Look, if you ate enough sacher torte to replace your body wholesale, you’d be grieving, too

You haven’t heard of Selmarie. It doesn’t have a Michelin star. It is not Beard rated. It’s not really in any guides. People like it that way, because Selmarie is good, and if you make the thing a thing you sort of ruin it.

Chicago wants to be illegible to outsiders. You can witness it as an entity, but not grasp the why of what makes it so special, why 3 million people live there and stay. You go see the skyline, the bean, maybe Wrigley, the lake, some museums, and you go home. You don’t go to Selmarie. You don’t even know what Selmarie is.

The best part of O’Hare is far enough off the beaten path that it’s only populated by pilots, flight attendants, and Chicagoan road hogs who know what’s up. It is abundant in what O’Hare lacks: plants, sunlight, free wifi, and library-grade silence. Peak Chicago. The way to Chicago is to go slightly out of your way, do something that is ungrammable and seemingly quotidian, and have a great time. Selmarie possesses the same energy.

Selmarie is not the best brunch in the city, but it does rank among the best in pastry programs, and they know it. Their traditional Bavarian pastries connect the place to Lincoln Square’s German roots in a way that, again, makes sense only if you are from here. I have nigh-Proustian feelings about multiple things in their pastry case.