Night on the town

Poor JB had a pet emergency last night and pulled out on us at the last minute, but monshu and I were already committed to going out. All the same, I had second thoughts when I saw how tired he looked sitting on the porch yesterday evening. The job is so heinous these days that even a full day off isn't enough time to recover from it any more. But he was still game, so I beautified myself and we struck out for Morse. Last time we were up there--a month ago now--I pointed out some of the new eateries to him and suggested we give them a try sometime. To refresh his memory, I led us up Greenview and then east past Grill Inn, Chuckies, and finally Act One. That was the one he most liked the look of, so that's where we went in and got a booth.

Overall, it was a better eating experience than my previous visit with Dale, but there were still some missteps. The most egregious of these was the "jerk chicken spring rolls", which was a misnomer in about every possible way. First of all, they were deep-fried; I call those "egg rolls", not "spring rolls". Then there was the seasoning on the chicken, which bore no resemblance to any jerk sauce I've ever tasted. The chicken had no texture (whether from being ground, mashed, or just overcooked) and the heat seem to be supplied by chopped jalapenos. I didn't detect any of the "carmelised plaintains" in the description.

After that, it was all up. monshu really liked his fish 'n' chips (made with grouper) and my short rib sandwich was good, if a little skimpy on the pickled onions. Although the cocktails looked interesting (if sweet), I started off with a Goose Island Green Line. At first I found it refreshing--light just a little tart--but I kind of got tired of drinking it before I reached the bottom. A better gulping beer than a sipping one, I'm afraid.

The Rogers Park Bear Auxiliary was well-represented, both indoors and out. I tried to hail profundojoe through the window, and when that failed I texted him--at a number he apparently hasn't used for years, because I got some guy named Charles in Detroit. It took a bit of back and forth to ascertain this, however, but he was so good-humoured about it, I almost thought he might be chatting me up.

Afterwards, the Old Man was too tired for a nightcap at the Glenwood and it was too dead and empty for me to want to go myself. Instead, I went into the Common Cup for a cold drink--Intelligentsia ice chai, as it happens. (Still way too cinnamony, but way more drinkable than Peet's.) I grabbed a seat and took in the scene--the latinas gorditas sipping hot chocolate and discovering snickerdoodles, the young woman helping a stooped old granny across the street, the long-haired barrista having cryptic conversations with a neighbourhood woman--all that and more.

I strolled back home and caught up on my social networks (linguaphiles is blowing up from being spotlighted), but was feeling cheated of my night out. So I went over to Touché for a nightcap. I was having a nice chat with one of the bartenders, but he started to get busy and a drunk friendly out-of-towner suddently pounced. "Sit over here! You shouldn't be sitting alone."

He was visiting from Toronto, so I began to tell him a bit about our visit. The moment he heard I'd flown Porter, he was beside himself: he's flight attendant for them. He was chatty and friendly, if awfully drunk and looking for some dirty business. When I left, he was mobbed by four or five guys in the back room, having been the crystal in the supersaturated solution that got the party started.