I had occasion to send something to my Dixie chick (South Carolina) friend Donna today. I’ve mentioned her before in a few posts. One has a nice picture of her https://wordpress.com/post/theviewfromharbal.com/1101. She was my old chief’s secretary (er, administrative assistant). We always got along and had fun at work, and have become very good friends since we both retired. She’s agreed to help me with a couple illustrations for a manuscript I’m writing. The email was going to be a reminder that I still wanted her help, but didn’t wish to address it on a Sunday. But once I told her that, I had a few thoughts on the upcoming holiday to share, particularly the situation in my little town. Here’s how it went:
Good morning, dear Looks like you’ve got a nice one down in Clinton today. You’re cooling, we’re warming. Might reach 69 today. Was 38 when I got up, justifying a fire, which is still burning. I haven’t forgotten about your little artist gig for me. I’m so happy you’re going to take a stab at it. But I’m not attaching the figures I’d like you to reproduce, as it’s Sunday and that would be “work”. I’ve been making a point to stay away from anything that looks like work on the sabbath, mainly my manuscripts, and it feels pretty good. I’ll get them to you Tuesday, same time I’ll gladly pay you for that hamburger. We’re having a nice quiet Memorial Day weekend. We got our graves in Grandville decorated Wednesday, a trip that had us on the back roads out in the sunshine with the top down on our Jeep for about 6 hours. We were looking forward to our usual Memorial Day neighborhood get-together. Most of the occupants of the 13 houses on our little cul-de-sac show up, along with a few folks from Broadway. Everyone brings a dish to pass and something to drink, and a good time is had by all. Just about everyone on the street has gone COVID crazy, so Kathy and I were kinda surprised when the usual organizers of the event, our neighbors down the street announced it was going to happen this year. I don’t think we had it last year. But the kicker came a couple days ago when the organizer sent out an e-mail stating that, out of concern for everyone’s safety, only those who have been fully vaccinated may attend. We’ve been vocal about our disinterest in getting that science fiction crap stuck into our bodies, so she surely knows who she’s excluding. But I don’t know if she recalls that Kathy and I have 7 science degrees between us, including 2 doctorates, 34 years on faculty of a major medical school (44 if you count Kathy’s 10 years as a research scientist in Anatomy and Cell Biology) plus several years experience doing bench research in virology. You can count Kathy there, too, as it was a virology project that brought us together. Might we know what we are doing? As you might imagine, the street is pretty blue, with lots of “Black lives matter”, “shut down line 5”, “love is love etc”, and of course Biden/Harris, which mercifully have been taken down. The organizer’s yard is densest. She had trouble understanding our sign – “Yard Sign – We cre” – which we still proudly display. Our best friends on the street, our best friends, are the only ones who lean right. He’s not a rabid Trumpista like me, but has a small business and supported him out of self interest. He just told us this one. He and the organizer were having some sort of discussion with political overtones when he paused and said to her “You know, I lean right” to which she responded “Don’t know her”. So I think her yard isn’t the only thing that’s dense. Come Memorial Day, I’m gonna smoke me some ribs and make sure the smoke wafts at least 2 doors down the street so the 5-Fs* can smell what they’re missing. Our friends said they might have something separate.** Since they’re right across the street from the organizers we can throw beer cans at them. I’ll make sure to have a few coughing fits. So I hope you have as much fun this long weekend as we intend to.
** Kathy says they’re having us over today. I may still toss a few beer cans over and try to cough a lot. Maybe I’ll wear my MAGA hat. If it gets warm enough, I can wear my “Deplorable Lives Matter” t-shirt.
The contagion of applying today’s morals to great men of the past and hanging them by it has come to Ann Arbor. A committee of eight historians, one of them my friend and fellow U of C classmate Joel Howell, has examined the evidence and judged that Fielding H. Yost’s name should be removed from the field house, now ice arena, that was the first thing he built as athletic director, finalized in ’23 and named after him shortly thereafter. The recommendation has to go to the regents and Dr. Schlissel, but hard to believe they won’t approve. The great coach is dead 75 years in August and I doubt there are many to speak up for him. I’ve linked to their 6 page report in case you wish to examine their case (1).
Their main gripe is racism, allegedly demonstrated by Mr. Yost when as AD he supposedly ordered coach Harry Kipke to bench star end Willis Ward for the Georgia Tech game that was to be played at Michigan Stadium (which Mr. Yost had designed and built) (2). The contest with Georgia Tech, slated for October 22, 1934, which would have marked the second anniversary of Willis Ward seeing the field in a Michigan uniform. This would be the first meeting with a school from the deep south that Michigan had ever scheduled in its then 55 year history. Yost had actively sought out a game with a southern school, working through his former player and brother-in-law, Dan McGugin, then head coach at Vanderbilt. McGugin was good friends with Georgia Tech coach Bill Alexander and on November 11, 1933, less than a year from kickoff, a deal was made. Since their 1928 undefeated season when the Yellow Jackets won the Rose Bowl against Cal, Tech was pretty mediocre, their best season being ‘33”s 5-5. Seems that that scheduling would have been a big deal, a ground breaking thing, but I can find no mention of it in my digital forays. The Tech athletic board began to push back less than two months later, seeking guarantees that the first black player at Michigan since George Jewett (later Dr. Jewett) ran all over everybody in 1892 would not take the field in the upcoming October contest. Willis Ward was a speedy game-changing end, so his loss would be felt. Pressure ramped up with threats (from GT) to cancel the game if it could not get assurances that Ward would not play. Fever of the communiques from Atlanta ramped up through May, then died down, leading most to believe that some kind of assurance was communicated, almost certainly originating with Yost. Once this arrangement became public knowledge l’affaire Ward became a cause celebré (3). Petitions were circulated, letters written to editors, editorials, placards, and demonstrations, including a 6 mile march over to the Georgia Tech players’ hotel in Ypsilanti. Yost caught wind of plans of a sit down strike on the field by students during the game and hired Pinkerton guards to investigate the Ward United Front Committee, out of concern they would disrupt the game. Several of the investigated leaders were later expelled from school. As the weekend of the game rolled around, there were bonfires across campus, and a rally at Natural Science Auditorium, in the building which now houses my wife’s office, which featured Ward’s “friends” shouting down any attendant with a different point of view. These opponents weren’t raging racists by any means. Arguments for keeping Ward on the bench ranged from the “gracious host” theory, citing that a host respects the feelings of the guest, to sincere concerns for Ward’s safety, worried that GT’s players would intentionally injure him. Or worse. Arthur Miller was a student at the time, and a vocal proponent of Ward’s right to play. Through a friend in Arkansas, he arranged a meeting with some of the Georgia Tech players. His pleas for peace and understanding were coarsely and profanely rebuffed, and he was told by the players “we will kill him” if he takes the field. The evening before the game, Yost and Alexander (who were friends) hashed out the situation over a bottle of whiskey. They reached a compromise. Ward would sit but so would Tech’s star end “Hoot” Gibson. Both players would request to be benched for the dignity of their teams and the game. The game was played on a muddy field in pouring rain. Michigan won 9-2, in what would be their only win that miserable season. The Wolverines scored only 12 total points in the rest of their games, all by Willis Ward. Georgia Tech’s fans insisted the compromise had hurt them more, as Gibson was a better player than Ward, thus blaming coach Alexander for the loss. Alexander lasted 10 more years, making it to 4 bowls, which his team split.
Ward graduated and went to work for Henry Ford, as he had done in college. It was Harry Bennett, Ford’s strong man, who earlier had sat young Mr. Ward down and explained to him the reasons to sit out the GT game. He went to night school and got a law degree in ’39, eventually becoming a judge. Although he was a spectacular track athlete, considered by Jesse Owens as his fiercest competitor, he sat out the ’36 Olympics in protest of Herr Hitler’s anti-semitism.
The other Ford in this story, future president Gerald R, quietly joined the senior honor society Michiguama, two weeks after the game, one in which legend has he threatened to quit if Willis Ward did not play. Ford played. Michiguama was comprised of Michigan athletes and featured native American trappings. A group of them – the Michiguama Fighting Braves – attended the natural Sciences meetings, ostensibly at the urging of Yost, a big supporter. The group issued a strong statement in favor of withholding Ward from the Tech game. A single blackball from one of their members and Ford doesn’t get into the club. Guess he was an able politician even then.
Ah, the tyranny of retroactively applied moral standards. I thought ex post facto laws were prohibited by Article 1, § 9 1.1.and Article 1 § 10. 2. of the U.S. Constitution. The words of the M historian document’s “The Principle of Historical and Institutional Context” ring true and are quite stirring, and I wish were heeded by others engaging in such retroactive moral blacklisting.
“The Principle of Historical and Institutional Context: ‘It is easy to blame those in the past for lacking the knowledge, wisdom and values that we seem to possess. Keeping in mind that we will likely suffer the same fate at the hands of those who come after us, it behooves us to understand that it is impossible to hold someone accountable for failing to share our contemporary ideas and values. Instead, the question must be what ideas, values, and actions were possible in a particular historical context.’”
Should be broadcast by bullhorn to any crowd gathered around a statue of an evil dead person, aiming to pull it down.
Yost was Michigan’s head coach from 1901-23 and 1925-26. In his first 5 seasons his “Point-a-Minute” squads went 55–1–1, outscoring their opponents by a margin of 2,821 to 42, winning 4 National Championships and the first ever Rose Bowl, defeating Stanford, his previous school, 49-0. His teams won six national titles while compiling a whopping 165-29-10 record. His teams were undefeated in 8 seasons, won 10 Western Conference (precursor to Big 10) championships, and weren’t even in the conference for 10 seasons (’07-’16). His teams had their way with the Buckeyes (not even in the conference then: 14-4-1) and the Irish (2-1; they stopped playing us in the aughts). The Spartoons, then Michigan Agricultural College, did come around after their first meeting with a Yost team in ’02, in which the “point-a-minute” boys almost doubled their output, sending the boys in green back to East Lansing with 119 points on their behind to their goose egg. Over the ensuing Yost years, the teams would play 18 more times, with the Spartans eeking out 2 victories and a scoreless tie. They managed a touchdown or more in 3 of those games, and were shut out in 13 contests. But the great man from Fairfew West Virginia was probably proudest of his records against those fearsome Monsters of the Midway, the University of Chicago Maroons, coached by the equally legendary Amos Alonzo Stagg. Somebody wrote a book about their battles (4). Hate to call Bo and Woody small potatoes, but these were truly clashes of titans. They stopped playing in ’06 when Yost pulled Michigan out of the conference for a decade, but resumed in ’18 to have 4 more contests in the Yost era, Stagg losing them all. Final record 6-2. Although the Maroons resumed football in 1969, 3 decades after U of C president Robert Maynard Hutchins abolished the football program in 1939, 4 years after Maroon star Jay Berwanger won the first Heisman, I don’t see them venturing to Michigan Stadium anytime soon.
Yost quit coaching on ’21 after 23 seasons, becoming athletic director, a post he’d hold till ’41. He put himself back on the sidelines after a season away, perhaps disappointed with the 6-2 record his successor George Little compiled. He came back for a year, fielding a team that won another conference title in a season besmirched only my a mid season loss to Navy. The team was just mediocre under Tad Wieman for two seasons before Yost installed former star player Harry Kipke, who began a long string of long tenured Michigan coaches. Yost’s coaching legacy includes the 75 of his players that went on to become college head coaches themselves. But Yost’s performance as athletic director overshadows his considerable accomplishments as coach(6). In those days, athletics were not a cash cow for the University. Yost’s vision was for a campus where students could engage in the physical life, which Yost saw as calming, envigorating, and sustaining. In those days, football players were drawn from the student body, not recruited, so having as many participants in sports as possible increased the chances of finding a few players. To these ends, he intiated the first campus-wide intramural program. He established organized teams for women. He hired many excellent coaches and multiple teams flourished under his leadership. Yost’s first physical project was the grand field house that bears his name (the one they want to take down), the first multi-use sports facility in the nation. Less than 2 years after he started his tenure, it was up, adorned with his name as proposed by appreciative backers shortly thereafter. The really big project – a new football stadium – took a few more years to design and erect, but up it was in ’27. Yost’s design allows for expansion, which has happened 3 times thus far. His design allows for expansion to 150,000 seats, so we may not be done yet. He raised the hockey program to varsity status in late 1922, and in 1928 he purchased the Weinberg Coliseum they’d been renting, renovated it, and filled it with artificial ice, just before the Depression hit and ended all the building projects, which also included the university’s Alister McKenzie designed 18-hole championship golf course and the nation’s first Intramural Sports Building, where I played many a game of pickup basketball back in the day.
But what about Fielding Yost, the man? From humble beginnings on a farm in West Virginia, where all will report his father was a veteran of the Confederate Army, he excelled in the classroom and on the playing field. He earned a secondary school teaching certificate at the age of 17, and aimed for a career as a teacher. He attended Fairmont Normal School (now Fairmont State University) and while studying continued his teaching career at Patterson Creek, West Virginia. Upon graduation, he attended West Virginia University Law School, playing football – a tackle – while there. L.L.B. in hand, he was drawn to coaching and climbed a 4 year ladder – Ohio Wesleyan, Nebraska, Kansas, Stanford – that would lead to the job at Michigan. He only left Stanford because the school enacted a rule that only Stanford graduates would be allowed to coach sports there. Despite his credentials, he was looked on as a bit of a hick. Fellow West Virginian Rich Rodriguez would face the same over a century later. Yost never tried to hide his origins and won people over by strength of his intellect, personality, and boundless enthusiasm. He was a devout Christian and among the first coaches to allow Jewish players on his teams. However, some have dubbed him anti-Catholic, explaining his leadership role in keeping Notre Dame out of the Western Conference and not playing them after 1909. He adopted Michigan whole heartedly, and was forever professing his love for “Meechigan!”, an expression we can thank the late equally enthusiastic much missed sportscaster Bob Ufer for perpetuating. But Yost’s eloquent expression of his love for our university went beyond a hick’s mispronunciation of our state’s name. The panel below rests in a place of honor on my mantle, as it expresses my sentiments exactly. Yost died less than 7 years into his retirement after sustaining a series of strokes. He was 75. A year before he died, he refused to accept an honor offered by a large group of supporters: to rename his crowning project – Michigan Stadium – after him.
I’ve learned the University does not love you back, and right now the University is certainly not loving Mr. Yost back. Probably no one in the history of the athletic department has done more for this University. Should you wish to honor both Mr. Yost, our winningest coach ever and builder of Michigan Stadium, and your precious University, which he loved dearly, you could print out and hang this placard. The only hanging Mr. Yost deserves.
If you are a member of the University of Michigan community, “this Michigan of ours”, and have a umich.edu e-mail address, you have until June 7 to register your comments on-line (6).
For many years, Thursday evenings at our place have been reserved for “Jesus dinner”, a simple repast befitting our Lord consisting of fish, bread, and wine. It grew out of my weekly foray to East Ann Arbor (EAA) medical campus, where higher ups deemed I should go see patients once a week. Out in EAA, you see, was the geriatric population and Lord knows how they might need a rheumatologist. My attachment to Geriatrics began long before they moved their clinic from the Cancer Center (joke: triage at entry, relief at which clinic you’re assigned). Old folks tend to appreciate the attention they get from doctors more, and their ailments can often be remedied by a light tweek. Unfortunately, they treated EAA as just another rheumatology clinic and I saw all comers. Eventually, I was able transform the resource into just for injections only. Patients and fellows liked this setup, patients as they were getting needs met at the hands of someone who knew what he was doing and fellows as they got concentrated exposure to doing these procedures. Still, the duty was a pain, requiring a 12 minute 5 mile drive right after Rheumatology Grand Rounds (I’ve always hated any clinic assignments you had to drive to). But the staff was nice and patients appreciative, so o.k.
Which brings us back to Jesus dinner. Right on the 10 minute drive home is Plum Market, with excellent bread, fish, and wine, which makes for simple delicious dinner. We weren’t doing this for long before we thought a certain pair of sandals would be welcome at our table, and the name stuck. During COVID, its helped that they do virtual wine tastings once or twice a month, conducted on Thursdays. You pick up your 2-3 bottles beforehand, then consume them while Madeline Triffon, their head wine babe, and her earthy vintner guests, talk you through the tasting. We’re happy we always have most excellent fish snacks to go with.
So I have a huge hankering to make more mussels after Tuesday’s big success. Aren’t mussels seafood? Could be a big problem for Jesus, as a Jew subject to those dreaded dietary laws.
“These you may eat, of all that are in the waters. Everything in the waters that has fins and scales, whether in the seas or in the rivers, you may eat. But anything in the seas or the rivers that has not fins and scales, of the swarming creatures in the waters and of the living creatures that are in the waters, is detestable to you. You shall regard them as detestable; you shall not eat any of their flesh, and you shall detest their carcasses. Everything in the waters that has not fins and scales is detestable to you.”
Leviticus 11:9-12
No fins or scales on them mussels.
But I think Jesus was no big fan of the dietary laws
“Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man.”
Mark 7:10-11
So we proceded with our animules lacking fins or scales and took several liberties with last Tuesday’s recipe. Fewer mussels, wine not beer, more tomatoes, and some others; we invited our Lord, as always, and gave thanks and praised him for the goodness of our victuals. We shall ever watch what comes out of our mouths, as that is what defiles.
Here’s what came out of the pot
Per a recommendation I came across on-line, we paired it with the same wine I made it with: a least the first bottle. A rosé was called for, but our rosé stock was depleted, with a South African number from Kathy’s stay there years ago and a Lads 2 from our trip to the mission peninsula maybe 5 years back. Out tastes have changed since, and we poorly tolerate any sweetness. So we mainly drank our “fruit friendly” Bastide Miraflors 2018, a red. Suffering was minimal.
I don’t know how I stumbled onto this. But John Prine Spotify passed it by me once again tonight. Every boomer needs to hear this, again and again.
Before this, I didn’t know who Rodney Crowell was. Now I have tickets to see him at City Winery in Chicago on Veteran’s Day. For fun, we’re staying at Trump Tower that night
Spotify runs so many by you. Tonight its the John Prine channel, which features very little John Prine. But some squeaks through, like the one below. This one was borne as something to roll over the credits of a movie. Daddy and them,https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0166158/ about a dysfunctional family headed by Andy Griffith (!), with Billy Bob Thorton, Laura Dern and John himself among the lowlifes under him. There was a lot of drinking involved. But the song for the credits was sweet, and one with which Kathy and I forever identify, even if we don’t (quite) drink like Andy Griffith’s family. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gA-vD5pyuS4
Kathy and I spent a wonderful early Saturday afternoon at lunch in Hopleaf in Andersonville https://hopleafbar.com. We took a long Red Line ride to Uptown then a walk over to Clark, where the bustling once-Scandinavian neighborhood sits. Our lunch feast was a full order of mussels accompanied by a big cone of frites and ailoi, washed down by American (War Birds Lazurite, 3 Floyds Zombie Dust) and Belgian (Brasserie du Pont Bière de Miel, Brasserie Lefebre Barbãr, Piraat by vanSteenberge) beers from their dizzying array. As we picked apart each little creature to consume the morsel within, sopping as much as possible of the wonderful broth in which they were cooked, we got the notion of an even more elegant dish that might be concocted. Not that there’s a thing wrong with mussels. It’s a simple dish we should cook more often. Mussels are relatively cheap, low calorie, and take up the flavors of whatever you bathe them in, whether it be based in beer or wine. Plus, it’s always fun to play with your food.
Belgians have given us their wonderful monk-revered beers, chocolates, frites (on the streets of Amsterdam, they’re “Belgian fries”; don’t know how the French got their hands on them), mussels, and the odd sport of feather bowling, which you can still play at the Cadieaux Café in Detroit http://www.cadieuxcafe.com/featherbowling/.
But we’re Americans. Can’t we take a recipe up a notch? So that’s where Kathy and I got the idea of a mussels pasta dish. Cook the mussels, shuck them all and reserve the meats, add some sautéed mushrooms, thicken the pot liquor to serve as a sauce, cook some pasta, mix mussels, mushrooms, and thickened liquor, spoon over and voilá. Grated cheese on top is optional. A little bread on the side for sopping, then the pairing. Could be a Belgian beer, could be a white wine, probably not a red. But a fancy, easy, and tasty dish, don’t you think? I write this now the afternoon of our experience, but won’t post till I have a proper recipe card and at least run through.
Here it is
Bon apetit! (can’t get it translated into Flemish without paying)
Mmmmm. Can’t beat those little crustaceans, especially when they’re so abundant! What started as a dish for Belgian peasants is out there for all of us, and eating like a Belgian peasant might not be all bad. At least the beer is good.
Today’s departure morning left us temporarily homeless. AirBnB checkout was 10 and our Amtrak 352 to Ann Arbor didn’t leave till 1:25. Fortunately, an Amtrak business class ticket provides wonderful shelter in the Metropolitan Lounge, missing only free beer to make it a thoroughly satisfying experience. But that time of morning, we were looking more for breakfast than beer. After coffee and a donut from Stan’s next door to consume while we finished packing, we were off. One stop on the green line north then 8 more on the 151 Sheridan bus west and we were there. The Metropolitan Lounge gives a place to park, for free, all your luggage. Freed of all but our computer bearing backpacks, we were off in search of. The venerable Lou Mitchell’s, a block south on Clinton then a block east on van Buren, was our destination http://www.loumitchells.com/. A classic, full service, we got everything and it’s all good place, diner, it’s been in business at the same location since 1923, at the start of route 66, and has attracted its share of politicians and celebrities. As it came into view, I could almost taste my corned beef hash with two over easy eggs splashed with hot sauce.
But the place was eerily quiet. A COVID victim? The liberal posted hours of operation on the door – 6 AM-2 PM – came with the sad caveat: closed Monday and Tuesday. So we turned to Yelp, which told us “Little Toasted” was serving breakfast nearby a 4 minute walk east on van Buren. As we approached, it became familiar. The jaunty “LT” script was on the side of the Chase Bank blue glass skyscraper that housed it on the ground level.
We’d tried to get into it last October during height of COVID and it was closed. We remained wary as we approached, but saw at least one person eating in the big open courtyard next to the sunken railroad yard, and the glass doors, helpfully labeled to indicate which glass panel was actually a door, let us into the big room with the big angled bar, at which were seated the Mexican owner and two helpers. He assured us they were serving breakfast, led us to our seats, and pointed out the 2 QRs, one for food, one for drinks. The had a burrito and avocado toast, which both sounded tasty, plus would whip up a bloody Mary for me and a couple mimosas for sweetheart, even though neither were on their cocktail menu, which featured fancier items.
The place is actually a snazzy bar, catering more to a lunch, after work, and early evening crowd. But they did breakfast just fine. We found it all delightful, and tarried to drink in the ambience. The sun was out, the thermometer hadn’t yet reached 80, and there was a slight breeze, salsa music playing in the background, but not too stirring to nudge a mellow mood. We learned from the owner he had just recently reopened, and had hopes for more business as people started to come back to work. At its pre-COVID height, the Chase Bank building hosted more than 7,000 employees in a typical day. Now, there were barely 100.
Getting ready to hit the road, it was time to visit their facilities. Perhaps we were catching a glimpse of the future. There were 3 individual units, each asexual, of course. Rooms were spacious. The sink in one corner was appointed with modern soaring curved stainless fixtures, operated with a wave of the hand, dispensing into a deep rectangular stainless steel sink. Then came the proof of how much the management cared for its patrons: each toilet had a CoCo bidet seat http://www.biolifetechnologies.com/ Europeans had often pointed to absence of such items from the American bathroom as proof of their own cultural superiority. Having had one in our own home for the past couple of years, I see their point. The CoCo bidet has numerous controls which I punched one after the other trying to flush the toilet, without success. Finally, I saw a gleaming panel above the toilet on the wall, about the size of a cafeteria tray, that turned out to be a rocker switch upon which any light tap led to a flush.
Clean is nice, and as a physician I applaud pursuit of that state. But in our COVID insanity, I submit that the trait of cleanliness has been elevated to a secular holy virtue, with laud for those who strive to attain it and disdain for the unclean who fall short, or worse, don’t even try. For it was in the lobby of the Chase Bank building that I saw a modern day altar to the holy virtue of cleanliness, specifically the rite of hand washing. There, just across from the 3 individual bathrooms, was a long rectangular deep stainless steel sink appointed with four sets of the same gleaming curved fixtures that adorned each sink in the individual bathrooms. It was not hard to envision future patrons stepping up, beginning their ritual with a casual hand wave past the sensor, like a sign of the cross, collecting the soap, then rubbing hands rhythmically together, perhaps with ”pop goes the weasel” in their head to assure proper duration, all in full public view to others who might even be applauding, just as the Pharisees prayed in the open so as to be seen for their devoutness. Then maybe they’ll go back in the bar, have another drink and some dirty food, then go back and do it again. If they hang around long enough, maybe they’ll get to use the CoCo. I didn’t see a Chicago Board of Health seal of approval anywhere around the place, but the owners should seek one. Anything you can do to get a leg up in this competitive market.
Harold Pierce makes the finest fried chicken in the Midwest, maybe the best on earth https://www.seriouseats.com/harolds-fried-chicken-chicago. He deserves his self-appointed title as “Fried chicken king”. He started in ’51, catering mainly to south side black neighborhoods, with his first restaurant at 47th and Kenwood, right at the border of the ghetto and Hyde Park. The chicken is fried in half beef tallow, half vegetable oil, and is incomparably good.
Because of his restaurants in Hyde Park, he has attracted a loyal following of eggheads, including me and, yes, Obama. One of Obama’s female operatives was a high level exec for Harold, but I can’t seem to dredge up her name. He has expanded not only across the region, but across the country, with franchises in LA, Las Vegas, Arizona, Minneapolis, and Georgia. There are thirteen outlets in Chicago alone. When the Chicago restaurant scene becomes too oppressive, we just love to retreat to a bench in Grant Park with a bag of chicken and another bag of beer and just chill. Trouble is, everyone else seems to get the same idea about the same time and the local Harold’s becomes a zoo. You’ll be a distinct minority at any Harold’s. His people know and love their chicken and just glancing around you can see how much. But there are ways around this impasse. Harold’s accepts orders. You can access the menu of the local outlet (they vary place to place), let them know what you want, and it’ll be there to pick up! Not immediately, as Harold takes pride in making things up fresh, well worth it. And lately, even on-line ordering is possible. But it’s a trip to figure our how. Somehow, I learned that my favored nearby S. Halstead station is https://haroldschickenshacktogo.com/menu. I think maybe I have cracked the code, as I sought the menu for the nearby S. Michigan Avenue shop and typed “Harold’s chicken Michigan Avenue” and got https://haroldschickentogo.com/, same URL but with their address! So I guess the key is to find your chicken shack from the 13, then type in the address.
Kathy and I never fail to take in some jazz when we come to Chicago. Usually, it’s at the venerable Jazz Showcase in the South Loop or the much older Green Mill in Uptown, way north, sometimes Andy’s in the Near North. Tonight it was Jazz Showcase to experience the irrepressible trumpeter Victor Garcia in a quartet that featured a tiny girl singer from Barcelona with an unpronounceable name. The fun the group was having percolated to the audience and a good time was had by all.
I don’t think Kathy and I have ever had a bad time at a Chicago jazz club so we always come back for more.
Last year, realizing these Chicago trips were going to become a regular thing, I set out to see if we were covering all our bases on the jazz front. Don’t want to get into a rut. I sought out all the jazz clubs I could find and compiled a list. Seems there’s a few more. Some don’t do jazz all the time. A lot have been shut down, at least partially, by COVID, and are only beginning to emerge. Jazz Showcase, Green Mill, and Andy’s have been up and running for at least a month. But here’s the list:
If you’ve got a Kindle and a spare buck, you can read my new book! Actually, it’s just a 9-page essay about an event from my youth. I thought it was too long and too deep to post on this blog. Here’s the link https://www.amazon.com/dp/B095BS8VRJ
I think Amazon gives me 30 cents. I probably will spend it all in one place.
re” – which we still proudly display. Our best friends on the street, our best friends, are the only ones who lean right. He’s not a rabid Trumpista like me, but has a small business and supported him out of self interest. He just told us this one. He and the organizer were having some sort of discussion with political overtones when he paused and said to her “You know, I lean right” to which she responded “Don’t know her”. So I think her yard isn’t the only thing that’s dense. Come Memorial Day, I’m gonna smoke me some ribs and make sure the smoke wafts at least 2 doors down the street so the 5-Fs* can smell what they’re missing. Our friends said they might have something separate.** Since they’re right across the street from the organizers we can throw beer cans at them. I’ll make sure to have a few coughing fits.
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