All this happened, more or less...

My name is G and these are the true stories of my adventures.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

We Interrupt This Blog...

to bring you my very first...

Good Food & Good Times Alert!!


If you have a mouth, chances are that you like good food. That's why I've decided to interrupt my regular programming for the day to bring you a special good food alert. If you don't have a mouth, don't worry; we'll be back to the regular hoo-ha in a day or two.

I'm currently writing from the beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois (that's "ill a noy") where I'm visiting my old college roommate. More on her and the city in general later, but right now it's time for a review of the restaurant and the club where we went last night.

Alhambra -- 1240 W Randolph

Last night we dined at Alhambra, a middle-eastern restaurant on the north side of Chicago. And what a night it was!

For starters, the ambiance of the place is to die for. It's nothing like the real Middle East -- no wmd's in sight -- but it was just like a Vegas version of the Middle East. If you've never smoked hookah while watching a neon-lit belly dancer, now's your chance.

The food was just as impressive. The girl next to me ordered lamb. When it arrived, she took a bite and said, “Hey! I ordered lamb and this is chicken!” Take a quick peak at her plate (below) and you’ll see there are only two options:
1) she’s right and they slaughtered some kind of massive, mutant, chicken monster with inch-thick bones, or
2) this is the mildest and most tender lamb you will ever eat.


I ordered the lobster. Jealous? It was excellent and even came garnished with a little lobsterito. I felt a bit guilty that his young life was snuffed out just so he could sit atop my ravioli; I also hoped the big lobster filling said ravioli wasn’t a close friend or relative. Incidentally, after we finished our meal and were all out on the dance floor gettin’ arab wid it, the waiter cleared our places. For some reason, he left my plate. This meant that my little boiled friend had to sit there for the rest of the evening and watch all the festivities. Here’s a somewhat morbid picture to illustrate:


All in all, we had a fantastic time, so if you want the humas without the Hamas, head on down to Alhambra for a hookah of a good time.


The Underground

This is the hottest club in the city, or so we were assured several times on the way to The Underground. I’ve been to a few good clubs but I’m certainly no connoisseur, so I asked a cute Italian guy with us to explain exactly how The Underground got that title.

Basically, it comes down to two things.

1) It’s extremely difficult to get in. The above-mentioned Italian guy had a friend -- presumably a very wealthy friend -- who had reserved a VIP table. The reservations were for 11 o’clock, but since we were shakin’ our money-makers over at Alhambra, we didn’t get there ‘til after 12:30. Italian guy was afraid that because we were so late, we might not get in. There was also some concern about whether or not I would be able to get in, as I was wearing jeans and sneakers instead of the customary booty-hugging mini-skirt and stilettos. But have no fear, dear reader – even in sneakers I am hot enough to get into the hottest club in Chicago. We walked right past a long line of discouraged and dejected plebeians in their mini-skirts and into the club. This has gone completely to my head, by the way.

2) It’s also extremely expensive. Or so I’m told. Because we were at a VIP table, all our drinks were charged to the table, and I couldn’t even tell you what the cover was – Italian guy just handed the bouncer a wad of cash and he let us all in. Thank you, Italian guy. Thank you, bouncer.

Once you get past the security and the sticker-shock, The Underground looks, sounds, and smells like most other clubs. It’s full of sweaty, slutty, beautiful people, some of them dancing to remember, some dancing to forget.

The VIP table wasn’t even a table in the strictest sense of the word. It was actually a wooden crate on the floor near one wall. It’s primary purposes were holding drinks and marking territory, both very important aspects of a night out at the club. Having a table also allows you the privilege of a little chicky who comes around and pours your drinks, which saves you the trouble of crowd-surfing up to the bar yourself.

Just like the vicious bouncers, the rest of the staff at The Underground are incredibly diligent, especially the woman who buzzes around with a broom and towel and cleans up broken glasses and split booze. This is the first time I’ve seen such a woman in a club, and her no-nonsense efficiency contributed greatly to the safer booty-shaking of all. Thank you, broom lady.

Best for last: the most unique and impressive feature of The Underground is a gigantic Lite-Brite version of a map that stretches across two walls and includes all the countries of the world, plus lines of latitude and longitude. Seriously. The compulsion to stick little colored plastic pegs in the holes will distract you for half the evening. It’s fantastic.

Party on, my friends. Party on.

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