On Saturday, tucked in between a great lunch at RL near the Water Tower and an even better dinner at The Publican on West Fulton, we scheduled a little rest time. Alone in my room I made the mistake of doing something I rarely do - I flipped through the channels of the TV. CNN had a news story about one of the "tea parties" where angry conservatives, incensed at the direction our country is heading under the stewardship of our President and Democrat-majority Congress, got together and spewed vile statements in a horribly misguided effort to show their own patriotism and love for this country. One angry man decried Obama's "Afro-Leninism." Another made it pretty damn clear that he was sick to see our great country head towards "communism and fascism" (thereby covering all the heinous bases) because, after all, that's why we fought all these wars we've fought.
I turned the TV off as quickly as I could so as to avoid either losing my expensive RL lunch or incurring the cost of replacing the panel TV that I was frighteningly close to busting to smithereens. Exposure to this poison made it hard for me to enjoy what the City had to offer. On Sunday morning, after saying goodbye to my friends, I wandered the City in a funk. I was annoyed by cabs honking their horns - an action as natural to a Chicago cabbie as breathing. I shook my head at pedestrians who gummed up Michigan Ave traffic by ignoring the "Walk-Don't Walk" lights and cutting off left turning vehicles who had the right of way. I rolled my eyes at the inability of the Starbuck customers in line in front of me to spit out their orders when it was their turn. I saw an energetic musical adaptation of "High Fidelity" on Sunday afternoon, which helped some, but became melancholy when I compared the lively, youthful cast to my aging, sore-footed self.
And then something wonderful happened. I walked from the theater in Old Town to a cozy (and under-appreciated) little restaurant on Michigan Ave, just north of the river. The name of the place is Bandera. It sits on the second floor and overlooks a stretch of the bustling Miracle Mile. It is dark inside except for candles on the tables and light around the grilling station, located at one end of the restaurant. The food has a slight Latin flair, but is basically just good, fire-grilled meat, fish and vegetables, with some simple salads and "to die for" cornbread thrown in for good measure.
As soon as the hostess seated me at my booth, I felt the tension start to ease. I was delighted to see that Qupe Syrah was sold by the glass and that, in fact, it was a bargain at $8 a glass. The special was a California sea bass - another favorite. I put in my order, took my first sip of wine, and noticed for the first time the syncopated rhythms of a little jazz trio playing behind me. Over the next half hour everything shifted. I watched the wait-staff, dressed in black slacks, tops, and long aprons, glide around the restaurant taking orders and delivering drinks and food. I saw the mostly Latin cooking crew, each wearing a black chef's fez, grill and saute and plate and hand over finished products, culinary dancers spinning in time to both the music of the trio and the rhythm of the flames. I saw customers laughing and talking and loving each other, oblivious to the middle age man sitting alone, sipping his red wine, eating his sea bass, and silently sending blessings their way.
I had found the pulse of the City, and it had found me. Finally. Despite the dissonance of hate mongers and fear peddlers on CNN, the City helped me find my way back to the groove. And walking back to my room, not quite 8:00 at night, I was content to bypass the last couple hours of the Jazz Festival going on in Grant Park. For me at that moment the City itself was a festival and life was jazz and my heart was the instrument I played to add my riffs to the glory of it all.
