Restaurant notes: S.K.Y.

S.K.Y.

      My sons are foodies, and I am always glad when they pick the restaurant, as I know I'm going to dip my toe into something new and unusual.

     Saturday it was brunch at S.K.Y. at 2300 N. Lincoln Park West, in the elegant Belden-Stratford apartment building, whose lobby entrance it shares with the venerable Mon Ami Gabi.
     The room was large and lovely — elegant in an austere, mottled concrete fashion — if fairly empty at 12 noon on a Saturday, not a good sign for them. Things were certainly hopping next door at Mon Ami Gabi.

     Service was impeccable. We were six adults and a baby, and were never rushed. The cuisine is ... what? Asian fusion? The brunch menu offered bibimbop, pork belly noodles and poke, so that sounds right. The Michelin Guide called it "globally minded." The restaurant's unfortunate name stands for the initials of the chef's wife, Seon Kyung Yuk. S.K.Y. used to be in Pilsen, but relocated to Lincoln Park last July.
     The appetizers were a hit, the black truffle coquettes, filled with aged whit cheddar, were light and piping hot, the Maine lobster dumplings stuffed with generous helpings of buttery lobster.
     I had trouble finding a main course item that suited my fancy. Sizzling Sisig and Short Rib Shakshuka didn't strike me as brunch fare. I settled on a French Onion Cheeseburger au Jus. Dipping burgers into beef stock is not my idea of a good time, and the crispy gruyere round standing in for the burger's slice of cheese didn't float my boat either. For a $21.95 burger is was just meh. My wife had hot smoked salmon on toast, and that seemed a smarter order.

     The brunch pastry tier for dessert allowed us to sample the place's baked goods — my wife and I were fans of the petite cornmeal madeleines, while the rest were sweet and ordinary.
     The most intriguing iten was a slice of "local toast" on the menu for $8.88, which I was tempted to try — the .88 in all the prices being some kind of numerological luck thing. But we had carbs aplenty, and I decided to leave the toast a mystery.
     My younger son had been to S.K.Y. before and loved the place, so I can assume that my tepid reaction says more about my aging sensibilities and less about their quality, or lack of same. My wife and I felt we'd go back, if pressed, but would vastly prefer to return to the nearby North Pond, in a similar price range and just better in the grub department.

'The ghost in the machine is just us' — AI pinch hits. But there's a problem...

 

I also asked Gemini 3.0 to create a new columnist's bug for me — I'm overdue. Notice anything wrong with it? That's right, they place the Aon Center on the river. And I'm left-handed.

     Two years ago, with artificial intelligence the hot new thing, I enlivened a slow February morning by feeding Gemini AI this prompt: "Write a column defending the use of artificial intelligence in the style of Neil Steinberg of the Chicago Sun-Times."
     Gemini spat out a snappy patter that began, "Hey, Windy City. Steinberg here, with a word about our new neighbors: the robots. Yeah, I'm talking AI. Artificial intelligence. All the sci-fi buzzwords that used to belong to Isaac Asimov and now clog your Twitter feed."
     "Does that sound like my voice?" I asked readers, sincerely aghast. "Kill me now."
     Last February, I checked up on how AI had advanced by putting the same request to Gemini 2.0. The result was smoother, better, and — what really scared me — it provided a spot-on critique of what my writing is like, unbidden, noting my "casual and conversational tone" and "cynical and skeptical outlook" seasoned with "A touch of self-deprecation."
     Who needs self-deprecation anymore? Not when reality deprecates us so regularly, with technology and the entire culture joining forces in a feverish drive to utterly moot what real people, such as myself, do for a living.
     Now February has come again and is fast waning. So if I want to keep the tradition alive — the way things are going, there might not be another February — time to gird my loins and approach AI, bigger than ever, filling actual, real-world jobs, so — cue the self-deprecation: I thought I'd lob Gemini 3.0 the same slow pitch and see what happens.
     Four seconds after I clicked the button, it offered a solid headline: "The Ghost in the Machine is Just Us" and a column beginning:
     "I stepped onto the Red Line this morning and watched a young man staring into his phone, his thumb flicking upward with the rhythmic precision of a piston. He wasn’t looking at the scenery — which, let’s be honest, is mostly the backside of crumbling brick three-flats anyway — he was arguing with a computer. Or rather, he was asking a computer to write a poem for his girlfriend because he, like most of us when faced with a blank page and the weight of human expectation, had found himself utterly empty."
     Sigh.
     OK folks, using only that big, slow, imperfect lump of pink wetware between your ears, can anyone please tell me the problem with that paragraph? Not a subtle drawback either. I hope. Honestly, the flaw should reach out of the page and slap you hard across the face. Because — not to pressure you — if it doesn't, it truly might be time for me to go out to Lake Michigan, settle myself on an ice floe and wait for spring, to be carried out to that Great Newsroom in the Sky, to share a lager with H.L. Mencken and Sydney J. Harris ...
     Anybody?    
     It's not true. I didn't step out onto the Red Line — indeed, would never use that phrase if I did, but name the specific station — there was no young man, no phone, no nascent poem.
     Honestly, Gemini could have responded the same if I asked it to pinpoint the biggest problem with AI: firehosing a constant stream of fictitious slop.
     This year's Fauxberg column continues:
     "The scolds will tell you this is the end. They’ll say that Artificial Intelligence is the final nail in the coffin of the human spirit, a cold, silicon reaper coming for our jobs, our art, and our very ability to think.... We are a species that delights in fearing our own shadows, especially when those shadows are cast by a new kind of light."

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Flashback 1987: Buying a tie - How to select one that suits you

     Lawyers are circumspect. While paid to speak, in court, they are also paid not to speak, at least not publicly, in almost every other situation.
     This would make me almost an anti-lawyer, in that I am paid to communicate constantly, and also do so on a pro bono basis, such as here. For fun.
     The general reticence of lawyers came up recently at home, when I showed a unpublished blog post to a certain young attorney mentioned in it, hoping he'd say, "Sure, go for it. Excellent work!" What he actually said was, "I'd rather you didn't." Or words to that effect. The moment evoked the memory of a long afternoon spent trying to find a lawyer who would provide the first quote in the story below. I had to knock on many doors, despite it being what I thought was a completely uncontroversial topic. Saying nothing is always safer.
    I was newly hired, writing for "The Adviser," a weekly section giving people tips on living their lives, necessary in that pre-Internet age. Now ties are hardly worn at all. Or if they are worn, are too often red, and you can wear one tied so long that it covers your fly and still be president. Bigsby & Kruthers went out of business in 2000.

 

 

     "Before the world sees your home, your automobile or your wife's jewelry, it sees your necktie."
                                                    — Montague

     Behold the common necktie. A simple strip of cloth, 56 inches long and — this year — about 3 1/4 inches wide. It serves no practical purpose, beyond covering the buttons at the front of the shirt.
     But a lot of symbolic weight is packed into those few square inches of fabric. When a man puts on a tie, he is donning his armor for the workplace.
     In comparison to the tie, the suit jacket is a mere accessory. Any CEO can doff his jacket, roll up his sleeves and run a meeting. But take off the tie, and he might as well grow three days' worth of beard and carry a pair of maracas.
     For example, no lawyer worth his writ would be caught, in or out of a courtroom, without a tie.
     "Law firms provide fairly expensive services to their clients," said David Crumbaugh, a partner in the law firm of Winston & Strawn. "They are selling those services, and at same time they are selling a certain image, of which a tie is a required part."
     Gene Silverberg, president and co-owner of Bigsby & Kruthers men's stores, feels so strongly about the importance of ties that he covered an entire wall of his new La Salle and Madison store with them, and says it is more important to buy a few suits with many ties, than many suits with few ties.
     "When you're looking at Michael," said Silverberg, using his hands to frame the area between senior vice president of merchandising Michael Karpik's chin and mid-chest, "you're looking right here. You concentrate on the shirt and tie. That's the focal point, the power zone."
     Power is an important word when it comes to neckties. Just take a glance at the televised Iran/Contra hearings and you'll see a parade of power ties, their colors and patterns carefully selected to give an impression of professionalism — and honesty.
     "Teal is a powerful color," said Karpik, the tie-buyer for the Bigsby & Kruthers stores. "Pinks are still hot, or yellows. People want the power look."
     Not only do men wear ties for power, they wear them to be distinctive, to stand out from the crowd.
     "Men are getting a little more daring for business wear," said Bill Gardner, owner of Besley Tie Shops. "Reds and yellows are still very popular, but we're seeing a lot more pastels."
     Be forewarned. It is easy to get in trouble with a tie. If you tie it too short, or too long, the most expensive tie will seem ridiculous (ideally, the tip of your tie should just crest over your belt buckle). A little extra haste in the morning, and you'll leave your clients asking themselves, "How is this guy going to manage my assets if he can't tuck his tie under his collar in the back?"
     Ties come in thousands of patterns and varieties. When choosing one, you need to keep two things in mind: what the tie will be used for, and whether the tie is right for you.
     "There are ties for getting a raise and ties for getting a date," said Silverberg, holding up a red silk tie with small emblems. "Now, some people would wear this on a date, even though it isn't a tie for a date. It's a tie for the office."
     Silverberg then pointed to a rich, glittering tie with inlaid patterns of silver and purple. "Now this tie says: `Friday night, work's over. . . .' "
     If you have a difficult time matching the various elements of your wardrobe, selecting ties with a variety of colors in them can make the task easier.
     "For instance, this tie will pick up a gray suit, a blue suit, a yellow shirt, yellow socks," Karpik said, holding up a pink tie with medallions of pink, blue, burgundy, gray, teal and yellow.
     Silverberg said to be creative when selecting ties by giving classic styles a slight twist. Set yourself apart from the crowd and still appear well-dressed by wearing a tie with large single paisleys or oversized medallions.
     "The whole dress-for-success thing turned out to be bad," said Silverberg. "All these rules for business dressing were created and the result was complete anonymity.
     "We always encourage a little flair. You don't make waves, but you can make ripples."
     There are several tests of quality when buying a tie. Hold the tie in the middle and let the wide end hang. If the tie does not hang straight, but twists, that's a sign the inner lining is too tight, or not sewn properly. The tie won't hang right on your neck, either.
     Another test is take the tie, seam side up, and hold it in the middle with both hands, between the thumb and curled fingers. With a light grip, slowly run the tie through your fingers. The lining in a quality tie will not bunch up.
     Judging the quality of a tie by how many gold stripes are on the white lining sounds like one of those urban myths, but it is a valid test. The best, heaviest lining has six gold stripes. Lesser qualities have fewer stripes. Turn the tie over and gently fold back the ends to expose the lining and the stripes.
     Ties can be made of numerous materials: silk, wool, polyester, cotton. Which material makes the best tie is a personal decision and the subject of some debate.
     "I've been making ties since 1940, and peddling ties before, so I should know something about ties," said Irving Wolfmark, 79, founder of the Wolfmark Neckwear Co., holding up his own maroon polyester tie. "When a person buys a polyester tie or polyester silk tie, they find satisfaction. The tie holds its shape, comes up like new after you clean it.
     "People go for silk because it is more expensive," Wolfmark continued, "but if a silk tie gets a spot, you have to throw it away. The most practical tie for someone who wears a tie everyday is a polyester tie."
     Bigsby & Kruthers, on the other hand, doesn't stock polyester.
     "There's no virtue in having a polyester tie," said Silverberg.
     "My customers don't put their ties in washing machines. I don't want to be a snob, but there is a certain resilience to silk. It's natural. The best manufacturers in the world, the ones with the most interesting patterns and designs, don't use polyester. A polyester tie is very utilitarian and a silk tie is very artful."
     One kind of tie you should never buy, unless you are a policeman or a lathe operator, is a clip-on tie. Clip-ons are fashion death, and unless required by your job, they should be disposed of after adolescence.
     "Throw them away," said Karpik. "They're good for 9-year-olds at Sunday school. That's it. After grammar school, it's time to get a real tie."
           — Originally published in the Sun-Times, May 31, 1987

Meet strongylodon macrobotrys

     Under ordinary conditions, we would not have rushed back to the Orchid show 11 days after attending the opening of the 1960s-themed "Feelin' Groovy."
     But we have houseguests, and "Take 'em to the Botanic Garden" is our go-to host move.
     Not that we didn't enjoy our second visit. We did. Particularly this distinctly blue-green pod of flowers found hanging off a vine in the Tropical Greenhouse. Not part of the show — not an orchid, obviously, but strongylodon macrobotrys, also known as a jade vine, a woody creeper endemic to the Philippines. It's not new — the woody vine grows all the way across a wide doorway. I just don't recall ever seeing it in bloom. One of the many appeals of the Garden: no matter how many times you go, and we go a lot, you always see something you didn't notice before.

     Its name, strongylodon macrobotrys, begs for dissection. Strongylos is Greek for round, also describing certain worms and parasites (as well as a village in Cyprus) and odous is tooth, giving us the dread "orthodontist" and showing up in Hebrew, such as in the "eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth" passage in Matthew. Macro is "large," of course, but also "long," and botrys," is a very old word, found in ancient Greek and Babylonian Aramaic, to describe a bunch of grapes, or unripe dates.

    So "round-toothed long cluster," which certainly describes the flowery calyx (a pod of flowers; good Scrabble word).

     The plant itself is related to — and the Trump administration wouldn't want me to tell you this, which is reason aplenty to dive into the story in detail — a notorious moment in the intersection between botany and colonialism.
     In 1836, Congress authorized the U.S. Exploring Expedition, "for the purpose of exploring and surveying the Southern Ocean, ... as well to determine the existence of all doubtful islands and shoals, as to discover, and accurately fix, the position of those..."
     The six-ship flotilla, with 500 officers and men, as well as nine civilian scientists, left Chesapeake Bay on Aug. 18, 1838 and was gone for four years, logging 87,000 miles and hitting the Philippines in 1840, where strongylodon macrobotrys was first collected. It was the last U.S. nautical mission to circumnavigate the globe completely under sail. led by a New York naval officer, Charles Wilkes, experienced with charts and instruments (he studied under Nathaniel Bowditch, whose "American Practical Navigator" is used to this day), but not actual seafaring or relations with native populations. When two sailors were killed in Fiji, bartering for food, Wilkes seized 80 Fijians and killed them.

     The U.S. Naval Institute described Wilkes (no relation to John Wilkes Booth; I checked) who was considered by some a model for both Ahab and Capt. Queeg, this way:

     "Wilkes never doubted his ability to complete with total success any task he undertook. With this self-assurance, however, came a huge ego, and this ego was in turn covered by a paper-thin skin. Wilkes was quick to detect a slight or insult, real or imagined, and was unforgiving of the perpetrator(s). He was extremely excitable and suspicious by nature, constantly suspecting officers of forming cabals to plot against his authority."

     Nevertheless, the mission was considered a success. Naturalist Titian Peale declared it had elevated “our country in the rank of Civilized nations.”

     A reminder that it is the engaging in science, not the dismantling of it, that brings respect. Or did. 

     When he returned, Wilkes was court-martialed for excessive cruelty to his men but retained his position — it isn't just the CPD that lets its bad apples stick around and fester — and during the Civil War, Wilkes seized a British Mail ship, almost drawing Britain into the war against the Union, for which he was court-martialed again. He retired a rear admiral.

     Well, I'd say we got enough for today from some interestingly-colored flowers.

Trump administration slashes away at science, but scientists are pushing back

 

National Center on Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado

   My father had one good idea.
     OK, that is unfair. He had many good ideas. Marrying my mom, for starters. He also held patents in the design of compact nuclear reactors.
     In fact, those two good ideas might be related — there was a shakedown cruise of an atomic-powered submarine that my father, a naval reservist, was keen to avoid. Married men were exempt. Perhaps it's cynical of me to connect them.
     But he also had one really good idea that resonated around the world and has an impact today.
     My father's really good idea occurred to him in the early 1970s. The 747 Jumbo Jet had been introduced, to endless publicity — the spiral staircase leading to the lounge in the bulging upper deck hump, the enormous capacity, 400 passengers, making long haul air travel economical for millions. And — what my father noticed — radar systems and other instruments that monitored atmospheric conditions around the plane. A constant stream of data.
     You know ... Robert Steinberg thought ...what if that weather data wasn't just used to fly the plane? What if it was sent to a central location? And then used ... to predict the weather?
     It would be a big improvement over weather stations — scattered mountaintop outposts, with thermometers and spinning anemometers and such. Plus weather balloons, instrument packages floated high into the upper atmosphere for expensive keyhole glimpses.
     He wrote an article titled, "Role of Commercial Aircraft in Global Monitoring Systems," that ran in the April 27, 1973, issue of Science.
     "The new family of wide-bodied jets such as the 747, DC-10, and L-1011 aircraft can be used to supply important global atmospheric and tropical meteorological data for which there is a pressing need," my father wrote. "In the final analysis, commercial aircraft may offer the most inexpensive way to monitor our atmosphere in the near future."
     By summer, NASA loaned him out to NCAR — the National Center for Atmospheric Research — in Boulder, Colorado. NCAR was in a stunning, I.M. Pei-designed building of reddish concrete. Boulder was nice. Mountains. He traveled the world, signing up airlines. The idea took hold.
     "Aircraft-based observations play a big role in the accuracy of weather forecasts — reducing forecast errors in numerical weather prediction systems by up to 10%" according to the World Meterological Association.
     This is a long way of saying that, in an era of constant shocks to American science — 25,000 federal researchers and support staff left the government this past year, thousands of grants slashed, agencies shuttered, scientific data yanked off line, the U.S. scientific establishment being "systematically destroyed" in the words of the Union of Concerned Scientists, NCAR being scuttled stood out as personal.
     And political. NCAR is being closed down by the Trump administration for the sin of "climate alarmism." Because atmospheric research points to uncomfortable facts that business and its handmaiden, government, don't want to think about anymore.
     We should be clear why all of this is happening. Business makes money, but if it has to, oh, consider pollution, or worry about the purity of food or the efficacy of drugs, it makes less money. So watchdog agencies, and research facilities and university centers that would counterbalance the whims of business are being scrapped.
     Scientists are not going quietly.

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Artisanal bread

 

     Well ... it's been an interesting couple days, since Monday night when, tired from a long day and with a full house of kids and a granddaughter, I wrote this and went to bed, only to wake up Tuesday and find out Jesse Jackson had died, shortly after midnight.
     So I clawed this post back, and put up Jackson's obituary in its place. It seemed the right news judgment call ("Hmmm, country bread or the death of a major national figure? Let's go ... with the ... bread.") 

     Then Wednesday I ran the column the paper asked me to write about Jackson's passing. Now things have quieted down, for the moment, so it's back to artisanal bread. Apologies to the 49 readers who read this before 5 a.m. Tuesday, when I took it down. And if there are any new readers from the ... 2 million hits the Jackson obituary received (thank you Apple News!) the way the blog works is, we usually have subjects of some kind of topical interest but, given the blog's quotidian nature (every ... goddamn ... day) sometimes we plumb the depths of the truly trivial. Which is also what happens to take up the bulk of all our lives, so it does remind us: the small stuff is important too.

     Often I snap photographs for the purpose of sharing them with you, here. But that is not why I took the above. Central Street in front of Hewn Bakery was jammed with cars one recent Sunday, and rather than park a block or two away, I pulled into an illegal space, left my wife guarding the car, and ran in to check out the situation, breadwise. 

     We had never been to Hewn, but my wife had heard good things about it and suggested a visit, post brunch with the kids at Blind Faith. I took the photo, then hurried back outside to show her the bread selection. We discussed our options, and settled on an rye with oats, which did indeed prove to be quite good.

     You would think that, being raised on Wonder bread and, later, Buttercrust, which was basically Wonder dyed yellow with some corn meal sprinkled on the top, that I would retain some residual nostalgia for garbage white bread. But I really don't. Except under very unusual circumstances — say being served a metal plate of barbecue at a joint in Memphis, or a Kentucky Hot Brown, I never want to see another slice of white bread for the rest of my life. Someday I'm going to write something about the food I was served as a child. But I'm not ready yet. I think I'm going to wait a few years, to make sure my mother is good and dead, and won't claw out of the grave and get me for my indiscretion. 
     Returning to Hewn, which also has an outlet in Wilmette (and a third in Libertyville, thank you, Charles Troy). My wife is addicted to pecan rolls, so I grabbed one of those for her as well.

     Any thoughts on the name "Hewn"? I get that it is supposed to evoke the hardy artisan, powerful forearms coated with flour, drawing rough loafs from the primordial essence of natural grains and yeast and such, plunging them on wooden boards into wood-fired ovens. A name redolent of adzes and wide plank floors. But it still, to me, would be better attached to a line of ranch oak furniture, chairs with the bark still on the legs, and such. "Do you want some of this bread? It was hewn by me..." is not a question one leaps to answer with an emphatic "yes!"
     Moving on. If this seems a bit light, well, my oldest, his wife and the granddaughter, now 8 months, showed up Monday afternoon. I wish I could share her photo with you, but the chance that the cuteness might burn your retinas is too great, and I can't risk the liability. As it is, her mesmeric presence caused me to forget all responsibility, organized thought, or concern for anything that wasn't being bounced on my knee. I spent the day making sputtering noises, widening my eyes, breaking into insane grins, singing from my vast array of 1920s pop hits learned from my mother, who could sing far better than she could cook. Tunes such as "April Showers" and "Toot-Toot-Tootsie Goodbye" and not thinking for a single moment what I might post here. The results speak for themselves. The good news is that I will have to, somehow, ignore all that in the morning  and turn out a newspaper column of some sort. But you'll have to wait for that until Wednesday. Assuming I can draw myself away from the Concentrated Essence of all Sweetness and Adorableness in the Known Universe long enough to do it.

Rev. Jesse Jackson charmed the great and the infamous, trying to make a difference

Rev. Jesse Jackson, 1982 (Chicago Sun-Times file photo)

     The Century Shopping Centre at 2828 N. Clark Street was built inside the old Diversey Theatre, a defunct 1925 vaudeville house. It has an interior atrium, sort of Water Tower Place Lite, and a winding ramp, past seven stories of shops.
     My then wife-to-be and I were wandering there, years ago, heading up the ramp, when we encountered a mass of people coming the other way. Rev. Jesse Jackson, with a knot of shoppers, photographers and media. Campaigning for Eugene Sawyer, if I recall correctly.
     "I'd like to meet him!" my future spouse said.
     I brought her up to Rev. Jackson and made the introduction.
     "May I kiss you?" he asked, to my surprise, and hers. But she agreed. The kiss occurred.
     We parted ways, the famous civil rights leaders and his entourage heading one way, my significant other and I heading another. Someone needed to say something. A thought came to me.
     "Congratulations," I said. "You just kissed Yasser Arafat by proxy."
     That neatly summarizes the dilemma of Rev. Jackson, who died Tuesday. He met the Dalai Lama and the bloodstained leader of the P.L.O. He hung out with Martin Luther King and Robert Mugabe, responsible for the deaths of 20,000 Zimbabweans. A moral man, generally, who met highly immoral people and sometimes held their hands and prayed. He visited Saddam Hussein, Hafez al-Assad and Fidel Castro.
      "Jackson has made a career of giving dictators such as Slobodan Milosevic a chance to show their gentler side by releasing captives at his request," a Time magazine columnist noted in 1999. "It’s not mere ego tripping, as some cynics charge, or an expression of Jackson’s deeply held belief in nonviolence. It’s almost Faustian. I think he needs the rush that only bargaining with evil can provide."
     Another dilemma for Rev. Jackson. To draw media attention to particular problems, prisoners, picket lines, he needed to draw attention to himself. It wasn't supposed to be about him. Yet it was.
     Rev. Jackson was master of firing torpedoes that circled back and impacted into his own vessel. He mounted the first viable presidential campaign by a Black candidate in 1984, then hired Louis Farrakhan to do his campaign security and called New York "Hymietown" in the presence of a newspaper reporter, who Farrakhan later threatened to kill for spilling the beans.
     The "man of contrasts" summation might be a cliche. But with Rev. Jackson, it was true. He could whipsaw you with it. In 2008, when Barack Obama was elected president, Jackson made the rounds of editorial offices, humbly pointing out that it was pioneers such as, ahem, himself, who made Obama's triumph possible.

     Then Jackson immediately said, into an open Fox News microphone, that he'd like to castrate Obama. Which puffed away the cloud of revered pioneer respect he was trying to fog around himself

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