“Our grapes are trucked in from California–so you know you’re getting California-quality wines.”

” If I were you I’d change up the narrative a bit. Tell people the wheat’s tended by scantily-clad teenaged virgins. Yeah…. Naked virgins.”

“Who benefits?”

Three lines that stuck to my brain pan the last few days. Where they all lead is a little scorbled up but I’ve tried to tease out some threads.

The first stopped me in my tracks thanks not to content but context: the Green City Market’s annual Chefs’ BBQ, a benefit for the Lincoln Park farmers’ market. The market’s motto is “Know your food, know your farmer,” and the mandate of this shindig, which drew a crowd of 1,200 at $50 a pop, was to showcase the bounty of locally grown and produced products. Fifty Chicago chefs (including Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard) were on hand to dispense tasting portions of chilled cherry soup, braised short ribs, rabbit chorizo hot dogs, grilled nectarines with Prairie Fruits chevre, and–proving, if there was every any doubt, that this is seriously the Year of the Pig–what seemed like 98 preparations of pork. Of course, a handful of local brewers, vintners, and distillers were on the scene as well.

I had been in a car pointed for Wisconsin Thursday morning when I got a call, somewhere around Skokie, from Brian Ellison, telling me that he was heading into Chicago for the event. Did I want to tag along? I turned the car around.

After bird-dogging him on sales calls all afternoon I helped wheel the Death’s Door port-a-bar across the grass of the market grounds and then, once he was set up, wandered off to explore. That’s when I met the guy with the California grapes.

He was from Wild Blossom Meadery and Winery, based on the far south side, and the shiraz he proffered wasn’t that great–but that’s not what bugged me. While his mead is made from Chicago honey (and was a lot better than the wine), he seemed equally proud of his grapes’ California pedigree. But all I could think was, “What’s so local about that?”

It sounds snotty but consider the context. Green City has been one of Chicago’s most successful evangelists for the gospel of local, sustainable, seasonal eating. Its administrators go to great (arguably ridiculous) lengths to authenticate the pedigree of the food its vendors bring to market, providing lots of glossy informational materials and bringing in farmers and producers to do meet-and-greets for the public.

So why does booze get a pass?

I’m far from a dogmatic locavore. I’ll take my wine from France, Spain, Chile, Greece . . . whatever suits the mood and the budget. And I don’t mean to bash Green City–or the many outstanding products on offer at the benefit. Flossmoor Station makes great beer—who cares where their barley comes from? Ditto a place like North Shore Distillery, whose #6 gin has won a slew of justified awards. But it’s a curious lacuna. What, exactly, does “local” mean when you’re talking about vodka and your grain comes from Archer Daniels Midland? The economic benefit of any small, family-owned business to its immediate community is nothing to sniff at, providing jobs, tax base, and (usually) a modicum of civic pride. But is it enough?

This is a little unfocused, but it’s also worth noting that, even in a city block saturated with self-identified conscious eaters, prejudice against local liquors lingers. As Ellison madly shook up batch after batch of vodka cobblers, two men paused by the Death’s Door booth.

 “What’s over there?” asked one.

“That’s gin,” said the other. “It’s from Wisconsin.”

“Ha! Isn’t that, like, illegal? Like how  bourbon has to be from Kentucky?”

And they sailed away. In search of something more authentic? I didn’t ask.

(More . . . tomorrow?)