ing Chicago and not a resident, I loved going to those big River North restaurants whenever I had a generous expense account or, better yet, whenever someone else did. I loved splurging on the veal chop, sipping the coldest martini, and never feeling underdressed because the conventioneers at the next table were still wearing their name tag lanyards. I loved the way these restaurants, purportedly French or Mexican, always had more than a little steakhouse in their DNA, tricking out their menus with shrimp cocktail and Caesar salad. More than anything, I loved their advocacy of the pleasure principle: their stupid-good wine
