In episode two of the Martini Diaries we visit Chicago in the USA. It was a visit with my professional role, very little downtime. I did my best however to maximise my 88 hours in the city!

The visit did not start well. My journey to London’s Heathrow airport on Thursday morning, 27th June, was smooth, and I arrived at 11 am, for a 1.10 pm take off. I arrived at the departure gate, as instructed at 12.40 pm, only to find a delay in boarding the aircraft. Told not to leave the area, I waited until 1.30 pm, by which time the pilot arrived to explain the delay was for engineering reasons. We eventually boarded at 3 pm. There followed a bizarre 2 hours – in my seat, unpacked, sipping the complimentary drinks that just kept coming. At 5 pm, it was announced the aircraft was not fit to fly and we would not be flying to Chicago! 

It was then a fairly orderly exit from the aircraft (although some passengers were unable to control their emotions and were yelling at the British Airways agents about their ruined travel plans), and I was re-booked for the next day (and allocated a complimentary hotel for the night). However, the only route to Chicago available the next day would need me to fly to Los Angeles at 10 am, and then connect onto Chicago. A twenty hour journey, arriving in Chicago at midnight (6 am UK time). Wow.

I stayed overnight in my complimentary hotel in Slough (a very grim experience, walking down the corridor to my room to a smell of damp, no air conditioning in my room and a window that would not open), and was back in Heathrow at 8 am the next morning. I had been pleasantly upgraded to First (with British Airways) so took advantage of their excellent lounge, The Concorde Room, in Terminal 5. Breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, Bucks Fizz and strong coffee and I was ready to face the journey!

For a journey of 10 hours 30 minutes travelling in First was a welcome experience. Apart from the extensive space in the seat area (which enabled me to spread out my papers etc to achieve 6 hours of solid work), one can ‘eat on demand’. This helped with planning my work schedule, managing my body clock, and allowing time for a 2 hour nap on my seat (which became a 72 inch long flat bed).

I dined on Loch Fine smoked salmon roll (with pickled cucumber and radish, asparagus), a West Country beef Wellington (with roasted heritage carrots, kale and cherry tomatoes, British new potatoes) and a soft baked chocolate tart, vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce. I followed that with cheese (Baron Bigod, Mrs Bell’s Blue, Godminster Vintage Organic Cheddar, Kidderton Ash goat’s cheese).

The wine list was extensive, so I tried 5 in total, across the dining experience:

Champagne. Lanson, NOBLE Brut, Vintage 2005 

J. Moreau & Fils, Chablis Premier Cru Mountains 2022

Chateau L’arrivât Haut-Brion, Pessac-Leognan 2012

Chateau Filhot, Sauternes Grand Cru Classe 2015

Dow’s Colheita Port 2007

After a nap, and some more work, I enjoyed a late snack of a Fish Finger butty, North Atlantic Cod, pea mint and tartare sauce.

11 hours later I landed in Los Angeles, to find my next flight to Chicago already delayed by an hour, meaning at least a four hour wait on the ground. After the inevitable dehumanising passage through USA immigration, I found the American Airlines lounge (a partner of British Airways and host of the flight to Chicago). I was beyond excited to find they had showers, which, after nearly 14 hours in the same clothes, was a welcome relief. I had brought a small change of clothes in my carry-on for such an eventuality. The American Airlines lounge was surprisingly spacious with big glass windows overlooking the airport, and in the corner I found a serious of lounge-style chairs, where I was able to stretch out and have a nap. 

The flight to Chicago, delayed even further, was uneventful, just over four hours long, but it now meant landing in Chicago at 2 am on Saturday (I had left my home in the UK at 8 am on Thursday!). The driver I had booked to collect me (bless him) was still waiting and we were able to be in the car and heading into downtown Chicago within 30 minutes of landing. After check-in at the Palmer House Hilton, I didn’t even bother unpacking in my room, I just crashed onto the bed. It was 3 am. I was scheduled to be on a video call with colleagues in South Africa at 9 am, so there wasn’t going to be much sleep!

The Palmer House is one of those classic great hotels of North America, where much of the original early 20th century splendour has been maintained/restored. The grand lobby, wonderful bar, Peacock doors, all recall the glory days of such place. I adore these hotels.

The Starbucks coffee shop in the hotel lobby enabled me to grab a latte and a croissant at 8:30 am before heading back to my room for my video call. My working day was then due to recommence at 5 pm that afternoon, so with a few hours to spare, I went out to stretch my legs. I headed north along Michigan Avenue and crossed the river by the hideous Trump Tower. There is though something really quite fabulous about Chicago. I hate New York, and I love Boston, and Chicago seems to fit neatly between those two cities. Plenty of historic buildings, lots of new interesting tower blocks, and a delightful river running through the middle. And, for Chicago, the added benefit of the Lake Michigan lakefront as well. 

The traffic, grid system, smells, the clatter of the Chicago loop with the tram line on an elevated rail above you, it all just feels like a cross between the Batman comics Gotham City and an old black-and-white King Kong movie! 

Where Michigan Avenue crosses Chicago Avenue is the Ralph Lauren flagship store, and Ralph’s excellent restaurant. I stopped here for a delightful brunch, enjoying their peach Bellini, an excellent cold glass of Chablis, and one of those unique American delights the lobster roll (of course with wonderful fries). Feeling almost human again, and having purchased a new shirt in Ralph Lauren, I walked back to my hotel in time to start work that afternoon.

Later that evening, when work finished at 9 pm, I dined at Cabra, a Peruvian small plates concept, on the roof top of The Hoxton 200 N Green Street. I loved the food, but hated the noise. It was billed as a rooftop venue, but it was enclosed and the people noise and music just seemed to bounce off every surface. I ate Salchipapas (frites, fried chorizo, Amarillo mayo and chip crunch), steak saltado, and yuca frites with black olive mayo (I fell in love with yuca last year during a visit to Ghana, although historically it is a South American root vegetable.)

The next day, Sunday, started with an early morning visit to the hotel gymnasium, a superb facility, with massively high ceilings, air-conditioned, and plenty of equipment adoptions. Later, after showering and changing, I decided have breakfast in the hotel dining room, but that is easier said than done. Just like last year when visiting the Hilton in Boston, I approach the desk and asked for a table for one for breakfast, but was politely told that it would be a 30 to 40 minute wait. I explained I was a resident at the hotel, not somebody who walked in off the street looking for breakfast. I didn’t have 30 to 40 minutes to wait before work. It was explained to me that there is no reserved seating for guests of the hotel. However, “if I wanted to go to the kiosk in the room next to the restaurant they offer an express-to-go service”.

Patiently, I explained I didn’t want “express” and I didn’t “want to go”. I wanted to sit down at a table and eat my breakfast in peace and quiet. I received that vacant look you sometimes get from hotel staff when they are just reading from a script and don’t have a scripted answer to your question! I went to explore the ‘express-to-go’ service, and found a queue of over 20 people, not moving, so it failed in both trying to be an ‘express’ (which clearly it wasn’t), and ‘to go’, (which clearly it wasn’t because the queue wasn’t moving). So, back around the corridor to Starbucks for a latte and a croissant.

Here I should just go off script slightly, and make a comment on tipping in America. I remember my first visits to America in the 1990s, when you tipped 10% or 15% depending on the quality of service that you received. I always enjoyed it. It was not something we routinely did in England, so being able to watch the staff in restaurants, working hard to deliver an exceptional level of service knowing they would get a tip, was an interesting experience. How that has changed! When I ordered my latte and croissant I was handed the payment card machine for the shocking $12 it was going to cost, but even more surprising was the screen immediately took me to a tip option. It started at 25% and then invited me to scroll down to 2 other options of 20% or 15%, or finally nothing. A 25% tip for somebody who has just put my order through a till and written my name on a cup, or I guess you could argue that the tip would be shared with a person who would make my coffee. But, making my coffee is their basic job, so why would you expect a 25%, bonus payment for just doing your job. This defaulting to 25% is everywhere in America (I even noticed it had crept into Canada during my visit at Christmas). Going out for dinner or lunch and knowing that you may have to put a quarter of your bill onto your bill as a tip is extraordinarily, ridiculous to me. Anyway, tipping rant over!

That evening, at 6 pm, after my work was complete I headed to the bar of my hotel. It has to be visually one of the most stunning bars in North America, high ceilings, frescos, intensely stylish, and an old world kind of feel that you only find in North America. I like American bars, particularly when you can sit at them and nurse a Martini or Negroni, a small bowl of nuts, and have easily forgettable random conversations with the bar staff. It is one of the pleasures of international travel. I found one seat at the end of the bar, and sat next to a charming American couple from Florida. They were waiting for their room to be ready, and had been sitting at the bar waiting for over three hours! They were not impressed. However, occasionally somebody from hotel reception would come over and give them two more vouchers for free cocktails, so as they told me their afternoon was not a complete waste of time!

Being the global connoisseur of the Dry Martini, and never really having experienced a bad one in America, I ordered my Dry Martini. I stipulated Bombay Sapphire gin, medium dry, a thin slice of lemon peel, but above all I wanted it shaken so it was extremely cold. I sat back, my barman picked up a cocktail shaker, scooped up some ice from his ice bucket, picked up the Bombay Sapphire poured in a generous measure, but did not put any vermouth in. He closed the lid, shook it just once, and then picked up a glass tumbler, not a cocktail glass, pulled out a Tupperware container of big wedges of fruit, and extracted a wedge of lemon. Then, with his bare hands, rubbed the wedge of lemon around the inside of the glass with his fingers (gross), threw the lemon wedge away, and poured in my (not even chilled) gin into my tumbler. He put it on a little napkin in front of me and walked away. No smile.

I just stared at it. I had to pinch myself to remind myself that I was actually in America in one of their classic bars, but I had just been served the worst Dry Martini ever, and my specific instructions had been completely ignored. The American couple beside me were staring at my glass as well, and the lady said “That’s the worst Dry Martini I’ve ever seen, and that’s the worst service I’ve ever seen, this hotel has really deteriorated in its service in this bar. We’ve been coming here for years.” 

As I took a sip of my warm gin, the barman sauntered over and slid across one of those black folders with the bill inside. I looked inside and found that I’ve now been charged $25 for my Martini, and of course there was an expectation of a 25% tip for the ‘outstanding’ service I had received. The two American beside me apologised, funnily, on behalf of America for what had just happened. We all began laughing, and then regaled each other with travel stories from our various experiences. My faith in American bars as a place for casual conversation was restored, and when the couple left, because their room was finally ready, they insisted on using one of their vouchers to pay for the Martini. How lovely.

After the disappointing cocktail experience, I went out to dine at Piccolo Sogno, 464 N Halstead Street. This is Italian American dining at its very best.

I dined on Burrata, with mortadella, pistachios, and roasted grapes. Followed by Pappardelle con Cinghiale (a spiced wild boar ragu), and then mille foglie, a  crispy pastry dough layered with vanilla custard and chocolate chips. Epic. All washed down with a superb 2019 Barolo.

The next day, Monday, my final working day, finished with a dinner as a guest of some colleagues. We dined at Mortons Steakhouse. The setting was very corporate clubbable North America, if that makes sense. I felt it more fitting as a venue for very large corporate lawyers and CEOs than a place one would routinely go to for dinner. On the menu the size of the steaks was extraordinary, and even one of them would’ve been more meat than I would usually eat in a whole week (who possibly can eat a 36 ounce ribeye?). The pricing structure was also more designed for those on unlimited expensive accounts, as having agreed to eat a 8 ounce filet mignon (the smallest steak on the menu) for $56, I was staggered to then find that if I wanted a sauce with it, it would cost an additional $6 (bearnaise sauce), and as the steak came with nothing, an additional $14 for asparagus. I could also have had fries for $13. But I didn’t. So, $78 plus tax, plus tip, for an 8 ounce steak, some bearnaise sauce and a few sticks of asparagus!,

After dinner, I took the Chicago Riverwalk to Navy Pier. Navy Pier is a 1000 metre long pier on the shoreline of Lake Michigan, and covers over 50 acres of shops, restaurants, live theatres, family attractions, parks, gardens, exhibition facilities. A centrepiece is a 60 meter tall Ferris wheel, which lasts 12 minutes with three revolutions. The whole area has been significantly redeveloped over the last 10 and 20 years. The point of heading to the Pier was to get on a lake cruise, small boats that once it is dark, take one out onto the lake and provide an unrivalled view of the Chicago skyline, with all of its illuminations. The trip lasts about 40 minutes and the views do live up to the hype, you really get a sense of how Chicago has embraced the lakefront in its development over history.

Tuesday, with my flight leaving late afternoon, I finished catching up with emails and correspondence in my hotel room in the morning, and then went for a walk to visit the Macy’s store. I always find American department stores fascinating, particularly those who have retained their original buildings, as the home of the invention of the department store. Macy’s does not disappoint, with a wonderful interior and atrium, with a large glass vaulted ceiling.

This excursion allowed just enough time to walk through Millennium Park and into the Art Institute of Chicago. Next to the National Gallery in London, my favourite art museum in the world. I really only went to stand in awe and fascination of Georges Seurat’s ‘A Sunday on La Grand Jatte’.

The flight home later that day was thankfully uneventful, and I landed just after 7 am Wednesday morning. This was just enough time for a shower and breakfast in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow, a welcome change of clothes, and then checking back in to fly onto Belfast for another three day business trip! Going home would have to wait.