302West ranks as my top destination for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it happens to be the place where I "came of age" and started to take note of the artistry and entertainment value of "better" dining up the river. So its only fitting that I lead off with it since my first experience there was the nexus point beyond which all of my other dining travels have taken me.

Located in the heart of Geneva, Illinois, and settled within the shell of one of those old fashioned country banks with high ceilings and arching windows, 302 has been presenting "modern" American cuisine for almost 20 years now.

Somewhere high-toned jazz is buzzing in the background on Fridays...
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What I have always noticed over the years is that the staff has always had a certain unpretentious quality, for all of these esoteric surroundings of old statism with a new color pallet. They are usually efficient and knowledgeable, but aren't nose-up if you don't know a 1968 Cabernet - Private Reserve Georges de Latour from an 84/85 Napa Valley Merlot (Duckhorn). That's what got me - when I walked in the very first time lo these many years ago I was a true novice. I knew enough to make a fool out of myself but the staff never let me actually go ahead and trip up. Nowadays I may have only progressed as far as knowing you don't sniff the bottom of the cork when they open the bottle for you, but I like to think I can actually taste the berries in a good Zinfandel instead of just nodding so as not to look like an idiot.

Joel and Catherine Findlay started the place in the 80s, and Catherine has always been there - available but unobtrusive - to ease you into your evening. This is food-as-theatre, though not exactly over-the-top or pretentious. The presentations are to the eye what the taste will be to the mouth. But every last morsel is there for a reason, and some of the portions often go beyond the more miniscule, overly-delicate and artsy restaurant experiences I've left still hungry after in other venues.

It should be noted that Joel Findlay passed away this past July. Noted for his philanthropy as much as his iron-clad rules for building menus around what is seasonal, available and fresh, he has been succeeded by Jeremy Lycan, who learned his lessons well.

I've been there once since Lycan took over as executive chef, and it is safe to say the beat goes on. Dare I even say Lycan's take on things has brought a new energy to the expected standard? That's no slight to Joel Findlay - but a testimony to his generous tutelage.

I would recommend the combination of duck and pilaf in season, lamb that never misses whatever the preparation, and (according to my wife the expert at what happens after the entree) not a single item on the eye-rolling dessert list should be dismissed. And since it is rather extensive, you'll have to make a few trips. Chocolatophiles should do one there and order a different one for take home. That's all I'm saying.

But look - this is where I learned the language of Zinfandel (did I say the American-born wine list is one of the best I've seen?). This is where I tucked in my shirt. This is where I started to behave myself.

This is where you go...
302 West
302 W. State St.
Geneva, IL 60134-2103
630-232-9302

Call for reservations. Put it on your list.

Labels: restaurant reviews

What is the sum of one man's life? Tallying the balance of the things he's done and given against the things he's taken and discarded?

Imagine the veteran of the First World War looking out the window in the year 2001. 104 years-old if he's a day and what must he be thinking - if he's thinking? The 20th century gone and all his amounts in lost ledgers stuck in landfills. Calendars with all their notes in the margins and phone numbers and arrows and things circled again and again for emphasis. Fifty-two times two is the sum of face value, but the coins are slugs - not money - if there is no one left to spend the memory on.

A day will come when not a current soul on Earth will know he ever existed. Is becomes was and was is absolute zero to people measuring the time as it beats now.

We're all the same. Why should we expect people in the world to be different when we're gone? What makes you think people were any different from you in centuries gone by? Are you saying there wasn't some guy in ancient Rome who wished he had a little more money? Get over yourself...
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Do you remember the guy who delivered ice in Pittsburgh in 1889? No. He had a family and the family had a family but if he's anything now he's a shadow in a photograph stuck in the drawer and his name never gets mentioned. So that if the final subtraction erases all trace and not even eyes look on the headstone; what was the point of all that calculus?

And this is you too. Standing beside your coffin at your wake a man recalls a kindness you gave him or his wife or his child or his mother or someone while he watched and he relates it to people and everyone cocks their head and says what a good boy you were. But the man at the coffin and his wife and child and mother and any number of someones you helped or who stood around hearing what a wonderful man you were will also someday be subtracted and the memory and the testimonial with them. Zero sum. Do the math.

Is being named in a book children will fall asleep reading the sum of one man's life? Here's the cool algebra of Alexander, the green geometry of Tokugawa, the steel subtractions of Hitler, the snoring.

And what good was it if the formula reveals that your numbers come out negative? We know that's bad. We say that's bad. We make Christmas plays about it, and great moral templates stamp out multitudes of platitudes but we all know someone working on building their ponderous chain. Subtracting to their deficit. Gold coins this is not.

This is why some rely on God to know the final score. In fact God in God's entirety is an entity that knows the score despite the score. Professor Emeritus of The addition who never forgets, while humans divide and never remember. And as whole a number as the concept of God becomes, in the minds of the many it is just multiples of hope and prediction. Odds and statistics. When we do well we want someone to do the accounting. When we do ill we wish someone could cook the books.

Cook the books or the dinner? Like Vincenzo....

Labels: family, my life, old sentimental goof