A few weekends ago I was lucky enough to attend the first of two sold out Pearl Jam shows at the United Center. I saw PJ live a long time ago (pre-9/11), but had never even been to a show at the United Center; it kind of goes against my hipster mantra. Casting those reservations aside, I met up with former co-worker and
Beovision marketing guru Shane Smith and his roommate, Brian, and we proceeded to park somewhere in the ghetto (ignoring the fact that you might get murdered or raped, it
is free). We then met up with 'The Pride of Davenport Courtesy of Low Expectations' Nick Swanson and his blushing bride at a nearby watering hole to have a few brewskies and a plate of tots before the show. As for the show itself, PJ delivered, breaking out the obscure ditties that even Jesus (an avowed Pearl Jam junkie) wouldn't recognize. The highlight had to be them breaking out 'Rats' for the encore. Double fist pump coupled with a single tear. Good times.
Not a week later, who comes storming into town but my mother, accompanied by her mustachioed beau, Mr. Ron Fuller. (Faint applause.) On Friday afternoon, we took in a game between the listless Cubs and the New York Metropolitans in the bleachers. Thankfully, the Cubs came out victorious thanks to an Alfonso Soriano 3-run donkey slap in the 8th inning. Heck, even if they had lost, that wasn't the point. Any time you are able to sit in the Wrigley Field bleachers and consume Chicago dogs, ballpark nachos and Old Style (or in Susan's case, blended vodka lemonades), unencumbered by the responsibilities of this cruel and unforgiving world, you can't really complain. Well, I suppose you
can complain if you're sitting at the end of the row and a bunch of guys with mustaches (not Ron) keep getting up every half inning and making you move your legs, but...deep breaths...I'll slowly sip my Old Style and shut my mouth.
On Friday night we went to the Greektown restaurant
Venus. Live entertainment, flaming cheese, baked lamb and unibrows. Good stuff, with Mom's Mousakas Tsoukas being a highlight. Is that a Tsoukas in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Wait, huh?
Saturday was filled with Katy's breakfast quiche and leisurely strolls around the neighborhood, before checking the parents into the Four Seasons. From there, the girls went shopping and the boys hit up the Diversey driving range and miniature golf course. Fuller sank an unprecedented 3 hole-in-ones on his way to a lopsided and embarrassing victory. And investigation is being conducted by the NAAPP (National American Association of Putt Putters) as of this writing.
For dinner we went to Gibson's Steakhouse. The place to see and be seen if you're a ballplayer, celebrity, past your prime cougar or
George Hamilton. But Lordy Lordy, Lyle's 40 if that steak isn't good. The filets were all top notch, the mushrooms were just short of psychedelic, the margaritas (oh yes I did) were bueno and the desserts
looked decadent...not that we saved any room. A great meal, but it was good to escape the scent of English Leather and hundred dollar bills afterwards and get some fresh air.
All in all a great two weeks. Katy's parents make the trek this weekend and we head to the South Side for a (gasp) Sox game. Sleeping with the enemy! Don't worry, I'll make out with them, but I will
not let them go all the way!
Look for more posts coming this week, including food pics (naturally) and my thoughts on impending fatherhood, should I be able to put them into words.
Susan and Ben pregame at Wrigley. 
Filet, mashed potatoes, mushrooms and bearnaise sauce at Gibsons.
Pearl Jam: A view from the rafters.
Half slab of Baby Back ribs at Smoke Daddy, 1804 W. Division. Smoked to perfection, with a choice of 3 sauces: original, sweet and smoky and mustard q. (Go with the latter two). Accompanied by smoke pit beans and a piece of cornbread that would make Fat Elvis smile. This was one of our favorite restaurants when we first moved to Chicago and has remained a smoky stalwart to this day. So good that you won't notice by the end of the meal, your shirt is unbuttoned and you have BBQ sauce in your chest hair. (This applies to women too.)
Short rib brulee, watermelon carpaccio, cauliflower dauphinoise and kamastuna at Bonsoiree, 2728 W. Armitage, taken on my camera phone. We had heard the foodies rave about this place for ages, claiming that it was Charlie Trotter's quality on half the budget, so we finally took the plunge a few weeks ago. We were not disappointed. This is special occasion dining at it's mouth watering best. With it's scatter shot locale and small and intimate dining space, this one really does feel like a hidden gem that nobody knows about yet...but the kind that you selfishly hope stays that way. I expect it's popularity to increase tenfold after being awarded a coveted HHH 'Pretentious Spork Award'.
This was the extra course they brought out to us, which ended up being the best thing we had all night. It's a bruleed scallop, still inside the shell. Crisp and hard on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside, much like your soot-covered great grandfather. This was so good that I walked around the restaurant in tears, hugging anyone that would have me. Though this photo is grainier than the Zapruder footage, trust me when I say that this dish will make you want to go to church and praise the Lord.
Pasta Lorenzo at La Scarola, 721 W. Grand Ave. My favorite pasta dish at our favorite old school Italian joint in town. Bow tie pasta, chicken, shrimp and sun-dried tomatoes in chipolte sauce. To put things in perspective, let me give you a visual. Bow ties at La Scarola are like this. Bow ties at the Olive Garden are like this. (Insert killer guitar solo)
