Tuesday, January 28, 2014

The Purple Pig

“Want to go to dinner?”

“Boy's out of town. Sure, why not?” the Bard agreed. After the whole polar vortex thing I wanted to go out just to get out, even though I knew the chances were good that I would spend the remainder of the weekend at the house.

“Where?”

“No idea yet, but I’ll work it out between now and then.” Sometimes, even I liked not having a clear plan.

In the end I decided on the Purple Pig, because I kept hearing about it and it seemed like it would be fun. With the right timing I could eat, take a few pictures of the frozen city and get my train home.

“The Purple Pig, do they have ANYTHING you can eat?”

“Yeah, they have a Mediterranean menu. I mean, yeah, they have a lot of pork, but they have cheese and wine, and I saw some appetizers I can eat. It will be cool.”

That decided, we went to the Purple Pig. The food, well, the food spoke for itself. We sat at a communal table, ordered cheeses and meats and olives and Brussels sprouts that tasted like popcorn with a very pleasant bottle of wine. It was all-around lovely. Aside from the fact that Chicago, being fickle, as always, in its weather choices, was being coated in rain, a rain that did not ease up at all as we ate, and eventually forced me to buy an umbrella or suffer the consequences of getting absolutely soaked in the mid-winter. The rain, of course, totally put a kibosh on my desire to take pretty pictures of the city, and in the end, after snapping only one nice shot of the river, I was forced to head to my train while the Bard took the rather precarious drive home.

The food made it worth it.


The Eat-a-ning.


A bone-marrow smear. Not ours, our neighbors'. 


Mussels. 


Wine.
Being devilish. 


Words to live by. 


Ice in Chicago. 


Almost home. Full of food.

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