Chicago Sun-Times: All posts by Neil Steinberg

Baking bread, breaking bread, solving the world’s problems

2023-12-12T10:51:54.937-06:00

Dobra Bielinski, owner of Delightful Pastries, 5927 W. Lawrence Ave., forms the dough of a potato and onion sourdough bread into loaf pans. Fresh bread doesn’t solve the world’s problems. But it helps.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

Dobra Bielinski brought her own bread to China.

“They have white bread,” she said, dismissively, noting that her hearty, seed-laden bread kept her alive for a two-week trip.

Bielinski is the owner of Delightful Pastries on Lawrence Avenue. Readers on Monday enjoyed our preliminaries before settling down to work on two breads, a potato and roasted onion sourdough loaf, and an oatmeal porridge bread.

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“You can see the chunks of potatoes,” she said, tamping dough into rectangular molds with her knuckles. “You can see the chunks of onions. This is a nice dough. I love it.”

Like any fine chef, Bielinski’s all about sourcing ingredients.

“A ton of onions I brought from Wisconsin,” she said. “Making wild onion soup I foraged for mushrooms.”

Why are Wisconsin onions special?

“I love them,” she said. “They caramelize really nicely. I don’t get the big ones, I get the medium sized ones. I love roasting potatoes and onions together, This bread will go well with pate, go well with New England clam chowder. It’s going to be faaaaabulous with that.”

Lunchtime approached. We sat down and ate ... you might want to skip this part if you’re eating, say, a bologna sandwich on Wonder bread for lunch. The envy might kill you.

A bowl of Bigos — hunter’s stew, a sauerkraut-based pottage with pork sausage, smoked bacon, dried plums and mushrooms. Her own horseradish sauce. A superlative apple cider that made me think of the cider at Alinea. Thick slices of warm rye bread.

“I will change your life with this bread,” she said. “Let me get some butter. Some delicious fabulous Wisconsin butter.”

She held the loaf.

“I like how crunchy it is. People are like, ‘Why isn’t this bread fluffy and soft?’ Because, a real rye bread is never fluffy or soft. Once it sets up, the crust is going to harden. When you knock on it, it’s supposed to sound like wood.”

I mentioned an abandoned bakery, Sicilia, a few doors down.

“The Sicilian bakery,” she said, with sorrow. “The father retired. The son took over and ...”

No more need be said.

“A lot of places have gone,” she continued. “There’s that Czech bakery in Berwyn, Vesecky’s, closed its doors.” Last week.

“A Czech baker for 100 years,” she continued. “We’re like dinosaurs. There’s no more real bakeries left around. Modern ones ... you have a brand new oven; you have a machine that does it. You have a dough divider. A dough shaper. Here the shaping we do it by hand. Here, we make our own almond cream from scratch. A lot of places get things out of a bucket. It behooves a real baker to know how to make things from A to Z. If you are proud of your craft you’ll be making all your fillings.”

Between mixing the dough and letting it rise and preparations of the seeds and vegetables that go inside, a loaf of bread can take three days to make at Delightful Pastries, 5927 W. Lawrence. It’s worth the wait.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

On her business card, there is an “M.A.” after her name which stands, not for some fancy culinary degree, but for masters in foreign policy in Central and Latin America from UIC. Our political views do not mesh, exactly, but we are of a mind regarding the healing potential of food.

“You know what I think we need? Palestinian food and Israeli food, all around one table,” she said. “That would be the solution.”

Or a start. It’s basically the same food, which is sort of the point. People are more similar than different.

“The more I see, education — Polish people are all about education,” she said. “Jewish people are all about education. Mexicans are all about education. Chinese people are all about education. Indian people are all about education. We have so much more in common.”

And we’re in complete agreement about the media.

“Reporters are under attack,” she said. “We need you. Because you’re so important to democracy, to the future. Without reporters and journalists, America has no future. We will become a fascist military state.”

“And here I am, writing about bread,” I muttered. Of course, the news being what it is, reminding readers of the good yet in life is not without value.

I was supposed to taste the chocolate cremeux with passion fruit pulp. But time passed and we moved on, eating other things and, before I knew it I was heading to the car, laden with bread that I would eat at four out of my following five meals. Next time.

“You’ll have to come here for Easter,” she said. Deal!

READ: More columns by Neil Steinberg

Baking bread with Dobra Bielinski at Delightful Pastries in Jefferson Park

2023-12-10T14:03:05.726-06:00

Dobra Bielinski, owner of Delightful Pastries, 5927 W. Lawrence Ave., holding a tray of a new type of cookie she is developing.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

“Are you ready to cook?” asked Dobra Bielinski when we met Friday morning at her Delightful Pastries — both a name and an apt description — on Lawrence Avenue.

Well bake, technically. But I wasn’t about to correct her.

Regular readers might remember my column on Bielinski from March 2022, when I featured her for Paczki Day. The holiday isn’t until Feb. 13 this year; so why am I back now, in December?

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We got along so well — I described Bielinski as “a bubbling cauldron of strong opinions,” — that I said I’d like to return someday and see her bake bread. An offer that 99 out of 100 people would let vanish on the wind. But the Warsaw-born baker is that 1 out of 100, if not out of a thousand. She circled back and reminded me of my suggestion that we bake bread.

Bielinski had already been at it for hours when I got there.

“I was up at 3:45 a.m.” she said, as I donned a soft white apron. “I had to have something to eat.”

And breakfast was ...?

“One of my worker’s mom is visiting from Poland, so she made this potato cake — basically potatoes grated with caramelized onion and little bits of bacon, they add tons of eggs and a little bit of flour, and just put it in a cake pan and bake the whole thing,” she said. “Then I had my mom’s leftover goulash.”

If you wish you’d been sitting next to Bielinski with a spoon, please continue reading. Otherwise, you can check back with me later this week — I have a feeling this is going to linger into a second column. The problem with fresh baked goods: it’s hard to stop.

Customers come and go at Delightful Pastries, 5927 W. Lawrence Ave. in Jefferson Park, as Dobra Bielinski (in white, second from left) keeps a close eye on both the production and sales sides of her operation, now 25 years old.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

We started, not with bread, but cookies. Hanging with Bielinski is a study in digression — racing from the wonders of unbromated flour to the specifics of the 32-letter Polish alphabet to the glories of Wisconsin onions.

For instance. She mentioned “beet soup.” Why “beet soup” and not borscht?

“In Polish we call it barszcz,” she explained. “There’s three types of barszcz. There’s the barszcz we have on Christmas Eve, which is vegan; it’s got vegetables in a clear broth. Then we have what we call barszcz Ukrainski, or Ukrainian borscht, and that’s got cabbage, potatoes, beans and pork shoulder. Then we have the third one we do for the summertime, and it’s a cold one. that one you serve with sour cream, hard-boiled eggs, hard-boiled potatoes, and you chop them up and sprinkle them with lots of dill, lots of parsley. I’m sure that’s the one you’re more familiar with.”

Which does not really answer the question. No matter. She drew a pan of perfect little squares off a rack.

“These are cacao nib hazelnut, and I’m going to put a little apricot jam, we ‘re gonna dip them in chocolate. Ta-da! Try them,” she said. “I’m testing this cookie out. I never made them before.”

Dense, not at all sweet.

“What do you think of this cookie?” she demanded. “Is it bitter?”

We’re all a little bitter at this point. But I liked it and said so. Then wondered why, with the endless array of existing cookies, would she bother trying to come up with something new?

“Because I’m bored!” Bielinski replied. “A lot of people want to have something new. We have to have something interesting. People get bored. I get bored, with the same old, same old. We have to come up with something.”

Don’t I know it.

Bielinski is the field marshal of half a dozen bakers, plus family members. Picture us all hustling back and forth through a narrow kitchen, dodging racks and assistants bearing trays while Bielinski issues orders, shifting seamlessly from Polish to Spanish to English.

Her father shows up to collect a big pan of broken eggshells — mulch for the garden. Family backup is key.

“My mom, she cooks me lunches and dinners,” said Bielinski “My dad, he fixes everything I break.”

Her mother’s role is more than that. “Can you call my mother and ask her to taste the borscht?” Bielinski instructs a helper. “I want to make sure it’s OK.”

Do you see the problem? We’ve reached the end, and haven’t even gotten to the baking bread part. We’ll set that aside to proof until Wednesday.

The really good part: baking (and eating) bread at Delightful Pastries in Jefferson Park.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

WATCH: Dobra Bielinski talks to the Sun-Times in 2019

Work downtown or stay home? It’s a trade-off

2023-12-07T12:41:53.735-06:00

Erwin Gruen was a German blacksmith who opened his gallery in River North in 1972, making elaborate iron bedsteads and grills and such. He died in 2006, but Gruen Galleries is still there, selling artwork, and his shop is still in the basement.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

Serendipity.

One of the 50-cent words of which I’m notoriously fond. Means “fortunate accident.” Seems common enough to me. Plus relevant, regarding the high-stakes struggle of downtown Chicago to remain solvent. An issue where I’m torn.

People discovered they can work at home. The cat is out of the bag. Deal with it. You can work at home. I can work at home, flop my fingers on the keyboard, craft something, call it a day.

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What does going downtown do? Besides waste time and money. Sometimes you take the bother and trouble, only to find yourself at a pointless meeting. The last meeting I went to at our Navy Pier office, eight people had signed up for, but I was the only person to actually appear — stupid me — so the presenter did a one-on-one, imparting little of value.

But not a waste. I try to multitask. So while I was there, I took a colleague to lunch at Chef Art Smith’s Reunion, which served up fine jambalaya and biscuits. So there was that.

I’ve been officially permitted to work at home since... 1997. Quite a long time, really. But even though I haven’t been required to go into the office, I still went, ritualistically on Tuesdays, because I didn’t want to be one of those people who never show their face. I found that, go in twice week and you are nevertheless considered “Always there.”

Since I don’t know what my job entails — that is, no beat, no topics I’m supposed to cover — I never know whence my material might come. I once had a front page exclusive literally fall out of the sky, in the form of a chunk of Union Station ceiling that hit a woman in the head as we waited in line for the Madison Street exit, fracturing her skull.

I wish I could draw a line between going into the city and writing something effective. But truth is I can spend the day crawling around Lower Wacker Drive with the Night Ministry, write a column vibrating with tragic urban experience, and the readers yawn and flip the page. While let me share a shopping trip to the Northbrook Aldi, and the online world goes berserk, vibrating for days.

You just never know. A few months back, I went downtown at the invitation of the Chinese consulate, to talk to an embassy official in town from Washington. Was our conversation worthwhile? I can’t speak for him, but for me, there was one memorably queasy moment, when I was enthusiastically explaining The Problem with his country’s approach, and caught myself short, wondering, “Are you really giving advice to the Chinese Communist government?” I thought I was acquainting them with the wonders of liberal democracy, but maybe I was really giving them pointers on how to be more savvy and effective totalitarians.

After the meeting I had a lunch in Ukrainian Village. I could call an Uber. But why not walk? So I’m trucking along Superior Street, when what hoves into view but Gruen Galleries. I hadn’t thought about the place in years. I knew Erwin Gruen, a man of double rarity. First, he had the only fully functioning blacksmith shop in River North, with anvils, forges, tongs, rasps, gorgeous tools. And second, he was the rare German Jew who lived openly in Berlin during the entirety of World War II. Turns out, even murderous Nazi fanaticism had its limits. They never came for the skilled Messerschmitt engine mechanics.

A man was unloading pallets of water — Michael Gerber, current owner of the gallery. He invited me in, and wonder of wonders, the blacksmith shop is still there in the basement. Gruen died in 2006, but his hammer is still sitting on his anvil, as if he stepped away for a moment. Amazing.

You need to trade off. Go downtown, when need be, because you literally never know what you’re going to stumble across. But also work at home, because wonder can be found there too. For instance, being home now, I pulled down “S-Soldo” of my 12-volume Oxford English dictionary and learned that “serendipity” was coined by Horace Walpole in a letter dated Jan. 28, 1754, citing a Venetian fairy tale, “The Three Princes of Serendip,” the heroes of which “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.”

“A very expressive word,” Walpole concludes, and I agree.

READ: More columns by Neil Steinberg in the Sun-Times

Thanksgiving at Sullivan High School part of warm welcome for refugees

2023-12-05T13:56:45.245-06:00

Sarai Jimenez, a Venezuelan refugee who arrived in Chicago in July, attends a Thanksgiving gathering at Sullivan High School in Rogers Park last week. She hopes to go into law enforcement after graduation.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

Sarai Jimenez and her family escaped the chaos of Venezuela in 2021, sought refuge in Colombia then, when things got bad there too, fled north, trekking through Central American rainforests, across mountain passes, clinging to ropes at the edge of cliffs, crossing rivers, wading through mud up to their knees.

They were captured by guerrillas, held hostage, robbed. Then Sarai, now 17, had to wait for months in Mexico before crossing the border, legally, allowed to apply for asylum, arriving here in July only to confront a prospect that really frightened her: going to a Chicago high school.

“I thought it was dangerous,” she said, in Spanish. “I’ve seen the movies, and I was scared. I would think, ‘I’m going to get bullied in school.’”

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Instead she found herself in the warm embrace of Sullivan High School in Rogers Park, where some 40 languages are spoken by the most diverse student body in the city, a school with a track record of absorbing every immigrant group arriving in Chicago.

“Afghans, Syrians, Nepalese ... no one is special at this school because everyone is unique,” said Sarah Quintenz, whose formal title is English language learners leader, but really is just “Ms. Q” or “mom,” the omnipresent source of comfort and rebuke for Sullivan’s 360 or so foreign-born students — about half the school population.

I ran into Quintenz at Sullivan’s seventh annual Thanksgiving dinner last week and saw a chance to talk about the latest group of newcomers to roil the city.

Sarah Quintenz is the English language learners leader at Sullivan High School and unofficial den mother of the school’s hundreds of immigrant students.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

“Immigrants plan to come here. They apply for a visa, save money, say goodbye to everybody,” said Quintenz. “Refugees flee. They don’t have any of their stuff. They leave everything behind. They flee to another country, so they take their anger and hostility and sadness to that country.”

Emotions that complicate the usual teenage angst.

“They walked. They rode buses,” said Quintenz. “That’s a long time to be thinking, ‘I just left home. I have only the clothes on my back. I hate this. I’m hot. I’m getting eaten by mosquitoes.’ Then they get here, and they’re sleeping in the airport or a police station, or the Leone Park Field House — that’s where most of ours were for the longest time. The kids ask: ‘Is this any better? We’re safer here, but we still don’t have anything. We still don’t have any opportunities. My parents can’t get a job.’”

When these students almost inevitably act out, Quintenz isn’t reluctant to use their parents’ hopes as leverage.

“When they make poor decisions, I tell them, “Hey, is this what your parents had in mind when they packed you up and moved to this country? Did your mom give up all of her baby pictures so you could come here and do this?’”

That’s surprisingly effective.

“My specialty is making teenage boys cry and say, ‘You’re right, that’s not why we’re here,’” said Quintenz.

Egypt Tate (center, in green Santa pants), a sophomore at Sullivan High School, came to the Thanksgiving dinner to help with the decorating. “It just makes me happy,” Tate, 15, said of the flourishes she added, such as festive holiday bows around the silverware.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

The first words Annmarie Handley teaches in her English class are “good morning” and “welcome.”

“Words to make them feel it’s not a scary thing,” she said. “And it’s not a scary thing. This is a place where you can fail and it’s fine. Who cares? This is a safe environment where we can say it wrong, say it right, and we just keep practicing every day.”

While refugees tend to face their difficulties with similar tenacity, the 40 or so Venezuelans now at Sullivan stand out.

“The Venezuelans, as much as they suffered, all they have is joy here,” said Handley. “That is one thing I noticed about Venezuelan culture. I suspect because of their family-oriented culture, how close they are. [Trouble] just slides right off them. It’s more resilient than I’ve seen any culture that comes here. Their resilience is unbelievable, their gratitude is unbelievable. It’s impressive.”

Sarai Jimenez certainly told her story with a mix of faith and gratitude.

“God places good people on your journey that help you when you’re in need,” she said. “I’m so grateful to all the people that God put on our journey.”

A journey that continues. She and her family have been living in a shelter since they arrived, but last week were about to move.

Where? I asked.

“Harvey,” she replied.

The city is among the poorest and most badly run towns in the Chicago area. I was going to say something, but didn’t, figuring, she’ll find out soon enough.

READ: More stories in the Sun-Times about immigration

Help us tell you about what’s going on in the world

2023-11-28T15:18:26.503-06:00

You never had to pop into Roseland Community Hospital’s ICU to see how the battle against COVID was going, because the Sun-Times did it for you. Here, nurse Alma Abad fixes an IV flow.

Ashlee Rezin/Sun-Times

Scary times, these. If you’re not terrified, you’re not paying attention. With wars in Ukraine and Gaza — the latter on pause, for now, but that will change, and either could easily explode into a greater conflagration — and thousands of migrants, asylum-seekers and refugees flowing into a Chicago still wobbly from COVID-19, there’s a line around the block of Big Frightening Problems to worry about. Did I mention the real chance of democracy dying in America next year? Or that the world is on fire? Those too.

But fear is not a success strategy. You don’t solve problems by fretting about them. You solve them by doing something. Tuesday was Giving Tuesday, an online effort to get people to pause from fire-hosing their money at streaming services and sports betting apps and direct a few trickles of cash at worthwhile causes instead.

My household supports The Night Ministry — the last strand in Chicago’s social safety net — and The Ark. You might want to get behind Heartland Alliance or Catholic Charities.

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If your heart goes out to those who come to Chicago seeking a better life and end up sleeping with their kids on a police station floor, consider supporting Refugee One.

There are many more — you did, I hope, support groups you’ve already been supporting. If not, a few minutes spent consulting Prof. Google should do the trick.

You might think this story is a day late. But it’s supposed to run on Wednesday, because Chicago Public Media has dubbed Nov. 29 as “Giving Newsday.” Part of the trick of surviving in the media is to find a way to stand out from the general roar, and by focusing on the following day, the hope is we’ll take advantage of the spirit of holiday generosity while not getting lost in the crush of worthy causes.

The Chicago Sun-Times is owned by Chicago Public Media, a 501(c)3 charity that also owns WBEZ 91.5 FM, and though I’m biased, I’d argue that, in a way, supporting us is even more important than backing some other charity, because we’re how you learn about everything going on in the world.

Which is extra important now, in the Golden Age of Deceit, where certified liars can spew ludicrous, self-serving fictions all day long and still somehow be accepted by otherwise decent people. Reading the Sun-Times is like having a staff of 100 fact-fixated newshounds who fan out across the city and state, track down the most important information and bring it to you on a platter. Whether you care most about the score of last night’s game, or the scuffle at yesterday’s City Council meeting, or whose bucks are lining which politician’s pocket, we find out and tell you in a way that is as reality-based as possible.

I fit in ... how, exactly? Good question. I wonder about that myself sometimes. At this point, I’m the old man by the fire, clawing my hands into an approximation of the mighty bear’s paws, telling stories of the hunt. My goal is not to break news — others do that better — but to give you something interesting to read on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Though not next Friday or Monday — I’m taking time off. Which I typically do bunched at the end of the year because it’s hard to pull myself away. “If you’re not in the paper,” I tell colleagues considering retirement, “you might as well be dead.” I agreed to pop up today, on Giving Newsday, to remind you of the importance of donating to Chicago Public Media. It’s tax-deductible — heck, I gave my Honda Odyssey to the Chicago Sun-Times Vehicle Donation Program earlier this year. Donating your car is easy and fun, and I never regretted doing so.

But donating money is even easier. You give a little money that you’ll never miss. Chicago’s top newspaper gets to keep doing what it does best. The bad guys are exposed and held to account. The big games get reported. Stories are told, and everybody’s happy. The world is still scary, yes. But somehow, learning about society’s problems, dragging them out of the shadows and into the light, taking a look, then acting, doing something about them, reminds us that even the worst situations end, eventually. Newborn Hope stirs, stretches in her cozy bassinet, flutters her beautiful eyes, and, awakening, gives a lovely little yawn.

Juma Hamideh of Husky Towing in Waukegan drives off with the 2005 Honda Odyssey that Neil Steinberg donated to the Sun-Times through its Vehicle Donation Program.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

Thanksgiving in scary times

2023-11-22T06:00:00-06:00

Here’s wishing you plenty to eat and much to be thankful for, despite all that’s going wrong in the world. Edie Steinberg finishes preparing the 2021 bounty.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

“Do you think 28 pounds of turkey is enough?” asked my wife, as we stood by a freezer case in Trader Joe’s.

She had just muscled two Kosher birds, one 15 pound, one 13, into the cart, waving away my offer to do the lifting, the “as if I haven’t been flinging these things around a kitchen myself for years” being unvoiced.

“Well,” I ventured. “Twenty five guests, about a pound per person should ... ”

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“A lot of it is bone,” she interjected. Not to inform me, I hope. I don’t think she really feared I’m so culinarily clueless as to imagine whole turkeys are solid chunks of meat — I do sometimes carve them, though invariably am body-checked away by a relative capable of more finesse with a blade.

Last year we had three turkeys — one roasted, one deep-fried, one smoked. That was deemed “too much turkey,” though not by me. I want to spend the next few days assembling plates of cold leftovers, turkey and stuffing, and eating them standing in the kitchen, and assume every guest does too.

“You are making five pounds of salmon,” I observed. For the pescatarians — those who shun meat, but whose moral code nevertheless allows them to eat fish: sentient creatures, innocently plying the waters, nuzzling their young with human-like affection, at one with nature and the divine until a cruel hook yanks them into the suffocating air.

Are you ready for Thanksgiving?

Sorry, shouldn’t tease. Frankly, lately, I take comfort in the realization that a person can be a pescatarian, can so overflow with goodwill that limiting their concern to human beings just isn’t enough, so cattle and chickens and pigs must be welcomed into the realm of sympathy.

Comfort, and some amazement. We live in a time when caring about the suffering of others is an invitation to suffer yourself. In a world gone nuts, the temptation is to tune it out, or laser focus your worry on people exactly like yourself.

My wife worries about every aspect of Thanksgiving, from invitations to clean up. Me, I worry about the giving thanks part — before eating, we go around the table and each give thanks. Not that we don’t have a superabundance to be grateful for. Three upcoming weddings. Our two boys, plus cousin Beth and Joe — an Iowa wedding I’m eagerly anticipating. I understand that it’ll be at some regular wedding venue, but keep imagining “Dinner for Threshers,” Grant Wood’s panoramic portrait of farmers enjoying their bounty.

So we’ll go around, giving thanks, or trying to. Though it might fall flat, between the bloodshed in Gaza and antisemitism at home. “The green bean casserole was extra scrumptious this year,” might ring hollow.

The key, I think, is to snake your hand into the general mess and yank out good parts to hold up for appreciation. I plan on saying I am thankful that people still care. That my wife cares enough to prepare this enormous feast, with what blundering, ham-handed help I can provide. Grateful that these lovely young couples around us care enough for each other to commit their lives to being together. And that, in a world of horrors, we still care enough to worry about it, and agonize over what if anything we can do to help.

Whoever is reading this, whether in a mansion in Lake Forest or at the Pacific Garden Mission, please accept holiday greetings from my table to yours. I hope you have plenty of food, shelter over your head plus reason for hope and a plan. Whoever you are, if you are a Venezuelan immigrant sleeping in the lobby of a police station, sounding out words in an unfamiliar language, I hope the year brings you a job and a home and your paperwork in order. To all those grieving recent world events, to anybody in distress, discomfort, fear, anxiety, here’s hope for the strength to get through today. One day at a time. Try to take comfort in the knowledge that people you’ve never met really do care.

If you are having a grim Thanksgiving, maybe the worst holiday ever, remember, you are not alone, and there will be better Thanksgivings to come. I promise. Being at the lowest point in your life also means, by definition, things will improve from here on out.

I appreciate your attention, am grateful that you’re here, reading, thankful to spend this time together with you, and wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.

READ: More columns by Neil Steinberg in the Sun-Times

Come on guys, read the ethics code

2023-11-19T11:53:56.694-06:00

Ald. Ed Burke, a student of history now on trial, accused of extortion, perhaps should have spent more time studying the city’s ethics ordinance.

Anthony Vazquez/Sun-Times

“No official or employee shall make or participate in the making of any governmental decision with respect to any matter in which he has any financial interest distinguishable from that of the general public ...”

The city of Chicago has an ethics code — a quite extensive one, 50 pages long. It makes for interesting reading. Public officials are forbidden from using the city seal in photos on their personal Christmas cards, since they mustn’t include its weird symbolism — why is that naked baby on a clamshell? — in snapshots “not related to official City business.”

Given its excruciating detail, you’d think we must have the most upright officials anywhere. Government officials can’t have any financial involvement with those having business with the city, as quoted above, in section 2-156-080, “Conflicts of interest; appearance of impropriety.”

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And yet they do. In 2019, when then-Mayor Lori Lightfoot suggested perhaps Chicago City Council members should be banned from “side hustles” and just do their flippin’ jobs, full time, a WTTW survey found that 10 alderfolk — 20% of the City Council — derived significant income from second gigs, the king being Ed Burke, now on trial for allegedly connecting patronage of his law firm with performing his official duties.

Follow the ethics ordinance, guys. You’ll save us all a lot of time and bother.

I, of course, cannot comment on the guilt or innocence of Burke. He’s charged with extortion — not merely violating the local code by profiting from those having business before the city but demanding a quid pro quo — patronize my law firm or I’ll block your zoning.

This is not a victimless crime. The city itself suffers in a real and significant way. Here Chicago is behind the eight ball, reeling from the double hammer blows of spiking fear of crime and COVID-stoked downtown depletion, struggling to create a strong business environment so the whole place doesn’t crater. Meanwhile, in the 14th Ward, a Burger King can’t get a permit to move a driveway, allegedly, unless they do business at Burke’s law firm?

We’ve had — anybody? — 30 alderpersons convicted of financial crimes over the last 50 years — meaning one goes down more than every other year. Sometimes in circumstances of staggering tawdriness. The informant in Burke’s case, former 25th Ward Ald. Danny Solis, remember, is a fellow accused of having “sold his soul” for free Viagra and sex at massage parlors. Imagine having that legacy.

They do pay these alderpeople, you know. Between $115,000 to $142,000 a year. Not a staggering amount, true — any first-year associate at a Loop law firm can expect to earn far more. But it isn’t as though the positions would sit vacant unless aldercreatures were allowed to also sell Mary Kay Cosmetics.

What baffles me is this carelessness, late in the game. It isn’t as if Burke were just starting out, aflame with ambition to try to scale the heights of power. He’s 79 years old. You’d think at some point, he’d dial back, collect his chips, call it a day.

My theory is that habit becomes ingrained. You keep doing what you’ve always done. This case reminds me of a lunch a colleague had with David Radler, back when the Canadian felon-to-be was publisher of this newspaper.

“David,” he said, or words to that effect, “how does a person become rich?” Radler was very rich. Fly to Montreal for lunch on your Citation X jet rich.

At that, Radler wordlessly reached over, grabbed a big handful of sugar packets, stuffed them in his pocket and never took them back out. He left the restaurant with them.

I wasn’t there, so can’t be certain whether Radler was answering the question with a dramatic display, or — more likely — was just interrupted in his customary theft of sugar with a question he deemed as too trivial to answer. He ended up in prison.

But that moment comes back when regarding Burke in the dock, someone who had it made, had already grubbed plenty of money, up the wazoo. You’d think, with the home port in sight, he would furl his sails and coast into the harbor so he wouldn’t risk spending his golden years in prison.

Force of habit. When you’ve been mingling personal and city business your entire career, it starts to seem normal. “Sooner or later,” as Bruce Springsteen sings, “it just becomes your life.”

How some Chicago teachers started the National Museum of Mexican Art

2023-11-16T10:43:41.143-06:00

Artwork by the Yollocalli Youth Council, on display last year at the National Museum of Mexican Art in Pilsen. The frequent political nature of Hispanic arts has rattled attempts by the Smithsonian to get a Latino museum going in Washington, D.C., but is celebrated here.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

Oh, you’ve got to tell the story.

Not to take anything away from my colleague Ambar Colón, whose excellent article in Wednesday’s paper shared the news that Carlos Tortolero, founder of the National Museum of Mexican Art, is retiring. There was a lot of real estate to cover — quotes from the ever-effusive Tortolero, the search for a new museum president, the honors and accolades rightly laden on the Pilsen landmark.

But three simple words, “opened in 1987,” just don’t do justice to the reality, and spur me to blow the dust of decades off them. Opened why? Opened how? How did a history teacher at Bowen High School — as Tortolero was — start what became the preeminent institution in the country showcasing Mexican, Latino and Chicano art?

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It should be part of Chicago lore, alongside Uno’s inventing deep dish pizza in 1943. But it isn’t. The only reason I know is from interviewing Tortolero for my recent book, “Every Goddamn Day.” But since every Sun-Times reader hasn’t read that book, alas, I should lay the tale out here, briefly.

Wander back in time, not to 1987, but to September 1982. Tortolero was disgusted with a Chicago Public Schools system that would treat Spanish-speaking students as if they were learning-disabled. Where Mexican culture was pretty much limited to the bad guys at the Alamo. Inclusivity is such a mantra today, we forget the headlock that white culture had on education not so long ago, and what did show up in classrooms about Mexican history echoed the joke about food at a Catskills resort: lousy, and in such small portions.

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“Beyond bad,” Tortolero said. “The misinformation was unbelievable. No one knew about Mexican culture. The students, young people, don’t know the impact of Mexico. These kids were not getting any of their history, all the great things. They knew nothing about it.”

So he met with five other CPS staffers on Sept. 15, 1982, at Benito Juarez High School. That date was picked deliberately: the evening before Mexican Independence Day. “El Grito” the anniversary of Father Miguel Hidalgo ringing his church bell and calling for the Spanish oppressors to be driven out. “The Cry of Dolores” — a perfect day to start a revolution.

“Time for us to preserve our culture,” said Tortolero. “To share our culture too.”

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Sharing takes money and hard work. They raised $900 in the first year. Tortolero credits Harold Washington’s election with helping — seeing the Black community mobilize inspired Hispanic Chicagoans to get busy, too.

In 1989, they raised $2 million.

To understand how ahead of the curve Tortolero was, the Smithsonian Institution is only now organizing the National Museum of the American Latino in Washington, D.C., which immediately veered into a ditch with its first, introductory exhibit on Latino youth movements. The show’s politics inflamed conservative Latinos — you don’t have to be white to reject history that makes you uncomfortable. Some demanded the museum be defunded.

That’s a pity, because part of what makes the Museum of Mexican Art so engaging, to me, is its unashamed radicalism. From denunciations of big agriculture, like Ester Hernandez’s “Sun Mad,” to calls to defund the police, to the ofrenda for Adam Toledo displayed last year. The NMMA always offers much to think about for those of us who can, you know, think about stuff.

“Mona Lupe,” by Cesar Augusto Martinez, a delightful riff on the Leonardo Da Vinci masterpiece, on display at the National Museum of Mexican Art.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

That said, my favorite piece is still Cesar Augusto Martinez’s gentle “Mona Lupe,” a delightful commingling of Our Lady of Guadalupe and the Mona Lisa — better than the original, in my mind, because, unlike at the Louvre, you don’t have to claw your way around 200 tourists in a room that smells like a high school gym locker room to get a glimpse.

I’ve plugged the museum before, because it drives me crazy that most Chicagoans haven’t been. Almost every day I hear from suburbanites who regard the city with crawling terror, and I want to shake them and say, “Snap out of it! Go to the National Museum of Mexican Art. It’s free. Spend an hour. Slide over to 5 Rabanitos for lunch. It isn’t free, God knows, but it’s so worth it. Nobody will harm you. You’ll return to the safety of your suburban home delighted, fed and less afraid. And you don’t even need to thank Carlos Tortolero for the opportunity, because I will thank him for you.”

Thanks, Carlos.

Carlos Tortorelo and some other Chicago Public Schools teachers founded the National Museum of Mexican Art in 1987.

Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs and Special Events

Museum founder retiring after 36 years: ‘The arts are for everybody’

READ: More columns by Neil Steinberg in the Sun-Times

Crimo dad’s T-shirt stunt a thumb in the eye of real victims

2023-11-15T16:33:58.084-06:00

Robert E. Crimo Jr., arrives at the Lake County Courthouse on Wednesday, Crimo will serve 60 days in jail and two years of probation.

Nam Y. Huh/Associated Press

Robert Crimo Jr. got off light.

He was sentenced to 60 days in jail, two years of probation and 100 hours of community service for signing the gun ownership application that allowed his disturbed teenage son to purchase an assault rifle — the gun the younger man is accused of using to slaughter seven people and wound 48 others at the Highland Park Fourth of July parade massacre in 2022.

That’s about one day for every casualty.

A decent person would be grateful, humbled, remorseful at that sentence. But then a decent person wouldn’t help his clearly troubled son buy an assault rifle.

The sort of person the elder Crimo is was on full display Wednesday when he showed up for his jail time wearing a T-shirt with the words “I’m a political pawn” printed on the front and “LAWS, FACTS, REALITY” on the back.

Let’s talk about laws. The law would allow Lake County Judge George Strickland to declare Crimo in contempt of court, void his plea agreement, haul him back into court and send him to trial. There’s plenty of precedent for that, such as when a federal judge — irked by a photo of Ed Vrdolyak on the front page of the Sun-Times, smirking after receiving probation in 2010 for a real estate kickback scheme — dismissed his probation as “a slap on the wrist” and re-sentenced him to 10 months in federal prison.

Let’s talk about facts. Whenever former Gov. Rod Blagojevich complains about the eight years he spent in federal prison for corruption, the fact is, he’d probably have done less time if only he weren’t so vain and stupid as to not realize he’d done something wrong. Justice demands contrition.

Let’s talk about reality. For Crimo to show up the way he did, pretending he is a victim, rather than the people whom his son — allegedly, for now — murdered and wounded, with a big helping hand from dad, is obscene. At the very least, Crimo should have to serve his full, paltry two-month sentence. Whatever good behavior is, this grotesque display is the opposite.

There is one upside. Seeing Crimo in that T-shirt helps a bewildered, grieving public start to understand how his son could be so callous as to commit the kind of crimes he is accused of committing. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Horror on the Fourth: Suspect in custody after Highland Park Fourth of July parade mass shooting

A visit to Bally’s temporary casino at the Medinah Temple

2023-11-14T13:45:32.125-06:00

The ground floor of Bally’s temporary casino at the old Medinah Temple one morning last week.

Neil Steinberg/Sun-Times

People love gambling but hate taxes. Which is odd, because both do exactly the same thing: take your money.

Frankly, I prefer taxes. At least with taxes, your lost lucre often goes to good use: building roads, funding schools, and such, rather than gilding a toilet in some casino owner’s yacht.

Then again, I am not a gambler, and nothing is more ridiculous than passion you don’t share.

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Despite lack of interest in gambling, personally, I closely followed the opening of Bally’s temporary casino at the Medinah Temple, having tracked the decadeslong chase after the will-o-the-wisp of a Chicago gambling den. Now that one’s actually open, a visit seemed in order.

Stepping into the Medinah Temple had none of the existential sorrow of Vegas casinos. I’d pondered how much to gamble and, more importantly, whether I could expense my losses. While I have in the past stuck the newspaper with a variety of vices in the name of research, from a $200 bottle of champagne at the Ritz-Carlton bar, to table dances and tips to strippers at Thee Doll House on Kingsbury, something told me that Chicago Public Media might look askance at financing my casino spree. So I figured: eat my losses. Besides, a gambler should never bet anything he isn’t prepared to lose. I initially thought: $100 but then dialed it back to $50. Frugal.

That plan lasted until I walked in the door. When I told the security guard this was my first visit, he directed me to a desk where I was issued a card — a Bally’s Rewards card, with “Pro” emblazoned in the corner. “Pro?” That made me smile. If I’m a pro, I’d hate to see what an amateur looks like.

A quick glance at the cover of the brochure I was given revealed the truth. Pro is the lowest rung. The others: Star, Superstar and Legend. “LEVEL UP YOUR LOYALTY” it declares. Perks include free check cashing to cover your losses. I’m surprised there isn’t access to a VIP pawn shop.

The card also came with a $10 credit. I headed to the slot machines. This $10 grubstake was unexpected. I’d point out the echo of drug dealers — your first hit is free — but don’t traffic in the obvious.

People line up outside Bally’s casino inside the Medinah Temple before a practice gaming session Sept. 6.

Tyler Pasciak LaRiviere/Sun-Times

The place wasn’t empty — there were people here and there. But not what I could call hopping. I parked myself in front of an Ultra Rush Gold machine and plugged in my card. At that point I got a phone call, and so my attention was distracted. But my $10 evaporated in what seemed like 30 seconds. So as I talked, I removed a $5 — I carry a little cash in my wallet, to give to indigents — slid that in, and received a few more taps, none of which unlocked the $10,204.81 that could be mine if it were my lucky day.

Time to get chips and play. I went upstairs, did a quick survey. A long gaming table and several poker tables. Maybe a dozen people on the whole floor. Most tables were $15 or even $50 a chip, but one was $5 a chip, which seemed more my speed. I went over to the cashier. To my surprise, they wouldn’t sell chips using a credit card, but directed me to an ATM charging $7 to give you your money. I balked at that, and found a 10-spot in my wallet.

I went to the $5 chip table, but the dealer nicely explained that the way the game, Mississippi Mud, works, you repeatedly up your bid and might need as much as $50 a hand.

Ah. Well, I’m a big believer that, between lotteries and casinos, the media shills too much for gambling as it is, and is too quiet about the glories of not gambling. Around the corner from Bally’s is L.A. Burdick Chocolates. There, I bet $8 they’d make an excellent cup of hot chocolate, and won big. Then I put down $15 on two dark chocolate mice and a pair of Earl Grey flavored chocolates, plus a $10 side bet on a chocolate bar for my mother — I always bring her chocolate. Having dropped $35, including a $2 tip on the cocoa, I felt no regret, except maybe that I should have spent more. I doubt that happens much at Bally’s. Besides, I said I’d eat my losses, and I did.

READ: More columns by Neil Steinberg