Chicago III: The "Bitch, this is not The Vegas" tour.

Dear bloggy,

Once again, Chicago is crazy fun. Boozin', Whorin' and Brawlin' is taken to a whole new level on this trip! It's almost like I went to The Vegas!

WEDNESDAY
When I get into the city on Wednesday, I tell Will, the hot, dread-locked concierge at the Hard Rock Hotel (230 N, Michigan Avenue) that I'm in town for my birthday. Will hooks me up with a corner room that is as big as my Manhattan digs and has a great view of the river. When I get to the room I find that the placard with the room number has been prised off, perhaps by some other partier looking for a souvenir. This is eerie, yet promising. Anonymous good times. Let 'em roll.

My first order of business in town is having my hair done by Magid, co-owner of Days Hair Salon (343 South Dearborn), an Aveda salon run by Assyrian (I think) men who do black women's hair, really, really well. The clients leaving the salon all look stunning, and really, there is no higher recommendation than that. My hair-styling is started by one of the junior stylists. I've actually come in early, but there isn't really an open slot, so I end up doing a lot of waiting while Magid works his magic on other clients. When Magid finally gets to me, though, I find he's well worth the wait. He doesn't miss a detail; every strand is expertly and lovingly styled and laid in place. When he's done, my hair is almost china-doll sleek. I compliment his talents and tip him well. He gives me his card with his cell number on the back and tells me to call him for an appointment whenever I am in town. Score.

Feeling like a rock star, I head over to meet Shasta and her girl Unique over at P.F. Chang's. These beautiful ladies have a drink ready for me. Loves that! We eat, drink and bullshit for hours; the waiters and busboys clean up around us and we eventually find we're the only ones left upstairs. Oops.

We go our separate ways and I return to the hotel to relax and prepare for my job-hunting mission on the following day. And by "relax and prepare," I mean "eat $4 Snickers bars and drink Heinekens while trying to figure out the remote."

THURSDAY
When Thursday rolls around, though, I realize it's a little silly to be looking for a job when I don't plan to move for months, so instead I hit the gym, make mani/pedi appointments with Yoon at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa (919 N. Michigan), and take a sightseeing trip down to University of Chicago. U Chicago is gorgeous, and I think I'd be happy starting my Chicago life working there.

Yoon at Red Door is my new hero. She's a tiny little woman, but she sets to work on my pedicure (which invloves lots of callus-busting) with the strength and vigor of a Russian cage-match champion. Shasta comes in soon after Yoon begins and has her mani done by Asya, another nail master at Red Door. By the time we walk out of the salon, we are perhaps not new women, but we're sure as hell improved.

We have dinner and drinks at Cheesecake factory, and then call it a night. I head back to the Hard Rock and go to the hotel bar, Base Bar, for a birthday-eve cocktail. My bartender can't make any suggestions, which is bizarre, since I've essentially asked her to make something sweet and dessert-y. Who doesn't know of at least three sweet drinks these days? I tell her to make me a chocolate martini and then tell her how to make it. Christ. I've got a bartender with no skills. At least she can follow directions. I head back to my room, watch a little telly and raid the minibar again. Thursday ends well.

FRIDAY
M rolls into town, and we head out to Rogers Park for lunch at one of her favorite Indian spots, Tiffin on Devon. We have a derishus lunch buffet and stuff ourselves full-to-bursting with spicy goodness, then head off to shop a little. Very little. Before we know it, it's an hour until dinner.

Alinea.

Swank, sophisticated, pretentious. Brilliantly innovative, creative, gorgeous. Outstanding food. Tops Bouley, in my opinion, in both palate and presentation. And god, the presentation. Shas has pictures here. Bison on a hot rock nestled in a bed of juniper branches? Mace scented pillows on which to balance your duck and foie gras? Genius. More than genius. Chef/owner Grant Achatz is a culinary savant. From the opening dish, Hot Potato (a cold potato soup served in a half-dollar sized paraffin bowl skewered with potato and black truffle) to the finish, the menu was simply superb. There were a few standouts: the salsify with smoked salmon and steelhead roe; pork with honeycomb, grapefruit and puffed pork thigh; kobe beef topped with roasted squash seeds and paprika candy. I actually shut down my extraneous senses when I tasted the duck with foie gras, quince and onion--closed my eyes and tuned everyone out. I will never forget that foie gras, ever. Sigh.

The beauty of Alinea is that there is a high degree of fun hidden in all the pomp. Ice cream in Achatz's world comes in a single bite set on a the gastronomic equivalent of a radio antenna, and the hovering waitstaff insist you eat it witout using your hands. A complimentary shot glass of green liquid with what looks to be an egg yolk is set before each diner. Enquiry (or patience) reveals the liquid is a celery-base, the yellow globe a shell of madras curry; shoot it, close your mouth quickly to collapse the shell, and enjoy the ensuing burst of deliciousness. Get the sommelier with the goatee. He's a punk-rock oenophile. How can you go wrong?

(Oh, that's right. You could be a large-ish group of siddity negroes [me, Shas, Mr. C., and LadyFriend, plus M--honorary affiliation, hailing from Texas and all]. In which case you will heed the sommelier's advice, have a grand time, and scare away two couples by being "too loud." You know, despite the fact that there is another (white) party of nearly equal size and equal decibels across from your own (and next to) the parties seated in your section who complain about the cuhluhd folks, and your group gets shushed by waitstaff. But other than that? Brilliant.)

After the meal (and a delightful, quarter-sized saffron birthday cake with fully edible candle and wick) we get a peek in the kitchen, where Achatz and team are working in the most pristine preparation conditions you never imagined. Show-offs.

Thanks, Mr. C. Best birthday celebration I've ever had.

Then we hit Base Bar, where I again have the bartender from Hades, lacking in skill, general drink-mixing knowledge AND appropriately ameliorative attitude. Worse, the other bartender and server prove to be in cahoots with Busty McNoskills and rather than just letting the other bartender make my drink, actually have him tell her how to mix it and then make him hide and pretend to have gone home for the night to "prove" how much she has improved in her mixology. Sigh. Called it an earlyish night.

Saturday, M changed my life.
Ann Sather for brunch. They made french toast OUT OF CINNAMON BUNS. Holy hell. Do I need to explain the significance? I think not. And if I do, let me say this: make yourself some fatty, sweet, stickylicious cinnamon buns, roughly half the size of your head. Now slice said buns, dip them in eggy-sweet batter, and cook it up. Now top with sugar-glazed pecans and a side of hazlenut creme fraiche. Yeah. It was like that. Oh, plus pork sausage. *dopey grin*

Then we shopped. Lord and Taylor, with coupons! I got two pairs of earrings and some Chanel lippy. M got a leather wallet, earrings, and some other things I can't recall, and then hauled me over to Intimacy, the bra-fitting and lingerie shop.

Ladies, if you have never had yourself properly fitted for a bra, slide your chair back, rise, and run--don't walk--to the nearest lingerie shop. It will change your life. Seriously. In under 10 minutes I went from a sad 40C to a very perky-looking 36E/38DD. I also went from broke to busted, but that's another story. The point is, you are very likely wearing the wrong bra size, and your Mary-Kate and Ashleys are going to suffer for it. I got three beautiful bras (one of which my rep, Liz, had sent off to the factory to custom fit from a 38 to a 37DD, free of charge) for, okay, I really don't want to tell you. But it was worth it. I had to leave the coral-red number, with the bows and ruching behind, however. At $150, it was nearly as expensive as the combined cost of the three I took home. No matter. No one to see it showing MK and A in all their glory, anyway. Or is there?

Later, M and I get tarted up for a girls' night out and head over to Cafe Bernard on North Halsted, a wonderful French cafe with absolutely perfect ambience and delightful food at a moderate price: we each get an appetizer, entree and dessert, plus share a bottle of wine, for about $100 total before tip. On the way out, I ask the genial owner/proprietor Bernard if he has a card. He does. It says you can eat there for $5 on your birthday, as long as you bring at least one other person. Zoinks. If only we had known sooner. Always next year.

After dinner, we head over to our favorite Irish pub, Johnny O'Hagan's (or O'Hanrahans, as we have affectionately mis-dubbed it). It is in fact our second trip for the day. Did I neglect to mention that? Whoops. Love it there. Usually it is quite low key when we go, but on this Saturday night, it is packed with humanity. Drunken girls recklessly eyeball us, bouncers booty dance at the bar, someone dons a blonde wig and dances on the bar to ABBA, then passes the wigh to someone else who dances on the bar to the BeeGees. And their buffalo wings and curry chips are to die. O'Hanrahan's might actually be Heaven. We'll see.

After a round we try to hit a dance club we saw in the TOC but the promoters prove to be shady bastards who try to charge on what is listed as a cover-free night. We get a cab ASAP and return to the hotel to crash and prep for champagne brunch at Angelina's, with Shas on Sunday.

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY.
Bloggy,
I have met my shadow self, and she is one toxic motherfucking bitch. I think I should hate her. She's selfish and aggressive and vindictive and bitchy as hell (no wait, that's just me). I know I should hate her. But I don't. I actually think I'm starting to like her, and that troubles me.

I'm all for having a responsible good time. Eating and drinking and a little fuckery on vacation are all well and good, as long as nobody gets hurt. But Shadow Self (let's call her WonderSlut), really just wants to drink whisky and climb that big, baldy Chicago Irish tree getting his groove on after the Super Bowl. And she really wants to do this despite the fact that a little gold band flashes warningly with every silly jiggy move he pulls on the dance floor, and he's got almost as many children as fingers on that married left hand.

What the fuck, bloggy? What should we do?

Wait. Let's start from the beginning, yes?

Bloody Mary Sunday: Angelina's not only is a darling Boystown spot with fabu eggs bene, and a $20 champagne brunch, no. It also has apparently the end-all-be-all bloody Mary with beer back for your bloody Mary-swilling friends *cough*M*cough* Joy for everybody. M and I meet Shas there and have divine brunches (me: eggs bene; M: er, um, eggs and bacon; Shas: her usual, apparently, which our waiter is quite familiar with) plus, well, champagne.

After, M says she wants to make the early train home to the 'Zoo, but is up for another round at O'Hanrahans. I deviously conspire to keep her in town for another few hours, and with the help of another round of beer and two girlfriends displaying their haul from nearby hipster-haven Strange Cargo, it works. We shop. Strange Cargo is the kind of place Urban Outfitters tries to be, minus the shitty corporatization and outrageous markups. I get my Guns tee for $5. $5!

M leaves on a later train and I meet Shas for dinner.

Lawd.

See, it was like this. On Saturday and early Sunday, Shas says she has to work on Monday, so she won't be engaging in any drinky Sunday night.

Then Sunday night comes, and she is just full of drinktastic suggestion: Industry Night at Leg Room. Half price martinis. On Superbowl Sunday. I just know we'll be out before the post-'bowl partiers show up. Not So. We're there for hours. Like, from 9ish 'til closing. And in the intervening hours?

We met the Tims.

You know, suddenly, I'm feeling rather shy about all this. Let's just say that we had some drinks, some dances, some laughs. Eventually, some of us (me) got a little carried away with some of them. What can I say? Some of us really, really like big blue-collar, bald-headed types, and after a few whiskies found ourselves alternately kissing-licking-biting-and-sucking, and fending off retaliatory sneak attacks from behind (you know, in the name of morals and propriety). And failing, miserably.

What? Sorry, flashback. Did I seriously lick his head? In public? Shit.

Oh hell. What's the dif? Do we (WonderSlut and I) feel horrible? Notsomuch. Not sure why not, though, Bloggy. Could be that there was just too much sexy. I mean, when you can kiss a man you know is a married father of four and think not "I am an evil WonderSlut," but "Hell, if this was coming home to me most nights, I'da been knocked up four times already, too," well, you're in a very losing battle. Pray somebody will draw you aside and tell you to keep your pants on. Then mentally resolve to thank her later. Uh, and then resolve to never, ever do get yourself into that situation again.

Hell bloggy, it's getting late.