To get the full crock of shit, you must be online

     The 13th anniversary of this blog is at the end of the month, and it occurs to me a number of years has passed since anyone complained to me about its name, "Every goddamn day." Which means either a) I don't get out as much anymore; b) life in general is coarsening; c) candor is no longer in style; d) all three.
     My guess is "d." 
     The origin story for the name, in case you don't know, is that my column was running four days a week in the Chicago Sun-Times and on Sundays in the New York Daily News. "I'm already writing five days a week," I told my boss, Michael Cooke. "Why don't I write the other two and be the only columnist in the country writing every goddamn day? I even have the advertising slogan for you: "Neil Steinberg, every goddamn day: only in the Sun-Times."
     For some reason, he didn't bite at that idea. But I told it to Tom Serafin, the political strategist, and his eyes lit up. He asked: "'Every goddamn day' — do you own that domain name?" I didn't, but hurried from lunch to Go Daddy and bought it. 
      In the early days, I would occasionally hear from the genuinely hurt, expressing true dismay at this slightly off-color name. I felt truly sorry for them — if you're that sensitive, imagine what a prickly place the world must be.
     Once in a great while it caused trouble. When the University of Chicago Press published a book inspired by the blog, "Every Goddamn Day," in 2022, WFMT wouldn't carry advertising for it, and WGN asked me not to mention the title. 
     Radio stations and newspapers are among the last holdouts in this area, and the scruple leads to inanity. As Exhibit A and Exhibit B, I'd like to offer the headlines from Wednesday Sun-Times and Tribune. 
    The main headline on the front page of the Sun-Times was, "GRAND JUROR CALLS CASE A CROCK OF S—-" This is how the excremental obscenity usually finds its way into print — as a quote. Remember, Donald Trump called Haiti a "shithole country" in 2018, and many papers, including the Sun-Times, used the quote undashed, nudged forward by presidential prestige I suppose. 
    Checking our archive, the Sun-Times has printed the word "shit" 181 times since it first appeared in 1996, in a story by my esteemed former colleague Scott Fornek and Sharon Cotliar about a readers forum in Orland Park:

     "Bullshit!" yelled Frank Alletto, 80, a retired steel worker from Tinley Park, leaping to his feet to shout down Sullivan. "One guy gets $14 million, and then they lay off 60,000 people. Your corporations are full of shit." 

     Strong stuff, yes? Anyone crumble reading it? I didn't think so.
     The cliche is that standards of conduct grow more slack as the years go by, but that isn't always the case. When I ran a story about Chicago Symphony Orchestra percussionist Cynthia Yeh, quoting her describing how her job is viewed: "“The layman feels it must be so satisfying to beat the shit out of something,” the paper wouldn't run the word undashed (the CSO, for their part, was so aghast to see it come out of the mouth of one of their musicians, they refused to let me continue with a planned series looking at the musicians through their instruments. Like it was my fault she said it. And to think people accuse them of being stuffy).
     The Tribune, of course, was worse Wednesday morning, choosing a word that achieved the neat trick of being more than twice as long yet less precise. 'I thought it was a crock of (expletive)'. Of course any reader knows what word goes after "crock of..." They'd have done better with that ellipsis.
     The odd thing is, this isn't a president talking, but an anonymous grand juror, moving the story along not at all. Everyone already knew the case was bullshit. The news value of this development is zilch except for the colorful obscenity. Which isn't printed.
     An odd business, this, full of quirks. I guess limiting our vocabulary to that of a fairly-sheltered 7-year-0ld is one of them. What's next. "Go to (H-E-Double-Toothpicks)" says Trump." Something to look forward to.

      

New Obama Presidential Center tries to offer hope for a better world

"Hope" by Jack Pierson

      "This is the permanent home for hope," Valerie Jarrett, former top White House adviser and current CEO of the Obama Foundation, told an assemblage of reporters last week at the new Obama Presidential Center.
     Good, I thought. So if we lose all hope, we'll know where to look for it.
     "Hope." The word is the first thing you see, entering the center — a Jack Pierson artwork made from salvaged sign letters. The placard adds the note of melancholy that must accompany any clear-eyed reaction to the new institution: "Though the word's meaning is uplifting, the decaying materials can also evoke feelings of loss and longing for an era since past."
     The key question being: Is it the dead-and-gone-and-buried past? Or just stepped-out-for-a-cigarette past? I considered this, waking through the "Hope and Change Lobby."
     "Change." Another word whose inclusion here just assumes improvement. Things change for the better. But do they? There has been Much dramatic change in the past year. The country divided between those aghast and grief-riven at the changes, and And those who either are glad or don't care.
     With the Obama center's central tower being minutely critiqued, the thing for me to do, as a museum fan, was explore the museum, four floors of the tower's eight, the vanguard of an endless herd of thundering schoolchildren and aging liberals returning returned to breathe deep an era that can seem as distant as the Renaissance.
     The place is a marvel of museum craftsmanship, with tangible objects buoyed by blocks of text and plenty of videos to gaze at before moving on. You can fruitfully spend an hour here, or three.
     Nothing jarred, beyond the unfortunate sculpture of Barack and Michelle Obama, which didn't quite capture either — something off about the president's eyes, too close together perhaps, and that grin. While the former First Lady is unrecognizable.
     We start with the birth of our nation, "Toward a More Perfect Union," the opening sentence a nod toward our perilous times: "America has always been a work in progress."
     Let's hope so. I'd hate to think we've arrived at our final destination.
     We get a history of Obama's America. Watergate undercut liberal faith in government.
     "Everything seemed broken," said the 44th president, who narrates the exhibits.
     But change — the good kind — came.
     "It felt like the world was moving in a new direction," Obama says. "Then came political pushback from those that longed for a return to what they thought of as law, order and traditional American values. "
     Ronald Reagan is in some ways a stand-in for our current president.
     "We were told government wasn't the solution to the problem, it was the problem," Obama says. "That white Americans, men and conservative Christians were somehow being targeted by liberal elites. At the same time that these political divisions were increasing, new information technologies were changing the way we live, and work, and communicate. But again and again, we saw that change would not be denied."
     As Charlie Brown said, "How can we lose when we're so sincere?"

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Life puzzles #1: What to do with newspaper bags?

 

     Monday morning was rainy. But my newspapers were nice and dry, waiting for me at the foot of my walk, through the miracle of plastic bag technology. The New York Times in its regal blue bag. The Chicago Sun-Times in its yellow bag, echoing a previous color scheme as "The Bright One."
     The bags not only protect the papers from becoming a sodden, pulpy, useless mess — and anyone who has even had a bag with a hole in it on a rainy day has experienced that. But they also have a second life, for me, as doggie bags. The standard green doggie bags, on the little rolls, are fine. But they're small. And you have to tug them, hard, to get them off the roll, then find the opening. It's work, almost. 

     Not a problem with the newspaper bags, which are much more capacious. Your hand glides in easily. Though I do routinely pass them through a circle made of my thumb and index finger, to inflate the end, checking for the aforementioned holes, which you do not want to discover after picking up dog poop with them. Trust me.
    Honestly, I'd never given the bags much thought, and probably never would. But one of my readers raised an issue that had never crossed my mind, not once in a lifetime of subscribing to newspapers. He began by addressing me in the third person, which caused me to check if I were part of an email chain. No, just me. He writes:

     Terrific columns by Steinberg.
     Would you ask the appropriate person at your medium to explain to home delivery paper customers how to dispose of the plastic bags the delivery people put the papers in.
     Grocery stores except the plastic bags back that they put groceries in, but will not accept the colored bags that Newspaper delivery people deliver the newspapers in. Where can we recycle those?
     The Lakeshore recycling company which has the contract in the town where I live says these are not appropriate for its recycling.
     What’s the difference in the type of plastic and where can we take these Newspaper bags especially those of us who subscribe to multiple papers each day Via delivery?

     Then he signed his full name, plus place of employment. 

     Odd, right? "The appropriate person at your medium"? Who says that? And who is so stymied by this issue that he writes to his newspaper, seeking guidance? It seemed an issue an adult could suss out for himself, unaided.

     I considered my response carefully, nudged toward gentleness by his subscribing to the paper. Ordering the hounds of sarcasm back to their kennels, I wrote:

     That's a new one. And while I mostly just write stuff that goes in the newspaper, I suppose it's easier for me to respond to your quandary than to try to find someone else.
     Let's see ... have you considered buying a dog? I have a dog, and the newspaper bags make perfect vehicles for picking up dog poop, far superior to the tiny ones that come on green rolls. That would be my solution. A dog really enriches one's life.
     But if owning a dog is impractical, the bags can also be thrown away. Or if that is too hard on the environment, you could collect the bags and send them to me. My dog typically goes three times a day, but I only subscribe to two newspapers, the Sun-Times and the New York Times, so I am always in need of more newspaper bags. Let me know if that is the solution you prefer, and I will send you my address.
     I hope that helps. Thanks for writing.

     Alas, no response. Which is a shame, because I really do like to use those newspaper bags for Kitty's necessities. The walk when I'm without one, well, the experience is slightly diminished. Maybe he'll buy a dog — then I'll really be hearing from him. "These cans of dog food, how am I to open them?"

Have you ever actually been to Hammond?

     Do you know why Marshall Field's was renamed Macy's? Federated could have kept the Field's name after the 2005 acquisition — it's still on plaques on the downtown flagship store anyway. I happened to be on the editorial board when the new owners came by to ballyhoo the change.
     To save money on bags. If they kept "Field's," they'd need separate Field's bags, plus distinct advertising. That would cost money. Changing Field's to Macy's was simpler and cheaper.
     For them. For us, well, if it left customers alienated and heartbroken, welcome to capitalism.
     This came to mind as the Chicago Bears edge closer to moving to Hammond, Indiana. Prestige is trumped by parsimony. Sears fled the tallest building in the world in the heart of Chicago for a sprawling business park in Hoffman Estates. In the end, it didn't save them.
     I was resigned to accept Arlington Heights, even to welcome it. I myself am a suburbanite with city pretensions, the Chicago newspaper columnist living in a leafy suburban paradise. Life happens.
     But Hammond? I'm reluctant to register an opinion about Hammond, since it is filled with fine people, including loyal Chicago Sun-Times subscribers, all with interesting, rich lives. Laudable individuals, fully capable of writing angry letters to newspaper editors, explaining how wounded they are by the opinions of some clueless hack.
     So let me stipulate that I visited Hammond once, nearly five years ago, for two hours, and my opinion is based entirely on that visit. I am not the Jedi Council, nor the all-seeing eye. It was an initial impression.
     A... young man of my acquaintance was about to spend a year working as a humble clerk for the federal judiciary in Hammond. Taking a preliminary trip with this unnamed person to the city in question seemed the act of a loving... umm... associate. So I volunteered. He was planning to live on the near South Side of Chicago and commute.
     "Why not live in Hammond?" I suggested, breezily, as we drove. On my blog, I described our arrival this way:

     "Now Hammond, Indiana is not a garden spot of the world. Modest apartment buildings and town houses, homes, low industrial buildings, a trailer park as soon as you exit the freeway. A lot of liquor stores and cigarette stores and fireworks stores. Not poor, exactly, not prosperous either. Proudly hanging on. My mission was to go to the federal courthouse, a large brutalist gray concrete structure that could be used in a James Bond movie for the secret police headquarters in Bulgaria and the audience wouldn't blink."

     Looking for a spot to eat lunch near the courthouse, a sense of the area started to sink in.
     "What I said about living in Hammond, I retract," I said. "I don't even want you stopping for gas here."

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Flashback 2003: Religion will ban everything, as long as we allow it to

     It's clear why I've never re-printed this before — a queasy glimpse at booze boy in action, perhaps best forgotten. But on June 16, I'll reprise a Bloomsday column written a week later that makes reference to this column. So I thought I would swallow hard and post it, in order to be able to link to it later. This column got me invited on, and then thrown off, Fox News' "The O'Reilly Factor."  Members of the synagogue also wrote, suggesting that I never come back. It must be a success, to piss off both Orthodox Jews AND right wing Christians. Though my in-laws, God bless them, never complained, as was their fashion.

     Most Saturday mornings do not find me in a synagogue, never mind an Orthodox synagogue. Not my table, as the waiters say. But my in-laws were marking their 59th anniversary, and my in-laws hold a place in my heart that God would envy. So there I was last Saturday, in a suit and tie, standing and sitting at the proper moments. I felt, as I always do, that vague sense of jealousy toward the tallis-wrapped men around me, who actually believe this stuff and weren't just marking time until the Kiddush — the festive spread when the service is done.

Cholent (By Gilabrand; CC BY-SA 3.0) 

   After a few hours, it ended. Whatever your opinions about the Orthodox, they do drink hard liquor at noon on Saturdays, and that's a brand of faith that makes perfect sense to me. I allowed myself to be swept over to the Crown Royal cart for a "broucha" — a blessing — and after enjoying a few blessings with a group of like-minded men, I elbowed my way to the buffet table, piling my plate with herring and cholent — a kind of meat-and-bean stew. As I began to dig in, someone tapped me on the shoulder, gestured to my plate, and said, "You can't do that."
     "Do what?" I said.
     "Mix meat and fish," he said. "I hope you don't mind my pointing it out."
     "No," I said. "But since when?"
     I knew pigs were forbidden, and mixing milk and meat was out. I knew about shellfish. Yet this was news to me. I almost added, "You're joking, right?" (I could just see one guy goad the other, "Hey, Nacham, go over there and tell that outlander he can't mix fish and meat. I bet he buys it.")
     I hastily grabbed another plate to separate the two foodstuffs. When in Rome. . . . Still, I was curious. The rabbi was at the end of the table, and I hurried over. In my best, humble-seeker-of-knowledge tone, I asked: Why, Rebbe, is it wrong to mix meat and fish?
     His answer, to summarize, was that there is a law regarding not doing things that are harmful to one's health. Meat and fish have different oils, he said, and affect the digestion in such a way that they shouldn't be combined.
     "It's the same reason you aren't allowed to smoke," he said. That made no sense to me, and I almost pointed out the incongruity of banning the mixing of fish and meat when the whiskey is flowing nearby. But why let quibbles spoil a happy occasion? And I admired the tremendous attention to detail. Religions are famous for that. They'll dictate the buttons on your coat, the shine on your shoe, if you let them. And we did.
     But for the past 200 years, the miracle of democratic government has been slowly stuffing religion back into its box. Thursday's Supreme Court ruling on anti-sodomy laws is another step. I found it highly amusing to see the parade on TV of Religious Right sorts decrying the decision — all Christians since, though Orthodox Jews officially hold the same beliefs regarding gays, Jews have enough trouble without going on TV to fight this losing battle.
     There are a dozen dissertations' worth of analysis in Thursday's TV coverage. Someone could note how the media — despite the fact that many of these laws banned practices that you and your wife may engage in — focused on gays. Or how gay lifestyle has become so ingrained in our society that opponents had to resort to extrapolation; that this was bad because it would lead to acceptance of bigamy, or incest. In the past, this would have been bad because it would have led to gay sex.
      Having read the Bible, in my youth, sometimes in Hebrew, I can tell you that it bans lots of stuff. Almost anything you can imagine is forbidden, and lots you can't. God kills one of Noah's sons because the son spies Noah, naked and drunk, in his tent. Rather mean, really, but that's how the Old Testament God comes off.
     It is always interesting to me that of all the edicts in the Bible — filling your day nicely with sins to be avoided and obligations to embrace, after uttering the proper blessing — the lines about homosexuality make such an impact on the fundamentalist mind. It isn't given that kind of weight in the Bible. It isn't printed in big red letters. Why fixate on this, and not the ban against meat and fish?
     As important as the Supreme Court ruling is for getting the law in line with where society already is, I think equally significant is how obviously out-of-step and just plain nasty the supposed supporters of "family" seemed, explaining why "public health and morals" demand that homosexuals be persecuted just as they have been for the past 5,000 years (the pro-family sorts harp that this change will "encourage" homosexuality. Well, it being a Biblical sin, and against U.S. law, and a societal taboo that could get you kicked to death by your friends, doesn't seem to discourage it, so perhaps homosexuality is neither created nor prevented by society, but something people are born with. Just a thought).
     I don't muse about God much, obviously. But when I do, I can't conceive of Him caring an awful lot about the various practices consenting adults do back in their bedrooms. Awful childhood diseases don't bother Him, apparently. No reaction on the Congo to date. Is he really steamed that Brad and Tim are frolicking? Not only don't I believe it, but I have a hard time believing that anybody believes it.
     — Originally published in the Sun-Times, June 27, 2003

Letter from Paris: Pastries

Photos by Hélène

     My suggestion last week that EGD Paris bureau chief Jack Clark consider exploring pastries was poorly received by some readers, who claimed that it was bad form of me to tell a writer as skilled as Jack (to see his oeuvre, go to  jackclarkbooks.com) what to do. Perhaps. Though I thought of it more as a gentle hint, part of the push and pull that goes on at any publication. Either way, Jack took the bait, producing the following mouth-watering account.

     When I first visited Hélène in Paris, our walk to her favorite bakery took us past two others. At the closest bakery, the bread arrived by truck, so I understood why we didn’t stop. The second bakery, only a block away, was popular and often had a line, which I took as a good sign. Hélène refused to give it a try. We’d always cross the street and walk up a bit further to her favorite, which was also a popular and attractive looking place.
     Whenever I went to the bakery by myself, one of the clerks always seemed annoyed to see me coming. It took me years to figure out what that was about and, strangely enough, that revelation happened when I was back in Chicago.
     I thought the clerk’s mood might have something to do with how I ordered. Walking up the street towards the bakery, I would practice what I was about to say. “Bonjour. Une tradition, S'il vous plait,” which translates to “Good morning. A tradition, please.” This is the old-style baguette, which costs slightly more than the standard one.
     The clerk would usually say, “Une?” back. I would say oui or une again and hold up a single finger to confirm that I wanted one. Half the time, she would try to sell me two and we would go through the entire dance again. This went on for years.
      Even when I came with Hélène and she was doing the ordering, the clerk gave me unpleasant glances. She never tried to sell Hélène two loaves, I noticed. The bread was excellent, of course, especially to an American who’d spent half his life eating fingerprint white bread. On the other hand, I knew good bread when I found it. When I was a child my mother had baked her own bread and rolls. There’s nothing better on a winter’s day than a hot roll fresh from the oven with a dab of butter melting inside, and I’ll never forgive some of my siblings for talking my mother into going whole-wheat back in the days of the Whole Earth Catalog. The experiment never took, and she finally gave up baking bread completely. But that, of course, is another story.
     The bread wasn’t the best part of Hélène’s favorite bakery, it was the pastries. Actually, it was one specific pastry, the diplomat, which the French call le gâteau diplomate.     

     The diplomat, a cake made from leftovers, is sold by the slice. The basic recipe is day-old brioche soaked in crème anglaise and then baked. But every bakery does it their own way. Some throw in the old pain au chocolats and croissants as well. Some use raisins or other fruits. Some add sugar. Others a bit or rum or cognac. It’s a rich dessert and too heavy for a standard bakery bag. A slice is usually placed in a white bakery carton. To insure safe passage, I usually keep a hand on the bottom all the way home.
     If there are no leftovers there can be no diplomat. So it was always a special day when we stepped inside and saw one or two behind the glass. The worst days were when someone just ahead of us bought the very last slice. In Chicago, there are Harold’s Chicken murders. On those dark days when the last diplomat disappeared right before my eyes, I’d sometimes wonder if there had been any diplomat murders in Paris’s long history. Or would this be the first?
     Hélène was friendly with the baker and with his wife, who also worked behind the counter. She didn’t seem to have any problem understanding me. In truth, the clerk who did have a problem never bothered me all that much — at least not after I was out the door with our bread and maybe a diplomat or two. I told myself that it probably had nothing to do with me, not really. She might have been jilted by a guy who looked like me or maybe she just hated all Americans (This was during the Obama administration, by the way, in case you’re thinking: of course she did. Who wouldn’t?). Or maybe it was just Americans too dense or too lazy to learn the local language. 

     One night, we were coming home long after the bakeries usually closed. For some reason, ours was still open. So we went in and yes, there were two diplomats in the display case. The baker, a friendly middle-aged guy who spent most of the day down in the basement slaving away, was by himself behind the counter. He and Hélène made small talk and then I carried the heavy box of diplomats the long block home. I think we shared one that night and kept the other for later. That’s how we usually did it. Eating an entire diplomat in one sitting is truly decadent. It might have happened a time or two but usually we managed some restraint.
     The next time we walked by, our favorite bakery was gone. We decided that we’d stopped on the last night and had gotten the last of the diplomats. The baker had stayed late to get rid of what he could before he closed for good. He wouldn’t be using the leftovers to make anything.
     We wondered what had happened, of course. We heard rumors of this and that, marriage, or financial trouble. I’m not sure anymore and rumors are just that. It was tough for Hélène. Losing your favorite bakery in Paris is probably somewhat like losing your favorite saloon in Chicago. There are plenty of others nearby but it will never be the same. She missed the baker and his wife and, of course, we both missed the diplomats.
     We switched to the bakery across the street. It took Hélène awhile to come around but she finally agreed that their traditional was almost as good as the one from our old bakery and she liked their brioche. Their pastries were good too, but not exceptional, and there was no diplomat.
     Back in Chicago, I ran into my friend Francis, who was born in Paris. “Did you figure out the number thing yet?” he asked.
     “I can count,” I said. “But I only go up to sixty-nine. After that, I think you guys are nuts.”
     In French 70 is soixante-dix, in other words 60 plus 10 (the plus is silent). Eighty is quatre-vingt, 4 times 20. Ninety is quatre-vingt-dix, 4 times 20 plus 10.  

     “Couldn’t you guys invent a couple of other words?”
     He ignored me. “You guys are nuts too,” he said. “I’d go to Wrigley Field and the hot dog guy would come by and I’d order two and he’d only send down one. I finally figured it out. I’d hold up my thumb and my index finger and they’d only see the finger. In France the thumb is one. The index finger is two. Here for some stupid reason the index finger is one.”
     “Oh, that explains it,” I said, and I realized why the clerk had a problem with me. I was holding up my index finger which she saw as two while saying one in my incoherent French. She probably didn’t know any English so she couldn’t tell me what I was doing wrong.
     And I was so convinced it had something to do with my accent, pronunciation, or her old boyfriend, that I never considered that it was a completely different language that was causing the problem.
     A few months after his bakery closed, we spotted our old baker in one of the neighborhood cafes having a drink with our new baker and, before long, he was working at the new place. I can’t pretend I knew him. I didn’t. And, like at the old place, he spent most of his time down in the basement with the ovens and the other bakers. But he seemed to have a better time working for a paycheck than he’d had running the show across the street. He really seemed to fit in at the new bakery. The staff obviously liked him. He and Hélène would always say hello and it was clear to everyone that we were two of his old customers.
     We had hopes that his diplomat might appear behind the glass one day but it never did.
     Paris is like any big city, people come and go, and half the time you never know what happened to them. But one of the clerks at the bakery went out of her way to tell us that our old baker had died suddenly after a heart attack. She was clearly heartbroken. We were too.
     Months later, we found another diplomat up the street, in a bakery that was run by a mother and daughter. They were both beautiful women who carried themselves with that regal stature that the French do so well. They weren’t unfriendly. They were cool, not cold, and both had a good sense of humor, and eyes that could suddenly sparkle. You could see that the younger woman would one day look just like her mother, that her mother had once looked just like her.
     Hélène actually liked the new diplomat better than the old one. I was loyal to the old one. Maybe because it had been my first.
     The daughter eventually got married and started a family. She had no interest in taking over the bakery, her mother told Hélène. Soon the bakery was sold — another diplomat bites the dust — and was replaced by a place that doesn’t use sugar. That was all it took for Hélène to write them off our list.
     What Hélène misses even more than the diplomats are the people that came with them, joking with the mother and the daughter, small talk with the old baker down the street. To me, the worst aspect of not speaking French is missing all those tiny interactions with people whose names you might not know, quick exchanges that can sometimes brighten even the dreariest of days.
     There are about a dozen bakeries on the mile-or-so-long street where we do most of our shopping. We’ve tried them all. We still buy our traditions at the place we call our bakery. But we stop here and there for this, that, or the other thing. We’re always on the lookout for another diplomat.
     When we’re out of our neighborhood, we’ll stop at interesting looking bakeries. Even if we don’t see a diplomat, we’ll ask if they make one. Usually the answer is no. But every so often we get a yes. But, of course, with diplomats, it’s always a question of timing. You have to get lucky.
     One day, while I was back in Chicago, Hélène told me that one of the neighborhood bakeries had turned over and the new baker made an excellent chausson aux pommes. This is a staple of French bakeries. It’s their version of an apple turnover. Most of the ones I’ve tried are nothing special. Half the time you’ll find industrial apple sauce or apple puree inside. But a few years before, Hélène had found an excellent one near her job. Sometimes I’d take the 45-minute, two-train morning commute with her, just so we could sit on a bench around the corner from the bakery to have a couple for breakfast. Unlike the typical chausson aux pommes these came crusted with cane sugar but what really made them special was the freshly cooked apples inside. Now Hélène had found one almost as good closer to home — the same sugar-coated crust, the same fresh apples. 
     The bakery has specialties from the Alsace region of France, including kouglops and
bretzels, but they also have the French standards, the pain au chocolat, the croissant, and of course, the chausson aux pommes.
     Hélène was in the bakery recently without me. She spotted an interesting looking pastry. It was dark and heavy looking. “What’s that?” she asked the clerk.
      “It’s. ..“ he said something she couldn’t understand over the lunch rush. His next words were clear. “It’s made with leftover kouglops and cream.”
     “It sounds like a kouglop diplomat,” Helene said.
     “I couldn’t have described it better,” the clerk said.
     Hélène bought a slice and we split it right down the middle. It was different than the other diplomats — that’s always the case — but it was truly excellent, dark and dense, with a rich flavor, heavy from those old cream-soaked kouglops, with a soft texture that felt lighter than pudding. Half was more than satisfying. I was disappointed to hear that Helene had left a few others behind at the bakery. What was she thinking? But we rejoiced. After a couple of bad years, we have a neighborhood diplomat again. But there’s a catch. The bakery usually has lines for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They seldom have anything left over. “We almost never make them,” the baker told Hélène.
     But we have hope again. We can bide our time and wait for the next huge storm or any halfway-decent national disaster, something that might keep people out of the bakeries and leave some kouglops behind. While the rest of the country is transfixed by scenes of whatever catastrophe has transpired, the same footage running over and over again, we’ll go to bed early, and set the alarm so we’re waiting outside when the bakery opens.
     Even if they don’t have the diplomats we crave, we’ll get the first chausson aux pommes of the morning, with the fresh apple inside still warm from the baker’s oven.
     There’s only one better way to start the day.

Will Chicago happily eat dolmades and drink roditis in Trump Tower?

     In southern Greece, at the foot of Mount Artemisio, is a tiny village called Nestani. About 500 people live there, some still herding goats, as did their fathers and grandfathers before. Above the town, built into the imposing Rock of Goulas, is a monastery, founded in the 13th century. And on the gate of that monastery is an inscription, honoring the women of "Sikago" for their generosity sending money back for renovations.
     Local lore insists that more people born in Nestani live in Chicago than live in the village itself. Many came here over the past century and made a good living.
     One of them is Petros Kogiones, whose Dianna's Opaa was a beloved fixture on Halsted Street from the mid-1970s to the mid-1990s.
     "From every other house somebody came to America, came to Chicago," Kogiones, 89, remembered when I phoned to chat. "Some had coffee shops or candy shops."
     Why did Greeks go into food service?
     "It was the natural thing to do," said Kogiones. "For Greeks, it was the easiest thing. With a lack of language, what else could they do? Wash the dishes. Cooking, like me."
     Dianna's closed 30 years ago. But we are still a city blessed with excellent Greek restaurants. My favorite, Psistaria Greek Taverna on Touhy, is a boisterous room. Lively service. And great food. The chicken spanaki. The center cut pork chops. The green beans.
     Chicago's Greektown was decimated by the twin blows of UIC and expressway expansion. But there are still plenty of Greek eateries on the shred that remained: Greek Islands and Athena and Artopolis Bakery, where I would reverently visit to stock up on melomakarona, those luscious honey cookies, before diabetes made the practice unwise.
     And those are just the old-school places. There are many newer Greek restaurants, like Lyra in Fulton Market and Elia in Bucktown.
     With more coming. In Tuesday's paper, we learned that a La Grange restaurant, Prasino, is opening in the base of Trump Tower.
     Normally, I'd welcome any addition to the Greek restaurant pantheon, particularly one as centrally located as Wabash just north of the river.

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