Obama and the Chicago Olympic Bid

While I feel slightly bad for Chicago in not winning the 2016 bid, I really think they should look at the bright side of this issue. I recall the chaos that the Olympics caused in Atlanta and in Utah, and I don't think Chicago--which has problems enough, the first one being its mayor--needs the aggravation.

On the political side of things, I'm not one to gloat. It's a loss for the U.S., not just Obama. That said, it is primarily a political loss for the president. Didn't someone tell him what his chances really were? Or did he think that his personal charisma was so grand that his mere presence would be enough to woo the judges of the International Olympic Committee? One reason presidents don't usually get in the middle of these types of activities is precisely because they are not a sure thing. Given the domestic and world situations right now, it was a gamble, not a calculated risk, for Obama to join the bid pitch. Not a good call at all. Rather like betting the farm on a horse race because you got a "sure thing." And now the President has to live with the consequences of that loss. Whups.

Another Disappointing Pizza Experience

I'm always pleased when someone makes the effort to open a new pizza joint (linguistic note: "joint" is Chicagoese for "place"). I keep hoping against hope that someone--a chain, an individual entrepreneur--will do things right. Alas, I remain convinced that a decent thin-crust pizza cannot be made south of Interstate 80, west of Interstate 39, north of the Illinois border, or east of the Ohio border. Is that a close enough range for you? Anyhow, there are several distinguishing characteristics of this style of pizza, which might help the casual browser in understanding what this particular writer qualifies as "decent."

• A round pie, with cheese toppings that run to, or nearly to (but not exceptionally over), the edge.
• Thin, crisp crust.
• Slices cut in a grid pattern.
• A salty-sweet tomato sauce that is prevalent and distinctive enough to make its presence known, but not so thick that messes are inevitable.
• Mozzarella cheese from grain-fed Midwestern dairy cows.
• Italian-seasoned sausage from grain-fed Midwestern hogs.
• Light Italian seasonings scattered across the face of the cheese.
• No "freaky" toppings. "Freaky," in this case, includes ham, pineapple, goat cheese, exotic or expensive mushrooms, capers, leafy-green vegetables, or anything that doesn't sound like "sausage" or "pepperoni." Cheese pizzas are acceptable, as long as the option is open to add toppings as the consumer sees fit.
• (Ideally) made by actual Chicago Italians or by those who have been trained by them.

Your mileage may vary.

Anyhow, the latest restaurant not to meet the standards above is Noble Roman's Pizza on Madison Boulevard. Noble Roman's is a dual operation/store with Tuscano's(?) Deli, for folks who feel like an Italian sub instead of a pizza. I did not have a sub there, but might give it a try on some other day. Today I just went for an individual pizza with sausage and pepperoni. Usually I go for a straight-up cheese and sausage for callibration purposes--if they can't handle the basics, they don't get a second shot with me for any other flavor, but I was a bit hungry.

The meal also came with breadsticks and a choice of cheese, marinara, or garlic sauce on the side. I'm pretty sure I said garlic, but the guy gave me the cheese, which was more of a nacho cheese, heavy on the jalapenos. He fixed the sauce, and that was a bit better. The bread sticks had a dry, mottled texture, and didn't wow me.

I was there for the pizza, though, and here is where I hit my snags. The cheese was quite a bit from the edge of the crust, and the crust was pretzel brown. The pepperoni was fine, but the tomato sauce made no impression on me, and the sausage, on its own, was more like bits of breakfast sausage than Italian. I detected no spices on the cheese or the rest of the pizza, forcing me to add salt--something that should be unnecessary on a pizza with pepperoni on it.

On the plus side, the sweet tea in the place was decent, though both dispensers said only "iced tea," not indicating if one was sweet or not. That was a minor annoyance. The primary annoyance was simply that I still have yet to have a "just like home" pizza outside of the aforementioned geographic range. New York-style pizza, which I have had in NYC, translates (alas) easily across state or regional boundaries. "Chicago-style" thick-crust pizza also does fairly well outside the 312 area code, though Pizzeria Uno's standards have come down since the franchise expanded. Thin-crust pizza of the type described above does not travel well, for a variety of reasons I have yet to deduce. But my compliments to the folks in the Midwest who manage to work their magic. I don't get home very often, but when I do, I always make sure to include some of their product in my itinerary. Meanwhile, the quest for a good, thin-crust pizza continues.

Buon apetitto!

Book Review: The Devil in the White City

The difference between a popular history and a more formal history, so far as I can tell, is that popular histories are written as novels or stories, where the reader gets into the heads of the characters, enjoys dialogue, gets hints of the scenery, and so forth. A formal history tells things from the omniscient voice of the historian; events are described, narrated, and occasionally sprinkled with known quotations from the historical figures in question. The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness in the Fair that Changed America is of the popular variety, and darned absorbing at that.

This novelistic history by Erik Larson describes the building of the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago, also called the Columbian Exposition because it commemorated the 400th anniversary of Columbus's discovery of America (this was before Columbus fell out of favor with politically correct historians, obviously). This story alternates between the doings of the architects and of one H. H. Holmes--one of the first known serial killers to be captured and tried--who was doing business down the street. The juxtaposition of this great accomplishment in upper-middle-class urban planning (you can find hints of it in Disneyland and the Magic Kingdom in Orlando) and the insidiousness of this killer give a "top and bottom" view of 19th century American society while also telling a ripping good tale.

What surprised and chagrined me the most is how little I knew about all this, despite growing up in the Chicago area. Okay, sure: I knew that the Museum of Science and Industry was once one of the Fair's buildings, and I was pretty sure I knew about the fair being the site of the first Ferris wheel. However, it never occurred to me that the airport on the South Side might have derived its name from the fair's "midway" or that the Fair featured the first large-scale use of electric lighting using alternating current (AC) rather than direct current (DC). There are lots of little tidbits like that throughout the book--small bit players in the overall narrative who later go on to have greater influence afterward, such as Elias Disney, father of Walt and Roy, who was one of the construction workers at the Fair and told his sons tales of building a dream city by the Lake.

Larson also does a splendid job of conjuring up the social and physical environment of Chicago in the 1890s. Having been brought up nearby, I grew up with Carl Sandburg's poem celebrating the tough city for what it was, especially then:

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders

You also get a sense of the dynamism of the city, which I probably picked up by contact, especially from my raucous Irish family, who lived on the city's West Side for much of the first half of the 20th century. The book gets you up close with the labor movements; the tony suburbs and squalid slums; the dirty politics; the scorching summers, stormy springs, temperate autumns, and bitter winters; the occasional inferiority complex toward, and rivalry with, New York. The book's actual narrative runs 390 pages, but it's a brisk one, and Larson manages to capture a lot of details that bring the city to life.

I really liked this book, though it is not for everyone. Where the wonders of the "White City" are conveyed brilliantly (a few more pictures might still have helped), Larson is just as adept at describing the sinister and horrifying actions of Holmes. A young (25 at the time of the Fair), self-made man, Holmes had an insouciant, social manner and assertive personality that allowed him to acquire the resources to build a complete "Castle," what today we might call a mall, with restaurants, hotel rooms, stores, and secret soundproof chambers that allowed him to abduct, kill, and dismember several young women without anyone being the wiser. He eventually confessed to 27 murders, though Larson could only confirm a minimum of nine--bad enough.

Holmes might have gone on his merry way for quite a bit longer, had he not gotten into financial trouble (he was also a shameless liar who rarely paid his debts). Holmes was also protected, in part, by the morals and culture of the times. There was simultaneously an acceptance that Chicago was a dangerous place and that hundreds of people disappeared there every year, and yet a naiveity about the evil one man could do, especially if he was polite, well-dressed, and possessed of good looks and a pleasant manner.

The reason Larson's book cannot be taken as simply a story is that it did, in fact, occur. Because real life doesn't have the nice, tidy, catharsis that fiction does, Larson does not necessarily treat us to any great lessons or unambiguous resolutions. However, there is enough "closure" (to use an ugly 21st century word) to give this book the feeling of a truly well written novel. However you approach The Devil in the White City, you will come away with an appreciation of Larson's literary talent.

One thing I must close with, in jest since that's how Larson put it in his acknowledgments. He adds a truly terrible thought at the end of this book (okay, it was terrible to me, anyway): "I must confess a shameful secret: I love Chicago best in the cold." Brrrrr! He's welcome to it.