I had planned on simply going home after work, going to the gym, consuming a microwaved frozen burrito and going to bed. But an e-mail popped up in my inbox with the innocuous subject line: “Hello! Dinner?” It was from some friends we hadn’t seen in far too long, and they meant dinner tonight, and dinner at the most exciting restaurant in the city: Next. The gym could wait.

In case you’ve missed the blizzard of press, Next is the new restaurant of Grant Achatz, the internationally celebrated chef of Alinea, ranked by some as America’s best restaurant. When Chef Achatz actually met the exceedingly high expectations of the media and Alinea fans, what became a difficult reservation to secure became well-nigh impossible.

Needless to say, we jumped at the chance to go. Unfortunately, it was a casual day at work, and I had tossed on a pair of jeans and a three-year-old polo shirt. I made an emergency run to H&M at the mall at lunch and picked up a shirt and some khakis, costing a total of $32 (a small fraction of the price of one meal at Next). I hoped it would be dark, so that the fold marks wouldn’t show.

I should have been more worried about my underwear. The pants I hastily tried on were a bit too tight, and when I entered my car to head downtown, I ripped a hole in the crotch. Hooray for that H&M quality. I resolved, like a proper gentleman, to keep my legs together at all times throughout the evening.

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The Terrace at the Trump boasts arguably the best views in Chicago, with a 16th-floor panorama encompassing architectural icons such as the Wrigley Building, the Tribune Tower and the Jewelers Building. It features a “Polynesian Chic” theme, expressed with attractive black patio furniture, some colorful pillows, a few stalks of bamboo and a handful of windblown palm trees.

What it does not feature, unfortunately, is an exciting by-the-glass wine list. A rosé cava briefly caught my attention, but one could buy almost two bottles of the stuff for the $18 the Trump charges for a glass. Similarly off-putting price tags weighed down the other choices. Enjoy that glorious view, because you’re paying for it.

Finding little on the wine list to tempt our palates, we opted for two “Divine Nectars” (otherwise known as cocktails), the Huahine Basil ($18) and the Coconut Castaway ($23). The former, an attention-grabbing mix of Hum Botanical Spirit, ginger beer, fresh ginger and basil, tasted delicious. An unusual, locally made 70-proof liquor, Hum is composed of pot-still rhum infused with hibiscus, ginger root, green cardamom and kaffir lime (pot stills produce more robust flavors). I taste the cardamom and ginger most strongly in this spicy liquor.

In the Huahine Basil, perhaps a riff on the classic Moscow Mule, the Hum really took over, and I could taste little else. Nevertheless, the spirit’s flavors are complex enough on their own, and I didn’t really mind. Huahine, incidentally, is an island in French Polynesia, the name of which apparently translates as “women’s sexual organ,” according to the “Legends” section of Pacific Blue Adventure’s website. A cocktail name this classy could hardly be an accident.

I’ve now exhausted my positive comments about The Terrace at the Trump. If you plan to go and sip a delightful Huahine Basil cocktail as you gaze at some of the world’s most beautiful architecture, captivatingly honey-colored in the early evening sun, stop reading. Those who enjoy reading tales of shockingly overpriced, uninspired cuisine should by all means continue.

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I almost never dine near North Michigan Avenue, that famed Chicago strip so favored by deep dish-seeking tourists and overpriced restaurants. It was therefore with some skepticism that I approached The Purple Pig, a relatively new Spanish/Mediterranean hot spot set right in the heart of the beast: 500 North. But I wanted something a little fancy for my birthday, and I’d heard from a very trusted palate that it was “terrific.” And, well, it was.

Always thinking of my readers, I took copious notes about the experience (though it must be said their legibility and coherence deteriorated with distressing rapidity).

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Ivica and I enjoyed our conversation about Montenegro and the upgrades to Café Adriatic’s terrace, and he gestured to Tanja. “Pour him a glass of slivovitz… Yes, go ahead.” Tanja suggested the Markovic Estates slivovitz, which she said was the most popular. I contemplated my first shot of the evening.

In my family, slivovitz, a plum brandy, was usually referred to in a joke, as a sort of archetypal bad liquor. It’s a shame, because slivovitz is actually quite pleasant, if quite strong. I sipped the brandy, expecting some significant burn from the 45% alcohol content. It felt surprisingly smooth, however, and went down with ease. I sipped again, enjoying the lightly plummy flavor and aroma of almonds.

Suddenly, dessert didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Especially when one of the choices is crepes with “Eurocream and Plasma.” It sounded like the unfortunate result of some sort of Balkan blood-bank orgy. I had to have it.

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