31 juillet 2005
moderately famous people
Last night was a night of stars for me. For starters, I sat Bob Greene when he came into the restaurant with his two kids. That was a pretty low-key "celebrity" encounter, because I don't even think the restaurant owners even knew who he was. But I did.
Then, after work, L. and I went next door to the super-hot, so-hot-it's-untouchable alinea, just to check it out. I had no idea there was anything next door, because the restaurant is so super-slick that they don't have a sign outside, and their windows are translucent. The building ressembles an ordinary apartment block, except that there are valets outside. However, L. informed me that this is the new "it" restaurant in town--in the country, even. When you walk in, alinea feels more like an ultra-modern, minimalist hotel than an eating establishment. The only indication that fine dining takes place there is that the foyer affords a briliant view of the kitchen, which is wide open and filled with cute young kitchen staff, cooly in white, knowing they're being watched and loving every minute of it.
When we explained that we worked next door, the power-suited hostess offered to give us a tour, as the last customers of the evening had just parted. As we mounted the sturdy glass-and-steel stairs, I had the impression that I was getting the tour of a chic apartment that I'd never be able to buy. Each dining area felt like a fashion-forward living room. The waiters wore business suits and ressembled deparment store cologne sprayers. I glanced around the at the empty chaise lounges and decided that it would be a long time before I felt the desire to dine at a place like this. After all, you don't really go to alinea to eat. You go there to be impressed by the food, the design, and the other customers. I believe the average meal lasts about four to seven hours, due to the extraordinary number of courses (28, but someone told me that you have the choice of 12 or 32 courses as well. However, this is all heresay, so take it with a grain of salt).
When we were ushered back down to the foyer, we met one of the managers, Chris, who appeared happy to meet us (but then again, it's his job to appear happy to meet everybody). He asked us if we'd like to see the kitchen (how could we not want to?) and then escorted us inside stainless steel mecca, where he put us in a corner that was safe to observe the chefs as they cleaned up the aftermath of an evening's culinary delights. A chipper young chef came up to us, introduced himself as Grant, and asked how we enjoyed the evening. When we explained that we didn't eat, we were just visiting from next door, he invited us to come back next time for a meal. Yeah, if you foot the bill, Mister, I thought as I wondered what kind of salary he thought we got as hostesses working less than part-time at a slightly pricey (but not nearly as pricey as this) restaurant. We bid everyone goodbye and headed out the door, me slightly dazed by the fact that this kind of foodiness existed right next door and I never knew it. As soon as we were out the door, L. informed me that Grant was Grant Achatz of culinary world fame. She was reeling at the experience, and I could have kicked myself for having no idea who he was. I just wish I had worked my mojo a little bit more. Curses! Foiled again!
But wait! It's not over yet. My brush with the stars would not have been complete without a sighting of everyone's favorite athlete-cum-aquitted-murderer, O.J. Simpson. Oh yeah, baby! L. and I were walking down Rush Street, past throngs of tipsy bachelorette partiers and overly-scented, generic fratboys, when we spotted an amateur cameraman, filming something in an open terrace window. We walked past, and there was an aged and heavily bling-blinged O.J., talking casually to his onlookers and appearing delighted at all the attention. He was wearing the biggest and shiniest crucifix medallion I'd ever seen. Yeah, you wear that thing, O.J. You're gonna need to prove your faith someday. Too bad your jewelry won't get you into heaven. It was pure bizarity. I kept walking back and forth past the window to make sure it was really him. L. thought I was crazy and I shouldn't give so much attention to a guy who clearly doesn't deserve it. But I was fascinated. The Juice was not ten feet away from me inside Jilly's, a place I pass all the time on Rush Street. And he was so blatantly enjoying all the attention and freakshow-ness of it all.
Now, I could offer some biting analysis of the night and what it means that I feel compelled to publish my brief brushes with fame. But I won't. I've given you a tawpic. Now tawk amongst yahselves.
Then, after work, L. and I went next door to the super-hot, so-hot-it's-untouchable alinea, just to check it out. I had no idea there was anything next door, because the restaurant is so super-slick that they don't have a sign outside, and their windows are translucent. The building ressembles an ordinary apartment block, except that there are valets outside. However, L. informed me that this is the new "it" restaurant in town--in the country, even. When you walk in, alinea feels more like an ultra-modern, minimalist hotel than an eating establishment. The only indication that fine dining takes place there is that the foyer affords a briliant view of the kitchen, which is wide open and filled with cute young kitchen staff, cooly in white, knowing they're being watched and loving every minute of it.
When we explained that we worked next door, the power-suited hostess offered to give us a tour, as the last customers of the evening had just parted. As we mounted the sturdy glass-and-steel stairs, I had the impression that I was getting the tour of a chic apartment that I'd never be able to buy. Each dining area felt like a fashion-forward living room. The waiters wore business suits and ressembled deparment store cologne sprayers. I glanced around the at the empty chaise lounges and decided that it would be a long time before I felt the desire to dine at a place like this. After all, you don't really go to alinea to eat. You go there to be impressed by the food, the design, and the other customers. I believe the average meal lasts about four to seven hours, due to the extraordinary number of courses (28, but someone told me that you have the choice of 12 or 32 courses as well. However, this is all heresay, so take it with a grain of salt).
When we were ushered back down to the foyer, we met one of the managers, Chris, who appeared happy to meet us (but then again, it's his job to appear happy to meet everybody). He asked us if we'd like to see the kitchen (how could we not want to?) and then escorted us inside stainless steel mecca, where he put us in a corner that was safe to observe the chefs as they cleaned up the aftermath of an evening's culinary delights. A chipper young chef came up to us, introduced himself as Grant, and asked how we enjoyed the evening. When we explained that we didn't eat, we were just visiting from next door, he invited us to come back next time for a meal. Yeah, if you foot the bill, Mister, I thought as I wondered what kind of salary he thought we got as hostesses working less than part-time at a slightly pricey (but not nearly as pricey as this) restaurant. We bid everyone goodbye and headed out the door, me slightly dazed by the fact that this kind of foodiness existed right next door and I never knew it. As soon as we were out the door, L. informed me that Grant was Grant Achatz of culinary world fame. She was reeling at the experience, and I could have kicked myself for having no idea who he was. I just wish I had worked my mojo a little bit more. Curses! Foiled again!
But wait! It's not over yet. My brush with the stars would not have been complete without a sighting of everyone's favorite athlete-cum-aquitted-murderer, O.J. Simpson. Oh yeah, baby! L. and I were walking down Rush Street, past throngs of tipsy bachelorette partiers and overly-scented, generic fratboys, when we spotted an amateur cameraman, filming something in an open terrace window. We walked past, and there was an aged and heavily bling-blinged O.J., talking casually to his onlookers and appearing delighted at all the attention. He was wearing the biggest and shiniest crucifix medallion I'd ever seen. Yeah, you wear that thing, O.J. You're gonna need to prove your faith someday. Too bad your jewelry won't get you into heaven. It was pure bizarity. I kept walking back and forth past the window to make sure it was really him. L. thought I was crazy and I shouldn't give so much attention to a guy who clearly doesn't deserve it. But I was fascinated. The Juice was not ten feet away from me inside Jilly's, a place I pass all the time on Rush Street. And he was so blatantly enjoying all the attention and freakshow-ness of it all.
Now, I could offer some biting analysis of the night and what it means that I feel compelled to publish my brief brushes with fame. But I won't. I've given you a tawpic. Now tawk amongst yahselves.
