National Hot Chocolate Day gets a decidedly elevated upgrade this year at Hotel Chocolat’s Southport location, where the beloved chocolate brand is transforming a childhood comfort into a curated tasting experience worth slowing down for.

From January 24 through January 30, Hotel Chocolat is offering two thoughtfully designed Hot Chocolate Tasting Flights, inviting guests to explore the depth, texture, and nuance of its iconic drinking chocolates just in time for the January 31 celebration.

The Classic Hot Chocolate Flight showcases the brand’s signature style with a trio of standout flavors: Classic 70%, Salted Caramel, and Coconut White. Rich, balanced, and deeply cocoa-forward, the flight leans into indulgence without excess. Meanwhile, the Vegan Hot Chocolate Flight highlights Hotel Chocolat’s plant-based offerings, proving that dairy-free doesn’t mean compromise. Each flight also includes a mystery flavor, a playful wildcard that adds surprise to every sip.

Founded by Angus Thirlwell and Peter Harris, Hotel Chocolat was built on a simple but ambitious idea: make chocolate exciting again. That philosophy still drives the brand today, blending innovation with ethics. More cocoa. Less sugar. Better sourcing. Better flavor.

Hotel Chocolat now operates 160 stores across the UK, along with cafés, bars, and restaurants. The brand grows its own cacao on a sustainable farm in Saint Lucia, home to both its Rabot Estate and luxury hotel, while chocolate production happens in Cambridge, England. With a growing footprint in the U.S. and Japan, Hotel Chocolat continues to reshape how chocolate is experienced globally.

At its core, this Southport tasting flight isn’t just about hot chocolate. It’s about reclaiming a familiar ritual and giving it a little polish, a little depth, and just enough surprise to make you pause mid-sip.

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In this intimate, wide-ranging conversation, Jacob Tolliver sits down with Tom Barnas to trace a career that feels less like a straight line and more like a series of fortunate collisions, each one louder and more electric than the last.

Tolliver reflects on his formative years in Chicago, a city whose clubs, musicians, and restless creative energy helped sharpen both his sound and his sense of purpose. That grounding proved essential when he landed the role of Jerry Lee Lewis in the hit Las Vegas production of Million Dollar Quartet. Night after night, Tolliver didn’t just play the piano. He wrestled with it, channeling the volatile spirit of early rock ’n’ roll and earning a reputation as one of the show’s most combustible performers.

That performance opened doors few musicians ever touch. Tolliver recounts surreal moments trading stories and stages with Jerry Lee Lewis himself, crossing paths with icons like Elton John and Mick Jagger, and learning firsthand that rock history isn’t something you study. It’s something you survive.

The conversation also explores Tolliver’s unlikely leap from a viral YouTube video to a Las Vegas spotlight, a modern myth fueled by old-school chops. While many artists chase algorithms, Tolliver doubled down on the physical act of performance, believing that live music remains the last honest handshake between artist and audience.

Musically, Tolliver refuses to live in a single lane. His sound pulls from rock, country, pop, and blues, blending classic structures with a contemporary edge. As a songwriter, he favors emotional immediacy over polish, aiming for songs that feel lived-in rather than perfected.

Now focused on his original music, Tolliver is entering a new chapter, one that honors the past without being trapped by it. His upcoming projects promise a sound that’s nostalgic but restless, rooted yet exploratory. In an era obsessed with reinvention, Jacob Tolliver is doing something rarer. He’s evolving while staying unmistakably himself.

For updates, releases, and upcoming performances, follow along at jacobtolliver.com.

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Chicago has always sold itself in steel and glass. The skyline rises, the river bends, the trains rattle on. But just beyond the clatter of the L and the low hum of Metra platforms, something softer begins to take shape: dunes that roll like quiet punctuation marks, wetlands breathing between rails, forests that seem improbable given their proximity to rush-hour traffic.

In a wide-ranging conversation, Tom Barnas and author Lindsay Welbers pull back the curtain on this other Chicago, one measured not in blocks but in trailheads. Welbers, whose explorations began as a personal attempt to reconnect with nature without leaving the city behind, has spent years mapping the green arteries that run parallel to Chicagoland’s transit system. The result is Chicago Transit Hikes, a guide that feels less like a hiking manual and more like a permission slip to wander.

Illinois, she reminds us, is far from flat in spirit. Its landscapes shift from oak savannas to prairies, from Lake Michigan dunes to quiet forest preserves that rank among the largest urban systems in the country. Many of these spaces remain overlooked, hidden in plain sight, accessible not by car but by train ticket.

What distinguishes Welbers’s work is its practicality. The book is slim enough to slide into a backpack, organized by rail line rather than region, and built for people who think in stops and schedules. Each hike comes with train-to-trailhead instructions, accessibility notes, dog-friendliness, seasonal highlights, and even guidance on what flora and fauna might be watching you pass through.

There’s history here, too. Old campgrounds like Dunewood, a favorite of Welbers’s, carry the echoes of early conservation movements and rail-era leisure travel, when Chicagoans routinely escaped the city by train in search of fresh air. These stories add texture, grounding each hike in something older than the rails themselves.

Public transportation, often framed as a means of commuting, becomes a quiet act of environmental engagement. It lowers the barrier to outdoor access, reshapes how residents think about their surroundings, and subtly redefines Chicago’s reputation. This is not a city divorced from nature, but one threaded through it.

As the conversation turns toward the future of Chicago Transit Hikes, one idea lingers: exploration changes perception. Step off the platform, follow the trail, and the city you thought you knew gives way to something wilder, calmer, and unexpectedly close.

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Radio legends have become an endangered species, their voices fading beneath algorithms and playlists. But every so often, if you know where to listen, you still hear one. In Chicago, that voice belongs to Nick Digilio.

For more than four decades, Digilio has been a constant on the city’s cultural frequency. A film critic, broadcaster, podcaster, live-event host, and unapologetic movie obsessive, he represents a particular Chicago ideal: deeply knowledgeable, relentlessly curious, and profoundly human. In a wide-ranging conversation with Tom Barnas, Digilio reflects on a life shaped by cinema and radio, two mediums that taught him how to listen, how to watch, and how to connect. Digilio’s career spans over 35 years in radio, much of it at WGN, where the station once felt less like a corporation and more like a family kitchen table. He recalls an era when broadcasters weren’t brands but neighbors, trusted voices keeping company with late-night insomniacs and early-morning commuters. That sense of community, he says, is what made radio matter and why its loss still stings.

Movies, however, were there first. Growing up in Wrigleyville, Digilio was the kind of kid who didn’t just watch films, he studied them. Seeing John Carpenter’s Halloween wasn’t merely frightening, it was formative. It taught him how direction works, how tone is built, how a filmmaker’s choices ripple outward. Long before he had the language of criticism, he had instinct, curiosity, and a love that never faded.

That lifelong devotion now finds its fullest expression in Digilio’s new book, 40 Years, 40 Films, a deeply personal and sharply observed collection that functions as film criticism, cultural history, and memoir all at once. Organized one movie per year, from Albert Brooks’ Lost in America (1985) to Denis Villeneuve’s Dune: Part Two (2024), each chapter pairs Digilio’s favorite film of the year with a snapshot of his life at that moment.

The result is intimate without being indulgent. These essays are funny, incisive, and emotionally grounded, revealing how movies didn’t just entertain Digilio but accompanied him through sobriety, upheaval, reinvention, and survival. Alongside the essays are full Top 10 lists from every year since 1985, plus selections from his pre-critic childhood, when moviegoing was pure discovery.

This is not simply a book about films. It is a candid biography told at 24 frames per second.

Digilio writes openly about triumphs and failures, about losing jobs and rebuilding identities, about the quiet resilience required to stay creative in a shrinking industry. The COVID-19 pandemic, which disrupted radio and accelerated many of its long-simmering changes, forced him to pivot yet again. Podcasts, film screenings, live events, and direct audience engagement have become his new airwaves.

Still, Chicago remains the constant. Digilio speaks of the city not as a backdrop but as a collaborator, a place that shaped his voice and continues to sustain it. That love is echoed in the book’s framing, with an introduction by legendary Chicago artist Tony Fitzpatrick and a foreword by filmmaker Don Coscarelli, creator of Phantasm and Bubba Ho-Tep. It’s a gathering of kindred spirits, bound by art, endurance, and a belief in stories.

Audrey Wilson didn’t abandon screenwriting when she turned to novels. She simply widened the frame.

A Chicago-based writer with deep roots in both film and fiction, Wilson has built a career exploring what unsettles people long after the lights come up. Her latest novel, The Ever End, marks a significant evolution in that pursuit, shifting from the collaborative world of screenwriting into the solitary, immersive terrain of psychological horror literature.

At its core, The Ever End is less concerned with jump scares than with the slow, suffocating tension that creeps in when instinct collides with social conditioning. The novel draws inspiration from a deceptively simple idea: the way politeness can override survival, and how often people are taught to ignore their gut in favor of being agreeable. That tension becomes fertile ground for terror, unfolding through characters who feel achingly familiar rather than safely fictional.

Wilson’s creative process reflects her screenwriting background. She is an enthusiastic outliner, mapping emotional beats and narrative turns before drafting a single page. Whether she’s working in screenplay format or long-form prose, structure remains her compass. But where film demands economy, the novel allows her to linger, to let dread ferment, to explore interior lives with greater depth.

The Midwest plays a quiet but persistent role in her work. Growing up in Chicago, Wilson absorbed a particular kind of atmosphere: wide spaces, harsh winters, and an undercurrent of isolation that can exist even in crowded places. It’s a region that doesn’t announce its menace, but waits patiently. That sensibility seeps into The Ever End, where horror isn’t imported, it’s already embedded in the landscape.

Wilson’s relationship with horror began early, shaped by formative encounters with films that treated fear as psychological terrain rather than spectacle. Those influences still guide her approach today. For her, horror is most effective when it reflects emotional truths, when it uses fear as a lens to examine identity, vulnerability, and power.

Representation is central to that mission. Wilson is intentional about creating characters who feel seen, particularly in a genre that has historically relied on familiar archetypes. She believes horror is uniquely positioned to explore marginalized experiences, not as metaphors, but as lived realities. By grounding terror in authenticity, she aims to build deeper connections with readers who recognize themselves on the page.

With The Ever End, Audrey Wilson isn’t just telling a scary story. She’s expanding the emotional vocabulary of horror, proving that the most unsettling monsters often emerge from everyday decisions, unspoken rules, and the quiet spaces where fear has room to grow.

Babe’s Sports Bar is calling, and it’s answering with volume, visibility, and victory laps for women’s sports.

Tucked into Logan Square at 3017 W. Armitage Ave., Babe’s is Chicago’s newest love letter to women athletes and the fans who show up for them. With eight TVs capable of running four women’s sports games at once, Babe’s is built for watch parties, sports-themed movie screenings, and all-year-long celebrations that don’t ask for permission.

After a successful crowdfunding campaign, nearly a year of renovations, and a deep dive into donated sports history, Babe’s officially opened its doors with a soft launch that felt anything but quiet. The bar is the brainchild of Nora McConnell-Johnson, a Humboldt Park native, lifelong athlete, and former rugby coach who turned zoning headaches, building permits, and community feedback into a fully realized space that finally gives women’s sports the room they deserve.

The interior pops with green and pink hues, glowing accent lights, red trim, and bathrooms so perfectly chaotic they’ve earned their own Instagram account. Disco balls hover overhead. Tables are sealed with vintage sports photos, pins, and varsity jacket letters. Donated trophies line the walls, including one from McConnell-Johnson’s own rugby coaching days. Everywhere you look, women are frozen mid-stride, mid-play, mid-history.

The old space was completely gutted to make room for a new bar counter, an improved patio, fresh wallpaper, a photo booth, and soon, bleachers. When installed, those bleachers will seat 12 people beside a vintage Illinois recreation center scoreboard, turning the bar into something that feels equal parts neighborhood hangout and rec-league shrine.

Babe’s was founded by college best friends and rugby co-captains Nora and Torra, a duo united by sport and the belief that women athletes deserve a dedicated home base. This isn’t a novelty bar or a pop-up moment. It’s a permanent fixture built on celebration, representation, and community.

Planning a visit? Babe’s is a short walk from the California Blue Line stop, near the Armitage and California bus routes, with free street parking on Armitage right out front. Check the Babe’s website for updates on watch parties, New Year’s Eve events, and upcoming programming.

This New Year, raise a glass where women’s sports are always on the big screen and never treated like the undercard.

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We’re getting an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look at Adalina Prime, the buzziest new steakhouse to hit Chicago’s Fulton Market, and it’s clear from the moment you walk in that this isn’t your grandfather’s steakhouse.

Chef and partner Soo Ahn leads the way through the restaurant’s striking design and moody, high-glam atmosphere, a space that feels equal parts old-world luxury and modern swagger. The experience only deepens downstairs, where sommelier Colin Jones opens the doors to Adalina Prime’s jaw-dropping, two-story wine cellar, home to more than 4,000 bottles curated to match the restaurant’s elevated yet playful approach to fine dining.

For Ahn, the menu is deeply personal. “I love infusing the flavors I grew up with, fell in love with while traveling, or enjoy at home into new dishes,” he says. Guests familiar with Adalina’s original menu can taste that philosophy throughout the restaurant, from the lobster spaghetti dusted with furikake to the duck mole lasagna, dishes that quietly bend tradition without breaking it. Bringing that same energy to Adalina Prime was non-negotiable.

“It’s a key part of how we do things differently,” Ahn explains. “We’re elevating classics in unexpected ways.”

That philosophy extends beyond fine-dining convention into something more fun, more human. Ahn openly embraces his love of street food and chain-restaurant icons. “A Crunchwrap hates to see me coming,” he laughs. That sense of humor finds its way onto the menu in surprising forms, like housemade chicken nuggets served as an add-on to the caviar service, or lobster cheesy corn that bridges indulgence and nostalgia. The result is a menu that feels luxurious without taking itself too seriously.

The tour wraps with Ahn pulling Jackie behind the scenes for a sneak peek at the restaurant’s salt library and a hands-on dish demonstration in the kitchen, where technique, creativity, and personality collide. At Adalina Prime, luxury isn’t just about excess. It’s about curiosity, memory, and the confidence to have a little fun along the way.

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StoriesAbout

Daniel Moreno didn’t go looking for a winter tradition to chase. It found him instead, hissing into a frozen platform like some neon comet stitched together from peppermint stripes and CTA steel. For five years, he followed Chicago’s Holiday Train through the city’s arteries, letting its glow guide him across Loop trestles, into wind-battered stations, and through neighborhoods wrapped in frost and streetlight.

What started as a simple photograph became a pilgrimage. A way of honoring his city. A way of proving that even in the hardest months, Chicago still hums with warmth if you know where to aim the lens.

The Holiday Train isn’t just a seasonal stunt. It’s the city cracking a grin. It’s transit workers decking rail cars in thousands of lights, Santa waving from a flatcar throne, families chasing platforms like they’re chasing miracles. And Moreno documents all of it with the intensity of someone who understands that traditions aren’t just observed — they’re preserved.

His images capture the moment the train slices through the Loop, lighting sparks off glass towers. They capture bundled-up commuters snapping out of their winter trance as color erupts across the tracks. They capture the quiet corners too: snow drifting over the Brown Line, a lone rider smiling into the glow, the city remembering itself.

Moreno’s new book, Chicago’s Holiday Train, turns this obsession into something permanent. Part love letter, part time capsule, it’s built for locals who crave a hit of nostalgia, transit geeks who worship rolling stock, and anyone who needs proof that beauty doesn’t wait for perfect moments. Sometimes it arrives on rails, jingling through the cold.

In a world that often feels like it’s rushing past us, Moreno reminds us to look up. Look out. Look for the color in the gray. Because in Chicago, magic doesn’t hide — it arrives right on schedule.

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