My name is Adam and I am an aspiring gourmet, limited in my pursuit by factors that include: a. budget; b. food knoweldge; and c. friends with limited pallettes.
No matter. Challenges are opportunities for us to shine: just ask Mary Lou Retton.
My trip to Chicago was a last-minute gesture, planned to celebrate my friend Alex's birthday. She moved to Chicago from Atlanta (where I live and go to school) to pursue a career in improv comedy. For many, this may seem a simple pipe dream, but Alex is already in The Second City conservatory group. She's 10 steps away from being the next John Belushi. Except, of course, skinnier, healthier, and prettier.
I had first heard about Charlie Trotter's on, of all places, The Food Network. My least favorite show, Food Finds (which is so bad they actually show it on Delta flights) had a segment featuring Charlie himself. Mark Silverstein (the host) (do you think he's Jewish?) told the camera that Charlie is known for his short temper and perfectionism. They showed a clip of Charlie looking angry and preparing a very sparse looking plate. If my life were a novel this be the foreshadowing.
The second source of my Charlie Trotter awareness (on the path to Charlie Trotter nirvana) was the cookbook section of Borders. His books were big, expensive, and incredibly impracticle. What stuck in my mind were the blurbs: (taking liberties, here): "Charlie Trotter is the most amazing chef in America. His restaurant scored 10 on the Michelin emissions test and 14 stars on the Mobil gas guide. One of the best restaurants in the world!"
Clearly, this was someone to reckon with. And since I was going to Chicago, I said to myself: "Self, why don't you call and try to make a reservation?"
So I found the number online and did just that. Well, it wasn't quite that easy. The snooty British woman seemed dubious at first and then put my name on a waiting list (this was a Monday). When she hadn't called by Thursday, I called back to check on my status. She put me on hold. She came back and said she had a table for two and that they would need my credit card number because if we cancelled they would charge us $200. This was serious business! I paused for a moment, reflecting on my life goals, dreams for the future, and whether or not my children (when I had them) would want to go to college. "Sir?" the woman snapped. "Yes, yes," I said and gave her my number.
[It should probably be stated here that despite my budget factor (see limiting factor a), this summer I saved some money working for a law firm in LA. And while my savings might impress a destitute wino or a bankrupt Ted Turner, they are by no means extensive. With that said, we now resume our previously scheduled review.]
PART ONE: THE ARRIVAL
Alex is of the socially conscious variety. For example, she insisted throughout my stay on taking this strange transporation device known as "The L." What is this L? I demanded. "It's the best public transportation in any city," she replied. I tended to disagree since my first experience on it involved a wild-eyed psychotic declaring that he was "learning to control his urge to kill." Alex rolled her eyes and we took a cab to Charlie Trotter's.
The outside entrance was surprising in that it looked like the outside entrance of any other generic city restaurant. A smiling outside host eyed us and said "Welcome!" pointing the way upstairs and probably thinking to himself "Who are these kids? Are they kidding?"
Once inside, I felt a sense of panic. Looking around, at the distinguished gray-haired couples on the couch, at a pair of diplomats (with strange headress) at the bar and the suspicious-looking host heading our way I thought to myself: "Oh shit. We're in over our head."
"Good evening," he said, his eyes asking: "Who the hell are you?"
"The name's *," I said, "we have a reservation."
"Oh yes, Mr. *," he said, pronouncing my asterick perfectly. "May I take the lady's coat or sweater or whatever that is?"
We all laughed as he took Alex's coat/sweater/whatever it was.
He showed us to the bar and presented us with a wine list. "You're both over 21, right?" he asked.
"Yes," we laughed. (I'm 24, she's 22).
Little did we know, this was the beginning of an aggressive campaign at Charlie Trotter's known as: THE SELL WINE CAMPAIGN.
When he came back we said we were fine for now and he seemed disappointed. This was a clever tactic--guilting the guests!--so I ordered us two bellinis. "Very good sir!" he said.
The bellinis were brought out (peach flavored), Alex and I clinked glasses, and the evening began.
Here's Alex with her bellini:
Before we had the chance to finish drinking them, though, the host announced our table was ready and we followed a woman carrying our bellinis on a tray up a very steep staircase.
PART TWO: THE TABLE, THE WAITER
We were seated at a table in between two couples who were eating silently from large plates with food so sparse I figured they were being punished for not ordering wine.
The atmosphere, in my mind, was tense. It felt almost like a police state. At one point, a waiter knocked over a bottle of wine and Alex and I--perhaps justifiably--feared for his life. His look of masked terror seemed to anticipate an elaborate punishment ceremony, like the orgy scene in "Eyes Wide Shut," with Charlie whacking him over the head with the spilled bottle.
"Good evening!" our waiter said, appearing out of nowhere. "Welcome to Charlie Trotter's. Have you dined with us before?"
His manner was kind but forced, like someone wound up a metal dial on his back before he tottered out to our table.
"We offer two menus: a grand menu and a vegetable menu."
He elaborated further and then, not surprisingly, asked: "Would you like to see our wine list?"
"No thanks," I said, "we're fine with our bellinis and water for now."
"Very good, sir," he said, a hint of contempt in his voice.
He tottered away and Alex and I read our choices. When he came back, we informed him that Alex would be having the Vegetable Menu and that I would be having the Grand Menu.
"Excellent," he said, taking our menus away.
A fork scraped across a dish somewhere and Alex and I eyed each other nervously, worrying over the meal to come.
PART THREE: THE MEAL
Since Alex kept her menu and I kept mine, I can only go into detail over what I ate. The sad truth is that nothing on this menu really sparkles in my brain as a wonderful taste memory. It's all very vague. In fact, I remember the pasta tasting menu at Babbo (my last great meal, several months ago) more vividly than this meal I ate last week. In any case, here's the breakdown:
AMUSE GUEULE
Don't really remember what that was.
BUTTERMILK POACHED POUSSIN BREAST WITH GOLDEN & STRIPED BEETS & TERRINE OF CONFIT LEG & SCALLIONS
Hmmm. I think this was moussy and fishy and relatively good. Definitely not memorable, though.
NEWFOUNDLAND OCEAN TROUT WITH PRESSED PORK BELLY, BRAISED LEEKS & ELEPHANT GARLIC EMULSION
I remember really enjoying the pork belly. The trout was good, but nothing stellar. It even teetered on the ordinary.
EUROPEAN TURBOT WITH RED CABBAGE, FALL CHESTNUTS, OXTAIL & CHANTERELLE MUSHROOMS
The mushrooms were delicious. The turbot blends with the trout in my brain.
SOUTH DAKOTA BISON TENDERLOIN WITH SALSIFY, ROASTED PORCINI MUSHROOMS, MINNESOTA WILD RICE & SAGE INFUSED VEAL REDUCTION
Here was my "main entree." As you can see by the picture, there wasn't a whole lot there and we were still hungry! But the meat was incredibly tender and good. This was the best dish by far.
HAWAIIAN PINEAPPLE & PRESERVED GINGER SORBET WITH MANNI OLIVE OIL & THYME
Good. A nice, interesting combination of flavors.
BOSC PEAR CRISP WITH SPICED WALNUTS, BIRCH ICE CREAM & ROSEMARY EMULSION
This would have been good, but the server (not ours) who placed this down gave mine to Alex and hers to me. So I was stuck with a curry ice cream profitterole which, actually, was enjoyable. And, to CT's credit, they also served us a flourless chocolate cake and a coconut custard.
MIGNARDISES
If these were the little tiny things on the plate, they were brilliant. A lot of fun to eat and a good end to the meal.
PART FOUR: A LITTLE MORE ON THE WAITER
Alex would yell at me if I didn't elaborate more on the waiter. There are two notable stories:
1. THE BATHROOM
Alex had to go to the bathroom and she asked the waiter where it was.
"If the lady would follow me," he said.
He directed her to the first bathroom and said: "This bathroom is occupied. If the lady would follow me to the next bathroom, we may try that one."
He tugged at the door and opened it.
"Ah. This bathroom is available. If the lady desires, there are fresh towels for drying your hands when you are through. Please place them in the hamper."
I'm sure I'm getting the details wrong, but Alex loved to imitate him on the cab ride back.
2. AME
After several attempts to sell us wine, the waiter had the gaul to come over a third time and say: "I am aware that neither of you desire wine this evening, but may I interest you in a glass of Ame? Ame is a refreshing herb-infused fruit beverage that comes in white, red, or rose?" Once again caving, I relented and ordered myself a glass. Alex said: "I'm fine with water."
PART FIVE: THE BILL AND ADAM'S ANGRY RANT
When the bill came, I was expecting it to be somewhere in the ballpark of $250. This, mind you, was infuriating anyway because of the lacklustre meal we'd experienced. It was fine, yes, nothing was unpleasant, but it was not in anyway sublime or earth-shattering or, even, lip-smacking good. There was not one dish that I craved any more of, or any dish that years from now I would harken back to with longing. (I still harken back to the pumpkin lune at Babbo).
The bill was $350. All that Ame added up, I suppose.
I felt a deep sense of shame as I read those numbers. This, to me, was embarassing. I wanted to show Alex--who was somewhat wary of the world of fine dining--that some meals were so otherworldly as to justify a great expense. Instead, what she got was a parody of fine dining. It was reminiscent of L.A. story--those little tiny carrots on those big white plates. And here, with the mud red carpet, the hoighty-toighty clientelle, the cartoonishly mechanical waiter was a confirmation of all that she suspected: in the us-them world of fine dining, she was still an us and this was the world of "them." I gave "them" my credit card and sighed.
PART SIX: CONCLUSION
It would be unfair to say that the evening was, in any way, a disaster. Upon leaving, a really kind host (different from the one before) took us on a tour of the kitchen and additional facilities. It was a nice touch and made us feel like we had experienced a cultural event: like we had dined somewhere important (which, I suppose, we had).
On our way out, I had him snap a picture of us on the steps outside:
He called us a cab and held the door open as we got in. Before he closed it, he gave me a look. I reached into my wallet and pulled out $3.
"Thank you sir," he said, "goodnight."
An appropos ending to a long, twisted evening.
THE END







