Thursday, August 8, 2013

Again, the Windy City Sweeps Me off My Feet: Part 2

Curtain opens. Lights up. Chicago. The scene opens on the girls seated at an umbrella-topped table outside the High Noon Saloon. They need carbs. And mimosas. And more carbs.
 
After Friday night’s meal and libations, we nursed ourselves with a Saturday brunch in Wicker Park. (You know, sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this eating whatever I want, cavorting, martini-ing, sleeping in, train-hopping, vacation lifestyle.  And then I remember that I’ll be that sassy octogenarian with bright red lipstick who winks at the little waiter boys someday, so why not raise a glass today…even if it means a teensy—really the mildest—headache in the morning?) And besides, the ubiquitous presence of hipsters made it perfectly acceptable for me to wear my sunglasses while chasing a mimosa with an icy Mexican Coca-Cola. Sweet nectar. 

Sufficiently fed (and aspirin-ed), we spent the next few hours tramping up and down blocks of boutiques, odd bookstores, resale shops and hippie food establishments. Good fun. And there was this: 


That’s when the evening’s festivities really took off.  Back at the hotel, we traded our walking duds for evening togs, stopped at the bar for a quick tipple and then made our way to Topo Gigio in historic Old Town for dinner. I have no idea why, but the name has to do with some sort of Fievel-esque mouse character because he was on every waitperson’s shirt.

If you dine here, and you should, try everything. It’s all exquisite. The filet mignon medallions over risotto, the rigatoni, the farfalle, THE TIRAMISU. All of it will make you want to weep with gastronomical joy…and punch your skinny-ass Zumba instructor in the face. (She’d be raking this risotto off her plate, too.)  Okay, okay, enough about the food. It’s fab. If you’re in Chicago, and you’ve got to eat, go here. That’s it.

Thanks to our trip organizer, the impeccable Dr. T., we had tickets to the late show at The Second City. For the uninitiated, Second City is the improv comedy launchpad for greats such as Alan Arkin and John Belushi to Tina Fey and Steve Carell. All cinematic tastes aside, if you like to laugh, you need to go see a show. If you don’t like to laugh, well then, you’re doing it wrong.

To make sure we had floor seats close to the stage, we got there at 9:30 for the 11:00 show. And before you go rolling your eyes because you have the patience of a fruit fly, just know that we sat our cute Texas derrieres in the first and second rows, and two of us got called upon by the actors during the show. So good, funny things really do come to those who wait.

The show, specifically the 101st revue “Let Them Eat Chaos,” was two-thirds scripted and two-thirds unscripted, witty, goofy, smart, even touching scenes—and that was before I had a cocktail. One cast member described it as “not Applebee’s,” and really, can you get any better than that?

After three hours of laughing so much I could probably count it as an ab workout, we giggled our way back to the hotel for 39-and-a-half winks before catching a 6:30 a.m. flight back to Dallas. It was still dark during our 4:00 a.m. cab ride to O’Hare, but the late night partiers were out and about aplenty. By the time Des and I got through security and to our gate, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It reminded me of all those teenaged slumber parties when we stayed up all night, talking, laughing, and confiding,  just because we could.  Until next time, Chicago, old friend. 

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