fishsticks and ketchup

Given the tiny size of Schwa and the difficulty securing a reservation, it was surprising, to say the least, to bump into someone I knew there. Well, someone I sort of knew. Paul McGee, up until a few months ago, was the esteemed bartender at the Whistler, Logan Square’s unpretentious but serious entry into the Prohibition Era drink craze. Which is to say, not terribly crazy – McGee and the bar itself put the emphasis on classic cocktails from the pre-Prohibition days through the Tiki drink peak , with nary a Cosmopolitan to be seen on the menu. And indeed, the Whistler has a menu, a carefully chosen selection of a dozen or so drinks, each priced around $11 and each showcasing the freshest ingredients and most careful preparation, the two keys to cocktail preparation designed to counter years of damage done by bad mixes and flavored vodkas. Go figure, a drink is only as good as what goes in it and how it goes in.

But I digress. During his tenure at Whistler, McGee was known for two special events. One was a monthly book night, where he mixed drinks from a selection of classic recipe tomes new and old – the (beautiful but impractical) PDT Cocktail Book, for example, or dusty compendiums of difficult to make tropical drinks. The other was his Cocktails 101 class, an introduction to the basics of spirits and what to do with them. I took this class back in November alongside eight or so other alcohol adventurers, and I must say the course was close to life-changing. Certainly it helped (in a way) that I knew next to nothing about cocktails going in, having been mostly a beer and wine guy all my adult life, and only the most casual one at that. But it also helped to be taught the ins and outs of liquor by a master of his field, someone who could tell you where it counts to cut corners and where it will hurt you, the minimum array of spirits any good home bar should stock, or how a drink called the Corpse Reviver #2 could be one of the most delicious things you could ever imbibe.

Who knew (besides McGee) that that class would be among his last at the Whistler? When I bumped into him at Schwa I told him what it a pity it was that he didn’t offer the Cocktails 101 course anymore, but he told me he’d work something else out eventually. Not coincidentally, rumors were swirling that McGee had hitched his horse to a new River North country western themed bar, but that seemed … strange, to say the least, given McGee’s status as a staunch traditionalist. Now more details have emerged, and it all makes a little more sense. The new place is called Bub City, and while it is reportedly a C&W themed bar that will focus on beer, whiskey and other brown drinks, the downstairs will be given over to McGee’s Tiki bar fantasy, a 4000-square foot room where patrons will surely encounter some ace punches, fruity confections, and proof of the Zombie’s infamous potency.

Will I ever go to River North to drink? Probably not. I don’t go anywhere to drink. But it is nice to see he’s landed a good gig that will expose his skills to a wider clientele. The Whistler and McGee may have been a well-kept secret for a while, but talent deserves an audience. And guys as classy as McGee deserve a class of their own.

No one likes eating on airplanes, but at least airplanes have an excuse: you’re in the air, which tends to limit options. You get what you get, or at least you did, back when they bothered to give you anything. Airports themselves, on the other hand, are an inexcusably sorry lot. It’s the last place you see before you take off, and the first place you see when you land, yet with few exceptions, airports are a sea of fast food, chain restaurants, pre-made sandwiches and frozen yogurt stands. Where’s the pride? Is it any wonder why most people just stick to gum?

Still, I must admit I was intrigued when Rick Bayless opened up a gourmet fresh-Mex sandwich spot, Tortas Frontera, in the American Airlines terminal at O’Hare, a cousin to his local casual outposts in Macy’s and at Xoco, themselves street food supplements to his fine(er) dining spots Frontera Grill and Topolobambo. Never mind that we know of at least two cases of food poisoning at the latter, inexcusable given the price point and pedigree. I’ll readily concede Bayless knows what he’s doing when it comes to fresh ingredients and Mexican food, and – ironically, given Chicago’s wealth of Mexican food – he has without doubt helped up the Mexican food game, not just locally but nationally.

The problem is that we rarely depart via American Airlines, so I’ve never had a chance to sample Bayless’s air-fare. That is, until last week, before a flight to Mexico (more irony). Tortas Frontera stood out starkly against all the usual suspects, which lurked in a dense food court around the corner. Instead of flash-frozen garbage, Tortas Frontera offered fresh bread and made to order sandwiches, all featuring artisinal or local ingredients, and most demanding an honest to goodness wait. Indeed, we each bought a delicious breakfast sandwich of queso fresco and local jam, and even that simple sandwich took several minutes, which was no worry, really, since the coffee they sold was top notch and we got to watch fellow travelers taking departing tequila shots from the adjoining bar. In a lot of ways I wished our flight left later, to give me more time with the menu.

With the exception of a delicious lion fish taco (adorned with avocado, served with a tangy, spicy chipotle sauce and a side of slaw, with two kinds of sesame seeds, red onion, lime and cabbage) I bought down the dirt road by our beachfront condo, the sandwich was fresher and better than any meal I had in Mexico. Given that I hit the bargain gourmet Bayless spots downtown barely more often than I’m at the airport, I’m jealous of Alma, who not only works around the corner from the latter but frequently flies via American, too. Maybe next time she goes someplace exotic, like Cincinnati or Minneapolis, I’ll have her pick up dinner.

A few weeks back some friends of ours were kind enough to ask us to dine with them at Schwa. We said yes. How could we not? Without question, Schwa is one of the highest regarded restaurants in America, and, as a BYOB, one of the biggest bargains as well. Most notably, however, it is one of the hardest reservations to land in America, though ironically not exactly for the aforementioned food. Sure, the food is both original in design and sublime in execution. Yes, the BYO policy potentially shaves literally hundreds of dollars off the bill. But Schwa is hard to get into for a more mundane reason: they don’t answer the phone.

OK, to be fair, they do answer the phone. Sometimes. You just never know when they’re going to pick up. As part of the place’s renegade vibe, the chefs handle the tiny spot’s more quotidian tasks in addition to the cooking, which means handling the reservations (and, later, table service) between juggling the myriad kitchen duties. But actually getting someone on the line requires literally months of attempts. If you’re lucky you’ll get the machine, but more often than not the machine is full. Then, even if you do successfully leave a message, Schwa may take months to call back. It’s simply the luck of the draw and a matter of timing. But if you actually manage to get someone to answer, you’re generally golden, though of course even a reservation is no guarantee the place might close with no notice due to one of its infamous “plumbing problems,” which may be code for everything from a visiting celebrity to, yes, actual plumbing problems.

So when our friends snagged a table for four, we said yes and tagged along. Opportunities such as these rarely arise, and besides, the last time we ate at Schwa, several years ago, was a memorable experience, highlighted by a dish of lamb brains, the ultimate gross-out dining anecdote even if the taste was nothing special. But this meal was even better. From a shot-glass “Redhook” amuse featuring a liquored up chocolate covered cherry to a cold deconstructed crab cake to a dessert built around the flavors of Dr. Pepper, the meal was awesome, and at nine courses (plus three or four off -menu items), was perfectly paced and more than filling. Plus, even though I was the designated not-as-drunker, our table-made gin & tonics were awesome, thanks to the Q Tonic (pro tip: the tonic really makes the G&T).

Short another shot in the dark opportunity I doubt we’ll be back to Schwa again any time soon, whether we make the effort or not. God knows, its genius chef Michael Carlson could suffer another breakdown and shutter the doors with no warning. Were the non-stop staff jokes about hookers and cocaine a little silly? Yeah. Was the music a little too loud to always hear what I was being served? Probably, especially since the utterly ridiculous Trace Adkins country novelty “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” did not really deserve the dBs. But I was nonetheless grateful for the opportunity to bask in the ingenuity of Carlson and his cohorts once again.

I dine out pretty frequently, and while I’ve had my share of poor meals, I’ve never felt the need to send something back to the kitchen. The way I look at it, unless the dish is completely different from what the menu advertised, or prepared differently from what was promised, I don’t see the point. When I order, I feel as if I’ve entered into a kind of contract with the restaurant: they give me what I asked for, I pay for it. Anything else seems like cheating, and sending something back … I don’t know. It seems like a jerk move that stresses the kitchen, antagonizes the server and generally prolongs what clearly already is not an ideal dining experience.

How about sending something back and asking for something else? It follows a certain logic: why pay for something you’re not going to eat? Which of course begs another question: if it didn’t look good, why did you order it? And if something looked better, why didn’t you order that instead? A good server can be a guide, but no one knows your tastes better than you do. And if something doesn’t taste good, there’s only so much you can blame on the restaurant, especially when it comes to particularly problem-prone categories like, say, seafood in the midwest. You’re sort of asking for it if the restaurant isn’t a tried, tested and true destination.

But maybe I’m alone in this. Certainly there are those who send back wine, but of course, wine can be bad – that’s why they have you taste it. But sending back a dish and asking for something else instead? Just man up and take one for the team. And if you’re really steamed about your choice or experience, take it to a blog.

Been a long time, been a long time. So what threw me off?

I won’t fault blog fatigue, because that’s not the case. My schedule has changed a little, but that’s not really to blame. And for sure I’ve done plenty of cooking, eaten lots of good food and learned a few things, too. So what gives?

Food poisoning. Maybe. Possibly. Probably. Yes, it wasn’t bad, and it was a long, long time ago, but something about it just shifted my rhythm. Food poisoning can do that, but for plenty of reasons beyond the physical. In a sense, food poisoning is a betrayal. Accidental, sure, but a betrayal nonetheless. Few folks eat food against their will, and fewer eat food they don’t like, so whatever did me in I consumed happily and intentionally. The betrayal comes with the culprit, which I’ve whittled down to three suspects (that shall go unnamed), all of which I’ve eaten at multiple times, and all of which I’d still happily recommend to friends. I know it was nothing personal, but it felt a little bit like a friend kicking me in the gut.

Was it the pizza handed out as a sample at one of my favorite spots? Was it the excellent, organic, local pastry? Was it the otherwise exceptional dinner, which I had to leave early, once the dizziness kicked in and I didn’t think I could stay upright much longer? My money is on the pizza, but does it really matter? Food poisoning does a number on your head, with every taste tainted by the thought that your next bite could send you back to the floor, curled up in a ball.

It passed in a day, as these things are prone to do, and a couple of days later I was back in good shape, but still, it takes a lot out of you. But it’s a new year, and that’s all behind me now. With the snow finally coming down and the temperature dropping, rest assured I’m ready to put on a few pounds.

Some time late last night, shortly before midnight, tickets quietly went on sale for Next’s third menu, a prix fixe flight inspired by childhood that reportedly includes, as of this post, as yet unknown but sure to be creative variants of peanut butter and jelly, mac and cheese, hot cocoa and the like. One course may be served in a vintage lunch box. Another may involve a mini campfire crackling away in the center of the table. One assumes all will involve some degree of nostalgia-tinged whimsy.

Now, I’ve eaten at Next. It was the first menu, “Paris 1906,” and it was OK. The service was great, the food less than memorable, or at least not so spectacular, even for the supposedly good price, that I even bothered trying to get tickets for the second menu, ostensibly takes on Thai street foods (Next’s gimmick is that the menu changes completely every three months, though Thai was an odd choice, given all the great Thai options in Chicago). But with this third menu, I think I’ve reached a philosophical impasse that puts me at odds with Next, almost all, ironically, unrelated to the food. Which is one of the problems.

The people behind Next are very talented, and certainly smart marketers, yet I’ve come to the conclusion its very concept is a somewhat conservative, and maybe even cowardly, approach that not only detracts from the food but couches greater profits as risk and exclusivity as democracy. It’s a deft sleight of hand trick – brilliant, even – but almost insidious in its execution.

Most fine restaurants – that is, the 99% that pick a cuisine and stick with it – spend their entire lifespan building on themes, developing flavors, tweaking recipes, steadily raising the bar. Next does this, too, but almost as an academic kitchen exercise whose benefits are not always apparent to the diner. It’s not just a question of competence, it’s a question of experience: can even the most talented chef truly channel Paris and Bangkok, with all the centuries of tradition that have informed each? Is emulation, approximation, good enough? For that matter, can you really put a personal twist on recipes that have existed for eons? Should you? At least the “childhood” menu affords the Next chef more freedom, but success or failure, in a few short weeks he will already be on to something else.*

By rotating the menu every three months, Next absolves itself of improving on a set or relatively set menu, one of the surest traits of the best restaurants. Instead, it wipes the slate clean, starting over with each new cycle, which then requires a bit of a learning curve. Again, exciting stuff – for the staff. But as the kitchen scrambles to perfect its new menu on the fly, diners must settle for what may be less than exact preparation. Indeed, anecdotally, meals at the end of each menu at Next tend to be more consistent then meals at the start of the cycle.

And yet with each rebirth, Next fosters an almost unheard of degree of hype. Critics who typically visit a restaurant three or more times for a single review are compelled to review Next based on one visit, every three months, which not only negates their ability to assess the consistency of a single menu, but also keeps Next in the spotlight to a degree that other restaurants can’t expect. (Even Alinea, the culinary peak that made Grant Achatz a star and begat Next, can’t expect a fresh review every year, let alone three times a year, despite constantly changing and refining its radical, adventurous menu.) That gives Next an incredible advantage when it comes to publicity. It also gives Next an incredible advantage when it comes to manipulating the often overly compliant press, whose reviews, it should be noted, often mention menu items most diners do not receive, and whose reliable presence and attention makes them easy marks for such a sharp-eyed and status-conscious business.

Which brings us the the faux democracy of Next. Next’s ticket model is totally unique to restaurants, but unfortunately its system for selling tickets might be as well. Next does not take reservations over the phone. Instead, Next exclusively accepts reservations (that is, sells tickets) via its website, which, incidentally, often crashes or malfunctions under the burden. Communication as to availability of tables, both on-sale times and day-of availability, is limited exclusively to the restaurant’s Facebook page. Ergo, those early birds who discovered Next’s third menu was up were either a) hanging around Next’s site late Tuesday night, b) logged into Facebook late Tuesday, having already “liked” Next, or c) connected to someone on the inside who tipped them to do either a) or b). Which automatically cuts out those working late, in bed before midnight, sans a fast internet connection and any other number of hurdles faced by those without the luxury of free time and a flexible schedule. Which is to say, likely a self-selecting pool of educated, affluent patrons, because, alas, free time and flexibility are luxuries in 2011. And then there’s the matter of paying, which needless to say is not nearly as much of a bargain as Next’s initial hype implied.

Admittedly, most fine restaurants price themselves out of consideration, for myriad reasons that range from cost/quality of ingredients to preferred clientele. But Next holds its accessibility out as a disingenuous tease. Sure, there were reportedly $35 seats available for this third menu … but only if you were up at midnight on Tuesday, scouring the internet, and able to impulsively commit to a night out several weeks, even months, in advance. Which is to say, the people who fit that criteria can probably afford the higher priced tickets, anyway, as they’re already a rather rarified bunch.

Yes, Next encourages a vibrant secondary market, but this, too, seems like a method of cutting costs and keeping revenue high from a restaurant that has been explicit about choosing its system as a means of maximizing profit (by way of minimizing loss). It’s a cynical strategy disguised as egalitarianism. Which may come as no surprise, seeing how Next’s co-owner, whose sole restaurant experience remains Alinea and its praised/pioneering/hyped/trendy adjuncts, is a former stock broker who made millions on the market. How very timely. “We are the 1%” indeed.

It’s one thing to price yourself out of reach of 99% of Americans. There will always be well off, rich or lucky people, and I can’t say if it’s fair or unfair to take advantage of the current economic system. The alternative is to make less money on purpose, which is sort of a paradox. But the fact that this restaurant both debuted and has thus far thrived during one of the toughest economic times the country has ever faced does give me some degree of pause. As did Alinea, whose high price makes any restaurant seem cheap by comparison. But it’s not the fine dining model that’s the problem in this case. It’s the Next model in its entirety, with all its facets and moving parts, each of which individually epitomizes a degree of implicit exclusivity that kind of rubs me the wrong way, maybe for admittedly personal or hard to place reasons, but which taken en toto I find especially egregious.

There are any number of restaurants so hard to get into I don’t even bother. There are nearly as many so expensive I don’t even consider. Next, in theory, can be both affordable and attainable, but it makes it very difficult to align those two desirable traits. Which is sort of cruelly mocking those without the means to circumvent the various obstacles. Which is to say, Alinea’s accessibility is rarified, but Next’s is almost … sadistic. And the reason I single out Next is because Next is literally unique.

What other restaurant is virtually guaranteed to be booked up blind for the season, as such, before anyone has had a single bite of their food, let alone even had an idea of the menu? As long as the service remains strong, I think that’s more than enough to carry Next over whatever culinary speed bumps it encounters; surely, the radical shift from menu to menu obscures any frame of reference when it comes to the actual food. Meanwhile. Next’s business model keeps it in the spotlight, which primes/potentiates hype. It just keeps on swimming, like the shark in “Jaws.”

As the man said, “what we are dealing with here is a perfect engine, an eating machine.”

I’ve never been a big fan of Halloween, a holiday whose luster began to fade some time around the realization that for just a couple of dollars, you can pretty much just go to any store year ’round and buy as much of whatever candy you like. Sure, in theory playing dress up with adults can be fun, but really it’s just an excuse to drink, and when there’s alcohol involved, who needs costume? Alcohol makes every night like Halloween.

I am always surprised how few restaurants get into the holiday spirit. Not decorations and that sort of thing; that’s to be expected. I’m talking about going all-in. One rare example is the estimable local-minded eatery Lula Cafe in Logan Square, which each Halloween becomes an entirely new restaurant, which in the past has included Hot Doug’s and Kuma’s Corner, always done Lula’s way, with quality ingredients, craft and a sense of fun (when Lula’s became Hot Doug’s, Hot Doug’s maven Doug Sohn was literally chained to the register, taking orders). This year, Lula’s promises an artisanal take on Taco Bell. How awesome is that?

Almost as awesome as the Admiral strip club not just offering zombie strippers, but also inviting several of the city’s best food trucks to serve its clientele during the witching hour. Come for the costumed chicks. Leave for the “feeding frenzy of the damned!”