Restaurant field notes: Daisies

     My older son is a foodie, a condition that not only enriches his life but mine. I'd have never eaten at Alinea without his good influence, nor Omakase Yume, nor nibbled my way across Copenhagen, where noma, a three Michelin star restaurant he just had to notch on his belt, was about to close.

     Not that my wife or I ate there — dinner cost the price of a plane ticket to Denmark, so we satisfied ourselves keeping him company and eating elsewhere, and missed out on the pickled deer heart and marinated pine cone. I can't say I regret that decision.

     I'm a creature of habit, and want to go to the same places — Prairie Grass, Psistaria, Gene & Georgetti — and eat the same things. A simple salad with chicken on it; Greek pork chops, a good steak.

Potted carrots

     Not so my son. He had a birthday last week, and is in town visiting his aged parents. When we suggested he pick a place where we could go celebrate, he chose Daisies, based the recommendation of his younger brother. Who is no mean foodie himself, having eaten his way from the French Laundry in San Francisco to Elske in Chicago. 

     Daisies is Chef Joe Frillman's "vegetable focused" pasta-centric establishment opened in 2017. Wednesday night we piled in the SUV and headed toward the siren hipness of Logan Square for a hard-won 7:30 p.m. reservation.

     My original plan was to go with the center cut pork loin with caramelized fennel and pickled apple. Both out of preference — doesn't that sound good? — and to mesh with my new low-carb lifestyle, imposed upon me courtesy of my pull toy duck companion, Mr. Diabetes, who now follows me everywhere, quacking endlessly.

     But three occurrences happened that very day to change my order. First, I ate a pork chop for lunch — there was one in the fridge calling my name and I couldn't resist, even knowing I'd have another for dinner. Second, the short-acting insulin my endocrinologist prescribed was available at Walgreens, so I picked it up. And third, and most crucially, a thoughtful reader sent me an insulated case with which to tote aforementioned insulin around town. My wife felt I was jumping into things a little too quickly, but in the theory that there is no time like the present — and since the place, we agreed, is known for its pasta — I toted the case with me. 

Rigatoni

     Daisies was packed. Three young persons at the front desk huddled together, consulting a computer screen for so long I worried we'd be rejected. "I'm so sorry, you had a reservation, but our background check found you're not stylish enough..." Finally we were accepted — maybe they had pity on us — and we were lead through the main restaurant, vibrant with energy and conversation. Escorted past the heart of the restaurant, into the back, a much smaller rectangular room appendix, out of view of the main body of diners, to a table by the pasta machines. Though that was fine with me, as it was a little less loud, a little more low key. Though still cacophonous, though that could be a function of age — my wife and I were easily 25 years older than the next oldest patron. Performative dining is a young person's game.

      I placed the case boldly on the table. Our waiter Ty arrived, and I ordered the potted carrots with duck fat and gnocco fritto starter and and the rigatoni with nduja — a kind of spreadable sausage — and lemon breadcrumbs. It's been a looong month of endless protein, green salads and unsalted cashews.  Time to test out this short-acting insulin business.  

     After ordering I excused myself and visited the restroom. There I decided, as Virgil says, that fortune favors the bold, and set the case on the little shelf over the sink. I opened it, washed my hands, tore open an alcohol wipe, cleaned the pen injector, then screwed a disposable needle in place. 

     Here I faced a choice. No one else was in the bathroom, but that could abruptly change. So, with the goal in mind of not ruining the appetites of other Daisies patrons, once my shot was ready, I scooped up the open case and relocated to the stall, where I did my business, jabbing myself in the thigh, administering four units of NovoLog. Soon I was back at the table.
     "I never shot up drugs in a public bathroom before," I announced brightly, taking my seat.
     Daisies is a place where dishes are to be shared, so I gobbled some of my carrots, as well as some shishito peppers and smoked sturgeon. My rigatoni was delightfully spicy, though my wife and I agreed that her pappardelle with house cheese and mushrooms was the best dish we ate, though my son's potato pierogi with mussels had its own charming, Eastern European allure. I washed them down with a quite adequate Best Day Brewing "Electro-Lime" NA beer.

     "I like that it's al dente," my son said, spearing some pappardelle. 

     "'Al Dante?'" I replied. "Pasta ... in the manner of Dante?" Nobody laughed — must have been the noise of the restaurant drowning out the witticism, which I enjoyed  immensely.

     The insulin worked like a charm, by the way, and my blood never strayed to unacceptable heights. I showed the number on my phone to my wife and we high-fived. This is a life I can endure.

Can't miss it.

      Ty, aided by various other servers, was timely without rushing us, and personable without being intrusive. Having given tips before at establishments without realizing they were already included in the bill, I appreciated the pains taken by Daisies  trying to drive home the point that a 25 percent service charge is automatically added to the bill — not only hand drawn stars next to the figure on the check, but a large laminated placard that really can't be overlooked. They want you to know.

       Ty brought a sliver of chocolate cake with a candle for our boy, knowing it was his birthday, and as my wife was full from dinner, he and I shared what, for me, was the highlight of the evening: a slice of peanut butter crunch cake with dark chocolate and chili peanuts and a scoop of cannoli ice cream (it's been a long month...)  It was so enticing, we forgot to sing, but dove in. My only criticism of the place is they gave us tablespoons with dessert; it felt odd to eat the cake with a big spoon, but I wasn't about to pause long enough to ask for a fork. The spoon worked too. Maybe that's the latest haute monde Logan Square utensil for eating cake.

     My wife observed that the executive pastry chef of Daisies is Leigh Omilinsky, a friend of our niece Esther.
     Omilinsky got her start at Tru, the marvelous restaurant that my pal Gale Gand ran on St. Clair. I recalled that, 10 years ago, when Chicago declared Gale Gand Day, Omilinsky shared some thoughts on her former boss ("incredibly wonderful," she said, among other accurate observations). 

      I thought perhaps it is high time to return the favor, and reached out to Gale for her opinion of her former protege who, judging from the slice of cake I ate, is doing phenomenally. 

      "She’s talented, creative, a hard worker and juggles her career with being an attentive great mom," replied Gale, who herself has escaped the daily grind of running a high end restaurant but still teaches cooking around the country and makes appearances at food and wine festivals. "I feel good about how she’s progressed as a pastry chef and a person since she worked for me more than 20 years ago. Also, she’s always smiling, she has a joyful nature, so nice to be around where the stress of kitchen can bring out the worst version of people."
     But not everybody, I'm glad to report. The cake was truly excellent. You can tell it was made by a happy baker.