duck-shaped pain

2 September 2001
Smother Me In Cheese And Canadian Bacon And Then Kill Me

Chicago Food, Chicago Commentary -- Part Two

(Read intriguing Part One for the whole story)

7. Crumb cake of some sort (label on box warned that it was for "crumb lovers only," but gave no criteria for determining who qualified as one), coffee, Chez H. and S.

Traveling alone is great, but visiting people has its rewards, too. One of which is the sheer pleasure of just hanging out and doing nothing (unless you're the people in my family, who like to Go Out And Do Something as soon as possible in the morning). I slept in pretty late on Friday morning, which was very nice after a near-week of sleeplessness. I laid there on the floor for awhile, assessing my surroundings and listening to the noises outside. Birds, cars, and some screeching noise coming from the trees. [1]

Eventually everyone present showered and completed the waking-up process. It was later than expected (read: too late for breakfast) so we just hung out around the apartment for awhile. There was some perusal of the 'net (where I introduced H. to the joys of Disturbing Search Requests (most of which make my weird hits look like genteel walks in the park). We also sat around the living room and watched some of S.'s collection of interesting videos (that morning's selections: freaky Moments With Dora and several choice fragments of T.V. John. Frightening.

8. Indian food galore (tandoori chicken, naan, palak paneer, goat curry and dal, dal, dal), Indian Garden (or some name like that).

I wanted Indian food in Santa Fe. I did not get some. I wanted Indian food on my last few trips to Denver. I went unsatisfied. As the number one Ethnic Food I Cannot Get Here, Indian food is always high on my list of things to search out when I go out of town.

I really didn't have any particular requests when it came to food in Chicago. I trusted H. and S to show me what they liked to eat, knowing that I would probably like it, too. But, while we were sitting around being crumb lovers, I thought, "Hey, I want some Indian food." H. had not had any since she moved there, so the Internet had to be consulted. We found one a reasonable drive from the apartment, so we headed over there for lunch.

I was pretty impressed by the neighborhood in which it was located. Indian groceries, sari shops and travel agencies everywhere. As we were walking to the restaurant, we passed by a grand opening or something of a store, which had enormous inflatable food items displayed on its roof in honor of the occasion. There was a giant can of mango drink and a big thing of chutney. Chutney bigger than my car or some apartments I've lived in. Impressive compared to the monoliths of Budweiser parked in front of liquor stores you see around these parts.

The restaurant was pretty nice. There weren't a whole lot of customers, but it was sort of a bit past lunch time. There seemed to be a lot of employees, though, all standing around in crisp white shirts and bow ties. Enough so that every patron could have two or three waiters of their own if they wanted. But, they weren't really any help. We got sat and then, nothing happened. There was some staring and confusing moments, and then we just decided to get up and serve ourselves, since it was a buffet and all. Maybe it was some sort of challenge or test.

After we got our food, sat down and started to eat, thereby showing the staff that we were very serious in our intent to get lunch with or without them, the help started to flow. First, many unexpected water refills, and then, the ultimate prize (which is what makes me think there was some sort of test involved here): the naan and then the tandoori chicken arrived at our table.

Which was good, because I was starting to wonder, what the fuck? I have been to many an Indian buffet, and they all (no matter what they claim their specialty or regional focus to be) serve tandoori chicken and naan. So when they were missing from the buffet spread, I began to wonder. The other food was great, but I had been in a long Indian-food drought, and was not willing to accept any deviation from the norm at that time. So when they came out from the tandoor, hot and fresh and good, I was happy.

I did other things in Chicago besides eat. They have museums, too. A lot of them.

The selected museum for my first full day in Chicago was the Field Museum. Dinosaurs and butterflies and rocks and hordes of crowds.

We got there late in the afternoon, right at an hour which assured us we would be surrounded by the largest number of shrieking six-year-olds possible (who were strangely absent from displays such as Important Economic Minerals and Lacquerware of Japan).

The first thing you see when you go in the museum, besides lines and the gift store, is Sue. The dinosaur. The multimillion-dollar dinosaur. Surrounded by people, all gawking up at this big skeleton. After a lifetime of hanging around geologists and paleontologists, having sat through many a PBS special such as "Earth! Through the Ages!", and the like, I felt like I should have something interesting or knowledgeable to say about Sue, but all I could think was, Hey, that's a really big dinosaur.

Of all the things in the museum, it seems strange that the two things I was most impressed by were a) giant animatronic bugs and b) pigeon whistles. There are many important things at the museum, many things that one could look at and ponder for hours, but what I'll remember is big insects and bizarre bird devices.

The big bugs were part of the Underground Adventure, an exhibit designed to teach you something useful about Our Friend Soil. Bugs and roots and dirt and worms are all blown up to many times their size, and visitors are supposed to walk through it and read all the little cards that let you know that soil is a precious thing and that we could not live even ten seconds on this Earth if it wasn't for soil. Which would have been more effective if they hadn't been placed next to things like an enormous shrieking plastic robot crayfish. There's no question as to where one's attention goes when faced with that choice. So we clamored over roots and taunted the robot ants and generally pretended to be microscopic. I would like to have a big dark robot bug room in any house that I might have in the future.

Pigeon whistles were something I had no idea existed prior to that afternoon, and the simple fact that they do exist makes me a bit more satisfied with life. They were part of an exhibit of ancient Chinese objects that were out in the middle of this big hallway. The exhibit as a whole had a real circa-1950 feel, with these block letters and typed-up cards that evoked an era when museums were dusty and silent and To Be Taken Seriously � glad to see that something has escaped the whole "interactive" craze that attracts the especially annoying children. H. and S. were taking pictures of Chinese puppets with their digital camera, and I wandered off to look at some large printing blocks, when I saw these little round pieces of bamboo with slits carved into them. Pigeon whistles. The card explained that these were attached to the tail feathers of pigeons, so that the birds would make a pleasing noise as they flew through the air. I'm not sure how to explain my attraction to pigeon whistles, but the mental image of little birds flying through the air with a long, low hoooooooooooooooooooot sound coming out of their tail makes me giggle.

When I got back, people at work asked me if I had seen the dinosaur. At first, I assumed they were referring to Sue, but it turns out they were not. No, I did not see the dinosaur, because it was not on display. What they were talking about was the brontosaurus in the museum's collection, which is important not only because it was the first brontosaurus skeleton ever discovered, but also because it was found here, where I live. The site where it was excavated is about a mile from where I worked, and just the mention of it wets the pants of many a scientist in these parts. But it was not there � they only had a little placard explaining that yes, there is a brontosaurus, but you're not allowed to see it. Oh well. They did have another dinosaur that came from around here � some little dinosaur whose name escapes me at the moment � but mentioning that seemed to calm my co-workers down.

We left the museum as it was closing and as people were making last-ditch efforts to roam the gift shop. We got some coffee and then we went to the beach. It was windy and grey, like beaches should be. That weeds out the casual visitor, so all you are left with are the people who really want to be there. H., S., and I walked a ways out to this pier, and then we walked out to the end. Then it was not only grey, but rainy, too, and we walked back to the car. It was good to see water. I don't get to see it a lot.

9. Pizza, stuffed with cheese and black olives and Canadian bacon, topped with garlicky tomato sauce, from some random pizza place that happened to be nearby.

The museum and the beach (not to mention the enormous inflatable chutney) took a lot out of us, so we headed back to H. and S.' apartment. Legs were put up and rested, people napped. Then it was sort of later than I expected. Since it would have taken a lot of effort to go out to do something, H. suggested that we just order a pizza, since that would be easy and no one would have to move. She had been telling me that pizza was better there anyway, so I decided to see if it was true.

It was. The pizza arrived and it was huge and thick. It looked more like a big pizza cake than a pizza. But god, it was good. I've had stuffed pizzas before, ones available from the lame cook-your-own-pizza place here, but they were usually watery and soggy and generally icky. But this one was the exact opposite � it was substantial and awe-inspiring. Possibly the greatest pizza I have ever had. Much better than the best pizza to be found here, even at the good pizza place (although, it's not a really fair comparison, since they specialize in flaky thin-crust pizza with goat cheese and artichoke hearts, not pizza you could beat someone to death with). I was very pleased. H. informed me that there was probably much better pizza to be had in the city, since this came from some place that just happened to deliver to them, and not some place lauded as The Best. But at that moment, I couldn't conceive of anything better.

You're probably wondering what sort of exciting thing we did then, but I hate to disappoint you, since what we did pre-, during, and post-pizza was sit around and make fun of TV. Not the kind of thing you imagine doing on vacation, but something that was eminently acceptable to me. I haven't had people to sit around and make serious fun of TV with for a while, and with H. and S.'s expanded cable options, there were many new, unknown (to me) channels to gawk at. We watched really bad rap videos, interspersed with bad things for sale on QVC. It was a quality evening. Beer was also served.

I slept very well that night, dreaming of Canadian bacon.

Next installment: complaining sports fans! Ganesh! Mall people!


[1] Cicadas. Apparently ubiquitous everywhere else in the world except where I live.

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