cNutgroist

You shoulda been there.

12 hours in Chicago to rank with the best of ‘em. Chicago is my kinda town. Chicago is your kinda town. Trust me. Aside from a delayed flight, no cellphone coverage and no backup plan to meet my companions, it was a supremely successful excursion. A costly cab ride took me to a hotel that was so grand I thought id got confused and booked somewhere else, much to the amusement of the desk staff who assured me I really had made a reservation there and it really was only the price I really was quoted. Personally I still think there’s been a fuckup. It was a tragedy to leave the room after only a few minutes and head to the Art Institute of Chicago where I knew my friends would be (sadly the Art Ensemble of Chicago was shut for winter renovations. They were busy redecorating Malachi Favors). I must have known a good third of the paintings in the modern section and had no idea that they all lived in Chicago. Rooms full of Monet, Picasso, Chagall, Modigliani, Leger, Seurat, Kandinsky, Dali, Cezanne, Gaugin, Klee, Miro, Mondrian and even some Van Go - which is what I did very quickly upon realising I only had 45 minutes there before my next chance to find them. You cannot possibly see that much genius in one go.

So I ran back to my hotel, ironed my shirt and put my suit back on to keep my early dinner appointment. Yup, I flew to Chicago, in a suit, in coach. And I looked cool.

A frantic cab ride later, I met my pals in the lobby of Tru restaurant, a place so fine in the dining department that it was taken to the point of absurdity, then nudged over the edge and left it to hover calmly above the canyon of pretentious foodery. Which is to say, what a fucking extraordinary place. Warhols in the lobby was a nice touch, a perfectly made Tom Collins was another but a crack team of Peruvian service commandos ushering us in to the main room might have been called a little over the top.

We kicked off with a unique hors d’oeuvres: A choice of napkins. A. Choice. Of. Fucking. Napkins. This was followed by a welcome greeting from the manager who explained to us the rarity of the experience in which we were about to partake. And I, oh no, I was having none of it until the food arrived, when I suddenly realised that the service and ambience probably has to be this serious if they’re to frame the experience right. Just as taste is partly down to the food’s appearance, that same appearance is partly determined by what happens off the plate. Our Maitresse d’ was a faintly ludicrous porcelain statue of a woman with powdered white skin and african features (which I could also have happily taken as an amuse guele), a voice smoother than a silk worm’s shag pad in the 1970’s and more resonant than Dr Niles Crane ordering another fucking fancy coffee in his elder brother’s sitcom (but unfortunately with all the same intentions and inflections that American foodies must go for but cynical Brits find grating). Adorable and completely silly.

We went for the Chef’s Special Selection. An absolute steal at 140 dollars. Paid for by my dear, dear, dear friend.

The waiting staff might have done their training at the Ballet Russes, such were their synchronised swoopings down on our table to place dishes, replace cutlery and refill our glasses. I don’t think anyone has ever invaded my personal space more effectively and unthreateningly without warning (and why can't girls be more spontaneous?). The first thing actually edible that landed on our table were tiny gravy boats each with a small ball of mozzarella sitting in pheasant consommé, sunk in one and loved by all. There followed another ten or so dishes involving incredible variations on Borscht in a tea cup, Sashimi with crystallised Peppers, Shellfish Fricassée in a Coral reduction, Veal Cheeks, B.C. King Salmon, Prime Beef Ribeye with Cherries and then Cow, Goat & Sheeps' Milk Cheeses

How did they taste? Let’s just leave adjectives out of this. Assume everything tasted as it sounds, only lots better because the best ingredients were used and even if you could manage to approximate the flavours intellectually, I think textures cannot so easily be imagined. There’s no point in saying it tasted great. Of course it fucking did. There are only 43 Relais Et Chateaux restaurants in the whole of the US and this is one of them.

What we didn’t finish (Petit Fours, Banana Bread, Chocolate Hazelnut Mousse) was bagged up and given to us to take away. Part of me was relieved we didn’t have time to eat the full meal at the table. The tastes were overwhelming. You cannot possibly taste that much genius in one go. So we didn’t.

But why was I in Chicago at all? The company, the food, the first decent mattress I’ve slept on in 6 months were all worth travelling for but none would have happened without Keith Jarrett.

That’s right. Keith Jarrett. Keith Jarrett. Keith Jarrett. Keith Jarrett? Keith Jarrett. Keith holy mother fucking Jarrett. There. In front of me. Once again. And in a good mood. How good? Good enough to begin the concert with a humorous anecdote about doing his first ever recording session in Chicago. Good enough to be amused by spotting someone illicitly videoing him (“"I can see those two little red lights... you should at least change the color or unscrew the bulbs. You didn’t think I might be able to see a little red light in the middle of a pitch black auditorium? Why don’t you people ever tape it over with something? It’s like candles on a birthday cake when the lights are off). Good enough to stop playing 10 minutes into his first piece because a woman sat up in the gods above had a rhythmic coughing fit and then resume the instant she stopped with a huge development of the piece, going from dark abstraction to rollicking glorious funk in a hacking splutter and a heartbeat). Good enough to play some of the most beautiful, heart-rending music that’s ever been spontaneously composed. Good enough to cut the first half short when he played a piece so delicate, so intense and so shudderingly gorgeous that he asked us all how he could follow it. Good enough to return for FIVE encores: Miss Otis Regrets, You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To, Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off, something I recognised but couldn’t place and finally another beautiful variation on his traditional performance sign-off When I Fall In Love. Definitive stuff. And yet, from the second encore I was secretly hoping that that would be it. I was wrecked, drained, exhausted. Didn’t want to hear more incredible music. Didn’t want to hear any music. Worn out. Now I get why the man himself can’t deal so easily with what he does. You cannot possibly hear that much genius in one go. But we did.

You shoulda been there

EDIT: This is the sort of thing you might have heard as an encore, though from Bremen in 1975. You can't buy it, but you can definitely go buy some other stuff of his. Enjoy! Treasure Island