a benny, and a hell of a lot of fate

meet stephanie:

last week i dropped a hundred bucks for two tickets to stephanie izard's first wandering goat dinner. i haven't worked in almost two months, so shelling out that much cash wasn't easy. but we had to. it was my first attempt to check out the back side of the restaurant scene in our new home.

so on sunday night we cabbed it down western and got off near the united center. we were late, of course, and to top it off my stomach was tied up in knots. i'm sitting in the back seat, trying to blow it off to alicia that it's okay if the thing started without us, that we'd get there and it'd kick ass regardless. but what did i really know? in my head i'm going over the few facts i have about the dinner and figure it'll have to be served banquet style. long picnic tables and the grill going somewhere off to the side. well shit, because if i'm right, and everyone's sitting down and stephanie's giving some toast and we're the idiots who break it up when we walk in late, then what?

alicia said the next day that there was a serious angel watching over us, because it turned out i couldnt've been more wrong:


this is just one of the two yards that served as a modest set up, so laid back and chill, for such a highly anticipated event. there's a beer bar on the deck. a wine bar in back. there're high tops for schmoozing and tikis burning in the bushes. and right up front, in the foreground of the pic above, are bravo's starlets, lee ann and stephanie, plating two of the six plates, at one of the three stations, of the night. they're not hiding. theye're not schmoozing in sparkling white coats, nodding approvingly as food is passed around. they're working the station, hours and hours of prep obvious from the kitchen smells of rendered fat and charcoal and the stains of ass kicking on their tee shirts, their arms lifting to beat the sweat from their foreheads, out in the open for anyone and everyone to see. when you're a high profile chef, from a tv show with as big a following as top chef, and you open yourself to the public in the intimate confines of a person's house, anything can happen. any freakish, obsessive fan could've shown up that night. and if this worried stephanie, she didn't show it. i just don't think it's her style.


it's all about the beer on the line. and here's the food:


bbq pork shoulder on a biscuit with apple slaw. and yeah, that's a buttermilk biscuit.

warm polenta with sweet corn and shaved radish. a foreboding gooseberry sauce looms on the side.

action shot of simplistic plating. perfectly tender and subtly smoky: grilled octopus with green beans and lemon vinaigrette.

and bacon. lots and lots of bacon.

the hands down winner of the night. preserved lemon coolly kicks back with grilled calamari, stuffed with ground lamb that's seasoned just right. it's an incredible display of stephanie's ability to balance flavors, texture, temperature, and in this case, contrasting proteins. the plate's swiped with a sliver of almond puree that lingers so smooth on the palette. i was seriously pissed for being as modest as i was. it's the kind of dish you still taste the next day and though plates were lined up the for the taking, i never went back for more. big mistake.

my first oysters in chicago. i never did get a solid break down of this, but bacon repeats itself here, possibly in two ways. with the chives and crumbled bacon was what probably was a vinaigrette, but texturally hit the tongue like a foam, which lends itself to a sabayon. the texture, so delicate, was offset by the punch of salt and rendered fat, something like the smoke of bacon, which i love if i'm right, and i loved anyways, but it'd be nice to get a touch of self-worth, while i'm at it.

and yet another winner. the strands are evident even in the small uncovered bit that's hanging over the lip of the fry bread—yes, fry bread—this short rib melted as it was chewed. with heirloom tomatoes and the cooling lather of queso fresco, the fry bread was an airy doughnut that puffed away, unifying the dish completely.

though we knew nobody going in, we attached ourselves to three new friends (and shared a drunken and crammed cab ride home later on) as soon as we had drinks in our hands. and the true highlight of the night, and she left the impression it meant as much to her as it did to us, was when stephanie joined our circle, complementing alicia on her blue eyes, and shot the shit with us in what i'm discovering is true midwest style. we talked about hector the mascot donkey turned goat and the smell her cleaning lady would find in her apartment after so many days of prep and the blue shopping cart that's mysteriously hers and she can't wait to pimp out and hit the streets of bucktown with. she filled our beers when they hit bottom and changed conversation before it ever had the chance to get awkward, hanging out with us far longer than the formal hello, how is everything, thanks for coming—and i'm sorry but i won't remember any of this in five minutes—far longer than any of us expected. like her food; like the tee shirts; like the set up; like the new restaurant's name; like the staff and the toe sucking, pants dropping couple that partied on the deck behind us, what you see is what you get. a fun, genuine, humbled person, trying like everyone else to figure things out, and then make it all happen.

huge thanks to emilie for the pictures. it's the food that makes this post worth writing, the writing just a ramble of gibberish without the visuals. and to allen brothers, three floyds, and black dog gelato for supplying the goods.

i left the party—well after its scheduled ending—with a cup of fraises des boises in hand, and as chefy pointed out, its juice on my sweater. it was an idyllic summer night and if the party at all reflected true chicago style, moving here was exactly the right thing for us to do.