A lazy drive through the country-like suburbs of Chicago leads you through narrow, twisting roads, sharp curves, and unbelievably steep hills. Driving through the woods, you alternately encounter mansions, growing as if not impeded by gravity or real estate bubbles, and little houses with pieces of junk dispersed throughout their yards, as if to warn away strangers with the macabre decorations. Danger lurks at every corner - literally. It is a jump across a bendy highway, with little visibility right or left, and a sharp turn and steep hill that leads you to the historic road that winds through the forest. A forest that is darkened, even in the normally bright evening sunlight. More sharp curves and another steep hill lead you to the water's edge - quite literally. I wonder how the residents travel in the winter - a little ice, and a car would go straight into the black river.
I see my destination but willingly pass it, choosing instead to continue on a few minutes in my smoky car, looking at the landscape as much as possible. While not white-knuckled, I am keenly aware of the turns in the road and how close my right wheels are to the embankment. After a few minutes I see no walking paths, no bridges. The river is uninviting. And yet, the leaf-less trees and winter sun seem to hide behind half-smiles, knowing, as I do, that it is truly a beautiful day. This fact is echoed with the songs of birds, unheard in my sound-proofed car, but a delightful addition to the spring evening.
At last I return to my destination, my little GPS lies quietly beside me - exhausted, I think, from the confusion of getting me here - too tired even to tell me to turn around when I've passed it up. The Hideaway, or speakeasie, blends in with the rest of the houses. Had I not been alertly searching for it, I would have never guessed it to be a restaurant. The alternating mansions and dumps cause a wariness, but the the mini-white Christmas lights peeking through the windows encourage me on.
Stepping out of my car, I feel as though I am literally stepping back to the 1930's - the days of the gangsters. The gravel driveway is soaked with water, un-sophisticated. I imagine ladies with fur coats and gentlemen with bowlers stepping on the same wet ground decades ago. The day is nice, so I take my time getting to the door. There is no window. I have no idea what to expect. For the next few minutes, every action is done timidly - unsure. Steeling myself, I open the door.
I am met by the sound of ragtime music, which continues to play for the duration of my visit, deepening the ambiance of the restaurant. I find myself in an empy hallway - an antique fridge to my right reminds me of my themed surroundings. To my left - another door, and ahead, mysterious stairs that I am not destined to ascend. Once again I resolve myself to follow the door to my left.
At last, the restaurant. It appears to be one room - well lit, with many windows lining the walls. However, later I discover a darker, secluded room in the back, also set up for dining, but perhaps where the heads of gangs used to meet to conduct secret meetings and create truces and pacts. I'm led to a little table, where I begin to read the menu. My waitress is young, nice, but I can't say I'm impressed with her black outfit - it doesn't serve as a blatant reminder of the era. She lets me read the menu, even after ordering - it speaks of the history of the speakeasie. Nothing I didn't know there.
Upon hearing that there is no Dr. Pepper, I order water, but later add on a "Bootlegger" martini, which I justify, thinking, 'How can one go to a speakeasie and not drink?'. I am rewarded with my choice with a quick question from the waitress, "Can I see your ID?" And with a satisfying flick, I am given more food for thought - on the contrary, it's the very height of legality for a 23 year old to have a drink. My drink is a concoction of chocolate and banana and reeks of strong alcohol. Unable to satisy my stomach's greedy desire for food, I am only able to take a very few sips of the otherwise pleasant tasting drink.
Of course, how can one sojourn to a restaurant without commenting on the food? My first course is a bowl of potato, cheese, and bacon soup. It tastes just like my family recipe, but I know it cannot be, as it is yellow with cheese and much thicker than my own attempts at the brew - attempts I would never try to force upon anyone not in my family. I am given a full portion of bread, perhaps my least favorite item of the night. It is covered with herbs and parmesan cheese and sits in a pool of olive oil for flavoring - all in all, a good idea, but the execution is somehow flawed.
My stomach is still yelling at me when the waitress brings the mid-course - a tiny lemon sherbert ice cream cone. I gladly take it from her and sit, content, licking it like a five year old.
The main course is the weeknight "special", a reasonably priced $17 prime rib and baked potato. When the waitress sets it in front of me, I realize that I am possibly in more danger than the gangsters of old, who used to gather here to break the law. My danger is less pressing, but just as real - nestled snugly in the potato is what may amount to a full stick of butter, and to my horror, I am unable to remove the cholesterol bearing weapon from the spud before it has melted into oblivion. But, just as Al Capone laughed at the possibility of going to jail for tax evasion, so I shrug off my impending heart disease and tuck in. The steak is delicious - not dressed with superfluous peppers and tastings as some restaurants are prone to do. In true Chicago style, my "medium-well" steak appears to be more of a "medium," and yet, I am not displeased. It seems the chefs here shake their heads with a "tut" when orders come in and err on the side of less-cooked, knowing that the patron will enjoy the steak better that way, whether they know it or not.
I had almost finished picking at my meal - not for lack of taste, but as my stomach was still questioning the strange things I was putting in it - when suddenly the ceiling erupted in a burst of water. Luckily, no patrons were wettened by this leak, and, had I had a comanion, this even may have provided a good laugh. As it was, those nearest the upside-down geyser were offered free coffee, as well as an explanation: someone had been doing maintenance upstairs, probably resulting in a less water-tight ceiling.
It is my belief that I tarried there an hour before heading home, listening to the jazz music. I remember hearing "When the Saints Go Marching In," an arrangement that seemed to bring out the harmony parts of the song and send my thoughts flying through time and space to various events: junior high choir, my trip to New Orleans, and visitations to another era that I had never even seen. However, that pesky stomach of mine was still crying at me to take it away from that place and take a walk. So, regretfully, all too soon I paid my bill, and walked out, through the darkened parking lot, to my car and the year 2008.
No comments:
Post a Comment