A friend once asked me a question that he had once been asked himself. A question that takes more thinking than expected as the times change, our lives change, and experiences shape who we are. But a question worth thinking about, always. "If right now you had to choose ten people to sit at your table, who would those ten people be?" He assured me that it wasn't easy to decide. I contemplated who I'd choose, justifying each one in my head but for various reasons. Some because they are purely good company, others because they love me for exactly who I am, and the best ones are the ones that have taught me some of the greatest life lessons. I responded by first saying, "Well of course my parents would be at my table..." but he replied by saying that it didn't have to be immediate family, just people who have impacted your life greatly. So I thought, as we sit down for meals everyday, why not invite those ten people to sit with you, or maybe even bring them to your favorite local eatery. There's nothing like good food and good company and there's no time to enjoy them but now!
Monday, February 23, 2009
The TEN PEOPLE Question
A friend once asked me a question that he had once been asked himself. A question that takes more thinking than expected as the times change, our lives change, and experiences shape who we are. But a question worth thinking about, always. "If right now you had to choose ten people to sit at your table, who would those ten people be?" He assured me that it wasn't easy to decide. I contemplated who I'd choose, justifying each one in my head but for various reasons. Some because they are purely good company, others because they love me for exactly who I am, and the best ones are the ones that have taught me some of the greatest life lessons. I responded by first saying, "Well of course my parents would be at my table..." but he replied by saying that it didn't have to be immediate family, just people who have impacted your life greatly. So I thought, as we sit down for meals everyday, why not invite those ten people to sit with you, or maybe even bring them to your favorite local eatery. There's nothing like good food and good company and there's no time to enjoy them but now!
The What Room?
A weekend with my dad is always an adventure. One with food I mean. Never do we pass up a good meal for anything else, because in a city like Chicago, the food leads us everywhere.
My dad came to visit me in Chicago for the weekend with our good family friend and his daughter. Even though his friend is thoroughly familiar with the area and predicates himself on being a food connoisseur as well, I was able to pick out the restaurants. A challenge I always rise to, because never does it seem to fail that I impress my guests with my knowledge of where to go and when. Timing has a lot to do with it. Who you are with also plays a large part. I wanted an exciting atmosphere, radiating decor, but also perfection and presentation with maybe a flair of the Bucktown culture. Instantly, I knew we'd find this all at the Bongo Room (1470 N. Milwaukee Avenue).
We cabbed it down to Bucktown, where the new emergence of shops and restaurants take shift on North Avenue and Damen. Our stomachs were in need of a large brunch after a late night of competitive bowling. We arrived at it's uninviting rusted away sign with its chalky stone front that is less than appealing, but the line was out the door, as it always is. I ran in first to put our name in, which to no surprise awarded a response that it would be an hour wait, to which I smiled and said "Perfect!" I leaped back out into the frigid cold to announce to my guests of the time, where my dad's friend looked at me in disbelief and shot a glance to another restaurant as if to say lets eat there. However, I insisted we stay, as I pointed to the window table that had just been served their delicious concoction of the oreo-banana flapjacks. He smiled and agreed that it looked delectable.
We entered back inside to get some coffee at the bar. The cappuccino machines are impressive, filling you with a sense of Italy, while they serve you a cappuccino that is precisely how I assume cappuccino was intended. Looking like a picture of art as the foam forms to a point a few inches past the white brimmed edges of our mini coffee cups. Even standing in the packed, but not crowded, brunch place for almost forty-five minutes, it was an experience. We watched the food trail by on eager hands, we sipped the froth from our coffee's, talked about travels and life goals, and saw the precision behind the gleaming silver counter with the chefs that worked under no room for error. The restaurant is run like a diner, seated like an exclusive night club, and they must turn over a thousand tables before they close mid-afternoon. The high ceilings, large booths, and front window tables make it comfortable, but the art emulsion on the walls lures you into the facade of eating such artistically created food.
We cabbed it down to Bucktown, where the new emergence of shops and restaurants take shift on North Avenue and Damen. Our stomachs were in need of a large brunch after a late night of competitive bowling. We arrived at it's uninviting rusted away sign with its chalky stone front that is less than appealing, but the line was out the door, as it always is. I ran in first to put our name in, which to no surprise awarded a response that it would be an hour wait, to which I smiled and said "Perfect!" I leaped back out into the frigid cold to announce to my guests of the time, where my dad's friend looked at me in disbelief and shot a glance to another restaurant as if to say lets eat there. However, I insisted we stay, as I pointed to the window table that had just been served their delicious concoction of the oreo-banana flapjacks. He smiled and agreed that it looked delectable.
We entered back inside to get some coffee at the bar. The cappuccino machines are impressive, filling you with a sense of Italy, while they serve you a cappuccino that is precisely how I assume cappuccino was intended. Looking like a picture of art as the foam forms to a point a few inches past the white brimmed edges of our mini coffee cups. Even standing in the packed, but not crowded, brunch place for almost forty-five minutes, it was an experience. We watched the food trail by on eager hands, we sipped the froth from our coffee's, talked about travels and life goals, and saw the precision behind the gleaming silver counter with the chefs that worked under no room for error. The restaurant is run like a diner, seated like an exclusive night club, and they must turn over a thousand tables before they close mid-afternoon. The high ceilings, large booths, and front window tables make it comfortable, but the art emulsion on the walls lures you into the facade of eating such artistically created food.
Our waitress led us to the open booth, where we flopped down, already knowing what we were to order. I always stick with the basics. When I love something, I've gotta have it every-time. However, never does that mean you can't order a piece of the high-towered chocolate french toast for the table, which is exactly what we did. I stuck with my veggie egg-white omelet, with their infamous potatoes, and a fruit bowl (the greatest thing about wonderful restaurants is that no matter how many times you order the same thing it's always just as good or even better as it is the first time!) My friend ordered the breakfast burrito. To no surprise, her dad malled over the enticing listings that seem to captivate most newcomers, as the options are only things you can dream of on cloud nine. Chocolate and caramel covered pretzel pancakes, apple-pair and dried cherry french toast, banana-peanut butter chip pancakes, and pair-tart tar-tine hot-cakes are just a few of their favorite concoctions. He settled for the croissant sandwich and my dad ordered the salmon eggs benedict .. it was enough food to feed a small army .. but at the Bongo Room you never want to leave before every inch has been tasted .. or in our case .. devoured.
"I am coming over to RAID your fridge .. will your mom be there?"
Growing up, my friends always wanted to come over to my house to eat, even if I wasn't there. It's not as if they didn't have pantries of their own stocked up with groceries from our local Farm's Market. Or they didn't have kitchens basked with their own goodies, but because my house, even from the walkway up to the door, would radiate a smell of the array of home cooked meals that existed beyond the red brick. My mother always cooked for twenty, even when we only had a family of five, and everyone who knew her, was aware of this.
Standing in our kitchen around lunch time was a scene my friends never wanted to miss out on. There would always be a pot filled with some Lebanese traditional goodness, maybe in the form of grape leaves, of which even my pickiest of friends could never resist. My mom would be dishing out food from the pot, even making some other ethnic cuisine on another burner for the friend that felt like Italian, or whipping up some homemade apple crisp in the oven even when I had insistently told her it was unnecessary. But lunch was never as good as it was at my house. The food always led to conversations about life and always clearly fed the soul. Silence would permeate the room when every ones mouths were full, comfort would seep through our energy from the edges of the table, and lunch was always this good no matter what was being served.
My family is the family that thoroughly lives to feed people and lives for the pure enjoyment of eating good food with good company.
Standing in our kitchen around lunch time was a scene my friends never wanted to miss out on. There would always be a pot filled with some Lebanese traditional goodness, maybe in the form of grape leaves, of which even my pickiest of friends could never resist. My mom would be dishing out food from the pot, even making some other ethnic cuisine on another burner for the friend that felt like Italian, or whipping up some homemade apple crisp in the oven even when I had insistently told her it was unnecessary. But lunch was never as good as it was at my house. The food always led to conversations about life and always clearly fed the soul. Silence would permeate the room when every ones mouths were full, comfort would seep through our energy from the edges of the table, and lunch was always this good no matter what was being served.
My family is the family that thoroughly lives to feed people and lives for the pure enjoyment of eating good food with good company.
As I have now emerged into my own woman, a little less of a cook than my mother, I inevitably find myself thriving for the satisfaction of good food. There's no wonder why I clearly enjoy being what most people call me, a "foody", or why I'd search the edges of a city for the best restaurant. As I now live in a thriving city, even at a time of recession, finding the best food with the greatest atmosphere is my quest. My search is to find that same reason on why you'd fit twenty friends in a kitchen, or you'd wait an hour in the cold for your cities best cappuccino and eggs benedict. The reason to feel the way I would feel if I was still eating lunch at home.
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