to give props to my soul sister not only cause she was representing the XY sisters but because the primary season went on long enough to make Indiana important.

I was the education reporter at The Journal Gazette in Fort Wayne, Ind. when Obama and Clinton started realizing they had to start kissing some Hoosier ass to get some electoral votes. Fort Wayne is Indiana's second largest city, so it wasn't a stretch for them to pass through. Northeast Indiana played host to not only Barack and Hilary but Bill Clinton, Chelsea Clinton, Michelle Obama and Ted Danson (besties with the Clinton's).

I had the opportunity to cover Hillary, Obama and Ted.

Hillary: She chose a tiny diner as the venue, which maybe fed into her goal of seeming like a "small town gal" but made it very difficult for the visitors and the media. I went to the event with two other reporters and got the lucky assignment of covering the crowd outside of the diner. We arrived a couple hours before she was even scheduled to arrive and while the other two reporters made themselves at home at Sara's Family Restaurant, I was stuck outside in 40-degree, windy weather. But I didn't care. I got to see the Secret Service bring the dogs in to sweep the restaurant; listened to the cops' walkie talkies for updates on her arrival; and saw a local TV anchor pull his compact out and put makeup on. About 600 people crowded in the small parking lot outside the restaurant, waiting for a chance to get a glimpse of Hillary. She was about an hour late (not surprising based on what I've heard about the Clinton's-Bill is supposedly worse) and prior to entering the restaurant, she stopped on a stage outside to give a five-minute speech. So I got to see her from afar. She's short. If you want to read the story that came out of this day: http://www.journalgazette.net/article/20080329/LOCAL/803290319.

Obama: He held a rally at a Fort Wayne high school and nearly 3,000 people showed up. Everything you've heard about the energy that this guy created during the campaign-it's even bigger in person. That gym was electric that day. People were chanting and singing and cheering for him even before he entered the room. I had heard before he took the stage, he was shooting hoops outside. People went absolutely bonkers for him. I wasn't in the restaurant when Hillary entered, but I was outside with a larger crowd, and the energy at the Obama rally vs. her event was incomparable. This time, I got to see the national press corps that traveled with him, making me uber jealous. An interesting fact: if you ever see a candidate on TV and there's people sitting in bleachers behind them, they are hand-picked by the candidate's handlers. It looked like they tried to get a diverse batch of people. I don't know how else to say it other than it was really cool to be a part of such a magnificent event.

Danson: Now we're speakin' my language. Yeah, I can write political stories, but my home is with the celebs. Danson visited a neighborhood Fort Wayne bar called The Green Frog to stump for Hillary. It was a Saturday, and I fought tooth and nail to get the assignment. The Green Frog really is Fort Wayne's version of Cheers. The mayor's wife owns it and most of the people who hang out there are regulars. Danson arrived early, said a few words, confirmed he'd be on "Damages" again then posed for pictures. He agreed to do a one-on-one interview with me outside so we talked for about 10 minutes. You'd be able to hear it if The Journal Gazette maintained any type of decent website (I recorded it and posted it online with the story: http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:XhvfyOWimfkJ:www.journalgazette.net/apps/pbcs.dll/article%3FAID%3D/20080420/LOCAL08/804200323/1002/LOCAL+kelly+soderlund+ted+danson&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us).

But they're cousins ...

A meeting of the minds occurred last night. Or should say, a family meeting took place.

Chachi and Pickles finally met face to face.

For those who don’t follow my life chronicles, or creep my mom’s Facebook page, Chachi is my cat, and Pickles is my brother’s new kitten. Cousins.

Ever since Danny brought Pickles home, I’ve been dreaming of a play date. I figured they wouldn’t like each other at first, but after about five minutes, they’d be wrestling and snuggling. I forgot that Chach and Pickles are CATS. Not babies. Not even dogs.

I grew up with a dog. I’m still in the mindset that Chach will act like a dog. But time after time he knocks that notion out of my head (i.e. the infamous attempt to take him for a walk).

Pickles is about 12 weeks old and rocks the long and lean look you get from Pilates. Chach … well it’s been suggested he has a weight problem. But he’s had a belly that has dragged on the floor since he was a kitten, so we like to say he’s just big boned.

I brought Chach over to Danny’s condo in his kitty carrier. Danny and my mom went in first to make Pickles comfortable, while Chach and I waited in the laundry room. I brought him in and just let them look at each other through the cage. Pickles was very curious while Chach tried to pretend she didn’t exist.

Then I took him out and held him while Danny held Pickles. Still, Chach would not acknowledge her. At one point I said, “Maybe Chach is blind?” So Danny and I moved closer and closer until Chach finally looked at her, and they gave each other some Eskimo kisses.

Don't be fooled. This was not love at first sight.

Then Chach wanted to get down, so I put him on the floor, and he was wandering around. Meanwhile, Pickles continued her curiosity and just followed him wherever he went. Then, she turned into a bad ass and started hissing at him. Chach ignored her for awhile but finally went behind the couch and hissed back. Then he hissed at anybody who came near him. This was interesting, because he has NEVER hissed at me.

I put the kitty carrier near the couch, and he walked right in, “I’m ready to leave now. I’m uncomfortable.” I then put the carrier on the kitchen table, and my mom held Pickles so she could look in. Tough Girl started some shit again, and chaos ensued. Chach had had enough and freaked out hissing and swatting in the carrier. It was time to leave.

In the end, Chach remains a cat with no friends but a knack for revenge. I woke up this morning and a metal tray full of papers that was sitting on top of the fridge was on the kitchen floor. Payback.

Nothing mystic about it

I’ve always been a cross between Snow White’s mousy, loud-mouthed sister who gets the kitty cat and not the prince and someone who’s so flushed I look like I’ve been drinking all day (which sometimes is actually the case).

I’m always the girl who gets sun poisoning on the fourth day of vacation, which forces me to either move inside or find another activity besides baking. I’m also the girl who should buy stock in aloe vera gel and has taken many an apple cider vinegar bath (sooths sunburn). The picture above is a good illustration of sun bathing gone bad.

But today, I actually look tan. I’ve been “tan” before. I spent a summer in Florida and fit in a Hawaiian vacation during that time (rough life), which culminated in a nice glow. But my natural tan from the sun is more of a red tan. For me, it’s tan. But when I put my arm up to my parents, who, in this instance look like a couple who took in an abandoned albino child, I still look red.

I’ve done the tanning bed thing and HATED it. I come out with a decent color but also with added claustrophobia. A lot of people find tanning beds relaxing and fall asleep. I spend the entire time plotting an escape and checking the timer. Music doesn’t relax me, and there’s no way in hell I’m falling asleep in there. Singing my body and tempting skin cancer is not my idea of relaxation.

So I got a spray tan yesterday. I’m in a wedding next weekend, and the dress is green (a cross between lime and clover), and I would look much better with some color. I wanted to first try a spray tan before doing it the day before the wedding, just in case I had a Ross Gellar episode (“Friends”). Tuesdays are $10 mystic tans at Ultramax, so I gave it a shot.

For those who have never done it, here’s how it works:

-You’re totally naked. My chichis and my cupcake were in on the fun.
-You put this lotion on the palms of your hands and your nails and on the tops of your feet and your toenails.
-You put on a hairnet (I’ll get to this in a bit).
-You walk in the booth and push a button and stand in place. You spread your arms and your fingers, close your eyes, and it sprays your front for about 12 seconds.
-You turn around and it does the same, then you’re done.
-You step out and wipe your hands on one towel and blot yourself with the other.
-You can’t shower for four to six hours afterward.

So I’m standing in the booth, and, to quote Lauren, “feeling like I’m about to be gassed in a concentration camp,” and I realize I forgot to put the hair thing on. Meanwhile, I’ve got my eyes closed and my mouth closed, and I’m not breathing, bordering on hyperventilation.

I rush out and try to blot my hair, which, luckily, was tied in a bun so it really didn’t get anything on there. I raced home and washed my hair in the sink just to make sure I didn’t have a streak of bronze highlights.

I was pretty dark last night and felt disgusting, like I hadn’t showered in a day. Today, I’m a little blotchy at parts but overall, I’m satisfied.