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Saturday, June 23, 2001
Sandy and I beat the same drum on authenticity, whether we are talking about service, decor or food.
A few months ago, the Dearborn Diner opened downtown. This is what I wrote in my Reader rating: The Chatterbox Cafe, it's not, but Dearborn Diner strives to be, winding up as a decent approximation of the old-time corner diner. And I am ambivalent about this. All the new furnishings are nicely polished and very attractive, but the setting feels a little synthetic. A good diner has grease on the walls and rips in the seats. The chairs should wobble. To flush, the toilets should require a particular jiggle known only to regulars.
But at Dearborn Diner, everything is just right, and that felt wrong. Our black-clad waiter had shoulder-length hair and a trim goatee, an appearance unbecoming such a joint. He was dreadfully polite. On the bright side, there's nothing about the Double-D that's "fake rustic," such as what one finds at Yesterday's or TGIFriday's. I'd much rather Dearborn Diner season for a few decades and develop its stains and idiosyncracies, rather than try to pull them from a kit.
The Diner charges $7.95 for chicken and dumplings, so it will be years before I go back, but I can't wait to see what grime accumulates.
The experience is much different at Potbelly Sandwich Works, which I finally tried this week. I'd heard nothing but raves about Potbelly, and, yes, my sandwich was delicious. But I was really turned off by the decor, which included antiques, clever hand-painted signs and ersatz cabinetry with that special worn look -- just the efffluvia I'd relish in an established neighborhood joint, but not in a downtown franchise open less than a year.
I think Sandy would agree that our knick-knacks should be authentic, that we should show no grime before its time.
But ...
Potbelly is a hit! People love fakery! People love crazy crap on the walls! It's like the lame people who pay $25 at Abercrombie and Fitch for a "weathered" T-shirt instead of paying $8 for a shirt at Sears and weathering it themselves. They have little regard, it would seem, for authenticity. People merely want the illusion of worn cabinetry and weathered shirts, just as the people at Disneyworld merely want the illusion of happiness. Walt Disney, after all, did not get rich playing to our appetites for sincerity.
So, at what cost are we authentic? If a consultant advises us that a fake fishing pole would really give our place the neighborhood charm we're after, will we put one up? What if flimflam is the only way we make it to that impossible fifth anniversary?
In short: Have we no sham?
posted by Luke Seemann at 8:39 PM | Comment?
Friday, June 22, 2001
There are three ways to earn the coin we'll need for our endeavor. There is the slow, non-fun way, which is to earn it. There is the Chicago way, which is to steal it. And there is the American way, which is to fall into it like Alice into Wonderland.
Knowing this and being good Americans, we've been kind to our older relatives. Once a month I invest a dollar in Illinois' schools. And for more than a year, Sandy has been trying to get to Regis' Hot Seat.
This morning I did my part by trying out for "The Weakest Link." It began much like my last game show audition: About 120 of us would-be Weaklings were herded into a room at the Hyatt, where we filled out a brief questionaire that asked, among other things, what was so interesting about us. Number Two on my list, between my White House internship and my eating 14 bratwurst at once, was my ambition to run a restaurant. (Don't ask what numbers Four and Five were: I had an SAT flashback and cribbed off my neighbors. It was that or cite my Scrabble rating. Yawn.)
Next, the host (Whose name was Seven. "You're not a number," I muttered. "You're a free man!") had us stand one-by-one and give our names and occupations. The only thing more insufferable than being in a room of 120 laid-off dot-com workers and unemployed actors is listening to 120 laid-off dot-com workers and unemployed actors trying to be witty. Oh, the humanity! Oh, the inanity! Of course, I'd read up on what producers were looking for, so I, too, tried to show some -- ugh -- attitude. "Call me Luke. I'm a newspaper designer. That means that when you die, I decide how big your headline will be." Although, yes, helping decide whether John Lee Hooker or Carroll O'Connor gets bigger play is one of my job's perks, it's nothing I puff my chest over, and I hated getting snotty about it for the sake of -- ugh -- attitude.
An hour later, the test. I did pretty well, even on the girly questions, such as knowing the title to "The Bridges of Madison County." And I had no idea what the bangers in "bangers and mash" were -- I had finished "High Fidelity" this very morning, so I knew all about "bitters" and "loo rolls" -- but I guessed right with sausages. Of the 20 questions, I was certain of 17.
Nonetheless, when Seven returned with the graded tests, I was not among the 21 to advance. Apparently, cruel show that it is, "The Weakest Link" seeks more than mastery of trivia; it demands semblances of personality and good looks to boot. Just as with dating, my 1-for-3 was two too few.
Neither surprised nor crestfallen at the rejection -- again, just as with dating -- I left the Hyatt, headed north to Yum Yum Donuts and then back downtown to work, to continue the march toward our restaurant -- the slow, non-fun way.
posted by Luke Seemann at 6:22 PM | Comment?
Let's talk a minute about authenticity. I recently spent an extended weekend down in Disneyworld, where fantasy rules all. Walking around the parks -- and even the streets of Orlando -- is like a stroll through the "city" of The Truman Show. The homes, the trees, the flowers, probably even the people, are pre-fabricated for your enjoyment. Nothing is natural. It's enough to make you want to retch. I was only down there to visit a friend who works for Disney, and he got us all into the parks for free. If I had to plunk down the cash to voluntarily subject myself to this junk, I'd have to seriously rethink my financial prudence.
There were little bits here and there that allowed me to reclaim my sanity. Places where the conversation I had with a "cast member" wasn't a trite, pre-scripted dialogue, but rather something sincere. One such place was a restaurant called Jiko. Most restaurants in the 'World are fast food joints dressed up in the decor of the surrounding themed area, but this one was different. Located in Animal Kingdom, Jiko serves "neuvo-African cuisine." (What's that mean? Traditional African meals updated for our wussy American palettes.) The waiter was intelligent, knowledgeable about both the food and wine menus, and quite personable. And my monkfish dinner was like nothing I'd have before. This was a place that really took its job seriously. And in contrast with the show that's incessantly going on around it, Jiko was a nice distraction.
I hope that with our own restaurant, we'll be able to offer a haven from the chaos that people constantly find around them. In the case of Disneyworld, chaos means dealing with screaming kids and the endless bombardment of happy, smiley Disney. In the case of Chicago, chaos is the grind of real life. I've said before that we want our waiters to be sincere. More than that, I realize now, we want them to be authentic. Their conversations need to be real, not an act. They, and we as owners, need to believe in the mission of our restaurant. And we need to show it.
If anyone has any questions about what that mission is, we can send them to this blog. I think it maps it out pretty damn clearly.
posted by sandor weisz at 3:54 PM | Comment?
Wednesday, June 20, 2001
Per the recommendation of Roadfood.com, I had breakfast yesterday at St. Louis' O.T. Hodge Chili Parlor. I went with "Eggs in the Sauce," a variant of the region's famous Slinger.
It was a small place, maybe 15 tables plus five spots at the counter, and only two employees were on duty: a brassy waitress and a calloused cook. Nonetheless, it employed a computerized point-of-sale system, which seemed incongruous for such a hole-in-the-wall with its parking lot full of pick-up trucks. It also didn't work so well. In theory, the waitress would enter the order on a touchscreen and, six feet away, a printer would spit out the order to the cook. In practice, there were several exchanges like the following:
"You got my four-stack yet?"
"What four-stack?"
"Ah entered it. Di'n't you get mah ticket?"
"Nope. One four-stack, comin' up."
If we conclude that the Chicago restaurant market is too crowded for us, we could do a lot worse than St. Louis. It seemed like a very comfortable, laid-back place. I especially liked my hostel's neighborhood, Soulard, which was clean, quiet and interesting without being gentrified or bohemian. This was about a mile from downtown, yet there wasn't a Starbucks in sight. Chicago has nothing like it. The closest equivalent would be the Gold Coast, minus all the money, people and traffic, and with about half the density.
Judging from the hour I spent downtown searching for dinner and the bar food I ended up having, the city has unmet needs, though I wish I could have stayed for one more meal. I would have had it at the Eat Rite Diner, where six hamburgers sets you back $3.90 and coffee is only 35 cents. 35 cents!
posted by Luke Seemann at 10:32 AM | Comment?
Monday, June 18, 2001
If there's one thing about cooking that I know for sure, it's this: Cooking is always so much more enjoyable when you're wearing an apron.
posted by sandor weisz at 11:58 PM | Comment?
Sunday, June 17, 2001
Just a few days after I posted thoughts on fun and danger, the Tribune Magazine has a story on adventure dining: [T]he flounder filleted live at Heat has no choice but to recline on its bed of ice, flapping pathetically as some adventure diner dips chunks of its belly meat into lemon/soy ponzu. One feels compelled to muffle a heartfelt: Ick.
Ick, oddly enough, sells. Diners with fortitude can order tofu so odorous it's been outlawed at certain strip malls. Shrimp strangled before their eyes. Gorgonzola ice cream. Live fish, which, perhaps not coincidentally, transliterates from the Japanese iki-zukuri.
The sparse drama of the dish requires a certain bare-chested bravado generally lacking in the restaurant experience. For diners weary of being cooked for and served to, for those disdainful of jet-imported cheeses, unmoved by strawberries marinated three months in kirsch, eating out has tarnished. Who's impressed by crab-filled maki, if it's on sale at the Jewel? Adventure dining, like a cell-phone-and-Sherpa-included ascent of Everest, offers bragging rights, for a price. Minus the inconvenience of learning to rappel. Or fish. Or build a fire. Survival, in short, on a plate.
posted by Luke Seemann at 1:42 PM | Comment?
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