And the Vetiver

a very food-oriented weekend in Chicago, plus fragrances

I opened my eyes from my light nap when the scenery and skyline started to shift as the train moved from Glenview into the northwest side of Chicago. From the elevated tracks, I looked down at the weathered Common Brick buildings: Irving Park to the right and Avondale to the left welcomed me into the city. This was my first time back in Chicago in about a year, to a city that has always felt like an extension of my hometown, whose familiar streets and architecture comfort me similarly as Milwaukee’s do: I grew up visiting relatives who lived there; as a young adult, I rode the Metra from Kenosha or the Amtrak from Milwaukee into Chicago to see bands that weren’t stopping in Milwaukee or Madison; after college, I visited friends who’d moved there for jobs, getting to know their neighborhoods of Lincoln Park, the quiet corners of Wrigleyville, and Lakeview, and eating and drinking our way through Logan Square and Wicker Park. Visiting my friend Svea called me back to the city once again; this time the north side neighborhood of Edgewater served as the point from which the city opened up to me for two days.

Hungry upon arrival on Saturday afternoon, we snacked on a spread of Abondance cheese, pickles, nuts, and half of a baguette, discussing the dramas that have unfolded in our everyday lives since we last saw each other and making our dinner plan: we would go to Hopleaf, a French-Belgian-inspired tavern, in the nearby neighborhood of Andersonville.

Andersonville, Chicago’s historically Swedish neighborhood, is home to establishments called Svea’s and Lost Larson, and the Swedish American Museum. Swedish flags adorn the gates enclosing the small front yards of its brownstone buildings. Last weekend was the neighborhood’s annual Midsommarfest: six blocks of Clark Street were closed off for eating, drinking, dancing, and live music to celebrate the solstice. Walking through the throngs of people—some embracing Swedish folk traditions and wearing flower crowns—to make our way to Hopleaf, we wondered why the festival wasn’t next weekend, properly on the summer solstice. Oh, well! It meant we were able to enjoy glögg slushies, flavored with lingonberry, while a Swedish-American man who’s been a lifelong Andersonville resident told us a series of sexualized jokes involving Odin, Thor, and beautiful women. Continuing to sip on our flavored wine slushies, between short bouts of brain freezes, we continued down Clark Street toward our dinner destination.

Hopleaf immediately felt like the right place to be: comforting and casual with an interesting beer and wine menu. We sat in one of the bar areas while waiting for a table on the ivy-covered patio to open up, and my eyes went directly to Kazematten’s saison Baksteenwinkel. I was delighted to see it arrive in a Teku glass (I love drinking beer out of stemmed glasses).

As we settled into our table on the patio, I looked around—at the ivy covering the surrounding brick walls, the light blue of the dusky sky, the other drinkers and diners with the same idea of soaking in what was, in my mind, the perfect summer evening. My friend took the seat against the wall, facing out toward the rest of the patio; her partner and I sat on either side of her at opposite ends of our small table; she always likes the booth seat, and I would have been too distracted people watching while sitting there.

Ordering was simple: two large pots of moules-frites to share, one pot cooked in Unibroue Blanche de Chambly, the other cooked in white wine. As perfect as the evening already felt, sharing communal pots of mussels and fries felt, in the moment, like the perfect meal.

The perfection of the evening did not hold. Perhaps I should have followed my personal rule against eating shellfish when far from the sea; hours later, my upset stomach interrupted the sleep I was craving after a long day. Please let me be able to enjoy the food that the rest of the weekend promises, I prayed to my internal organs between the strange and vivid dreams that only come with troubled sleep.

The next morning, feeling cautiously optimistic about my stomach—and hungry—we set out for Kurdish breakfast at Gundi’s, in Lakeview. Our small table for two had almost exactly enough space for the extensive spread of olives, jams and marmalades, butter and honey, sesame butter, feta and mozzarella cheeses, toasted bread, tomatoes and cucumbers, French fries, with a tomato and bell pepper omelet as the centerpiece. Our beverages—satisfyingly pulpy cucumber lemonade and black tea lightly sweetened with a sugar cube—hydrated and energized us for the day ahead. This was a breakfast to linger over, to slowly pick our way through each component, the plate evolving each time it’s refilled until the platters are left mostly empty: a little omelet here, some bread with butter and marmalade there, an olive or two, drag a slice of tomato through the chili-spiced oil residue left by the omelet, yes, some more tea, please, thank you.

Kurdish breakfast at Gundi’s

From there, we strolled around the neighborhood, letting breakfast digest, discussing the day ahead and whatever else was on our minds before heading to Lincoln Square (or Ravenswood? Or the part of Lincoln Square that’s within Ravenswood? Or the other way around? This designation is up for debate). We were in search of specialty food items, not for any particular reason or purpose, just for the joy of browsing the imported items at Gene’s Sausage Shop and Delicatessen. I purchased a jar of ajvar for a friend whose southeastern European heritage influences her home kitchen, and some anise-flavored hard candies for myself. Svea wanted to show me the rooftop patio; just a peek around turned into staying for a small lunch. The warm, sunny day was practically telling us to stay for a radler and weisswurst.

the rooftop patio at Gene’s

A walk along Lake Michigan, with waffle cones filled with chocolate custard from Lickity Split in hand, our conversations turned toward the potentials and pitfalls of academia: what keeps us motivated during these dire times for intellectualism and art? Who are we in community with, to make things just a little better? The paper or book that we fantasize about writing together wove its way back into our conversation. Maybe the open horizon of the lake was opening our minds and our hearts a bit, too.

Dinner that evening was at bungalow by middle brow, which is the only plan that we committed to before the weekend began. My friendship with Svea has its roots in sharing an interest in baking, so going there for sourdough pizza was non-negotiable. Again, we swiftly determined what we wanted to eat and drink: their house-made BOATS wine, a skin-contact Riesling, whose notes were listed as “grapefruit mimosa + freak wine” called, to complement the toasted bread with cultured butter and sardines, and the rainbow chard, green garlic, fontina, goat tomme, and huckleberry-spruce vin pie. Again, we soaked in the summer sun and air on the restaurant’s patio. When I go to bungalow, I feel like I have everything I need: good company and conversation, good bread, good wine. I yearn for this kind of simplicity.

Bread, butter, sardines, BOATS; rainbow chard pie

The next day, we wanted to sneak in one last quick outing to Lincoln Square/Ravenswood, specifically to Merz Apothecary, which is closed on Sundays. Like at Gene’s, we ogled over imported European goods, though instead of mustards and vinegars, this time it was over perfumes and lotions. Browsing Versatile Paris’ extrait de perfum roll-ons, we casually eavesdropped on the women working behind the counter as they critiqued Addison Rae. What are your favorite scents? they asked us. I panicked a bit, thinking they meant a specific perfume, something I have very little knowledge about, but want to learn about more. I want to learn what such scents are, the mysteries behind words such as tuberose and vetiver¹; I want to learn which scents I like, and what they would mean to me. I told her I like the scent of thyme, and similar soft herbal aromas while she started pulling bottles off from the shelf behind her, writing their names down on slips of paper and spraying them with a sample. What does it mean that one of my favorite herbs to cook with is what I probably want to smell like? Some were too sharp, too soapy. A green-hued perfume had caught my eye, which she reached for when I mentioned liking lavender and revealed as being Le Passant, by Ormaie. The lavender in Le Passant feels couched in a warming vanilla fragrance; it feels like it settles into the skin rather than caking on to it. I’d entered Merz’ only wanting to casually explore fragrance, to make a foray into the world of scent, never expecting to find something that smelled and felt so me.

As we sat across the street for a lunch of halloumi and eggplant sandwiches at Jerry’s, I looked around the square—at the children playing, at the other sidewalk diners, at the man busking, playing old Coldplay songs on his acoustic guitar—and felt the utter contentment of being somewhere new yet familiar, the bittersweetness of not being able to stay in a city that is always nourishing for me to visit.

Walking away from Jerry’s after finishing our lunch, Svea and I talked about the differences between dreaming of living somewhere versus the reality. Where is preferable to live? Where is preferable to pass through?

I thought of the name of the perfume, le passant, the passer-by, or the bystander, someone there momentarily, but who might leave a trace—however small—behind. And the places that we walk away from—what traces, what memories, what imprints do they leave on us when we go?

1. I listened to Hooray For The Riff Raff’s album The Past Is Still Alive as the train pulled into Chicago, and the song “Vetiver” played as we neared the station, which is where this piece’s title comes from.