He died the day I joined The Club.
I drive down into the Loop and park my car in my reserved spot at the hospital. It’s a quick jaunt from there to Brassica Rex, and I have to keep my eyes from popping out of my skull like a damned Bugs Bunny cartoon when I see Bianca.
She’s standing outside the restaurant entrance wearing an ivory gown and sparkling pink lipstick. She’s styled her pearly blond hair into a magnificent updo. The fact that she doesn’t have wings is the only evidence that she isn’t an actual angel come to life.
She smiles as I approach her. “Good evening, Harrison.”
I take her hand and kiss it. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Same to you, stunner.”
I gesture to the front door of the restaurant. “Shall we?”
She nods. “I’d like nothing more.”
I escort her inside and the hostess greets us with a smile. “Good evening, and welcome to Brassica Rex. Do you have a reservation?”
“I do.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my emails to find the confirmation. “Five o’clock for two people. Should be under O’Rourke.”
The hostess nods and looks through her computer. “Yes, everything seems to be in order. Please follow me, Mr. O’Rourke.”
“That’s Dr. O’Rourke,” Bianca interjects.
The hostess’s cheeks flush. “Of course, my apologies.”
“Not an issue at all,” I say.
The hostess leads us into the restaurant’s interior. Brassica Rex is one of the finest eateries in Chicago, and even though I’ve been here a handful of times, I’m still blown away by the décor. Vaulted ceilings shimmer with hand-blown glass chandeliers, and the walls are paneled in dark walnut and brushed brass. Floor-to-ceiling aquariums glow softly between tables, and marble-topped oyster bars curve through the space. The hostess leads us to a booth outfitted with plush velvet benches. I wait for Bianca to take her seat before I take mine, and then I glance at the menu.
Bianca’s eyes widen. “Goodness. There are certainly a lot of options here.”
“I’ll make it easy for you,” I say. “Stick with the oysters. At least to start. That’s their specialty.”
“I was already planning on that, but the oysters section is so…exhaustive.” She sighs, puts the
menu down. “Okay, be honest. What do oysters actually taste like?”
I smile. “It depends where they’re from.” I open the menu and tap the section labelled East Coast Court with the back of my spoon. “These guys—Blue Point, Beausoleil, Island Creek—they’re briny. Sharp. Clean and salty, like seawater.”
Bianca winces. “So like…drinking saltwater?”
I laugh. “Sort of. But it’s a lot tastier. Think sea spray instead of a swallow of salt.” I go on, tracing down to the section marked West Coast Court. “Now over here—Kumamoto, Hama Hama, Shigoku—you’re in gentler territory. Sweeter. Creamier. Kumamotos especially.”
She squints. “How can an oyster be creamy?”
“It’s hard to explain. You’ll just have to try them and find out. And Shigokus?” I tap the name. “Those are tumbled in the tides every day, so the shells are deep and the meat’s firm. Crisp texture, cucumber finish. Little flash of melon if you pay attention.”
She leans back in the velvet booth, folding her arms. “This has to be the most poetic tour of an oyster menu anyone has ever experienced.”
I shrug. “Just trying to do the little buggers some justice.”
She traces her finger down the menu to the mixed-coast platter, titled The Emperor’s Flight. “This appears to be a sampler.”
“I’d definitely recommend that for a first timer,” I say. “You get a mix—the bite of the East Coast, the play of the West Coast. Plus a wildcard.” I chuckle. “The last time I came here, they slipped in this Fanny Bay from British Columbia—it smelled like driftwood and tasted like fog.”
She laughs. “I don’t know if you’re going to convince me with that.”
“Have no fear. I won’t steer you wrong.”
