Fat City, I

I come not to berate Chicago, but to praise it. Maybe at this point in my 30s the years are flying by and the food is just getting way better everywhere without you noticing it outside your bubble. I had many excellent evening eats in the broad-shouldered town.

Kicking it off right Saturday night on Michigan Ave., we were pointed to The Gage and escorted without a reservation or any such thing past the bar and booths into a dining room. A little secluded, but that changed in short order. People were coming out to eat, and the room warmed up. Table neighbors ask about appetizers. I couldn't resist and started with the Scotch egg, which is hard-boiled egg stuffed into ground sausage, then breaded and deep-fried.

What really kicked it up a notch were the mustards, a touch of hot Dijon on the top and six inches away on the rectangular plate, a generous helping of deli mustard. Also, what's the point of getting on a plane if you're not dipping into something regional, unhealthy and delicious? Don't forget to pair with beer. (Pic at right purloined off someone's Flickr.)

Skipping ahead a bit -- the menu is organized as firsts, seconds, thirds, etc. -- I then savored the salad of braised rabbit, which is something Ward Little could do at South Park Cafe or any of the other bistros hitting all the right notes. This was perfect, with some morsels tender and some others a little crackled, tossed with frisee and another green I can't remember because I was forking at it so fast.

K went for The Gage burger, which at $16 is more than the regular one, but the difference isn't six bucks but sirloin instead of ground chuck. The bowl of fries was enough for three, maybe four people, and were perfect. We even got a little Indian-spiced gravy to dip in.

My main course was a special, grilled striped bass, and this was reminiscent of Evvia, only sauced a little spicier, paired with a big pour of a Vin de Pays d'Oc pinot. Big success, like Chicago in general.

The place is a bit hidden across from Millennium Park, and works even if you just want to watch the game and nosh at the bar. A couple of nights I thought I'd pop back in for a Negroni, but as usual I got distracted elsewhere. More to come.

An Americano Classic

Negronis at Perbacco, poured with Right gin, Carpano Antica and the company of Jomo. Pic is purloined from something called L.A. Splash.

UPDATE: For the Perbacco-perfect Negroni, taper off the Campari a bit instead of equal parts of the three ingredients.

City Sitting Room. Village Parlor. Group Home

Town Hall is a step removed or cut from the same cloth as Salt House, from the same partnership, which means it's like Salt House but different. (My mom had the buttermilk fried chicken. Can you get much more regional American? You can. I tried a couple barbecue places in Lockhart, Texas on the same day -- in fact for the same meal. Variety's a beautiful thing.)

Rambling aside (and when someone else is paying with this particular partnership, one rambles), the highlight aside from the Caliza was my entree, which was better than anything else anyone had: the roast quail. It's plated with clams on their shell, tiny balls of chorizo, a mash of purple potatoes, peas, Italian parsley and a drizzle of Meyer lemon. This is fine fine dining. So many ingredients, colors and textures, and it succeeds. What region of America is this? Maybe a bunch of them -- all of them in the same meal. Variety's too much of a wonderful thing.

Scenes from the Class Struggle

Had a whole post concept going earlier, but got stymied. In the interim there's this:

http://tinyurl.com/5wb5gt

The real content is in the comments. My favorite:

> "If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. If you can’t afford it, you should have asked. Didn’t mother teach you *anything*?"