Chicago: The Berghoff

 What started out as a week's visit to my second-born in Columbus, Ohio, 

somehow turned into a road trip to Chicago. 

Not only did we squeeze an amazing amount of sightseeing into forty-eight hours, 

but we stayed a mere block away from my former office and retraced 

the streets and sights of my life in Chicago 

all those many years ago. 

* * * * *

Located on Adams between Dearborn and State. Just look for the neon lights. 

On the second night of our stay, I paid a long overdue visit to another favorite swanky restaurant from my ancient history in Chicago: The Berghoff.

Now, to be fair, 'swanky' might be a relative term. The Berghoff is not particularly luxurious or expensive by restaurant standards, but as a young professional trying to make ends meet on my own in the big city, this rollicking German hofbrauhaus was a stretch for my pay grade.

Compared to the burger joints and simple bistros that I frequented for most workday lunches, the Berghoff was something special. From the moment I stepped through the front doors to the stained glass windows, I felt transported from my urban daily grind to an altogether different place and time. 

German food and drink were always the order of the day at the Berghoff. Stroganoff and schnitzel, sausages and strudel, the fare was authentically no-nonsense.

Also no-nonsense to the point of rude was the wait staff. Using an antiquated system where the waiters purchased the customers' food from the kitchen and then sold it to the patrons on their own behalf, the service culture was abrupt and cold. 

But the wood-paneled dining room and delicious fare more than made up for the abrasive servers, and I spent many a happy lunch hour chatting with a girlfriend over steak and cantaloupe salads, or squeezed into a long row of tables with our audit team, keeping the colleagues entertained with a stream of never-ending patter. Perhaps my most cherished Berghoff memory of all was the dinner plates, which were decorated with the restaurant's name. 

So while I was excited, all these years later, to revisit the Berghoff, I held my breath to learn just how much the restaurant had changed. 

Usually I visited the Berghoff for lunch when natural light shone in through huge windows and lit up the room with a different kind of glow. 

Much to my delight, the dining room looked exactly the same. Gleaming wood reflected chandeliers' light, sturdy wooden tables filled the room with just the right balance of space and communal togetherness.

Even better, the waiters were nice! I chatted with mine, told him of the old days when I was a little bit afraid of the servers' brusque behavior, and he smiled to hear my story. "Not much has changed around here in the last thirty years," he explained, "but the wait staff  is definitely different." 

He was right. Every waiter in the room was absolutely charming and our dinner was served with prompt and courteous attention.

And best of all, the plates were exactly the same. 

Sauerbraten

* * * * *

Read more stories about my long overdue reunion with the city with big shoulders:

The Bean

The Gorilla And The Flamingo

Italian Village
Doughnut Vault
Wells Street Bridge
The Rookery
Flamingo Again

Wabash Arts Corridor
The Berghoff
Glossier Pop-Up

Chicago: Wabash Arts Corridor

What started out as a week's visit to my second-born in Columbus, Ohio, 

somehow turned into a road trip to Chicago. 

Not only did we squeeze an amazing amount of sightseeing into forty-eight hours, 

but we stayed a mere block away from my former office and retraced 

the streets and sights of my life in Chicago 

all those many years ago. 

* * * * *

After a surprisingly quick deliberation at lunch, my daughter and I agreed on a plan for our one and only afternoon in Chicago. We crossed a few quick blocks south of the Loop and turned onto Wabash Avenue. And there an outrageous journey began to unfold.

This is the Wabash Arts Corridor. Murals fill the sides of buildings in what was just a few years ago a rundown end of town but now pulses with art and culture. We loaded a map on our phones to help locate the artworks, but we quickly realized this was unnecessary. To find the next mind-blowing exhibit, all we had to do was look. The neighborhood is literally exploding with street art. 

My daughter and I spent the afternoon staring in awe at several dozen extravagant murals, admiring not only the artworks themselves but the way that the artists used the shapes and colors of the buildings themselves to maximize the impact of their work. 

We took hundreds of pictures, that's for sure. These are some of my very favorites. 

^These two murals sat next to each other above a parking lot, the white symbols on the left and the bubble-blowing moose on the right. At first glance, they seem quite different - one all monochromatic symbols and the other a portrait of whimsical wildlife. But as I look on and on, the pattern of the grey linear fencing behind the moose starts to vibe with the rows of abstracted characters, and the big pink bubble repeats itself over and over in the white round shapes. Far from opposites, these two murals echo each other's strengths and I find them a delightful pairing. 

^ From where I stand to take the moose's photo, I turn ninety degrees right to see the L rattling by and another mural peeping through under the tracks. The rumbling immediacy of city life is a constant presence in this outdoor museum. 

^ Down a side street, I pop into an alley and find this. The black outlines of the art echo in the rigid structure of the brick wall and again in the vent up above. But the wild looping lines of the tribal image projects a carefree energy that creates quite a buzz in this tiny space. 

^ Are they jalapeno peppers, high-heeled shoes, or simply giant red amoebas splashed across this parking structure? I don't know but when offset by the cool blues of the mosaic tower behind them, I am intrigued. 

^ The gleaming native face and glossy headless stallion would be gorgeous in any space. But captured between the strip of old brick above and the worn grass below, these images fill me with a  poignant sense of lost freedom. 

^ Icy blue tones and weird abstracted shapes. Are there letters in there? Maybe a hidden message? I don't know because I am totally distracted by the grids in the windows above the mural and the fire escapes to the right. They add a geometric stability to the wild abstraction, and I am totally digging the balance.

^ The lower section of the wall captures a painting that weirdly reminds me of old-school Soviet communist propaganda, and the top implies classic capitalism still going strong. Though I'm not sure the comparison is intended, I like how these two pieces speak to one together. 

^ Well. The second I laid eyes on this one, I channeled Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam hard core. As seen on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, God's hand is shown in the moment of human creation, and the blasting angles and dazzling colors here make it pretty clear to me that this piece is capturing the same instant. In this scene, my daughter plays the role of Adam. 

^ The brilliant colors of the hand artwork wrap around the building: I follow along to the end of painting, turn around, and this is what I see. I do not exaggerate when I say the neighborhood is bursting with art. 

 

^ Mystical and magical mountains set the backdrop for two animals that look like they just stepped off the forests of Pandora. Surrounded by stardust, they nuzzle noses and glow with unearthly light. Watching them, I feel endless groovy vibes and I can only imagine that the people who live in this apartment building must have very sweet dreams.

^ There's some serious sweet talk pouring out of this receiver, and my mind is filled with memories of my teenage talk time on our old black phone that looked just like this one. 

^ Small, intricately painted tiles piece together to make a peacock. And while at first, I find the scale of this piece to be a big let down from the enormous murals I've seen on most other buildings, I come to appreciate the restraint of this artist and intimacy of this piece. I also like the green paint on the boarded window, and somehow my brain incorporates that into the image. 

* * * * *

These photos capture roughly half the murals I saw in the Wabash Arts Corridor. Though all have merit, they are my favorites. 

But if you push me to pick my single most favorite of all, I have to choose the moose. 

* * * * *

Read more stories about my long overdue reunion with the city with big shoulders:

The Bean

The Gorilla And The Flamingo

Italian Village
Doughnut Vault
Wells Street Bridge
The Rookery
Flamingo Again

Wabash Arts Corridor
The Berghoff
Glossier Pop-Up

Chicago: Flamingo Again

What started out as a week's visit to my second-born in Columbus, Ohio, 

somehow turned into a road trip to Chicago. 

Not only did we squeeze an amazing amount of sightseeing into forty-eight hours, 

but we stayed a mere block away from my former office and retraced 

the streets and sights of my life in Chicago 

all those many years ago. 

* * * * *

What had started as a day full of possibilities had become, by midday, a morning of super-charged sightseeing and powerful memory generation. With most of our one and only full day in Chicago still before us, my daughter and I decided to cool down with a meandering walk out to Michigan Avenue for lunch and a chance to rest and consider the options for our afternoon.

But look who we ran into along the way.

^ Yep. Another blast of adrenaline shot through me as we turned the corner and met with my electric friend. The lure of the orange foliage drew us closer, and involuntarily, my hand found my camera and I was off to the races again. 

^ I can't resist Flamingo

^ As we walked in, under and around the giant bird, we came across the artist's signature, welded into the form: 

Alexander Caldwell. 1973

Our quiet interlude was over. Suddenly we were fiercely hungry, and after sating our desire for photographs, we rushed off for lunch.

^ Over our Shake Shack burgers, we laid in our plans for the afternoon.

* * * * *

Read more stories about my long overdue reunion with the city with big shoulders:

The Bean

The Gorilla And The Flamingo

Italian Village
Doughnut Vault
Wells Street Bridge
The Rookery
Flamingo Again
Wabash Arts Corridor
The Berghoff
Glossier Pop-Up

Chicago: The Rookery

What started out as a week's visit to my second-born in Columbus, Ohio, 

somehow turned into a road trip to Chicago. 

Not only did we squeeze an amazing amount of sightseeing into forty-eight hours, 

but we stayed a mere block away from my former office and retraced 

the streets and sights of my life in Chicago 

all those many years ago. 

* * * * *

As we walked up LaSalle Street, my daughter and I, I began to remember.

Each morning, as my bus crawled up LaSalle Street, I would crane my neck to watch the Board of Trade building come in to sight. Looming at the end of the street, this architectural icon of my Chicago life filled me with awe and grandeur, a pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming moment every day of the week.

I remember how I hopped off the 136 just a block shy of the BOT at another building just as worthy of my attention and joy. 

The Rookery.

I remember climbing this breathtaking staircase on snowy winter mornings, paying close attention to my steps as my wet boots met the slippery marble stairs. 

I remember running my hands, still in my leather gloves, along the copper banister.

I remember taking in the details of the staircase, wrought iron flowers as they seemed to me, flat and twisting and layered and dimensional, all at the same time.

 On the upper balcony of the lobby, I remember how I circled back toward the front of the building, admiring all I had just passed, and approached the elevators that led to my client's offices.

Though the upper floors were relatively nondescript, I remember once when a client employee who was helping me track down an answer to my questions led me to an office on a different floor.

Rather than taking the elevator, she slipped down a staircase that I had never noticed before. 

This staircase was beyond magical. 

I remember how I stopped dead in my steps to take in the incredible artistry as her heels clicked quickly down the stairs ahead of me. 

I remember the weight of the sheaf of papers in my arm as I tipped my head back and stared; whatever work-related problem that had been on my mind disappeared into the rarefied air of the staircase.

* * * * *

Three decades later, these memories came rushing back to me with incredible speed and power as my daughter and I toured the Rookery. Our lively guide gushed about the building's incredible history, the owners and architects who imposed their vision on the architecture over the years, the phases of change and innovation and pure artistry that make The Rookery what it is today.

 "Just imagine," she gushed, "what it must be like to work in this building! Can you imagine what an incredible thrill that would be?"

And I smiled at her. "Yes," I said, "I can imagine. I worked here years ago. Let me tell you what I remember." 

* * * * *

If you'd like to know more about the colorful history of The Rookery, go here.

If you want to just  look at pretty pictures of this gorgeous place, go here.

* * * * *

Read more stories about my long overdue reunion with the city with big shoulders:

The Bean

The Gorilla And The Flamingo

Italian Village
Doughnut Vault
Wells Street Bridge
The Rookery
Flamingo Again
Wabash Arts Corridor
The Berghoff
Glossier Pop-Up

Protect Our Planet With Glass Food Storage

"What are you giving up for Lent?"

That's a common question in these forty days before Easter. And when I ask, nine times out of ten, the answer is chocolate, beer, or social media.

But what if we look at Lent as an opportunity not to just temporarily give up a bad habit but to start a good habit - a habit that makes a difference to people, to the world, to God.

This year for Lent, my goal is to protect our planet. I'm looking for ways to lessen my impact on our mother earth and bring me joy at the same time.

Here is the story of my progress. 

* * * * *

Here's a common sight at my house: the fridge is stocked with (clockwise starting at the left end of the top shelf)

water,milk and orange juice

a basket full of apples

eggs, jam, and milk in a frothing pitcher

a head of boston lettuce and a dish towel full of herbs

cheese 

and my favorite

an assortment of leftovers.

Eggplant curry and lots of rice.

A turkey tomato sauce (originally served over cauliflower gnocchi but that was quickly devoured.)

Whole wheat pizza dough.

For my money, home cooking only gets better with age and I am only too happy to plan my breakfast and lunch menu around leftovers from dinner. Back in the old days, my daughters used to help me polish off these delicious tidbits but now, for the most part, they are mine, all mine. 

But here's whats new. 

Glass storage containers.

Gone are the plastic Glad food storage containers I used by the dozens, and even the old school Rubbermaid from back in the twentieth century. 

Whether they were causing me harm or not, I let them all go and ushered in a new era with a set of glass storage containers. 

I love them... 

Now if we could only find an alternative to the plastic lids. 

Shop this Pyrex 18-piece set here.

* * * * *

Read on about my efforts to help protect our planet

Reusable Shopping Bags

Biodegradable Toothbrushes

Eliminating Plastic Food Packaging

Bar Soap
Glass Food Storage
Stainless Steel Straws
Supporting Innovation

Chicago: Italian Village

What started out as a week's visit to my second-born in Columbus, Ohio, 

somehow turned into a road trip to Chicago. 

Not only did we squeeze an amazing amount of sightseeing into forty-eight hours, 

but we stayed a mere block away from my former office and retraced 

the streets and sights of my life in Chicago 

all those many years ago. 

* * * * *

When the Major League Baseball playoffs began on October 4, 2018, I was introduced to a commercial that played dozens of times over the next few weeks. I can't even tell you what product it was attempting to sell, but the music hit me deep in my soul. 

When a moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie
That's amore

When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine
That's amore

Now, I am not particularly fond of that old Dean Martin ditty. It kind of annoys me, to be honest.

But every single time I heard those lyrics, I was transported back to the Italian Village restaurant in Chicago. 

* * * * *

Way back in the day, when I lived the young professional life in Chicago, I often took swanky lunches. Sometimes we'd go as a client service team, either paying our own way or hoping our high-paid partner would pick up the bill. But more often than not, these were recruit lunches. During the late fall and on through winter, a steady stream of college applicants would flow through our offices, getting a first-hand look at the wonderful world of public accounting. One of the highlights of the day for the recruit was to relax at lunch with a couple of us who were just a few years into our careers, and ask us all the questions that they were not comfortable asking of the higher ups.

Just a half block up Monroe Street from our offices, west of Dearborn, Italian Village was one of my favorite swanky lunch destinations. The service was fast, the food was good. But the decor. The decor was just plain magic and I spent many a meal at this restaurant staring in wonderment around the room. 

As the name not so subtly suggests, the dining room was fashioned as an Italian village. But here's the twist; the main part of the floor was set up as though it was the courtyard of an Italian village. Around the perimeter of the room were a series of smaller rooms, with just a table or two inside, that were decorated to look like buildings and balconies around the courtyard. Twinkle lights and street lamps lit up the dark room and its deep blue ceiling; artificial greenery hung here and there, and the effect was purely enchanting. 

* * * * *

As I listened to that commercial play over and over again, night after night of the baseball playoffs, I thought about that fantastical restaurant. I hadn't been there for over thirty years. And I wondered, over and over again, when will I ever get a chance to go back to Italian Village?

Little did I know how soon my dream would come true. 

On October 25, the third night of the 2018 World Series, I ate dinner at Italian Village 

^ On many a cold winter morning as I hiked from the train station to my office, this sign brought me great joy as an indication that I had almost finished my trek and was about to finally get warm again.  And on many a hot summer morning, I was just as excited to get to the air conditioning. 

[source]

^ The interior was exactly, perfectly, precisely the same. I was overjoyed.

^I went with the eggplant parmigiana which was always one of my favorites and as far as I can remember, it tasted exactly the same. My daughter's mushroom risotto was also delicious, though we could barely eat even half of these massive portions. 

^ This is me with all my Italian Village dreams come true. Everything was perfect.

Just as I'd remembered. 

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling
And you'll sing "Vita bella"

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay
Like a gay tarantella

* * * * *

Read more stories about my long overdue reunion with the city with big shoulders:

The Bean

The Gorilla And The Flamingo

Italian Village
Doughnut Vault
Wells Street Bridge
The Rookery
Flamingo Again
Wabash Arts Corridor
The Berghoff
Glossier Pop-Up

Chicago: Wells Street Bridge

What started out as a week's visit to my second-born in Columbus, Ohio, 

somehow turned into a road trip to Chicago. 

Not only did we squeeze an amazing amount of sightseeing into forty-eight hours, 
but we stayed a mere block away from my former office and retraced 
the streets and sights of my life in Chicago 
all those many years ago. 

Fueled by doughnuts and ready to take on a busy day of exploring, my daughter and I headed back toward the Loop. We paused, as sightseers and photography enthusiasts often do, on the Franklin Street Bridge to look east. 

Perfectly framed by the Chicogo River and two long rows of towers, the double decker bridge charms the eye with a delightful look back into history. The Wells Street Bridge was built in 1922 and now, almost a hundred years later, still dutifully carries a never-ending stream of car traffic on its lower deck, and elevated trains up top. 

We stood in the middle of the bridge, whipped by autumn winds, and drank in the scene. As the trains clickety-clacked back and forth over the water, we lifted our various cameras and snapped breathlessly away, hoping against hope that we could somehow capture the magic of this particular moment in time. 

A yellow water taxi zoomed downstream. At first, I found the intrusion irritating, a wrinkle in time, disturbing the century-old vibe I was trying to capture. Then I broadened my gaze and laughed at my self. Surely the water taxi couldn't do anything worse than the hulking skyscrapers to remind me of the twenty-first century.

A man stood on the bridge near us, to our right. He smiled at us as he adjusted his tripod, checked his settings and waited for the next L train to shuffle by. My daughter and I traded her DSLR back and forth, pulled Instax cameras out of one pocket as we pushed our cell phones into another, and exchanged small talk with him. Kindred spirits. 

After fifteen or twenty minutes, our fingers had iced over and surely we had captured at least a few decent shots out of the dozens we had taken. So we stowed our gear, tucked our hands deep into our pockets, and walked on. 

* * * * *

Read more stories about my long overdue reunion with the city with big shoulders:

The Bean

The Gorilla And The Flamingo

Italian Village
Doughnut Vault
Wells Street Bridge
The Rookery
Flamingo Again
Wabash Arts Corridor
The Berghoff
Glossier Pop-Up