CAZ
Today I said good-bye to Chicago. I went downtown (downtown meaning the North Side; I guess I have truly become a suburbanite after only two short months of living in Northfield) and had a nice little pre-birthday lunch with Randy at Aloha Grill, thanks to recent discussion of such on the LTH Forum. I was excited to try it because a) my favorite restaurant in Seattle was and still is Ohana, another Hawaiian place, and b) Aloha Grill specializes in plate lunches, and a plate lunch comprised the only decent and affordable meal I ate the entire week I was in Maui, so I have reserved a special little place in my heart for them. We had the chicken katsu, the kahlua pork, some scoops of rice and macaroni salad, and two plump little Spam musubis on the side. This was my first-ever Spam experience, and it was so exciting that I proclaimed gleefully to Randy, "I always knew I'd love Spam!". It's true. I really enjoy anything salty and meaty (beef jerky, fried pork rinds, etc.), and Spam sure fits the bill. No lewd commentary, please.
The rest of the meal was pretty good, but not particularly fabulous. I've had better katsu chicken, and I really don't have enough experience with kahlua pork to make a judgement, but it seemed less inspiring than the version I had in Maui. We then headed next door to an Asian candy store, where Randy stocked up on lychee and pineapple gummi treats for the big car ride looming in our future, and I sampled a variety of dried ginger chunks that ranged from gaggingly salty to throat-piercingly spicy.
Later on, I had dinner with my friend Doug at Las Tablas. This was to be the final installation in the long line of value-priced, enormous Argentinian and Columbian dinners that I have enjoyed during my time in Chicago. I usually go for the Costumbre Platter, which involves a combination of many meats (including steak, chicken, sausage and a chunky slice of fried pork skin), a variety of starches (which may or may not include plaintains, potatoes and yucca), and if I'm really lucky, an avocado and a fried egg. The waitress at the last Argentinian restaurant we went to (I can't remember the name, but all these places seem to advertise with a sign that features a waving chicken being cheerily burnt alive by flames licking its posterior) was so appalled by our piggery that she retrieved a photo of herself from years before when she was forty pounds heavier in order to warn us away from the Costumbre Platter. In the course of our discussion, however, it became apparent that the Costumbre Platter was not the true culprit, but that the source of her weight gain was instead the steady diet of McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Burger King that she wolfed down in the early days of her newfound American citizenship. Go figure.
Anyway. Las Tablas was just like all the others, and it was quite good, but seemed to cost about five dollars more than our old standby Brasa Roja on Monstrose. As I drove home, I continued the past-time that Randy and I developed earlier that day on our walk to the bank in Andersonville, in which we said good-bye to all the special things and places that make Chicago so great. I don't know why he was so intent on saying good-bye, because he'll be back in a week, but I'm not arguing. For example:
"Good-bye, scary spray-on tanning place that looks like it's from the future!"
"Good-bye, bakery that was never open to the public and never sold anything that looked palatable anyway!"
"Good-bye, Wooden Spoon Cooking Shop, where I might have applied and been hired to work at the same type of job that I am now about to drive across the country to pursue, most likely for far less money!"
As I drove home on Lincoln, I said a special farewell to the all-Croatian travel agency, whose agent once tried to convince me to visit the Dalmatian Coast by showing me websites of scantily-clad European women windsurfing and partying at late-night clubs on Hvar. I also waved good-bye to the Zwick Window Shades Company on Foster, whose sign has sternly instructed me to "CALL MOM" every time I've passed it until tonight. Now it murmurs ominously, "CAZ". It's definitely time to go.
The rest of the meal was pretty good, but not particularly fabulous. I've had better katsu chicken, and I really don't have enough experience with kahlua pork to make a judgement, but it seemed less inspiring than the version I had in Maui. We then headed next door to an Asian candy store, where Randy stocked up on lychee and pineapple gummi treats for the big car ride looming in our future, and I sampled a variety of dried ginger chunks that ranged from gaggingly salty to throat-piercingly spicy.
Later on, I had dinner with my friend Doug at Las Tablas. This was to be the final installation in the long line of value-priced, enormous Argentinian and Columbian dinners that I have enjoyed during my time in Chicago. I usually go for the Costumbre Platter, which involves a combination of many meats (including steak, chicken, sausage and a chunky slice of fried pork skin), a variety of starches (which may or may not include plaintains, potatoes and yucca), and if I'm really lucky, an avocado and a fried egg. The waitress at the last Argentinian restaurant we went to (I can't remember the name, but all these places seem to advertise with a sign that features a waving chicken being cheerily burnt alive by flames licking its posterior) was so appalled by our piggery that she retrieved a photo of herself from years before when she was forty pounds heavier in order to warn us away from the Costumbre Platter. In the course of our discussion, however, it became apparent that the Costumbre Platter was not the true culprit, but that the source of her weight gain was instead the steady diet of McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Burger King that she wolfed down in the early days of her newfound American citizenship. Go figure.
Anyway. Las Tablas was just like all the others, and it was quite good, but seemed to cost about five dollars more than our old standby Brasa Roja on Monstrose. As I drove home, I continued the past-time that Randy and I developed earlier that day on our walk to the bank in Andersonville, in which we said good-bye to all the special things and places that make Chicago so great. I don't know why he was so intent on saying good-bye, because he'll be back in a week, but I'm not arguing. For example:
"Good-bye, scary spray-on tanning place that looks like it's from the future!"
"Good-bye, bakery that was never open to the public and never sold anything that looked palatable anyway!"
"Good-bye, Wooden Spoon Cooking Shop, where I might have applied and been hired to work at the same type of job that I am now about to drive across the country to pursue, most likely for far less money!"
As I drove home on Lincoln, I said a special farewell to the all-Croatian travel agency, whose agent once tried to convince me to visit the Dalmatian Coast by showing me websites of scantily-clad European women windsurfing and partying at late-night clubs on Hvar. I also waved good-bye to the Zwick Window Shades Company on Foster, whose sign has sternly instructed me to "CALL MOM" every time I've passed it until tonight. Now it murmurs ominously, "CAZ". It's definitely time to go.
posted by cindym at 8:41 PM
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