Dearest Rachel –
It so happens that, not only have Daniel and I been eating out a bit more than usual lately, but we’ve been making a point of checking out places we’ve never been to before. Moreover, several places have been unapologetically… let’s just say ‘carnivorous,’ and add that one of the places was at Daniel’s own suggestion; which, knowing him as you did (which is to say, better than I did at the time of your departure, and maybe still better than I do even at this point), seems downright out of character for him.
But that’s how things have been going these days, as strange as that may seem. It may be that I’m just that persuasive in my descriptions of certain places (doubtful, to be honest), or he’s just more willing to try new things and places these days, but I’m certainly not going to complain about it, even as it strikes me as slightly puzzling. If nothing else, it’s great fodder for something unusual for me to tell you about on what might otherwise be considered a slow news day (and boy, couldn’t I use a few more of those).
Anyway, let me start at the beginning… of this week, anyway. I had thought we should have breakfast before heading off for church, so as to have an appetite for the holiday gathering Jeanette and Ramón were hosting; while we’re not fans of the vegan lifestyle, there’s something to be said for being good guests and participating in the repast (besides, from what I can tell, they engage in it for health reasons, rather than political ones, which makes their choice more, dare I say it, palatable). But one thing and another got in the way of our morning schedule, and as a result, we completely skipped any chance of a morning meal, leaving the both of us, while not quite hangry, certainly aware that we wouldn’t be able to hold out until three, when the party was set to start (and, as it happened, wouldn’t really get started for another couple of hours thereafter).
It so happens that there have been a few new restaurants popping up in the Randhurst Village shopping district across the street from the church, and I suggested that we try one of the places out – a place that literally had the word “meat” in its name, which we knew we wouldn’t be served at the evening’s party, so we could console ourselves in that we wouldn’t be stepping on anyone’s toes.
The thing is, we were going into this place pretty much completely blind otherwise; we had no idea what we were getting into. For instance, I was mildly alarmed to note that underneath the establishment’s logo was the word “smoking”; were we visiting a cigar bar with a restaurant attached to it? That would be – if you’ll forgive the pun – rather distasteful, you’d agree. Fortunately, it turns out that the only smoking being done there is to the meat itself. As we arrived there well before the place opened at noon (another proof that we’d done absolutely no research on the place), this gave us a half hour to take in the smells and build up that much more of an appetite as the effects of their preparations wafted out of their kitchen and into the theater plaza outside.
It turned out to be something akin to one of those Brazilian steakhouses I would enjoy from time to time when I had a big appetite; however, rather than being “all-you-can-eat,” they offered their meats on a by-the-pound basis (while recommending ordering a half pound of meat per person), and supplying an unlimited amount of sides to go with it (although the variety of sides weren’t particularly vast, compared to the typical steakhouse). Theoretically, this meant that the two of us wouldn’t be rolling out of the place absolutely stuffed, and might still have an appetite for the evening, so we could be good guests.
As we enjoyed our meal, I spent some time telling Daniel about the Argentine place Lars and I had been to when we were in Miami earlier this year, and how it was different from the Brazilian places in our area. For one thing, it involved us walking up to the grill, and picking out the dishes we wanted (as opposed to the ‘gauchos’ coming around with skewers of this or that to put on our plates) – which was what we were doing at this place in Randhurst, which is why it came to my mind to bring up to him. At this point, I was sort of trying to sell him on the idea of heading back down to Miami and checking this (and a few other places, like the one offering the best Cuban sandwich I’d ever had – which, considering where we were, should have been expected) out, hopefully in anticipation of hopping another cruise; you know, one of those where the ship itself is the real destination. They’ve got bigger ones out there now than we ever have been on, and I’d like for him to be interested in the idea. Thus far, he seems more enthused about the smaller ships he’s already been on, and the more unusual destinations they’re hitting, but maybe I can work on him a little more.
On the other hand, while I’ve never harbored any illusions that I might be able to turn him into a foodie like myself, it seems that, after looking up the concept of the Argentine parrilla – and finding a few places in our area that claimed to offer the parrilla experience – he was intrigued by the idea, and wanted to investigate it further. So yesterday, when I offered to take him out – thinking he might want something in the way of our usual Japanese fare – he surprised me by asking if we could check out one of the Argentine places we’d looked up and found on Sunday.
Well, who was I to decline his request? It would be, after all, cheaper than heading down to Miami for the experience (although I still would like to drag him down there at some point in the future, if at all possible).
The first place on our list was right in our hometown downtown, which surprised me, as I’d always thought it was an Italian place, not Argentinian. Sure enough, once we were seated and handed menus, it was confirmed to us that it was, in fact, Italian – and when we checked again with the A.I. that suggested it as far as getting a parrilla experience, while it still listed the restaurant, it admitted it was, in fact, Italian. Clearly, A.I. still has a ways to go before it can be relied upon fully. We apologized to the staff as we took our leave, but they seemed quite understanding when we explained what we were looking for.
In fact, they recommended the place we were already looking at as the second possibility on our list, just a fifteen-minute drive up the highway into Palatine. The place looked almost as if it were built out of a house, giving it a feel that Daniel compared to places in Port Clinton. I wouldn’t have made that connection, but it did have an old-fashioned, homey appeal to the place.
Now, while it didn’t offer any all-you-can-eat, come-up-to-the-grill-and-pick-what-you-want options (as we were the only patrons there before five o’clock – and indeed, it wasn’t as if the place ever really filled up the whole time we were there – that wouldn’t wouldn’t have been practical or cost-effective for them to do or offer), they did have a dish specifically listed as a “parrillada de carne,” featuring multiple cuts of steak, as well as ‘Amish’ chicken (I didn’t know there were Amish folks in Argentina – or maybe that’s where the restaurant sources its chicken) and sausages. That last was what caught Daniel’s eye, as they were described specifically as ‘Argentine’ in a way that nothing else was, and weren’t included in any of the other menu options. So, since this was a two-person dish, I agreed and ordered it for the both of us.
It was a sumptuous meal, and while it came with a price tag to match, it’s not as if that’s insurmountable for us to deal with. Besides, it only happens now and again… and like I said, it’s cheaper than a trip to Miami.
As for when we’ll actually go to Miami? Well, that remains to be seen. Until then, though, keep an eye on us, honey, and wish us luck; we’re going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 