Piece - Towards Making It Whole

During this period of involuntary extended "vacation" and singlehood, I have found a source of richness that I had been ignoring for a while, mostly because this is not richness in the conventional sense of actually being worth something. I'm talking about friendship. ToucanSam along with life companion Superfrau and a German co-national of hers met me at Piece (1927 W North Ave). Piece has been gravel in my shoes for the last two years, its thin crust pizza and relaxed Bucktown ambiance spoken of in almost reverential tones by pizza cognoscenti as an antidote to the bloated, overly-cheesed Chicago-style. With my time in Chi winding down it was time to pick the gravel out of my shoe (in this case I've been wearing the same pair of canvas boater shoes sans socks for most of summer. Through the power of my Mexican thugness, I have transformed it from WASP to cholo).

The vegetarian pair ordered jalapeño, garlic and artichoke while German co-national and I shared bacon and Italian sausage. Verdict: the pizza definitely contributed to a socially binding evening, but it fell short of expectations. The grease pooling atop the cheese overwhelmed the nicely-executed crust and subtle sauce situation. I will remember the dinner less for the pizza however than for the the lawyer girl hectoring ToucanSam and me to attend a benefit for blind kids at a bar I particularly humbug. She said, "these kids truly have a light that we can't see" to which I said, "yeah, like sonar." Look, I was really proud of my timing...I mean, I came up with that right on the spot. I am my own greatest fan and critic. Wait, that's not true. HR interviewers are my greatest critics.


My opinion for the best pizza in Chicago in the GCL price-range: Cafe Nordstrom (520 N Michigan Ave). The nice decor belies the reasonable value. The coal fired pizzas have superior texture; the crust, sauce, toppings and cheese working in perfect coordination like UCLA Koreans on Modern Warfare 2.



Everytime visitors come to town, there is the imperative to take them to Chicago-style deep dish. Pequod's (2207 N Clybourn Ave) is as good as it gets, which is decent, but still, real thin crust pizza with good sauce and good cheese wins every day, twice a day, like a celebrity in court. Eating Chicago-style has become such a cultural experience however than what I consider the higher-order taste experience has been subsumed to the whims of tourism. Is there a life lesson in that? Probably but the really heavy piano music that I'm listening to as I write this make me only think of depressing ones.

Rajun Cajun – Curry and apology

A California-raised Mexican and an East Coast-raised Indian make strange bedfellows (note: not literally bedfellows), but I think the rapport between ToucanSam and I stems in part from our mutual estrangement to our respective cultures. A light-skinned surfer playing waterpolo in Orange County does not traditionally connote Latino. Similarly Vanderbilt undergrad, albeit in computer science, does not, to use the parlance of Hollywood, “read” Gujarati to me.

Of course, in the testosterone-driven environment of business school, neither of us can display unqualified vulnerability. Case in point: this email reply I received from ToucanSam regarding some editing suggestions I had sent to him earlier:

"I’m not going to read this shit.. Too many words. I love you. I hope it is published. Did I just say I love you? I’m not sure I meant it."

In any case, we settle into a friendship based on, from what I can tell, complaining about people and things - mostly people (sample conversation, “How did ____ land an offer from [prestigious, big name firm]? The guy’s a dumbass! I have lost all respect for [aforementioned prestigious firm]”).

In that spirit, the autumn drizzle set the subdued tone for Thursday evening’s ManDate to Rajun Cajun (1459 E 53rd St). The soft, yellow glow permeating the interior diffused a general sense of wellbeing that made me feel in a “safe space”. I could have curled up on the floor in the fetal position and imagined myself back in the womb. And I did.

I usually avoid food that’s been lying out under heat lamps, but a healthy turnover at Rajun Cajun prevents the unappetizing congealment of foods. ToucanSam opted for the vegetarian platter of dal, saag paneer, samosa and paratha (basically an Indian tortilla, because when all you have is a hammer everything starts to look like a nail). I opted for the butter chicken curry with a side of baigan aloo, samosa and paratha. Both of us got a free snicker bars because it was the eve of some Hindu holiday. The evening almost took an ugly turn when I tried ToucanSam’s saag paneer re-using the same spork from my butter chicken curry (now that’s what I call the omnivore’s dilemma). Fortunately ToucanSam let bygones be bygones in the sense that he still brings it up and will probably continue to do so for the rest of our natural lives.

All in all, as a genuine Indian, ToucanSam gave Rajun Cajun the thumbs up. Last March I traveled to India but since I studiously avoided eating what real Indians eat, I did not earn the requisite cultural cache to make definitive pronouncements.
The food was good given the healthy portions, relatively low price for Indian fare and especially the fact that this as a fusion Indian/American soul food establishment. I was more than satisfied with my meal though ToucanSam’s saag paneer (a spinach and mustard leaf based curry) won this reviewer’s award for the evening. The real saucy dishes at Rajun Cajun however are the proprietors – ah, the joys of interacting with small business owners that don’t bother to learn occidental notions of customer service. I want to emphasize that this is actually a plus on the Rajun Cajun column.

Friendship, like food, comes in different varieties for different tastes. If you are like me, you choose the spice over the bland and accept the risk of being singed.