I have unfortunately, unwillingly and disgustingly become someone who makes small talk at my office. Hi my name is Kelly, and I can be found in the elevator, kitchen or hallway discussing the weather or how it’s not Friday yet.
I realize this is part of working in corporate America, but I HATE it. I hate hate hate small talk. It’s mostly why I hate first dates. But at least on a first date you’re moving toward a smooch or something. In the office, that kind of talk moves toward nothing.
But I don’t know what to do about it! This is the first place I’ve worked where I don’t have a bestie. In Fort Wayne I always had at least seven people I could take a break with or have a real conversation with. Here, I’m by myself. Which, I’m fine with. I have a lot of friends outside of work here so it’s not as necessary for me to glom on to everybody and force them to be my friend, as has been the case in other cities I’ve lived. But the downside of that is I don’t know many people well enough to make anything deeper than small talk.
And I’m a journalist. There’s the expectation that every person will divulge the most personal details of their lives upon first meeting me.
The weather seems to be the number one topic here. Especially in Chicago. Where we are NEVER happy about the weather. Ever.
Every winter we are shocked, FLOORED that it’s cold out. And our hearts nearly stop when snow falls. And then spring comes and it rains. And we HATE rain. But then we pray for warmer weather and then it gets hot and we bitch and bitch and bitch about how hot it is and won’t it just cool down? And then it cools down and the cycle starts again.
This leaves about four variations of the same conversation to be had about the weather. Stimulating.
People who work in offices are also shocked on a daily basis that it is not, in fact, Friday yet. And they express this with others to have some sort of commiseration club about how we’re stuck at work and “everybody’s workin’ for the weekend” and how “I don’t want to work, I just want to bang on de drum all day.”
Le sigh.
I’ll cap this off with the awkward walk down the hallway scenario. I’m always confused with when I should acknowledge there is someone else coming down the same hallway. We both see each other. But then it’s weird to keep walking and stare each other in the eyes until we get closer. So I try to look away until I get almost next to them and then do the casual “hi.” Is that proper etiquette? Am I weird for being weirded out by this whole gig.
For the record, it has been too cold this week and it is only Thursday.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
TNDC: Karyn's on Green
Let’s just get it over with. I’m not vegan. I don’t want to be vegan. Being vegan is weird to me. I respect the choice of those who are vegan, but it’s clearly not for me. Especially after my experience last night.
TNDC was canceled last time because Meghan and Alyssa were sick, and Neha had Bulls tickets. So we carried Amy’s pick over to this time. She chose Karyn’s on Green, 130 S. Green St., in the West Loop. Everybody was there except Neha, who was jet setting back from a Montreal business trip.
I was excited to try Karyn’s because I had heard as far as vegan restaurants go, it was top notch It had fantastic reviews on Yelp, and the actress Angela Basset had recently ate at either Karyn’s Raw or Karyn’s Cooked. As you can see by those restaurants’ names, the food is either raw or cooked at either location.
Prior to the day of the dinner, I think my mind protected me from understanding what vegan meant. Maybe it knew I might protest. I was associating vegan with vegetarian. Which, it is, but to the max.
According to www.vegan.org, a vegan is someone who, for various reasons, chooses to avoid using or consuming animal products. While vegetarians choose not to use flesh foods, vegans also avoid dairy and eggs, as well as fur, leather, wool, down, and cosmetics or chemical products tested on animals.
I was perusing the menu that morning and saw items like chicken legs and sausage and broccolini pizza. Then I made a confused face. Chicken? I don’t get it. But there’s no meat. I took my qualm to Megalicious, who informed me it’s fake. Then things started to come together.
I looked at the menu again. Caesar salad wouldn’t be legit Caesar salad because there wouldn’t be any eggs in the dressing. That sausage on the pizza isn’t sausage! It should say crab cake with a K! What the hell is Portobello bacon?!
This seems like I’m being dramatic, but anybody who knows me knows I love me some meat. Steak, hamburgers, pork chops, chicken, etc. etc. etc. As one former boyfriend who reads this blog said, (and I’m paraphrasing) “I’ve never met a girl who eats more meat than you.” TWSS.
The restaurant is cute, very sleek-looking. Meghan and I were the first ones there when it opened at 5 p.m. We had to get our cocktail on. We stuck with the house red wine, which, at $6 a glass was pretty darn good. We were going to order the Treetini, but we weren’t positive it actually had alcohol in it. The ingredients were listed as VeeV Açaí Spirit, fresh cucumber, agave, mint, and fresh lime juice. Alyssa ended up ordering it at dinner and it’s apparently a margarita/mojito hybrid. And they plant a tree somewhere if you buy one. We were upset we couldn’t mandate where the tree would be planted.
I was glad to hear the rest of the dinner club was just as apprehensive as I was. We all kind of sat in our seats, shoulders scrunched, scanning and scanning the menu for something that jumped out at us. We started with an old faithful: something fried. As an appetizer, we ordered the crispy mixed basket, which had sesame tempura battered vegetables, and fries, with barbecue and Thai cocktail sauce. Aside from the white asparagus, or albino asparagus as we were calling it, it was all great. Especially the avocados.
My goal was to not eat fake meat, as I don’t accept the premise. Meghan and I both ordered the split pea risotto; Amy got the marinated Portobello steak; and Alyssa ate the crab cakes. My risotto was fine, but it was like a pea explosion. I was hoping there was something other than peas in it, but no dice. It was also quite salty. Amy’s “steak” was actually a heavily seasoned Portobello mushroom. I had a bite and while I really enjoy Portobello mushrooms, I didn’t like the seasonings. I didn’t try Al’s crab cakes, but I had a bite of the grilled Bok choi that came with it and it was meh.
That was the theme. Everything was fine but tasted slightly off. “That’s cause it was,” my coworker said when I recapped the meal. And everything was really salty, as if they were trying to compensate for no flavor.
We thought we might fare better with dessert so we split a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie. Disappointment again. And again, the pie was freakin’ salted. Weird.
Overall, it may be a delicious place for vegans to eat. But now I just want a hamburger.
TNDC was canceled last time because Meghan and Alyssa were sick, and Neha had Bulls tickets. So we carried Amy’s pick over to this time. She chose Karyn’s on Green, 130 S. Green St., in the West Loop. Everybody was there except Neha, who was jet setting back from a Montreal business trip.
I was excited to try Karyn’s because I had heard as far as vegan restaurants go, it was top notch It had fantastic reviews on Yelp, and the actress Angela Basset had recently ate at either Karyn’s Raw or Karyn’s Cooked. As you can see by those restaurants’ names, the food is either raw or cooked at either location.
Prior to the day of the dinner, I think my mind protected me from understanding what vegan meant. Maybe it knew I might protest. I was associating vegan with vegetarian. Which, it is, but to the max.
According to www.vegan.org, a vegan is someone who, for various reasons, chooses to avoid using or consuming animal products. While vegetarians choose not to use flesh foods, vegans also avoid dairy and eggs, as well as fur, leather, wool, down, and cosmetics or chemical products tested on animals.
I was perusing the menu that morning and saw items like chicken legs and sausage and broccolini pizza. Then I made a confused face. Chicken? I don’t get it. But there’s no meat. I took my qualm to Megalicious, who informed me it’s fake. Then things started to come together.
I looked at the menu again. Caesar salad wouldn’t be legit Caesar salad because there wouldn’t be any eggs in the dressing. That sausage on the pizza isn’t sausage! It should say crab cake with a K! What the hell is Portobello bacon?!
This seems like I’m being dramatic, but anybody who knows me knows I love me some meat. Steak, hamburgers, pork chops, chicken, etc. etc. etc. As one former boyfriend who reads this blog said, (and I’m paraphrasing) “I’ve never met a girl who eats more meat than you.” TWSS.
The restaurant is cute, very sleek-looking. Meghan and I were the first ones there when it opened at 5 p.m. We had to get our cocktail on. We stuck with the house red wine, which, at $6 a glass was pretty darn good. We were going to order the Treetini, but we weren’t positive it actually had alcohol in it. The ingredients were listed as VeeV Açaí Spirit, fresh cucumber, agave, mint, and fresh lime juice. Alyssa ended up ordering it at dinner and it’s apparently a margarita/mojito hybrid. And they plant a tree somewhere if you buy one. We were upset we couldn’t mandate where the tree would be planted.
I was glad to hear the rest of the dinner club was just as apprehensive as I was. We all kind of sat in our seats, shoulders scrunched, scanning and scanning the menu for something that jumped out at us. We started with an old faithful: something fried. As an appetizer, we ordered the crispy mixed basket, which had sesame tempura battered vegetables, and fries, with barbecue and Thai cocktail sauce. Aside from the white asparagus, or albino asparagus as we were calling it, it was all great. Especially the avocados.
My goal was to not eat fake meat, as I don’t accept the premise. Meghan and I both ordered the split pea risotto; Amy got the marinated Portobello steak; and Alyssa ate the crab cakes. My risotto was fine, but it was like a pea explosion. I was hoping there was something other than peas in it, but no dice. It was also quite salty. Amy’s “steak” was actually a heavily seasoned Portobello mushroom. I had a bite and while I really enjoy Portobello mushrooms, I didn’t like the seasonings. I didn’t try Al’s crab cakes, but I had a bite of the grilled Bok choi that came with it and it was meh.
That was the theme. Everything was fine but tasted slightly off. “That’s cause it was,” my coworker said when I recapped the meal. And everything was really salty, as if they were trying to compensate for no flavor.
We thought we might fare better with dessert so we split a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie. Disappointment again. And again, the pie was freakin’ salted. Weird.
Overall, it may be a delicious place for vegans to eat. But now I just want a hamburger.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
TNDC: Mercadito
This week was my pick and I chose Mercadito, 108 W. Kinzie. A landmark known for their Mexican food and more commonly known among my friends as the place where Alyssa got kicked out for dancing. Apparently it’s like “Footloose” in their downstairs lounge.
Alyssa was willing to risk walking up to the hostess stand and seeing a picture of her face with a slash through it. Small club tonight, just me, Alyssa and Meghan. Neha is continuing her world travels in Spain and Amy was leaving for a conference in the morning.
Meghan and I decided to do our pre-cocktail hour at the restaurant. She had a bad day at work and went straight for the traditional margarita. I decided to be a little adventurous so I ordered the Smokey Pablo, which had cien anos reposdao (huh?), mango, chile morita and blueberry float. All that was code for a spicy mango margarita on the rocks with a taste of blueberry. I would have enjoyed it more without the blatant spices.
For our second drink, Meggie and I were intrigued by the michelada, which included a beer of your choice, lima, salsa inglesa and secrets. Yes, secrets. I assumed these were metaphorical secrets but the bartender informed us they, in fact, had a secret sauce. Apparently a michelada is a Mexican beer cocktail. They pour an ounce of Worcestershire and Tabasco sauce over beer. She gave us a taste of the “secrets” and it felt like I was drinking a steak. No thanks. I stuck with Corona Light.
Once we sat down, our waitress informed us their portions were pretty small and meant to be shared. So we each ordered a different type of taco: steak, pork and fish. We paired it with two sides of black beans and rice and fried plantains. Each of the tacos were really good but not out of this world. The pork was spicy and too much for little Megalicious. The fish were OK but I compare all my fish tacos to those at Paula’s in Fort Wayne and these didn’t hold a candle. The steak were also good but like I said, they were only a little better than the ones at Chipotle and double the price. Black beans and rice are hard to mess up but the plantains were very good. I’ll never argue with fried sweetness.
The problem with this sharing setup is they only gave you one itty bitty plate. So all your food is crowded on there and they don’t give you any larger or additional plates, weird.
The dessert menu was weird but Alyssa is obsessed with caramel so she ordered the flan. My only other experience with flan was at the Illinois Street Residence Hall dining hall at the University of Illinois, so I decided it was worth a second shot. Mistake. While the initial bite was good, all of a sudden the goat cheese alarm in my mouth went off. Again and again. I’m not sure how to make flan but I’d advise against adding goat cheese.
All in all, a good experience. I’d definitely go back to drink and risk a John Lithgow-style monologue about dancing.
Alyssa was willing to risk walking up to the hostess stand and seeing a picture of her face with a slash through it. Small club tonight, just me, Alyssa and Meghan. Neha is continuing her world travels in Spain and Amy was leaving for a conference in the morning.
Meghan and I decided to do our pre-cocktail hour at the restaurant. She had a bad day at work and went straight for the traditional margarita. I decided to be a little adventurous so I ordered the Smokey Pablo, which had cien anos reposdao (huh?), mango, chile morita and blueberry float. All that was code for a spicy mango margarita on the rocks with a taste of blueberry. I would have enjoyed it more without the blatant spices.
For our second drink, Meggie and I were intrigued by the michelada, which included a beer of your choice, lima, salsa inglesa and secrets. Yes, secrets. I assumed these were metaphorical secrets but the bartender informed us they, in fact, had a secret sauce. Apparently a michelada is a Mexican beer cocktail. They pour an ounce of Worcestershire and Tabasco sauce over beer. She gave us a taste of the “secrets” and it felt like I was drinking a steak. No thanks. I stuck with Corona Light.
Once we sat down, our waitress informed us their portions were pretty small and meant to be shared. So we each ordered a different type of taco: steak, pork and fish. We paired it with two sides of black beans and rice and fried plantains. Each of the tacos were really good but not out of this world. The pork was spicy and too much for little Megalicious. The fish were OK but I compare all my fish tacos to those at Paula’s in Fort Wayne and these didn’t hold a candle. The steak were also good but like I said, they were only a little better than the ones at Chipotle and double the price. Black beans and rice are hard to mess up but the plantains were very good. I’ll never argue with fried sweetness.
The problem with this sharing setup is they only gave you one itty bitty plate. So all your food is crowded on there and they don’t give you any larger or additional plates, weird.
The dessert menu was weird but Alyssa is obsessed with caramel so she ordered the flan. My only other experience with flan was at the Illinois Street Residence Hall dining hall at the University of Illinois, so I decided it was worth a second shot. Mistake. While the initial bite was good, all of a sudden the goat cheese alarm in my mouth went off. Again and again. I’m not sure how to make flan but I’d advise against adding goat cheese.
All in all, a good experience. I’d definitely go back to drink and risk a John Lithgow-style monologue about dancing.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Mystification of cashiers
Sometimes I am mystified when people are mystified by my simple questions or requests. Two such incidents occurred recently.
Stefanie had a $15 gift certificate to Sprinkles Cupcakes that she scored free from the hotel she works at, so we treated ourselves during a lunch break recently. We each ordered a cupcake (milk chocolate for me, Bailey's for her), and she ordered two to take home for her boyfriend. I also ordered some milk, which put us over the $15. I told Stef I would just pay her the difference. I held out a $5 and asked the girl working the cash register if she could give me change. She looked at me as if I asked her to stick the $5 up her butt, light the end on fire and eat a cupcake at the same time. The blank look ensued, and she finally asked her co-worker, "Do we have change?" The co-worker's eyes got HUGE at the thought of exchanging my $5 bill for five $1 bills. More awkwardness ensued as these two brainiacs tried to do the math on this. Finally, Stefanie told me to just pay the girl the difference with the $5, less worry about the change issue. Oy vey.
The second incident occurred today at Jimmy John's. In lieu of a traditional baby gift, I wanted to buy a friend of mine a gift card since she loves their sandwiches, and it could be used on a night she didn't feel like cooking. I also wanted to buy myself lunch. I ask the counter girl if they sold gift cards, since I didn't see them shoved down my throat like I do at every other establishment. Blank look.
"Um, I don't know. No. Yes."
"Can I buy one?"
Blank look.
Turns to co-worker. "Do we sell gift cards?"
"Yeah we do," he says, almost exasperated by the question.
She shrugs. "I'll let you handle this."
While he's trying to figure out the gift card machine, I decide to give Smarty Sally a separate task.
"I do want to order a sandwich."
"Oh great," she says, eyes perking up at a word she knows.
So another guy starts making my sandwich while the Gift Card Guru is still working on my request for a $15 card. Smarty Sally decides to ring me up.
"That'll be $7.01."
"With the gift card?"
Blank look, furrowed brow.
"How much was your gift card?"
"$15."
Furrowed brow.
Gift Card Guru is able to do the math: "$22.01."
Sigh.
Stefanie had a $15 gift certificate to Sprinkles Cupcakes that she scored free from the hotel she works at, so we treated ourselves during a lunch break recently. We each ordered a cupcake (milk chocolate for me, Bailey's for her), and she ordered two to take home for her boyfriend. I also ordered some milk, which put us over the $15. I told Stef I would just pay her the difference. I held out a $5 and asked the girl working the cash register if she could give me change. She looked at me as if I asked her to stick the $5 up her butt, light the end on fire and eat a cupcake at the same time. The blank look ensued, and she finally asked her co-worker, "Do we have change?" The co-worker's eyes got HUGE at the thought of exchanging my $5 bill for five $1 bills. More awkwardness ensued as these two brainiacs tried to do the math on this. Finally, Stefanie told me to just pay the girl the difference with the $5, less worry about the change issue. Oy vey.
The second incident occurred today at Jimmy John's. In lieu of a traditional baby gift, I wanted to buy a friend of mine a gift card since she loves their sandwiches, and it could be used on a night she didn't feel like cooking. I also wanted to buy myself lunch. I ask the counter girl if they sold gift cards, since I didn't see them shoved down my throat like I do at every other establishment. Blank look.
"Um, I don't know. No. Yes."
"Can I buy one?"
Blank look.
Turns to co-worker. "Do we sell gift cards?"
"Yeah we do," he says, almost exasperated by the question.
She shrugs. "I'll let you handle this."
While he's trying to figure out the gift card machine, I decide to give Smarty Sally a separate task.
"I do want to order a sandwich."
"Oh great," she says, eyes perking up at a word she knows.
So another guy starts making my sandwich while the Gift Card Guru is still working on my request for a $15 card. Smarty Sally decides to ring me up.
"That'll be $7.01."
"With the gift card?"
Blank look, furrowed brow.
"How much was your gift card?"
"$15."
Furrowed brow.
Gift Card Guru is able to do the math: "$22.01."
Sigh.
Heaven on Seven
This blog seems to be turning into a restaurant review site. I don’t care-deal with it.
For everybody’s birthday in my department—there are six of us, all women—we bring in treats to have in the morning and find a day to take the person out to lunch. This week was our assistant Chrestine’s birthday, and she chose Heaven on Seven, 600 N. Michigan Ave., which is Louisiana-style food.
Being that it’s right off Michigan Avenue, I thought it would be a tourist trap. Which is code for chain food and expensive prices. But it turned out to be kind of a hidden treasure.
It’s pretty dimly lit inside and decorated Mardi Gras style, with purple, gold and green beads and masks everywhere. Kelly circa 2002 would have instinctively went to lift her shirt for the swag (I let some guy look down my shirt in college to win a Mardi Gras banner-for real) but professional Kelly circa 2011 seemed to be able to control herself. Or realize that a Mardi Gras banner with a Miller Lite logo is not great décor in a bedroom.
Heaven on Seven also has a wall with probably 1,000 different bottles of hot sauce on shelves. It was pretty incredible and overwhelming for someone who just grabs what’s available to put on my egg white omelette from the ADA café (The grill cook, Alberto, for realsies makes the best omelette I’ve ever had. Three egg whites, spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and cheese, if you please).
For starters, they bring out a plate of sweet pickles to the table. I did not imbibe, as I only like regular guy pickles. I ordered gumbo soup and orzolaya, which is jambalaya with orzo pasta. My biggest issue with these dishes involved the sausage in both, which is hard to get around with this style of food.
The gumbo was great; not red as I’ve had it before but brown and with a scoop of white rice on top. Superb. The orzolaya was good, minus the sausage. It also had shrimp and chicken so I got my protein in, but I spent a lot of time navigating around the sausage.
Here comes the best part.
Whenever my department goes out for lunch, we let the birthday girl choose a dessert and we all split it. Being ladies who are conscious of our figures, we only want a couple bites as a taste. Chrestine chose peanut butter pie, and I could smooch her for it. It. Was. Fucking. Amazing. Best best best peanut butter pie I’ve ever had. Get up and go to this restaurant right now and order it. Do it.
The end.
For everybody’s birthday in my department—there are six of us, all women—we bring in treats to have in the morning and find a day to take the person out to lunch. This week was our assistant Chrestine’s birthday, and she chose Heaven on Seven, 600 N. Michigan Ave., which is Louisiana-style food.
Being that it’s right off Michigan Avenue, I thought it would be a tourist trap. Which is code for chain food and expensive prices. But it turned out to be kind of a hidden treasure.
It’s pretty dimly lit inside and decorated Mardi Gras style, with purple, gold and green beads and masks everywhere. Kelly circa 2002 would have instinctively went to lift her shirt for the swag (I let some guy look down my shirt in college to win a Mardi Gras banner-for real) but professional Kelly circa 2011 seemed to be able to control herself. Or realize that a Mardi Gras banner with a Miller Lite logo is not great décor in a bedroom.
Heaven on Seven also has a wall with probably 1,000 different bottles of hot sauce on shelves. It was pretty incredible and overwhelming for someone who just grabs what’s available to put on my egg white omelette from the ADA café (The grill cook, Alberto, for realsies makes the best omelette I’ve ever had. Three egg whites, spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and cheese, if you please).
For starters, they bring out a plate of sweet pickles to the table. I did not imbibe, as I only like regular guy pickles. I ordered gumbo soup and orzolaya, which is jambalaya with orzo pasta. My biggest issue with these dishes involved the sausage in both, which is hard to get around with this style of food.
The gumbo was great; not red as I’ve had it before but brown and with a scoop of white rice on top. Superb. The orzolaya was good, minus the sausage. It also had shrimp and chicken so I got my protein in, but I spent a lot of time navigating around the sausage.
Here comes the best part.
Whenever my department goes out for lunch, we let the birthday girl choose a dessert and we all split it. Being ladies who are conscious of our figures, we only want a couple bites as a taste. Chrestine chose peanut butter pie, and I could smooch her for it. It. Was. Fucking. Amazing. Best best best peanut butter pie I’ve ever had. Get up and go to this restaurant right now and order it. Do it.
The end.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
TNDC: Province
I missed the second meeting of the Tuesday Night Dinner Club because I was still recovering from what I think was pneumonia. Five days of being in bed with a fever, coughing and not being able to breathe to the point of using an inhaler required a couple extra days of recovery. So I do not have a review for Gilt Bar, but the girls said it was “good but very buttery.” OK then.
Last night’s meeting was at Province, 161 N. Jefferson, as selected by Alyssa (see pic-I'm going to start posting pics of the restaurant selector).
She billed it as “American with a Latin flair and ‘green’ with local foods.”
Neha Blossom couldn’t make it because she had to be out in suburbia helping her company, BP, move or unpack or something. Her importance within BP is hindering my social life.
Amy, Meghan and I arrived at the restaurant around 5:15 p.m. and had our usual pre-meal cocktails. Our first impression was that we were in a spa. The music was very serene, and Meghan wondered out loud to the bartender when we would be receiving our massages.
After a taste of the house red wine, I determined that was better drank after at least one glass of a better tasting wine so I ordered a Malbec. Amy heeded her frugal instincts and stuck with the house red, while the Fabulous Megalicioius ordered a champagne cocktail. Alyssa showed up a little later and ordered a beer (probably something unique that nobody’s ever heard of as a nod to her husband).
We got our table and quickly realized we were the youngest people in the restaurant by 20 years. For those of us turning 30 this year—and who already are, Meg—this made us feel good. Not that we didn’t prove our youth by being the loudest table by many decibels (see serene music above).
On first glance, the menu was confusing. It was divided into topics like “bites,” “small,” “big,” and “bigger.” Some of the “big” and “bigger” items had two prices next to them. Was it tapas? Small plates? Full entrees? A tutorial from the waitress proved it was all. You could get small plates, half orders of the larger items, side orders, etc. We ordered another round of drinks (duh) and decided to start with the Beer Cheese Mac & Cheese with house-made sausage and tomatillo salsa.
Before that arrived, a plate of deep-friend codfish balls appeared at the table, compliments of the chef. Delicious. The mac and cheese came next, and it was really good but deceiving to the eye. It looked more like a traditional pasta dish than macaroni and cheese. The cheese was a lighter sauce, and the pasta was bowtie, not macaroni. When you looked at it, you didn’t think it was going to be good. Especially with a mess of salsa on top. But it was an interesting mix of flavors that I really enjoyed. Even the sausage, which I usually hate.
Next came figuring out what to order and how large of an order each item should be. I did a test run with the girls, and my first choices were deemed as “too much food.” I scaled it back and ordered a small plate of the Mushroom and Goat Cheese Catalan Cannelloni with salsa verde and a half order of the Miso-Chili Glazed Rare Hawaiian Tuna. The cannelloni came first, and for some reason I was expecting spiraly noodles in a mushroom and goat cheese sauce. In reality, it looked like two orange burritos stuffed with a mixture of mushroom and goat cheese, surrounded by green salsa. The mixture was very rich, and if you don’t like goat cheese, which I do, you wouldn’t like it because it had a very strong taste of it.
My tuna came next, and it was fabulous. Cooked rare, just as I like it, with a tortilla salad on top and some kind of sauce. I wish I had gotten the full order because it was really fantastic.
As for the other girls: Alyssa ordered Slow Roasted Pork Ropa Vieja with vanilla mashed sweet potatoes; Amy ordered a Caesar salad, and she and Alyssa split some blue cheese fondue; and Meghan ordered Spanish Calasparra Rice with manchego cheese, described as Spain’s version of risotto.
Of course we had to look at the dessert menu, and we were transfixed. I got this apple layered thing that was The. Freakin’. Bomb. It had almond wafers and in between was dulce de leche ice cream atop a bed of cooked apple slices. Alyssa and Meghan were equally impressed with their choices. Alyssa had a chocolate brioche with ice cream, and I thought Meghan was going to have a lady orgasm over her squash cupcake with molasses cream cheese frosting with honey ice cream. I had a taste of the honey ice cream, and it was so rich you only needed like half a scoop to be satisfied.
All in all it was a very successful meeting. And only $40 per person. I’d highly recommend this place, which also has a Phoenix location.
Last night’s meeting was at Province, 161 N. Jefferson, as selected by Alyssa (see pic-I'm going to start posting pics of the restaurant selector).
She billed it as “American with a Latin flair and ‘green’ with local foods.”
Neha Blossom couldn’t make it because she had to be out in suburbia helping her company, BP, move or unpack or something. Her importance within BP is hindering my social life.
Amy, Meghan and I arrived at the restaurant around 5:15 p.m. and had our usual pre-meal cocktails. Our first impression was that we were in a spa. The music was very serene, and Meghan wondered out loud to the bartender when we would be receiving our massages.
After a taste of the house red wine, I determined that was better drank after at least one glass of a better tasting wine so I ordered a Malbec. Amy heeded her frugal instincts and stuck with the house red, while the Fabulous Megalicioius ordered a champagne cocktail. Alyssa showed up a little later and ordered a beer (probably something unique that nobody’s ever heard of as a nod to her husband).
We got our table and quickly realized we were the youngest people in the restaurant by 20 years. For those of us turning 30 this year—and who already are, Meg—this made us feel good. Not that we didn’t prove our youth by being the loudest table by many decibels (see serene music above).
On first glance, the menu was confusing. It was divided into topics like “bites,” “small,” “big,” and “bigger.” Some of the “big” and “bigger” items had two prices next to them. Was it tapas? Small plates? Full entrees? A tutorial from the waitress proved it was all. You could get small plates, half orders of the larger items, side orders, etc. We ordered another round of drinks (duh) and decided to start with the Beer Cheese Mac & Cheese with house-made sausage and tomatillo salsa.
Before that arrived, a plate of deep-friend codfish balls appeared at the table, compliments of the chef. Delicious. The mac and cheese came next, and it was really good but deceiving to the eye. It looked more like a traditional pasta dish than macaroni and cheese. The cheese was a lighter sauce, and the pasta was bowtie, not macaroni. When you looked at it, you didn’t think it was going to be good. Especially with a mess of salsa on top. But it was an interesting mix of flavors that I really enjoyed. Even the sausage, which I usually hate.
Next came figuring out what to order and how large of an order each item should be. I did a test run with the girls, and my first choices were deemed as “too much food.” I scaled it back and ordered a small plate of the Mushroom and Goat Cheese Catalan Cannelloni with salsa verde and a half order of the Miso-Chili Glazed Rare Hawaiian Tuna. The cannelloni came first, and for some reason I was expecting spiraly noodles in a mushroom and goat cheese sauce. In reality, it looked like two orange burritos stuffed with a mixture of mushroom and goat cheese, surrounded by green salsa. The mixture was very rich, and if you don’t like goat cheese, which I do, you wouldn’t like it because it had a very strong taste of it.
My tuna came next, and it was fabulous. Cooked rare, just as I like it, with a tortilla salad on top and some kind of sauce. I wish I had gotten the full order because it was really fantastic.
As for the other girls: Alyssa ordered Slow Roasted Pork Ropa Vieja with vanilla mashed sweet potatoes; Amy ordered a Caesar salad, and she and Alyssa split some blue cheese fondue; and Meghan ordered Spanish Calasparra Rice with manchego cheese, described as Spain’s version of risotto.
Of course we had to look at the dessert menu, and we were transfixed. I got this apple layered thing that was The. Freakin’. Bomb. It had almond wafers and in between was dulce de leche ice cream atop a bed of cooked apple slices. Alyssa and Meghan were equally impressed with their choices. Alyssa had a chocolate brioche with ice cream, and I thought Meghan was going to have a lady orgasm over her squash cupcake with molasses cream cheese frosting with honey ice cream. I had a taste of the honey ice cream, and it was so rich you only needed like half a scoop to be satisfied.
All in all it was a very successful meeting. And only $40 per person. I’d highly recommend this place, which also has a Phoenix location.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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.
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