It was a Saturday morning in late fall, 2008. A drizzly, downright shitty Saturday morning in early December. No way were our friends going to gather for brunch, so that left nothing to do but head to yoga class. I pulled on my pair of the tall rubber rain boots and tromped out my door down Cortelyou Road, the vena cava of my rapidly gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhood.
On Sunday, June 26, dozens of restaurant workers in tall paper toques and flimsy plastic aprons charged into the Taste of Chicago.