Lady T

Are you folks at least being paid correctly and promptly now...?

No clue, actually. From the slightly-cooked flavor and texture of the cheese, I would guess that heat is involved in some way: a thin slice of mozzarella is wrapped around a sphere of ice, perhaps, which then melts away in a brief, carefully calculated microwave or oven stint, and leaves the little balloon to be injected with the tomato foam. That's my straight-out-of-the-box guess, but I truly don't know. I doubt chefg's going to give up the secret on that one, either...I can only testify that it tastes mighty fine.

No. No. Nooooo!

Huh? What?! You're kidding, right? I think someone needs to give mamster a medal!

Ah. This is wonderful news! I can hardly wait to get back out to NYC to come visit!

I'm just pleased (or is that maybe jealous?) as all hell that there are in fact people who have their lives sufficiently organized that they eat breakfast! It's going to be neat to watch how you integrate your professional and traveling schedules with mealtimes and gourmet interests.

Thoroughly trayf rather than confusing, I'd say. But very tasty, and a comfort to my Episcopal spirit on a hard-working day. And I did brush my teeth before going from IHOP to the shul, so that I wouldn't offend the observant with the smell of pork on my breath on a yontif. A sweet year to you too, jackal10, full of good health, happiness, and prosperity.

Well, dagnab it, being wicked ought to be less exhausting, then... Friday night fell out about precisely the way I conjectured: arrived at synagogue minus dinner -- in pelting rain, barely on time but most of singing colleagues even later! -- to watch conductor's well-planned rehearsal get disrupted utterly by well-meaning hazzan (cantor) wanting to go over his stuff, change selections which then needed woodshedding to ensure quality in the service, all that sort of thing. Gah. Service went off with barely a hitch; go figure. There must be a corps of guardian angels whose sole occupation at this time of year is to keep occasions like this one out of the merde in which they actually deserve to land. Saturday morning's outing started with an inhaled carton of yogurt at 7 a.m and continued through the first Rosh Day service (our segment of which ended about 1:30). After this, I crawled a short distance away along Sheridan Road to Leona's, where I was spoiled rotten by kindly waitstaff in the process of ordering a 12" traditional thin-crust pizza (green peppers, sausage, mushrooms, onions, massive quantities of garlic, extra cheese), eating half of it, and drinking two glasses of decent Ruffino Chianti therewith. Much better. On Sunday I arrived at IHOP around 7:50 a.m. for breakfast with my choral colleagues, which turned into an unscheduled seminar on real estate acquisition and improvement. Education is where it happens, I guess...and I got it virtually free, over my two eggs over easy, large orange juice, crisp bacon (still thinking of you, bergerka!), and hash browns. Coffee was a must. It was a long service, but went well -- our angel was apparently working weekend overtime. At home that afternoon, after a nap and some downtime watching NASCAR and chatting on the phone with longtime friends, I poured a King Estate Pinot Noir and prepared a plate of whole wheat spaghettini, just with fresh-ground pepper, grated 3-year Parmesan, and a nubbin of butter. With this I cut up a tomato or so over which I fluffed a chiffonade of basil. This I followed with the last of the now very off-season asparagus as a salad course -- some knitting-needle-thin specimens I'd gotten for a horrifying price at Whole Foods the previous week because I hadn't been able to resist -- with home-made balsamico vinaigrette. The fridge and kitchen shelves are emptying out nicely prior to the upcoming move to Evanston, and I look forward to doing a bit of nest-feathering once the keys to the new condo are in my hands at the closing this coming Friday. I may not have chairs to sit in or a bed to sleep in next Saturday, but by damn I will have my pasta and my favorite Carnaroli rice on the shelves and a fridge full of fresh herbs in glasses of water, unsalted butter and organic produce! Gad. Am I an eGulleteer or what? Here endeth Lady T's week, on Monday where it started. Who's next?

Ahh lunch: hot broccoli and cheese soup, small salad, and Diet Pepsi. More substantial than lunch might otherwise be, since the choir call for Erev Rosh Hashonah is 6 p.m. for the 7:30 service, and it's just about going to take that long to get from the office at 5 p.m. to the shul,, door-to-door, between intermittent rain and Cubs traffic. (O Almighty and Eternal, You Who Wear Light As A Garment: Don't you dare rain the Cubs out before they win! Thank you kindly. Omeyn.) Ain't no dinner tonight, not until homecoming at 9:30 or 10 p.m., by which time my stomach will be too tired to growl and I will simply rearrange the tunes in the book for tomorrow's half-day singfest and crawl into bed. Do I owe you guys Saturday and Sunday too, by the way, or does the shift change after five days? Somebody let me know... L'shanah tovah to all who celebrate at this time!

Risotto, with wild mushrooms, and a handful of spinach tossed in to wilt at the end. Pork tenderloin, rubbed with salt and pepper and thyme, stuffed with prunes and apricots marinated overnight in cognac, and roasted. Yeah...brussels sprouts. Little ones, halved and steamed, and buttered. Chicken thighs and thinly sliced scallions, sauteed with white wine and tarragon. Steamed green beans on the side. Slab of ham, sprinkled with dry mustard, allspice, pepper, and brown sugar, baked in milk to cover. (Astonishingly trayf, on this Erev Rash Hashonah; on the other hand, astonishingly good.) Son of a gun: I'm more ready than I thought I was for this season.

Rent-A-Yenta...I may check into that. If they're appropriately insured and bonded, that may be a worthwhile investment, actually. Just to have someone who could take delivery at the condo of sundry things I purchase -- rather than for me to have to lug them home and then lug them personally to Evanston -- would be a mighty time/labor/money saver. I think R-A-Y does have a Chicago area outlet, too. Thanks for the idea, Toliver! Food. Ah yes: I got the 5:45 up to Evanston last night, only to arrive at Prairie Joe's at 6:05 to learn that my beloved mushroom dobladitas weren't on the menu. Nuts. (None of those either.) But with bergerka's remark about crisp bacon lurking in the back of my mind, well -- I ordered a burger. Cheeseburger, actually. With crisp bacon. Prairie Joe's does 'em pretty well, too, along with fine brown crisp fries, all served piping hot. Who says eGullet doesn't have an impact? Wonderfully, we observe the civilized custom of Friday Morning Food at our office: we all take turns making/bringing/buying breakfast for the firm. Breakfast today, therefore, is a selection of walnut or prune pastries; I had a piece of each with my tea, and I am content.

Nero: Yep. Bought a condo a couple of blocks from downtown Evanston. Moving the zillions of books, on my schedule, is gonna be a 24-karat b*tch and a half. I need a manager. Or a housekeeper. Or possibly a spouse. Maggie notes correctly, however: I'm going to be living barely a half mile from Trio. Oh, my aching Visa card...I have a reeeeeeal strong hunch about where The Travelling Riot is going to want to hold its holiday revel, and it ain't a-gonna be about my cooking! And Bergerka: the fact that RAS is doing the Countess at all, after her own years of Susannas, is something I find curious, but welcome considering the sweetness of the voice -- which adds a lovely nuance to the character. "Dove sono" (and "Porgi amor" near the top of Act I, for that matter) had a beautiful float I associate with lyric sopranos, but still enough point to punch through and hold her place in the big ensemble work at the end. I wonder if she's angling for Rosenkavalier nobility next; wouldn't that be a Marschallin to relish, the way the instrument is developing? Lunch? Oh. Right. Food. There was some, wasn't there, back around 1 p.m...a sort of B-flat chicken salad sandwich, as I recall, but actually I'm thinking about the mushroom dobladitas at Prairie Joe's up on Central Street not far from tonight's church gig. And it's 5:09 now, and the train's at 5:45. Gotta go now, folks...

I and my bag will depart work at noon on Friday the 17th, or whatever hour is needful, to rendezvous with the Maggie and HH for the trip. A quick cell-phone call to the desk when the Warrenville Two are approaching should allow me to run downstairs and leap into the back seat without risk of a traffic ticket. If I'm really lucky, I'll be able to do this without my favorite micromanager clinging to my ankle all the way down the stairs, crying, "Sue -- Sue -- just one more revision...!"

Um. I was avoiding that, actually, Mags. Warning: You are in danger of a prolonged, literally operatic rant. Skip to next entry, properly on-topic and involving food and wine, unless you can take it when divas unload. Ahem. Harumph. DAMMITALL!! WHY, when Chicago has a massive 3,700 seat opera house, does Lyric Opera's management insist on casting voices that can only adequately fill a thousand-seat hall?! The voices are beautiful, the diction is frequently crisp and eloquent, and the interpretations are mostly elegant and intelligent -- but we can't hear them distinctly. WHY, when Lyric Opera has a superb professional orchestra capable of observing the entire dynamic scale from barely-thinking-loud quiet to blow-the-roof-off-earsplitting loud, do conductors (that was you, last night, Sir Andrew Oblivious!) insist on leaning on the loud end of the meter and forcing singers to shout to be heard at all -- warping voices out of pitch in the process? (In the case of Ildebrando D'Arcangelo, last night's Figaro, it may have been what blew him out entirely: his cover had to do the last act for him!) WHY, when a singer indicates throughout the rehearsal period that they need a slightly faster tempo in order to carry a long elegant line without needing an oxygen tank, do conductors ignore the need and drag the line into extinction? (That one's to your address, too, Sir Andrew, specifically in "Dove sono", where to my ear, you virtually sabotaged Ruth Ann Swenson's beautifully thought-out hard work.) What were you thinking?!? DAMMITALL!! There. Thank you. I feel much better. We now return to erudite and civilized discussions of the world's cuisines.

Ahhh, Berghoff's. Currently under some sort of renovation, it takes a certain amount of sign-reading just to get into the place and find the maitre station to get seated. Once that's done, however, the people-watching is at least as much fun as the food. It was just (!) an opera-night crowd last night, after all: the real pre-show mayhem starts tomorrow, when the Chicago Symphony and Lyric start running subscription shows almost simultaneously (Lyric at 7:30, and CSO at 8), and a sizable proportion of the 5,800 or so customers coming to those houses converge on the Loop to eat. You can see 'em all at Berghoff's: Catholic clergy in decorous collars and black suits, downing five a la carte courses and visibly absorbing color and vivacity with the food and wine; shaggy young things in jeans carrying Scary Black Bags fully as loaded as my own, eating cheaply as possible, minutely dissecting Ruth Ann Swenson's portrayal of Mozart's Countess and practically wearing labels bellowing "I Am A Student Of Voice"; sleek young creatures weighing approximately 94 pounds (3 pounds of which are heirloom pearls) on the arms of Armani-suited Masters of The Universe; and dodging their way among all our tables at top speed with no time for nicety so ever, the black-coated waiters and maroon-coated bus staff. I opted for a glass of Duboeuf Merlot, to go with the wonderful rye bread (the butter was soft enough to spread, for a wonder; usually comes frozen hard as rock!) prior to the nice tender tournedos of beef; these always come with a wonderful crumb-garlic-butter-herb (thyme and parsley as major components) topping I've been trying to duplicate for years. I also had the German fried potatoes (that's hash browns to us Midwesterners, except that the potatoes are thinly sliced into rounds on a mandoline rather than chunked, chopped, or riced) and the immortal creamed spinach, without periodic doses of which I get cranky (the recipe has been published a number of times, though, and it's simple enough to do well at home). Coffee and a generous, blazing-hot chunk of apple strudel followed. Total tariff with tip: $38.00. Beat that, Peter Luger's... So then: it's Thursday morning, and I dodged out the door yet again without eating anything, but am sitting here with a cup of Irish Breakfast tea and honey, and the working universe is more or less under control for the moment. Tonight I'm Episcopal from 7:30 to 9; where shall I take you all to eat before rehearsal?

Your bosses spend the extra $ for that? Lucky man, and lucky colleagues too!

Lunch is turning out to be not that bad a haul, actually: rare roast beef piled commendably high on olive bread, with tomato and lettuce, along with penne pasta salad with tomatoes and artichoke bits, generic fruit salad (cut-up pineapple [almost certainly canned], cantaloupe, honeydew, and red grapes), and a large peanut-butter cookie with recognizable bits of nuts, tasting pretty fresh. Diet Pepsi washes down crumbs well. Thank you, Corner Bakery. Likewise, thank you, my clients/bosses. The original plan was to eat on the cheap before decamping to my seat for tonight's Figaro performance at Lyric Opera (Okay, full disclosure: I'm a subscriber. Decided years ago that anybody active in the arts should be supporting the arts too. I regret it every year for five minutes while I'm writing the check for the annually-escalating cost, then congratulate myself smugly while hearing the performances through the following fall and winter.). Now that I'm taking umpty-hundred eGulletarians along with me through the week, though, I think the evening deserves Berghoff's; haven't been there in a while, and hey, it's October: wonder if they still hire in the cheesy lederhosen-and-accordion trio to yodel at the customers for Oktoberfest? This could be more fun -- or more funny -- than usual. To be continued.

Almost, but not quite, Bruce. Lunch today will be paid for by the company (*genuflects in general direction of partners' offices*), because a presentation on tempered glass is going to be given to add to the architects' continuing-education credits -- I'm waiting for the setup to be complete before I slither in with the crowd to find out what the Corner Bakery hath wrought for us all. There may in fact be potato chips in my future. I'll let y'all know shortly.

*Bows politely.* Exit Lady T, laughing.

You wouldn't regret it, joiei. There are also shorter (and less costly!) menus available -- bet you could see those on Trio's website, or at least request them. Maggie: Flatterer. You know I get a massive kick out of doing this... Nero: May I adopt your comment for my next signature line?

Heh. You do the guilt trip almost as well as my own Mom did, Bruce. Thing is, though, Mom died in January 1976; if she got a day pass from Wherever She Is to come back to cook for me, I'd be there. Trust me. I wouldn't dare be anywhere else. Also I'd be there for the lecture on how I arrange my kitchen (I'm left-handed; she wasn't), and the critique of the art on my walls (now packed away for the upcoming move to Evanston in October), and some pointed commentary about the contents of my fridge, and the state of my shelves ("Don't you have any canned soups? They're so handy." "Um, no, Mom. I make soup from scratch most times...") I regret to say, bergerka, that I couldn't face the chocolate-chip pancakes with the specter of three hours of tetchy a cappella singing in Hebrew looming thereafter; can't support consistent sound with that much of a load on my innards, however much of a comfort to my spirit it would've been. What happened at IHOP was a big 12-ounce orange juice, two eggs over easy, two strips of bacon done as crisply as I wanted for once, two pieces of rye toast done as lightly as I requested (for once!), and surprisingly decent and decently hot hash browns. Also I got a tall server with a ponytail who called me "sweetie." (I take my compliments where I get 'em, I do.) I tipped him well. The household of eGullet will, however, note that I managed to inhale a container of Dannon peach yogurt on the way out the door this morning. I did get a breakfast, if still not of the fix-it-sit-down-eat-it-and-clean-up variety. I expect to hear applause. Um. The sound of one hand clapping, maybe? Okay. All right. I expect to not hear catcalls, anyway. Later, for lunch.

Not if I don't get outta here fast: it's 5:30 already, and rehearsal's at seven! *Closes down computer. Leaps over partition and runs screaming for Lake View neighborhood.*

"Trio? For heaven's sake, why on earth would I go THERE?! The guy's so far 'out there' I can't find him with a radio telescope!" Well...there's no way to complain that that quote was taken out of context or misunderstood. It's mine. I said it. Recently, even. When Bruce Schneier, a brother eGulletarian, wound up having to give up a reservation for this past Friday at the fabled kitchen table, however, I decided: I don't know the story until I go on up to Evanston and, well, EAT the story. So I have done. Pass the Dijon mustard, please, and settle in for a long read: I have some words to eat. The menu and wine list for the first fourteen courses, with commentaries, herewith: Amuses (accompanied by Montaudon "Grande Rose" Champagne): * Watermelon ice inside tomato/juniper aspic (refreshing); * Pacific sea urchin, frozen banana, parsnip milk, presented under puffed rice (crunchy, that last; a tiny twang of sea salt somewhere in the dish brings out the brut in the Champagne superbly) * Spice water (water with pepper, star anise, hazelnut foam on top, touch of truffle oil; to be chugged in one draft. Truffle aroma overwhelms, though nicely) First white wine courses (accompanied by Cusumano "Cubia", 2001, from Sicily): * Poached free-range hen egg, with nasturtium leaves and flower petals, from Trio's garden. (Exquisite.) * The famed "black truffle explosion" -- a little raviolo, packing a major punch of truffle essence/oil/reduction/sauce inside; to be taken in one bite. (Wow. I see: the spice water set me up for that...!) * A stem of angelica, still green and leafy, injected with apple puree (to be sucked out of the stem, while bruising same with teeth to get the combined tastes. Worked fine once somebody remembered to inject the branch I got -- a moment of unintentional comedy.) The next, accompanied by a Muscat-ish 2000 Boutari -- a Greek wine, and one I never have had before: * A mozzarella "balloon" (I'd love to know how that's done!) filled with tomato foam, garnished with peeled heirloom tomatoes of different colors and flavors, cut in simple geometrics and presented with basil and burnet. (This course worked for me, in a way the previous one with the angelica didn't. It may be personal, as this was a course I could eat without being given instructions as to how. It should be noted that bread appeared with this course, along with butter which was described to me as coming from someone in New England who owns four cows and occasionally forwards pictures of the cows to the restaurants where she supplies the butter. I conclude that my leg is being pulled. Nicely.) Three red wine courses next (accompanied by 2000 WillaKenzie Estate Pinot Meunier): * Poached loin of lamb, over bitter orange and artichoke puree, with flowers and spices strewn over. Presented with a glass of lamb consomme, containing all the flavors on the plate, to be savored separately from the plate. (Superb intersection of orange and artichoke, and miraculously tender, aromatic lamb. I wonder which would be considered the 'deconstruction': the beautifully presented plate of food with all the elements arranged, or the compact little shot-glass of consomme, with all the flavors recognizable only when I shut my eyes?) * A half-inch-by-half-inch speck of rice paper spread with intense, tomatoey essence, sporting some extreme oregano flavor: pizza, in other words. (This is presented impaled on a pin, which is anchored in a thin layer of wax at the bottom of a bowl. Fun.) Accompanied by 1998 Cantina Santaoli "Shardana": * Cap of prime beef, with parsley root and leaf, over peanuts both whole and ground. Presented with sassafras 'aroma': a hot rock onto which sassafras powder is spooned once the plate is in place in front of the diner. (That, fussy as it sounds, brought the dish into closer harmony with the peppery/spicy wine. Nice touch.) * The famous "cheese and cracker": a dainty little brown pastry pillow with melted cheese inside, to be enjoyed in one fine swift savory chomp. (I'd have liked this better if it hadn't been presented at the end of a long, slim, napkin-covered ruler-shaped slab. It's funny, but a touch disconcerting, to have someone poking food at me from a distance with a stick before I'm even drunk enough to begin singing, throwing things, or dancing on the table.) * A salad "snow" -- the juices of spinach and arugula, plus cabernet vinegar and salt and pepper, all frozen to a granita and presented in an elegant little round in a tiny bowl. A dessert course (accompanied by 1999 Bechtolsheimer Petersberg Beerenauslese): * Foie gras, "pushed", over crabapple and cider elements (This was described to me as a 'first dessert'; it locates for me, within the structure of the meal progression, rather as a transitional element, even with the Beerenauslese sweetness.). Accompanied by Mastroberardino "Antheres"(a fortified wine, extremely powerful and viscous, almost medicinal): * A 'soda' made of mountain huckleberries, accompanied by 5 gelees (including an intriguing smoke/salt gelee which was easily the most fascinating contrast with the intense Antheres and the richly sweet berry soda). Do you see it, folks? There isn't a non-classical element in this meal! Concentrate on the foods themselves, on the flavors as they intersect with the wines, and the succession of tastes is one they'd recognize as being well within the canon of French menu design at Daniel, or ADNY, or Guy Savoy. The French Laundry influence is here and kicking serious culinary tail. Back tomorrow with the second succession. That's right: this is only half the meal, and there's more to come...

Bless you for that thought, Bruce...but I'm not sure I could handle the fallout once the rest of my office sees croissants and jam and smoked salmon and serious imported coffee and who-knows-what-else arriving every morning! Were you planning on feeding twenty architects with starving souls as well? And where would I FedEx the payment?