The Claw

[rosetheclaw]

Fava beans, chicken wings and dandelions

Part of the allure of moving to Chicago was the chance to lap up all the cosmopolitan experiences I couldn’t get in Beverly Hills, Mich: sitting in lawn chairs in my apartment’s living room, running along the lake next to skyscrapers, getting humped on a crowded city bus.

But when I was invited to two dinner parties at my neighbor Matan’s apartment, I had my first taste of real big city experiences—the chance to be around a diverse group with ever diverse-r food.

The first dinner party was Passover. I got to schmooze in a pot-infused room with Matan’s friends from the University of Chicago, his California hipster roommates, and three large southern Indiana farm boys/chefs, who slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels next to half-drunk wine bottles.

“At my dinner parties, we eat ridiculous amounts of food and drink ridiculous amounts of wine!” Matan said with a grin.

 And ate and drank we did. We used our fingers to eat never-ending lines of juicy flank steaks, dandelion salad, homemade babaganoush, and grilled pineapples.

As I slumped back in my chair in a wine and food stupor, meat juice dripping from my lips, I thought in a wide-eyed Pollyanna way how lucky I was to there, to be around all these people and experience this amazing food—some of which I ‘d never heard of (you eat dandelions?)

The second dinner party was even better. My roommate and I went to Matan’s for a Monday night poker/BBQ night with two of his chef-friends, Drew and Adam, who cook with him at Big Jones.

This time, there was just as much food, but I had a more acute, sober realization. As an aspiring food writer, I had the rare opportunity to soak up these chef’s masterful food knowledge, to learn about the inner workings of restaurants, to see their techniques up close, and most of all, to be around this smoking circle of food fetish-ers. And I’d get to eat.

I grabbed my camera and a 6x4 sheet of paper, and eagerly followed the chefs around the kitchen, peering over their shoulders, interrupting their salt sprinkling by snapping pictures, scribbling down everything they said, and, like a 3rd grader, pointing at every dish and asking, “What’s that?” “What’s that?” I even pointed to a tube of mysterious green, mossy-looking balls, and asked my roommate, “What’s that?” “Weed.” she said. Oh. Do I sound like I’m from Beverly Hills yet?

All three chefs wanted to cook this feast on their one day off, and had been preparing for it since the a.m.

“I woke up this morning, and my hands were just going!” Drew said. “I couldn’t wait to cook.”

Being around these chefs was like hanging with the brothers from “Car Talk:” They were passionate, giggly, and knowledgeable. And like Car Talk callers, my roommate and I peppered the chefs with questions. But instead of getting irritated, they extrapolated on how to grill goat meat, what “fonde” means, and how to avoid getting burned or crying in the kitchen. I was in awe.

But the best part, other than learning how to grill goat meat, was the food.

I ate rich chicken livers with bacon, beech mushrooms and baby bok choy, sampled Matan’s homemade kimchi and homemade beer—a citrus blend that’s less bitter and much better than Blue Moon.

I dipped a soft pita into a creamy cucumber and fennel salad, and then tried a sweetly paired peach tomato pico de gallo, before diving into my favorite dish, grilled romaine and asparagus with cracked pepper and rice wine vinegar. So simple. But incredibly flavorful.

We ate a roasted goat’s leg stuffed with burnt garlic, a warm heirloom corn (which I learned is Mexican) and fava bean salad with dates and roasted garlic, and spicy smoked wings, rubbed with Louisiana hot sauce. And they still had to cook flank steak and brats. Whew!

As we finished, Adam rubbed his protruding tummy and grinned, “I love food. I love being full.”

Me too. Here I was, sitting with three chefs, eating fava beans and chicken wings. Could life get any better?

[rosetheclaw]

Top Chicago Restaurants to Visit This Fall

Last weekend my sister and I drove to Northern Michigan to visit my grandma, get away from the city and experience fall foliage in its glory. We spent the weekend oohing and ahhing at the fiery trees, curving roads, bonfire-scented air, and Van the Man tunes while driving. We joked about capturing every moment in a tweet, i.e. "Omg, sitting on a rock by the lake! #sofall." Lame, I know. But we were loving every bit of it.

Now that I'm back in Chicago, without the #sofall nature explosion and sitting-by-the-fireplace-while-your-grandma-downs-Vendage experience, I want to get my fall dosage at restaurants--particularly ones that call to mind that rustic, quilt-inducing, cosy-state-of-mind. Here are a few fall joints I'd like to visit--and don't worry, I won't shriek when I see a fireplace.

Old Oak Tap, 2109 W. Chicago Ave. The name alone says fall. Their extensive beer list, fireplace, and "Fat Boy Pie" all sound like the perfect, dark-wooded fall jaunt. Plus, the Tap's BLT was named No. 1 in Chicago magazine's listof the top 50 best sandwiches. 

Owen and Engine, 2700 N. Western Ave. I've never understood the names of British food--bangers and mash, mushy peas, chips, (which I learned is code for fries)--but I'll still lap the food up. Especially this menu, which offers Cornish pastys, house-made pickles, and fish and chips with a pea puree. A much better word. Plus, I'm a sucker for names (if you can't already tell), and Owen and Engine sounds like the perfect cold-weather spot. 

First Slice, 4401 N. Ravenswood. Good food for a good cause. First Slice makes three-course meals for needy families, and they also sell spinach and butternut squash lasanga and chocolate-peanut butter pie at their storefront. 

Longman and Eagle, 2657 N. Kedzie. I've been to Longman last summer for a pig roast/soul dance party, which was amazing, especially after countless cans of Steigl, but I'd like to visit this British dig in the fall, preferably served by a flannel waiter. Hello pumpkin risotto, wild boar sloppy joe and, er, more Stiegl. By the way, for those who feel tuckered out after a big meal and big gulps, Longman has six rooms for "seasoned travelers" starting at $85. I'm sure they're just as rustic as they sound. Count me in.

What restaurants do you want to visit this fall? Have you been to any of the restaurants above? If so, what did you think? Leave a comment below and let me know!

[rosetheclaw]

Summer to-do list...

[rosetheclaw]

If you're afraid of butter, use cream.” ― Julia Child

[rosetheclaw]

The J. Parker

Last week, I was invited to a sky-high destination I’ve been waiting to see all summer.

Not the Willis Tower or Castaways, but the Lincoln Hotel’s new rooftop bar, the J. Parker, named after the man who skipped to the bar instead of guarding the theatre door against John Wilkes Booth.

I was invited to the restaurant’s training night, which meant mojitos, margaritas and small plates were on the Boka Restaurant Group, the creators of the Parker. Cha-ching! 

I clambered into a black-walled elevator escorted by a security guard, and stepped off the 12th floor to a breezy hallway with sweeping views of the lake. After grabbing a Parker Paloma, a pink mix of Olmeca Alto Plata Tequila, lime juice, grapefruit bitters and Izze grapefruit juice, at the bar inside, I made my way outside.

The best part about the J. Parker—aside from its cool name, snazzy cocktails and Perrenial Virant cuisine—is its premiere location.

The J. Parker’s selling point is that it’s the only rooftop bar with unobstructed views of Lake Michigan. You can debate that all you’d like, but its blue-water vista is stunning. You can see white sailboats bobbing on Lake Michigan, the Chicago skyline sparkling, and Lincoln Park Zoo and the north side stretching on in a 360-degree view. With clear panels surrounding the bar, I felt like a little kid at the zoo, my faced pressed up against the glass, giddy and gazing at the city view (Supposedly the men’s bathroom is enclosed by glass too, so you can squat with a view.)

The rooftop can entertain up to 150 guests, but it feels spacious and relaxed, with high-top tables, cushioned couches, a VIP fire-pit cove, and a grass-covered banquette seating area. A mural dressed up a lone brick panel, and the bar’s sleek metal look felt casually modern.

 And the crowd? All were friends of the staff this night, but a friend told me the restaurant was hoping for a dressy-casual, relaxed crowd. Not River North schwanky, but not Lincoln Park schwasted. Mission accomplished.

I tried to appear as cool and calm as the rest of the clientele, but I was bubbling with excitement. I dropped the heavy fork, clanked plates, shifted in my chair, and probably looked like a grinning Kenneth from 30 Rock. What an opportunity! Sipping summery drinks on the house, feet dangling in a high-top chair, a cool breeze, Edward Sharpe’s “Home” playing at the right pitch—it doesn’t get much better.

 The menu, created by Paul Virant, is meant to mixed and matched. You pick a main plate, like Rushing Waters rainbow trout, Ranch beef steak, or summer beans, and pair it with a side, like herb and lemon butter, River Valley mushrooms and pickled garlic, or roasted corn, tomato and olive relish. The menu presents a lot of options, but the kitchen reserves the right to veto any unfortunate combinations. Though none of these combinations were fork-dropping, they were well-prepared, fresh, and a nice sidekick to the stellar drink menu. We nibbled tiny chocolate chip cookies for dessert, which were a bit over-salted. But it was training night.   

Speaking of the food, we got to meet the chef and tour his kitchen. Do I sound like a kid from Glee!? Paul was incredibly welcoming, and walked us into a New York-apartment-sized kitchen. The chefs, fryers, and ovens looked like they could fit into a mini food truck with room to spare. I was impressed that with such little space they could concoct such grand meals.

Afterwards I skipped happily home, breathily repeating to my boyfriend, “Can you believe it?! How cool was that!”

I can’t wait to go back, and I don’t expect to wipe away my Kenneth grin.

[rosetheclaw]

Claw Goes Ga-ga at the Gym

This year, like everyone else, I made a New Year's resolution to lose weight.

My parents gave me money for Christmas to join a yoga studio or gym, so I just had to decide what to do. I love yoga, but it isn't the best way to lose weight. The only affordable gym nearby was a Gaga-blasting, sweaty emporium I had visited last summer. And I dreaded going back. 

On a sunny spring day six months before, I had walked into the gym to find out its rates. Mistake No. 1. I met a burly man named Osher with a Toucan Sam-like face who gave me the grand tour. For an hour, he whirled me through the tanning beds, rock climbing walls, saltwater pools, vibration machines, and damp 20-somethings. Then he sat me back down at the consultation desk and said he was going to weigh me. And measure my body fat.

First of all, I don't want to weigh myself on anything other than my parents' broken scale that's 10 pounds off. And second, I don't need a giant image of my body projected on a computer screen. No way. Osher pointed at the screen and then began scrawling numbers upside down so I could see them. He's clearly done this before.   

"So, we'll have you lose 12 pounds by June 13, and you'll be with a personal trainer, say two days a week. With 690 calories burned a session, that should put you on track.

"So, what days work for you?"

What? Where was the, let-me-think-about-it-and-come-back-part?

I stumbled, "Well, uh, wait, I'm not so sure I want to join yet."

"Well why not? What's holding you back?"

I felt like I was back in my high school geometry teacher's hot seat. I couldn't say I just moved here, had no job, no extra money, and no chance in hell of joining his gym, especially with his scummy, used-car salesman approach.

"Well, I was thinking about maybe joining a yoga studio," I blurted out. 

"A yoga studio?" Osher went on a speal about how yoga's no good for toning the body, blah, blah, blah.

I managed to get him off my back by agreeing to a free complimentary training session, and ran out. The sunny skies were too bright; the back of my throat felt constricted from too much pressure.

I canceled the training session a day later, only to endure two weeks of "Lisa!" "Tim!" and then Osher himself calling to ask why I canceled, and when I would sign up. I had had enough. I wanted to hurl their ellipticals and annoying phone calls into Lake Michigan. Finally, when some gym enthusiast called asking if Rosemary was there, I yelled, "No she's not, and she can't talk now!" Way to show them. 

But here I was, six months later, employed and looking for a way to, well, yes, maybe lose those 12 pounds. I walked into the gym feeling confidently aware of their techniques and prepared to skip the bullshit and saltwater pools and just sign up.

I got seated right in front of Osher. 

"What took you so long!" He was at it again. He prodded and poked to get me to sign up for tanning, facials, personal training, using tactics like, "I don't want to generalize, but most women..." and "Well if you aren't going to do personal training, at least sign up for this fitness plan."

I tried to stay firm, but ended up giving in to a free facial. I walked out feeling much the same way I had last April, but this time, I thought the selling and Tim! calls were over.  

Think again. At my spa appointment, I lay wrapped in a brown fleece and tried to relax as the facialist poked, prodded and rubbed. Halfway through she said, "So this is the point in the facial where if you buy the complete one-hour facial, you'll get blackhead-removal, T-zone care, a face mask...If not, then we're half-way through." Right as I'm feeling serene as an sunbather, basking on a heated bed with mock-Beethoven playing on the stereo, she has to bring in the pricetag. I realized they'll try to sell you anything, half-naked or not. 

But alas, I'm complaining while I use their nice facilities, take free fitness classes, engage in staring contests with bodybuilders, smell the saltwater pool, and slowly lose weight. They may try to squeeze as many bucks out of me as they can, but I guess now, that's OK. After all, I did get a free facial.

[rosetheclaw]

The Beginning of the Claw

I have a Claw. Just like a crab's, or like Gollum when he spies the Ring.

And when Claw spies food, it acts about the same as Gollum. My left arm bends and creeps closer to the plate; my hand tightens, fingers contort and shake. The Claw sidles next to salmon, murmuring, "Pre-cious...Pre-cious."

Just kidding. Kind of. My Claw, an involuntary appendage, is always prepared to ward off predators, protect my food, and lunge at scones and chicken legs. 

I wasn't even aware I had this Claw until a few years ago at the Traverse City Pie Company--a sunny haven of cherry crumble pies and chicken pot pies in northern Michigan. 

As I was eating a blueberry muffin, my dad looked down at the table and said, "Rosemary, what is that?"

Encircling my plate was this Claw, its fingers clutching an imaginary stress ball. I couldn't tell if It would smack anyone who laid a finger within inches of my muffin, or was contemplating stealing my own crumbs. 

Nevertheless, I was surprised my arm could transform into such a primal state over food, and I'm still surprised, years later, when I look down and see my Claw half-lunging toward spaghetti, or clenching a friend's shoulder in a Facebook picture. 

Most people would go to great lengths to get rid of their Claw. Not me. I like my Claw. It shows that, in the words of Nene from Real Housewives of Atlanta, "I could be a size 6, but I'm fucking hungry." 

 This blog will be dedicated to the food and restaurants that the Claw finds particularly satisfying and Gollum-inducing.