Dinner and Jayhawks

The Jayhawks, one of my all-time favorite bands that just happens to hail from the Twin Cities, reunited this past weekend for three shows at First Avenue. I couldn't have been more excited to see them, until I heard that Romantica was opening for their Monday night show! Two of my favorites in one night, what could be better? I'll tell you what could be better, taking the next morning off from work to truly enjoy the fun!

To start off an evening of wonderful music, it never hurts to have wonderful food. We chose to eat tapas at Solera, only because I had a gift certificate. We both felt a little reluctant because while Solera is gorgeous, it hasn't really kept up with the times. The decor hasn't changed a bit in many years and, except for the perfect rooftop, people don't talk much about the place anymore. But they should. We chose to eat in the bar where we had four tapas and drinks and enjoyed them with the company of a good bartender who gave us a generous sample of some sherry and a fun size Kit Kat Bar. We ate my absolute favorite thing at Solera, the chorizo-stuffed dates with smoked bacon, and they were as good as ever. We also enjoyed some perfectly grilled asparagus with a thin slice of cured pork loin and a mahon cheese sauce. There was also a required pork belly small plate because pork belly is about as good as it gets, and finally a beautiful octopus ceviche dressed up in a terrine and sliced thinly to resemble stained glass. Everything went very well with my sangria, which is something I could drink every day all summer, but probably shouldn't. For dessert we shared the unbelievably delicate cinnamon-sugar churros (donut sticks) dipped in a thick hot chocolate called champurrado. Big fan here.

After dinner we headed over to First Avenue and met up with Sweet D and her friend Michelle and loved the snot out of Romantica and the Jayhawks. Romantica performed all of their usual songs that I adore, and then the Jayhawks took us back in time, singing tunes I hadn't heard in fifteen years but found I still knew all the words to. There were songs I missed that I wish they had sung, but overall I have no complaints because they performed great, unexpected covers as well as People in This Place on Every Side, the song that sucked me in to the Jayhawks in the first place so many years ago. After the show we had a final beer in the new bar owned by First Avenue just next door called the Depot Tavern, and we loved it. With a large, open garage door that provides airy patio drinking under cover, and a menu that includes Belgian fries that I'm dying to try, the place is the perfect little spot for pre- and post-show gatherings. It's the kind of place, and it was the kind of night, that really makes you appreciate all the beauty and fun that Minneapolis has to offer.

My First Crayfish Boil

I'll never complain about cracking crab legs again. My love for crab knows no bounds, but once in awhile one can tire of the constant work, cracking and pulling and scraping meat from inside the salty red shells. But at least you are occasionally rewarded with large pieces of succulent crab flesh. Not so much with crayfish, but there's still so much to enjoy.

Doug and his friends threw their annual crayfish boil this weekend, using crustaceans from Oregon (I know you were wondering if they were from the Gulf - nope) combined with corn, onions, potatoes, garlic, Andouille sausage and shrimp, and seasoned with Zatarains spices. A giant metal pot of liquid bubbled and foamed and roiled on a propane-fueled fire while the guys dumped pound after pound of live green-gray crayfish into the spicy water, where they quickly turned bright red and shortly thereafter, delicious. When done, the seafood and vegetables were strained out of the broth and turned out onto a newspaper-covered table top in the backyard where someone then liberally powdered the food with a Creole seasoning. Then the hordes descended, grabbing crayfish that looked exactly like tiny lobsters, and twisting the tails from the bodies. They broke the tail shell and extracted the meat, a delicious small chunk of soft meat that mimicked the flavor of crab or lobster. Then folks sucked the innards from the body cavity, at least some of them did, and finally broke off the cute little claws and used their teeth to break the claws in half, where, if they were lucky, a perfectly formed claw of meat broke free for the eating.

Alongside the crayfish were boiled potatoes and hunks of corn on the cob, now seasoned with a tasty, hot Creole spice. The whole garlic heads, cut in half, produced perfectly softened garlic cloves that were easily squeezed from their wet paper and were as mild as a beautifully roasted head of garlic. Perfect eaten with otherwise bland potatoes. But the Andouille sausages really brought the heat to the party. Already hot on their own, now dusted with Creole seasoning, the sausages caught our mouths on fire, producing a heat that wasn't easily quenched, but was still really enjoyable. But the best part of the crayfish boil, beyond the delicious food, was the communal style of the party, where everyone stands around a table messily eating various parts of these sea insects, licking their fingers and laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

A Big, Wet Thank You!

Last week was a blur of preparations for the MS150, which is my weak explanation for having not posted in seven days. But I really was busy, I swear. You have to plan quite a bit for a rainy weekend of cycling from Duluth to the Twin Cities, considering things like second, dry outfits for after each ride, warm sleeping gear for unseasonably cold June temperatures, and your water bottles. Oh, wait, I forgot that last part. I didn't bring any water bottles. Thankfully, Maria got her hands on a bottle for me, which I promptly lost on day two. I'm cool that way.

Day one started out miserably wet and muddy. Friends Scott and Katie generously shared their pop-up camper with Maria and me (and a few extra friends on Friday night due to the savage weather!) and we woke up to fog as thick as pea soup and a light drizzle. We slogged through the muddy parking lot of a Catholic church in Proctor, Minnesota, where we had set up camp for the night, and got to the start line. As we waited for the okay to take off, we were frightened by the sudden explosion of what we thought was a starter gun, but turned out to be a bike tire right next to us! Bummer of a way for someone to start out the day. While I was concerned about riding in the thick fog, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise because it made it impossible to see when hills were coming up. Emotionally, I never dreaded a hill for the first hour or so, which was quite a relief. Not long into it, Katie got the first of two flats (the first is pictured above), but thankfully she actually knows how to fix one, unlike me. I carry the spare tube, the tools, and the like, but not the knowledge to do the work. I depend on the kindness of strangers, which may not be my best move.

Moving along throughout the day, it never really rained during the ride, but the combination of the early morning moisture and the sweat generated by my rain jacket, which I call my portable sweat lodge, kept my clothes wet and therefore me cold all day long. Teammate Kelly took a spill four miles out of Finlayson, saving harm to her bike by using her face to brake the fall. She's got quite the facial road rash for her effort. Ouch, I would have quit but she kept going! By the time we reached Hinckley, where it started pouring rain, I was frozen. A delicious hot dog and several brownies, provided by friends of 100 Monkeys, plus a warm shirt and a massage made everything considerably better. Still, I was ready for bed by 9:00pm, though sleep would elude me, replaced by a stupid obsession with having to pee, which meant maybe waking everyone in the camper up and going outside to either pee in the rain or in a well-lit RV park. Neither option was all that great. Why me?

Sunday came early and my quads were burning. But four Advil and a warm pancake can do wonders psychologically as well as physically, and off we went. I was definitely feeling my lack of training this year, feeling exhausted sooner than I should have but not having the cajones to give up. The day was a blur of long stretches of road, potholes, and a disappointing show in the grub department. We've always had hot pizza at about the halfway point on day two and this year not only was there not pizza, all they had left was tortilla wraps lightly filled with tomato, cucumber and spinach. I hate to complain because the volunteers work so hard on this event, but somebody really dropped the ball to run out of protein for lunch by 10:30am. Fortunately, one of our teammates' wives was riding along the route in her car and had a bunch of protein bars that she shared with everyone. With that we powered on to the finish line, with one slight glitch along the way. The final few miles had a few hills that didn't feel so hot after 150 miles, and as we turned the corner at the final half mile, I saw that hill again. Not since the first MS150 I did five years ago had we finished at Century College, and I had forgotten about the nasty hill right before the finish line. As we finished a set of hills, I was losing my will to live, and when I saw that final, giant hill, even though the end was near, I wasn't sure I could do it. Thank god one of my teammates' tires blew! While it would cost us some time, more importantly it would give my tired legs a chance to rest. When we mounted our bikes again, we didn't have much momentum and just for one second during the hill climb I was concerned that I'd have to stop and walk it, which would be terribly embarrassing, but I poured it on (definitely not in speed, but in muscle) and crossed the finish line, never more glad to be done. Well, probably just as glad to be done as each of the five years, actually. Doug was at the finish line, ready with towels in case I was wet, a blanket in case I was cold, and an ice cold can of Coca-Cola. Suddenly, everything was better.

I can't thank everyone enough who supported me, both financially and emotionally, sometimes it was just knowing that folks had been so generous that kept me going. Seriously, those were the sorts of thoughts I had to evoke in order to forge ahead at times. So thank you for supporting the MS Society. They are a great organization doing great things for great people. Like you.

Obento-Ya

There's a little storefront gem not far from here in the University of Minnesota neighborhood that serves up some tasty Japanese vittles that you might like to try. Obento-Ya is located at the corner of 15th Avenue SE and Como, very near Van Cleve Park, and you'll be surprised when you walk into the place, nestled between some nondescript storefronts and across the street from an actual old-fashioned hardware store and a Crescent Moon pizza shop that I didn't know existed. I know about the Northeast Crescent Moon, but it looks like they may have branched out, which is neat.

Obento-Ya is small, but uses its space well to fit in a good amount of diners without feeling crowded, and I just learned they have an outdoor patio in the back as well. Their large menu showcases a number of sushi options as well as tempura, bento boxes, noodles and plenty of small plates, hot and cold. Last night there I met my new favorite food in the world, a Japanese small plate that is apparently eaten often in the streets of Tokyo after bar close. No wonder, so easy to eat and bursting with different flavors. Okonomiyaki, as prepared at Obento-Ya, is a pan-fried batter cake (I sensed lots of egg, which I loved) with ginger, cabbage, scallions, bacon and asparagus. It's like a thick, crispy-edged pancake sprinkled with dried bonito flakes (flakes of dried, smoked bonito fish), Japanese Kewpie mayonnaise and some sort of teriyaki sauce. All the tastes and textures come together and explode in the mouth in a symphony of flavor that I wouldn't mind experiencing every single day of my life. Health-wise, that may not be my best option, but happiness-wise, it is. Besides the okonomiyaki, we had the ginger pork ramen special, a large bowl of good quality ramen noodles in a spicy broth with generous bites of perfectly cooked pork and vegetables. We also shared a sushi bento box, which last night was just okay, but sometimes is very, very good. The best part, and this is weird for me to say because of my staunch anti-soup stand, was the simple miso soup starter, with tender cubes of tofu and minced scallion bobbing along the steaming surface. I'm no expert at Japanese food, but I like to think I know what tastes good, and Obento-Ya tastes good. Go try the okonomiyaki and try to deny its tremendous power over you.

My 15 Minutes

My job, by definition, is very much on the administrative side of things. But once in a while the fine people at the agency throw me a bone and allow me to flex my creative muscles. Based on my very public declaration of the burning love for nachos I possess, a coworker recently asked me if I would come up with some ideas for different ways to serve up nachos. A client has a product that allows consumers to build a simple plate of nachos on the go, an easy item to bring to a party for folks who don't so much enjoy cooking or don't have time. I did some brainstorming and came up with about ten ideas for easy additions to a basic plate of nachos that would make them a little bit special. I never expected my work to go anywhere, so imagine my surprise when I heard the client had a tasting of several of my ideas and chose their favorite four, which are now published on the back of the product and sold at grocery stores around the country! I doubt Tom Colicchio will be inviting me to compete or judge on Top Chef anytime soon, these are extremely simple little "recipes," but I'm excited nonetheless. I'm finally published! Next up, Mastering the Art of Nacho Cooking...

Portuguese Chicken, How Do I Love Thee?

I wish I could explain my love for chicken. So many people consider it sort of a throw-away protein, bland, boring, white. But I find it exciting and mysterious and lovely. It takes on such an assortment of flavors without getting in the way of them. It accepts them in with the love of a mother and disperses them with the generosity of a Mother Theresa.

I've written before of swooning before the rotisserie chicken joints in Mexico City, but I wasn't prepared for something even better than that ever could have been. Nothing could have prepared me for this. In Chicago this weekend, Doug's friend Paul served up this magical chicken prepared with a Portuguese marinade that would have converted even the most staunch Foghorn Leghorn hater. Nobody could have resisted it. I asked Paul how he prepared it and he said it like it was all simple and stuff, that he got his organic chickens from a small farm in Michigan, butterflied them, then marinated them for two days in Portuguese spices, lemon and olive oil. Then he explained that he was going to "burn the shit out of them" on the grill. I wish I had taken an "after" photo, but my fingers were too constantly messy with Portuguese spices after the chicken cooked to take any more pictures. The chickens were cooked perfectly, with blackened skin and spices that broke off crisply into my mouth and then melted quickly, like butter in a sizzling hot pan. I couldn't have been happier the next morning when there was leftover cold chicken in the fridge to eat before hitting the road. I will never forget you, Portuguese chicken.

According to Paul's wife, Mary, this very chicken is occasionally on the menu at one of Paul's restaurants, The Publican. Even if this chicken isn't available, you'll find something else to love. Next time you're in Chicago, go.

Kukla and Loo

When you are eating the best organic chicken in the world, Portuguese-spiced with lemon and oil, marinated for two days prior to grilling, you can expect folks to be envious. You just don't expect those folks to be so furry. I was eating this remarkable chicken this weekend at a party in Chicago and made fast friends with Kukla and Loo, two characters who didn't leave my side till I threw that leg bone away.

More stories to come. Too tired from watching Doug drive the whole way home to write anymore tonight.

Help Me Go the Extra 150 Miles

I've been lax, I admit it. My blog posts have decreased a lot lately, especially in comparison to the great "Post Every Day Experiment of 2008." Remember that? I posted something on my blog, usually with some substance even, almost every single day in 2008 because I created a goal and put my mind to it. No, sadly you cannot view most of those posts because they resided on another server that no longer holds them. But believe me, I really did it.

You know what else I've managed to accomplish in the past when I put my mind to it? I've completed the MS150 Bike Tour four times. That's 150 miles of cycling over two days, all to raise money for a great organization, the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, Minnesota Chapter, devoted to ending this disease. My Grandma Ellis lived with MS and though I was pretty young when she passed away, I always think of her when I do the MS150, which I will be participating in again next month for the fifth time. It's a lot of work, especially this year because for the first time since I started doing it I'm not also training for a triathlon, which is code for "I'm not at all ready." But in the end it's always worth it both physically and emotionally, knowing that I've done something, no matter how small, to fight a disease that should have been cured by now.

You can have that same sense of satisfaction without all of the awful physical pain (I'm referring to my butt after 150 miles on a tiny bicycle seat) by donating to my effort. I'm trying to raise $1000 again this year, and your tax-deductible donation of any size (I don't judge, I'm as happy with $5 as $500) will help someone, and there's a lot to be said for that. Please consider donating to my effort by clicking here (or on the "PLEASE SUPPORT ME!!" link on the right side of this page), and help me to accomplish this. Who knows? Maybe I'll put my mind to it and start posting more frequently here on my blog. Maybe.

The Impossibility of Everything

Doug and I had my soon-to-be-married friends DeAnn and Del over to my place for dinner recently. Doug did all the food preparation and it was amazing - raw ahi tuna in basil oil with a daikon radish and julienned basil garnish, halibut stuffed with crab, brie and apples, plus asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. DeAnn and Del brought a delicious dessert, strawberries macerated in Cointreau over almond biscuits with whipped cream. Everything was so incredibly delicious and I was entrusted with pretty much just one job - to open the wine. Big mistake because this is one skill I do not possess. Just look at where the cork ended up. Seriously, why is this so difficult for me?!

La Punalada Trapera

Another great show at the beautiful Varsity Theater in Dinkytown, Minnesota last week. Carrie Rodriguez, whom I've had the pleasure to see perform many times, delivered once again to a room full of fans and some amateur concert goers who did everything from talk through every song to rearrange furniture. Strange but true.

Carrie was touring to support her new record released last month, Love and Circumstance, and I'm already certain this is my favorite CD to date of hers. This is a compilation of somewhat obscure covers, from Townes Van Zandt to Ry Cooder, from Nick Lowe to Lucinda Williams. Carrie brings a new voice to Hank Williams' classic I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry and can nearly bring you to tears on her rendition of Merle Haggard's I Started Loving You Again. But she really shines when she sings a Spanish song once recorded by her great aunt called La Punalada Trapera, which loosely translates to "a terrible back stabbing." So it's not a happy song, but it is gorgeous, even if you don't understand the words. Take a chance on this record, you won't regret it.

Target Field Nachos: A Review

I made my first visit to the brand spankin' new Target Field for my first ever outdoors Twins game this weekend, and what did I eat? Why, nachos, of course! Not that there aren't a million other snacks I could have sampled, the new stadium is working hard to bring the fans locally produced food and, from the looks of it, in generous portions. But since I love nachos just a wee too much, I knew what had to be done.

It was too cold for me to search high and low for different options, so the only nachos I am currently aware of are from the Tacos, Burritos and Empanadas stand that never really had much of a line. There were two choices, a $4.50 model that I'm going to assume was simply chips and cheese, and the Grande Nachos, which I purchased for a hefty $8.50. Honestly, though, I think they were worth it. Yes, they are stadium nachos, not restaurant nachos, but the portion was generous and the salsa even had a little heat. For your $8.50, you get a bowl of warm chips layered with cheese sauce, tomatoes, onions, ground taco beef, lettuce, salsa, shredded cheese and sour cream. Many of the Grande Nachos were made a little while ahead of time, sitting there waiting for someone to buy them, but they were still pretty good. While not a huge fan of the cheese sauce, it's necessary in the ballpark where shredded cheese would coagulate in minutes and be almost instantly inedible.

So, overall I would recommend the Grande Nachos at Target Field. They're not life-changing, but they're decent. I also tried my dad's Tony Oliva Cuban Sandwich and it was pretty darn good. But the best part of the whole new stadium is the experience itself. It's so beautiful and so perfectly placed downtown and the details so well-thought out (yea for fireworks when there's a home run!) that it's not going to take me much to make me a baseball fan. I can't even believe that I just wrote that.

A Shower of Petals

The annual flowering of the snow crab trees outside my door came a few weeks early this year. The landscapers pruned them back quite a bit last fall, and I was pretty concerned they wouldn't be as beautiful, but I had nothing to worry about. Sure, I miss the large branches surrounding my little brick and metal facade, but as long as I still get a heavy sprinkling of lavender petals all over my sidewalk, I'm happy. Check out the fat cat on the stoop, he's pretty happy, too.

Everything Stays the Same

Six weeks have passed since I last visited the care center, and in such a small time everything seems to have changed, yet everything still seems the same. The same four tables, the same yellow walls, the same three nurses, the same sea of gray metal walkers. But something was definitely not the same and I struggled for a few moments to figure out what it was.

Some health issues, thankfully now resolved, kept me away for the past month and a half and after seriously considering not returning, I ultimately figured out I couldn't not go back. I missed the old, confused folks who are sometimes the only thing that remind me just why we have to live our lives to the fullest now, even if I don't always do such a good job at it. I still can always use the weekly reminder. I made my usual rounds, saying hello to everyone, telling them how pretty they looked, or how much I liked their sweaters, or asking if they were hungry for dinner. A few of my friends on the outside asked me earlier this week if I thought any of the residents would remember me, and I had to admit I didn't think so. Sure enough, I don't think they did, though I did get a military salute from Don like he always does. Alma greeted me by telling me how beautiful I looked and wondering aloud if I've gone out to Hollywood yet to make it big with my beauty. I love Alma. I caught up with Bernice and Lorraine and noticed a couple of new faces. I also noticed a couple of missing faces, namely Mary and John.

Mary has been my main charge for over a year now, half of the Gudrun - Mary duo that has dominated my Wednesday dinners for so long. I've been feeding Mary one hundred percent of her dinner because of her inability to do so. Not her physical inability, but her emotional inability. Her brain just wouldn't allow her hands to work they way they should anymore. Mary spent most meals repeating nonsensical phrases, her favorite being Lawrence Welk's "a one and a two and a three." By the last weeks I saw her in March, she couldn't even lift her head and I literally had to gingerly maneuver a spoon full of pureed something-or-other into her mouth as it rested partially on the laminate table top. I knew she wasn't well, but people last for years unwell so I didn't think too much of it. So when I didn't see Mary right away tonight at her regular spot where her wheelchair fit between Rosalie and Gudrun, I had to ask Kollie the nurse. He told me sadly in his thick Liberian accent that she had died. Honestly, I couldn't even be sad. As cliche as it may be, she is definitely in a better place than she was. I told Kollie that it was probably about time and he agreed. The other missing face tonight belonged to John, a fellow of no more than seventy years, tops, that had joined the dementia unit only about six or eight months prior, but whom I really liked because of his sweet face and demeanor. While he sometimes had an absent look in his eyes, he still said things that made sense and he was cute. His wife visited from time to time, including at the Christmas party in December. I remember watching her hold his hand and sing carols next to him and I wondered what her life was like. Not seeing John at his regular table with Doris and Barbara tonight, I couldn't help but hope he had simply moved to a different unit. But Kollie told me that John had also died. In my two years there, I don't think more than four or five people have died, and in the five dinners I missed two have gone. Again, I'm not so much sad for John as I am for the people who loved him and at least had his physical being there when they needed to see him. John and Mary will be missed.

With Mary gone, it was time for me to take on a new challenge tonight, and a challenge it was. I've written about Melvin before, he's the tall man-child that once peed all over the dining room floor during dinner service and routinely screams in his muppet-like voice about all things indecipherable. Tonight I actually asked Kollie if he ever understands anything Melvin says and, to my relief, he told me no. So it isn't just me. Melvin was rambunctious and talkative as I prodded him to swallow bite after bite of his cheeseburger and fries. He actually did a very good job until he knocked over his full glass of milk which totally upset Alma but had no effect on Gudrun whatsoever. I had to convince Melvin throughout the meal to concentrate on eating and to forget about putting his hand down the front of his sweatpants while bald Lorraine cried like a baby to anyone that would listen that nothing was fair and she didn't like her food.

I'm back at it and, like I said, everything has changed and everything still seems the same.

The Rabidity of Fans

Look at this photo I took at the State Theater Friday night. See the decorative chandeliers and ornately painted walls? See the old fashioned stage? Oh, and see Anthony Bourdain? That's him in the middle of the shot, on the stage, next to the lectern. Squint your eyes really tightly and imagine a dark, tall drink of water pacing the stage, ranting about TV chefs and food and travel and maybe you can picture him, because this photo will be no help to you.

Purchasing the cheap seats for Anthony Bourdain's lecture was not a problem, there was no reason to be up close, but it was amusing how tiny this tall man looked. My friend Angie and I made a night of it, starting with delicious small plates and cocktails at Bradstreet Crafthouse and ending surrounded by Bourdain's rabid Twin Cities fan base. I am a fan of Tony Bourdain, so much so that I call him "Tony," but unlike so many others in attendance at his show Friday night, I'm okay with disagreeing with him. To be fair, Bourdain is a polarizing figure and attracts a certain type. But I couldn't help but be amused every time he launched into a new topic about a certain well-known chef like, say, Bobby Flay, and the audience broke out in unappreciative hisses (I imagine they feel Flay has sold out or is overexposed or something like that), until Tony talked about how much he likes Flay. Suddenly the rabid fans were all cheering Bobby Flay like he's the second coming of Christ. The cadence of the audience response to Bourdain's topics was fascinating, as if they waited with bated breath to be told by Master Bourdain who to like and who to hate, exhaling with relief if they guessed the proper response.

I love Anthony Bourdain. I think he's quick and funny, I think he expresses himself well, I think he's handsome. But, unlike so many folks at the State Theater Friday night, I also think for myself. I believe Tony would like it that way.

Chicago in Spring, Part Deux

Sunday in Chicago was the kind of day more days should emulate. Sunny and clear. Sleeping in, no hurry to be anywhere, walking and driving around new neighborhoods, several cocktails, and lots of Spanish. We took the opportunity to use several open hours to explore the city by car, getting to know the streets and neighborhoods and not being concerned about getting lost. Then we checked out Chicago's "Little Mexico" neighborhood, Pilsen, where we visited a Mexican grocery and bought oranges and Mexican soda. We stopped into a local tortilleria and just enjoyed translating all of the Spanish signs. Then we moved toward our late afternoon plan in Wicker Park to meet up with Paul and Mary at Paul's newest restaurant, Big Star.

We had an hour to kill so we stopped at a little bar/restaurant where we enjoyed $3 mimosas and $2 PBRs. Perfect. At one point the chef came out of the kitchen and asked us, "Do you like pork?" There's only one answer to that question, and we were rewarded for answering it correctly with his new version of pork belly sliders, crisp and tender pork belly burgers with a Sriracha sauce. Very nice. Then it was time to hit one of the hottest spots in Chicago, Big Star tacos. Paul and Mary had a table outside in the sun (much easier for the owner to get such a table on a beautiful day than for us!) and we proceeded to order a good portion of the menu, including several different tacos, guacamole, and one spectacular salad. Mary recommended the salad, which is usually difficult to get excited about, but this salad was different. It had so much life and flavor, it was one of the best salads I've ever had. I also had their version of my favorite cocktail, the Paloma, and it was quite delicious. It was fantastic to just sit out in the sun, chat, eat, drink and forget about my real life for awhile. When we were done there and one young couple had stopped Paul (like so many people do) to thank him for his previous advice that they get engaged (!), we stepped across the street for more drinks at the Violet Hour. The Violet Hour is styled like an old time speakeasy, nestled inside a building without a sign and with a door almost invisible. Only if you know where the place is could you find it. We sidled up to the dark, cool bar for expertly made cocktails, like those served here at the Bradstreet Crafthouse, with lots of pomp and circumstance. It's the sort of place I'm not cool enough to be in, but I love it nonetheless. I ordered the Violet Hour version of the Pisco Sour and loved that while they put their own spin on it, they topped it off very authentically with bitters, just like in Peru. The four of us continued to talk and drink until it was time to go and we parted ways.

As we said our good-byes and walked to the car, Doug broke into a shiver and full-on teeth chattering! He was suddenly very ill so all we could do was get him back to the hotel and wrap him in blankets while I found the closest 24-hour Walgreen's (luckily, there is a Walgreen's every three giant steps in Chicago) and a thermometer and Tylenol. With a temperature of 102.5, Doug spent the rest of the night in a delirious shiver while I looked on helplessly. Luckily, we both slept well and by morning he felt a little better. We didn't get to do all of the things we'd set out to do in the Windy City, but we got to do all of the best things. And now we have things to look forward to on a future trip, which there will no doubt be. Man, I love Chicago.

Chicago in Spring, Part Un

Spring time in Chicago is spectacular. The city is one of this country's finest, offering up beautiful parks and friendly people and fantastic restaurants. Doug and I drove there this weekend in search of all three and were not disappointed in the least.

I found a fabulous deal at the Palmer House Hilton, a gorgeously renovated hotel that showcases all that is beautiful and historic in Chicago. As luck would have it, we were able to upgrade our room for a small fee and ended up unknowingly getting a room with two bathrooms! That is probably the only reason we are still together now. Ha! Doug is friends with Paul Kahan, a well-known chef in Chicago who owns several restaurant hotspots like Avec, the Publican, Big Star Taqueria and Blackbird, President Obama's favorite Chicago restaurant. Paul was nice enough to arrange the best seats in the house for Doug and I for dinner at Avec one night and it was spectacular. We sat at the bar, not near anyone else, directly across from the chef who was plying his craft for the entire restaurant on a small six burner stove. It was fascinating to watch him do a hundred things at once and do them all well, except when he accidentally burned his arm. Ouch. The chef was really friendly and was actually a native of Minneapolis. The other Avec staffers were equally charming, never allowing our wine glasses to become empty and bringing us plate after plate of amazing food.

From English pea crostini with mint salad, roasted spring onion vinaigrette and pecorino (pictured above) that was so good it nearly changed my life, to chorizo-stuffed Medjool dates with smoked bacon and piquillo pepper-tomato sauce, to prosciutto with honeycomb, orange zest, marcona almonds and black peppercorn vinaigrette (pictured below) that despite my dislike for black pepper almost made me cry, all of these dishes and more made my heart sing and my tongue want for more. And beyond the unbelievable food was the wow factor of this beautiful restaurant. The chef-owner, Paul Kahan, who could not have been nicer when he and his lovely wife, Mary, joined us after our meal for drinks, was a judge on one of my favorite TV shows of all time, Top Chef. His executive chef, Koren, who was also at Avec that night, was also a judge on a quickfire challenge on Top Chef (I knew I recognized her when I saw her!), as well as being a finalist for a James Beard award. President Obama's White House chef, Sam Kass, was there eating, himself a former chef at Avec, and I was introduced to Blackbird chef Mike Sheerin, one of Food & Wine magazine's 2010 best new chefs. It was pretty heady stuff for a little food dork like me!

Between a wonderful meal, a handsome companion, and fascinating conversation with all sorts of people, it was a marvelous introduction to a different side of a city that I already loved, but now love just a little more.

Grain Belt Nordeast

On April 7 my mom had a birthday. But that was widely ignored because that also happened to be the day that the Schell Brewery in New Ulm released an ode to Northeast Minneapolis in the form of Grain Belt Nordeast beer. For one day the only place in the universe one could get their hands on this fine barley pop was Northeast Minneapolis, home of the former Grain Belt brewery where the name became famous. Nordeast flew off the shelves at all of the Northeast Minneapolis liquor stores and bars all over our quadrant of the city ran out of their supply before nightfall. My own happy hour visit to Grumpy's in Northeast on April 7 for my first Nordeast on tap was super fun, but for a limited amount of time. Pretty soon the nonstop view of human butts was more than I could take and though I was thrilled that the whole town was banding together to celebrate my hardworking hometown, I had to break free.

Welcome to the world, Grain Belt Nordeast, you are a welcome and proud addition to our liquor store shelves and barroom taps.

Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba

Last night I had the great fortune to attend a show at the Cedar Cultural Center that was a part of the West Africa West Bank series there. Bassekou Kouyate and his ensemble, Ngoni Ba, performed a concert that blew me away. During my two wonderful, lengthy stays in West Africa I often heard it said that people visit East Africa for the animals and West Africa for the people and the music. I know firsthand this is true.

Bassekou Kouyate was born forty-three years ago in Mali, a landlocked country home to the fabled city of Timbuktu, and has developed over time an enormous following there and in many parts of the world because of his mastery of the ngoni, an ancient instrument that looks like a simple, carved guitar. The music Bassekou Kouyate makes with his ngoni is, however, anything but simple. His band, Ngoni Ba, consists of four ngonis, plus percussion, and his singer wife, Amy Sacko, a gorgeous Malian woman with a voice to match. She is known as the Tina Turner of Mali. Together they are able to bring the house down with their infectious energy and obvious love for the music they are bringing to the world.

Bassekou Kouyate has played with some of the most famous musicians on the planet, a tribute to the respect they have for his ability with the ngoni. Here's a video of Mr. Kouyate performing in 2005 with the late Ali Farka Toure, another amazing Malian musician who uses his guitar to bring the blues to a whole new level. Notice just how much music Bassekou Kouyate can make come out of that little boat-shaped instrument with simple strings. It's pretty magical.

Geeking Out

Look at the excitement in my eyes as I paw my coworker's new iPad. She took it away from me shortly after this picture was taken. Probably for the best.

A Captive Audience

Bath time is almost more fun for a certain portly feline than it is for his owner. While I look forward to catching up on magazines, filling in maybe one or two words in the National Geographic crossword (it's hard!), listening to the radio, and just generally relaxing, Hakeem Wallace sees an opportunity for a captive audience to pet him for a good half hour. As you can see, he doesn't leave a lot of room on the bath mat for a gal to dry off!