“Megobari” Dinner

Diary entry: October 18, 2024

The Great Chicago Expedition of 2024 will go down in my personal history as a clarifying moment. It was the trip where I realized that certain circles are not my shape, and this particular alma mater might be less of a nurturing mother and more of a strange, distant aunt who sends you weird gifts. The logistics of the trip itself deserve their own epic poem, but today’s dinner at that Chicago law firm? A masterclass in… well, a masterclass in what it was.

First, the ascent. We were ushered into an elevator and launched up to the 116^th floor, or whatever orbital height it was, where the air gets thin and so does the humility. We stepped out into one of those skyscraper offices that exist to make you feel small — a panoramic vista of Chicago, the lake glittering like a pile of diamonds, the whole city pulsing below. A genuine business Olympus. I had a brief, dizzying thought that the people who work here probably spend their entire lives suspended between the earth and the heavens, making decisions from behind glass without ever having to touch the pavement.

Naturally, the event kicked off with the promise of an “alla furshet.” It’s the secret American cheat code. Utter the magic words “Lunch will be served!” and you can lure even the most skeptical souls to a seminar on the driest of topics. Before we could get to the culinary delights, however, there was the main event: the conference. The tables in the grand room were round, and thanks to some brilliant ergonomic planning, I was seated with my back to the speakers. This afforded me a wonderful opportunity to perfect a constant, neck-straining swivel, like a confused owl. The table was a respectable menagerie: seasoned lawyers, lawyers-in-training, and various wannabes, all engaged in polite, slightly pained small talk. The monotony was briefly broken when a fellow, maybe 40, joined our table and lit the place up with a string of self-deprecating jokes. “Ah,” I thought, “a charming, well-adjusted human. A rare sighting.”

The main attraction was a debate between my Professor Pigou and some respectable bankruptcy scholar from Chicago Law. This scholar’s grand mission was apparently to resuscitate the desiccated corpse of Robert Jackson’s famous Creditors’ Bargain Theory. He’d need more than a magic trick for that poor Lazarus of a theory, which is probably why he called his version “Updated” or something equally ambitious.

The topic of the day was a controversial Supreme Court decision concerning asbestos cases. You know, that charming construction material with the rather aggressive, long-term side effect of killing people in vast, horrifying numbers. A disease that brews for decades before striking. Thousands of lives, decimated families — the whole grim picture. And here we were, in a sky palace, having a spirited discussion on the most efficient way to package this human suffering, allowing corporate dynasties to sidestep accountability through clever legal gymnastics.

Professor Pigou, bless his heart, argued against this practice, presumably because he possesses a functioning soul. He made the rather sensible point that mass torts should be handled in tort litigation, not shuffled into bankruptcy to let everyone off the hook. But this is America. You can’t just argue from a place of, God forbid, morality or ethics. The Chicago professor, right on cue, wheeled out the classic, one-legged argument of “law and economics,” which, as far as I can tell, is a complex philosophical framework designed to ensure the big guy always wins. If people only knew the sheer, shameless audacity of the law and economics movement and its cancerous tentacles, they might be a little less impressed.

The audience was a study in rapt attention. At one point, as Professor Pigou dissected whether insurance premiums are bankruptcy estate property, I heard the woman in front of me whisper to her friend, “What the hell is he talking about?” before they both dissolved into giggles. Another gentleman, clearly passionate, tried to shout out that they are estate property. When his first attempt went unheard, he tried again, louder, but the conversational train had already left the station.

When the break was finally announced, we stood up as one and made the great migration to the other room — the reception area, where a cafeteria-style dining scene was arranged. It was the classical “Swedish table” setup, the alla furshet, a ritual I’ve come to know well. You know the drill: people stand in a line, they get their food on their plates, they get their drinks, and then they scatter to sit at tables in their designated groups.

Sensing my moment, I made a tactical decision. Before joining the queue, I found a completely empty table by the window and claimed it. Let the record show — and this is important for the narrative — I was the first to arrive. The original settler. Any latecomers, by all laws of civilized dining, should not have been able to claim all credit for space and time, as they later did. With my territory secured, I sat and stared out the window.

There was the lake again, and the endless grid of buildings. I was too high up to see any people on the streets, which gave the city a serene, unpopulated look. I could just feel how cold it must be down there. The quality of the air, the way the sunlight reflected off those gigantic windows, the particular colors bleeding into the sky — it all combined to give me the distinct feeling that birds were not particularly welcome in Chicago at this time of year. Just then, the sun found a path through the glass and landed squarely on my face with a surprising intensity. This side of the room was particularly bright; it must have been the east side of the building.

Finally, the room began to fill with life, or at least with people. A fellow student from Illinois, bless his heart, drifted over to my table. He gave me a concerned look and noted that I didn’t seem myself. He then assured me that he, along with Professor Pigou and another faculty member, would “make sure I would be ok.” A truly touching sentiment. I told him I was perfectly fine, just a little bored, which was the honest truth.

Then, feeling the call of the promised lunch, I stood and joined the queue. I secured my plate and glass and patiently awaited my turn to inspect the culinary offerings. The food, as one could guess from the assortment, wasn’t exactly aspiring to greatness. There was some macaroni, some strange-looking cakes, some cutlets of a questionable geometric persuasion, and juice with the viscosity of syrup. Really, not the five-star spread one expects from a law firm perched atop the city. I was disappointed, but a man must eat, so I filled my plate nonetheless.

Alas! Upon returning to the table — the very table I had claimed first, and which by all laws of God and man should have been mine — I found it had been fully colonized. There they were: Professor Pigou, a collection of people he apparently knew quite well (judging by the smiles), our fellow students, and a few other assorted characters, all having a marvelous time. Plate in hand, a monument to hopeful awkwardness, I hovered by the table. Every eye saw me coming, yet not a single body shifted to create space, perhaps because there was none. No one offered a simple “Join us!” I just stood there for a moment, an object in space, not quite sure of my next move in this curious social dance. So, I quietly retreated to another table, like an adopted orphan at the family banquet, and sat there alone. From time to time, I’d hear Professor Pigou let out a laugh so loud I couldn’t help but feel it was a performance piece, designed to be heard from the nosebleed section where I was sitting. I had a brief flight of fancy, imagining Professor Pigou and his friends visiting Georgia for a conference. I pictured myself at a table with my countrymen, watching my guests sit by themselves, alone, like an abandoned nuclear factory about to explode into a Chernobylean catastrophe. The idea was so unimaginable, so utterly bizarre, it felt like a scene from an absurdist play where nothing makes sense. But this wasn’t absurdist theater. This was just dinner in Chicago.

Having finished my meal, I stood up and made my way back to the room where the conference was set to continue. I decided not to return to my original table. This was partly a practical matter — my neck was already drafting its letter of resignation — and partly because I suddenly craved the splendid isolation of being left alone, both physically and mentally.

What was said in the second act of this riveting legal drama is a story for another diary entry. For now, let’s just say this chapter was really all about the dinner in the skyscraper.

Welcome to the top.