(Holly Zaharchuk)

You should probably bring a date, because Acadia is all about the pairings. Harmony, complement, and dichotomy define the cuisine and atmosphere of this new South Loop spot by the corner of 18th Street and Wabash. A little elegant, a little homegrown, Acadia is a unique experience in accessibly upscale dining, which is absolutely unafraid to defy your expectations.

The sage, dark chocolate, and soft gray hues of this minimalist space echo the ease and sophistication of its food. High ceilings and tall bare windows (which nevertheless provide extensive views of the overgrown neighboring lot) create a sense of openness. And don’t be suspicious of the sizeable fleet of wait staff milling about the dining room—their attentive service is unobtrusive and complements the ebb and flow of conversation, courses, and amuse-bouches.

These petite hors d’oeuvres were some of the most delightful bites of food that arrived all evening. Our first was a chilled parsnip soup, puréed and presented in a tiny teacup on a rustic stone slate. The soup itself was luscious and sweet with smoky, nutty undertones, which were accompanied perfectly by the seaside tang of the roe, the herbaceous crunch of the watercress, and bright punch of lemon.

Between our appetizer and entrée came four small, flawless biscuits served with sea salt and a dab of butter. No one at the table uttered a word between the first bite and last; those fluffy concoctions alone make the trip to Acadia worthwhile.

Our appetizer, a play on risotto, was imaginative but not entirely successful. Miniature matchsticks of potato replaced the classic Arborio rice in this dish, which was prepared with leek-infused cream and apple. The dish, while creative, failed to reach the bar set high by our first amuse-bouche: the texture of the sauce which clung to each grain of potato was lovely, but the saltiness of the dish ultimately overpowered the delicate sweetness of the apple.

The entrée course delivered on the promise of excellent pairings. The highlight by far was the swan creek duck paired with sour cherry gel, foie gras flan, and gingersnap. The fattiness of the duck skin was artfully rendered and seared with a fabulous crust, and the flesh itself was a succulent medium-rare. The rich meat harmonized with the tart fruitiness of the gel and the piquancy of the gingersnap. The whole experience of the duck was enriched by the earthy flavor and silken texture of the foie gras.

The Deer Isle shrimp and wagyu beef were at once both familiar and inventive, executed skillfully and with purpose. The shrimp dish—paired with playful cuttlefish “noodles,” a wonderfully acidic squid-ink vinaigrette, and a dash of chorizo powder—was a witty take on shrimp scampi. Elevating the traditional meat-and-potatoes meal, the wagyu beef retained such elements of a steakhouse dinner as three distinct preparations of potato, a mushroom conserva, and delicate drops of fennel gel.

The rabbit, recommended by our enthusiastic waitress, promised excellence but did not quite accomplish it. The components distinct from the rabbit itself–an herb spaetzle with spring peas, pea shoots, and baby carrots bathed with a luxurious coat of butter and nestled atop eggplant puree–were incredibly delicious and satisfying. However, the star itself was completely overpowered. The chef created a rabbit sausage, which was formed around the rabbit loin and then wrapped with bacon. While I have no reservations about the brilliance of bacon, I desperately wanted to taste that rabbit sausage.

The meal came to its conclusion with a milk chocolate cremeaux. The presentation left something to be desired, but the flavors kept my spoon going back for more. The cremeaux itself—which enveloped the tongue with a heavenly texture and undertones of caramel—was simple and delicious, but complemented by far too many additions (buttermilk cake, dehydrated Meyer lemon chip, Meyer lemon gel, huckleberry gel, candied hazelnuts, and shards of chocolate-hazelnut candy bar covered the dish). The dessert would have been improved if only the huckleberries and candied hazelnuts had adorned it, as those elements created a tasteful harmony of richness, nuttiness, acidity, tartness, and sweetness.

Acadia’s ambitious pursuit of creativity remains rooted in a dedication to the warmth and happiness of a thoughtful meal. Yet it seems that its strength lies in its simpler dishes, where the chef refines each ingredient’s natural flavors through his adaptations and pairings.

Acadia, 1639 S. Wabash Avenue. Wednesday-Thursday, 5pm-10pm; Friday-Saturday, 5pm-11pm; Sunday, 5pm-9pm. (312)360-9500. site.acadiachicago.com

(Temple Shipley)

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“What do you know about your neighbors?” This was the question that Amanda Neely, co-owner of Overflow Coffee Bar in the South Loop, posed to residents prior to its opening a little over a year ago. For many South Loop residents, like city-dwellers everywhere, the answer is not much. Fifteen years ago, the South Loop was mostly warehouses; now, it’s a hotbed of residential development. But Brandon and Amanda Neely, owners of Overflow Coffee Bar, think the residents need more than just the requisite stores: they need businesses that are committed to creating a sense of community.

Amanda and Brandon both grew up in small towns where, as Amanda says, they enjoyed the feeling of community camaraderie, the sense that “someone has your back.” After moving from small-town Ohio to Hyde Park to attend the University of Chicago, Amanda was impressed by the sense of community she found in the neighborhood. She recounts how impressed she was when Hyde Park residents banded together to save the seawall at The Point from being paved over, saying dubiously, “If they tried to do that on the 16th Street Beach, I’m not sure anyone would care.”

Since opening, Overflow’s intimate atmosphere has provided a space for South Loop residents to learn each other’s stories. It is comfortable as a living room—on a quiet Friday afternoon, some patrons have kicked off their shoes and curled up on couches with a book, and others sit cross-legged at tables, chatting animatedly with friends. “People do their taxes here,” says Zach, a 19–year-old regular who lives in Chinatown and works at a nearby coffee shop. They also give back to the Overflow community in small ways, such as by donating their well-thumbed books to the book exchange (which consists of an amalgamation of Danielle Steel novels and classics like “Lolita”) or their canned goods to the pantry, or simply by putting a few extra cents in the tip jar (which, on this particular day, reads, “Tip extra big for Brandon’s birthday!”).

In addition to providing a pleasant space for neighborly interaction, Oveflow holds many events that bring together their initiatives of community building and social justice. As Amanda says, “Changing the world is really tough, especially if you’re trying to do it alone.” Movie nights, held monthly in an auditorium in the same building as Overflow, feature films about social justice issues. Recently, the coffee bar showed the film “Good Fortune,” which tackles the subject of poverty-fighting efforts in Africa. Profits from the screening were used to finance a microloan to a small business owner living in poverty.

Monthly open mic nights let residents share their musical and creative talents, and for a few days in late February and early May, the coffee bar hosted readings as part of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs’ annual conference. Last year, a highly attended State of the South Loop address was held at Overflow, a clear indication of the kind of community space the coffee bar has become. And on Sundays, Overflow hosts a discussion section on social justice issues, considering solutions to problems that plague both the South Side and the world beyond.

Brandon and Amanda now hope to expand their community building initiatives into another sphere—religion. As a student at the UofC, Amanda became involved with the Hyde Park Vineyard Church, and she and Brandon hope to bring a congregation of the global church movement to the South Loop.

But Amanda says that she’s not interested in proselytizing or preaching religious dogma. Instead, in both the South Loop Vineyard she and Brandon hope to start and in the coffee bar they own, the couple aspires to create a place where people of their community from various backgrounds and ideologies can all come together. Overflow is, as Amanda puts it, “proud to be known for being the coffee shop that cares about the neighborhood.”

Overflow Coffee Bar, 1550 S. State St. Monday-Friday, 7am-8pm; Saturday, 8am-5pm; Sunday, 10am-6pm. (312)772-2356. overflowcoffeebar.org

“It’s a very scary disease,” says Hedreen, a writer, filmmaker, and first-time participant in the national conference of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP). “Brain Trust” was one of the many off-site events that was held during the conference last weekend. Hedreen found writers through the AWP off-site events page, and secured the venue through an old friend. Hedreen is particularly concerned about the fear and silence surrounding Alzheimer’s disease, which affects 5.1 million American families, and wanted to reach out to other writers who are addressing memory loss in their work.

The readers at “Brain Trust” came from around the country to attend the AWP conference. Drawn by Hedreen’s advertising on the AWP page, they decided to dedicate an hour to readings on the difficult topics of Alzheimer’s and dementia. The readers and the audience were excited to meet each other, heartened by the discovery of a community. And though the room buzzed with caffeine and conversation, the atmosphere was more subdued at “Brain Trust” than at the typical AWP reading. Not only were the readers generally a bit older—there were as many professors as MFA students—but the subject matter demanded serious treatment and had affected almost all of the writers’ lives. Sporting sweaters, nice scarves, and an air of solemnity, for the scheduled hour they read memoirs, poems, and novel excerpts. They all seemed to know the physical details of this terrible disease, which affect the brain’s ability to think, plan, and remember. They are also cognizant of what it feels like when a beloved relative’s memory has deteriorated so far they can no longer remember the names of those closest to them.

They are all part of a sort of tribe, one reader said, “a club they shouldn’t have to belong to.” Each of them had a family member affected by Alzheimer’s or dementia, and many served as caregivers. Their writing was informed by the experience: one poem expounded on the fast-slow pattern of memory loss shown in an Alzheimer’s patient, and an excerpt from a novel used clumps of text to reproduce what goes on in the mind of an Alzheimer’s patient.

The featured writer for the night was Alice LaPlante, who just finished her first novel, titled “Turn of Mind.” When her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she tried to cope with the disease’s effects on her and her family by writing. “I couldn’t really get anywhere with my private writing until I started fictionalizing it,” she said. Her novel, a murder mystery told from the point of view of an Alzheimer’s patient who is the primary suspect in the case, attempts to “push the reader in the space” of an Alzheimer patient’s brain. While her book jacket describes the novel as “unputdownable,” LaPlante says that the plot is only incidental. LaPlante’s novel, instead, helped her to connect to the mind of her ailing mother, making bearable through fiction what was unbearable in reality.

The readers all discussed coping strategies, both pragmatic and spiritual. One reader suggested trying to fill in a patient’s memory working from the edges in, like a puzzle. Another reclaimed medical jargon by describing the plaque that forms around the neurons of a brain affected by Alzheimers as “twisted like morning glory vines.”

While the styles and formats of each of these works differed, the authors reached a kind of communion in words. These writers, together, translated a painful experience of loss into the world of literature. One poet described how, in her attempts to see a silver lining in caretaking, she imagined that her dad’s memories weren’t leaving him, but instead going to be kept somewhere else, on some hidden planet. Another, reflecting on the manner in which Alzheimer’s patients seem to be stuck repeating the same moments over and over, suggested that maybe they were just repeating it until they got it right.

Jamie Keiles

Three types of people turned out last Sunday for the Chicago Boat, Sports & RV Show: boat people, family people, and conventioneers.

The boat people flocked to McCormick Place for the boats. They bought boats (last year’s floor models), sold boats (“Rock-bottom boat show prices!”), and complained about things that were not boats (“Starbucks coffee is frou-frou!”). Atop the convention center’s lake-blue carpets landed boats formed a maze. In the alleys between the vessels, boat people talked shop, comparing specs on the various yachts, pontoon boats, and cabin cruisers on display.

The family people were not there for the boats. Children ran rampant and unsupervised across the convention floor, fingerprinting waxed fiberglass, kicking RV tires, and fishing for trout in the Huck Finn Trout Pond—basically a glorified baby pool with fish in it. For these kids’ parents, the boat show was merely this weekend’s alternative to a babysitter or a trip to Chuck E. Cheese’s.  From the sidelines of the show, the parents sipped sodas and looked relieved that the convention center’s attractions provided a momentary respite from the trials of parenting.

The conventioneers working the booths looked exhausted. For some, Chicago was nothing more than the fourth of many stops on the national boat show tour. Vendors arrived on Thursday equipped with bags of free giveaways, but by Sunday were running low on both energy and stock. They distributed the remaining promotional materials with an air of lethargy. Frequently, these giveaways had only tenuous links to boating. A kiosk advertising boat slips in Michigan offered free ChapStick. The Shedd Aquarium representative distributed chamois. Visitors enthusiastically hoarded these giveaways in promotional tote bags provided by Progressive, the show’s premier sponsor.

Cabela’s, an outdoor sporting outfitter, laid out one of the show’s more impressive spreads. At their booth, attendees fondled portable chairs, salivated over outdoor cookware, and camped momentarily in the display tents underneath the corrugated metal sky of the convention center. Touching the products was permitted. Though if it were not, it is doubtful that guests would’ve kept their hands to themselves.

One attendee, an Illinois resident who had just purchased a lake house in Indiana, attended the boat show in hopes of learning more about pontoon boats, a purchase he hopes to make in the future. Like many others, however, he seemed skeptical of the show’s capacity to turn a profit.  “I had a great time,” he explained.  “But I’m not really sure what kind of person actually buys a boat at these things.”

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Like the towering glass condominiums and clean brick storefronts that surround it, Waffles looks modern. The restaurant is sleek, clean, and well lit, with wide windows and neatly placed minimalist tables and chairs. As in a Rothko painting, long strips of solid colors line the gray walls, matching the large, painted “W” that hangs from the ceiling. And, in case you’ve forgotten why you came, the  restaurant’s graphic waffle logo is imprinted on the wall to remind you.

As you walk up to the counter in the front, Frank Sinatra tunes jingling in the background, the entire cooking process is laid bare before your eyes. Cooks prepare cupcakes and milkshakes, mix batter, and press down on rows of French waffle irons. The baked waffles, which come out of the irons in a variety of shapes and colors, are then handed through a wide window to the restaurant’s rear kitchen, where they are decorated with a boggling variety of sweet and savory toppings that include spicy Mexican chocolate, cheddar cheese, and braised short rib. Maple syrup is, of course, always an option.

Following the advice of Mitch, the counterman, we ordered the waffles Benedict served with pork and the classic chicken and bacon waffle. “If you like meat,” he said, “you get a lot of meat.”

Careful attention was paid to the presentation of both dishes. For the waffles Benedict, a waffle about the size and thickness of a 400-page paperback book was cut diagonally, placed on a long, thin china plate alongside sprigs of greens, and topped with two large poached eggs, a generous helping of yellow Hollandaise sauce, and neatly arranged slices of pork shoulder. The combination of tastes was so rich that taking more than a few bites quickly became a daunting task, and blurred the lines between breakfast and lunch.

The chicken and bacon waffle was less complex, though still gourmet in its presentation. A drizzle of maple syrup lined the edges of the plate and a very lightly fried, barely breaded chicken leg and thigh were set on top of the waffle. Bacon bits were infused into the batter and more were sprinkled on top. The bacon flavor—though strong and bordering on over-the-top—blended well with the maple syrup and waffle. With its strong, bacon flavor and classy presentation, the dish aimed for elegance over the workman simplicity of the soul food standard, but it may have taken a formula that already works too far.

The highlights of the menu are their sweet waffles, in part because the chefs keep them simple. The green tea waffle was a heavenly combination of macha-infused batter and a generous portion of sweet cream garnished with pistachios. These ingredients blended perfectly with the soft and warm texture of the waffle—an irresistible combination where nothing else matters but the next bite.

The only drawback to the green tea waffle is the price: $9.95 for a dish that is essentially a dessert. While not cheap, prices at Waffles are comparable to those of other restaurants in the neighborhood, and there is a posted 15-percent discount for college students Monday through Thursday that the waitstaff happily offered on a Friday as well.

The menu does offer soups, salads, sandwiches, and a handful of interesting omelet choices, if the main attraction does not hold its appeal.

Like the pristine neighborhood of towering and unfamiliar condominiums in which the restaurant is situated, Waffles brings its humble breakfast food to rarified airs. You may still soon find yourself reaching into your freezer for the comfortable familiarity of a frozen Eggo, but the restaurant’s extravagant creations are, at the very least, memorable in their decadence.

1400 S. Michigan Ave. Monday-Friday, 7am-3pm; Saturday, 8am-3pm. (312)854-8577. waffleschicago.com

Maggie Sivit

From far away, the towering condo buildings of the South Loop appear crystalline and new, the products of more than 30 years of development. Yet the streets tell a much different story, worn by the highs and lows of the neighborhood’s past. Once the place to live in Chicago, Prairie Avenue hosted some of the city’s most recognizable families, including the Pullmans and Fields. At the turn of the 20th century, however, factories moved in, and the area’s wealth gravitated north to the increasingly affluent area along the Gold Coast. All but eleven of the original houses on Prairie Avenue were demolished to make way for printing factories, manufacturing plants, motor show rooms, and low-income boarding houses.

With the decline of one community came the rise of another. The studios of Record Row on South Michigan Avenue recorded some of Chicago’s seminal artists, from Muddy Waters to Memphis Slim to Bo Diddley. Sprinkled across the surrounding neighborhood were vibrant blues, jazz, and soul clubs, a scene ignited by the Great Migration that was rapidly transforming the entire South Side.

Since the 1960s, developers have moved in to build the South Loop up and up. The boxy behemoth McCormick Place has drawn massive numbers of business travelers to the neighborhood. New townhouses, vaguely reminiscent of the Prairie Avenue extravagance of old, line many side streets. Amid the recently constructed high-rises, hints of the neighborhood’s past sit tucked in worn storefronts and down back alleys. Don’t be blinded by the sheen of the new steel and glass towers—despite the many twists and turns of Chicago’s past, the South Loop has been here since the start.

Best Time Machine
The Glessner House Museum
The Glessner House belongs to a different Chicago. Billowing smokestacks, corrupt politicians, rough-and-tumble streets, this Chicago followed the tides of industrial progress. The home’s stone fortress façade is unmistakable. Windows like arrow slits and a wall of giant granite impose on the street a sense of awe and fear. Designed by American legend H. H. Richardson (famous for the Trinity Church in Boston), the home was built in 1885 for businessman John Glessner and his family. Glessner was an early champion of the Arts and Crafts Movement, reflected at every turn inside the house: intricate woodworking by Isaac Scott, ornate silver pieces, imported English textiles, and even a lavishly inlaid Steinway. Amid these proto-modernist details, it is easy to see the house’s influence on such architects as Louis Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wright. The garrison-like exterior of the house protected the Glessner family from the cruel streets of the growing industrial district, while the inside showed off the opulence that was its fruit. The contrast between this warm interior and the imposing walls outside strike a chord about that old Chicago—the tensions between industry and nature, and the stark divide between rich and poor. Walking through the house you get a sense of how far the city has come. Or, depending on your view, how little. 1800 S. Prairie Ave. Wednesday-Sunday, 11:30am-4pm. (312)326-1480. glessnerhouse.org  (Isaac Dalke)

Best Perch
Little Branch Café
With old tree stumps-as-barstools, Little Branch Café offers its patrons a surprisingly organic experience within the faceless glass of a new high-rise. The dark wood floor and stylish paper light fixtures create a cozy atmosphere to enjoy in-house and locally made pastries and coffee. Still, it strives to be much more than just a high-quality coffee shop. The café offers a full-service bar and a gelato counter. Wednesday through Friday, Little Branch even serves a modest dinner menu, with entrees such as “Chicken & Waffles” and a croque-monsieur crepe. It’ll come as no surprise that their delicious hot paninis are aimed at the lunchtime office crowd. Slowly expanding operations since it opened in 2007, Little Branch is quickly turning into the South Loop’s best spot for light fare. And, as the name suggests, it’s a great place to alight for a rest after a tiring day. 1251 S. Prairie Ave. Monday-Tuesday, 7am-4pm; Wednesday-Friday, 7am-10pm; Saturday, 8am-10pm; Sunday, 8am-4pm. (312)360-0101. littlebranchcafe.com (Isaac Dalke)

Best Headbanging
Reggies Rock Club
For anyone looking for a taste of Chicago’s gritty rock scene, Reggies is the city’s go-to venue south of the Loop. Whether punk, hard rock, metal, grind core, or eclectic fusions, Reggies reels you in week after week as a three-in-one record store, music joint, and rock club. The 21+ music joint offers a full bar and restaurant with a mini stage that features smashing late-night sets. The more cavernous all-ages and 17+ rock club next door has hosted big names such as L.A. Guns, Brit punk legends the Adicts, and underground thrash metal masters DRI. If you ever find yourself wandering around the South Loop, keep your eyes open for a mash of leather, mo-hawks, piercings, and tattoos taking a smoke break. Follow the crowd in through the pitch-black doorway, pass by the merch booth and anchor yourself next to the giant speakers with a good pair of earplugs. Don’t worry, even the regulars take such a precaution. But if you need to feel a bit tough, the moshing won’t be too long coming. 2105 S. State St. See website for show times and cover charges. (312) 949-0120. reggieslive.com (Marina Grozdanova)

Best Afterlife
Willie Dixon’s Blues Heaven
The Rolling Stones’ track “2120 South Michigan Avenue” grooves atop a punchy guitar and soulful harmonica. A steady beat completes the quick, fun number,  framing the interplaying treble. However, the actual 2120 South Michigan Avenue, now Willie Dixon’s Blues Heaven Foundation, would be better immortalized by a three-part epic. Once the home of Chess Records, the old studio recorded blues hits by the likes Dixon, Howlin’ Wolf, and Muddy Waters. However, by the late 60s Chess was mired in a royalties controversy and eventually succumbed to financial ruin. Boarded up, the building was purchased in 1992 by Dixon’s widow to house the foundation her husband created before passing. The foundation now serves as an office, museum, and concert venue. Inside, memorabilia from the Chess Records era covers the walls. In the back rooms, the foundation organize programs to assist aging blues musicians while supporting up-and-comers. Outside, in an enclosed pavilion called the Blues Garden, they host blues concerts in warmer months. 2120 S. Michigan Ave. Tours available Monday-Friday, 11am-4pm; Saturday, 12pm-2pm. $10. (312)808-1286. bluesheaven.com (Tyler Leeds)

Best Place to Spot a Snowy Owl
Northerly Island
Northerly Island (actually a peninsula) hosted Chicago’s second World’s Fair in 1933-1934 before it was converted into an airport. Eighty years later, that airport, called Meigs Field, entered into Chicago political lore when former mayor Richard M. Daley controversially bulldozed the runway under the cover of night, stranding sixteen aircraft on the tarmac. The move cleared the way for completion of a small holdover from the 1909 Burnham Plan. After nearly a century, the island offers a glimpse of Burnham’s grandiose vision of converting the city’s islands into parkland. Wild prairie hosts native flowers and the island is a stopover for migratory birds (and the best place in the state to spot a snowy owl). A stroll along the island’s paths reveals one of finest views of Chicago: the downtown skyline rising up at a distance from behind tall, windblown grass. If you don’t make it there by the time snow blankets the island, grab a pair of cross-country skis at the island’s field house—the views will still be astounding, if a bit bleak. 1400 S. Lynn White Dr. Field house open Monday-Sunday, 9am-5pm in the late spring, summer, and autumn; Saturday-Sunday, 10am-5pm in the winter and early spring. (312)745-2910 (Gregor-Fausto Sigmund)

Courtesy of Mohamed Sharif*

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McCormick Place East is in a difficult position. The building’s opaque rectangular faces emphasize its awkward, ominous beauty and its massive overhanging roof gestures towards its peculiar environment. Immediately before its northern façade stand some of Chicago’s greatest cultural landmarks, and one of the most lauded skylines in the world arises to the west. Just beyond the parking lot, miles of uninterrupted green space unfold from its southern elevation, packed with runners, picnickers, and tourists. In 1836 it was mandated that the lakeshore would be “forever open, clear, and free,” but McCormick Place East violated this promise. To the east, waves on Lake Michigan break on the outer edge of Northerly Island, a reminder of the once natural state of the building’s site.

For forty years, the imposing edifice of McCormick Place East has loomed in this context. But now, amid concerns of structural problems and inadequacy as an event center, the future of the structure is now in question. For the architects, environmentalists, politicians, and everyday people who have long disputed the building’s merits, the chance to decide what will become of the exhibition space has been a long time coming.

The first iteration of McCormick Place was a source of contention from the moment the foundation was laid in 1960. Chicago’s first permanent exhibition hall, the original McCormick Place aggravated tensions between those in the convention business and the Near South Side residents living nearby. Robert McCormick, the Chicago Tribune editor for whom the convention center is named, was the biggest advocate for the building’s Chicago lakefront location. Using his wealth and influence, McCormick, nearly single-handedly, pushed the issue with politicians and civic groups.

McCormick died in 1955, before he could ever see his dream of a Chicago conference center realized. His campaign was taken up by other Tribune figures, including longtime editor George Tagge, who combated both Chicago Park District Board officials concerned for the lakeshore and other interest groups attempting to slow the project’s progress. In his memoir, Tagge remembers the Tribune’s influence on the the development, as its major opposition. “It was a controversy of major size…the basic rock-hard opponents, if they could get nothing else, they sought to delay, delay, delay, delay because if it was delayed long enough the millions of dollars piling up in the State Treasury would, over a period of years, find some other outlet,” notes Tagge. “The Exposition Authority was essentially under our control…One of the main battlegrounds was of course the Chicago Park District Board itself. They had to make available the requested 40 acres of land with all kinds of hell breaking loose around them…And horror of horrors that [McCormick’s] widow…Marilyn McCormick was aiding the objectors. She had been quietly enlisted by the people protecting the lakefront.”

Despite the host of detractors, and perhaps with some degree of coercion by the building’s main champions, the hall was ultimately constructed in 1960. The original building, just as massive and rectangular as the modern version, was constructed primarily of steel, with stark concrete faces interrupting the formerly unadulterated view of the lake—much to the chagrin of those in favor of maintaining an open lakeshore. When the building burned down just seven years later, critics and open space advocates had barely begun to dream up alternative locations before Richard J. Daley had settled on the construction of a new convention center to be built atop the ashes of its predecessor.

The task of designing the structure was given to Gene Summers, a former associate of Mies van der Rohe, the Chicago-based legendary pioneer of minimalist architecture. The new hall was erected in just a few months in1971, primarily thanks to the massive amounts of money funneled into the project from cigarette and horse-racing taxes via the creation of the Metropolitan Fair and Exposition Reconstruction Fund. Stylistically a far cry from the its forerunner, the concrete monolith, the second, and current, McCormick structure is a gargantuan column-less exhibition space enclosed by glass and steel.  An undeniably commanding meditation on postmodernism and a reflection of Chicago’s architectural heritage, the austere structure was once the most sought after exhibition site in the nation.

But according to the Metropolitan Pier and Exhibition Authority, the building is now in need of 150 million dollars worth of repairs and systems upgrades. Complaints against the current space range from routine maintenance to systemic updates needed to stay competitive against rising event destinations like Orlando and Las Vegas. In December 2009, the Sun Times reported a $36,000 difference in the cost of electricity for one booth at one trade show between Chicago and Las Vegas. This is just one of many reported incidences of price gouging due in part to the building’s structure, as well as the unions that maintain it. And though McCormick Place’s four interconnected buildings still make up one of the largest convention centers in the U.S., the East building itself may no longer be able to maintain its attractiveness as a conference location, considering its relatively small size and the recent overturn of labor law reforms that had enabled low operational costs and attracted conventions to the lakeside center. Furthermore, by virtue of its location and size alone, the structure is considered to be an environmental blight by many Near South Side residents for interrupting the once open lakeshore, with some calling for outright demolition. Mayor Richard M. Daley has been a strong detractor as well, echoing that McCormick Place East ruins the city’s skyline. During a press conference in December 2009, he commented, interestingly addressing both the price controversy, and the physical state of the buiilding, “You have to get away from gouging people. If you gouge ‘em, they’re not going to come back.”

With these concerns bearing down on McCormick, it seems that change is on the horizon. Precisely what that change will be, however, is still very much unclear. Like the pre-1971 building, the current structure has drawn a lot of flak, though many Chicagoans stand by its architectural value. As current problems with the state of the building and the rising costs of the space worsen, the Chicago Architectural Club (CAC) has taken up the task of stimulating debate about what should become of the deteriorating exhibition hall.

Along with the American Institute of Architects Chicago (AIA) and Landmarks Illinois, the CAC elected to use its Burnham Prize competition this year as a forum to decide the theoretical fate of McCormick Place East. An “international ideas competition,” one of the oldest and most prestigious of its type, this year’s Burnham Prize was intended to initiate a candid conversation about the building not just among architects and those in the events business, but anybody with a vision for McCormick’s future. “We’ve usually tried to choose a topic that was provocative or on the table, to try to start some new conversation on the issues,” said CAC president Tim Brown. “We tried to write a proposition that would elicit designs from all kinds of people, from landscape design and policy people, to firms with a dog in the fight.”

On Saturday, April 16th, a panel of nine architects shuffled about the airy interior of the Illinois Institute of Technology’s Crown Hall (a Mies van der Rohe modernist masterpiece), meticulously examining the anonymous submissions and flagging those that seemed worthy of the $3,000 top prize. The nearly 50 designs varied radically in their trajectories and underlying messages, and ranged from a “Chicago Speedway” racetrack to a floating stadium. But among the eighteen selected as the most “provocative” by the judges, there seemed to be a shared recognition of McCormick Place East’s fall from grace. As it stands today, McCormick Place East is ultimately a symbol of decay despite its undeniable aesthetic power and history. The commonality is interesting, especially considering that many of the designs were submitted from firms based abroad.

However, the winning proposals suggest strikingly different interpretations of how the building should be used. In third place, the “Horto in Urbs” design by San Francisco-based architects Matt Hutchinson and Brandon Pace posits turning McCormick into an open-plan indoor forest, with an aviary roof intended to “synthesize natural habitat and architectural ambition.” Slovenian competitor Srdan Nad’s “McCormick Square” design, which incorporates a shopping mall and Barack Obama’s presidential library into the current structure, took second place. After viewing Nad’s proposal, one judge remarked, “That’s not going to save the building.” Another, more appreciative judge lamented, “Why can’t we just have a tie?”

The first-place proposal, Mohamed Sharif, Felix Monasakanian, Efren Soriano’s “(Toward) a Requiem” is the most visually arresting and poetically moving submission. Intriguingly, this Los Angeles based group has a strong tie to Chicago—Mohamed Sharif studied architecture as an exchange student at the Illinois Institute of Technology, on the very campus where the judging took place. The group’s plan proposes stripping McCormick Place East down to its bare steel structure and allowing lake water to flow into the convention center floor, thereby allowing it to realize its “[longing] for an elegant and graceful end” by “becoming waterborne.” Essentially a proposal to turn the building into a testament to its former vanity by obscuring its function as an austere exhibition space, “(Toward) a Requiem” was undoubtedly the most poignant submission. “For a competition, it’s all about the visual image,” one judge commented. And though the panel was concerned with the fate of the space, the judge explained, “We’re not looking for a solution, and [Sharif, Monasakanian and Soriano’s design] has the most powerful idea and attitude.”

What is the purpose of an architectural competition that was not intended to generate viable practical answers to McCormick’s dilemma? Some dismiss the competition as a mere intellectual exercise or far-flung dream. The day after the competition was announced, Metropolitan Pier and Exhibition Authority trustee James Reilly sent an email to Chicago Tribune architectural writer Blair Kamin, stating, “Unless someone wants to spend hundreds of millions of dollars to replicate that space somewhere else on the campus, we will have to keep the building, at least the top part of it, in the trade show business.”

If it’s purely a money issue that’s stalling the transformation of McCormick Place East, however, good news may be in store for those hoping to change the colossus that dominates the lakeside. On April 26, the Metropolitan Pier and Exposition Authority transferred all operations at McCormick Place to SMG Management Inc., the same company that operates Soldier Field. And whether or not this change will have any bearing on actual plans to modify McCormick Place East, those in the design community are nonetheless determined to keep imagining. Tim Brown, for one, is currently working on a plan to turn the building into a “climate-tempered, year-round, indoor winter garden; a very strange indoor park.” Perhaps these wacky visions of McCormick Place East are exactly what the building needs: in their eccentricity, the proposals open up the possibility of real, meaningful change.

And though Tim Brown and the Burnham Prize competitors all seek to mitigate past wrongs without destroying an artistically significant structure, their shared aim is neither a self-serving ambition nor an act of reactionary damage control. Constructed with Chicago’s financial growth in mind, McCormick Place East has, according to one of the design proposals, long been a sign of “money mattering more than people.” In bringing this issue to the forefront now, the Burnham Prize competition poses the question to Chicago: how should this structure, space, and extraordinary location work for you? Though this call for renovation has yet to be heard, there is only really one way to keep the possibility alive. As AIA executive vice president Zurich Esposito puts it, “We’re not responding to a crisis here, but that’s all the more reason to have a dialogue now. Be prepared for the ‘what if’. That’s what this discussion is about.”

*Mohamed Sharif is a member of the faculty at the Southern California Institute of Architecture (SCI-Arc).

Tyler Leeds

Willie Dixon’s Blues Heaven Foundation occupies an iconic building from a bygone era. Located in the old home of Chess Records, a blues powerhouse in the ’50s and ’60s, the ornate façade stands in sharp contrast to the clean steel and glass of the high-end condos next door. Willie Dixon was a legend on the Chicago blues scene, but this morning the front door to his foundation and former record label is locked. It’s 11am, and my tour is scheduled to begin. Waiting, I admire the attached Blues Garden. Sectioned off by a wrought-iron fence, and decorated with metal silhouettes of musicians, the small outdoor space appears welcoming. “We hold concerts there in the summer,” a man says shuffling up to the building. He is Kevin Mabry, our self-described “tour guide, office manager, and janitor.” After making my required $10 donation for the tour, Kevin instructs me to go upstairs for a movie, which apparently is the entirety of the visit. Passing through the foundation’s gift shop, I feel a bit disappointed. Looking at the various posters and shirts, I see the likes of Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, and other blues greats connected to Chess Records, but the large room upstairs feels lifeless.

The film begins on a large flat panel television. The movie looks like it was ripped from a VHS that’s been played one too many times, but the black and white footage of people dancing 60 years ago on South Side streets is absorbing. Scene by the scene, the characters of songwriter Willie Dixon and the Chess family (who founded the record label) emerge. Dixon was a blues hero, coming up from Mississippi to Chicago where he would pen such classics as “Little Red Rooster” and “Hoochie Coochie Man,” made popular by Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters respectively.

The label owners, brothers Leonard and Phil Chess, appear amiable on screen, reminiscing about Dixon, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and encounters with Mick Jagger. Leonard and Phil Chess, who were born in a Jewish village in what was then Poland, immigrated to Chicago as children and later got involved in the music industry. In a surreal shot from the film, the two brothers appear standing in the precise location where the television that projects the film now sits. The progression of this scene slowly reveals the layout of the building. Sitting in a large white room with odd paneling, I realize I am in the studio. The hallways, now decorated with blues memorabilia, diverge and lead to plain offices. Though the magic of the studio is the draw for most visitors to the museum, the true drama of this story is hidden in these back rooms.

Lowering his voice, Mabry describes the alleged dark side of the label. “Imagine coming into work everyday and getting punched in the stomach. After a while, you wouldn’t want to come back.” Though the accusations are controversial and tangled in the complicated history of race relations in Chicago, the Chess brothers were consistently accused of not paying their musicians what they deserved. Their business practices drove away recording artists and contributed to the closing of the studio in 1969. While Dixon went on to recuperate some of the money Chess Records withheld from him, most were not so lucky. According to Mabry, however, the money Dixon received was “much less than what the papers said.”

After Dixon’s passing in 1992, his wife, Marie, purchased the old Chess Records building to house the foundation Dixon had created before his death. Now, the studio accused of exploiting some of the city’s best blues musicians is being used to support the scene today. With the Royalty Recovery program, the foundation offers assistance to blues musicians seeking rightful compensation for their work. In addition, the foundation offers emergency assistance to help senior blues musicians receive medical treatment, offers college scholarships, and provides career development for musicians.

All these projects, in the end, aim to keep the legacy of Chicago blues alive. For Mabry, it represents “an even balance” between raw talent and production detail, something lacking in today’s national market of superstar producers. Even more importantly, Chicago blues helped to “bridge the divide between black and white audiences.” If you need more proof, however, just take a listen to the Rolling Stones track “2120 South Michigan Avenue.” When you are done, make your way up to 2120 South Michigan Avenue, the tour is only $10.

Willie Dixon’s Blue Heaven, 2120 S Michigan Ave. Tours available Monday-Friday, 11am-4pm; Saturday, 12pm-2pm. $10. (312)808-1286. bluesheaven.com

Dogs of all breeds had come to the convention center prepared to take their run around the ring at the International Kennel Club of Chicago’s 150th Annual Dog Show. The animals seemed to be in one of two states of mind: either thrilled by the attention and excitement of the spectacle, or bored by the tedium of waiting for hours while being endlessly pulled and prodded to absurd perfection as their owners hoped for Best in Show. A collie getting his white paws powdered with chalk languidly looked up at his groomer, while a shih-tzu fussed as her owner lovingly adjusted the bow holding the fur above her eyes in a hairspray-hardened tuft. The dogs getting primped looked remarkably similar to those rendered in bronze statues by vendors at the show. LeeAnn, a breeder, explained, “Sometimes you win $500 or something, but most of the time you just bring home a ribbon. You don’t ever make back what you spend… Some people don’t go out for dinner or to the movies, they do this instead.”

Afforded some downtime, a young handler was fast asleep in a chair with the silky head of a Springer spaniel nestled in her lap. A border collie and its owner snacked on the same stale bagel nearby. People do it for the dogs, Jumper insisted. “The dogs really like it. The ones that don’t, well, they usually don’t work out.” An incredibly muscular young man in a tight shirt held the end of his dog’s lead as the dog furiously thrashed a plush toy. A woman’s voice floated over from the next row, “Excuse me, do you know where the workshop about the advantages of fresh, chilled or frozen canine semen is?” Tired from a long day and with no ribbons in sight, the young man looked up, his face reflecting the look of the dog in one of the crates behind him. It’s all fun and games, their expressions seemed to say, until this is your life.

And there it was—an amusement park. Lights shone and blinked. Screens flashed. Tall women in race car uniforms spun on platforms. It was big and beautiful. I was torn. I’m the public transit-type, you see—I hope to never own a car. And yet there I was, my hand gliding up the smooth backside of a Porsche. The curves were luxurious. The paint seemed moist. Did I dare go further? I pulled the handle, but alas, this one was locked. Running to and fro, I eventually made my way to a modest Mercedes. The door gently opened, offering me its leather interior.

Entering, I realized what I had been missing. The car’s form seemed tailor-made for me. The seat was sublime, the steering wheel worthy of the Met, and the dashboard looked like it could run a nuclear missile program. Stepping out, the price tag broke the spell. It was nice while it lasted.

The thing about love, though, is that you can’t possibly be right the first time. As I broke away from the Mercedes, a voice caught my ear. “This car is a celebration.” I turned and gasped, my breath mixing with a thousand different interior car scents. She was an Infiniti. Her paint was layered on with silver in between every coat. Her interior had old-fashioned trumpet horns for speakers. The clear plastic fence separating the two of us signified the ultimate futility of my heart’s yearning. Looking around, my jaw was not the only one to have dropped. I quietly wandered around, making my way to the more demure Hyundai section. Sometimes, it’s OK to settle.