Lou’s is an old-school Greek diner. It opened in 1923 and, three years later, found itself near the start of a new road called Route 66. Hungry travelers fueled up at the counter and in the little booths before setting off on their journeys. Today, locals and tourists still crowd in for the Main Street vibe and jumbo breakfast dishes. People chat, newspapers rustle, silverware clatters—close your eyes and you could be in Winslow, Catoosa, or some other small town instead of downtown Chicago. Di’s is my neighborhood bar, a few blocks from where I live, on Chicago’s Northwest side. It’s not famous or glamorous, or a dive turned hip hot spot; it doesn’t even have beer on tap. What it does have is true local character. Many an eater has left their heart in San Francisco. Some, like me, stuck around for good after that first bite. When I first told my mother that I wasn’t going to law school, but was instead moving to San Francisco to start a career in food justice, we had what one might diplomatically call a “difficult conversation.” Thirteen years later, I hold a deep love for a city that has taught me to nourish—and resist—for most of my adult life. (And Mom’s proud, in case you were wondering.)
