T Minus 3.5 Days 'Til Jamaica

Going into high gear for Jamaica, which means accessing my Google Doc list and checking it twice. General version can be found here. You'll note the slight contradiction in that I am bringing both birth control and feminine hygiene products, particularly since I try to time the arrival of the crimson tide to occur while enduring the deprivations of Regular Non-Travel Life, and not while on "vacay."

But a girl can never be too careful, and why purchase readily accessible and cheap drugstore items when you could potentially bask in your own prescience should Aunt Flo drop in for an unannounced visit?

See also: inclusion of condoms on list. I added those as an afterthought for those who 1) have sex, 2) travel for purposes of sex tourism, 3) cling to the hope that they might have sex, or 4) want others to perceive them as having sex. I fall under none of these categories, but everything I do, I do it for you, dear reader.

In addition to furiously annotating and highlighting my Jamaica LP, I have also begun listening to Bob Marley (going direct from airport to Bob Marley Museum), who sounds to me like a Jamaican Bob Dylan (presumably it is the reverse), and while I am aware I should have listened to him more extensively in college, I will just blame the fact that I am not white for my ignorance.

I can't get over the fact that my deepest associations for "One Love" is a particular tourism commercial--I think for Barbados, actually--that was on all the time when I was a teenager. Does anyone remember it? Cave? Diving into water? I know that narrows things down quite a bit...

(I can't find any YouTube evidence of it. And we all know what that means--if it ain't on YouTube, it ain't happened.)

It's a pretty dope song, but all I can think of when I listen to it is a bikini'd white lady diving into water, and that makes me feel dirty. As does the following commercial that I did find:

Jamaica, where black people will happily cornrow your blonde hair--because you are like sisters, and not because you represent tourist dollars--which will demonstrate to everyone that you are an exotic white lady (like Bo Derek) and that you are not racist; Jamaica, where happy, non-threatening black men give piggyback rides to white toddlers; Jamaica, where you can hold a black baby--again, to show that you are not racist. Call your travel agent!

Crab Rangoon: Travesty and Revelation (Chicago, Wednesday, April 7, 2010)

I have to say, the preponderance of food items is vastly improved by the addition of cream cheese.

Like so:

+ sugar + graham cracker = delicious

+ bagel (+/- lox) = delicious

+ salmon + rice + nori = delicious

+ danish = delicious

+ croissant (+/- strawberry, +/- chocolate) = delicious

But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

We begin our final morning in Chicago at Yolk, a sorta breakfast Spectacular Spectacular, you know, the type of breakfast place that names itself "Yolk," a place that wields a 5 page menu, an overweening observance of a yellow (why would they use yellow in a place called Yolk?), white, and blue color-scheme in order to convey "Sunny," "Happy," "Friendly," and not "Turn and Burn."

And while I'd be the last to regard an American-style breakfast "espectacular," I can't resist the siren song and subtlety of the following masterful endorsement:



(Although, of course, I immediately regret neglecting to ask for real bacon instead of candy-ass Canadian bacon.)

Mmm, hollaindaise--the cum of the gods.

Three months later, I can't seem to remember what befell 'tween breakfast and lunch, and the two other items I ordered at Asian-Smorgasbord-Fusion were a perversion that did not merit space on my camera's memory card ("ramen" using spaghetti noodles--wrongwrongwrong--and a corn-starchy chicken congee).

But the crab rangoon--"What, you've never had crab rangoon? You must try it!" say Tess & Cara--the crab rangoon was a crisp, chewy, creamy, salty, sweet & sour-y nearly-bite-sized present for the mouth.

Before eating:


After eating:


I get the strange feeling that crab rangoon is not endemically Asian, and Midwesterners Tess and Cara grew up eating it, so while it's not necessarily "authentic," it does nevertheless prove the point I began elucidating earlier:

cream cheese + imitation crab meat + wonton wrapper + deep fryer + sweet and sour sauce =

FUCKING DELICIOUS!

Missed Connections: avec and Blackbird (Chicago, Tuesday, April 6, 2010)

First, a morning at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Highlights:

Glass balls etched with falling paper...





a motion-sensor activated installation of a screw going in and out of the wall...

Seriously.



See? Proof!

a video installation of Gillian Wearing, and "self-portraits" she made with hyper-realistic masks (gah, scary!):





Then, hibiscus fruit tea at an Argo cafe, and a jaunt through through the capitalist, neo-feminist underbelly of our society: an American Girl store. Ivy, the Asian doll doesn't even get her own display, she's just San Francisco hippy Julie's token friend. I call, "bullshit."


I wants.

A horrible pedicure in the Bucktown area, and a failed attempt at dining at avec--some kind of company dinner--and then no dice at Blackbird (I forget the wherefores). Paul Kahan, what in the fuck did I ever do to you?

Instead, we make our way to Spring, where Tess used to cook, an Asian-fusion, fine dining sort of establishment (though they prefer to be described as "Asian inspired"). According to people in the know (unnamed here), it kinda feels like it's on its last legs as a hip, happenin' kind of place--we're a party of three among a total of 9 diners. I know it's a Tuesday night, but shit...

Anyway:
1. amuse bouche with a mushroom, fava bean, pickled something or other, and wild onion (the city's eponymous food--"shikaakwa")
2. sesame white bean dip with flatbread
3. hamachi with a toasted sesame seed thingy
4. farm egg ravioli with brown butter/white truffle/smoked potato
5. pork belly with thin wafer pickled cucumber, thai basil, cilantro, in a sweet and sour sauce (which is just okay)
6. grilled octopus with fresh egg pasta, parsley, confit lemon, and marrow sauce and onions
7. Australian Barramundi, potato gnocchi spiced with dehydrated kimchi-spiced, brussel sprouts/almond/grilled scallion
8. lavender-infused chocolate (which tastes to me like papaya?) in wee demitasse-ish cups

In a stroke of good fortune, we ask the server for recommendations as to our next destination, and he offers: Big Star, Kahan's latest in his stable of gastronomic stallions (I know, weird metaphor), and within walking distance from Spring! Cara and Tess, they limit themselves to drinks, but I? Oh, never fear, dear reader:

1. orchata
2. pork belly taco
3. lamb shoulder taco with radish
4. tostado con pescado

Yes, I have dinner numero dos minutes after dinner numero uno, and there are NO FUCKING REGRETS. In the words of Trey Parker, "Fuck, yeah!"

I only regret that I have but one stomach to give for Paul Kahan...

Boat Tours & Deep Dish (Chicago, Monday, April 5, 2010)

Another late morning wake-up after an evening with a school friend of Tess', and then Cara's late-night arrival from St. Louis (which is in Missouri!).

Lunch time. After a frantic race against the clock to drop the rental car--bye bye, big hunk of metal--at Midway airport, we rush into the heart of city to meet another one of Tess' friends for the architectural boat tour.

We took in the Sears Tower (now Willis), what used to be the tallest building in the world, but whose record has fallen first to the Petronas Twin Towers (in Malaysia) and Taipei 101 (weee--AZNs!),

If you can see the wee bump on the left hand side of the building, it's the glass skydeck. From below, you can see tiny flashes blinking as sightseers photograph the view from 103 floors up.

...Marina City (first multi-use residential building that I christened the corn-cob buildings),



...Lake-point Tower (purportedly an execution of a design by Mies van der Rohe by two dudes who once studied with him, and only made possible by later innovations in architecture/engineering):



The other ladies were much more impressed than I was. The docent (or whatever) just seemed to be on some kind of Micro Machines, methamphetamine kick:

"This was built in the International-style-Deco-Greco-Chicago-School-Prairie-School-Kohn-Pederson-&-Fox-Bertrand-Goldberg-blah-blah-blah-if-it-doesn't-say-Micro-machines-it's-not-the-real-thing!"

The highlight of the day: the BLT and caprese sandwiches...and...the Bean (actually a sculpture entitled "Cloud Gate") in Millennium Park. Who would have thunk? A giant, shiny lima bean shaped object?

The thing is part fun-house mirror, and on a clear Chicago spring afternoon, there are just as many grownups gamboling under and around it as kids.

Like so:



I think what's interesting about the sculpture is that it manages to be so light and airy, despite its size and mass (110 tons). The way the Chicago skyline sweeps across its surface--you see it in a new way...I mean, I suppose it's analogous to throwing a mirror in a small room to make it appear larger, so no huge feat of trickery, but captivating nevertheless.

Past this and Gehry's Jay Pritzker Pavilion and then another interactive sculpturel the Crown Fountain--two glass brick structures facing (literally--aah!) each other, with videos of faces alternating on the inside walls:


Crown Fountain--or, "How To Recognize a Sex Offender"

Water spouts out of the mouths on temperate days, in addition to cascading down the two towers. Alas, spring in Chicago...

Then to DePaul U to wait on Cara's lil sis at the Bourgeois Pig, a cafe (proudly???) emblazoned with a sign designating it a $40 a Day, Rachael Ray location. Urgh. Have a too-sweet mango Italian soda, to tide me over 'til we decide to head to dinner for deep dish.

Giordano's is touted as one of the Chicago-style pizza triumvirate (although contenders can vary). I'm dropped off to get us a table, and sign in as "Esmeralda" because the place is hoppin' (I figure the less common the name, the less likely there'll be another motherfucker with the same name)--and sadly, a sort of Disney Store of Pizza, all outta-towners who've been dicking around the Magnificent Mile. The ladies make do during our hour-long wait with Hefeweizen (312) and amber (Honker's Ale, named after/brewed on Goose Island, a man-made island on the Chicago River). I'm an amber girl myself, but as alcohol seems to disagree with me now, I guzzle an Arnold Palmer. I know, lame-balls.

First, a garden salad that four women hoover: the usual peperoncinis, olives, carrots, tomatoes, black olives, cucumbers, in a vinegar oil dressing.

Then, the piece de resistance: sausage, green pepper, onions, and mushrooms.

And, not to be one of those annoying, "nothing's ever good enough food bloggers," but it's JUST. NOT. THAT. GOOD.

I'm just not that into you, Giordano's. I get the casserole-cum-pizza thing--the Bay Area does it really well (see, Zachary's, and even more succesfully, Little Star), and Giordano's primary failing is the lack of attention to the crust. Texturally disappointing (leaden and under-cooked dough) and bland. (Also, unspectacular toppings.)

So how does Giordano's get away with this and continue to attract the hordes? I think it's the hour long wait. By the time you're seated and presented with that turgid, cheesy, lumpen disk, you're too dizzy with hunger to discern whether what you're putting in your mouth is actually tasty or tasty because by this point you're so famished you could rip open someone's throat and eat their trachea and call it delicious.


Eh.