“Rush Street,” a businessman in a Manhattan hotel bar said. “That’s the street where all the good restaurants are,” he added, with the kind of authority an expensive necktie automatically bestows.
I made a mental note of his advice, then promptly forgot it.
But a few weeks ago, having spent my first Saturday afternoon as a new Chicagoan, my fiance, Will, and I, dog tired and looking like hell, innocently headed down a nearby lane–Rush Street–and into the first normal-looking restaurant we came upon.
Gibson’s seemed inviting enough: “Martinis, Steaks, Wines, Fish, and Cigars!” But not for us. There would be no open tables for “a couple of hours.”
So it was next door to Hugo’s Frog Bar, where a big neon frog atop the sign quaffs a cocktail. Ahead of us, a woman dressed in faux-snakeskin pants and a fur sweater was escorted to a table. I looked down at my own pants, a baggy pair of men’s Dockers, and then at Will’s, which were paint-splattered. “Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked.
So we were back out on the sidewalk. We didn’t bother trying the Whiskey Bar, with its sunglass-dark windows. At the crowded Tavern on Rush, we were instantly sent packing.
Maybe we weren’t cool enough to get into a Chicago restaurant. We were rubes in unacceptable pants, strangers in a strange land, with food everywhere and not a bite to eat. And from the looks of the crowds out on the street, we were not the only people on the outside looking in.
We ended up at Chipotle, eating pretty good burritos.
And I’ve ended up, after just a few weeks in town, suspecting that “all the good restaurants” might not really be on Rush Street.
Since I’d begun making rank generalizations about the street, though, I thought I should actually eat there.
I’d had my eye on the strip’s newest spot, Domaine, but was convinced it was some kind of crazy burlesque hall. One night there were two oversized, gilded Baroque chairs on the sidewalk amid scattered rose petals. Another night, a gilt-and-brocade chair with a top hat perched on the seat, hung inside a shadowbox window. And one morning a door hung open, revealing a glimpse of a chandelier inside.
I finally waltzed right in recently, with no wait. It’s a mixed-up place, which I hear was inspired by Versailles, but while it is fairly dripping with crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, candelabras, reproduction furniture and art, and red and gold damask, it didn’t remind me of Versailles.
It was a bit like walking onto the set of Kubrick’s “Barry Lyndon” while on peyote. In fact, “Barry Lyndon” was playing behind the bar on a small movie screen.
A waiter escorted me and my friend Rob to a table. Rob can’t bear smoke, so they kindly seated us as far away from the bar, beneath one of several ornate canopies, at a table for six. If Louis XIV stopped by, we had room.
I leaned back on the banquette, and it was so deep and plush that I found myself accidentally lying on my back. After righting myself with as much grace as I could muster, I accepted a menu; it wasn’t really a menu at all but a glossy magazine (“Fall/Winter 2002”) featuring a photo of Marlene Dietrich wearing fishnet gloves. The table of contents included “Upcoming Events,” “Dessert Studies” and “Chef Tasting Collection” (meaning the food, which took me forever to find).
I avoided the Amuses-Gueules (otherwise known as appetizers)–already feeling overly amused, I tried to keep it simple.
We ordered four “small plates”: a grilled sirloin (burnt black on the bottom, with blue potato puree and black truffle bordelaise); a chewy, confusing poached pheasant breast (with goat cheese, porcini and wild rice); a bland Maine lobster salad (allegedly with shaved fennel, although I never saw the thinnest sliver, and caviar dressing); and seared sea scallops (with truffles and a Kabocha squash puree that tasted more like sweet Thanksgiving yams).
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The waiters were all perfectly nice, although none of them bothered to bring us the right utensils or extra plates for sharing and, frankly, they seemed a bit confused.
After we’d sampled a few bites of each dish, I looked up and “An American in Paris” was on the movie screen, with the sound turned off. While Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron mugged and danced silently, “Moon River,” sung by someone who sounded like Petula Clark, played loudly on the sound system. There’s a metaphor in there, somewhere, I just don’t know what it is.
I can now officially say I’ve eaten in a Rush Street restaurant, but if it is possible to judge from my night at Domaine, I’d have to say that the food is not the point.
And if there’s a moral to the story, it’s that it is best not to talk to strange men, even those wearing a tie, and that gullibility, not ratty pants, makes the rube.
A la carte
Best known for its terrific breakfasts, Flo (1434 W. Chicago Ave., 312-243-0477) now serves dinner Thursdays-Saturdays, offering a menu (entrees $9-$12) that includes roasted chicken with mole borracho, seafood tacos and a jerk-chicken Caesar salad. A liquor license is in the works, but BYO for now.
Trax Tavern & Grill has opened in the Deerfield Commons shopping center (Deerfield and Waukegan Roads in Deerfield, 847-399-4994). The American menu includes sandwiches and burgers, pizzas and specials ranging from prime rib to chicken and biscuits.
On Nov. 27, Keefer’s (20 W. Kinzie St.) is celebrating its first anniversary by offering bottomless servings of coq au vin, cassoulet and bouillabaisse. It’s $20 and includes a tasting of French wines. 312-467-9525.