Stevens, an editor at Endless Vacation^® magazine, went way over budget revisiting his former hometown—using the excuse that he’d missed out on the molecular maestros at Alinea and Schwa the first time around.

TABLE HOPPING
Less than a week before my trip to explore Chicago’s new crop of restaurants, I still didn't have a seat at two of the best: Schwa and Alinea. With only days to spare, a connected local helped me score a reservation at Alinea. But as my departure date approached, Schwa was still playing hard to get. Like Alinea, this cutting-edge restaurant earns critical acclaim for its exacting, whimsical dishes that borrow techniques (and often equipment) from the laboratory. But unlike Alinea, Schwa didn't seem to be answering the phone. In a dozen calls, I’d managed to leave exactly one message; the rest of the time the machine was full. Before giving up, I tried one more time. I later realized it had been Schwa’s chef, Michael Carlson himself, who picked up and took my reservation.

I arrived with an old friend for our early seating to find Carlson frantically ironing napkins. Now I know why they’re not returning calls, I thought to myself. By the end of the evening he was swapping bottles between guests and kick-starting cross-table conversations. He addressed everyone, including my pregnant fellow diner, as, simply, “dude.” It was much like a great dinner party, but one where your host can prepare dishes like a soft-boiled quail egg swaddled in a delicate, deep-pocketed ravioli. When you slide it whole into your mouth, it explodes in a yolky goodness.

On my last afternoon in town, my cell phone rang. It was Carlson, calling to offer me a table that night. I took a second to realize he was returning my message from a few weeks back. Deep dish was on my evening agenda, so I regretfully passed. But I did tell him I’d eaten at Schwa earlier in the week, and had found it brilliant. “Awesome,” said Carlson. Then he hung up—probably to call the next lucky winner.

BUILDING BOOM
My Chicago trip came too early to catch one of the city’s big architectural additions: the new Renzo Piano–designed expansion to the Art Institute, set to open in mid-May. The airy, lattice-covered structure adds 65,000 square feet of gallery space, dedicated to modern and contemporary art. After a gallery tour, you can float over Monroe Street on a new integrated footbridge that lands you in Millennium Park.

The one addition I did check out was The Donald’s new Trump International Hotel (401 N. Wabash Ave.). I was in search of a killer view (w/ cocktail) and had heard that Rebar, the hotel’s hip lounge, offered a superb riverfront perch. I settled into a dark leather armchair and watched the hustle of Chicago while nursing a well-mixed martini. A few days earlier I’d made the requisite trip up to the John Hancock Building’s Signature Cocktail Lounge and left disappointed, thanks to lackluster service and gaggles of excited camera hounds. Even the view was unsatisfying: From 96 floors up, Chicago looked like a specimen tacked out for display. But seen from the mezzanine-level Rebar, the city pulsed with energy. Skyscraper lights flickered on and off. A boat moved slowly towards Lake Michigan; cars streamed over bridges. I sipped slowly and soaked up the energy of my old city.

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