Lillie's Q

Barbecue is quickly becoming the next cupcake in Chicago, I can think of at least five nouveau places opened recently or opening soon. The gold standard is Smoque, but Lillie's Q is proof that there are contenders to challenge for the crown. Brick walls and a small, unassuming room with a blackboard drink menu offer nothing of the nuances to come. That drink menu features several mixed drinks containing a boutique, small batch corn whiskey, which added a nice bite and depth to an Arnold Palmer. The menu isn't long, but it doesn't need to be. Three appetizers, ten or so entrees, a few sides and a pair of desserts are more than enough to satisfy a picky eater. From the appetizers, fried pickles are fantastic. The batter is similar to tempura, which leaves them relatively light and not at all greasy. They performed well as a blank canvas to test out the six sauces left at the table. Carolina and Smokey were two favorites. As for entrees, the pulled pork with slaw sandwich on a fluffy brioche was a bit flavorless, but that was remedied quickly with lashings of the slightly spicy Smokey sauce. The tri-tip sandwich was another story. Pink and smoke-flavored, it surpassed Smoque's brisket in flavor. However, on a second visit, the same meat was chewy and tough. A side of baked beans was sublime; brown sugar and maple flavors pushed the beans past a thin, bland mac and cheese. A side of green beans was deliciously slick with butter and studded with bacon. Service was friendly, and the owner stopped by to discuss his triumphant Memphis in May BBQ contest victories. Lillie's Q definitely has a fighting chance in this city as well.

Kendrick Meek

Shouldn't the White House be offering Kendrick Meek a plum job right about now? Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Islamophobia...

in America is scaring the hell out of me. Politicians railing against members of a certain religion, blaming them for wrongs assailing our country, asserting they aren't like us, have cult-like practices, want to impose their way of life on us and are abnormally powerful, and stirring up a general mistrust and hatred of a religious group reminds me of Berlin in oh, say, the early 1930's. While rights for groups such as gays seem to progress, some politicians (Michele Bachmann, Sue Myrick just off the top of my head) seem to prefer the rights of Muslims be curtailed. Why? They surely are aware of crazy Christians and Jews and Sikhs and Quakers in this country who dream of killing in the name of their religion. Fire breathers like Hannity and O'Reilly invented a war on Christmas after some corporations decided to switch to "Happy Holidays", but when religious rights are actually being infringed upon, where are those self-appointed defenders of freedom of religion?

Go Ahead, Have That Paraguayan Mango

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/20/opinion/20budiansky.html?_r=1

Coq d'Or

Amongst the restaurants in the venerable Drake Hotel, the Coq d'Or is by far my favorite. As a child, I was in love with the since-closed Oak Terrace, with its elaborate sundae bar and gorgeous views of Michigan Ave and the lake. Within the last several years, it was replaced by Drake Bros, a by the numbers steak restaurant that failed to inspire a return visit. I've also enjoyed the Cape Cod Room, a musty old warren of rooms designed like an 1850 man-o-war (it may have been crewed by some of the ancient waitstaff). But the ship is cozy and romantic with its side by side booth seating and well kept by its crew. The quality of the seafood is impeccable, even though the dining room is rarely even half full anymore, the restaurant still delivers a pleasurable experience. Of course, the Palm Court is nice for a drink but the hidden gem of the hotel is indeed the golden rooster. It's been one of my favorite restaurants since I was little; when I began going there with my family. The bar began serving five cent glasses of whiskey the day prohibition ended and today serves $18 executive (meaning double) martinis. The small rooms, low ceilings, murals depicting French sailors and lanterns create a womblike effect. The menu changed repeatedly as it attempts to remain current in an odd contrast to the setting. The constants are clam chowder from the Cape Cod Room (the best in the city), Bookbinder's soup (a red snapper broth served with a miniature snifter of sherry that's never been to my taste), and a club sandwich. The Coq d'Or is in no way a place to be seen, but the personal connection I've developed over my life makes it a very special place for me. Plus, it's an unbelievable date spot (classy, cozy, and lots of alcohol).

PGA Championship

As I sit here watching the PGA Championship, I'm struck by the fact that golfers are extremely humble athletes, at least in public. Excessive celebration is rare, players are self-effacing and quick to point out flaws in their game or poor shots from the previous round. Golfers are an exception to the rule that athletes are always thanking God for victories. When a player is four or five over, he has no one to blame but himself. I also think golfers have much more respect for their sport and its officials than other athletes; this probably stems from golfers calling their own fouls, enforcing the rules themselves. The rules of golf are sacred, every golfer understands this. From the first day a young golfer picks up a club, he learns both official and unofficial rules which are enforced by sanctions, both official and unofficial. If a player hits a ball in a tough yet playable spot, he cannot kick the ball without incurring a serious penalty. If a player talks during another's backswing, he likely won't be invited to play again. Essentially, being a golfer means bringing an honorable and respectful attitude to the course which is less than can be said for other sports where the goal is winning at all costs.

Big Dreams and Little Dreams

This post is about dreams. I recently saw the movie Inception. Though many have pointed out that the story is not original (stealing secrets from dreams was part of the plot of an old Ducktales cartoon), and even the director Christopher Nolan admittedly borrowed from many sources in his filmmaking, at least it's no Avatar, which is literally the story of Pocahontas. Inception is very well done with a story that holds the viewer's attention with the exception of a few small lapses nearing the end. Dreams are spun within dreams, subconsciouses are delved, theories are held forth on the nature of dreams. Some of the movie is dull action sequence, while less is genuinely creepy, and Ellen Page as Ariadne did an excellent job lending an aura of unsteadiness to what could have been a simple heist movie. There are rules, and there are secrets. One scene especially stood out to me; when Ariadne visits Cobb (DiCaprio) in his own dream state. She takes a literal elevator down to his figurative memories and sees his lost wife's manifestation. The way Page whispers to Mal (Cotillard); it feels like her fear is palpable and thus shared with the audience. The scene feels like something we all do; bury things we don't want to think about.

Little dreams can leave impressions too, but it's more difficult to remember them sometimes. To illustrate, I recently dined at Piccolo Sogno (little dreams). I was unimpressed. The restaurant is nicely decorated in a sort of mismatched manner, chandeliers are strewn about closely to each other, there's a lot of white space and tables seem oddly grouped together. The real winner is the large patio with its high ivy-covered walls and more mismatched furniture. Dinner, for a place that has had so much buzz, was generally a letdown. Fried squash blossoms filled with fontina and drizzled with a sweet tomato sauce was the only dish to leave an impression. The peach salad with beets and goat cheese was fine, and the burrata with cullatelo was obviously enjoyable as it would be to anyone with taste buds. Branzino, presented whole then roasted and served with a nice citrus broth and cippolinis was well prepared but forgettable. A perfectly al dente pasta with veal ragu was better, a gnocchi with tomatoes wasn't. Though it's always nice to dine at an Italian restaurant in a predominately red sauce town that knows there's more to Italian cuisine than whatever parmesan or vesuvio (Club Lago, j'accuse), Piccolo Sogno simply didn't make the grade.