I spent my first year in law school living in Chicago. 1983 was a different time. I had no one depending on me, no one asking for anything from me. Pretty much nothing in the way of responsibilities. Unfortunately, I also lacked one other item. Money.
Fast forward to September, 2010. An auspicious return to the City of Big Shoulders for a buddy's 50th birthday. Dependants and responsibilities left at home. Unlike 1983, had some money in my pocket and ready to spend, as they say. And spend it, I did.
"now this could only happen to a guy like me, and only happen in a town
like this..."
Things opened up quite nicely, meeting with the fellas at the James Hotel bar. Those in attendance included my neighbor and traveling partner, the I Man, Downtown Johnny B, my TQB brother, the two Goldstein boys - Steven, the planner, and David, the Birthday boy himself. We were joined by a couple of guys I had never met - Donny, a guy who proves that people actually do live in Arkansas, and JP, a smooth talking guy's guy if there ever was one. Sometimes you dont know how things are going to mesh with strangers, but in this case, all it took was about 20 minutes and a few girls named Stella (Artois, that is) and I felt as if JP, Donny and I ran as wing men in some former life.
From The James, we wandered out to an old stomping ground - read "dive bar" - Mother Hubbards. Surprisingly, Mother's is no longer a purveyor of that great Chicagoland brew, Old Style, leaving us to knock back a few buckets of "canned Hamms", play a little video golf and catch the Yanks-Rays game on tv. Tough afternoon at the office. Great dinner and cocktails at The Gage. Not a huge tequila selection, but a little Don Julio did just right to wet the whistle.
It was at The Gage that a bit of my front tooth innocuously splashed into my beer, leaving me to look a bit like Richie Cunningham or David Letterman. Maybe even Anna Pacquin if you were drunk. Either way, I could whistle like nobody's business.
"...my kind of people too. People who smile at you..."
After a little gym time and a gut bending breakfast with the I Man, Friday proved to be a great day to roam the heart of town, up Michigan Ave and the Magnificent Mile, back down to the famed Chicago loop.
For lunch, the fellows chose the patio at a little joint called "The Purple Pig". If you are like me, "The Purple Pig" sounds like a great spot. Big dogs, smoked brats a little kraut on top, right? Buzzzz. Wrong answer. Instead, what you get at "The Purple Pig" is a bunch of little teenie weenie plates to share. Strike one. On the teenie wenie plates are little teenie weenie portions of things like mashed beets with some white glazed sour creamy stuff on top. Strike two. Their signature is essentially the same thing a guy can get transplated down the street at Illinois Massonic Hospital - a plate of bone marrow. Strike 3. Place was gross. For me, anyway. Enough said.
Not surprisingly, my pals' appetites were not completely sated and we zipped over to a real Chicago landmark, Portillos. There, for about 4 bucks, I got a nice sized Chicago style dog and a drink. My travelling cohorts, themselves food experts all, knocked back some dogs and a little italian beef. Back for Round 2 at Mother Hubbards and, having drank them out of canned Hamms the day before, settled for a few buckets of High Life. Miller High life, that is. That's real man's livin, brother, let me tell you.
"...I just grin like a clown. Its my kind of town..."
After a little napper, Friday night kicked off at the bar in the James. Excellent, well portioned cocktails all around, including a nice newcomer to my tequila experience,Deleon. The reposado was really, really nice. A sweet taste, dripping in vanilla, caramel and more. Definitely a keeper. The plata, not so much - a little bitter and a bit of a cheap whiskey burn going down - skip it.
The lobby of the James is really a great place. Tons of folks walking through, enjoying themselves. The women were gorgeous and, if it matters to you, there were plenty of guys roaming as well. At one point, we were engulfed by a bevy of California girls enjoying a little "bachelorette weekend". One young lady made an offbeat coment about "beer flavored nipples". Girls with short dresses and pink penis necklaces... Was that in The Sound of Music? Anyway, don't see too much of that in the normal work week, that's for sure.
Friday night also brought us a couple of additions. My old pal from my law school days in Chicago, Scotty "The Ring" Stephenson and another classic Chicago local, Johnny Z., were brought in to round out the crew. We meandered from The James over to Rosebud on Rush for a great old time Italian dinner. I knocked back a steer size veal parm and a couple of cocktails. Not only was the veal parm good eats for a simple guy like me, but it also served as a great big sponge for the swimming pool of beer that I was to ingest over the next few hours.
From the Rosebud, we hopped a cab over to a reinvigorated part of the city, affectionately known as "Bucktown". Out of the cab, into the bar. For the first time in two days, there it was - the famous "Old Style" sign. My man, JP, immediately "glamoured" a cute little bartender and convinced her to set aside their entire remaining stock of Old Style tall boys. Six 24 ounce cans of what is essentially a cold and pale PBR in a snazzy can. A couple of hours and, incredibly, down they went. What can I say? Classic rock in a sweaty old open air bar just does it to me. Every time.
After polishing off a backyard well worth of the Old Style grog, we taxied back downtown and stumbled into The Red Head. Not in a redhead, I promise. I am a good husband, after all. No, The Red head is a one of a kind in town Chicago bar where you can circle around a piano man, drink if you wish (I did wish) and sing along. Fun, fun, fun and no one had a T Bird taken away.
"My kind of razzmatazz. And it has all that jazz..."
I woke up surprisingly sprite on Saturday and readied for a trip north to Wrigley to see the Cubbies play the Cards. First stop, Murphys. Plenty of Old Style. Cracked one open, and did my best to choke it down, along with a nicely charred brat. From there,well, I struggled. The bleachers were great, the day nice enough and the stadium, well, it is Wrigley. A great, great place whether you like baseball or not. Unfortunately, the reverb from Friday night's festivities hit me like a club. Didn't even make it to the 7th inning stretch. Caught a cab and back to The James with JB, who was apparently feeling the same kickback. A few hours of napping with some Arkansas-Alabama on the tube and the ship was back sailing in the right direction.
Dinner was big, even by Chicago standards. A great mammoth sized T Bone at The Saloon. Unable to even glance in the direction of anything in a bottle or can, I stuck with tap water. Worked fine. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for our buddy Steven, who went down for the count just as his house salad arrived. JP later recalled the great Howard Cosell comparing Steven's fall from grace to a long ago title bout: "Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier..."
Up early Sunday and back to reality. As we took off and circled over enormous Lake Michigan, I kept thinking of the Sammy Cahn lyrics, the Sinatra voice:
"One town that wont let you down. It's my kind of town."
Chicago IS.
