The Chaotic Ramblings of an Esoteric Birthday Fool

Last night was SWC regular River's birthday party. I met up with him and a crew of his friends and family to tear up Oak Park Avenue, and I have to say I had one of the best nights out in quite some time.

When I arrived at Hollstein's, I found River holding court out in the beer garden. After making some introductions, he and I shot the shit for a few minutes, catching up in the real world. In the five or so minutes we were chatting, no less than three shots were delivered to him by well-wishers (or were they death-wishers?). Like a champ, he toasted and tossed 'em back with aplomb.

At first, I sort of hung back and fiddled with my CrackBerry because I didn't know anyone. I figured eventually I'd see people I knew or would strike up conversation with others from the party. One nice girl saw me Crackin' and invited me to join her table, which was very sweet. Soon the party moved in to the bar where the lame-ass Friday night band was "entertaining" the crowd.

That's when things started picking up. I met his cousin White Chocolate and his girlfriend, Double N. She rocked. We pointed and laughed at the band. Then his friend K9 regaled me with some hilarious stories. When I complimented River on his nice friends, he bellowed, "They're douche bags! Douche bags, every single one of 'em!"

The party went back outside, where things at Hollstein's started getting a little crazy. The average age suddenly dropped down to about twenty-two. River consumed more shots. And then a few more. Cops showed up, which is never a good sign, and we all went across the street to Teehan's.

Teehan's. Where all of the suburban hipsters go to slum. It was silly. Again with the average age of twenty-two. John Mayer was there, or, well, maybe his clone. Or his biggest fan, I don't know. Oh, and Pete Wentz. I was like, "Hey, dude. Lemme bum some eyeliner!" Actually, as we entered the bar, I yelled to our party (average age thirty-two), "Ok, everyone--pop your collars! Kanye is spoken here." Some guy asked me, "Like, what's your problem?" I looked at him blankly and said, "Uh. I'm intoxicated." He high-fived me.

We stayed in there long enough for River to down a pint of Jack and Diet. We collected a handful of people and went up the street to Durbin's, average age twenty-one (a twenty year old was having her birthday party there. Underage drinking! Underage drinking!).

Amidst the sonic stylings of Justin Timberlake and things that sounded like, "Ntz! Ntz! Whoo! Whoo!", River's brother G and I looked high and low for our homey in the crowded, epileptic unfriendly environment. We finally found him in the corner with Double N and a pitcher of water. Our friend River began to overflow his banks. The alcohol was rapidly catching up to him and coming out of his every pore. I have photographic evidence of him taking a nappy-poo at the table, but I shall not publish it.

At one point, I dumped out the pitcher of water and held it in front of his face waiting for the return of his birthday offerings, but he's a big boy, and he didn't puke in public. River, it was an impressive show. He was taken home in a blaze of glory. I bet ten thousand dollars he's not feeling well today.

It was a fabulously fun evening. I met some great new people--River, your family and friends are super cool. Thanks for inviting me along! And I got to see some old friends, as is wont to happen when I visit the Tinley Park bars.

It's All About Food Porn

I've been asked why I'm not a food critic, and my answer to that is you have to be critical to be a critic. Remember those two sub-par Mickey's hot dogs I ate? Yeah, I talked a whole bunch of smack, but I ate both of them all the same. Then again, a movie critic has to sit through a shitty movie in order to write a review, so perhaps I have a future in being a food critic, after all.

Last night I had a fabulous dinner with my homegirl, code name El Camino. The critic in me always wants to see the best in every food I eat, and Isabella's on Oak Park Avenue didn't disappoint. Isabella's is such a chick place, it's unreal. I mean, the food is always good, and it's got a nice little ambiance to it. Nevertheless, I rarely see men there, and that's just fine with me. It could be a cute date place, but I know Ken won't find shit to eat on the menu, and I'd rather just go with my girls, so there you have it.

We started off with glasses of bubbly, because it's my favorite ever, and I'm almost embarrassed to say that the reason for dinner was yet another Happy Birthday to Me celebration, so it was a requirement. She and I had a similar vision of what we were looking for for the evening, and as we labored over the menu, we decided to do three appetizers rather than getting entres.

We zeroed in on the sun-dried tomato pesto spread for the bread, the lobster/shrimp/scallop cake and the grilled shrimp. The tomato spread was pureed roasted garlic and tangy sun-dried tomato blended with Parmesan cheese, pine nuts and olive oil; it was the perfect appetizer for our appetizers.



The two apps came out together. The grilled shrimp came out on a bed of sweet and sour sauteed red spinach with a cream sauce and the seafood cake, which was larger than a regulation sized hockey puck, came with a tits-and-ass lemon cream sauce and a tomato vinaigrette relish. I've had the shrimp before, and it's consistently good, but I've never had the cake, and it was awesome. The pieces of the lobster, scallop and shrimp were large enough to taste each independently and the caramelized, crispy crust was the perfect texture.



We were smart to get three appetizers instead of dinner, because we had just enough room left in our bellies to have double cappuccinos, biscotti and an amazing coconut chocolate cake that had a fluffy, creamy texture and a dense cocoa base. The crispy toasted coconut topping along with the mousse-like consistency of the filling was amazing. Oh, yum.



So, we finished our fabulous dinner and bid Abraham, the same kick ass waiter we've had almost every time we've been there, a good evening and left, heading southward on Oak Park Avenue. We thought we'd have a nice after dinner drink at one of the many establishments down the street, so we stopped in at Durbin's. It's a nice looking place with an outdoor terrace. There was a band playing inside, so we went into ... the anti-Isabella's.

If Isabella's is the Chick Flick of restaurants, Durbin's, apparently, is the Buddy Flick of restaurant/bars. I'd been there once or twice, we even had my son's christening lunch there. But damn if it wasn't a total sausage party. El Camino and I sat at the end of the bar and shot the shit with Megan, the super cool and muy adorable bartender that had just started that day. We commented on the disproportionate amount of men in the joint, and she said, "You should see it on Thursdays."

It was a great night out. El Camino and I had the best of both worlds: delicate and tasty treats at Isabella's and live music at Durbin's, AKA, Sausage Central. Ladies, if you're looking for great food, go to Isabella's. If you're looking for dudes, go to Durbin's. Stay tuned for more installments of Food Porn is Fun. I'll cover everything I eat in detail for your vicarious pleasure and to offer you suggestions of where to go and what to avoid if you're looking for food and fun in Chicago's southwest suburbs.