28.55 hours in Chicago

Kansas City wasn't cold enough, so I headed north.

Saturday

7:01 am

At Kansas City Union Station, we boarded the Amtrak Train 4 to Chicago ($145 - coach). Besides not having to go through TSA screening, which might not actually be a good thing, it has some of the trappings of a 7-hour and 41-minute airplane flight: no Wi-Fi and bad coffee. Even though my upper-level seats were large and very reclinable, after take-off, I moved forward to the lounge car, which was a godsend: a spacious, sun-filled, minimally occupied space that enabled this passenger to look out over America's heartland.

Herr Monocle

The passengers were a motley crew. Most had boarded in LA three days prior, and riding the rails for that amount of time can lead to strange bedfellows: people in bathrobes and slippers, with more than a few looking mean, stoned, and/or scared. Many were dressed a little too casually, with some having very strange haircuts; I mean, when's the last time you saw a man with “the Sony Bono?” To add to the surrealness, about 25% of the passengers were Amish, and there was even a guy with a monocle!

Like the bus, the main drawback of the train is all the stops between the stop you get on and the stop you get off.

2:42 pm

An exactly on-time arrival into Chicago Union Station. Arriving via the Southwest Chief allows the city to unfold in front of you, Cicero then Little Italy, Greektown, finally ending up on the edge of the Loop and views of the 23rd tallest building in the world. I thought, “Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas (City) anymore.”¹

3:35 pm

Tap into the Chiefs

Our Amtrak conductor, who, after explaining that "all the trash on the train is due to it originating in LA three days prior with some passengers not being as tidy as I would like," mentioned that the Franklin Tap might be a good place to watch the Chiefs put a thumping on the Ravens, and more importantly that it was but a block from our hotel (he also then mentioned we should "be arriving in Chicago in three hours . . . hopefully").

The "Tap" reminded me of a typical Midtown Manhattan bar. Not so much a community but a place to knock back a few after work while waiting for the train. A nice selection of beer: a Dovetail Brewery Vienna Lager (him), Guinness (her), and Pretzel Sticks (both), with tap-obstructed views of the Chiefs beating the Ravens (27-20).

6:40 pm

Passed by the Mies van der Rohe designed Chicago Federal Complex, with its monumental Calder stabile Flamingo. We didn’t stop to admire it, as we had seen it the last time I was in town, we were hungry, and it was 18°.

6:45 pm

In response to my request for Chicago recommendations, two subscribers separately recommended The Berghoff. I’m always down with authentic German food and efficient German service. The fact that the place shares its name with Hitler’s holiday home in Bavaria² made it even better.

Per SOP, I didn’t make a reservation, and when the host mentioned a 20-minute wait for a table, we made for the two empty stools at the end of the bar, a pint of Open Czech Pilsner and a Game Sausage Plate with sides of potato pancakes and creamed spinach (??!). The accompanying spätzle was sautéed, adding a nice complexity to the affair, but the accompanying sweet Madeira sauce wasn’t very complementary, so much so that Mrs. AAR worked with our bartender to get us a complimentary side of spätzle sans sauce.

There’s a photo on the wall of the unchanged bar from the day Prohibition ended. Mrs. AAR noted that "all the customers were men." I then noted that "It was a men-only bar until 1969 when Gloria Steinem stood at it until it wasn’t one anymore."

If you’re in the Loop after dark and get a hankerin’ for sauerbraten, there’s no need to know the exact address; just get to W. Adams Street and look for a sign.

Sunday

9:00 am

Hit the 7° streets with a plan that required a 25-minute walk to breakfast, but as I walked by the Quincy Street "L" station, I realized that mass transit might be a more temperate option. If you visit Chicago, you need to ride the "L" at least once, and this station is a good way to do it as it is almost unchanged from when it first opened in 1897.

9:30 am

When I used to vacation in the Caribbean, I inevitably found myself eating some sort of breakfast sweet that included Nutella and therefore associated that hazelnut wonder with a little bit of paradise. So much so that I would specifically not eat it within the contiguous United States. But when I saw that Chicago had a Nutella Cafe, I decided that precedence needed to be upended.

Well, numerous other Nutella fanciers felt the same way as there was a line . . . out the door. Usually, I refuse to wait on line due to a long-standing personal philosophy, but this time, I seriously thought about not doing it due to extremity safety concerns. Though when I heard that the couple in front of us had come all the way from Mexico City, I knew I needed to keep the Nutella faith - if these Latinos could hack single-digit temperatures, I knew damn well this New Yorker could. The wait wasn't that long, about as long as it takes leather glove-encased fingers to just begin to go numb.

Soon after, I was enjoying a hot cup of coffee and a Nutella crepe with banana and hazelnuts. Not bad, but if you visit in the middle of January and there's a line out the door, you just might want to go next door to Stan's Donuts.

Enjoy a little bit of Hazelnut Heaven via Amazon.com

11:00 am

I had always wanted to visit the Chicago Art Institute because it houses my favorite piece of art, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. I’ve been drawn to it since I first saw it when I was 10 years old, playing a board game called Masterpiece. Many years ago, my Mother bought me a handsomely framed print of it that included the words “Art Institute of Chicago,” which, after seeing it every time I passed it in my first-floor hallway, may have subliminally reinforced my desire.

The place is enormous, and after reaching my three-hour museum maximum, I had only inspected a fraction of it. Admission costs $32, but I flashed my Veteran ID Card and got in for free, which made the whole experience infinitely more rewarding.

3:00 pm

A double dose of culture by attending a concert by pianist Jean-Yves Thibaudet at the Symphony Center.

When we entered the Orchestra Hall, I was struck by the ornateness of it all: the Corinthian columns, the gold leaf, and the detailed cornices. I mentioned this to the Missus, who was a little less impressed by all the opulence and replied, "Very nice, but the carpet's filthy!"

I have a personal connection to what some have called “one of today's finest pianists" through my mother-in-law's best friend's daughter's piano instructor, who enabled me to previously meet Jean-Yves at the Kennedy Center.

Jean-Yves did a fine job with Debussy Images: Book 1 and 2, but when I saw him those many years ago, he was fronting the National Symphony Orchestra, and seeing him unaccompanied just wasn’t as impressive.

They don’t allow photos, but I surreptitiously took one to give the reader a sense of it all and our seats (remember “loose lips . . . ").

6:23 pm

Dave Portnoy has developed what appears to be a very lucrative cottage industry of eating pizza and posting his short reviews on YouTube. More importantly, he had determined that I needed to visit Vito & Nick's Pizza.

When I arrived at the bar, I had been hoping to inform the bartender that the hours listed on the website "Sun (12 pm-close)" were less than helpful, but she appeared to be too exhausted, dejected, and downright haggard. Instead, I just ordered a 12" half Cheese and half Sausage pie and 16 ounces of PBR. I did ask why there was only PBR when the place is covered in Old Style branding. She replied that she had just broken the Old Style tap, which her demeanor made clear was my cue to stop asking questions.

Then an all Sausage pie was delivered some 10 minutes later. A few minutes after that, she returned and slammed her fist down on the bar, which was either a manifestation of delivering the wrong order or her anger at me for not noticing before taking a bite. Either way, I magnanimously let it all go.

While I don’t agree with Portnoy's misogynist views, racist rants, or anti-union stance, his take on Vito & Nick's pizza is quite accurate ("pub style . . . they should all be like this . . . 8.1 . . . if you believe in pizza . . ."). Note he is a very tough grader, and the round pizza is cut into squares (which is just plain weird).

For those of you who "need more Chicago," click here for the "Next 43.167 Hours in Chicago."

It was so cold the Chicago River was steaming

Endnotes: I wanted to provide some very specific details that, while vaguely interesting, did not contribute to the overall narrative. Perhaps just wait until the end to enjoy.

¹ No matter what you think, “Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore,” is the actual line.

² Both architectural historians and Proud Boys will know that Hitler’s Mar-a-Lago only had one "f" though Der Führer didn't operate his as a resort and hotel for dues-paying party members or rent it out for private events.