Date Night

Just to be clear, we are not a mushy couple. He doesn't write me messages on the bathroom mirror, telling me how much he appreciates my expert dishwashing skills. I don't send him 17 texts a day detailing my love in sonnet form (pictures of the cat doing cute things does not count). But when the goings get busy and our sleep times don't overlap for a week, it's time for date night.

Plan: Dinner and tv marathon of the shows we missed last week.

Expectations: Medium-high, riding on the outcome of the restaurant.

Outcome: Cosmic Explosions. Foodgasms. It’s all downhill from here.

Have you heard of this place in Chicago called “Great Lake?” I hadn’t either, but you should put it on your radar. Apparently Beyonce and Jay-Z were there a few weeks ago. Some yelpers loved it, some hated with a foodie passion. I’ve walked past the location without realizing anything was there. Wait, backup, it’s pizza, right? How could anyone hate it? Why was Beyonce in Chicago? Just for the pizza? JUST FOR THE PIZZA? Was this before or after the birth of Blue Ivy? Seriously, they named their kid Blue Ivy?

The restaurant looked closed, and we stared at the door for a few seconds before concluding that it was, in fact, open, and not, in fact, a small hydro-museum. The place doesn’t seat more than eleven people, so we put our name on the list and waited for a call-back. This may have been the best call-back I’ve ever received. We were seated at a long table, in between a family of three and a party of four, summer-camp style. I felt pressure to make our conversation seem interesting. I felt guilt while eavesdropping. Not the dinner dreams are made of, but eventually, and I’m not quite sure how it happened, we got to know these date-night invaders. Skip an hour, and we are all sharing pizzas. Wine is offered. Someone buys chocolate to share. We might as well have lit Shabbat candles and passed the challah. Our date night turned into family night, but not the fighting kind. The good kind where you find out that your dad was a hippie. We met a songwriter from Nashville. The gay couple put us on their party list (“You both seem nice- email me. We throw huge parties. I’m a plastic surgeon”). The family told us the secrets to successfully getting a table (apparently, we were a fluke). I wouldn’t be surprised if, a few weeks from now, the exact same people gathered for some Great Lake pizza by complete chance. And that’s the charm of this place. Oh, and the pizza. It’s AMAZEBALLS. I would bathe in the sauce, I would smother myself with the garlic. I would sleep in a tent to be first on the list, I would cry myself to sleep every night if it closed. You get the picture.

Note: I cannot confirm that Beyonce came here just for the pizza, but if I was her, I totally would. Also, my father was not a hippie.