Smile Politely. Speak Directly. A Champaign-Urbana Culture Blog

I have a particular image in my head. It's of an overweight mobster-type, sitting at a bar with his jacket off and suspenders displayed. His gut hangs over his belt line and as he puffs on a Monte Cristo, every so often he reaches over and grabs up half an oyster shell, squeezes a touch of lemon and splashes a douse of sauce on it.

Down it goes. Over and over and over.

I'd be lying if some part of me didn't want this image to actually be me.

That sound you hear is my wife filing divorce papers.

And now, back to lamenting like King David over the lack of Jew Food in Champaign-Urbana.

I recently stopped in to the newly refinished Hillel Foundation on John St. to settle a ten-year internal debate. A woman, who resembled every one of my mother's female relatives, was waiting at the desk.

"Would I have been eligible for the Birthright trip to Israel despite the fact that my parent's both converted to Christianity before I was born? After all, my blood is purely Jewish nonetheless." I asked her, politely, honestly.

She gave me a look of utter disbelief and disgust. "Why would your parents do something like that?"

While I know that some would argue with me to the ends of the earth about this, there is simply nothing very good about the pizza in this town.

Take Jupiter's pizza for example. I think it used to be better. If my memories of being young and half drunk from dollar pint night at The Highdive thanks to a friend or two serve me well — I believe that I ate and enjoyed that pizza on a number of occasions. Then, something changed. It might have been their recipe. It might have been the fact that I saw the cracker-like crust in a big stack in a cardboard box. It might have been the fact that I stopped being able to hear My Bloody Valentine on their jukebox after Lyle and Michelle high-tailed it to NYC. Whatever it was, it just wasn't very good anymore.

Truth be told, there isn't any really great thin-crust pizza in Champaign-Urbana.

In my travels, I rarely turn down a bowl of matzo ball soup from a restaurant menu. It's not that I find the soup to be all that interesting or spectacular; chicken broth and a dumpling made of matzo meal are hardly what I consider to be the most dynamic or flavorful items on my virtual menu.

What drives me to order this item, or simply add to my order no matter what I've chosen to eat that day, is the sheer fact that I cannot get it on any menu in Champaign-Urbana. And while I'd like to point out that I am always quick to accuse people of latent anti-semitism, I don't believe that this is the case this time. I simply think that there is no one in town that really seems to know the value of serving up this traditional delight — also known as "the Jewish Penicillin."

But let me tell you, there's more than value. There's gold.

For as far back as I can remember, I've wanted to own and operate my own restaurant.

Of course, I do in a fantasy land — within the confines of my own kitchen. But I also, however, have always had a sincere and true desire to offer up some of my favorite dishes to the community at my own joint; a place where my special recipes of matzo ball soup and meatballs mix together on one fantastic menu.

In truth, I just don't have the time right now. Plus, any one who wants to open a restaurant probably needs to get their head examined; one in five upstarts close and lose money within the first two years of existence.

I am involved in other projects, and other realities are taking precedence for me, such as Smile Politely. So, instead, I've decided to dedicate a particular column to pleading — no — beseeching someone in the community with the financial and mental capacity to open up and sustain a few different restaurants that I would most certainly frequent.

This week — A stand alone French Fry shop, modeled after the one we visited in Amsterdam this past week.