Wednesday, August 17, 2011.
Railroading Into The Windy City. The Great Chicago Steakhouse.
The sun was already well up when I awakened from my customary long, sound sleep on the City of New Orleans. I pulled back the curtain and looked out to see where we might be. The first town in the morning has, in almost all of my twenty-two previous northbound trips on this train, a little place identified by its grain elevator as Pesotum. I didn't see that landmark this time. But three Illinois cornfield towns later, we entered Champaign. I checked my map to see which little burg that was back there. Yep. Pesotum. How does this happen?
Mary Leigh was sound asleep. The announcement had just been made for breakfast in the diner. I had to rouse her to ask whether she wanted to join me (no), then to lock the bedroom door (which cannot be done from the outside).
Breakfast on the northbound City of New Orleans is abbreviated, because of the nine o'clock arrival of the train in Chicago. The menu was cut short, too. But I knew that the famous railroad French toast would be there. It was unusually good, well-soaked with the custard mixture, grilled to order, hot and toasty. Bacon, juice and coffee. I watched the cornfields wave, and noted the point where the route I took from New Orleans to Chicago on my bicycle in 1986 meets the railroad.
ML was still asleep when I returned, but the act of opening the door roused her. I attempted to take a shower, but the space was too small and the train was jouncing around a little too much for me to chance it with soap and shampoo, what with my still-imperfect ankle. I gave myself a good dousing with water and that was it.
The train enters Chicago through a part of town with few tall buildings, and so one gets a good look at the city. I gave Mary Leigh a mini-tour. One point of interest was the Sanitary And Ship Canal, part of the 1890s engineering project that reversed the flow of the Chicago River, so that the pollution can now come all the way down to New Orleans.
I would read a few days later that they're thinking of undoing that feat. Reason: Asian carp are within twenty miles of getting into Lake Michigan. That's an invasive species that has been crowding out the native fish all through the Midwest.
We cabbed it over to the Allegro Hotel, just outside the Loop. It's one of several Kimpton Hotels in Chicago. I like the Kimpton style. The hotels are comfortable and well designed, but not what I would call luxurious. I like the free wine tasting every afternoon and the goldfish you can get to keep you company in the room. Kimpton aims at younger, hipper travelers, and I thought Mary Leigh would like it. She did.
The concierge lubricated two key activities. First, we wanted to have a Chicago steakhouse experience. Two steakhouses here are famous: Gene and Georgetti's, and Gibson's. I'd been to the former. The latter, my sources say, is difficult to penetrate because of the many sports figures, politicians, and regulars who dine there. But the concierge used to work at Gibson's, and got us right in. He also told us that a much better river tour was available than the one we were thinking about taking, and he arranged those tickets.
I was surprised by what he could not provide: tickets for a Cubs game. Even though the Cubs are having another bad year, the only tickets available were over $100 each. "The Cardinals are in town," he said. "Big rivalry. Don't ask me why. The hotel is full of Cards fans this weekend."
We skipped lunch in favor of an early dinner at Gibson's, and filled the afternoon with shopping on the Magnificent Mile. A branch of Zara--Mary Leigh's favorite clothing store--took up most of the time. She tried on dozens of dresses, brought down three of them, but left them all on hold at the counter. "I have to think about it while we're looking around," she said. "I can't decide right now." I gave up trying to understand the way women shop a long time ago.
Allsaints Co., Ltd. next door was astonishing. Its front windows displayed several hundred old sewing machines. The interior was borderline creepy, looking like a gigantic sweat shop from the bad old days of cloth manufacturing. The funny thing was that the decor (except for the sewing machines) was all faked up. Strange theme.
Crate and Barrel: another of the Marys' favorite stores. While ML looked around, I asked where the free coffee was. Stores with big kitchen sections are always showing off their latest coffee devices. I got an excellent espresso from one of them, then sat down in a chair that was astonishingly comfortable. I mentioned this to everybody who walked by. One of the managers came over and asked, "Would you mind staying there all afternoon? You've sold a chair and two espresso machines!"
We took a look at the Watertower, one of very few buildings to survive the 1871 Chicago Fire. Then crossed the street for samplings from both the Hershey's and Ghirardelli chocolate emporiums. At the latter, ML got a brownie covered with chocolate sauce--the kind of thing she loves, but which gives me a headache after one bite. Then back to Zara. ML's mind was now sure: it would be the indigo dress that looked like a bell, and she would wear it to dinner tonight. She was delighted.
So was I. We'd walked about twenty blocks. That's much longer than any extended pedestrian excursion I've taken since the ankle issue. I was tired but not aching.
Still, we took a cab back to the Allegro. Showers, naps, change of clothes. The new dress looked great on my beautiful daughter. She wondered whether she were overdressed. I was in jacket and tie, so she wouldn't be the only one.
In fact, Gibson's was much more casual than I expected. But we were seated immediately. An older waiter named John had a snappy, classy style. The drink isn't named for the restaurant, but I ordered a Gibson--a martini with onions instead of olives. It was a big one--a double, at least. Midway through the beef and barley soup, I was still working on it. John brought a frosted, empty martini glass, and transferred the remaining Gibson into it. What a great service touch!
The pound-and-a-half porterhouse was seared full Pittsburgh style. I cut off the filet and some of the strip and passed it over to Mary Leigh. It was a bit undercooked for her, but she ate it with gusto anyway. Also with a double-baked potato and creamed spinach. She had already eaten her favorite wedge salad, which she deemed as fine as any previous.
My half of this very generous slab of beef just the way I like a steak, save for the absence of New Orleans-style sizzling butter. I left that off intentionally (I'm sure I could have had it) to take the measure of the Chicago style at its best. I've never had a better steak in Chicago. I'd say the best of the New Orleans steak houses can equal this. It's topped only by my memories of the old Palm in New York. In other words, Gibson's is pretty darn near as good as it gets.
The dessert was a complete absurdity. The waiter recommended strawberry shortcake, which sounded light enough. It proved to be about eight inches in diameter height. Dessert for four, at least. Laughable. Good, though.
I noticed when we left that Jilly's--a Sinatra-style bar where the Eat Club had drunk way too much on our visit to Chicago last October--was right across the street from Gibson's. It was not the sort of place I'd take my daughter, but I had to take a look inside anyway. It must have been too early. Nothing doing at all.
Gibson's. Chicago: 1028 N. Rush. 312-266-8999.
It has been over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
