Chicago, IL-The polarizing, passion fruit forward juice and kombucha speakeasy with religious undertones has officially boarded up its windows after failing to capitalize on an indeterminable number of Chicagoans looking for something that oddly specific.
Passion(fruit) of the Christ, located in the heart of Logan Square, attempted the tried and true method of using a naming convention that involves looking at movie names, then molding an idiotic themed bar to fit that movie’s theme. See also the excruciatingly named Whiskey Business, arguably the most douche forward bar in the city.
“It wasn’t the $25 nuts and twigs shared plate with a side of Irish Catholic guilt or the $50 kombucha flight that did us in, it was the unwillingness for people in this city to accept something different, something beautiful, our interpretation of a 1300’s Roman Catholic, passion fruit juice bar,” said owner Grayson Horton, twisting his ironic mustache and taking down the massive crucifix crafted out of passion fruit rinds.
Taking its place will be a conceptual brunch and nightclub hybrid called Brunchback of Notre Dame.
Chicago, IL-Sitting down and paying $50 for a glass of tomato juice with Popov, a sliver of translucent bacon and some sopping wet eggs you can see your reflection in, is a favorite past time for most Chicagoans. As is engaging in a war of attrition against a crippling hangover that is pummeling you closer to the pavement with every excruciating moment as you stand in a lengthy line, waiting to eat half of whatever slop you order before succumbing to booze fever and nausea.
Your eyes calculate if the water glass on the table could withstand a stomach sized load of bile.
Contributing to these feelings is the table adjacent, containing a smug looking man with a goatee and a summer scarf, a woman with oversized sunglasses dressed head to toe in luxury athletic apparel, and their diarrhea snowflake…Jake. Though never actually addressed as Jake, his behavior and look suggest it as the most likely name.
The idiotic salon styled Mohawk. The soiled little league jersey. The perpetual fart stream. The unmistakable look of complacency that accompanies being worshipped as a god and breast fed over the age of 10. Jake exists in every brunch, happening at any given moment, past, present or future. He doesn’t give a fuck about you or your hangover and he’s having a “me day”.
His parents will look on with pride as their perfect creation hauls ass around the restaurant, stomping toes, flicking boogers and ripping eye stingers. We all deserve to share in this prize they’ve selflessly delivered to the world. We all deserve to have an already idiotic morning ritual ruined by the likes of a privileged insect and his disinterested parents.
Roscoe Village conceptual brunch spot Endgrain has officially closed it’s doors to reconceptualize. Maybe when it comes back it will be more than just conceptual brunch and actual food will be served. It’s a risky idea that could be considered too corporate, but the exchange of services for money could pay dividends. I tried to go here three times with the same perplexing result every time.
1.) Walk into empty Endgrain around 9:00 a.m.
2.) Ask hostess if we can just sit ourselves or if she needs to seat us
3.) Hostess looks intently at blank piece of paper for 50 seconds to a minute, in complete radio silence
4.) Hostess looks up from sheet and studies face, purposefully sighs
5.) Smugly reports that there aren’t any openings until around 4:30 p.m.
The confirmation of no openings made the hostess so happy she could barely get the words out. She giddily looked at us as though we were escaped felons who had no business in the establishment. Fighting through tears of joy she finally gave us the news and relished in our disappointed looks. I’m pretty sure she smoked a cigarette after. I literally couldn’t be more certain that this place was selling the idea of brunch. If you had an ironic enough mustache you were seated, and got the opportunity to discuss imaginary food pairings. I’ll be damned if I give whatever pompous turd emerges from this a chance.