So this is something new and random and different.
I’m happy to introduce my first guest blogger on esme travels, Ms. Patsy Esterhazy Everage Applegate, who will be sharing her experience dining here in Chicago at The Girl and the Goat. I recently met Ms. Esterhazy Everage Applegate (we are not yet on a (reciprocal) first-name basis) on a freelance writing assignment covering the Widows of Considerable Wealth Ball, of which she has been Chair for the past 13 years.
Unfortunately The Ball Board has named a new Chair (Blanche Asperger) to inject some “fresh, new, monied blood” into the event. Please, please, please do NOT mention this to Ms. Esterhazy Everage Applegate as she has not yet been told of the development. Plus, Blanche is her sworn enemy.
Turning it over to Ms. Esterhazy Everage Applegate:
Quelle horreur! Just last week — or was it last month? — I had skipped ‘cross the pond in the family Gulfstream (can you believe that ghastly Barack Obama is calling for the elimination of tax breaks for private jet owners? What — WHAT is this country coming to? They might as well just round up the entire Forbes 500 and shoot us in the heads like the Romanovs) to Zurich for my quarterly treatment. All I asked for was a little R&R, a Bollinger cleanse and an injection of fresh albino placenta from the Zhosa tribe (its anti-aging properties are LEGENDARY).
Is that asking a lot? Is it? Is it? I think not. As does Maurice.
Well not more than ten minutes into my somatic emotional release session (I was processing that incident that afternoon in the crypt with the sheikh — imagine!! — Bippy endured the same humiliating experience a year later and I just know he’s storing it in that bum knee of his. That taught us to question the Illuminati, don’t you know. I don’t recommend it (questioning the Illuminati), and I won’t.) Well, ten minutes in I received a telegram. A TELEGRAM. In this day of texting and sexting and tweeting and twatting who sends telegrams? Why Mother, of course! It’s not bad enough she’s a slut, but she’s a luddite. She’s a sluddite!
The HORRIFYING news: she would be landing in Chicago in one week, and because the Astoria suites at the exquisite Waldorf Astoria Chicago (our little jokey-joke-joke is to call it the Waldorf Hysteria when Mother is in-house) was booked to a certain-uppity-you-know-who-slightly-cross-eyed-mistress-to-a-well-endowed-bisexual-archduke-with-plantar-fasciitis (Mother was livid when she heard LIVID!) she (Mother, not the uppity, cross-eyed mistress) would be staying with me. MOI!
Of course Mother wasn’t coming to our fair city to visit me or Bippy, now — was she? She was gracing us with her presence only to catch up with her old boulvardier BFF Bunky Cushing. But of course I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Bunky’s now inseparable with that arriviste Candace with the Slicked Back Hair. So I paid Maurice to tell her. Yes I did!
And Mother came to Chicago anyway. The nerve, the audacity! Not to mention (I shall) she brought the Aga Khan! So where was I to take them for dinner, I ask you, where? The man employs a cadre of personal chefs plucked from three-star Michelin restaurants across the globe. Alinea’s pine-scented pillows are not going to impress him.
GIRL AND THE GOAT
My only choice was to try something edgy and new. Well, I took them to The Girl and the Goat. Can you believe it? Me? Venturing west of I-294? I can’t bear to convey my dismay upon learning that half the dishes were comprised of either alcohol or pork (NMFD: Not Muslim Friendly Darling), but we enjoyed a delightful meal despite the fact. DELIGHTFUL! I absolutely adored those green peppers. And that Heintz Chardonnay — I helped myself to more than one (bottle). Not to mention (but I will!) the goat! Delish! I haven’t tasted meat that tender since the Great Orgy of ’92 at Dominic Strauss-Kahn’s estate in the Loire forest. I dressed as Bathsheba and Bippy was Pan. Or was he Dionysus? He definitely sported horns of some sort. Dear, dear memories.
Anyway, I do, with all my heart, recommend The Girl and the Goat. As does the Aga Khan. As does Mother. That slut.
FINAL CHICAGO IN THE FALL POST.