Pasta and Prejudice

With Thanksgiving right around the corner (I realize today is Halloween, but I’ve been thoroughly crushed by schoolwork and therefore looking forward to the end of the quarter which happens to coincide with Turkey Day) I’ve been eagerly anticipating my long weekend in New York. While steeped in piles of books at the library, I let my mind wander towards those indulgences I miss most about NY. Chicago, as most of you know, is a fairly cosmopolitan place, and as such, any vice I had in NY can certainly be satiated here. However, there are two glaring exceptions to this rule: Italian food and Irish nachos.

Before moving here, I harbored the foolish notion that any major city in the United States would have a pretty good handle on Italian cuisine. With decent Italian restaurants seemingly on every corner in NY, I figured they were par for the course in any urban center. Therefore it came as a great surprise to me when I realized that my neighborhood does not have a single Italian place. It came as an even greater surprise when, after weeks of searching other neighborhoods on my bike, it was revealed that the closest Italian place is named “Chicken Parmigiana Italian Food Restaurant.” Now I’m not one to judge a book by its cover, but there’s just something about a restaurant named after such a rudimentary dish that doesn’t inspire too much confidence. Shockingly the place was empty when I poked my head in.

In retrospect, there were several indicators along the way that might have clued me in on the fact that I was in a pasta and gravy-challenged city. For one thing, I had to go to school on Columbus Day. Say what you will about the raping and pillaging of Native Americans at the hands of the crew of the Santa Maria, there is just something fundamentally wrong about attending classes on that day.

Another clue came during my first trip to the supermarket. I searched high and low for some ravioli. I nearly tore the store apart before asking for assistance from some guy with a pricing gun. He directed me to aisle 5 and when I arrived I immediately found myself jockeying for position with some aggressive Greek lady who was reaching for the tzatziki sauce. After a pointy elbow to the head and a stink eye from the elderly Grecian, I gathered my bearings and noticed that I had been directed to the “Ethnic Food” aisle. I was stunned to find that my favorite fare had been relegated to second class status. Meanwhile, the neighborhood Poles took their time perusing for pierogis and cabbage, happily pushing their carts down vast aisles that did not require special names. For the first time in my life I experienced the bitter sting of discrimination.

Still, despite these setbacks, I would not be deterred in my pursuit of a single restaurant that could serve me some Italian cuisine. After consulting some locals, I was assured that I would find what I was looking for at a place called “Club Lucky.” Once again the proprietors seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the name, but I was determined to give them a try despite my skepticism. When I arrived, I saw exactly what you’d expect from such a place: velvet ropes, flashing lights, and scantily clad bartenders. I decided at that moment that I could make a killing as an Italian restaurant consultant. With my shockingly bold innovations, I could turn any place into a hopping, authentic Italian place.

To get my consulting firm off the ground, I’ve drawn up a list of do’s and don’ts for prospective clients:

Do: Name an entrée after your mother’s famous meatballs.
Don’t: Blast house music.
Do: Offer guests a comprehensive wine list.
Don’t: Allow security to pat down your clientele prior to entry.
Do: Offer complimentary garlic knots.
Don’t: Deny entry to fat guys just because they aren’t dressed to impress (I happen to think my outfit was just fine).
Do: Sprinkle fresh ground pepper on entrees.
Don’t: Circulate waitresses selling test tube shots (actually that one isn’t a bad idea, provided jager is included in the rack).

Now my failure to indulge in my other vice is equally baffling. I do not understand how restaurants continually mess up my Irish nachos. What is so complicated about putting cheese, scallions, and bacon over some fries? I’ve been able to “Irish up” just about anything else. Irish up my coffee? No problem! Irish up my ale? Of course! Irish up my juice box? Sure thing! Waiters, Bartenders, and elementary school cafeteria ladies at work are all able to successfully Irish up just about anything I want. This city just can’t seem to handle the Irishing of fries.

As a result, in a few weeks time, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, you can find me at Tarantellas or OVI. If you’re in Rockland that night, I don’t want to hear any excuses about the bars being too packed (or about having babies at home, or about resting up for the Turkey Bowl…let the trash talking begin by the way). Come brave the crowds so we can meet up…