Comment: My Old Fashioned Guy

I was feeling a little down the other day so I did what all good Chicagoans do when they're feeling a little down. What your ancestor's ancestor's ancestors did. I left work early and I stopped at a tavern for a drink because I needed a good place to think.

Taverns in Chicago are easy to find. They used to be a lot easier to find. It used to be that all you had to do was walk out a door, any door, turn to the right or to the left, didn't matter which, and walk to the corner.

There it was. A tavern.

That's true today somewheres but not as much as it once was. These days you sometimes need to walk a few more corners. Sometimes you need to pass a few taverns that were but now aren't.

Sign o' the times, I guess.

Still, they're easy to find in Chicago compared to anywhere else. And, just as they were to your ancestor's ancestor's ancestors, they're always welcoming to a guy like me.

As luck would have it, that day I found a good one. I'd never been there before but it felt like it always had. That's how you know it's a good one.

Sure, I could describe it to you but there's no need. It looks the same as your favorite tavern. And, as I established above, all good Chicagoans know a good tavern the moment they walk through the door so we can skip the specifics. Plus, my poetic license can only be used so many times.

The regulars were there, same as they are everywhere. Same as they were before, now, and always.

I slid onto a stool at the bar and a few chairs down a gray-haired weathervane of a man wearing a Vietnam War hat nodded.

"How ya doin', old-timer?"

"Been better, been worse," he said.

"S'pose we all have."

Perhaps it was the familiar environs, but I was feeling better already.

The bartender came out of the back wearing an apron and a nice collar and a classic haircut and, for a moment, I thought I'd gone back in time. He was on the younger side of middle-age. Old enough to know enough but young enough to care. He shook an outstretched thumb toward a small group in the far corner and they nodded the universal sign for another round. Then he turned to me.

"What can I get ya?"

"A beer is fine."

The vet chuckled as he finished his glass and gestured to the bartender, "Son, this here's Guy Junior Junior Junior. Best bartender in the city. Best bartender this side of the Mississippi and prob'ly the other side, too. And if he's indeed the best bartender in America he might just so happen to be the best bartender in the world!"

"Thanks, Jack," the bartender said with a roll of his eyes and a turn back to me. "Sorry, sir, there's never been a better hype man than Jack. He can't help himself."

"It's true and you know it," said Jack, the old vet. "Gettin' a beer from you is like askin' for a cheap joke from Shakespeare."

"I don't think that metaphor works, Jack," said the bartender. "The Bard loved a cheap joke."

"Okay, fine," Jack said. "It's like askin' for a hot dog from the uh...who's the guy that's got the restaurant overdere on Halsted?"

"Achatz," said another man a few chairs further down.

"Yeah, him," Jack continued. "Guy here is an arteeest. He's a lord of liquor. A wizard of whiskey. He's got the spirits in his soul, knowwhatimean?"

"Okay, Jack, let's not scare the customers," said the bartender.

"Juan," Jack said louder as he turned to a man playing pool near the back. "Back me up here."

"Magician of Mescal," the man playing pool said without looking up from his shot. "High Priest of the High Ball. Savant of the sauce."

"There ya go," said Jack.

"All right, all right, all right," I said. "You sold me. I'm suddenly in the mood for an Old Fashioned. You mind makin' one?"

"You got it," said the bartender.

Now I'm no maestro but I've been told I make a decent Old Fashioned and I watched every step that bartender Guy took. Close. Like a kid, or anyone really, watches a magic trick the second time.

He placed the drink in front of me.

"Hmm," I said. "You made it like I make 'em."

"Hmm," the bartender said with a smirk. "Imagine that..."

I took a sip. And another. My face must have given me away.

"Told ya," said Jack, with a wink.

"What's the catch?" I asked.

"Whaddya mean?" said the bartender.

"What'd you do to it? You put somethin' in the bottle? Or in the bitters?"

"What? No," the bartender said, handing me the bottle. "Here, it's just bourbon. Bitters are the same you use at home."

My eyes narrowed. I took another sip and let it sit.

"That's the best damned Old Fashioned I ever had..."

"Told ya," said Jack again. "And his dad was better 'an him. And my dad said his dad was better 'an him."

"Well I should warn you I'm a professional and I'm gonna figure out the trick if it's the last thing I do. Have as many drinks as it takes."

"Happy to make 'em."

"So you're third generation?"

"Fourth," said Guy. "Don't know past that."

"No shit? You really do have the spirits."

Another sip. And another. "How's business?"

"Well," Guy said with a sigh and a lean on the back of the bar. "If I'm bein' honest with ya, the book has never looked worse. And I have every book for this place goin' back a long time. Friend of ours down the street couldn't make it. Another's about to close up, may try to head down south."

"But you're stayin'?"

"Yeah, I think so. We'll be all right. Grandpa opened this place and I was raised here, so...you know."

I nodded and finished the drink.

"Plus," Guy continued, lifting himself back to the counter. "Somebody's gotta keep Jack here off these streets. Certainly ain't a woman that can put up with him, 'cept one."

"None out there better than the one I already had anyway," Jack said.

I hung around a bit as for a man like me, a drink like that, well, you can't only have just one. Guy told me more about the history of the bar, his family, and the others in the neighborhood. Jack told me about his wife who, as you may have guessed, was the best woman this side of heaven and prob'ly the other side, too, though she's gonna have to wait a little longer for him to get there. I lost, bad, to Juan in a game of pool. I beat the group in the corner, bad, at a few games of cards but let them keep my winnings as long as they bought me another drink from Guy. A debate over the best song out of MoTown was settled with a deep dive through a few cell phone playlists. The short round of trivia that night was a little more tough than normal and of course I crushed my turns at karaoke, as I always do. I admit, there was some tension with a fella who didn't understand how funny I am, but my new friends quickly intervened and he went his way on his own.

After we said our goodbyes which were more like seeyalaters, I walked out into the crisp late winter/early spring night air and realized I forgot to do what I told you at the top I went there to do. But I suppose that's the charm of places like Guy's. Places where the mind can take a brief but much needed vacation. Places that are easily missed but impossible to forget. Places where nothing really special happens but are maybe special for that very reason. Places where people can be special just for being themselves and places that make you feel right at home.

The point of this little tale that's not much of a tale at all is not to reveal anything profound. Everyone in Chicago has a guy for something and I have an Old Fashioned Guy. I want his business to survive. He could use your support. And you may need his someday, too.

You should go see him. His place is easy to find and you'll know it the moment you walk in. All you have to do is walk out the door, any door, turn to the right or to the left, doesn't matter which, and walk to the corner.

The Chicago Journal needs your support.

At just $20/year, your subscription not only helps us grow, it helps maintain our commitment to independent publishing.

CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE