Dining about town...Terragusto style

Recently my wife and I were joined by a dear friend, Eric, to dine at a newer Roscoe Village spot, Terragusto. As always, I sought out reviews ere venturing out, and was in this case please to find a number on metromixes website from various readers. Alas, a seeming dichotomy presented itself in those reviews. They either praised the food or cursed the prices. Thankfully, none cursed the food, but only its presumed value. Hoping this was a good sign, we sallied forth.
While on the busy street of Addison, parking was no difficulty, for which I was grateful. The restaurant itself is located in a brickfront locale on a corner, and is as unassuming inside as out. Really, the only indications that this is a restaurant is the sign on the door and the (at the time) unused pasta preparation bar in the front window. Inside, largely unadorned brick walls are the norm, with the cramped but serviceable kitchen visible through the open door and service window. Not only does this add a certain element of interaction with the kitchen's activity, if only in a visual sense, but I'm sure it provides the various prep cooks the chance to NOT go mad from claustrophobia, an issue in kitchens everywhere as it is. Aside from the Pasta prep area, there is the front service bar where the waitstaff waited for walk-ins. The expected register, water station and espresso bar were in evidence, but also a variety of locally prepared italian condiments for sale, and a glass fronted refrigerator case displaying a number of fresh pastas and the raw ingredients for some of the desserts. Visually a little static, but interesting at the same time. The space overall could have crammed more tables in, but only at the cost of privacy and comfort. As we would see later, this is not only a good decision in terms of comfort, but conversation. At capacity, the dull roar of other patrons might have drowned out our own conversation had greater numbers been present. On entering, we were politely asked if we had a reservation. On admitting we did not, a rustle of consternation moved through the staff. Still, they muttered among themselves for a bit before ushering us to the table closest to the door and the resident drink cooler. The lesson was learned; make reservations for this restaurant. Our waiter, David, came over and promptly opened our bottle of wine, (the restaurant is the best sort of BYOB...no corkage fee, and no resentment,) after he had discovered our water preference and delivered it to the table. The description of the menu was cogent and honest. The few points where a detail was forgotten, David stepped away to relearn what he had forgotten rather than skipping over it. A tiresome detail perhaps, but a welcome one. A tight selection of insalatas and antipasti were to start, followed by Primi plates to be consumed individually, and then a selection of secondi plates to be shared. We started with an antipasti selection, largely of italian classics. A hardboiled egg in quarters with a drizzle of olive oil and what seemed to be gremolata was accomanied by a selection of crudites for dipping in an anchovie basil olive oil mix. Sliced sausage and salami sat opposite roasted and thinly sliced squash, with an exquisite buffalo mozzerella in the center. Crostini accompanied it all, and I can admit no complaints. The olive oil was delicious, a rich golden tone with grassy and herbal notes. The mozzerella was exceptional, toothsome and flavorful in a was store bought mozzerella never is. The squash did not thrill, but this admits as much of my own prejudice as the preparation. The anchovy/herb paste in the oil was tremendous, and we had a tendency to use it as a general condiment with any other item atop the available bread.
The polenta that followed was baked and accompanied with squash and tomato, olive oil and basil. The baking gave it a pleasant al dente presentation, while permitting the corn undertones to shine. In accompaniment with the tomato and squash, the sweet and savory notes of the ground corn were evoked in an exquisite fashion. If antipasti is simple by necessity and nature, this dish was the same by design. The harmonious whole was a simple and delicious delight.
Following this, Eric had a salad I did not sample, but claimed it was excellent, with no elucidations.
Our raviolis arrived next, with the secondi plate we had selcted due to arrive halfway through these. Both the Missus and I tried the potato raviolis with pancetta and pine nuts. The pasta was perfect, but the potato stood up well, with a savory roastiness that was further evoked by the toasted pine nuts, and then simultaneously called out and enhanced by the deep flavors and saltiness of the pancetta. Altogether, I felt the salt became a little to dominant, and I personally would have appreciated a little cream to round it out, but as it was it was still incredible, allowing the simplicity of ingredients to interact and shine.
The secondi plate that arrived was a porkchop of generous proportions, simply dressed in salt and roasted in iron. It was perfectly juicy and flavorful, but it didn't really shine until we tried the roasted tomatoes benath it and the complement of polenta nestled like a golden treasure within those. The tomatoes were an unexpected source of sweetness to call out the apple notes of the porkchop, and the polenta provided a savory herbal note that paired well with both the chop and the tomatoes. It should be noted that past the polenta, we were eating with desire, not hunger. While David spoke of the menu with warning, we gained the impression that most people are dissatisfied that the portions were too small. While this matches up somewhat with impressions gained from other sources online, I cannot imagine someone being hungry after this meal.
We should not have done it, but we saved the remaining portion of porkshop for later and tried the parfait for dessert, although no real room was left in our bellies. The strawberries were prefectly ripe, tender but dense, sweet and tart, nestled in layers of yogurt and whipped cream, dusted with sprinkles of granola. The layers of rich cream, tart yogurt, nutty granola, and sweet/tart berries was uplifting, and if anything served to refresh us. (For those interested, the accompanying coffee was supplied by local roaster intelligentia, and was as good as always. Yes, that's an endorsement.)
While the decor was spare at best, neither was it uneccessarily busy, and in retrospect, it was a perfect environment for the food: simple, and focusing on it's strengths. It didn't speak of luxury, but nor was it cheap. If anything, it was on the postive side of minimalism and honesty in design. They also gain points for not cramming the space to capacity. The food presentation was neither plain nor inspired. Generally, it seemed to service the ingredients more than arcane artistic ideal. Given the seeming theme of this restaurant, that is however appropriate. I would say that 4 points out of five is appropriate.
The service had a few tiny bumps, but these were as simple as failing to catch David's eye during a slow moment as he rested. It was nothing intentional, and the time spent waiting was minimal. Nonetheless, his knowledge of the menu was at time incomplete. While I sympathize, it did drag the service score down from a four to a more average three out of five.
The food was in every instance delicious, if not inspired. While a certain sacrifice in craft was made to focus so much ont he purity of ingredients and their pairing, it was to exceptional effect. The score here is a minimum of seven points out of ten. That gives a grand point total of fourteen out of twenty, or a three star rating out of four, or 70 percent.
To those who complain about the price, (Our tab for three people was $110 pretip, or about 37 per person,) I would point out that all the ingredients are purcchased as locally as possible, and prepared at the peak of freshness. This doesn't even address the perfection of preparation. While I sympathize with those who are startled by the price, it is entirely in line with the market at this point. (Although I hope to establish a baseline on prices to come up with some sort of "value index.") If you are satisfied with dried pasta and a good sauce, there are certainly cheaper alternative's than Terragusto for you, and some of them are quite delicious. Still, if you love fresher items and are willing to pay the premium, the price doesn't get better than Terragusto...and neither does much else.

Wholly crap!

I don't really have anything to say here, other than that a lot of time has passed since i last posted, so I thought i would try to reconnect. if you are randomly out there, in no particular order, how are you all? Heather, how's school? Kayla, how's tricks? Rachel, how's tricks and school? (I know, I know, work and school are a bitch.) And speaking of bitches, how's Tony? And speaking of the friends of bitches, how's my favorite filthy whore, Christina?
Me? I'm fine. Alcoholic, in multiple senses, miserable, in just the one sense, and lonely, listening to a lot of depeche mode and stuff.
Who's that shoutin'? John the revalator!
Yeah, I will actually post again soon with new and stuff. I swear to god. Or satan. Y'know. Whoever gets here first.
(Oh, hey, Nick. Wassup? AAAAGHH! IT BURNS LIKE HELLFIRE! Oh, really? That's what it is, huh? AAAAGHH! IT BURNS LIKE HELLFIRE!)

A Monday Morning in Chicago

Ere I complete my Chicago trip narrative, I must digress a moment to respond to Tony's comment.
Yes, I should post more often, but as my posting depends largely on both my mood, (and I am quite moody,) and my blood alcohol level, it is an irregular thing. I am, by the way, writing a novel as you accuse. It's working title?
"Tony's a Dick."
You, sir, figure prominently in the plot.
Back to chicago, and other things. The highlight of the trip, gaming and friends aside, was a visit to a new restaurant I'd been reading about for some time. Osteria Via Stato. So, I hop on the El, get off at Grand, and walk over to 620 North State. As i was going to dine alone, I had brought a hefty tome to entertain myself. In this case, the gargantuan and satisfying Mr. Norell and Jonathan Strange.
Although I was attired simply in jeans and a t-shirt, they still seated me on the patio, where a waiter approached me to discuss my options. Allow me to share the glory that was...
The place, for lunch, has a ten dollar option. In this, they bring you a selection of antipasti. then, if you want it, they bring you more. And more, and so on, and so forth. This sort of menu seems dangerous, but really isn't. It is unlikely that anyone can come in and eat enough that it becomes unprofitable for the restaurant. (Although i did witness Mary's brothers eat their weight in crab legs at a mongolian barbeque. I'm fairly sure that was a bad deal for the mongolians involved.)
So, this in mind, I planned on a nice, relaxed, prolongued and inexpensive lunch out. But the fifteen dollar version, with a Paparradelle Ragu entree, seemed too good to pass up. Oh, and did I mention their menu option called "Just bring me wine"?
The meal took three hours, and it's course was winding, with many reststops, a few cutbacks, a tawdry inn and a band of thieves lurking by the roadside. First, they brought a course of antipasti. And, OH(!), the antipasti they brought. Chickpeas and shaved lettuce in a light white wine vinaigrette! Carmelized onion topped with browned parmesan! Fresh salami, dressed with thin slices of mozzerella, olive oil, and pepper! All delicious! All excellent! I devoured them, sipping luxurously on my Northern Italian Pinot Gris, flipping lazily through the pages of my book. The waiter approached, inquiring as to my satisfaction. My reply was florid and eloquent, assuring the man that myself, my ancestors, and indeed, all my descendants were quite thrilled. Please, though, might I have more? And with the utmost graciousness, he agreed I may. Shortly, another variation arrived, more plates of deliciousness. i devoured them once more, this time slowed by my stomachs reduced capacity. Sadly, I realized that I would have no room for my entree when it arrived. Action had to be taken. I needed something to clear my stomach some. The waiter approached, bearing a complimentary platter of buffalo mozzerella with basil and cherry tomatoes. Damn! I was sunk! But wait, all i really need was something to clear my palate, and to help lighten the load already eaten.
So I postponed the delivery of the next wine, and ordered a glass of prosecco instead, and pleasantly light and sweet sparkling wine. it certainly did the trick. In fact, I felt a little peckish again, so I asked the busboy for just one more small plate of the carmelized onions. unfortunately, his english must not have been very good, because i ended up with a full new course of antipasti. Oh, well. I ate on, slower and slower, aided by the arrival of the third glass of wine, a rich velvety red this time. Eventually, I had exhausted the antipasti, and the entree came, accompanied by the last glass of wine. I nibbled some, but knew the battle was lost before it ever began. Soon, the waiter came to bear away the sad mound of food before me. He returned after a prolongued period, permitting me an opportunity to finish my chapter and the wine. When he finally returned, he almost sheepishly placed the dessert menu in front of me, certain I'd have none of it.
His mistake.
After all, I'd been digesting for thirty minutes!
Lessee...Oooh! A homemade limoncello liqueur? that would go splendidly with the Panna cotta and fresh berries. Perhaps some espresso to finish? Excellent.
So, my simple meal of a few dishes of antipasti had ballooned into a huge meal of multiple courses of antipasti, an entree, dessert, four glasses of wine, an excellent liqueur, and coffee. projected cost, ten dollars plus tip. Actual cost? More like 65 dollars.
The satisfaction of a great meal on a beautiful day in your hometown? Priceless.

Sorry...

I'm sorry. I was inebriated and angry when I wrote the last post. Wait...I'm still angry, and just as drunk. God's a fuckin' asshole, and I meant every word i said. Plus, i vergen duplo. Yeah, You heard me.

Digressing again.

this is a somewhat belligerent post, but then again, that would be in keeping. I closed the store tonight, and had several conversations with folk who were staying here in Bryan-College station Texas because their homes in the hurricane effected area were destroyed. Why were they 450 miles from home? Because ours were the first hotels they had encountered that weren't full!
Wow, I may say, and then Wow again. That's a few million people displaced. That's bucketsfull of tradgedy.
So, I have to ask.
Wait, I'll hold that query a bit. first, let's delve into some legal lore for a bit, and consider that this sort of event, in insurance contracts, is referred to as "an Act of God." Y'know, a bit of divine intervention, like Sodom and Gomorrah, or the Great Flood. I mean, today I Joked quite legitimately that perhaps this was Divine Retribution for Sin, or something. 9Legitimately because this sort of expectation is a necessary aspect of an All-Powerful Deity. Falwell may be a jerk, but at least he's consistent in pronouncing misfortune to be an aspect of divine retribution. I mean, read the old testament, and it becomes at least consistent.)
Oh, Hell. I gotta go to bed. Let just say this. If this is a divine act, or something that could have been prevented by divine action if there were a god, then God is a Fucking Asshole.
Yeah, I said it. And I typed it out, too, despite all the beers.
Plus, it's not a tenth as bad as the Tsunami.
Yeah, Jesus loves us all to death.

But I digress...

I realize this interrupts my tale of returning to Chicago, but I simply must speak about this.
Recently, in fact, just last week, I was returning home from work. It must be pointed out to those as yet unaware, I have been bicyling to and from work on a regular basis. It is a hot and sweaty commute, one which fails to offer any dignity, requires that I wear a dorky helmet, and completely fails to give any money to a single Oil Company. (Plus, it offers some measure of physical fitness.)
So, anyhow. I'm biking along, minding my own business in the 100 degree heat of Hell on Earth, when I was passed by a large pickup truck. Now, this is not an unusual occurance, espically given where I live. What was slightly odd was the way the passenger leaned out his window in order to say, I quote, "Arf! Woof! Bark!"
They then drove on, their pale imitation of a dog barking complete.
The next truck threw a soda can at me. Or, really, I suppose it might have been a beer can.
In any case, it is known that idiots travel in packs, and that there is an unusually high concentration of idiots in Texas. I was suprised by none of these revelations, and nor was I shocked by the hostility towards or mockery of a bike rider. To anyone who cares to listen, I ask, why should I care about what a bunch of shithead rednecks do?
But barking? What the fuck was that about? The intention was mockery, no doubt, but I'm bewildered by the vehicle they chose for their scorn. Why not oink, or call me a fag? Why not scream, "Nice Bike!" or something?
Why Bark like a dog?
So, this aside, I go on with my life, puzzled, but not fixated.
Then, today, i got barked at again. I repeat, what the fuck? Once was wierd, but twice indicates that this is a chosen method for some segment of the population down here.
Who are these people?
So, publicly, I ask, what can this mean. What's the story? Anyone?

Maybe I'll write the President. I'm sure he'd know.

This is Chicago

So, once more at home in Chicago, we dropped my bags off at Elizabeth and Eric's, and went out for luch. This is not in and of itself noteworthy, excepting the fact that we went to a Thai place! And the food? It tasted like Thai food should! Simply delightful!
I'm sure there are many of you looking expectant, like the real revelation is still coming, but I'm afraid not. The missing tidbit is the understanding that there is no good ethnic cuisine available in Bryan-College Station, so the experience of Asian food that taste good was one that has been sorely lacking until my return.
So, food and more good food followed. I cooked a soup that evening, and we hung out before venturing into the city for a viewing of The Aristocrats over at Piper's Alley. I'm sure most of you are familiar with the premise of this film, but I'll explore it briefly nonetheless. It is a documentary assembled from countless interviews with comedians making or disussing a single joke, that being "The Aristocrats." The whole point of this joke is contained in the following setup. A man enters a talent agent's office, and tells him he has a great family act for him. The agaent inquires, and is then witness to a series of depraved actions meant to make the most hardened of us blanch. Horrified, the agent asks what this calamity could be called. The man proudly says, "The Aristocrats!" Ba-dum-dum.
The premise of the film centers around the "jazz-like improvisation" of each comedian telling the depraved part differently, and thereby making it their own. This is, unfortunately, the films primary flaw. i expected it to be a case of comedian after comedian being given a shot at telling the film, and there is a distinct feeling that that was what6 was shot, but the end product is much more that of a true documentary, wherein the joke is discussed more than told. I recall sitting in the theatre, aching to get to the next telling of the joke, waiting for the next laugh. (And the film opens Big, with George Carlin giving arguably the most disgusting version of the joke. I literally had to struggle to avoid retching. It's all downhill from there, though.)
Still, the movie is worth seeing, if only for the daring sense of being naughty in a sophisticated way, and at numerous points there are examples of genuine comedic brilliance that are alone worth the price of admission. Overall, I would give it a solid rating of 55 points out of a hundred. More good than bad, but boring in stretches.
(Warning; the movie rating scale is both arbitrary and inconsistent.)
Following this, we returned home to bullshit, drink, and play Risk late into the night. Okay, okay, Lord of the Rings Risk. (Glorious, by the way.) Eventually, everyone was gone or in bed, and i lay there thinking just how damn hungry I was. I delayed for an hour or two, thinking i'd fall asleep, but it never happened. Finally, I arose to find food. Since there was none in the apartment, I was forced out to the street. I stole Elizabeth's keys, pulled on some clothes, and ventured out.
The sensation of Chicago at 2:30 AM on sunday morning is distinct and pleasant. There is a sleepy crispness to it, as you are aware of that diminished percentage of the population that shares some elelment of consciouness with you, at that early hour, while the rest of the city sleeps. I turned left as I left the apartment, and walked towards the car. A woman was speaking on a cellphone in the street. She dropped her cigarette, ended her conversation, and returned to a folding chair waiting for her on the sidewalk. As I came parallel to her on the sidewalk, she gave me an appraising look, and asked, "Hey. You want a Reading?"
I realized she was sitting in front of the Psychic's shop, which until now I had never seen inhabited. I suppose it was unfair that I didn't stop to think before I said "No."
She shrugged, and I walked on, finding the car and directing it towrads the nearest Golden Nugget.
The inhabitants of the diner were a group of drunken girls out after a night of clubbing, some cops, a homeless man, and, entering later, someone I was fairly sure was a Hooker. (Although she seemed to be on friendly terms with the cops.)
The food was filling, and unremarkable other than in its provenance. Driving back, I felt estatic, if quietly so.
This is Chicago, and this is home.

So much to say...so little of it important.

Well. My intention of frequently posting is, dare we notice, indeed laughable. (Har har har!) Indeed, that is how I laugh now that I am a Texan. Rather like Pegleg Pete, Mickey Mouse's old nemesis, evidently, but with more of a tinge of madness.
so. Many events have transpired, as events tend to, since my last post. Since I do not in fact complete the action implicit in making an observation and thinking "I should write that down and comment on it," I have an empty notebook and no memory of what inspired the recognition of what was undoubtedly sublimely ridiculous. Still, my memory has some few shreds remaining in it, so let us explore.
I recently returned to Chicago for an event, one which shall remain unnamed and unexplained. The true highlights of this journey are perhaps overly simplistic, but to me, they were a joy.
Highlight One: I left Texas, if only for a few days. This is not to be underestimated. The joy that tingled in my every limb (truly, I tingled,) as I left Texan airspace, and yes, they did announce the actual event of leaving the boundaries of Texas, either so that those of us fleeing could now know our freedom, or so those Texasphiles unwillingly leaving might more fully comprehend the emminence of their doom, and yes this is a long sentence, this joy did not leave me the full length of my absence from Texan soil. It was a freedom unlike any I have ever known, or shall ever know. Even the act of approaching Chicago took on an aura of, if I may say religious awe, as though I was witnessing the fantastic. "Look!" I muttered to myself, as we flew overhead. "It's the Kennedy Expressway!" My tone and unthusiasm was not unlike the tourist-pilgrim who finally reaches the Holy Land. Joy, intermingled with delight. For a moment, I felt Jesus with me, and he was agreeing that Chicago, my friends, is Fucking Badass! (Please interpret that as "really really great, and bring not the taint of freud into my mutterings...)
I grinned as we landed.
I grinned as we taxied.
I grinned as I strolled through O'hare, though I tried to stop cause of some of the looks I was getting. I likely looked like a somewhat Jolly Maniac, so the concern I saw on some faces was understandable.
I grinned as I waited for my bags.
I scowled as my ride showed up on the departure level, and the grinned as I approached the car, my friends, and home.
More tomorry!
(You're thrilled. You know you are. BTW, a shoutout to my homies who have posted. Kayla, Tony, I miss ya both.)