The Negress ended up spending part of a rainy Chicago night at Ditka’s, the chop-house helmed by the Chicago Bears legend. The Negress loves Chicago unconditionally and was there for a conference of health care journalists (more about that later). After a few days of hearing about racial and ethnic disparities in healthcare and the myths of functional foods and supplements, she needed steak and sports. So Ditka’s called. Since her social life is somewhat constrained by cash flow, the Negress hadn’t been out on a Saturday night in forever. So, upon arriving at Ditka’s for prime time, she was told there was a 45-minute wait. With nothing better to do and eying the Caps-Canadiens game on one of the seven huge flat screens in the bar area, she waited.
The hosts sent her next door to the Tremont Hotel lobby, which was calm and well-wooded. However, it smelled like Glade was testing a new fragrance called “Hog Stomping Bordello.” The Negress nearly gagged and wondered if her later wine selection would suffer. I would have stepped outside except for the pouring rain and the wind howling off Lake Michigan. After a few more minutes, my little vibrating thing started shaking so I headed into Ditka’s.
Mike Ditka has wine
I had a four-top all to myself and a perfect view of the Caps-Habs debacle on Versus. I could also watch the NBA (Boston-Miami), Cubs-Brewers and what was about Day 12 or so of the NFL Draft. I stuck with the hockey and watched the Caps befuddlement while I perused the menu.
The menu features a lot of big meat often accessorized by the phrase “Kick ass.” All of the sides were served “family style,” which presented a challenge to a single diner. I saw some of the sides being taken to other tables and decided against order anything besides a salad and my steak. For the wine? Why not the Mike Ditka Cabernet Sauvignon (2006, Mendocino)?
Before the wine arrived, I took my eyes off the TVs long enough to peruse the decor. Jerseys, balls and helmets were key as were paintings in sepia tones of Vince Lombardi, Ditka and Arnold Palmer done in what could best be described as Socialist Realism Sports Icon division. There were full-body color portraits of Ditka, Dick Butkus and Bobby Hull, which also deepened the kick-ass concept. My eyes lingered on Walter Payton’s jersey for a moment. Then the mullet on the woman at the next table.
The wine? Well, enough time had passed since inhaling the Tremont lobby for me to pronounce it extremely passable. Thin tannin, a little woodiness in the plywood, not oak, family. The steak a 10 ounce (before cooking) filet mignon came with some parsley on a bare plate. Ditka’s steak sauce wasn’t bad, but it says a lot that the steak needed it. Badly. Since I was still hungry, I ordered the carrot cake after being told by the water that the cheesecake was good (I was surprised he didn’t say, in his “Da Bears” accent, that it was kick ass). The carrot cake was fine, not real carrot-y and sort of dry. I resorted to a time-honored tactic of eating much of the cream-cheese based frosting and left about half of it.
So, the Caps lost (I was loath to see the pattern that was emerging there) and went back out in the rain to catch the bus to my hotel in the trackless wastes of Conventionland. I had a much better meal at Frontera Grill two nights before (artisanal pork with ancho-almond mole, port for dessert and a pair of margaritas that did actually kick ass). I love Chicago but I think I’ll skip Ditka’s the next time out.
