The flight attendant, obviously Salt Lake-based and obviously still flushed by events of the past 48 hours, threw caution to the wind and, what the heck, Just Said It. After ordering the tray tables up, and taking this opportunity to welcome everyone on Flight 756 to Chicago . . . and thank you for flying Delta . . . she came out with it.
"Go Jazz!" she said."Hey now!" muttered the guy in the seat next to mine. I think his name was Vinny.
So, OK, this is Mike's town. You betcha. Holy cow! The venue has been changed. The Jazz euphoria from Houston has landed . . . here. In the land of L trains, the world's tallest building, the Valentine's Day Massacre, Da Bears, deep dish, Chicago dogs, succulent chops. A tough place to be an outsider, but a nice place to eat.
Mike Ditka is from here. Mike Royko wrote out of here. Al Capone lived here until he moved to San Francisco.
If you go east from Salt Lake on I-80, make it to Coalville, and still keep going, this is what you run into. A city on a lake with honest-to-goodness slaughterhouse roots. When the midwest beef arrives here, they slice it into steaks and load it onto boats, bound for the world. Cows hate this place.
So, for that matter, do most pro basketball teams, on account of the treatment accorded them the past several years, ever since Michael Jordan and the Bulls started a habit of assuming ownership of the NBA Finals.
The Finals to Chicago is like tourist season to, say, Cape Cod. They expect them, they expect to do well by them. They have "Welcome NBA Finals" signs on business marquees here that stay up year-round, like Christmas lights. If the Finals didn't come, people would forget to take down their storm windows. They'd think it was warm for February.
In an effort to quickly grasp a feel for the Bulls mania that I'd heard grips Chicago this time of year, the first thing I did upon arrival Saturday afternoon was make my way to one of the city's finest new eateries on the corner of Illinois and LaSalle Streets on the north side of the Chicago River.
There it was, in living red brick and black awnings.
Michael Jordan's
The Restaurant
A huge banner hung from the roof that read: "Drive For 5 Begins Here." A reference, of course, to the Bulls current quest to chalk up their fifth NBA title in the Jordan era.
It was almost dinner time, just before, well, 5, and a line stretched out the door but I went in anyway. The greeter, wearing a red windbreaker and black pants, said there was a 45-minute wait for a table, "Or you can help yourself to a seat at the bar and grill."
Choosing option B, I took a seat at "M.J.'s Fastbreak Bar & Grill," sliding next to what I assumed were two Bulls fans biding their time eating chicken wings until tomorrow's opening game - but who in actuality turned out to be tourists from Glasgow, Scotland, and Berlin, Germany. Small world. There we were, sitting directly below Michael Jordan's official Birmingham Barons baseball jersey, three separate nationalities, our only common link Bulls basketball. Well, that and an appreciation for french fries.
The menu at Michael Jordan's The Restaurant is not extensive but it does have some unusual selections such as Carolina Pulled Pork, Dream Team Nachos, and Michael's Banana Pudding. In deference to the city's roots, I, however, personally opted for The Cheeseburger, for $7.50.
Our waitress said that The Restaurant goes "real wild and crazy" during an actual playoff game, all of which are broadcast on the huge screen in back of the bar. Anybody turns the channel to the golf, they're gone. No questions asked. Company policy.
"Come in tomorrow," she invited. "There will be all kinds of on things going on. Game days are great around here."
She clearly had no concerns that the Bulls might, like, lose.
A complete experience at Michael Jordan's The Restaurant also includes a tour of the gift/souvenir shop, where numerous items, all within the budget of an Arab oil shiek, are for sale. Also, across the street is a place called "The Locker Room," which, besides Bulls/Jordan merchandise, carries uniforms and souvenirs from other teams as well.
I went in and asked for a Jazz jersey.
"Don't have any," said the clerk.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Nobody's ever asked for one," the man answered, not exactly cordially.
I recalled what the waitress had said moments earlier, as she explained that sometimes, if you're lucky, Michael drops by the restaurant just as you're biting into some of his Banana Pudding. "Everybody stops when that happens," she said. "He's like a god around here."
Like I said, Mike's town.