Sep. 2nd, 2010 11:05 pm
The loveliest exorcism
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muckefuckLast night was my first return visit to Lokal since that rainy day in February before a pal's gallery opening. And like that time, there were one or two missteps. The first--getting the brunch menu--was more amusing than annoying, and could readily be ascribed to the fact that we were the first couple to take a table that evening. I was less understanding of the lukewarm temperature of everything but the soup. Kitchen mistake or poor service? All I know is that Justin was no Thomas. But, my god, that soup! One spoonful and you wonder why you never thought of pairing ginger and butternut squash.
I was sad not to see the cabbage rolls on the menu and the pierogi weren't as amazing as my memory made them out to be, but on the other hand who knew we could enjoy chard so much? (I'm sure the proximity of luscious pork belly had nothing to do with that.) The signature cocktail bis every bit as revolting as I remembered, but I perked up at the mention of Żubrówka on the menu. Since I couldn't really imagine a mixture of that with mint and orange juice being something I wanted to ingest, I asked for a szarlotka. And even though Justin hadn't a clue what I was talking about, he managed to procure one for me anyway--without a doubt the strongest I've ever had. (I never go over 1/1, and on a weeknight it's more like three or four parts juice. But I swear this was two-thirds vodka.)
But what does all that matter when the night is so very lovely and the company even more so? My best girl and I sat right by the window where I could watch a sky that had been grey only hours before clear up and take on the golden hues of burnished metal. The fact that she had her heart set on a dessert that was listed on the website but unavailable in house turned out to be a positive, as it set us off in search of the ice cream parlour I'd spotted from the North Avenue bus. It's called Just Indulge and it's further evidence of the encroaching presence of frozen custard. (Life was safer when I had to go back down to St Louis to get mine.) Eager service verging on overwhelming, but tempered with warmth and coziness.
But of course, every Date Night comes at a cost. And the price of this one became readily apparent when I discovered the Old Man sacked out on the sofa, an empty container of Häagen-Dazs on the table and Fox News on the telly. A cursory inspection of the kitchen revealed a nearly empty bag of kettle chips and I decided not to investigate further. Sometimes what happens at home should stay there.
I was sad not to see the cabbage rolls on the menu and the pierogi weren't as amazing as my memory made them out to be, but on the other hand who knew we could enjoy chard so much? (I'm sure the proximity of luscious pork belly had nothing to do with that.) The signature cocktail bis every bit as revolting as I remembered, but I perked up at the mention of Żubrówka on the menu. Since I couldn't really imagine a mixture of that with mint and orange juice being something I wanted to ingest, I asked for a szarlotka. And even though Justin hadn't a clue what I was talking about, he managed to procure one for me anyway--without a doubt the strongest I've ever had. (I never go over 1/1, and on a weeknight it's more like three or four parts juice. But I swear this was two-thirds vodka.)
But what does all that matter when the night is so very lovely and the company even more so? My best girl and I sat right by the window where I could watch a sky that had been grey only hours before clear up and take on the golden hues of burnished metal. The fact that she had her heart set on a dessert that was listed on the website but unavailable in house turned out to be a positive, as it set us off in search of the ice cream parlour I'd spotted from the North Avenue bus. It's called Just Indulge and it's further evidence of the encroaching presence of frozen custard. (Life was safer when I had to go back down to St Louis to get mine.) Eager service verging on overwhelming, but tempered with warmth and coziness.
But of course, every Date Night comes at a cost. And the price of this one became readily apparent when I discovered the Old Man sacked out on the sofa, an empty container of Häagen-Dazs on the table and Fox News on the telly. A cursory inspection of the kitchen revealed a nearly empty bag of kettle chips and I decided not to investigate further. Sometimes what happens at home should stay there.