Heaven thy name is Margie

Since you all responded so positively to the gluttony that is my Icelandic hot dog blog, I think I will devote yet another blog to food. Also, food gives me more enjoyment than it should, so it is all I can think to write about. I really wanted to do a photo blog documenting my trip to one of my new favorite places to eat in Chicago, but I didn't have my camera and frankly, I'm doing my best to not go back for at least a week. But I looked online and there were plenty of pictures representing just about everything I would have anyway (except a picture of me taking a large bite) so I think this will work.

I was out eating dinner with a friend the other night at a place that had no desserts. We were both craving something sweet so she said, "What about Margie's? Have you ever been there?" I have passed Margie's a million times and always wonder about it, but never stop in. She said, "You just have to go. You are going to love it."

You know when you see something from the outside, or hear about something and build up a picture of that thing in your head an it turns out it looks completely different? For example, I always have a picture in my head of what radio personalities (I enjoy the expression "radio personality" because it really sums up the experience of listening to someone on the radio, especially a talk show host. Because of the fact that you can't see them, it is their winning personality that hooks you. Just like a fat, witty girl.) look like and they very rarely look as I picture them, with the one exception being Ira Glass who looked EXACTLY as I pictured him. I've stopped looking because I'm always disappointed. I had a crush in high school on Steve Dahl until I realized he was in his fifties and looked like this. Not to say he doesn't have his own boyish good looks, but just not what I had expected, and not appropriate for a 16 year old. I had to take a 6 year sabbatical from listening to him to recover from the shock. (The addendum to this story is I have since developed fairly substantial crushes on his sons who are my age-ish, one of which went to Northwestern, my alma mater, not that I met him. Those crushes started spiraling out of control so I pretty much had to stop listening to Steve Dahl for awhile. I realized it is time to stop when you start fantasizing about Steve Dahl as your father-in-law. Really, I'm not crazy, I just have a colorful imagination.) So that was a pretty big tangent to illustrate a point. Margie's looked nothing like what I had expected. This place escaped every decade since the 1950's without alteration. The vinyl beige booths are probably still the same. The individual jukeboxes at every table, which I assume don't work, are still there. The needle point pictures of flowers adorning the wood paneling are still the same. My friend told me, "It's not kitschy. It's not hip. It's authentic." I couldn't have said it better myself.

We looked over their sizable menu of ice cream options before I settled on the Banana Split. Fudge was a must so I went with the three scooper that clearly indicated it had fudge. When I ordered, our stereotypically-Chicago-adorable-beyond-belief waitress indicated that I might want to get the banana split that just had the two scoops. I had considered that option, but as it didn't specify that it had fudge, I had moved on. Normally there is nothing I can't stand more than a waitress suggesting I am eating too much. However, after a quick sneer, I realized I like this woman's salt and pepper hair and I don't think she is judging me, so I won't insist on eating three scoops just to prove a point. I asked if the two scooper had fudge, which it did, so all was good.

Individual orgasms in each of my taste buds would not have been as wonderful as eating this ice cream. The fudge, was "kettle heated" and on the side and was thick and silky and glorious. It was the best and biggest two scoop banana split I have ever had and it was only $3.95. Cold Stone can suck my ass with their $5 mini scoops of nothing. I really don't know how I existed before I knew about this place, or how I lived in Chicago for so long without anyone telling me about it. I promise next time I go back to take my own photos to share with you all. Until then, may you have hot fudge like Margie's incorporated into every dream.