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muckefuck...or why none of you have heard from me lately
Friday I worked late. I had to clear off some shelves at the request of some workmen who are ripping apart and rebuilding the IT centre. I don't like to simply move stuff around when I could process it and get it the hell out of my sight, but of course almost everything on those shelves had ended up there because it was complicated, confused, or otherwise icky. So, at about seven, I was forced to give up and shift the bulk of the materials elsewhere anyway.
By this time, I was ravenous. I thought about catching dinner nearby, but none of the options appealed. A little voice said, It's Friday night, and you have nowhere to be. You could go out to eat anywhere. Of course, there were problems with most of my choices: Rokucha topped my list, but there was no way I could get a seat there in the next hour or two. The story would be the same at plenty of other places, too. And a lot of the restaurants I'd been meaning to try or revisit were too far west and I wasn't in a mood to ride a crosstown bus to food.
I finally decided to split my ticket: I could have a small meal someplace to tide me over and then hit Rokucha around nine. As to where I'd eat the first installment of dinner, I would just ride the train south and get off when inspiration struck. Thanks to arrival of a gaggle of loud ladies, this turned out to be the Sheridan stop (star of countless E.R. episodes). A nice little strip of eateries runs along the block where the station stands.
But I was too fickle to settle for any of them. Tacos struck me as too greasy, Tibetan food as too dull, and there were unsavory characters in the bright little cafe. So I did what I often do when I'm feeling restless and picky: I started walking. Within minutes, I had the Wunderlich Cemetary on my left and loads of noisy traffic on my right. The latter rather dampened the effect of the former, but there were a few moments when I had a clear view of light from the crescent moon glistening on the gravestones. I reached Clark, and there was no sign of a bus, so I hoofed it south.
I reached Wrigley without seeing a single place I'd consider stopping in. Oh, Mashed Potato Club, why did you forsake us? Here, the bus caught up to me and I hopped aboard. I passed several good Japanese places, but it was senseless to stop at one of them if I were going out for sushi later; besides, the best ones were jammed. An Ethiopian place, but Monshu and I already had plans to eat at the city's best the next night. The Moroccan joint where I'd had a memorable meal with a friend who had left Chicago to re-entre the monastery. Another Ethiopian. A once fabu Chinese/Korean restaurant that had made a few missteps on earlier trips and was now slated to become "Bamboo Garden". (All I could think of was Tiki.) And so it went.
Before long, I was blocks from my apartment. There was the recently-opened "Bakery and Euro-Deli" with the outrageous hours. (What kind of bakery doesn't open until 9 then stays open past 8?) I checked it out. The beautiful blond (Slavic?) woman at the counter was utterly charming and indulgent. She patiently answered my barrage of questions about what they carried: No, they never had Mandelhörnchen or Süssbretzeln. Yes, they usually carried Sonnenblumenbrot, but they were already sold out. I settled for pumpkinseed bread and two poppyseed twists.
As I feared, buying the twists 12+ hours after they were made was like buying them a day old. Still, I was hungry enough to eat one on the way home. Once there, I fried up a turkey sausage from the freezer, slathered the other twist with mustard, and wolfed the sandwich down. All the travel had taken longer than I'd expected, and I decided--despite my phone messages--I'd better get to Rokucha now if I wanted to make it there before they closed.
The place was packed. There was a line by the door, but I couldn't tell if they were waiting for seating or take-out. An unfamiliar waitress (I'd looked up the Thai for "slug" for the benefit of the previous one) looked at me and asked, "One?" When I said yes, she waved at the very chair I'd taken last time. I now have a regular seat.
I was bumping elbows with a pleasant, affable mixed-race couple who had overordered. I watched the ten-piece "summer roll" (I'd considered it, but no way was I that hungry) arrive and remarked, "I hope y'all have a dog." The man said, "You're sittin' next to him!" They had an entertaining give-'n'-take, always teasing each other but without even a hint of nastiness, even when they started critiquing each other's snoring. How many couples can you say that of? When Chef Special Knife handed me my spicy tako roll, the man said, "You can tell his an expert; look at the way he bows," and I couldn't tell if he was being sincere or everso gently mocking.
Before long, though, he was offering me sake. We introduced ourselves. He filled my glass and then began to refill his when I grabbed the bottle out of his hand. "You should never pour for yourself!" I explained and poured for him. We made small talk for a while--I teased the chef about his Alaska vacation--and then the woman made some remarks about the President that initiated a bout of Big Talk: Prisons, the right to vote, rehabilitation, legalisation. This was their first time eating here and they were mightily impressed. Before they left, I insisted they see the Chef's personalised blade and they were fortunate enough to witness the creation of another slu--er, dragon maki. She took her bottle of red wine, but he graciously left the sake behind.
Now I had more chance to chat with the staff. An exchange about alcohol ended with my chef pouring me a shot of shochu and explaining that he usually drank it heated with a plum in it, but there were no plums. Things were winding down, the place was emptying out, and the owner/master chef took out a jug of Woodridge from the back. My chef didn't have any, but the other one took it in a bowl and began drinking it as one would miso soup!
On their way out, the young couple at the other end of the bar stopped by to talk with me. They introduced themselves. They were also first-time customers bowled over by the placed. For whatever reason, she thought I'd grown up in California. I laughed; I've never even lived there, though both my last two boyfriends were near-natives. (Technically, they were both born in states beginning with M, but they don't really remember them.) "That must be it!" she said, as ludicrous as that is. Maybe the more drunk I become, the more Californian I sound.
At this point, I was practically the last customer there. When I stood up, my chef said, "You're leaving?" "You want to clean up and go home, don't you?" I asked. The owner taught me how to say "Thank you" in Thai (kawp koon krup--kawp koon ka if you're female), I made my bows, and left.
And my total bill for half a bottle of sake, a shot of shochu, one maki and a sample of another, good conversation, and skilled entertainment? $4.66. Clearly, my good luck lives at this place
Friday I worked late. I had to clear off some shelves at the request of some workmen who are ripping apart and rebuilding the IT centre. I don't like to simply move stuff around when I could process it and get it the hell out of my sight, but of course almost everything on those shelves had ended up there because it was complicated, confused, or otherwise icky. So, at about seven, I was forced to give up and shift the bulk of the materials elsewhere anyway.
By this time, I was ravenous. I thought about catching dinner nearby, but none of the options appealed. A little voice said, It's Friday night, and you have nowhere to be. You could go out to eat anywhere. Of course, there were problems with most of my choices: Rokucha topped my list, but there was no way I could get a seat there in the next hour or two. The story would be the same at plenty of other places, too. And a lot of the restaurants I'd been meaning to try or revisit were too far west and I wasn't in a mood to ride a crosstown bus to food.
I finally decided to split my ticket: I could have a small meal someplace to tide me over and then hit Rokucha around nine. As to where I'd eat the first installment of dinner, I would just ride the train south and get off when inspiration struck. Thanks to arrival of a gaggle of loud ladies, this turned out to be the Sheridan stop (star of countless E.R. episodes). A nice little strip of eateries runs along the block where the station stands.
But I was too fickle to settle for any of them. Tacos struck me as too greasy, Tibetan food as too dull, and there were unsavory characters in the bright little cafe. So I did what I often do when I'm feeling restless and picky: I started walking. Within minutes, I had the Wunderlich Cemetary on my left and loads of noisy traffic on my right. The latter rather dampened the effect of the former, but there were a few moments when I had a clear view of light from the crescent moon glistening on the gravestones. I reached Clark, and there was no sign of a bus, so I hoofed it south.
I reached Wrigley without seeing a single place I'd consider stopping in. Oh, Mashed Potato Club, why did you forsake us? Here, the bus caught up to me and I hopped aboard. I passed several good Japanese places, but it was senseless to stop at one of them if I were going out for sushi later; besides, the best ones were jammed. An Ethiopian place, but Monshu and I already had plans to eat at the city's best the next night. The Moroccan joint where I'd had a memorable meal with a friend who had left Chicago to re-entre the monastery. Another Ethiopian. A once fabu Chinese/Korean restaurant that had made a few missteps on earlier trips and was now slated to become "Bamboo Garden". (All I could think of was Tiki.) And so it went.
Before long, I was blocks from my apartment. There was the recently-opened "Bakery and Euro-Deli" with the outrageous hours. (What kind of bakery doesn't open until 9 then stays open past 8?) I checked it out. The beautiful blond (Slavic?) woman at the counter was utterly charming and indulgent. She patiently answered my barrage of questions about what they carried: No, they never had Mandelhörnchen or Süssbretzeln. Yes, they usually carried Sonnenblumenbrot, but they were already sold out. I settled for pumpkinseed bread and two poppyseed twists.
As I feared, buying the twists 12+ hours after they were made was like buying them a day old. Still, I was hungry enough to eat one on the way home. Once there, I fried up a turkey sausage from the freezer, slathered the other twist with mustard, and wolfed the sandwich down. All the travel had taken longer than I'd expected, and I decided--despite my phone messages--I'd better get to Rokucha now if I wanted to make it there before they closed.
The place was packed. There was a line by the door, but I couldn't tell if they were waiting for seating or take-out. An unfamiliar waitress (I'd looked up the Thai for "slug" for the benefit of the previous one) looked at me and asked, "One?" When I said yes, she waved at the very chair I'd taken last time. I now have a regular seat.
I was bumping elbows with a pleasant, affable mixed-race couple who had overordered. I watched the ten-piece "summer roll" (I'd considered it, but no way was I that hungry) arrive and remarked, "I hope y'all have a dog." The man said, "You're sittin' next to him!" They had an entertaining give-'n'-take, always teasing each other but without even a hint of nastiness, even when they started critiquing each other's snoring. How many couples can you say that of? When Chef Special Knife handed me my spicy tako roll, the man said, "You can tell his an expert; look at the way he bows," and I couldn't tell if he was being sincere or everso gently mocking.
Before long, though, he was offering me sake. We introduced ourselves. He filled my glass and then began to refill his when I grabbed the bottle out of his hand. "You should never pour for yourself!" I explained and poured for him. We made small talk for a while--I teased the chef about his Alaska vacation--and then the woman made some remarks about the President that initiated a bout of Big Talk: Prisons, the right to vote, rehabilitation, legalisation. This was their first time eating here and they were mightily impressed. Before they left, I insisted they see the Chef's personalised blade and they were fortunate enough to witness the creation of another slu--er, dragon maki. She took her bottle of red wine, but he graciously left the sake behind.
Now I had more chance to chat with the staff. An exchange about alcohol ended with my chef pouring me a shot of shochu and explaining that he usually drank it heated with a plum in it, but there were no plums. Things were winding down, the place was emptying out, and the owner/master chef took out a jug of Woodridge from the back. My chef didn't have any, but the other one took it in a bowl and began drinking it as one would miso soup!
On their way out, the young couple at the other end of the bar stopped by to talk with me. They introduced themselves. They were also first-time customers bowled over by the placed. For whatever reason, she thought I'd grown up in California. I laughed; I've never even lived there, though both my last two boyfriends were near-natives. (Technically, they were both born in states beginning with M, but they don't really remember them.) "That must be it!" she said, as ludicrous as that is. Maybe the more drunk I become, the more Californian I sound.
At this point, I was practically the last customer there. When I stood up, my chef said, "You're leaving?" "You want to clean up and go home, don't you?" I asked. The owner taught me how to say "Thank you" in Thai (kawp koon krup--kawp koon ka if you're female), I made my bows, and left.
And my total bill for half a bottle of sake, a shot of shochu, one maki and a sample of another, good conversation, and skilled entertainment? $4.66. Clearly, my good luck lives at this place
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no subject
Mmmm, Ethiopian. Either I've been pretty lucky in picking restaurants or I'm just not very fussy about Ethiopian food, since I've liked all of the places I've tried so far. Which one would you say is the city's best?
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Saturday night, they had several new offerings, so we tried two: the yegisa alitcha and the doro watt tibs. The first was beef in a mild but flavourful sauce--lots of warm spices like cumin and cloves. The second is chicken in a red, peppery sauce and it was fantastic. Unfortunately, no Ethiopian St. George beer, so I tried the Zimbabwean; I should've gotten tej instead.
[*] The Ethiopian Orthodox Church has some rather stringent food prohibitions, many of them concerning fish
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