ode to Devon

---ganked from my blog---

-Ye Olde My Little Golden Book of A Boy's First Visit to Devon Avenue-

Finally! I made it to the fabled Northern neighborhood(Rogers Park) of Loyola Uni, gangs, Balkans, Croats, speakers of Urdu and Hindi, Hasidim, assorted Muslims, Georgians, and the average Russian.

Well, I'd been to Rogers Park before..that's Tom's alma mater, but somehow had never crossed over to that wonderland of saris and Islamic "Barbies" who sing impenetrable prayers ad nauseum after you touch their boobs of all things.

We'd wander the campus where he'd reminisce and typically grab a bite at the iconic Heartland Cafe home to all things kneejerk, liberal, and buffalo burger.

This past Friday I went on a tour of Devon with my new friend Anjali(she was homesick and ready to seize any opportunity for a taste of the homeland). This includes dragging my neophyte butt around.

An aside:

I've long found it amusing this conflation of a specific knowledge of Indian cuisines with liberal arts academia. Students and faculty might not know a damn thing about true Thai, Chinese, Mexican, etc. etc. but they cultivate a milieu that can recite the dishes of Southern India by rote. I suppose it has something to do with experimental vegetarianism combined with inexpensive ingredients, that irritating elision of "deep" Subcontinental philosophies, free meals at the local Hare Krishnas, and the general, immature objectification of the "exotic."

So, I had (Southern)Indian in college along with everyone else and I remember loving this particular restaurant in Cincinnati(omg! they eat with their hands!). However, I hadn't really explored the cuisines since(having far more interest in SE Asian, Chinese, American, and French)...and...Tom had sated himself, long ago during his own matriculation, with the offerings of Devon.

Anjali promised samosas and snacks...and an intro to the markets...after which we'd travel back home only to meet up later in the evening whereupon she'd cook up a mess o' goat curry and sundries.

First the red line to Loyola, then we caught a bus over to Devon. We traveled from university district thru Afghan then Pakistani then Hindu then Muslim then Russian, et al. She pointed out kebab joints that she'd heard were good, but was reticent to walk thru that part of the shopping district...the way Pakistani men look at "uncovered" women, she said...a recurring theme...how within a few blocks Anjali was alternately courted, patronized, alienated...or she, herself, refused to enter certain zones.
Being a big white fag I was invisible.

Well, except when Anjali was having me compare Islamic Books 'n Things(home of Burka Barbie) with the India Bookstore; as two sides of the coin---the Islamic bookstore was by no means uninviting, though Anjali felt tacit discomfort, but comparatively it was sterile, uber-religious, plastic electronic toy keyboard Korans made in China, gilt script-emblazoned swords, shelf after shelf/aisle upon aisle of religious textbooks---

India Bookstore was simply a crowded bookstore nothing more nothing less.
I found an India-printed Roald Dahl pb that Anjali informed me was worth (in rupees) 5-6 bucks that the proprietor wished me to buy at 18 dollars. In fact for all it's familiarity, India Bookstore proved the more shifty: my guide opined that the owner jacked up the price because, "who is this white guy coming into my store to buy this book?" Having put the Dahl back on the shelf, I girded my loins and asked if he had a cd section devoted to vocal ragas. He pointed vaguely at the stacks and I rifled thru the dusty displays actually finding something that turned out pretty good. Blind buy and all.

Anjali's take on this exchange was that me(or any white guy) coming into his store and asking for some obscure Carnatic vocalist immediately paints one a "Hare Krishna." Had I asked him for Ravi Shankar or whatever Indian popstar he would have been much more effusive. Who knows. I do know that I don't need to travel up to Devon and rifle thru this guy's wares for motherfucking Ravi Shankar. Nu?

We traveled from store to store as Anjali looked for Raki bracelets to send to her brothers in Mumbai; "they won't wear them for more than ten minutes, but get so upset if I neglect to buy them."

She picked up some "scary" and "love" VHS bootlegs.

But Devon itself!

Nowhere in Chicago do you feel the energy, the enthusiasm, the electrified polyglot of humanity as on Devon. I was immediately reminded of the flavor of Astoria, Queens or parts of Manhattan.

This district is at once the antithesis of the new Chicago, but oh so vital as well. An engine perhaps, happily chugging away at the northern tip of the city sending drips and drabs of current back to the heart of the Beast.

Oh, the food!

Anjali isn't a fan of any sit-down restaurant on Devon. She says if she's going to make the trip then she'll pick up the ingredients herself and cook at home for a much better experience.

Upon first arrival we popped into some anonymous, empty shop and picked up a samosa to share just to take the edge off our late-morning cravings. Not bad for a heatlamp offering---bland potato filling percolating here and there with the fizzing of a spicy green chile. Whatever they'd fried it in was obviously fresh...the fat a swell counterpoint to the interior's bite.

We shopped and shopped: dazzling, gilt-edged saris vs. neon, retina-abraiding, synthetic saris, Russian bookstores, a Georgian bakery built around a beautiful, squat, conical, brick oven, ghee, chapatis, spicy mango pickles, fresh turmeric, Thai mouse turd chiles, fresh curry leaves, potatoes, Bulgarian feta, cheap mixed olives, green chile papadum from a women's collective-package label a giant pink bunny head and boy both enjoying said bread, Lebanese pita(oooooh! Lebanese pita!), and goat.

The guy at the butcher shop that Anjali's been patronizing for years would only speak with her in English(and didn't even deign to recognize me). Kind of an asshole, but the offal and goats' heads---tongues akimbo---in the case were glistening and of obvious high quality. She pointed out they had good teeth for never seeing a dentist.

As late lunch approached we ordered and took a booth in a snack shop: Gujarati Extreme!!! or something...anyway...when I wasn't snapping shots with ye olde medium-format Holga I was scarfing...

bhel puri, dahi puri, and aaloo tikka plus a Thumbs Up! coke. I totally dug the dahi; crisp little whole wheat puffs filled with chickpeas smothered in yogurt and cilantro sauce. The bhel(a mound of sev/onions/potato/cilantro/cilantro sauce/tamarind sauce and god knows what else///such a festive dish), which I've been fascinated with forever, less so...I'm immediately taken aback by the sweetness of these snacks...there're so many other layers I wish to enjoy...gee...I forsee much delicious comparison research. And, the tikka aaloo...bland little potato croquettes spiked with green chiles accompanied by the ubiquitous tamarind and cilantro sauces. I thought these were the perfect foil for our other snacks...my bedazzled, somewhat fatigued palate finding respite in the unassuming, everyday mashed tuber. Kind of the same way I don't like to mix my rice with dishes in whatever cuisine...duh...unless that's the dish. I enjoy the relative blandness of the starch vis a vis whatever tantalizing soup/stew/hunk of well-seasoned meat commands my attention. We stuffed ourselves silly.

Leaving room for dessert:

King Sweets on the way to our return bus-

sugary wedges of carrot stuff(bright orange), lentil stuff(speckled stucco), coconut stuff(white with a pink top), and a green one, I forget. They all tasted the same to me...yummy enough, but basically each a variation on a moist, dense cardamom-inflected cake. My favorite was the soaking wet doughnut hole available in light brown or dark brown.

so, home for a brief rest

Tom got back and we walked the few blocks to Anjali's in a desultory, warm, un-umbrella-ed drizzle.

She lives in a building we looked at previous to renting in our current. Her place is much nicer than any we were shown. In fact, we're thinking of trying to ditch our lease(yeah...right) and move up there.

We smoked and drank and stood by the fan. Talked of morning and night ragas...I'd just begun listening to the cd I bought:

Maharajapuram V. Santhanam Maestro's Choice.

---
...and we hit upon the perceived derogatory implications of the modifier, “kaffir.”

She says kaffir, rather than meaning foreigner, savage, etc. to her ear has much milder implications:

she says “kaffir” is like a “sufi” or, less religious, a wanderer, a philosopher perhaps, the “kaffir” is the
“uncle” or “brother” who’d much rather kick from place to place experiencing the great, wide, strange world than hold down a “regular” job. Of course, this might be construed unfavorably, but it’s a far cry from a slur.

She finds the whole makrut vs. kaffir dialectic highly amusing.

Now how even this interpretation relates to the sublime twined leaf remains a mystery.
---
smoking and drinking and talking...somewhere in there...lounging on her jade and violet and gold silk pillows....somehow we worked here and there at getting dinner ready---

she marinated the goat/pressure-cooked it(fyi: stand obliviously next to a bubbling pressure cooker sometime soon...hilarity ensues...well, I nearly crapped myself when the steam valve went off)
I stirred the potatoes for aaloo paalak subzi
slivered radishes for mooli raita

she set out tiny deep-fried peppers stuffed with spices
lime pickle(talk about neon...more lime than any lime I've ever known...bursting in my head digital jungle green) and a chile-hot, spicy (gibberish to my palate this once) mango pickle

Ah...the hostess, she refuses to sit(kinda like me when we have guests, but that's just neurosis, her's was custom)...delivering ghee-annointed chapati, servings of the most luscious, complex, goat curry. She encouraged us to lift the bones from the broth and tear away at the succulent meat, lift our silver cups from the thaali and drink what's left. More.

I think Roald Dahl's stalking me.

First, I spied his omnibus on Anjali's shelves before we ventured out that morning. Then I attempted to purchase a similar pb volume at the India Bookstore. Now, I see on Netflix, this week heralds a bio DVD. My friend says I must buy the Dahl and be released.

She has a cousin farmer raising spices back home. Dear god, she gifted us with green, white, and black cardomom, whole cloves, cinnamon sticks, white peppercorns, poppy seeds, a fennel mixture for potatoes, the failed venture of a box of vanilla pods, her mother's garam masala. Lord, the treasure!

Crikey, what language desires immediate apprehension? Do any need it?

I'm following my bilious heart around corners, across the odd silken repast, out of cups of curry, sorties through the vast memory houses of spice markets---to new friends and ever evolving conversation; that's the drone, I suppose. A theater of eternal music.

---

listening:

Maharajapuram V. Santhanam
Pink-Boris
The Complete Science Fiction Sessions-Ornette Coleman
Like Cockatoos-The Cure
If Only Tonight We Could Sleep?-The Cure
The Dead Part of You-AMC
Sick of Food-AMC

reading:

My Life in Paris-Julia Child/Alex Prud'homme
Webs-Scott Baker
The Gift of Southern Cooking-Edna Lewis/Scott Peacock
No. 1/First Works by 362 Artists-ed. Francesca Richer/Matthew Rosenzweig

Great stuff. Reads like Gogol (my favorite). Devon as Nevsky Prospect. Magical realism seems like a good way to go when describing Devon.

JeffB wrote:Great stuff. Reads like Gogol (my favorite). Devon as Nevsky Prospect. Magical realism seems like a good way to go when describing Devon.

Just to iterate: I was seduced by Devon; Chicago mythology n all. Utterly enrapturing.

CG,

Interesting, engaging, amusing, etc. Thanks.

A

Antonius wrote:CG,

Interesting, engaging, amusing, etc. Thanks.

A

From the maestro of such posts!

Danken Sie