In the years after my grandpa died, my grandma always went with us. She felt about downtown the way I did, I think, even though her version was far more elegant than mine: trips to Field’s to look around the 28 Shop—but never to buy anything—and lunch in the Walnut Room, or nights out at swanky places where you danced after dinner. She was of the generation of women who never left the house without a protective coat of lipstick, but a trip downtown on a Friday night meant the mink.
For a few years in the late 80s, my family had a tradition of going downtown to look at the Christmas lights on the night after Thanksgiving. My mother loves Christmas as only a Jewish woman raised on Miracle on 34th Street can. Some years, we ventured into the Loop for a quick circuit around the Marshall Field’s windows, but mostly we stuck to the Magnificent Mile. The white lights in the trees, the crowds on the sidewalks (even after dark!), the river at one end, the Drake Hotel and the lake at the other—it was a trip into the glamorous other world of adults, where my parents went on those nights they came home smelling of cold and cigarette smoke.
Grandma’s mental map of downtown was based on department stores. My dad’s—and probably Grandpa’s, too—was centered on the best junk food. And so my dad knew: North Michigan Avenue was pretty close to the Al’s Italian Beef on West Ontario.
During a particularly sad time of my adulthood, I went back there. My sadness polluted everything. The place was dingy, the cake was dry, and I was drinking coffee instead of hot chocolate. And, of course, I had missed the whole spirit of the thing, the aftermath of a strange and improbable (albeit very mild) adventure. Most of those sorts of meals in my later life took place at Denny’s or Steak ‘n Shake.
