A neighborhood stroll: Sicilian pastries, German leather repair, and the New Jersey wine mafia

One of the things I love about Chicago is that it has so many colorful and unique neighborhoods, and so many locally owned stores. I had a number of errands to run today, the most important being getting the strap on my purse repaired before it entirely snaps, and I set out to do them within walking distance of my house, in my little neighborhood of Andersonville.

I called a leather repair place nearby to see if they were open and available. The owner was Count Dracula in a movie I must have seen at some point in my life, I would recognize his voice anywhere. The conversation went like so:

Leather repair guy, with a very heavy vaguely eastern European accent: "Yes."
Me: "Hi! I was just wondering if you were open today."
LRG: "Yes, open."
Me: "What time do you close?"
LRG: "Close at 3:45."
Me: "I have a purse strap that is broken. Can you fix it?"
LRG: "Of course! I fix everything. [I am Count Dracula...] Bring it and I will see."
And then he hung up on me. Hung up! As he was putting down the phone I swear I heard him mutter, "And I vill drink your blood. BWAH HAH HAH!"

So I went to see him because who wouldn't want to meet Count Dracula on a crisp October Saturday? He had a small, very cluttered shoe repair place. I showed him the purse and he looked at it and said, "It is plastic. [Ptooey!]" (The inner lining of the strap is plastic; it has leather around it.) And I asked if he could fix it anyway, and he said, "I will put glue and some stitches. Five dollars. Come back, 30 minutes." And he turned away. There was no blood sucking, slightly disappointing.

I set out to wander around the neighborhood for 30 minutes, starting with a great local card/paper store. They had the Christmas cards out, and while I normally balk at premature Christmas displays, I am ALL ABOUT the holidays and the change of seasons and the coming new year, because 2007? IT SUCKED. The sooner it goes, the better.

Anyway, the cards were fun and amusing and I will definitely go back when it's time to get some. Then I wandered over to an Italian bakery that specializes in Sicilian pastries and got my favorite, a little tartufa number to die for. About the size of a hamburger bun, with a pastry top and bottom and a chocolate mousse filling made by the gods, covered with a layer of chocolate powder. Served by a cute guy. Fabulous.

THEN I wandered next door to a new store that specializes in jams, mustards, spreads, oils, and vinegars--basically, stuff in jars. I'd gotten an artichoke spread there that was fantastic and wanted to try a different spread I'd seen last time. She had her olive oils out for tasting, as well as a tapenade and some little toasts. Fantastic.

Lastly, I stopped by the wine store. The guy at the counter had a knowledgeability that was at once helpful and overly earnest with a touch of smugness that was slightly offputting. I asked for a sweet white, a Riesling or Gewürztraminer. He asked if I could be more specific. I understand that's a reasonable question for a winey (the wine equivalent of a foodie?), but I didn't really have much more to offer (in a blue bottle? from the far southeastern corner of Austria? Pressed by hand in a Venetian nunnery? I dunno). I pulled out all the wine jargon I knew and threw it at him. "OK, I'd like a white wine that is sweet but not as sweet as a dessert wine, with a touch of fruitiness, and not too dry. Dry, blech." That was all I could offer him. He pulled out something from Washington state, gave me a little spiel, I said fine, I'll take this, and another one. What else you got? And then he reverently took out a tall thin green bottle.

"This is a verdelho, found in Portugal or Australia. This is a Portguese, a 2006. This bottle of wine is the last of its kind in the state. Because the New Jersey wine mafia, they snap up all the Portuguese wines before anyone else can get them. But we can get a crate or two because we have connections, see? This is the last bottle in the state." (He shook his head and lovingly ran his hand across the label, clearly reluctant to part with it.) "The New Jersey wine mafia, they're nice guys."

With an offer like that, how could I refuse? But I do hope this $14 bottle of wine does not get me kneecapped.

And then I swung back by the leather repair place, picked up my purse (tried to get him to fix the inside of my shoe but was rebuffed--"It's nylon. See, nylon! [Ptooey!]") and returned home with my purchases.

I love my little neighborhood. Now, if only I had $1.2 million, I could buy a house here.