I arrived hungry. The plane landed and I walked-skipped through Midway, jumped inside a taxi and checked the time. Thirty minutes until my dinner reservation. We took off toward the glowing bright lights of Chicago’s skyline. The taxi van’s seatbelts had been caught in the seats from a prior ride and as the open windows mercilessly whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes, I slid back and forth across worn cracked leather, half-blind, gripping the edges to keep from flying forward into the back of the drivers’ seat and knocking myself unconscious.
Suddenly the wind stopped. “We’re here,” the driver said, and I let out a poof of breath, blowing my bangs out of my eyes. Armitage. Two minutes to spare.
As the writer Jim Harrison once said, We are delightfully trapped by our memories. I can't drink a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape Vieux Telegraphe without revisiting a hotel bistro in Luzerne, Switzerland, where I ate a large bowl of a peppery Basque baby goat stew. A sip and a bite. A bite and a sip. Goose bumps come with the divine conjunction of food and wine.
I had traveled to Chicago to make memories, of course. Friends whom I hadn’t seen since the pandemic invited me to spend a long weekend in the city. I looked forward to catching up, to hugging, to exploring the scene, to talking late into the night about our lives and all that had happened in the last few years. That was the goal. The deeper longing, however, was also to experience that divine conjunction.
Friday
I stepped out of the taxi van and ducked around the corner from the restaurant into a dark alley, where I finger combed my hair and straightened my clothes rumpled from the ride. I applied lip balm, took a deep breath, hoisted my weekend bag over my shoulder and walked around the corner and up the steps to the front door of Osteria Langhe. Inside, a table by the front window: my friend Nik sitting, waiting, glasses of water poured and ready.
If a restaurant has curtains on the windows, I trust it immediately. While most of the other reservations were set by my hosts for the long weekend, dinner at Osteria Langhe had been my call. I had three culinary goals in Chicago:
Find some good pasta.
Try THE hot dog.
Say yes to everything.
Osteria Langhe’s menu is northwest Piemonte, and the owner Aldo Zaninotto curates a stunning wine list. We started with a Negroni for apertivo (it was 8:30 already, but I never miss the opportunity) and then uncorked a 2011 Monchiero Barolo that quenched our thirst through the evening. Insalata arrived at the table: arugula and fresh tomatoes, corn and red onion, feta, simple vinaigrette. Crispy and acidic, a summer garden. Then the ragu. As Nik and I talked, I swirled thick housemade fettuccine noodles around with a spoon and brought forkfuls to my mouth: soft texture of noodle, meaty ragu that had been stewing for god knows how long, creamy parmigiano in the back of the palate. The kitchen did not wait long before bringing out the risotto of the day: a hearty bowl filled with risotto, mushrooms and fontina Val d’Aosta, topped with a mound of Marinello Tartufi’s shaved black truffle, a sunny-side egg nestled in the middle. Creamy, herby, earthy and rich. We began to slow down, savoring a spoonful at a time, chasing it with the wine.
For dessert we asked for tiramisu, which, when placed on the table alongside coffee and cream, I had to inquire with our server if it was indeed what I had ordered: instead of the American trattoria block of cocoa and soaked ladyfingers I was used to, it appeared to be a dessert glass of mousse. At the bottom of the glass: Speculoos cookies, then filled with mascarpone, laced with amaretto and cocoa, topped with whipped cream. Delicious. Thick. When we looked up from our meal, a small group of servers and cooks were lined up at the bar, enjoying their own drinks after their shift, one person beginning to stack chairs on tables at the back of the restaurant and working their way forward. It was almost 11pm, and we tipped and thanked them generously, before stepping out into the beautiful chill of the evening.
Saturday
Saturday started slowly. A bit heavy-headed from the wine, we went in search of coffee nearby (we were staying in Logan Square because I am very, very hip in case you didn’t know) and found it in the form of jugs of cold brew at Backlot Coffee. These would end up powering us through the next couple of days. I had a gouda, egg & turkey bacon croissant sandwich delivered from the Goddess and The Baker (bless the buttery flakiness! bless the samba aioli!) and—with gut instinct—threw in an additional order of a bagel & schmear. After massages and marijuana later that day, it became the perfect snack to hold me until Saturday night’s main event.
Around 7pm, Nik and I made our way to the West Loop to meet another friend, KL, for cocktail hour at Rose Mary. The Fulton Market district was closed to cars as the aftermath of some festival was being swept away, and festival goers walked the streets in search of what they might do next. (“We do so love our festivals,” Nik said.) The night was warm with a chill you could feel lowering slowly upon one’s shoulders, and the wind blew up through the avenue, but it was almost too warm to go inside the restaurant, so we remained at a table on the sidewalk. Rose Mary is described as offering “Adriatic drinking food,” apparently a mix of Italian and Croatian coastline fare based on chef/owner Joe Flamm’s heritage. Seasonal. Rustic. Inspired. You get the idea. I ordered a drink called Lose Your Rind. Despite the cringey title, it was a pleasantly bitter concoction of Berto Bitter amaro, prosecco, and a melon aperitif. Nik and KL work in film and TV. Both had just wrapped on a feature film, and regaled me with tales of their days on that and other sets: KL’s design for the chaotic office on “The Bear,” production in “Fargo,” how difficult it was to shut down streets for “Chicago Fire.” KL was hungry (before dinner? I am always in awe of people who have bigger appetites than me.) She ordered two plates: ragu arrived to the table for the second night in a row. This time we enjoyed a lamb ragu with peppers and caciocavallo. A little plate of agnolotti also appeared, with juicy and sweet corn kernels mixing with soft, melting peekytoe crab and a bite of parmigiano on top.
Our dinner reservation was just around the corner from Rose Mary, situated on the rooftop of some hotel I didn’t care to remember. As soon as I walked in, I knew Aba was a place to see and be seen. Greenery and soft lights made the place feel like an outdoor paradise. It was both heaven and hell: a maximalist’s delight fallen victim to Instagram influencers. My own appetite pattern became clear: in this midwest city, my mouth was elsewhere, on a full Mediterranean odyssey. I ordered a glass of 2020 Nero d’avola “La Bambina” rosé then went to the restroom to wash up, where I had to wait ten minutes to reach the sink while pairs of women posed for selfies. KL and Nik were ready to order a global assortment of small plates. We went in search of Israel, Lebanon, Turkey, Greece. The menu was expansive. We ordered crispy short rib hummus topped grilled onions in sherry and beef jus. There were endless plates of warm flatbread. We agreed the whipped feta changed our lives: a holy balance of crushed pistachio, olive oil, lemon zest. The muhammara a textural delight with its roasted pepper, walnut, some kind of chili I could not name, the sweet touch of pomegranate molasses. Then came crispy mizithra potatoes baked with rosemary and served with scallion crema. By the time the Brussels sprouts arrived, I managed one bite topped with almond & cashew dukkah and harissa honey, then gave into a happy fullness. I was satiated.
Sunday
Sunday morning would be a cleanse, Nik and I decided, so we ordered a variety of green cold-pressed juices from Joe and the Juice and woke ourselves up with leftover cold brew. Heeding Nik’s warning, we skipped lunch to prepare for Sunday’s dinner.
After walking all around the city, along the river, and pausing for a few moments near the South Pier so I could romantically gaze out at a lake, we strolled back for dinner at RPM Steak in River North. KL met us again, and the three of us were seated at a table in the middle of the room. The manager, however, recognized KL and Nik from dinner the week before, and promptly ushered us to a corner banquet table where we had a premium view of the whole Sunday night crowd. KL continued her love affair with gin gimlets, while I ordered a very cold martini to quench my thirst. We began, as one does, with a dozen raw oysters shipped in from New Brunswick, and topped them with a jalapeño & cucumber mignonette. A bottle of 2018 Adaptation Cabernet Sauvignon was then opened, and as we welcomed a robust swirl of Napa, our giant table began to fill up with dishes: the “Millionaire’s Potato” with fontina cheese and topped with shaved black truffle, gruyere popovers, crispy Brussels sprouts, a plate of nordic butter. And—like a queen’s coronation: the Westholme Strip. A 12-ounce Wagyu steak from Queensland, medium rare and sliced to tender perfection, it fed all three of us. The joy of the night ramped up when I read the dessert menu, and moments later I fulfilled a lifelong fantasy of watching a server roll out a tray to flamée Baked Alaska in front of me. My cheeks flushed from the warmth of gin and fire as he finished and topped the dessert with warm chocolate sauce and gently scooped it into servings for each of us. I could have crawled under the table and died of happiness, but we had friends waiting for us in a drag club on the other side of town, so we wished our server well on his daughter’s upcoming soccer game that week, and made our way into the wild night.
Monday
Fate decided no Chicago dog for me. I awoke Monday with what could only be airport crud, a bug that left me crumpled on the bathroom floor. After a shower, coffee, and packing, I was weak but revived enough to take a cab to The Smith, in search of toast and perhaps an egg. The Smith began in 2007 in East Village in NYC and now has a few locations. I am in love with its retro layout and design, and an underground bathroom that feels inexplicably but quintessentially Chicago. I ordered an omelette with chèvre, herbs, overnight roasted tomatoes, along with a lightly dressed greens salad. Nik had the spicy shrimp and grits, and our little two-seater crowded with drinks: ginger ale, Diet Coke, Bloody Mary, mimosa, and water. Lots of water. Tired from the weekend and noticing a light Labor Day brunch crowd, we lingered in the restaurant for a couple of hours, then—feeling less ambitious and still a bit wobbly—slowly made our way to Millennium Park. Under a cloudy sky the sidewalks and bike lanes and plazas and tennis courts were full of people, those who lived here and those who—like me—were in search of things only this city could hold. Nik and I said our goodbyes. There were hours to kill before my flight, so I spent them in the open air, feeling the breeze on my face and watching couples on the grass and families pushing strollers. I was no longer ravenous, but instead quiet and a little sad in the realization that I had not even begun to scratch the surface of this place. Not even close. There was a whole other side to Chicago I had yet to see, and I vowed to come back, appetite ready.
“Chicago is a town, a city that doesn’t ever have to measure itself against any other city. Other places have to measure themselves against it. It’s big, it’s outgoing, it’s tough, it’s opinionated, and everybody’s got a story.” — Anthony Bourdain, Parts Unknown, 2016
What I’m reading: Circe by Madeline Miller
What I’m spinning: When The Lights Are Low by George Shearing Quintet