Dearest Portillo's,
Where do I even begin with you, my delicious Chicago restaurant chain? I guess I should start by saying that I miss you. When I chose a college away from the Midwest, I knew that I would be forced to become independent and self-reliant.
And while I have successfully established a routine where I get myself up on time (yes, even for those 8:30 classes), make my bed (you're welcome mom) and manage to get some food in me (coffee counts, right?), there still remains an Italian beef sized gaping hole in my life that I've learned can only be filled by you.
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. After spending nearly two years 12 hours away from Chicago, I'm wholeheartedly convinced this saying was contrived with your french fries in mind. What I would give right now to wait in your drive through for 15 long, agonizing minutes as your dutiful workers in Portillo's parkas take orders in subzero weather. (Because, seriously, what other restaurant chain is like this?!)
It wasn't until my dear roommate from Boston, a land foreign to your goodness, was able to rattle off my standing order that I realized how much I actually talk about you. What can I say? I miss you.
Whenever I'm lucky enough to fly back, and the plane begins its descent over the sparkling lights of the Second City which is truly second to none, I always sit up straighter in my seat and begin to count down the minutes until we are reunited. It's become a tradition that I stop in and visit you before I actually make it back to my house, because, let's face it, you're just as much as my home.
When I spin my way through your revolving door, hear that peppy jazz, and breathe in the smell of food, love, and something in-explainable, but soChicago, I can't help but smile. Why? Because I'm reminded of one simple little fact: I'm from the greatest city in the world with the greatest food in the world.
So my dearest Portillo's, I suppose I should end this declaration of love by saying thank you. Thank you for your Italian beef when I'm feeling homesick, your chopped salad for when I try to convince myself I'm being "healthy," and for your chocolate cake when I want to celebrate.
Thank you for being this Chicago girl's go-to comfort food and best friend. If you ever venture out to Philadelphia, I promise you that I will be first in line, greeting you with open arms and an empty stomach. But even if you don't visit me, don't worry, I'll still come visit you. Because for me and millions of other Chicagoans, you'll always be home.
Love,
A Chicago Girl Who Really Wants an Italian Beef with Fries