A Saturday Night Meal Leaves Something to be Desired
We cleared the 5.30 threshold Saturday night and somehow we figured we were ahead of the game.
The diaper bag was packed.
The boys were strapped into their seats.
Westward ho went the four of us, tracking down a barbecue joint new to us but universally acclaimed by those many who preceded us to its doorstep.
Saturday night wasn’t such a great worry as we had pushed forward our timeline and scurried out the door sooner than the masses.
Or so we thought.
In such haste had we left our Edgewater abode that we didn’t even have the restaurant’s exact address. Fortunately the Blackberry was able to sift through our misspelling and pointed us to Smoque near Grace and Pulaski in Chicago’s Old Irving neighborhood.
Unfortunately our well-intended plans hit snag number one as the threshold of this well-received (and tiny) eatery was packed with would-be diners whose mere presence meant a hefty wait.
No can do with Jackson and Lucas and their need to eat timely and satisfying meals.
So we punched the gas and cruised south to Diversey and Western to check out Fat Willy’s in Logan Square.
With more seats than Smoque we were hopeful that Fat Willy’s would be able to accommodate us. Unfortunately when we rolled up there were even more people milling about the outside of this joint waiting for tables that were some 40-60 minutes away from being available.
Crestfallen with forehead to steering wheel forlornness was creeping into my emotional vocabulary.
Time now was definitely not our ally as any place to eat worth its salt would have a wait. And waiting we couldn’t afford to do with two hungry lads whose primary means of communication is guttural utterances and heart-wrenching cries when they don’t get their due.
We eased onto Western, southbound, with no destination in mind when Nicole suggested Calvin’s near Western and Armitage in Palmer Square.
Twice before we had eaten here. Both times were satisfactory. At this point rave reviews would give way to simple satisfaction.
I suppose at the end of the day that is exactly what we encountered at Calvin’s. Simple satisfaction.
It was satisfactory. No one got food poisoning. No one broke out in hives. And though the restaurant no longer buys ice (thus no iced tea which is nearly sacrilege at a rib joint), our beverages were cool enough to comfortably drink.
But come to think about it a Saturday night meal is meant to be more than satisfactory. I don’t expect a marching band to high step by with each chewed morsel or every sip of a milk shake to catapult me into remembrances of pony rides as a child.
But in the front and back of my mind I expect our Saturday night dining experience to surpass merely satisfactory. But the pulled pork lacked punch, the meat refused to fall gingerly from the ribs, the turkey tasted processed, and the sweet potato fries looked like something alien and tasted as bad as they looked.
But we didn’t face a line out the door to sit down and dine. Looks like there’s a reason for that.
But all was not lost as we detoured to Chicago’s Southport Corridor on the way home and hit the Dairy Queen at Grace and Southport. And as raindrops fell we settled in to enjoy a dipped cone and a perfectly delectable Heath Bar blizzard.
As my aged and frail mom would say, the DQ experience was a “wow, wow, wow.”
Triple wow and two sugar coated babies. The perfect way to end a Saturday night.
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