Duck Duck Goat is star chef Stephanie Izard’s “reasonably authentic” take on Chinese food, located in Chicago’s West Loop – the Fulton Market District. My friends Carl and Nancy snagged reservations in late May and invited us along for the ride.
First off, let’s discuss the decor. Each room in this multi-room, high-ceilinged restaurant is decorated in a different but striking style. The lounge area is a lovely jade green, with a small but well-tended bar behind which rises an old fashioned mirror and about two dozen statues of goats. Many with lucky coins, others without. The room in which we ate was also jade green, but festooned with around sixteen different Bob Ross style paintings of calm forest waterfalls. You think they’re all the same at a casual glance, but if you look more closely you’ll pick up on the differences. The ceilings were dark cork for style and sound-dampening properties, inset with colorful crests and ornamentation.
The main room feels taller as well as larger thanks to the exposed pipes and the mahogany shelves up where our ceilings were, filled with goods that give the feel of an Indiana Jones market set-place, well-lit against the scarlet walls. I could spend a happy hour just walking through the place and taking in the feel.
We started in the lounge with Blind Goat Old Fashioneds: J. Henry Blind Goat Bourbon, Birch-Sarsaparilla, Angostura Bitters and an orange peel the likes of which I’ve never seen. Their mixologist really knows what he’s doing – not a hint of pith, and about as wide as a woman’s palm.
Our lovely server Sara recommended two dishes apiece for a group of four, as the food is served family-style typically in sets of 3-5 items. We wound up with eleven dishes total, plus dessert and perhaps another cocktail apiece.
Starters were possibly my favorite item of the evening: goat and duck skin spring rolls, lightly fried and served with two sauces. These little morsels could be a lunch for me and I’d be well pleased. The snap of the roll against the slightly musty flavor of good goat’s meat combined with the richness of rendered duck skin and the wonderfully hot mustard.
After that, wood-grilled duck hearts in horseradish aioli sauce. The lovely copper tang of organ meats blended with a perfect amount of smoke, with sliced scallions offering some vegetal relief from the supreme richness of the meat and sauce combination. At the same time we were served scallion pancakes with hoisin sauce and cabbage coleslaw. I’ve never had scallion pancakes this light and airy – thin, crisp, and warmed just so to balance the coolness of the slaw. These two together were a lovely combination.
After that we got pickled cucumbers as a palate cleanser followed by pork fried rice. I’m not normally a fan of fried rice, but the manner in which we were eating was protein-heavy, and carbs sounded like a good idea. (I would have preferred to try the Forbidden Goat, black rice with goat and pickled quail eggs, but I wasn’t about to push anyone at this stage.) The dish wasn’t as heavy or greasy as most fried rice, as I expected, and the pork belly and sausage were a real treat.
Frankly, I could have stopped here and been immensely satisfied. But no, oh no! There was more on the way.
Horn Shu Rao – braised pork belly – which was properly prepared, but a bit gelatinous for some members of our party. I enjoyed the entire thing immensely and wound up enjoying their servings as well. A plate of pickled mixed vegetables and a dish of the most amazing green beans in black bean sauce with fried onions and cashews I have ever had. These two vegetable dishes together gave me a world of enjoyment.
Barbecue pork Bao buns, half apiece, really put me over the edge. These were good, and it may be my increasing discomfort, but I don’t think I’d get them again personally. On top of that pork we got jiazao – fried potstickers of short rib and bone marrow – which would rank as my second favorite items of the night after the spring rolls we started with. Completely different profiles, with these being rich and dark and smoky and divine; much better suited for the end of an evening.
Of course, then we saw a plate of regular wood grilled short ribs being served at the next table and, being who we are, added an order of those. Again, I’m afraid I wound up eating more than my share as some in the party had believed they would be boneless rather than bone-in. Saucy, sesame-laden, and pillow-soft to the tooth once you got through the tantalizingly crisp wood crust.
For dessert, blueberry and bullet chili sorbet topped with shaved rhubarb ice, “crunchy corn cereal” which I believe – but cannot prove – came from a certain Captain of the cereal industry – caramelized condensed milk, blueberries, and an incredibly delicious take on rhubarb slices that melted in the mouth.
The bill was also … remarkably low. I have honestly had much less food at a similar price here in the suburbs, routinely. I had fully planned to spend twice what I did for this experience, which makes it all the sweeter.
Admittedly, sleeping was an issue after that much rich and incredible food, but I’ll gladly trade a good night’s sleep for a meal I’ll still be thinking about for years to come. I am an unabashed fan of Duck Duck Goat and look forward to trying Chef Izard’s other locations in the near future.
So here’s the story about how lyrics I’ve known for over 30 years brought me to happy tears tonight.
You first need to know that my wife, Leanne, is a fabulous artist. She makes amazing jewelry, and she had the courage to strike out on her own several years ago. Since then, the economy has performed its usual fol-de-rol, and as such she’s decided to take on a side job at a grocery chain.
Her shift this morning was 6 AM – 2 PM, and she left the house before I was out of bed. As such, when I came home at 4:30 (PM), she was cocooned in a blanket on the sofa. While I am often out of bed before she is, it’s rare that I have a chance to see her sleeping and at peace; which brought this song to mind.
My late father Craig Ewert loved Jethro Tull, and I inherited that love when he shared it with me. Several old friends have told me they think of me when they hear Ian Anderson sing, and that makes me happy.
I kinda wanted to send Leanne this song, after watching her sleep this afternoon. But I’ve been burned by lyrics before, so I decided to double-check. And my mind, it was blown.
This song was recorded before I was born, and I’ve been mis-hearing the lyrics forever. In my head, they always went like this:
What a reason for waiting
And dreaming of dreams
So here’s hoping you’ll fail
In impossible schemes
A very Scots warning against over-reaching yourself. A very reasonable note that you won’t always succeed, that it’s all right to aim lower than you could, that nobody could blame you for settling. That really, in the end, you’re always going to fail.
But tonight, before sending them to my sleeping beauty, I looked up the lyrics on Google Play.
What a reason for waiting
And dreaming of dreams
So here’s hoping you’ve faith
In impossible schemes
I’m still in tears, frankly, over this confusion. That for thirty or more years, I’ve held back. And that I’m not too old yet for faith.
Thank you, Ian. Thank you, the long-gone Mr. Tull. Thank you to the Blades. Thank you to Leanne for this gift, and thank you to my father, who bequeathed me with cynicism and hope in equal measures.
Right. It’s a work night. No more tears, but thirty years of memories to unpack.
I am not, as a rule, one to write in or mark up books.
There are exceptions. I took notes in my college textbooks, of course. And I love workbooks, those companions to books designed to help you better some aspect of your life. I enjoy filling out the forms, ticking off the boxes, noting what’s most valuable to me. It would never occur to me to make those same notes in the primary book, though.
This may stem from the fact that I’ve got a 1st edition game book in my library which sells for over $200 on eBay, into which I scribed my name and address with magic marker as a child. Ce’st la guerre.
With that said, I adore finding marginalia that others have created. In used bookstores I’ll look for them most well-worn versions of whatever I’m interested in, hoping for dog-ears, annotations, long-forgotten mash notes.
I love the fact that my wife writes in her cookbooks. Sometimes it seems as if the entire recipe is crossed out, replaced with new ingredients and instructions; while at other times a simple “YUM” in capital letters lets me know I can prepare this dish without an issue. And a sweet friend recently presented me with a book simply riddled with highlighted passages, gifting me with a glimpse into what they find valuable and important.
There is something I adore about people who take notes like this, who treat the book not as some sacred relic but as a living part of their world. In a time where guarding ourselves seems so central to “getting ahead,” notes like these are a way to look into someone’s soul, to better understand the secret heart of the previous reader.
It also seems I may be in the minority when it comes to this reluctance to adding ephemera. A recent article in Business Insider, with the unfortunate click-bait title Five Principles That Will Help You Read More, included this gem:
One day I came across this idea where a book should be like a conversation between the reader and the author (…) and it just clicked. I realized that for me, books were too much like lectures. I could talk back. I started writing and making notes in the margins.
I don’t know. I understand the appeal in doing so, and as admitted, I delight in the fact that others work this way. It’s something to try, I suppose; starting with one of those self-improvement tomes that’s been assigned by the dayjob and which, miraculously, could actually be a decent read and of import to my current state. This is a revised edition of a book titled Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes, and while I’ve technically borrowed it from a co-worker, he’s made a gift of it. It seems like a logical place to start changing this habit.
When I was a boy, there was one thing I coveted above all else in the world; and that was my father’s library.
His den was lined with dark cork, where he could push-pin notes, sketches, or the completed crossword puzzles he loved. Along one wall, however, was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase which had no empty spaces.
The closest to his desk were the comic books, from his childhood: Uncle Scrooge Adventures being his favorite. Next came a shelf of history and mathematical texts, game theory and strategy.
The remainder was science fiction and fantasy, stretching from the 1930s to the 1980s.
I learned to read through his comic books, destroying them in the process. He didn’t mind. They were there, he said, to be enjoyed and read; not to be kept inviolate.
I moved on to the fantasy in kindergarten. We bonded not just as father and son, but as readers and fanboys.
I learned to pronounce words like “squamous,” learned the purpose and function of an iron maiden, learned what light speed and wormholes were at my father’s knee.
I made him swear that, when he died, the library would be mine.
He was a loving father, and when he moved from my childhood home back into his childhood home, he brought along every book except the comics.
When he moved to Scotland, he left them behind in a storage bin.
When he died, the books were mine.
I would have preferred he lived. The books were, however, some consolation.
Catching sight of his ashes while cleaning this weekend, his words returned to me: They are there to be enjoyed and read. Not to be kept inviolate.
That has to be balanced with my need for space, though. So the cartons have been carried into the attic, except a handful of books.
It also has to be balanced with my need to read more current fiction. Most of the genre work I read is from over thirty years ago, with a few notable exceptions.
I don’t intend to actually review these books – who needs a review of something published in 1953?
Instead, I want to share what they bring to me, what I take away from knowing this was important, once, to the man who was most important to me.
I’m starting with the hardcover first edition of Roger Zelazny’s Lord of Light.
As ALS was stealing his lung capacity, Dad altered his email signature to reflect one of its quotes:
“None sing hymns to breath; but O! To be without it …”
My publishers at Apocalypse Ink Productions ask the question in this post from January.
Honestly, horror isn’t my first choice to read. It hasn’t been since Lovecraft caught me in grammar school.
When I read it now, however, it gives me more understanding of the human condition than any other genre I enjoy.
Vampires in the Lemon Grove by Karen Russell is one such tale. At the age of forty, it speaks to me of the dissatisfaction that comes with age, the endless quest to keep your mind and soul and body satisfied and together. The horror in Russell’s story comes from an understanding of the track my own life is on, and the likely results of a slip.
The Monsters of Heaven by Nathan Ballingrud is a shattering story of loss, with a redemption that may be worse than the crime. It calls to mind helplessness, powerlessness, the heaviness of grief and the vast, undeniable gulf that guilt and isolation create. The horror comes not from the creatures, but the things which call them forth.
Both these stories feature monsters, but they are truly about people; people who live and suffer and ache. They are people to whom I relate, deep within.
The Shadow Minion at Apocalypse Ink reads horror for a frisson of fear, for the adrenaline rush. She reads to escape the boredom and stagnation of everyday life. I understand that, and yet …
I read horror not for the monsters, but for the victims – even when they are one and the same. I read not to be terrified by the things that happen to them, but to ache alongside of them at the choices they make, to weep out the darkness which they carry within.
Horror is not an escape for me. It is a release.
It reminds me that the world suffers, that others in the world suffer.
Horror tells me that things will not get better, will never be better, cannot be fixed.
Then I set down the book, and look at the peeling paint on my study wall. I feel the cold February drafts from the holes in my window insulation. I regard the ancient, half-broken computer on which I do not write enough under a bulb which has never given me enough light.
This reminds me that things can be fixed. From home improvement to toxic relationships to addictions. It is up to me.
Life can be a struggle. But even so, it is a beautiful struggle.
I read horror not for the darkness it displays, but for the light which it unwittingly reveals.
Am I the only one? Possible, but doubtful. Why do you read horror? Tell me.