Work in progress: Jack Clark on writing in Paris

Alexander III Bridge

     There are many romantic images about writing. The hard-drinking writer — I've tried that personna, and discarded it, out of necessity. The tortured genius — I'm neither of those. And the writer in Paris — ever since Uncle Ernie scribbled his short stories about Michigan in Left Bank cafes a century ago, that myth has held firm. I've barely written a postcard from Paris, but former Chicago cabbie Jack Clark, who contributed an essay on Schuba's in June,  is there now, working. I had to ask: What's that like?

Writing in Paris

     My first story was in the Chicago Reader in 1975. It was — according to the story itself — a janitor’s-eye’s-view (please note: those words were edited into the story) of the Chagall mosaic, which had recently been unveiled in the First National Bank plaza. I’d been a janitor at the bank when the mosaic was first announced in 1972.
     Since that story, I’ve written quite a bit about my working life, about cab driving, furniture moving, and trucking. But I haven’t written much about writing itself. What would I say? You sit down and try to make sense of something or another, and when you get to the end, you go back to the front and try to make it better. Repeat this process until you’re either satisfied, you give up, or you sell the damn thing.
     When we were discussing what I might write here, Neil suggested I talk about writing in Paris, which is where I spend a good portion of my time. I can’t afford to spend my days at Hemingway’s old cafés on Boulevard du Montparnasse. Instead I’m a mile or so away, sitting on a brand new stool in the spare room of my fiancée’s apartment. For me writing here is not much different than writing in Chicago. But, I must admit, it’s been much better since the stool arrived. Sometimes the hardest part is just keeping your butt in the seat.
     I’ve written six books in the dozen years I’ve been going back and forth to Paris. Back Door to L.A. is a sequel to my novel Nobody’s Angel. They’re both told by Chicago cabbie Eddie Miles. Honest Labor is a memoir about my days as a long haul furniture mover. Nickel Dime Town features Chicago private detective Nick Acropolis. It’s the fourth book in the series. The B Side of Misty is a novel centered on a Chicago diner and the homeless man who shows up one day. Murder Reporter is a novel about a kid from a “changing” West Side neighborhood who becomes a crime reporter for the local alternative press. Paris in a Bottle started out as another Eddie Miles novel, but I couldn’t make it work. I replaced Eddie with another Chicago cabbie, Robert Rhodes. He’s in mourning for his daughter, who died of a fentanyl overdose, and his best friend, a fellow cabbie who killed himself in the wake of Uber’s destruction of the Chicago taxi business. Rhodes wants out of Chicago. He picks France, where he searches for traces of his namesake uncle who died there during World War II.
     Stop! Do not run to your favorite bookstore. Do not go to Amazon. You’ll find nothing but Back Door to L.A., which was self-published back in 2016. The other books have never seen the light of day.
     But I had some luck recently. Back in February in an Amazon Celebrity Pick post, Quentin Tarantino said that Nobody’s Angel was his favorite novel of the year. It’s my first book, self-published as Relita’s Angel in 1996. Initially, I sold it out of my taxi. I then revised it and sold it to Hard Case Crime. I got the rights back in 2021 and self published it once again. And now Hard Case Crime is going to publish a new edition next month with Tarantino’s words prominently displayed on both the front and back cover. An editor said: “What a cool thing to happen to an older book.” I couldn’t agree more. Of all the pulp novels in the world, how did Quentin Tarantino happen to walk into mine? I don’t know, but I’d sure like to thank him.
     But the real good news is that with Mr. Tarantino’s words, I found myself an agent again. Robert Diforio of the D4EO Agency is now busy trying to peddle my various books. If you’re a publisher yourself, you know what to do. The rest of you, please keep your fingers crossed. I’m hard at work on a new novel. I wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time in those inspiring Parisian cafes.
     Jack Clark
     January 12, 2024

Sun might get us before atomic bombs do

 

Slim Pickins rides a hydrogen bomb in "Dr. Strangelove"

      What is it with scientists and clocks? Yes, determining the duration of phenomena is important to research, not to forget seemingly unconnected realms like navigation — Britain ruled the waves for centuries, thanks to John Harrison’s clock, accurate time-keeping being the key to determining longitude.
     Clocks also serve science as metaphor — start with Albert Einstein, struggling to jibe the fixed speed of light with his aborning theory of relativity, looking at the medieval clock tower in Bern and realizing that time is not fixed, but elastic. He started sending notional clocks zipping at the speed of light in thought experiments, trying to nudge we dullards into comprehension.
     The practical value of Einstein’s 1905 musings was dramatically demonstrated at the University of Chicago in 1942, when the first controlled, self-sustaining nuclear reaction was midwifed by Enrico Fermi.
     So it makes sense that another fine Hyde Park institution, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists — founded in 1945 by Einstein, J. Robert Oppenheimer and friends — would in 1947 use a clock as its logo, its hands set at seven minutes to midnight to convey the risk of nuclear Armageddon at the start of the Cold War. The editors took to moving the hands forward and back, warning the world how close to nuclear annihilation it was at the moment and — not incidentally, in my view — continuing the best marketing campaign for a publication other than Sports Illustrated featuring swimsuit models every February.
     That didn’t end so well for them — Sports Illustrated fired its entire staff Friday, effectively ceasing as a publication. But the Bulletin is going strong, and on Tuesday announced the clock would remain at 90 seconds to midnight, same as last year.
     “Ominous trends continue to point the world toward global catastrophe,” is the doozy of an opening line in the Bulletin’s announcement.
     I paid particular attention this year since the University of Chicago’s International House is hosting “a conversation on the existential crises facing our planet and and how we can turn back the hands of the Doomsday Clock” on Feb. 6, featuring Rachel Bronson, president and CEO of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists and Daniel Holz, a U of C Physics, Astronomy and Astrophysics professor and chair of the Bulletin’s Science and Security Board. They asked me to moderate the discussion.

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Restaurant Life #4 — Restaurant Schønnemann

      When the routine of eating out in restaurants in Chicago gets too oppressive, I like to travel to foreign countries to eat in their restaurants, as a change of pace. While in Copenhagen last fall, we of course went to Restaurant Schønnemann, for their lunch smørrebrød, or open faced sandwiches, the Danish national dish (and if you suspect I'm digging the three Os with a slash through them in the previous, you're right. Pronounced "ihh," more less, standing alone the Ø means "island" in Danish).

Herring with elderberries.

     Founded in 1877,  Schønnemann is one of the oldest restaurants in Copenhagen. Its waiters are brisk and efficient, obviously well-accustomed to serving blinking tourists, quickly establishing just how big of a glass of schnapps they'd like to go with their herring — and we had three types, mustard, elderberry and curry. (Of herring, that is. Only one of our party had schnapps, and it wasn't me. I enjoyed their fine Teedawn "Gentle Lager," whose label claimed, quite accurately, it is "Tasteful and Non-Alcoholic.")

     It was hard not to think that Restaurant Schønnemann is how the Berghoff might still be, had it not gone out of business in 2006 (what? You're fooled by the Faux Berghoff still in operation on Adams Street? I'd say it's a pale imitation, but can't, because I never stepped foot back in the restaurant again after they closed with great fanfare,only to open up a few months later, never admitting that the entire deception committed against their loyal customers was a base strategum to fire their union wait staff). 

    Don't trust me — I'm obviously emotional on the subject. Others have visited, and report it is ... not the same. David Anthony Witter, in his essential book, "Oldest Chicago" ends a discussion of the oldest restaurant in the city — Daley's at 809 E. 63rd, founded in 1892. — with this note:

Many may comment that the Berghoff Restaurant is missing from this book. In fact, the idea for this book was partially inspired by the extensive media coverage and local attention the closing of the Berghoff received. However I, like many Chicagoans, believe the Berghoff's current incarnation is so different from the original that [it] is not the same establishment.

     Amen. Back to Restaurant Schønnemann. The place had a feature which, in a lifetime of eating out at restaurants from Taipei to Santiago, I've never seen before. A little quarter door, so that when the place gets jammed with happy eaters and drinkers, they can let a little ventilation in without simply propping the door open and admitting the Danish cold. I thought it quite clever. Or cute anyway, which might be even better.

     

Restaurant Life #3 — Restaurants serve up more than food

     Chicago Restaurant Week already? And me without a gift.
     Actually, I’m always leaving gifts at restaurants, in the form of generous tips, plus those little fees tacked on the end of the bill, for employee health care, supposedly. They’re voluntary, in theory. But I’m not hard-hearted enough to strike them off the tab. Though I wish they’d just fold them into the cost — Kimberly-Clark doesn’t tag an optional nickel on the price of a box of Kleenex so its employees can have sick days.
     Restaurants seem to be getting better at it. It’s been a few years since I was puzzling over the bill at Big Jones, trying to figure out what the 20% ”service fee” might be — that’s the tip, right? Then the waitress, who’d obviously been through this charade before, hurried over to explain that no, it wasn’t the gratuity, but an extra wallop designed to help keep the lights on during COVID-19. Two percent is one thing; 20% is something else. Still, I ponied up, reluctantly — my guests were watching — and walked out brooding that I’d just left 42% extra for an OK brunch. I never went back.
     Restaurants are an odd business. You can eat at home, and usually do. They’re really social/aesthetic experiences disguised as strapping on the feedbag. Of the three legs of any dinner out — food, service, atmosphere — two-thirds don’t involve ingesting anything.
     We need restaurants. How else are we supposed to celebrate occasions? My wife and I tried Rich Melman’s latest, Miru, for my birthday in June. Everyone is raving about the scenery from the 11th floor of Jeanne Gang’s St. Regis Hotel — “Miru” is Japanese for “view” — but honestly it could look out onto a cinderblock wall and I’d be eager to go back, just for desserts like Black Sesame Mochi, described as “Charcoal-Vanilla Ice Cream, Black Sesame Praline, Mochi Sponge.” I don’t know if that sounds as fantastic as it truly was. Let’s put this way: It costs $18, and I can’t wait for the chance to order it again.

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Restaurant Life #2 — Give the man what he wants

Beef and broccoli at Star of Siam. 

     Years ago, there was a restaurant at 1 East Wacker Drive called "The Little Corporal" that had a Napoleon theme. Which was reason enough for me to frequent it. All sorts of prints and etchings of the once-loathed tyrant, on horseback, posing regally, leading his soldiers.

      But they also had a good chicken salad — not chopped chicken with mayo, but a salad with strips of grilled chicken atop it. All things being equal, that's what I want for lunch, then and now, whether out or at home. The protein of the chicken, the bulk of the lettuce, the flavor of the the dressing. The whole gestalt. What's not to love?
     When The Little Corporal was a replaced by a steakhouse, I had to go elsewhere — this was back when the paper was at 401 N. Wabash — and for a time I'd go to the Hard Rock Cafe. There was always a line of tourists out the door, but if you were going to the bar, you could bypass the line. So I'd go to the bar, order a salad with chicken on it, and have my lunch.

     One week I did that every day. Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday I was surprised, when it came time to leave, to be informed that the meal was on the house — it isn't easy to prepare food for a clientele that consists of tourists from Iowa here to gawp at Ace Frehley's guitar. It turned out, they were flattered by the idea that some rumpled guy in a coat and tie came by regularly, ate their chow, and left, without even glancing at the case with, oh, a pair of Elton John's eyeglasses in it. 
     Which is a long way of saying that I am a creature of habit, when it comes to restaurants. I tend to go to the same place and order the same thing. The upside being I get what I want. And the downside being I'm cut off from the rich variety that one goes to restaurants to appreciate in the first place. We make our choices in life, and one rule I have is: be who you are.
     The prime example of this dynamic is beef and broccoli. I really like beef and broccoli. Why? Because I like beef. And I like broccoli. Taken together, they are the asian cuisine version of a salad with chicken on it. Yes, not quite as healthful, when you consider the sauce and the fat to cook the meat. But then, a salad loses its dietetic quality once you consider the dressing and the dried cranberries and such. 
     I order it at Thai, Chinese and Vietnamese places, counting on sampling whatever my wife orders to inject a note of variety. The bountiful plate shown above was devoured earlier this year at one of my favorite spots, the Star of Siam, 11 E. Illinois. My wife ordered something that disappointed her — which I regretted, as it dampens your mood when you're loving what you've got and your tablemate is sighing and picking dubiously at what's in front of her — not wrong enough to send back, but a disappointment in some ineffable fashion that takes a long time to explain. Another reason to always get what you want. Almost always. Sometimes I do change it up. It's never quite as good, but it does serve to remind myself of the joy of ordering exactly what you like.

Restaurant Life #1 — Old habits die hard

     It's Chicago Restaurant Week all this week and next. So in the days when my column isn't running —  a new column runs Wednesday — I thought I'd share scenes from the restaurant life.

     So I met a former alderman for lunch earlier this month. No pressing reason — I had suggested lunch, years ago. He recently wrote complimenting me on a column and said that now, in the easier pace that comes with retirement from public office, he's finally ready to take me up on my offer.
     "I have no hidden agenda," he wrote. "I'd just like to break bread with you and hear your insights on the state of politics today and life in general."
     Everybody has a hidden agenda. But okay. It isn't like people are beating down my door. I agreed. He suggested Taste of Peru, and I agreed to that, too. Fun place. A small storefront that nevertheless is home to one of the last of the big personality restaurant hosts, owner Cesar Izquierdo, who comes out and entertains dinners, doing tricks with a wooden top, basically putting on a floor show. Hadn't been there in years.
     I got to the restaurant first. No Cesar. No chicha morada — a purple corn drink I enjoy. Something about not quite ramping back up to speed after the holidays. So I stuck to water. The ex-alderman — no need for names, I don't want to embarrass anybody — was only a little late. We both ordered the lomo saltado — ribeye steak and veggies on rice, their speciality of the house. While we waited, we shared a ceviche appetizer — seafood in lime juice, quite delicious. My lunch mate also asked for three extra meals, carry-out, to take home. Prompted by his example, I got a $5 side of fried plantains for my wife. She likes plantains.
     Conversation was accomplished, in a pleasant, easy fashion. We talked about our children. I brought him up to speed with the paper. He's representing some interests that might be potential stories. The check came. "Why don't we split it?" he suggested. I fixed my gaze on the stack of extra meals he'd ordered for himself until my point registered.
     "Why don't I just pay for what I ordered?" I said, pulling out $40 and handing it to him. He took the money. It was a pleasant enough lunch, as I said. But I don't imagine there will be another.

Lomo saltado.

     

Flashback 2005: Liberty overrated, and one proud chef

Cherry Pit grub

    Chicago Restaurant Week begins Monday. Regular readers know that I'm a restaurant guy — restaurants help create the illusion of meaning in life — from dining at three Michelin Star Alinea, to lauding a favorite hot dog joint owner. I think I'm going to weigh in this week about it, in the paper. But in the meantime, here's a moment from 2005 worth remembering. I left in the section that ran above it, just in case you've got time to kill. Alas it's as current now as it was 19 years ago, and the last paragraph explains Trump about as well as he can be explained. The original headline was, "Liberty seems pretty far down on world's to-do list."

Opening shot

     Is liberty really "the universal longing of every soul," as Condoleezza Rice told an audience in Egypt this week? Or is that belief merely our gosh-darn American presumption leading us astray again?
     Because, frankly, when I look over the wide swoop of human history, I don't see much pining after liberty. I see a whole lot of "let's go kill those guys and take their stuff." I see quite a bit of "let's roll at the feet of that king." But not much "let's promote liberty so that each of us can breathe free."
     Surveying our world today, people seem to leap to put on the chains of some religion or drug or cause. Even in America, the supposed land of liberty, a big chunk of the population is eager to yank the leash the moment somebody tries to use that liberty to do something they don't like.
     Which liberty, supposedly, allows you to do. The error Rice makes is to assume that, if only Egypt had democracy, why, it would elect a bunch of swarthy Jeffersons. More likely that, given their choice, Egyptians would opt for radical Islamic theocracy, via popular election. We wouldn't like that.
     Rice's mistake is a common one. Those free of oppression have a very difficult time understanding the taste that so many develop for it. I'll never forget, when I finally got the old family boot off my neck and fled to college, the shock I felt that any sane man would join a fraternity.
     "They spend 18 years being told what to do," I said at the time. "Then they go out on their own, finally, and what's the first choice they make? To join a group that forces them to roll an egg with their nose across the quad at midnight, blindfolded."
     Oppression, like drugs, brings some measure of pleasure to those under the yoke. Why else do you think all those Russians are still mooning after Stalin, a half century after his death?

Because good food isn't enough

     I've eaten at a lot of fancy Chicago restaurants over the years, and I thought I knew what good service is. A little bit of theater -- the spinning salad bowl at the old Blackhawk. Some personal service -- Chef Louis Szathmary going from table to table at the Bakery to make sure everybody was happy. The brisk snap of the waiters at Charlie Trotter's. The knowledgeable, I-grew-this-lettuce-from-a-seed-and-now-I'm-gonna-tell-you-all-about-it authority of the staff at Tru.
     But I never grasped what the heart of dining-out hospitality really is, didn't look for, never mind touch, its essence, not until a fry cook named Carmen Vargas turned away from his grill at the Cherry Pit Cafe in Deerfield this past Sunday.
     It was Father's Day and the place — a narrow front with a lunch counter and a big square room in back — was packed. My family had to wait. Four seats opened up at the counter, and we slid on in, picked up our menus, and had that chin-stroking, what-shall-we-have-today moment.
     The special was buttermilk oatmeal pancakes. "I make my own oatmeal pancakes at home," my wife said out loud, to no one in particular, perhaps with a touch of loftiness, the way Queen Elizabeth, offered a $50 gift certificate at Zales, might murmur, "I have jewels back in London."
     We ordered. A few minutes went by while we watched eggs sizzling on the grill and customers bustling in and out behind us. Then Vargas, tall, with an elegant mustache, turned and set a small plate in front of my wife. On it was a single pancake.
     "You mentioned that you make these at home," he said. "But do they taste like this?"
     My wife cut the pancake into four pieces, and we each tried one. Fluffy, oatmeal-infused, slightly sweet — during the comparison of ingredients that followed, Vargas said he puts sugar in the batter.
     "You don't need syrup," he said. My wife pronounced them lighter than her own, my older son decreed they were better, too, which seemed to satisfy him.
     Maybe I wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't a fry cook — usually they stand stolidly before the grills, never turning, pushing out the orders, which were flying fast and furious at the Cherry Pit.
      But his impulse resonated in me. Isn't that the essence of hospitality? The open generosity of sharing, seasoned with a bit of here-try-this-I-made-it-you'll-like-it pride? I thought it exceptional.
                 — Originally published in the Sun-Times, June 22, 2005