A Lovely Pair

Two topics of recent posts--Vanity Fair and Mad Men--come together in this month's issue. It's not all that surprising to me. Of course Vanity Fair would have a sixteen page spread (with phenomenal pictures!) about, perhaps my favorite show on TV (which I am still reeling from missing last night--I HAVE to get cable!).

The article focuses mostly on the making of the show, and its writer, Matt Weiner, whose OCD tendencies contribute to Mad Men's flawlessness. The photos though, (luckily) center on the leading couple--Betty and Don--and if they don't make you want to watch the show, I don't know what will. 

French Food Update

 Julie & Julia didn't particularly make me want to make French food (more like eat it). But I guess there are a lot of movie-goers who think that Streep and Adams make it look easy enough; there's an article in the New York Times Business section (really?) about the sudden increase in sales of Child's cookbook. 

Home Smelly Home

I’d like to share a story from one of the less enjoyable aspects of my weekend: the apartment search. Alas, we must leave dear 520 W. Melrose a week from tomorrow, and have found ourselves scrambling to find a new place. Given the up-in-the-air nature of our current situation, we are back to looking for the elusive sublet, in the abyss that is Craigslist.

Today—one of the most absolutely beautiful days I have ever seen in my life—I found myself somehow, in one of the most horrifying and disgusting places I have ever seen in my life. The worst part is, I never would have predicted it from the Craigslist add that lured us there.

The fiction went something like this:

“Apartment for sublet in a classic building, blah, blah, plenty of space, blah, blah, lots of light, a roof deck (!!!), utilities included. So sad to leave.”

The current tenant seemed nice enough, albeit, a little grungy in an artsy, hippie sort of way (he was wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt with someone’s signature in the bottom corner). But, when it came to his living situation, he was completely deluded. He truly and earnestly believed that his apartment was a palace, when in reality it was a pigsty. A layer of food grime covered every surface in the kitchen and a stack of dirty dishes as well as a plate of half-eaten chocolate chip cookies sat in the sink. He claimed he was leaving to move in with his girlfriend, but I can’t imagine what that living situation would be like, since there was not a bed in sight in the apartment. She was there though, as were two other friends, all perched on the miscellaneous articles of furniture that filled the room along with a bass, a large African drum, and assorted cacti.

I could tell he thought that the roof-deck was the pièce de résistance to an all-around class-A abode; his face lit up like a little kid’s as he led the way out onto it. I’ll give it to him, if you kept your gaze straight out, on the horizon, it was a good view; you could see Lincoln Park and the Lake beyond it. Unfortunately, I let my eyes wander just the slightest bit and they fell upon the massive dump that was directly behind/below the building. Our good host didn’t seem to notice.

As our tour came to a close, he bid us good -bye and urged us to call once we decided so he could arrange the rest of the details. We nodded and assured him we’d let him know as soon as we came to a decision. It was as though he couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to live in the slum that he called home. I couldn’t bring myself to crush his dream. 

Julie & Julia: Angel Food Cake on Screen

Last night, I made the last minute decision to see Julie & Julia. Literally…Marie and I were in line at the box office, the teller had already droned, “Next!,” and we were still up-in-the-air over what to see. The options ran the gamut from the feel-good frivolity of the above-mentioned flick, to the complex sci-fi drama, The Time Traveler’s Wife, to the shoot-em-up crime thriller Public Enemies. All on my running list of things to see.

Needless to saw, we settled on two hours of easy laughs and appetite arousing food. Indeed, the movie itself offers little in the way of plot; essentially it’s scene after scene of two women preparing and eating food.

Julie, the inexplicably depressed government employee turned inspired blogger, provided the only dramatic tension of the film. Perhaps Julia’s adversity was offset by my knowledge of how her story ends—with the publication of her cookbook—or maybe it was her sunny attitude towards everyone and everything in her life. Either way, I found myself waiting for a low point that never came.

Instead of dramatic tension to keep the plot rolling along and the audience interested, Julie & Julia relies on the countless French dishes that the two chefs prepare, each more delicious than the last, to enrapture its viewers.

I left the theater:

1. Hungry

2. Dying to visit France

3. Wishing I knew French

4. Brainstorming ways I could live in France

5. Curious about Julia Child, whom I had never heard of before the buzz about this film began, but whose memoir I had purchased several weeks ago in the picked-over O’hare Airport bookstore. (I started it last night before bed)

6. Wishing I had internet at my apartment so that I could check out the real Julie’s actual blog site

7. Last but not least, feeling as I am absolutely sure the film intended, content with the world and in general good spirits. Bottom line: if you’re in need of a serious mood booster see this movie. 

Some others' thoughts: 

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/julie_and_julia/

http://movies.nytimes.com/2009/08/07/movies/07julie.html

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/reviews/movies/la-et-julie-julia7-2009aug07,0,1724703.story

1

2.

Bring on the Madness: Season 3 Premiere

After having watched the majority of Season Two on my iPod on the elliptical at the gym last semester, it was nice to enjoy Mad Men in a social atmosphere once again; it merits a little bit of festivity. Luckily, since I don’t have cable, I have some new friends in Chicago who are just as enthusiastic about the addictive combination of classy and scandalous that is Mad Men. And, the screening soiree I attended last night was surely fitting to get back in action with the hard-hitters and harder-partiers of Madison Ave.

Channeling the leading ladies of the show, Betty, the picture-perfect domestic goddess, and Joan, the powerhouse queen of the office, Marie and I donned our pedal pushes, pencil skirts and pearls and arrived with hor d’oeuvres in hand. Though we didn’t stay quite as true to the gender-roles of the era—our host whipped up a delicious dinner while we ladies barely lifted a finger—in the drinks department we would have made Don Draper proud: gin martinis and old-fashioneds all around.

The episode itself, though lacking in a couple areas, certainly lived up to the angsty drama and flawless production of the previous seasons. The characters are up to the same old tricks: Don’s still manages to be a convincingly doting husband despite his shameless cheating; Campbell’s perpetual whining still grates on me; and Salvatore is still teetering on the edge of coming out of the closet, or at least blowing his cover. Peggy’s sparse presence was noticeable, especially considering last year’s shocker, but I’m expecting some resolution to that in upcoming weeks. I hope they continue keeping us abreast of Don’s ingenious ad ideas (London Fog: Limit Your Exposure), and I’m hoping to see some more emphasis on contemporary happenings, as the characters enter the tumultuous 60s. 

Here's what some others thought (careful! some contain spoilers):

Newsweek

Tribune

NYT

Grant Park Sings a Different Tune

All summer long, Grant Park has offered free outdoor classical music concerts each weekend at Pritzker Pavilion. Don’t ask me why, but I made it down for the first time on Friday, just in time for the last weekend of the festival. By way of a grand finale, this weekend’s selection was Beethoven’s Ninth, which, even to someone as shamefully unfamiliar with classical music as I am, is recognizable. Well, recognizable in the loose sense of the word; I spent the entire time I was listening to the piece trying to place it, finally settling upon all those Sundays mornings spent at mass.

Amateur symphony-goer that I am, I arrived a fashionable forty minutes late, thinking nothing of it. With provisions—a sushi dinner and wine—in hand, Marie and I made our way through the enormous crowd, only to be puzzled when, halfway through our California rolls, everyone else broke in to applause and began to file out. Refusing to believe it was over (there are always those misleading fake endings in classical music, right?) we remained cross-legged on the ground, while the more cultured around us headed on to their next activity. Too bad because I thoroughly enjoyed the twenty minutes that I heard, and the setting was spectacular (though Pritzker Pavilion bears a strong resemblance to a piece of scrap metal, artfully sculpted of course).

 

Buena Vista, Buenisima Comida

Buena Vista, which means "good view" in Spanish, is a Mexican restaurant a couple of blocks south of me on Broadway. I have long been of the mind that you can't really go wrong with Mexican, but you can't go really right with it either. Not to say that I don't LOVE some good chips and salsa and fajitas; it's one of my favorite cuisines, but mostly because I think it's ingredients and flavors give chefs and restaurants a lot to work with. 

A week or so ago, I saw the light and realized that there is a whole other level of Mexican deliciousness that I had not yet experienced. It came from this tiny, hole in the wall, two-man operation. 

I walked in to Buena Vista at around 5 pm on my walk back from some errands to try to reserve a table outside for later in the evening. It's safe to say that they have never had a first "reservation" they have ever had, and they didn't seem sure how to respond to me. Giving me a look and a shrug that said, "Look around, does it look like you need a reservation?," the owner/chef/waiter (it was unclear) told me to come back whenever. 

It's BYOB so we came back prepared--Coronas, tequila, and lime--and took our seats inside the closet of a restaurant. The food that came out of that matchbox kitchen blew all four of our minds. It was their meats--tender, ultra flavorful, and generously portioned--that impressed me most. I'm so glad that I got one chicken and one beef taco, because they were equally delicious (and the beef wasn't ground, it was shredded!) 

This was the kind of meal that I thought about days later. And our total (for three) came to $23. Perhaps the most entertaining part was the aforementioned jack-of-all-trade restauranteur. At first he seemed a little distasteful towards us, but by the end, after we offered him a tequila shot and a beer, he was cracking jokes and sharing recipe secrets. Hmmm...idea coming...maybe I could get a job there (free food!?)

UPDATE: I was shocked to find they have a website! Don't be fooled, it's  just as small-timey as I described.

Reading List: Something Old and Something New

This summer I’ve been on a re-reading kick. Earlier in July, I revisited Robert Penn Warren’s, All the King’s Men, which had been a summer reading assignment going into my junior year of high school. At that time, it had quickly risen to the top of my, then relatively short, list of favorites. First of all, I couldn’t help but be attracted to Warren’s language and style—almost unfeasibly long, descriptive sentences and unexpected metaphors. It’s certainly not for everyone though, and even I’ll admit that there are sections of this 400-plus pager that you can’t help but skim. What I remember from my first read though is being impressed, even astounded, by the spider-web effect that Warren achieves, weaving all of the plots and characters together by the end into a (melo) dramatic climax. Once again, not for everyone, but if you have a taste for the gritty political underworld and lyric prose, it suits that contradictory bill.

My most recent read was another school requirement, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. I remember not being all that impressed with Mockingbird when I read it in 8^th grade English class. But, upon finishing it up the other day, after racing through the last few more-exciting-than-I-remembered chapters, I recognize, much more than I did eight years ago, why it is considered a classic. One thing that has remained constant in both readings though: my disbelief that the voice of the narrator, Scout, is feminine. Read it for yourself; I’m interested in other opinions on this.  

How this connects to Chicago: Naturally, after finishing it up the other day, I needed a new book to read. Maybe it’s snobby, and it’s probably ridiculous, but I don’t like library books. But neither do I enjoy shelling out $18 for a book at Barnes and Noble. Luckily, in my neighborhood, there are three (that’s right! Three!) independent bookstores. One of them, Unabridged Books, is right around the corner from both my apartment and my home away from home, Caribou Coffee.

This place is heaven. It’s everything chain bookstores are not. Where Barnes and Noble are Borders are huge, often crowded, and always commercialized, Unabridged Books is small, almost maze like, with tiny rooms each housing its own particular genre, perfect for hiding in to sneak some literary taste-testing. My favorite part: the note cards that line the shelves offering staff reviews and awards won by certain books. That, and the extensive sale room, which, unlike the ones at the big stores, houses unexpected titles, not just the rejects of the previous month. On my most recent visit I snatched a copy of Michael Ondaatje’s lesser-known memoir, Running in the Family. I’ve read a couple of his novels and enjoyed them, and so far the dreamy descriptions of Sri Lanka and the accounts of his flawed but charismatic family members suggest the $4.50 I paid for this one was a steal. 

UPDATE: Looks like To Kill a Mockingbird is a favorite beach read. Who'da thought? I wonder what Harper Lee would think about that. I was expecting fluffier picks, more in the vein of Emily Giffin or Jennifer Weiner, but I'm not complaining! 

Blades of the Glorious Past

Though I think California may have picked it up back in the 80s, rollerblading screams 90s to me. I have this distinct memory: summertime, I was about eleven, blading around the cul-de-sac of my suburban neighborhood with the girl next door, peforming (for who, I don't know) some kind of choreographed dance to Hootie and the Blowfish's "Hold My Hand" and "Only Wanna be with You." Dance might be an overstatement; I'm pretty sure we were just blading at various tempos and with assorted arm gestures around and around the circle. 

I relived that simple pleasure today. 

This afternoon, in a vacant church parking lot a couple of blocks from my apartment, I re-taught myself the art of blading. Armed with the pair of second hand skates I bought yesterday at Play it Again Sports (an underrated resource if you ask me) and some wrist guards, I laced up and shoved off. A little wobbly for the first few minutes, I quickly reclaimed this talent of my pre-teen years. Though my motives for this pastime have shifted somewhat--from a means of combating the summer doldrums through interpretive dance on wheels, to a low impact form of exercise, and quite possibly cheap means of transportation--I was pleased to find it just as enjoyable now as it was back then. And aren't I lucky, blading doesn't seem to carry the same stigma in Chicago that it does in other metropolitan areas. It's alive and well on the lake path, and that's where I'm rolling tomorrow. 

Lolla Lovin

Lollapalooza, like New Years,’ or Homecoming, or any big birthday, is an event surrounded by a lot of hype. And, in my experience, these types of things—which friends come in town for, that are looked forward to for weeks, and usually over planned—have a tendency towards mishap. That’s why I was so pleasantly surprised that my Lollapalooza weekend went off without a hitch, in spite of the extreme weather.

In fact, I’d say that the weather made it even better. Some concert-goers would probably disagree—after all, it was torrentially down pouring for most of Friday, and Sunday was sweltering—and not being a lover of extremes myself, it’s not surprising that many considered it less than ideal.

I admit, I had my moments on Friday when I seriously doubted that I could stick it out in the rain. Clad in a Walgreens poncho, with mud splattered calves and pruny fingers, I was hardly the model of concert-going chic. But as we grooved to Thievery Corporation and I look around at crowd—all as wet-ratty as me—I felt as though I had gotten about as close to the hippie alter-ego I’ve always believed was in me somewhere.

Sunday’s torturous heat also somehow seemed to complete my imaginary ideal of outdoor concert debauchery. Tied with Thievery as my favorite act of the weekend, Passion Pit performed at the height of the afternoon inferno. But fans crammed together despite the climbing temperatures, prompting crew and crowd members alike to shake any bottled liquid on hand, spraying the people around them in an act of neighborly love. Normally, I’m not all about getting showered with mystery liquids, but (and call me corny) there was something about the music, and the heat, and the crowd that made it all seem perfectly all right. 

Perry's Techno Tent at Lollapalooza

This weekend at Lollapalooza I became a fan of techno. I never would have thought it possible. I realized though, that I just have to be in the right setting to enjoy it. In the past, when played, for example, in a friend's car, the repetitive robotic sounding noises of techno always gave me a headache. But on Friday and Sunday night, under the glowing spider-web-esque tent of Perry's Stage, the music of spin masters like Crookers, Kid Cudi, Boys Noize, and MSTRKRFT, only made me want to dance. The pulsating beats and unexpected mixing of sounds created an energy amongst the crowd that was unparalleled at the other concert stages. I'm not yet at the level where I could listen to it all night, but I might be trading in my go-to low key bars for a bumping club come next Friday. 

Water and Steel

Chicago has a lot of tourist activities, but only one of them has been recommended to me by more than one city native: The Architecture Foundation River Cruise. Having tried to go once earlier in the summer only to arrive to sold out tickets, this time I planned ahead (a little bit). I snagged nine of the last ten tickets available for the time that we wanted, and our group proved just as lucky with the weather.

It was hard to believe our guide’s insistent claims of Chicago’s river-hating past with the water and the buildings along its banks looking so gorgeous. But, as she would remind us countless times throughout the tour, indeed, Chicago did not always appreciate its waterway. She also seemed determined to drill into our brains the idea of contextualism (yep, just as I suspected, Microsoft Word doubts the legitimacy of this word as much as I did). She used it to refer to the architects’ practice of mimicking the river’s qualities in their buildings’ designs. I remain unconvinced of all that, but it didn’t take fancy words or knowledge of architectural schools to recognize that Chicago’s river area has some of the most outstanding urban architecture around.

The tour was definitely an interesting way to see an area of the city that I hadn’t really explored yet, and it was undeniably informative. Perhaps, a tad too much so. I was expecting more entertainment, more stories behind the structures, rather than a mere litany of architecture firms, styles, and materials used. Nonetheless, on a nice day, it’s a pretty pleasant way to check out the downtown, and pick up a little cocktail party fodder while you’re at it. 

Pleasant Pedaling

All summer I’ve been meaning to bike the lake path. I’ve really wanted to buy a bike, and after renting one for a few hours last week, I’m more convinced than ever that this will be my next big purchase. First of all, so much is within perfect biking distance from where I live. Second, after how my hip has been acting up recently when I run, it’s looking like I’m going to have to switch my form of exercise.

We rented from Lakeshore Bike, on Recreation Dr., just a few blocks north of my apartment on the lake path. The guys who ran the little stand were super friendly and helpful, and seemed genuinely excited for us to enjoy our ride. It’s a very relaxed operation—all you do is give them a credit card and you can basically have the bikes as long as you want; you settle up whenever you get back.

Although my original plan was to head north to Evanston, the man helping us said it would be a much more interesting ride to follow the path to its southern end, biking past the downtown, Navy Pier, various beaches, and the gorgeous Museum campus. It ended up being the perfect distance too—about 10 miles each way by my estimate. We stopped a couple of times to snap pictures, take a drink and stretch, and just enjoy the scenery.

It was a great way to see the city in a new way. The only drawback—and there’s really nothing to be done about it—are the congested areas of the path. This is especially problematic for a nervous biker like me. Between the intense Lance Armstrong types aggressively barreling past and the small children darting every which way across the path, I definitely had a few close calls.

Luckily, I had an experienced biker by my side to keep the ride going smoothly (and to keep me at a heart-pumping speed). One of my top three favorite days in Chicago so far. 

Who needs Broadway?

Chicago is a competitive city. It seems especially concerned with proving itself equal to New York. Take, for example, its theater offerings, “Broadway in Chicago.” How much more blatant can it get?

Personally, I prefer Chicago’s theater district. Less glitzy, it makes do without the blinding neon lights of New York’s Broadway (despite what the website photo makes it look like). The stretch of theaters, in the area just south of the River, is less swarming with tourists than its counterpart in the Big Apple, making it easier to pop in, see a show, and get back out.

I was invited to see Jersey Boys, which tells the story of the Four Seasons, and their rise to fame from the wrong side of the tracks in Jersey. Of course, this show was made for New York, though I suppose the “Guido” character has become so universally recognizable that even Midwesterners can appreciate it. Behind the music, this aspect of the play was definitely the most entertaining.

The songs were wonderful; classic tunes that I knew the words to without knowing where I’d learned them. I recognized almost every one, even though I would have never been able to name the Four Seasons as the artists. Each one catchier than the last, it was impossible not to dance in my seat and mouth the lyrics (ok, I probably did more than mouth them-- sorry to the strangers sitting behind me).

And though we were undecided on whether or not the actors were singing (the optimist among us wondering why “Frankie Valli” didn’t pursue a career in music, and the most doubtful astutely catching the moments when his lip synching slipped up) either way, the production was charming and fun—in my opinion, two essential qualities of a successful musical.

Five Star Encounter

I just got these pictures and had to post them right away. Last Saturday night, while dining with some out-of-town guests at Phil Stefani's restaurant downtown, I had an exciting celebrity sighting. I've mentioned my obsession with Bravo's reality cooking show, Top Chef, before, and who walks in to the restaurant but my absolute favorite contestant, Fabio. He was every bit as charming in person as on the show (and displayed the same friendly bias towards the ladies--he somehow finagled his way out of taking a picture with the men in my party). He was in town promoting his book, which I'm sure will not only be full of great recipes, but show the chef's own charismatic personality as well.   

Two Sides of the Same Glacier

I have an explanation for how MIA I have been the past week or so. And I promise that the things that have been keeping me from my computer and Caribou Coffee (my internet hotspot) will make up for it, once I get around to writing about them.

 First on the list, my trip to Montana with my family. Actually, it was more a trip to Canada, as I spent four of the five nights I was away on the other side of the border in Waterton. It’s a gorgeous place-- our hotel (it was actually more like a motel, charming in its rustic quaintness) was right on the lake, and nestled between huge mountains. One interesting thing about the town of Waterton: the native mule deer population has become so used to humans, so domesticated, that the town has to put up signs warning guests to watch out for their dogs—the deer might attack! I actually saw a man hand feeding one of these Rudolph look-alikes some baby carrots. I secretly was hoping for an assault by antler.

Another thing that surprised me about my visit to Canada was the seriousness and intensity of the border crossing process. I always figured that, being next-door neighbors, and amicable ones at that, I’d just shoot on in to Canada with a wave and a smile. Apparently, I’m a dope for thinking this way, and the border guard was quick to make sure I knew it. After yelling at us for not putting the “children” in the car with both parents, and not having our passports out and ready, he went on to aggressively ask us our purpose in Canada. If you’re ever in Canada, never answer that question with “visiting.” Clearly at the end of his rope with us, he snapped,  “Everyone’s visiting,” as if Canada is some sort of Mecca that the lowly traveler can only hope to taste for a short time.

Though Glacier National Park is an international Peace Park—meaning, its territory crosses national borders—and it’s terrain is, I’m sure, equally beautiful on both the US and Canadian sides, I have to say I liked the Montana part better. Maybe it’s because everything is more expensive in Canada. Or perhaps the strangely changeable and dreary weather in Waterton created this bias. More likely, it’s the not-quite-mean but not-quite-friendly service that seemed to follow me wherever I went while in Canada, and the stark contrast between it and the small-town friendliness of Hungry Horse, Montana.