Stacey A.'s Profile

I never went to Wolcott's. I don't know why, because it was REALLY close to my house, but I never went, and apparently I wasn't really missing out on anything.

I was excited to go to Troquet, though. I like French food and I REALLY like when French food is close to my house. And I really like when French food is close to my house and ousts what was apparently a mediocre bar. The fact that it's a more casual outpost of the lovely LM Le Restaurant (or whatever its formal name is), was the icing on the cake, so my friend Emily and I went there for dinner tonight.

And maybe it's the fact that it was chilly out, or maybe it was the fact that both the Bulls AND Hawks were playing, but it got busy in a fucking HURRY. I think we were one of four tables when we first walked in, and by the time we left, the place had filled up.

The food was lovely. The broth for the mussels was nice. The cheese plate was not overpriced nor overfilling and the special quiche of the day (shallot, swiss and tomato) was really one of the better quiches I've ever had. The desserts were teeny tiny, and the perfect size to ensure that you wouldn't immediately go into some kind of diabetic coma.

My issue here, is the service. And I know that sometimes, as a server, you get FUCKING OVERWHELMED, and maybe you kind of overlook a table or two because one other table is demanding all your attention or something. And I get that. Because I have certainly been there.

But we started with one server, who took our initial order for appetizers and entrees and then she...pretty much dropped off the map. We saw her twice for the rest of the night and our table was taken over, at some point well after we were done eating, by a very nice waiter, who took our order for dessert and brought us our bill at the end. But between the time where our dinner was dropped off and a good 40 minutes later, when the other server came to ask us if we needed anything else, there was nothing. No one stopped by. No one checked to see if we needed anything or if the food was okay or anything. There was no, "Oh hey, so-and-so will be your server now" comment or anything and that...kind of bugs me a little, as a server.

But. The food was lovely and came out quickly and was tasty and priced right and the drinks were not overly expensive at all, but the whole "Where the crap did our server go?" thing leaves a weird taste in my mouth.

I will probably go back, but my expectations are kind of in the shitter in terms of service. Maybe I'll sit at the bar.

I live in Ravenswood. It is a complete and utter pain in the ass to get from Ravenswood to Pilsen via public transportation. You have to take the brown line to the red line to the orange line and THEN, if you're going to Nightwood, you have to double back and walk north for however many blocks and pass a bunch of what look like abandoned factories so you walk with your keys in your hand just in case you need to stab someone.

But your end goal in all this is Nightwood, which is an amazing personal reward for not being murdered for walking on Cermack or whatever murder-filled street it is at night.

And in the event that you bring a friend with you, you get to try twice as much as you normally would, unless you're the sort of person who eats like, 4 plates of food at every meal and then I'm going to wonder about your metabolism and why you don't have a reality or whatever.

Anyhow. In the event that you bring a friend, here's what you should order:

-- The agnolotti with the GODDAMNED FOIE GRAS INSIDE. I cannot stress this enough. You should order at least one plate of this for every two people that go to Nightwood, in order to minimize sharing because you will not want to share because it's pasta with GODDAMNED FOIE GRAS IN IT. And you will bite into it and your eyes will become as giant and wide as saucers and you will shovel the remaining pasta into your face with the kind of reckless abandon usually reserved for afternoon quickies before the kids get home from school.

-- The sturgeon with the lemon and the creme freche and the BACON BRAISED POTATOES. Don't get me wrong here, the sturgeon is the star of the show and there is nothing better than a big steaky fish that doesn't smell or taste "fishy". But oh lord, I want everything to be braised in bacon after having those potatoes.

-- The half chicken with black beans, pickled onions, white sauce, and CORNBREAD CROUTONS. Don't judge me for getting this solely because of the fucking croutons, okay? Because that's pretty much 100% of the reason why I got it. And to Nightwood's credit, chicken is a really easy dish to fuck up or overdo or make boring or lame or whatever - and this was some GOOD chicken. Perfectly seasoned, super moist, and all the flavors went together perfectly, provided you got a magic cornbread crouton in your grill piece.

I have no idea how dessert is here because I was too full to eat any. But in terms of dinner? Nightwood delivers. (Not like, they will deliver the food to your house, but in terms of "they will bring some seriously good food to you while you are in the restaurant.)

Just don't get murdered on your way there.

I've worked around the corner from this place for something like 6 months.

Or 5 months or whatever. Math is clearly not my strong point.

My strong point is eating. And now my favorite thing to do is eat at Belly Shack.

And if you are stupid and you hate things like, "BYO restaurants" and "really delicious sandwiches" and "establishments that split tips between the kitchen and counter staff so TIP THEM" - then I have two words for you:

Meatball. Sandwich.

(You're welcome.)

According to Yelp, three stars indicates that a place is A-OK.
And I am A-OK with 2 Sparrows.

I'm not peeing my pants to go there again, but I had a perfectly nice time while I was there this past Sunday.

For one, the service is incredibly spot on. I cannot say enough nice things about our server, because he was awesome. And he was way way way into his "let me tell you about our single bean coffee" spiel, and I'm okay with that because everyone's gotta be into something, right? And I really like coffee so I don't care if someone wants to tell me how good the coffee is before I drink it.

For two, Lincoln Park is horrible. But horrible lends itself to some SERIOUSLY FANTASTIC PEOPLE WATCHING. And nothing is as horrible as a Lincoln Park brunch spot. Park yourself along a wall and eat up the hilarious scenery!

For three, the pancakes I had this weekend came with a looooovely blueberry compote and some kind of honeyed marscapone spread that I wanted to just eat with my hands. But I refrained because I was in public and it's not socially acceptable to do things like that in public. Which is stupid.

But generally speaking, the menu is varied, and ever-changing, if not particularly cheap. The service is awesome and the people watching cannot be beat.

Dear The Southern,

Here are some things that I like about you:

- Fried Green Tomatoes
- The patio
- $3 High Life bottles (It's the champagne of beer!)
- When your servers actually bring you a champagne flute and pour your High Life into it so that you can properly enjoy said Champagne of Beers
- The fact that you had a fried chicken eating contest yesterday
- Your face

Well done, you. I like your face. And the rest of you.

Kisses,

Stacey

The thing about St. Patrick's Day is that I hate it. I hate the green shirts. I hate green Bud Light (It's always Bud Light, isn't it?). I hate all the drunks. I hate all the drunks in the middle of the street or the sidewalk or in Subway or where ever. I hate working in bars on St. Patrick's Day because it's basically announcing to the world that you hate yourself and would very much like to be spilled on or slurred at or both.

So, like a smart person, I opted not to work at my very busy bar on St. Patrick's Day, and instead got shithoused in the comfort of my friend's apartment.

And at some point during the night, we figured that it would be cool to wander down to Scofflaw, which had just opened a few days prior, and check it out. My friend knew the chefs from his days of working at Longman & Eagle, and assured me that the food would be pretty much outstanding.

And it was. It really really was.

Share-able plates ate $8 each. Fancy fancy cocktails that are FULL OF GIN (or some other booze if you don't like gin, because you hate America and something is wrong with you) are $8 each.

The chicken liver mousse will stop your heart, but not in a heart attack cholesterol kind of way - instead it will be in a "Why is this so good? Am I dead? Am I in heaven? Is Stevie Wonder playing?" kind of way.

And you won't be dead. You'll be at Scofflaw in a super adorable vintage chair that you will want to steal and place in your apartment, eating ridiculous food and drinking a lot of gin and listening to Motown.

You won't be in heaven,  but it'll be pretty goddamned close.

Go to Scofflaw. You're welcome.

I'll start with this: Despite the fact that I work in the service industry, I am not Blackbird's ideal clientele in the slightest. I swear too much and drink too much and am not of the "fine dining set" - nor will I probably ever be unless I marry a Doctor/Lawyer and wipe my butt with hundred dollar bills. And this fact was more than a little bit apparent when my friend and I went there for Restaurant Week.

Blackbird had been on both our "lists" for a while because it's a pain in the ass to get to (who the fuck actually lives over by Randolph and whatever?), and it's expensive and again, I am not their ideal clientele. But Restaurant Week seemed like a cool time to go because it features a cheap menu and I knew I wouldn't be the only weirdo off the street eating there.

Blackbird is a SLICK restaurant. And maybe slick isn't the best word, but it's very clean and streamlined and everything is white and stainless steel and even though all the tables are all but right on top of each other, you manage to feel kind of like you're in a private jet or something while you're there. And then there's the service staff, who kind of glide around, replacing your silverware and swapping out plates with this kind of perfect quiet that I would never in a million years be able to replicate. Their questions are smooth, they know their shit, and you get the sense that MAYBE they're judging you a little bit but they're so good, that you can't be certain about it.

And then there's the food. And omg it is everything I hoped it would be and then some. Any words that I try to string together regarding how incredibly delicious it all was would just...not be good enough. So I won't, but I will tell you that I WILL go back for dinner and I WILL pretend like I'm the sort of person who goes there all the time and I WILL enjoy every bite of everything.

(Also: That foofy-looking cocktail with the pink peppercorns and the grapefruit and the booze? Is way way good.)

Here are some things I like:

Belgian beers
steak tartare
sweaters
you
mussels
exposed brick
sexy lighting
ponies
panne cotta
showering together
kissing on the mouth
Belgian beers again
dates

So the fact that I got to wear a sweater while on a date at Leopold, which has exposed brick AND sexy lighting and that we got to have Belgian beers, steak tartare, mussels, AND panne cotta is pretty fucking cool.

I work at a bar that is a little bit further than just around the corner from Ipsento, and I keep doing that thing where I go out after work and drink too many beers and then pass out at my friend's apartment while watching episodes of Game Of Thrones.

Don't judge me, okay? I know my lifestyle is a little rock and/or roll.

Anyway, I am extremely lucky that said friend lives across the street from Ipsento, because it means I have EASY ACCESS to coffee. The staff may or may not have noticed my frequent visits at like, 2pm (when I wake up and haul my hungover self out of his apartment) to get a chocolate donut and a large "Ipsento" to go, for consumption on my ride on the Western bus all the way north to Irving Park.

For one, everyone who works there is lovely.
For two, the "Ipsento" is kind of my new favorite thing. (Spicy coffee? I don't understand it and I don't care and I want it on a permanent IV drop into my arm.)
For three, they've embraced the "dueling tip jar" way of life which is exceptionally clever.
For four, I am extremely glad that such a place exists so close to where I work.

You guys.

The Bedford is a pile of sex.
A sexy bank-y, vault-y, tasty, boozy pile of sex.

My friend and I went this past Monday for Restaurant Week and sat at the bar and were light years from disappointed. Service was awesome, food was amazing, the fact that every part of the place incorporated some part of the old bank is cool as fuck and my only real peeve with the place is that I am 45987624975% sure that it gets douchey as fuuuuuck on the weekends.

So I will keep my visits to Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

(PS: Eat the octopus. It's made of magic. And octopus.)