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Last week I partook of an elegant picnic at Chicago’s Ravinia music festival. This week I ate at Frank and Mary’s Catfish House (world’s best catfish since 1945!). Last week I had brunch at a huge Chinese dim sum restaurant. Servers rolled endless carts that stopped at each table, some stacked with bamboo steamers filled with different kinds of dumplings, others with plates of noodles, or stir-fried vegetables, or soups, or deep-fried treats such as eggrolls or salt-and-pepper shrimp. On and on and on the carts came. Some servers were able to describe their dishes; others’ English was too limited. This week I had buckwheat cakes and sausage at Ruby and Ketchy’s, a relative newcomer compared to Frank and Mary’s — it’s only been in business since 1958. I went back to Ruby and Ketchy’s today for a country-ham lunch with green beans and coleslaw. Dessert was homemade blackberry pie. Last week I had a glass of wine on the terrace of the W Hotel, an ultramodern, ultratrendy newcomer that’s one of the places to see and be seen by Chicago’s beautiful people. Our server, dressed all in black, was sleekly gorgeous. This week I had a beer at Little Sandy’s Diner. It was 4:30 p.m., and Little Sandy’s was empty except for a table of three farmers in dirty denim overalls hunched over their beers, suspenders stretched over big bellies. The only other customers were two elderly ladies with starched blue-tinged hairdos, garish polyester blouses, and too-short slacks, eating pie and drinking coffee. My pasty-faced server, ball cap jammed over stringy hair, sported a worn T-shirt with a faded logo. Her slacks were too short, too. Which do I prefer, upscale glamorous/ethnic eateries or down-home rustic diners? Before we had children, my husband, Peter, and I talked endlessly about how we wanted to rear them. One of our primary agreed-upon goals was that our kids would be comfortable in any social, professional, or other situation. Actually, Peter and I wanted our children to be more than just comfortable. We wanted them to enjoy a range of settings. Yes, it was the kind of idealistic notion most parents have, but I realize now that it was a goal we set not just for our kids but also for ourselves. Peter’s background was Chicago suburbia, and mine was Springfield countryside. We appreciated those backgrounds but were eager to experience as much as we could of America’s and the world’s diversity. Though at the time we weren’t specifically thinking about eating, either in homes or restaurants, that’s a big part of the picture. After all, food and human interaction (a.k.a. sharing a meal) have always been major components of cultures and social strata across the board. On the whole, we did a pretty good job. I especially remember one summer vacation: The first days were spent camping and canoeing, with meals of hot dogs and s’mores cooked over an open fire. Then we packed up and headed to Chicago. Pulling into a Magnificent Mile hotel, we made quite a sight. I’d cleaned everybody up in the campground bathhouse, but we were still undeniably grubby. The back of our station wagon was stuffed with camping gear up to the ceiling; our Chicago suitcases were strapped to the overhead luggage rack, and three quarrelsome kids were crammed into the backseat. The doorman was dubious; clearly the Clampetts had come to town. Once everyone had (re)showered and donned city-appropriate clothes, we hit the town. Peter had a dental meeting nearby at American Dental Association headquarters; the kids and I breakfasted at the hotel, where we had oatmeal crème brûlée (the best oatmeal I’ve ever eaten), then headed off to museums. I’ve had lots of time to think about the “Which do I like best?” question this week. I’m in West Virginia, whose citizens admit that they have an image problem, not helped by Dick Cheney’s recent remark that his family tree had Cheneys on both sides “and we’re not even from West Virginia. You can say those things when you’re not running for re-election.” Cheney, under pressure, has since apologized. Peter and our son, Robb, are camping at a music festival. I still enjoy camping, but, as “a woman of a certain age,” I’ve come to the conclusion that the Port-A-Potties and (lack) of other hygiene facilities at most music festivals are a deal-breaker for me, so I’ve been hanging out in Morgantown and, among other things, exploring the local food scene. What I’ve found is that West Virginia — at least this part of the state — isn’t much different from central Illinois. True, the restaurants close even earlier — most between 7 and 8 p.m. — but everyone’s been friendly and polite. That server at Little Sandy’s might have been pasty-faced, but she had a big smile. I appreciate upscale and trendy restaurants. They’re special-occasion destinations, not places where I can routinely dine. If they were something I experienced every day, I probably wouldn’t enjoy them as much. Ethnic restaurants are a constant, and affordable, joy — a window into not just unfamiliar tastes but different cultures and customs. Then there are those all-American diners. Sadly, they’re the rarest of all. Places like Frank and Mary’s Catfish House are fast disappearing from America’s landscape. Even when they hang on, oftentimes the honest cooking that made them so wonderful is compromised: Ruby and Ketchy’s thin, lacy-edged buckwheat cakes were the best I’ve ever eaten; the coarse hand-formed sausage patties were wonderful; and the blackberry pie was tart-sweet perfection — but the mashed potatoes that accompanied the ham were clearly from a box. I’ve decided that what I really like best is being able to experience it all — enjoying and contrasting experiences. The difference between that glass of wine on the W terrace (we were there because we’d been told it had the best place to view fireworks, not to join Chicago’s beautiful people) and my Little Sandy’s beer made me chuckle. Those camping meals made our Chicago dining all the more memorable — and vice versa. Contrast — that’s the ticket!
Contact Julianne Glatz at realcuisine.jg@gmail.com.
This article appears in Jul 17-23, 2008.
