The last sane bloke in Chicago

She wasn't a one night stand

Mobile blogging while waiting for coffee, in the loop.

Last night I met up with Delecta, a little charmer who I had made dinner plans with earlier in the week. D and I had gone for dinner and drinks last week, where we had the equivalent of food sex until both of us made it to our homes, satiated.

I think she doesn't believe me about the fact that I am almost always right on time. Like the Hepcat album, my ability to predict traffic kicks Google and WBBM-AM's asses to the curb. We chatted on our anonymous Gmail pseudonyms and made plans to meet at 8.

I left my tiny bachelor pad at 7:39 and sent her a mobile gchat letting her know I'd see her in 21 minutes. I took off in my car, zipping down the highway zig-zagging through the anti-torrent of slow drivers.

As I approached her place, it was 7:58. A final right turn onto the cross street from hers and I pulled up at 7:59. I hopped out of my car, grabbed my cell phone, and called her. "Wow," she laughed. "I grabbed my cell phone to check the time and it was 7:59. Then it changed to 8:00 and the phone rang. I'll be right out."

I told her earlier that I bought an umbrella, so she left her umbrella behind. I held the door for her, and she leaned her tiny lithe body across my gear console to pop my door open. So sweet.

I made a restaurant reservation at a new dig in Chicago, a few blocks from the French house of food we visited last week. This new place focuses on locally grown vegetables and meats, primarily pork. They also have a huge beer menu and a nice wine menu.

Delecta was wearing black jeans (not too tight but just right to show off her ass which I've happily glanced at more than once), a cute black shirt with a pretty fair dropping V-neck, and cute flats with stitching and colorful embellishments. Her hair is pulled back in a curly ponytail.

I'm wearing a Ted Baker vertical striped dress shirt in blue, purple and dark periwinkle, my Emporio Armani jean slacks (flat front) and my current walking kicks by Stacey Adams. No man bag, hair falling natch over my ears.

We arrived at the restaurant and dropped the car off at the valet. Our reso was for 9:30 but we arrived at 8:20. Oops. D and I stood in the foyer and chatted for 30 minutes, laughing and joking and keeping it hilarious as our hang-outs always are.

At some point, D saw something in my hair, now pulled back into a ponytail to protect our future lovemaking session on the dinner table of food, drinks and fun conversation. She yanked two hairs and something crispy and jizzgusting. Embarassing. I'll comb my hair next time.

The hostess finally grabbed us and took us to the "bar" area: 4 round tables at 36" height, perfect to drink at and watch the family-style tables where different dinner parties are thrown in together.

The beer / wine menu waited for us and it was intimidating. I have had fewer than 100 beers in my life, but I decided to have a beer with D. She ordered a gorgeous thick hops-in-suspension microbrew from famed Japanese microbrewmasters Hitochine. I ordered a Samuel Smith organic lager. Our beers arrived and we took sips of our own as well as sips of each others.

Her beer was fantastic: golden, cloudy, tart and sharp. They even served it in the brewery's glass. Wise.

We looked over at the dinner tables and saw amazing fair: pork shoulders, sausages, crispy and flakey fish, crab, and a run of desserts that made little D's eyes pop right out.

As we continued talking, we were offered a seat at a family-style table rather than the cute and private booths. My reservation was for a booth, but we were hungry and horny to have our mouths on meat so we accepted the shared table at 9:25. I tabbed out with our drink server, $21 including tip.

As we were introduced to our seats, a grotesque Asian bitch stared at our waitress angrily as she had to move her knock-off purse from our table area to the storage cubbies under her chair. Cunt. Her ugly wananbe yuppie date had no clue why she was looking so religious at the agnostic request. Fuck them both. We sat and impressed ourselves with the menu. Almost everything was local, and listed the farm to boot. Amazing. Pricing was respectable.

We wanted the pork rinds, which are legendary. Ordered, a $5 amouse bouche of sorts. We also ordered a selection of bacon-style lovelies: an amazing prosciutto, sliced thin; a Serrano ham, sliced thick (our favorite), and an odd Kentucky shredded prosciutto-style bacon.

The pork rinds are amazing. Light, crispy, with a hint of grease, I had to turn my head as D ate hers. We laughed at the dorkiness of our passion of fried skin. I had to turn my head and avoid her orgasmic face as eyes closed and she tasted these sweet fruits of heaven. I had promised myself not to get riled up again at her dainty hands wrapped around food as she popped things in her mouth. Will. Stay. Friendly.

The meat plate that came next arrived with soft, sweet goat butter and peasant bread. I had a bit of bit (rare!) and we mutually devoured the meats that melted in our mouths. I've never laid my hands on the woman in front of me, but I've witnessed the next best thing: a food fuck that began with the light touch of ham and ham. Ugh, someone save me.

We finished off our first round of drinks and poured over the menu again. For a second round, Delecta returned to her Japanese mistress that must have left a good taste in her mouth. I switched to a white wine by Zuccardi, the Serie-A line of Chardonnay Viognier that I happened to have at home. They served my wine in a third carafe along with a Scotch glass. Quaint.

For dinner, sharing plates was in. We decided on a boutin blanc, a white pork sausage. I make my own boutin, and we had another boutin last week. Why not? This one had a taste of celery root, an interesting addition that left us surprised and giddy. It also came with blueberry moutard, yum.

In addition to watching D take a big white sausage into her mouth, we attempted to add soft-shell crab, but they were out of stock. We "settled" for a white seabass, which didn't look too appetizing, but we found out later was an excellent addition to the pork. Fuck me, get your face on my abs, because this boy is going to rape two plates of pork and fish and I don't care what the neighbors, your parents or your pastor thinks.

I asked the serving waitress how long for the main course, she said 15 minutes. I excused myself for a cigarette and wandered out front.

To be continued in Part II.

Posted by ChicagoSane at 12:57 PM