Tuesday, December 23, 2014


That night we went to the Beastro to get dinner and have cocktails.

“They have their own mixologist,” she explained to me.

“Sounds promising.”

The menu was good, American fare with a kitchen that was fussed on doing sous-vide cooking. The Korean girl at the counter who was trying to figure out what we wanted when we showed up and asked for a table kept refusing to listen to me telling her quite clearly in Korean what we wanted.

Her English was also a fail so all around that was disappointing, but finally we managed to somehow communicate that we would go upstairs and wait at the bar for a table.

“They make the best dirty martinis,” she says to me.

“We shall see about that.” Let’s face it; Chicago has the market cornered on dirty martinis for me. Between the ones at the Art Institute and the ones at the Tavern at the Park, there is nothing happening in martini land that can beat the blue-cheese-stuffed awesomeness that is the Chicago dirty martini. But I try to be open minded about these things.

“How is the mixologist? Is he not here tonight?”

“Oh, he’s not with us anymore?”

“What, but we came here for him?” She is disappointed, but we order our drinks anyway.

“Dirty martinis, and how would you like them?”

“Absolutely filthy,” she replies.

“And you?”

“Like a, I guess a medium filth.” This earns me a raised eyebrow. “What? I’m not THAT filthy.”

This earns me another raised eyebrow.

The food was good. The martinis as good as one could expect to have in Korea, and really, quite good in all. The company, however, was superb.

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