Danke Schoen Chicago!

After my last post, I received quite a bit of flak from Chicagoland natives (Isn’t that such a stupid name for the region? It makes the city and surrounding suburbs sound like a 3rd rate amusement park, just slightly more entertaining than Rye Playland but not nearly as fun as the life-threatening features of the now defunct Action Park) for my cantankerous appraisal of the city’s dining options. As a result, I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to not focus so much on the negatives and to try to embrace my adopted city. With this newfound optimism, I’ve found that there is an aspect to this city that far outweighs its lack of fine Italian cuisine: despite the fact that it is indeed a sprawling metropolis, Chicago is actually no more than an enormous small town. I say this because each distinct neighborhood has the feel of a quaint town, filled with the quirky, provincial characters that you’d expect to find in such a place (When I say “quaint town”, I’m picturing Stars Hollow, the fictional New England setting for Gilmore Girls with its colorful cast of offbeat characters like Patty, the mischievous dance instructor, and Gypsy, the ill-tempered and ambiguously ethnic auto mechanic. In case you’re keeping score at home that was indeed the second Gilmore Girls reference in as many months).
And in this city of millions, no one is folksier than the lead singer/accordion player of the brass band that plays at the German restaurant around the corner from my place. Last Saturday we had the opportunity to see this guy in action, and it was certainly a sight to behold. To begin with, he looks like a cross between Rod Stewart and Larry Bird. As absurd as it is to see a man with spiky blond hair and a creepy Larry Legend mustache circa 1986 don lederhosen , it’s even weirder to see said man lead a conga line through a restaurant in the middle of a city.
However this conga line was only the tip of the ice berg. After a jubilant lap around the place, Larry arranged the dancers in two lines across from each other on the dance floor. I thought we were about to be treated to some sort of traditional German folk dance; after all Nyack grads can confirm that the Virginia Reel starts with a similar configuration. I expected Larry to instruct the men to promenade their partners, but instead he produced a wooden pole about as long and wide as a rolling pin. We were all a bit bewildered, but this initial confusion quickly turned to astonishment when Larry proceeded to stick the pole between his thighs and hop gingerly across the dance floor. With a furrowed brow, Larry focused intently on his target: the crotch of the unsuspecting young women standing across from him. Clearly this woman was not familiar with this particular perverse German ritual as she stood dumbfounded, the pole now hanging flaccidly between her legs. She thought she’d signed on for an innocuous conga line and suddenly found herself in the starring role of some sick German’s fantasy.
It took Larry a moment to coerce her to hop across the floor and return the favor to the next man in line. This process continued for five minutes as each dancer got the opportunity to be violated in the middle of a restaurant by a complete stranger. I thought I couldn’t be any more scandalized, but somewhere down the line some joker decided to turn around and accept the delivery in the rear. This posed a problem in that to pass it on to the dancer opposite him this man had to provocatively shimmy the pole, with a sly twinkle in his eye, from back to front, giving the illusion that…well you get the idea.
So although I can’t indulge in the food I’d grown accustomed to having in New York, I am thankful that on any given night I could be treated to a rousing rendition of the wooden dick game. I take pleasure in knowing that somewhere Larry is concocting some other twisted ritual, like some kind of modern day Dr. Mengele. And for this perverted zeal, I raise my boot to toast him.

Video Pick of the Week

Video Pick of the Week

Everyone's Favorite 7-Foot Twins

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…

Whiskey, Liver Pills, and Drunken Bike Riding - A Scientific Inquiry

(This is the first in a series of installments chronicling my new life in Chicago)

Since I've arrived in Chicago, I've enjoyed the leisurely lifestyle of a kept man. Lori is swiftly climbing the corporate ladder (if a family owned homeopathic apothecary can be called corporate) at work. This affords me the luxury of concentrating on my studies, catching up on my day time television, and meticulously keeping tabs on people I don't care the slightest bit about via Facebook.
However, my life is not all Gilmore Girl re-runs and snarky comments about peoples' Facebook pictures. Occasionally I'm called on to serve as a guinea pig for a new product that just arrived at Lori's store. Usually this entails sampling a new organic shampoo or taking a pill that purports to cleanse a colon. Most of the time I simply give a lukewarm endorsement of the product and turn back to the television. However, last weekend I was introduced to a product I thought I could really get behind. On Saturday, before a night of revelry, Lori asked me to take Livercare, a product that allegedly eliminates hangovers. After giving it some careful consideration, I decided that it was my duty, in the name of science, to get as drunk as humanly possible to put the bold claims of the manufacturer to the test.
I knew for this experiment to work, I needed a control (I'm sure somewhere Mr. Herbert, my 10th grade chemistry teacher, is proud of my sound scientific method. I'm picturing him in his "mole" costume, giving me a nod of approval as he strokes his whiskers). Fortunately I had a control at my disposal. I made Lori take the Livercare as well and instructed her to not drink too much. After all, to gauge the effectiveness of the pills we needed both an intoxicated and sober sample.
So having downed the pills with the last drops of my fifth Jameson, we headed out to a bar to see the band of a friend of a friend. Aside from being too loud (How old am I?), I was annoyed by the lack of any televisions broadcasting Game 2 of the ALCS. However, I needed to put this annoyance aside if I was to determine the potency of these pills. I only felt slightly buzzed from my pre-game cocktails, so I knew I had to step up my drinking. Rather than slouch to the front of the stage with the hipster clientele, I decided to hang back by the bar to down as many PBR tall boys as I could. The Jameson, PBR, and the dulcet sounds of the band were coalescing nicely to create a beautiful drunken state. Surely we would wake in the morning to draw some serious scientific conclusions.
While I successfully conducted my end of the experiment, Lori unfortunately makes for a lousy control. She matched me beer for beer, and every time I tried to furtively slip away to the bar, she would catch my eye and shake her empty can in my direction. Eventually she would prove her inebriation by crashing her bike while stopped at a red light. I can only imagine what the motorists in their cars thought as I was too consumed with thoughts of our failed experiment to extend a hand to help her off the ground.
So I awoke the next morning with a wicked headache. The miracle pill that I longed for for so long proved to be a failure. On the bright side, I still have luxurious chemical free hair and a clean colon.

Uber Poet