Chicago Style

With granny available to care for the childs, Mary and I headed out to a rare date night dinner at the Inn at Bristol Lodge or somesuch, near Seneca Point. Any fears I had that it might be bland and corporate were put to rest by the stuffed baby bear that greeted us in the foyer. This was a rough-hewn wood, high-end flannel and shotgun kinda place.

On the menu, one of the appetizers was homemade potato chips with melted blue and gruyere cheeses. Guy food, designed to be consumed with beer. Mary was not sold. I pretended to be disgusted too.

The view was beautiful, and our food was OK. However, a fiftyish woman at a nearby table was not so lucky. The waitress brought her some blackened tornados or filets of beef, a $27 dish or somesuch. She was disgusted. “What is this? I’ve never seen beef look like this.” The waitress tried to explain: “But it’s Chicago-style, you sear the beef.” The poor victim would have none of it. She kept the plate in front of her for a while. She may have tried a bite and poked it a bit. But, in the end, the trauma was too overwhelming, and she and her date (who had ordered the fancily-worded fried chicken with cheese over pesto) asked for the bill in the middle of the entrée.