Ciao, tutti! That’s yours truly at her fave local Italian joint about to dig into her fifth breadstick.
But before my mouth is full, will you do me the honor and press the “play” arrow.
Grazie.
And now, just because I’m skipping out on you for a bit…
Enjoy the freedom.
Nope, not that Harvard.
This Harvard.
And how did I get there?
Easy.
I took the train from Ogilvie Transportation Center.
(Gosh, I can almost smell the Garett’s popcorn.)
My affiliation with Ogilvie goes way back. When I lived in Winnetka, I would take the train downtown for a haircut every three weeks.
This was my station back then.
Right on Green Bay Road in charming old Kenilworth.
It’s a quick trip from Kenilworth to the city. I would meet my then-husband at the hairdresser’s salon in the late afternoon and we’d both get a trim. Dinner would follow and then he’d drive me home.
I did that for eighteen years.
The train was always dependable and I didn’t have to worry about driving in at rush hour.
My daughter Natasha also took the train back and forth every day one college summer when she worked for Loleeta Didrickson- then Illinois Comptroller.
I’d pick her up and she’d de-train tired, grouchy and HOT. When I asked her why in heaven’s name she didn’t just ride home in one of the air-conditioned train cars, she stared at me as if I was nuts.
“It costs a dollar more. I won’t pay it,” fumed my little miser.
What I Did On My Summer Vacation Sidebar: Natasha had a very important job under Ms. Didrickson. She worked in the Cemetary Care and Burial Trust Division. They called it “The Dead Department.” This office makes sure that you are buried with dignity – and alone. And did you know that it’s against the law in Illinois for two people to share one grave? There goes my hope of spending eternity with Alain Delon.
Quelle dommage. C’est la vie.
Back in the North Shore Good Old Days, as I said, I took the train about once a month.
But in these good new days, it’s an engine of a different color. I’m on the train almost every week.
TBF lives about one hour due west of me. Sometimes he’ll drive in, but most days, I make the trip out there.
No, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. In the beginning, we promised to split the commuting hassle. Two weekends here in the city. Two weekends there in the country.
Sounds fair, right? But the thing is he has this…
Dog.
That’s Bailey- in a very typical attitude. She’s about twelve and very sweet but you just can’t leave her alone for a weekend, you know?
It’s a pain in the neck and the end of civil liberties.
I say this as a “dog person.” No, make that “former dog person.” You see, this is the first time in my life that I am dog-free.
And I’m loving it.
It’s so nice to walk out of my house and not to have to think about a dog sitter or a kennel or check my watch to see what time I have to be home because of that eight a.m. and four p.m. feeding schedule.
I’m finally off the leash. No longer a slave.
Bailey- when she’s not chillin’- is frisky, smart and a love bug.
Still, I can’t help but size her up every time I’m with her.
She looks likes she’s got a few good years left in her, so that means I’m the one who will continue to do the lion’s share of commuting.
My typical train ride takes about an hour and change. I’ve got a senior citizen’s commuter card and with the discount it costs $4.00 each way.
Most of the time, it’s quiet and I work or read.
But this year, I made the enormous mistake of taking the train on a Saturday.
St. Patrick’s Day Saturday.
Sure and begorra, there I was on a car packed SRO with a horde of rowdy, drunken kids. And I don’t mean college kids. I mean high school kids.
The train car was so jammed that the conductors couldn’t collect the tickets because of the crush.
Horrible.
But I’ve seem to have gotten off the railroad track.
Anyway, TBF had some business out Harvard way. And for a change of pace, he had me meet him out there.
OMG!
It was freakin’ far.
I was surprised to hear that English spoken when I de-trained.
Still, they say travel is broadening.
“You’re never to old to go to Harvard” is my new motto.
All aboard!
It’s Sunday morning, Dear Readers, and that means I feel like a great breakfast.
Don’t you?
When I was a kid, I don’t remember liking breakfast at all.
Usually, I’d just skip it. I was never hungry in the morning.
If push came to shove, I’d grab a quick bowl of Rice Krispies or a cinnamon raisin thing from the pink Burny Brother’s bakery box that usually sat on the kitchen counter.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I came to understand the lure of a well-grilled sausage patty or the charm of delicious eggs benedict.
So let’s visit some of my favorite places and see what’s cooking.
I’ll start at the beginning.
And in the beginning, if you were a kid from the North Shore, it all started at Walker Brother’s.
In case you don’t recognize it, that’s a photo of Walker Brother’s famous apple pancake.
Here’s the recipe.
But if you feel this is too labor-intensive, I suggest you get your self here -if possible.
It’s a memorable way to start the day.
If their apple pancake is not to your liking, I can personally recommend the corned beef hash and the sausage patties.
And the terrific dutch baby pancake.
Yum.
I hear great things about their coffee, too.
Bring a hearty appetite- and a hearty wallet. WB is pricey.
And bring some patience, too.
On a Sunday morning, the line in Wilmette usually spills out on to the sidewalk on Green Bay Road.
Walker Brother’s was my starting point. It was here that I learned that breakfast could be more than Frosted Flakes.
But I had never experienced that thing called “brunch” until I went to San Francisco.
And then I discovered the Mark Hopkins Hotel and their world-famous “Top of the Mark.”
It was probably around 1972 and my Baltimore husband and I were there on a pleasure trip. He wanted a great breakfast and someone at our hotel- the Fairmont- told him about this.
I was young and breakfast-naive. I had never seen so many choices before. All I can remember now is that they served a “cake” made out of iced pancakes and you got a slice out of it.
It was fabulous- and filling. In fact, when my brother Kenny was going to San Francisco with some college chums, I touted him about this “all you can eat” extravaganza.
As I recall, he told me later that after the huge buffet breakfast, he and his pals flew to Las Vegas and they didn’t have to eat until the next day.
Money well-spent.
I don’t do “all you can eat,” any more but I still stand by my recommendation.
Take a look. (Ignore the narrator. He seems to be an idiot but the brunch looks swell..)
Flying across the country now leads to my favorite Sunday brunch place of all time.
New York City’s jewel in the crown…
George Lang’s brilliant and beautiful baby, Café Des Artistes.
But don’t make your reservations just yet.
Sadly, both the man and the restaurant are gone now. Much to the grief of New Yorkers and tourists alike.
George Lang was a fabulous man who lived an incredible life.
Even if you never ate one spoonful of his cooking, please read all about him here.
He created one of the most elegant and charming restaurant spaces I have ever been in. And if that wasn’t enough, I worshipped his roast beef hash.
I have searched for its equal on every breakfast menu I have read, and alas, I’ve never found a substitute for his.
These days, my daughter Natasha swears by this place.
The Café des Architectes at the Sofitel Hotel in Chicago.
She goes bananas for the bread basket and whenever she’s in town and time and budget permits, here’s where she goes. And why.
My current favorite place to indulge is way out in the western suburbs.
It’s called Alexander’s Café in St. Charles.
It’s not much too look at, that’s for sure.
It looks like it used to be an old Wienerschnitzel, and I would have driven right past it if it wasn’t for Yelp.
But someone mentioned something about “cinnamon butter.”
Omg.
What a great idea.
They have the BEST pancakes. The syrup is sensational and that cinnamon butter- on the side for you to doctor them up as you see fit- is the best idea since bacon met eggs.
And their price point is easy on the wallet, too.
True, you have to drive to St. Charles to eat them. But if you find yourself out that way, give Alexander’s a whirl.
PAY IT FORWARD MOMENT: Not too long ago, TBF and I had a Sunday morning breakfast at Alexander’s. It was delicious as usual and we enjoyed every bit of it. As he finished his coffee (great, he says) and called for the check, our waitress came over with a twinkle in her eye.
“There is no check, sir,” she said. “Someone in the restaurant already paid your bill for you.”
Huh?
“Who paid it?” we asked. “Why did they pay it?”
“I can’t tell you that. I was sworn to secrecy.”
Our heads were turning as we surveyed the restaurant trying to figure out who our mystery breakfast benefactor was.
“And it’s no use guessing because they have already left,” she added.
Wow!
That’s never happened to me before.
Or since.
But we keep going back to Alexander’s to see if lightning can strike twice.
You should, too.
Happy Sunday, all.
Here’s to a good morning.
First, let me start by giving a shout out to my sister-in-law, Mary Lu. Her latest venture- the Tina Fey musical Mean Girls- just opened on Broadway. The critics thought it was fun and raved about the ultra-talented cast.
Next time you’re in the Big Apple, drop by the August Wilson Theatre and see for yourself.
But all this well-deserved hoop-la got me thinking about…
Mean Girls.
We all know them. The bossy, uber-cool “Queen Bees” who made the rules and passed the judgements and determined if your girlhood experience was heaven or hell.
Every (former) girl alive has her own personal “Regina George.”
In case you’re not familiar with the movie Mean Girls, (What?!? Were you home-schooled in Africa or something?) Regina is the blonde alpha female running the neatest clique at North Shore High. She’s beautiful, smart, sneaky, and possesses a knockout wardrobe and a nitwit mother who wants to be her BFF and hasn’t the faintest clue as to what she’s hatched out.
Regina is the arbiter of cool- and the gatekeeper.
She decides who’s in and gets to sit with her at lunch.
Or who’s out. Doomed to live a lifetime (four whole years) of social ignominy banished to “geeks and freaks” section in the lunchroom for eternity.
And for some mysterious reason, the other girls accept her reign of terror without question or rebellion.
Regina Rules!
Of course I had my very own Regina. I was a little younger- my girl crush started in sixth grade- but my goddess ran my life.
Her name was Barbara and I idolized everything about her. I worshipped the ground her penny loafers trod on.
I loved and envied her blonde hair, her bedroom decor, her swimming pool, her terrific family- a really great set of parents and two impossibly-sharp older brothers.
Of course, I knew that I could never be as neat as she was. Or as popular. But I was happy just to be included in her charmed circle and allowed to hero-worship her.
I am not exaggerating any of this. My love and admiration were without criticism or limits. Barbara was PERFECT and our friendship was the niftiest thing that had ever happened to me in my entire twelve-year-old life.
I knew that we would be BFF’s forever.
And then, in 1963, right before our first day of summer school before freshman year, I got a phone call.
It was Barbara who matter-of-factly explained that now that we were headed to high school, we couldn’t be friends any more.
I was stunned. But she considerately laid out the reasons that our friendship would now have to end.
I listened to this cold-blooded and obviously well-thought-out severance package in stunned silence. I didn’t question her thought process at all. After all, Barbara had those two older brothers and I knew that she knew how things in the high school world worked.
And then she delivered the coup de grace.
3. Oh, and she wouldn’t be seeing much once the actual school year started in September. She and Kim and Cathy had all requested Mrs. Wingler as a home room advisor and they didn’t want me. You know. For all the reasons she had just told me.
4. Have a nice summer.
And she hung up.
That was fifty-five years ago and even though, we made it up after college, I’ve never forgotten how much that phone call hurt me.
And that’s not fetch.
(Photo by TBF)
Dear Readers, technically I should have posted this blog last Saturday, April 7th.
That was National Beer Day.
ICYMI.
I probably would have missed it, too. But for the past two and a half years, I have heard more about beer than I ever did in my entire Yuengling-free life.
That’s because TBF is a certified beer nut.
He’s simply mad about the stuff.
My personal history with the beverage that made Milwaukee famous was extremely limited. I have never tasted it and never wanted to.
My dad, on the other hand, really enjoyed a cold beer on a hot day at the ball park. But I never remember him having a six pack of anything in our refrigerator other than Coke.
My brother Kenny used to mimic my dad’s one-a-day-once-in-awhile brewski habits. (Although of late, he has stopped having even one beer. He’s had to stay in baseball-ready shape.)
But before he went on the no-beer wagon, Kenny indulged in the occasional Miller Lite.
And when we’d go out to Aspen on a ski trip, he would go all out and have himself a Coors Silver Bullet.
Silver Bullet Sidebar: One night, Kenny and I were in a restaurant in Aspen eating dinner. I was having my usual Diet Coke and Kenny was having a Silver Bullet. The waiter came over and said, “Uh, that gentleman over at that table wants to buy you a beer.”
I was terribly pleased. What a nice compliment from a total stranger. I preened and smiled coyly.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Not you,” the waiter replied. “Him.“- pointing to Kenny.
Huh?
Turns out- after a little gender confusion- the guy was a Coors rep and whenever he saw somebody drinking one, he always sent over another bottle to him.
Kenny has never let me forget that vainglorious moment.
Unlike his uncle, my son Nick really likes his home-grown Seattle beer. Washington state is the largest grower of hops in the country and the craft beer culture there is amazing.
A few years ago, when Kenny came out with me to do some business, visit old friends and catch up with his nephew, Nick proudly took him to…
Stocking over 1300 kinds of beer, TBJ is Seattle’s largest bottle shop.
Kenny looked at the vast selection with calm indifference. He thought it over carefully. Finally, he said to our beer guru/customer service rep/bartender,
“Just give me the shittiest beer you have.”
The hops expert was crushed. All his expertise was going down the bar sink.
“I think this is the worst beer we have,” he said sadly. And handed Kenny a can that cost like eighty-five cents.
TBF is a horse of a completely different lager. He knows what he likes.
Don’t even think about working him over to a trendy I.P.A.
Think DARK.
At Binny’s I have struck pure gold with choices of Ten Fidy and Old Rasputin.
And last August when TBF and I headed to Seattle for a baby shower, Nick had a much more educated beer palate at his disposal. While the ladies were enjoying a gorgeous baby-to-be luncheon, he took TBF out on a brew pub crawl in the Ballard neighborhood.
I know they went to The Jolly Roger Taproom.
Of course they had more fun than a beer barrel of moneys.
And when we rendez-vous’ed after the shower, TBF waxed enthusiastic about the local bar scene.
And the scenery.
“It’s interesting,” he noted. “At least half the customers today were women. Young women,” he approved.
Well, even if you’re like me and wouldn’t know a bold I.P.A. from a blonde Belgian ale, read this.
It’s never been a better time to be a beer drinker.
All hail Stella and Sam.
But as for me, I’m afraid I’ll always be more like this guy.
Rats! Two weeks ago, my three year and a half year old grandson Sam broke his elbow jumping from a pillow fort.
Ouch.
Poor little guy.
Sam was just another casualty of the latest wave of blizzards that have buffeted the Northeast this winter.
Boston has gotten hammered with snowstorm after snowstorm. My daughter’s house got twenty-one inches in one afternoon alone.
(Photographs courtesy of Natasha Tofias)
A winter wonderland, true. But the snow also kept Sam from going to school and burning off his non-stop energy.
Natasha- a first grade teacher herself- attacked this problem head-on by turning her basement into a pre-school.
(Sam and his sister, Carly)
But I guess continuous indoor recess led to the pillow fort and the pillow fort led to the ER.
(Okay, way more serious than a broken elbow. But I just like George Clooney.)
After the ER, Natasha followed up with an orthopedic surgeon. The doctor casted Sam’s arm for three weeks.
Boston, we have a problem.
First of all, Sam is a lefty.
He throws left-handed and he’s left-footed, too.
(Which makes his Uncle Kenny- a former soccer player and baseball coach extraordinaire- drool. He loves those lefty players.)
Eating and dressing and other basic tasks are going to be tricky.
And if that’s not difficult enough, the doc banned all swimming, sports and running around. If he trips, Sam could hit his head.
That ban is going to be a real pain in the neck.
Sam HATES to sit still.
He is forever in perpetual motion.
Running is his favorite thing.
His mother knows that keeping her little Action Man is going to be a challenge.
I pity her. It’s no fun trying to keep a little boy in bed.
It’s so much easier with a big one.
When my son Nick was fifteen, he had a terrible bout with toxic tonsils.
After a few painful ER episodes, his doctor decreed that they had to come out.
We were living on East Lake Shore Drive back in those days and it was really simple to get to Passavant Hospital. (Part of Northwestern Memorial Hospital now.)
We just walked over. The only wrinkle was that Nick insisted on going in his pajamas.
They were easy to get on and off and really comfy. He felt that it just made sense and would save (his) time and (his) effort in the long run.
Hey, it was okay with me. Anything to get him to that hospital and get those septic tonsils yanked.
Nick came through the op with flying colors and after a day they were ready to release him to my and Klara’s- our housekeeper and former nurse- tender, loving care.
Klara and I went to fetch him and that’s when we ran into a small problem. It seems that Nick’s pajamas looked EXACTLY like the hospital garb that their patients wore.
As the three of us walked through the halls, the staff was calling for Security. It looked like two women were trying to bust a non-released patient out.
Nick’s surgeon had one serious post-op instruction for us.
“See that he stays in bed for a week. I’m not kidding. One full week. Any activity could rip those stitches in the back of his throat and then we would be in big trouble. Make him stay in bed.”
Klara and I solemnly swore that we would.
We also knew that this was going to be NO problem.
Nick, at that point in his life, thought he was Hugh Hefner. Every activity he loved to do (with the exception of snowboarding) could be done in bed.
From video games to dining to his girlfriend’s visits, Nick reigned supreme sacked out in the sack.
With the wave of a languid hand, he summoned popsicles, cold drinks, the latest offerings from Sega, delicious meals and anything else his little sultan’s heart desired.
He saw absolutely NO reason to get up.
After seven days, I had to force him.
So good luck, Natasha.
You can’t keep a good Sam down.
According to TripAdvisor, as of 2016 there were 8190 restaurants in Chicago.
I eat at exactly nine of them.
In no particular order they are:
Why do I do that? Why can’t I venture out and spread my gustatory wings? There are so many exciting, creative, wonderful restaurants on the Chicago dining scene.
Why do I always go back to my tried and true faithful old war horses?
(And to make matters worse, I always order the same old same old on the menu. Once I land on an entrée I like, I never try anything else.)
In all fairness, it must be said that I will eat at restaurants not on my list. If you pick one and invite me to join you, I’ll always show up eager to give it a try.
But when it comes down to venturing out on my own, I always revert to the list.
Safe. I know.
Predictable. I know.
Boring. I know.
But I’m also guaranteed a meal that I will thoroughly enjoy.
And that never gets old.
I’m not sure when this failure to restaurant launch began. I do know that in my childhood, my parents frequented the same dining haunts over and over.
My folks liked:
But as my mother grew older and got more eccentric and combative, that list shrunk away. She would get into heated, contentious arguments with waiters, waitresses, managers and owners and was inevitably asked to leave the premises.
Forever.
My father- an innocent party to these hostile eating proceedings- was just collateral damage. I sadly happened to be with them once at Little Szechwan in Highland Park when my mother and the proprietress got into it.
My mother hadn’t liked a special entrée she had ordered. She didn’t want to pay for it and asked the waitress to have it removed from her bill.
That brought the owner over. Who then pointed out the fact that the entrée in question had been eaten.
My mother stuck to her guns. She hadn’t enjoyed it.
The owner stuck to hers. The entrée had been eaten.
Much to my embarrassment- and the other diners’ annoyance- this contretemps raged for awhile.
It ended in a Mexican standoff.
The price of the entrée was deducted from my mother’s bill.
My mother was deducted from the restaurant.
Forever.
And as we exited, I heard my father say sadly but resignedly,”That’s too bad. I really liked this place.”
By the end of her life, my mother was left with exactly one restaurant that welcomed her business.
Wildfire in Lincolnshire.
She and my father ate there so much that they had a plaque above the booth they occupied. (And woe to the well-intentioned but unschooled manager if he mistakenly tried to seat her at a different booth at lunch. He’d have his ears pinned back with a good shellacking. My mother didn’t want to sit anywhere else and that’s where she sat- come hell or tap water.)
My mother also liked to order the same thing at Wildfire. A ramekin of crab bisque, the side salad split between her and my dad, and a HALF order of coconut shrimp. She ordered it so often that Wildfire finally bowed to the inevitable and keyed in a special price on her bill.
Her check read “Mrs. Roffe’s Meal.”
And woe to the waitress who didn’t quite understand her “usual” order, either.
Author’s Note: Why is my mother always portrayed by Jack Nicholson? Just a thought…
…Anyhow, I sure hope this “short list” restaurant thing is not genetic.
And to prove it, here’s my 2018 restaurant resolution.
Click HERE.
I’m going to try every one of them.
Or not.
…So years ago we were flying home from California. Nick was eight. Natasha was ten.
Even though we were all in first class, we had been split up. Nick and I were in the front row of the section. Bill and Natasha were a few rows behind us on the same side of the plane.
No biggie.
Until we got airborne.
Another dad and his little girl had been seated directly behind Nick and me.
I have no idea what the guy’s name was but I sure can remember his daughter’s.
Brandy.
From the moment that plane took off, Nick and I were held captive by this monologue.
The first few times, we heard this schmuck of a father beseeching his spoiled and ill-behaved little darling not to “do that” or “touch that” or to “stop that,” Nick and I ignored it.
But as the flight went on, so did the wail.
Brandy kicked the seat or spilled her drink or played with her food or had a temper tantrum or…
Whatever.
From San Diego to Chicago, this was the CONSTANT refrain.
I’m sure I turned around and glared at the ineffectual idiot who obviously was all bark and no bite.
To no avail.
Finally, eight year old Nick turned around and said to the guy, “This is SO annoying.”
That was thirty years ago, but whenever I get on a plane, I can’t help but remember.
I wonder what Brandy is up to these days.
I’ve got just the place for her.
On this most holy of weekends, I can only say, “Thank You, Lord.”
Wishing you, Dear Readers – and your daughters- exactly the same.
Of course, that’s a still from Revenge of the Nerds. A very cute movie back in 1984.
I liked it a lot and got an even bigger kick out of it when, a few years later, I got to hang out myself with Ted McGinley.
I look better here but back in Medieval History Class at New Trier High School, I was definitely one of the nerds.
It was an honors class and everybody in there was a smarty-pants. Our teacher was the legendary Dr. Johnston.
He was tough and demanding. But we were seniors and so he gave us lots of freedom to create our class projects.
We divided ourselves into groups. There were five of us. I remember that Pam Webb and Mark Miller were in my group. (I can’t for the life of me come up with the other boy and girl.)
The Group met and had a brainstorming session. We wanted our project to be unusual, creative, something real different. And we wanted it to rock.
(We were pretty full of ourselves back then. And pretty full of it.)
Somehow the idea of a movie or video project came up. No type-written term papers for us creative types.
Trouble was none of us were techie enough to pull it off. We were going to need outside A/V assistance.
I mentioned this up-coming assignment to my cousin, Joanie. She was my first cousin (our mothers were sisters) and six months older than me.
And a WHOLE lot smarter.
ICYMI: Read about her here.
And it was Joanie who came to rescue.
“I know someone who can help you,” she said. “He’s a few years older than us and he goes to DePaul. His name is Ray and he’s really interested in video-making and stuff like that, I’ll call him and see if he wants to help your group.”
A few days later, my princess telephoned jingled.
Remember the good old days when we had NO idea who was on the line? It was so exciting just hearing that phone ring. It could have been anybody!
But it wasn’t any of the Fab Four.
It was only Ray.
We spoke for a while and he told me that he was very interested in helping us with our senior project. I gave him my address and time of the next Medieval Group meeting and he said he would swing by.
The Group got to my house nice and early. I prepped them about the possible new addition of this guy, Ray.
“I’m sorry, “ I began. “This guy, Ray, um, wants to help with the video. I talked to him and he seems real geeky and not cool at all but we need him. What do you say?”
The Group eyed each other uneasily. After all, what kind of a college kid would actually want to help high school kids? This Ray guy HAD to be a real loser.
The boys talked to each other. The girls did the same. A consensus was reached.
“I guess it’s ok. I mean, we can talk with him, at least,” said Mark. “After all, it won’t kill us to let some college guy in.”
Unenthusiastically, we waited in my driveway waited for Ray to drive up.
A blue, hot-looking convertible came rumbling down the street.
The boys all went nuts.
And when Ray stepped out of the car…
The girls went nuts.
OMG. He was GORGEOUS.
Black hair, blue eyes- with a powder blue windbreaker to match. Ray had to be one of the best-looking guys I had ever seen.
I could tell by their suddenly-coy body language and high-pitched squeals that Pam and the other girl agreed with me.
Ray was as nice as he was handsome.
He was bombarded with car questions by the boys. And more personal ones by the distaff members of the Group. He accepted our hero worship with good grace.
And he helped us with the history project, too.
Thanks, Dr. Johnston.
I really learned a lot in your class.
