After over 8 years, a number of marriages, countless children that we know of, and many steak dinners we returned to Hugo’s.  For many Hugo’s is just Gibsons red headed step child that you don’t really talk about or think about.  I think the bar is more accommodating and still features the same number of working women as Gibsons.  I was a last minute pinch hitter with a guest of honor to please so I was happy I was able to negotiate a table for our illustrious group.  If I end up having a third son, you now know why his name is Hugo.  Upon a slightly late arrival I was greeted by none other than our CIO Roderick holding court at a high top in the corner of the bar.  Kid Ray and Scooter arrived shortly thereafter holding hands and recounting tales of their college days and elephant walks they took together in the moonlight.  The rest of the group trickled in and we made our way to our table which was essentially the showpiece of the restaurant floor.  Right in the center of the main room, I was concerned the volume of our group would disturb the peace, but I was pleasantly surprised we were not the loudest group by far.

 

The escargot stole the show and the firecracker shrimp were a disappointment compared to some around town. they were dry and devoid of any real heat.  Maybe its a firecracker if you are talking about the kind of fireworks you can buy at the grocery store that actually just produce toxic smoke.  Hugos does make a pretty decent chowder, worth a trip in the winter months.  I fired in an order of Emeritus and Pederast pinots to get the libations started.  Both reasonably priced but I feel the Penner Ash took front seat.  Both were well priced and a good start.  Our waiter was clearly Chris Farley’s nephew, attentive, large, sweaty, but well intentioned.  I think the Big Lebowski reference was well received.  He did sell hard on the Australian grass fed cows – 75 day aged to boot.  I went for the strip and honestly was rather disappointed.  It was perfectly fine for the evening much like the middle aged working women at the bar but not worth a return visit.  Sides were good but not great – elote, spicy charred brocolini, brussels clad in bacon, and some mashy P’s.  The conversation went from political to sports and back again with a round of name the politician from each state that clearly proved Mason has a future on Jeopardy for at least that category if not more.  Our resident politician regaled the table with tales of street fests and hands recently shaken not stirred.

 

Dessert was truly obscene. Ice cream turtle pie and carrot cake larger than my head.  I have a large noggin so that is a serious feat.  I almost felt emasculated by the cake in fact and tapped out after  a few stabs at it.  An early morning and a baby who loves to wake up in the middle of the night beckoned me homeward while the more persistent of our crew surely ventured out into the night.  The food was on par with other steakhouses in the city.  The atmosphere, service, and more importantly Chicago’s finest made it an excellent evening with the addition of our CIO, 8 out of 10.

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