"Cheese, Swine, & Wine", Three of my Favorite Words

When you leave a restaurant with a stomach full with fine cheeses (of all three of the major cheese producing animals), sardines and their spinal cords, brussel sprouts, bone marrow, octopus, pork shoulder, ice cream, pastry, and chocolate, all washed down with a bottle of wine, you know you’ve had a good meal. This was precisely the condition of my stomach as I walked out of the Purple Pig the other night. Nestled behind an office building on Michigan Avenue’s Magnificent Mile, the Purple Pig is small and unless you know exactly what you’re looking for, you may walk past the small archway acting as a beacon of it’s existence without ever realizing at what close proximity you are to such an enjoyable meal.

Since it’s opening, I have heard nothing but praise for this increasingly popular hot spot, especially from industry workers who have quickly added the Purple Pig to their regular rotation of late night hang outs after they, themselves have wrapped up their last table, completed their sidework, and checked out from their own, possibly not as delicious, restaurant job. If there is one thing a fine dining server or bartender will appreciate, it’s a first class menu and libation list catering to the late night crowd.

The one downside (which was the only downside I found that night) is the lack of room while waiting for a table with the inability to wait outside in the harsh Chicago winter. I suppose that’s what I get for going during the dinner rush. But however tight it may have been, the staff at the Purple Pig never ceased to cater to the waiting crowd, offering to put in a drink order as I stand, pressed against the front window, my eyes growing bigger and my mouth already salivating by the looks and smells of dishes passing by me.

I’d like to point out that my chef and I don’t always make his profession known when going out. In fact, it’s often not known unless it somehow comes up during the meal (which it often does), we know someone who works there, or were invited to come in for the meal. While special attention can be nice, sometimes the experience is better enjoyed when his position and our food knowledge arrives incognito. Our connection to the restaurant world is usually discovered because the waiter recognizes our understanding of dishes, ingredients, and menu concepts; and with a server’s appreciation of a table that knows what they’re talking about, his chef identity is often identified. Such was the case at the Purple Pig.

All right, on to the food. I’d like to start by saying that there was not one dish I ordered that I did not enjoy which is a huge feat for any restaurant. Let’s begin with the highlights. Cheese. One of the fastest ways to my heart is a good goat cheese and fig compote. Add an aged cheddar and savory blue and you have our cheese plate, and one happy girl. That, of course, was just the warm up. With only a few bites left, the next dishes that came sweeping across our table were fried sardines and brussel sprouts. Brussel sprouts are, unfortunately, a much overlooked vegetable. There is a preconceived notion that brussel sprouts are “icky”. But believe me people, you must look past the mushy, stinky, over boiled brussel sprouts of your childhood. Give them a good sear then sauté them with garlic and prosciutto and you’ve got yourself a delectable side dish. Purple Pig does something really different with their brussel sprout anti pasta. Served like a coleslaw, the raw brussel sprouts are shaved, sprinkled with pecorino noce and
parmigiano reggiano, and served cold. It’s different, refreshing, and ended up being the perfect accompaniment to the fried sardines.

Ah, sardines. In my opinion, the best way to prepare a sardine is to not mess with it. Yes, it’s got a real fishy taste, but its oh, so delicate and light on the taste buds. I believe it’s a crime to mess with that, which is exactly what the Purple Pig didn’t do. Simply a light fry and it’s off to the table along with the lightly fried spinal cord, which may not be something you’ll see often, but its crispy, light, and holds an explosion of flavor. All this served on top of a fresh fennel salad. When I asked my chef his thoughts, he simply said, “This is the perfect breakfast food”. That may sound crazy, sardines for breakfast. But the moment he said it, it made perfect sense. And hey, he’s a chef, so he must know what he’s talking about.

Milk braised pork shoulder. Need I say more? No, I don’t think I do, but I will. Anytime meat is served with a spoon, you know you’re in for a mouth watering, fall apart tender, plate of deliciousness. Which was exactly what was handed to me. Served on top of mashed potatoes, this dish may have topped the list of favorite dishes for the night. So simple, yet so intense, I could have ordered it three times over. There is nothing else to say aside from, order it.

Like I said before, I was not disappointed with any dish that I ordered. However, there are always ones that you liked, but probably wouldn’t order again. This isn’t because anything was cooked badly or that the dish didn’t work, it’s just something that you’d pass on to leave room to try new things the next time around. Those for me were the octopus and the bone marrow. The octopus was truly lovely and I would absolutely recommend it. It was perfectly cooked and sitting on a bed of acini de pepe and swiss chard, wonderful, yet I would have liked something on the plate with a crunch. The marrow on the other hand, well, ours was overcooked, therefore, not as enjoyable as I had hoped.

Verdict: I had high hopes for the Purple Pig based on all the hype. My expectations were met. The servers were knowledgeable, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, and the food was pretty good too. Our server did ask if my chef worked in the industry. Mostly curious because of everything he knew about the menu. When the check came, they knocked off a dessert. Getting a deal is not something that we expect, but it’s always nice. That’s the type of business it is. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. They know that if they came to my chef’s place, they too would have a great experience. Will I go back? Absolutely.

Moving Day

A lot has happened since the last post, which is the reason there has been such a delay between entries. Namely, the Chef and I moved. Not a big move, we’re still in the same area, just a change of apartments. Moving is hard work, I should know, we do it every year. Every new place we move to ends up having something significantly wrong with it. A lot of planning and organizing needs to happen when you move. You can’t just throw things in a box. First you must organize things you want to get rid of, then the actual packing of boxes, which also needs to be highly organized. There is also hiring the movers, changing addresses, switching utilities, making phone calls, emails, etc. etc. etc. It’s a lot.

Let’s reflect back to my first blog entry and the whole, “not seeing your chef boyfriend because he works so much.” While that can be a total bummer in regular, ordinary life, it becomes especially stressful in situations like this, picking up your life and moving. On the plus side, he has access to a large stash of boxes which can really come in handy in the moving process. But the benefits end there.

In the week and a half or so leading up to the big move I found myself responsible for the bulk of the work. That’s a lot of stress. Granted, I am the one that handles the everyday tasks of running the household, however, moving puts my responsibilities at an all time high. I am the one who went out apartment hunting. I am the one to organize our stuff. I am the one who packed boxes. I am the one who organized the logistics of moving day. I had to do it all. Now, I don’t want to make this sound too negative. I’m not bitter about this. And it’s not that I couldn’t handle the job. It’s just that I am one person, I am 50% of a partnership who at times must take on 100% of the responsibility.

On the actual moving day, the chef really came through. In fact, he used to work as a mover so delegating the job to the hired help was his time to shine. I couldn’t have done it without him. However, once the possessions were safely transported his ability to assist was once again non-existent. Of course it’s not his fault, he’s not choosing to slack on helping, but his work and long hours comes first. In fact, his hours were so long in the days following the move that he would come home nearly incoherent.

It’s not the physical work that is frustrating, it’s making the decisions of where things should go, how to decorate, how to make your house a home, and having to do it solo. Once unpacking is complete it’s time to make yourself comfortable. However, it’s supposed to be OUR space, not MY space. But how can I do that when I’m the only one home, cooking dinner for one, sitting on the couch by myself, going to bed alone?

And how long will this place last? What are the chances he’ll get an offer somewhere else, maybe in another city all together? I work for myself, and work is slow. Our lives are currently dependent on his career. Our first apartment together didn’t last long. The moment we got comfortable we had to pick up and move half way across the country. Who’s to say that won’t happen again, and happen quickly.

For the time being, I’m plugging away, trying to make things cozy, trying to make it a home. But no matter what, a part of my mind will remain antsy, wondering when the restaurant business will once again turn my life upside down.