Deep Dish-itis

Chicago is my kinda town. I could totally see myself living here, losing myself in the eerie Gothic-inspired University of Chicago campus, visiting the fabulous art museums that line Michigan Avenue, gorging on starch. Chicago has a pulse. And wind gusts that propel me across intersections. Next time I leave the wrap dress at home. We walk the Magnificent Mile alongside a Polish bridal party. We’re in town for Taste of Chicago, a food bonanza where we hoard our tickets like we’re at an amusement park. We trade them for a barbecued turkey leg the size of a forearm (which George promptly drops on his shirt). We blow a whopping 6 tickets on a mealy hot dog. Seems that Taste of Chicago has been overrun with inexpensive chain-type fare—not the gourmet smorgasbord I was expecting.

Deep dish pizza is where it’s at, we’re told, even though I recall throwing up from Pizzeria Uno as a kid. Still, we spot a Gino’s East the next day and order a medium supreme. Thirty minutes later (deep dish takes patience, according to our server) and out pops a saucy pie that resembles a fort. I can only stomach a slice and a half before I begin to understand the lazy “itis” following a carb overdose (Boondocks reference). The gargantuan crust reminds me of cornmeal and the pepperoni, green peppers, and onions aren’t quite in sync. We don’t eat a real meal for another two days.

Down the street in Lincoln Park, we stumble on a gay pride parade, which strikes me as overly commercial (what are the mortgage brokers doing with a float?). We could live here, we think, until we’re told by a local that the average home price in the neighborhood is around $750,000.To get something affordable we would have to look in South Hyde Park, where my “Let’s Go” won’t even go.

We read The Sunday Tribune at a bar next to a drunken blonde who periodically leans over and hyperventilates out the window. We sample improv at a joint where Mike Meyers and Tina Fey supposedly got their start, but the skits performed by their replacements fall flat. The audience is disturbingly quiet and I find myself laughing at stupid bathroom humor just to throw the comedians a bone.

Before leaving, we stop for caramel corn at Garrett’s, the only popcorn place I’ve ever seen with a line out the door. They run out of their signature dish, so we wait 15 minutes. The popcorn arrives, only to be gobbled up by an airport-bound lady’s three jumbo orders. We wait 15 more minutes for them to shuttle the corn from another location. When it makes its grand entrance, it tastes like pure butter, baby.