Sure, Soho House. You’ve got the long list of distinguished members, the magical glow of filament bulbs, the carefully cultivated posture of critical distance, the air of novelty, the pool deck populated with surprisingly fit creatives, the rules governing Instagram use. But you don’t got pie. At the Cliff Dwellers Club, which has fed Chicago’s artistic community since 1907, a lunchtime ritual is a pie ladled from a slowly-rolling cart by a server as ancient as the muses. The venerable Cliff Dwellers was, and remains, a place for the creatively inclined to commune over pie, behold a magnificent view of Grant Park from a twenty-second-story terrace, and honor the ghost of Louis Sullivan, who spent his waning days amid the Club’s wood-paneled chambers.
