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Chicago fire: Flaming saganaki sparks interest worldwide decades after its Greektown origin

Chicago fire: Flaming saganaki sparks interest worldwide decades after its Greektown origin

Chicago Tribune09-06-2025
Last winter, at Chicago's Greek Islands (200 S. Halsted St.), our Greektown dinner started with a bang — more accurately, a whoosh. A server carried a small black pan of blazing cheese to the table as startled diners burst into applause for what is the Windy City's notoriously combustible appetizer: flaming saganaki.
In Chicago, the dish is a ritual. It's dramatic, it's delicious, and — let's be honest — it's also a little absurd in the best possible way.
The word saganaki comes from sagani, a small, two-handled Greek pan. In Greece, the dish is straightforward: firm, dry cheeses such as kasseri, feta or halloumi are pan-fried until golden. No fire. No flair. Just cheese doing what cheese does best, served with crusty bread.
In Chicago, we lightly coat the square or triangular cut of cheese in flour and fry it in a little olive oil until crisp and golden. Then we flip it once, warm it through, splash it with brandy (usually ouzo or Metaxa), light it up, and before setting it on the table, flamboyantly extinguish the flames with a lemon squeeze and a hearty shout of 'Opa!' That word — part cheer, part celebration, part call to 'let's dance!' — adds the perfect exclamation point.
So, where did this fiery tradition begin? Depends on whom you ask.
Chris Liakouras of the now-shuttered Parthenon restaurant claimed in a 1979 Tribune interview that he invented flaming saganaki in 1968. He described sitting at a table with three friends when the idea for a new menu item was born. 'Why don't you try flaming the cheese?' one of the ladies suggested.
And just like that, an appetizer exploded into legend.
But Petros Kogeones of Diana's, another Greektown fixture, had a different story. In 1991, he told the Tribune that he and his brother were flambéing cheese as far back as the early 1960s. According to Kogeones, they'd set up tables outside their family grocery, splash brandy on sizzling cheese, light it all on fire, and shout 'Opa!' Eventually, perhaps to stake his claim, Kogeones even renamed the restaurant Diana's Opa.
Regardless of who struck the first match to brandy-doused cheese, one thing is clear: Flaming saganaki was a hit. And honestly, when we're traveling and we order saganaki, we're always a little disappointed when it doesn't arrive in a ball of fire. There is, however, increasingly little chance of being served saganaki sans flames, at least in the U.S.: Restaurants from Brooklyn to Malibu are figuring out that brandy and a match might be the not-so-secret ingredients to serving a lot of the crowd-pleasing saganaki.
'The flames were a smart marketing idea,' says Louie Alexakis, owner of the Avli restaurants in Chicago. 'In the 1950s and '60s, a lot of Greek restaurant workers in Chicago had fine dining backgrounds. They saw the wow factor of tableside flambé — things like crepes Suzette or bananas Foster. Flaming cheese was the next step.'
Alexakis still flames saganaki at Avli, but also offers a more modern take: saganaki served with spiced fig chutney — still delicious, and less likely to set off the sprinklers.
Not everyone is on board with this fiery New World opener to a traditional Greek dinner in Chicagoland. Ted Maglaris, founder of Mana in LaGrange (88 LaGrange Road), said, 'We chose not to flame our pan-fried saganaki but rather to honor the traditional Greek preparation, inspired by recipes from mothers in Greece, which is the inspiration for our restaurant's name, Mana. Flaming saganaki is a relatively recent tradition that began in Chicago, not in Greece. Our goal is to provide an authentic Greek experience, staying true to how saganaki is traditionally enjoyed in Greece.'
Flashback: Memories of when Greektown was 'a mile long and 24 hours'With the current eagerness to sample 'authentic' preparations of Greek, Italian, Mexican and other traditional national foods, it's understandable that some restaurants might prefer to serve saganaki the way their mothers and grandmothers did, no matches or accelerants required.
Other restaurants may be toning down the theatrics for safety reasons — turns out, flaming cheese and crowded dining rooms make for a risky combination.
Somewhat surprisingly, flaming saganaki is now also catching on in Greece, especially in tourist-heavy restaurants, such as the Athens Yacht Club. Though such fiery presentations of cheese are not common in Greece, some travelers have come to expect saganaki to be flaming.
And who can blame them?
There's something undeniably fun about turning a simple cheese dish into a full-blown pyrotechnic display. Flaming saganaki isn't just food — it's dinner, entertainment, and a tiny adrenaline rush all in one.
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Recollections of a visit to Lincoln Park's Lily Pool with its architect, Alfred Caldwell
Recollections of a visit to Lincoln Park's Lily Pool with its architect, Alfred Caldwell

Chicago Tribune

time16 hours ago

  • Chicago Tribune

Recollections of a visit to Lincoln Park's Lily Pool with its architect, Alfred Caldwell

In 1955, Alfred Caldwell walked me through the Lincoln Park Rookery, as it was then known. An oasis of green amid the city's concrete and brick, hustle and bustle, it was afterward renamed the Alfred Caldwell Lily Pool, in honor of the landscape architect who created it. 'When we came to the small shelter that is its centerpiece he hugged one of its pillars and grunted affectionately. Patting the stones that he had laid a half century ago,' I reported in a March 8, 1990, recounting of our tour for the Tribune. But the heart doesn't measure life by clocks or calendars or datelines on faded newspaper clippings. My afternoon with Caldwell came to mind clear as a bell during the countdown to the Lily Pool's reopening after being closed for repairs in 2024. I was a student of professor Caldwell's at the Illinois Institute of Technology, and our Lincoln Park visit was his final lesson: Works of art are their creator's children. They bring joy and sleepless nights. The Lily Pool at that time had been sadly neglected. 'When I was 8, I planted some radish seeds,' Caldwell said while clutching the pillar, 'and I've never gotten over the thrill of seeing the first green of those plants push up through the soil.' Bureaucrats were not going to deny him a similar thrill from his 1937 Lily Pool design. Chicago Park District higher-ups scratched his proposed wildflower plantings as too expensive. He found a work-around. 'I cashed in my insurance policy,' Caldwell later recalled. 'I got $250.' He hired a truck, drove to Wisconsin, bought thousands of plants, and was back in Chicago by early evening. With friends' help, he started planting the wildflowers next morning, and by early afternoon the Lily Pool was finished. While best known for his work in Chicago, he was no fan of the city's grittier elements. 'The city is the living landscape of well over half of the population of the United States,' he lamented in an essay 'The Living Landscape.' 'The bravest fantasist could not have imagined a more hideous environs.' Accordingly, Caldwell's refuge mimicked pre-urban Chicago. He built it with large slabs of Niagara limestone, having stratified the edges, echoing the city's limestone underpinnings, scoured by rapidly flowing ancient rivers. To complete the illusion, the Lily Pool was dubbed a prairie river, and fed by a waterfall, since a river implies a source of water. 'This waterfall, as a work of art, is a celebration,' Caldwell said. He recalled his hopes for his artificial Arcadia in a 1942 essay, 'The Lily Pool.' 'It was planned as a hidden garden for the people of Megalopolis, and the very poor, naturally without hope of escape in Buicks—the disadvantaged citizens of the slums– could come here.' Caldwell knew something about disadvantaged urbanites. He was raised on Chicago's North Side by a wastrel father and a mother who struggled to put food on their table. But she instilled in him a love of books. 'To a young man nothing ought seem impossible,' Caldwell told me in 1990. 'I wore out the pockets of my overcoat, carrying copies of Spengler and Plato with me wherever I went.' With a dream of becoming a landscape architect, at the age of 18 he enrolled in the University of Illinois. He supported himself by waiting on tables in a fraternity house. The classes were dull, the professors boring. 'No lifted word. No beautiful infallible phrase ever disturbed the pedagogical cemetery,' he said. Dropping out, he returned to Chicago, and with youthful bravado suggested a partnership to George Donoghue, an engineer and businessman. Donoghue would provide the capital while Caldwell would provide the architectural experience, which in fact he didn't have. For about two years Caldwell earned a meager living with small buildings and landscape projects before admitting to himself that he had to learn something. So he approached Jens Jensen, a Danish immigrant who had worked as a garden designer for various parks commissions. Effectively the founder of the 'Prairie style' of gardening, Jensen had opened a private practice in Ravinia, where Caldwell asked him for a job. 'I didn't know anything. I was a phenomenal boy of 21 and I hated universities, ' Caldwell recalled. 'Are you any good?' Jensen asked him and launched into a lecture. Caldwell was asked to stay for lunch and afterward Jensen resumed the lecture until, as he was leaving for a speaking engagement, Jensen told Caldwell to report for work the next morning. 'I went out to my car and tears were running down my face,' Caldwell told me. 'At last I've found a real man!' From Jensen, Caldwell learned that a landscape architect shouldn't compete with nature, but express its inherent beauty. During the Depression, Jensen's commissions were few. But a politically connected friend got Caldwell appointed as the Chicago Park District's principal designer. The results were his masterpieces: the Lily Pool, Promontory Point on the south lakeshore, and a Japanese Garden in Jackson Park. But his perfectionism was at times costly. Taking a civil service examination for promotion, he annotated his answers with his judgment that the exam didn't measure the job skills that were actually needed to perform the work. He flunked. On a second try, he passed. In the 1930s, Mies van der Rohe, formerly the director of Germany's famed Bauhaus design school, offered a refresher course for architects at the Art Institute of Chicago. Students were asked to bring a sample of their work. Seeing Caldwell's, he made him his chief draftsman. Appointed director of architecture at the Illinois Institute of Technology, Mies took Caldwell with him. As Mies' English was marginal, Caldwell developed the curriculum. Mies went from one drafting table to the next, puffed on his omnipresent cigar, and said: 'Yah, try anuder vun.' Caldwell's classroom performances were riveting. 'What do we build with?' Caldwell asked a student in a class I took in the 1950s. 'Brick … glass,' the student stammered. 'And steel.' 'No!' Caldwell thundered. 'We build with the heart and the head!' He threw a light jab at each. He began a session on reinforced concrete by dictating the formula. As students scribbled in notebooks, Caldwell spoke slowly. He split syllables, as if reciting poetry. 'Take one part Port-land cement, two parts sand, three parts coarse ag-gregate and suf-ficient water to mix.' He did that for each incoming class. He also took IIT students to Bristol, Wisconsin, where he was building a home, one slab of stone after another. He subscribed to the Bauhaus philosophy that architects must experience the building process, with their hands. He worked with Mies on the buildings Mies designed for IIT. But in 1958, the university trustees decided that the architectural firm Skidmore, Owings & Merrill would finish the campus. Caldwell resigned on the spot. For 20 years, he taught at the universities of Virginia, Southern California and Kansas and spent summers at his home in Bristol. Then IIT's architectural faculty, feeling the program needed rejuvenation, induced Caldwell to return. Taking cognizance of Caldwell's age, the dean said he need not carry a full teaching load. 'I'm not here to loaf,' he responded. Surprised to learn of Caldwell's return, I phoned him. ''How could I say no?' he told me. 'All but one of the faculty were my students!' We met in his classroom, and it was like time stood still. 'No!' he told a student. 'We build with the heart and the head!' When Caldwell died in 1998 at 95, he was still teaching at IIT. Shortly, when renovations are complete, you'll be able to experience the indelible thrill I had on our visit to his beloved Lily Pool.

Ga. State to demolish nearly 100-year-old building in MLK Historic District
Ga. State to demolish nearly 100-year-old building in MLK Historic District

Axios

time2 days ago

  • Axios

Ga. State to demolish nearly 100-year-old building in MLK Historic District

More than two months after a tense public hearing on a proposal to demolish a nearly 100-year-old building for its campus expansion project, Georgia State University will move ahead with tearing down the building. Why it matters: The old substation at 148 Edgewood Ave. is within the local Martin Luther King Jr. Historic District, and preservationists say demolishing such structures will make it harder to tell Atlanta's history through those spaces. The latest: The university confirmed to Axios that "after careful evaluation and public input," it will tear down the "long-vacant" building to construct what it calls a Fraternity and Sorority Life Plaza. The plaza will serve as greenspace for students who reside in its Greek life housing development. A mural will also be installed to honor the history of the building and celebrate Greek groups on campus, GSU said. What they're saying: GSU added it will salvage the brickwork from 148 Edgewood and incorporate it into the new space "as a tribute to its legacy." It also said the $12 million estimate to renovate 148 Edgewood for reuse "outweighs its limited ability to benefit students and faculty." The other side: David Y. Mitchell, executive director of the Atlanta Preservation Center and an opponent of GSU's plan, said in a statement to Axios that his organization hoped GSU would have given the building "the respect it has both earned and been recognized with." "Destroying this building will remove yet one more of the structures that somehow survived and visually represents how we became Atlanta." Catch up quick: Residents and historic preservationists began raising concerns about GSU's plans last year and created a petition to raise awareness. A contentious public hearing and open house was held May 28 where GSU officials and Greek life students debated with residents and other stakeholders whether to reuse or demolish 148 Edgewood. Zoom out: Demolishing the old substation, as well as Sparks Hall at 33 Gilmer St., is part of GSU's larger, long-range plan to create a " true college town downtown." A Panther Quad, which will rise in place of Sparks Hall, will feature additional greenspace that will connect to the campus' existing greenway. Gilmer Street will be transformed into a car-free zone to improve connectivity with Hurt Park, GSU officials previously told Axios. Flashback: The 148 Edgewood building was constructed as a substation in 1926 by the company now known as Georgia Power to supply electricity to Downtown, Kyle Kessler, a resident who opposes the demolition, told Axios last year.

Today in Chicago History: Strike suspends service on railroads, street cars and elevated lines
Today in Chicago History: Strike suspends service on railroads, street cars and elevated lines

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time3 days ago

  • Chicago Tribune

Today in Chicago History: Strike suspends service on railroads, street cars and elevated lines

Here's a look back at what happened in the Chicago area on Aug. 1, according to the Tribune's archives. Is an important event missing from this date? Email us. Weather records (from the National Weather Service, Chicago) 1922: More than 20,000 employees walked off the job starting at 4 a.m. and joined another 400,000 railroad workers as part of the Great Railroad Strike, which suspended service on all Chicago street car lines and elevated trains. Vintage Chicago Tribune: In 1922, 400,000 railroad workers walked off the jobSubscribe to the free Vintage Chicago Tribune newsletter, join our Chicagoland history Facebook group, stay current with Today in Chicago History and follow us on Instagram for more from Chicago's past.

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