Saturday, October 2. Opaa! Overfeeding In Greektown. All Aboard. Too much to drink last night. I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't hung over this morning. No headaches. I just felt extra tired. I slept almost until ten. I made a pot of coffee in the room, checked my logjam of e-mail, wrote some notes about our activities during the past few days, took care of the three esses, packed, and brought all my bags down at noon.
We're homeless. Our train doesn't leave until eight tonight. I was figuring on doing some walking around and shopping and museum visits, but after three days of perfect weather, Chicago was drizzly and a little cold.
The sparkler in the day was an Eat Club lunch at the Greek Islands. On my first visits to Chicago in 1978 (two weeks apart, both on a 10,000-mile circuit of the U.S. by rail), I had dinner at the Greek Islands. The restaurant has fed me on almost every Chicago call since, including our first Eat Club train trip in 2004. The Greek Islands delivers everything you'd want from a traditional Greek restaurant, but it's most famous for one dish: saganaki, a fried slab of kefalotiri cheese. The waiters flame it as they approach the table, and as the fireball heads to the ceiling they shout "Opaa!" (That's Greek for "Ole!") On a busy night, you'll hear "Opaa!" about every fifteen seconds.
On the last trip, they fed us to within an inch of our lives. They did it again. Let's see if I can remember it all. Gyros meat and tsatziki sauce. Saganaki. A Greek salad. Moussaka. Lamb-and-rice-stuffed grape leaves with avgolemono. Roasted potatoes. Leg of lamb. A rice dish that looked as if it had been splashed haphazardly with spaghetti sauce, but was unaccountably delicious. Rosemary baked chicken. Baklava. Galaktoboureko. No, I can't remember it all. All delicious, well served, and a steal at $35 per person. The management could not have been more hospitable to us. This will remain on the schedule next time we take this trip.
Last time, I was so stuffed at the end of this meal that I walked the twenty or so blocks back to the hotel to work some of it off. No chance of that today with the drizzle. We needed six cabs to get us back to the hotel.
I headed right back out again to do some shopping at Marshall Field's (I can't make myself call it Macy's). Last time I was here, I bought a Coach wallet for $37. I still have it after six years, and was thinking it's the perfect time for a new one. But no Coach here, and nothing else caught my eye.
Mary Ann strongly suggested that I return home with chocolates. Dark chocolates. With nuts. The candy department was staffed by three people who were up in years. Two of them were rearranging a display of things like Tootsie Pops. The third--a man I would have believed if he'd told me he was ninety-three--moved at a stately pace serving a few customers. Getting the chocolates took awhile. The old feller was concerned that I was buying too much. He looked ready for me to reel back in shock when he told me it all came to thirty-five dollars.
This entire transaction would not have been as satisfying if it had happened any other way. This is a classic department store. A fossil in today's world. In the old days, people used to spend their whole lives working in places like Marshall Field's. If Mary Ann had seen this little old man, she would have loved the chocolates even more. She has a soft spot for little old men. Maybe they remind her of her dad.
It rained on me en route to the hotel. I should have bought an umbrella in the store. I cleaned myself up and joined a few of our group, who were camped out in the lobby. I didn't stay long, because--was that the sun coming out? It was! I strode in the direction of the Magnificent Mile, right across the Chicago River from our hotel. Past the Wrigley Building with its clock and the Tribune Tower with its flying buttresses. Both ornate and beautiful.
I went down a level. Many downtown Chicago streets have upper and lower levels, equally choked with traffic. I saw a sign pointing down to the Billy Goat Tavern, which inspired a long-running skit on Saturday Night Live in the 1970s. The place is still touting that.
Emerging into the daylight again, I swung by the studios of WGN Radio. In the 1970s, I used to listen to its all-night show of light classical music--hosted by the big-voiced Jay Andres--on a gigantic console radio that runs on tubes. The station came in loud and clear. It doesn't anymore: too much interference on the AM band.
I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around, taking photographs of the skyline. Chicago's reputation for superb architecture is no hype. It's a striking and beautiful and clean city. (At least the parts of it I was in.) It's a place I could call home, were it not for that overwhelmingly unfriendly thing they call winter.
Some of the Eat Clubbers were still in the lobby as the sun went down. I collected my bags and cabbed it to Union Station with the Giancolas. (Another bargain $3-per-person cab ride, tip included.) I wanted to make sure everybody made it to the right place--the private lounge for sleeping car passengers. As time ticked away, two of the peeps were still out there--but knowing who they were, I knew they'd show up on time. I wanted to take everybody on a tour of the amazing old concourse, but a wedding had booked the space and we couldn't get in.
The southbound City of New Orleans left right on time at eight. As on the way up, the train staff saw to it that our group would have the diner to ourselves--on the first seating for dinner, yet. We cleaned them out of sirloin strips. I took a big chance on the crab cakes, which astonished my by being very tasty. (Remoulade sauce! There's hope for America!)
After dinner, a lot of the folks filtered into the lounge car for nightcaps. I had a little wine with dinner, but I'm still on low power from our visit to Jilly's last night. I disappeared into the fastness of my sleeping compartment, and shortly after ten I was zonked out for a great night's sleep.
Greek Islands. Chicago: 200 S Halsted St. 782-9855.
