The nametag is an ingenious invention. On duty, it allows the conventioneer to fake friendliness. Off duty, it reveals the truth: Hi, my name is out-of-towner.
Real familiarity, however, breeds contempt for the nametag. As well as the name.
Consider Rose. My friend insists on introducing herself as such. Simply because it’s her name. Which has never dissuaded me from calling her Rosie. Even if any other name tends to make her prickly.
Or my children, who have respectable names, ones that took so long to think up that the Bureau of Vital Statistics threatened to send out a squad car loaded with blank birth certificates and pen. And yet each of my children is burdened with a mortifying-though secret-babyhood alias.
My colleagues and I continue to dine al fresco at Ricardo’s, willfully oblivious to those rumors about new ownership, and a new name, some years back.
My family frolics at Sprinkler Park, never bothering to consult the fence-mounted plaque that may well list another name, perhaps one keyed to the Park District’s map of 220 frolic facilities. Between Spiking Farm Playlot Park and Spruce Playlot Park lurks no mention of Sprinkler.
I squander as much time as possible at Coffee Shop. Despite the steaming cup of pretension stenciled to the window. Confounded by the complexity of Pellegrino versus Calistoga, I generally order bubbly water and hope for the best.
My husband and I frequent a neighborhood dive known-at least to us-as Lost Hamburgers. Though I’ve heard that Loco Hombre may have additional translations.
At the Walnut Room, the cognoscenti order The Special, whether it’s on the menu or not. Perhaps such an old-fashioned drama-a titanic portion of turkey on rye, run aground by a wedge of iceberg, drenched with Russian, its toothpick and black olive mast askew-is best left unlisted. The wait staff, accustomed to 60 years of the black-eyed request, calls it The Cyclops.
The sandwich is detailed in “The Marshall Field’s Cookbook,” a new commemoration of tried and true (as well as fresh and refreshing) recipes from the unsinkable department store.
Surely no one can be expected to call Chicago’s beloved Frango emporium anything except Field’s. Even after some criminal armed with a screwdriver takes down the green sign and hoists a red one in its place.
It will always be Field’s. Ideal spot to order The Special. To share with Rosie, NooNoo and DiDi.
BACK YARD BURGERS
Serves six
1 cup mayonnaise
Extra-virgin olive oil
Fresh lemon juice
Coarse salt and pepper
4 cloves garlic, minced
12 strips smoked bacon
2 ripe avocados
2 tablespoons snipped chives
1 ripe tomato, thickly sliced
1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
3 pounds ground beef (mix 2 3/4 pounds whole prime chuck with 4 ounces prime sirloin)
6 poppy or sesame seed buns
4 ounces blue cheese, crumbled
4 ounces cheddar cheese, sliced
Iceberg lettuce leaves
Ketchup and mustard
Pepperoncini
Dill pickle spears
1. Whisk: Combine mayo, 2 tablespoons oil, 4 teaspoons lemon juice, salt and garlic in a small bowl. Chill garlic mayo.
2. Crisp: Fry bacon in a skillet over medium heat until almost crisp, 10 minutes. Drain on paper towels.
3. Prep: Slice avocados; toss with a little lemon juice, chives, salt and pepper. Arrange tomato and onion slices on a plate and season with salt and pepper.
4. Grill: Heat grill to high. Gently shape beef into 6 patties. Sprinkle with salt (about 1/4 teaspoon per side) and pepper. Sear burgers until they can be turned without sticking, then turn. Cook 4 minutes per side for rare; 5 for medium-rare, 6 for medium.
5. Toast: Brush cut sides of the buns with oil. Grill 1 minute. About 2 minutes before burgers are done, sprinkle with a little salt, top each with one kind of cheese and let it melt. Let each guest pile the fixin’s on a bun bottom. Add burger, top bun and a hearty appetite.
-Simplified from Nancy Silverton’s version in “The Marshall Field’s Cookbook”
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LeahREskin@aol.com
