At the church, Ashley Ertz (oboe) and Lillia Woolschlager (piano) treated us with a Samuel Coleridge-Taylor piece I can’t remember the name of, possibly because I never looked at it in the program. 

I didn’t stay for the rest of the concert, featuring composers unknown to me, and compositions from the latter half of the 20th century, a potential red flag for me, though, I admit, the music wafting through the Sanctuary as I left sounded like something I might have liked. But I had other fish, or beignets, to fry and so headed for the Jazz Festival.  

As promised to myself last week after seeing the Juan Pastor trio at the Noonday Concert, I went to see Pastor’s Chincahno, expecting a quintet, but pleasantly surprised to hear a septet, whose sound filled Millennium Park with Peruvian-inspired top-tapping rhythms.    

And, as with any music festival worth its salt, a wide variety of overpriced t-shirts were available for purchase.  

More interestingly, there was a creole food stand, whose offerings included the aforementioned beignets. The last time I had one of those, it was with a cup of coffee and chicory, sitting outside at the original Cafe du Monde (there are now 10) on the banks of the Mississippi River in New Orleans, where the beignets are served in threes in case eating just one of these deeply fried treats is not enough to clog every artery in your body. The approximately 60 million steps I’ve taken since then hopefully have negated that indulgence, but I decided not to risk further damage this time, even though there was a medical vehicle stationed not too far away.