As the thirsty Reader staff fanned out across Chicago to bring you our neighborhood bar guide, we realized we had an opportunity in our hands. An excuse to go to our favorite bars is also an opportunity to ask bartenders the answers to questions we’ve always had in the back of our minds. What should I get? What’s the best way to stave off this looming hangover? What’s the worst shit that’s ever gone down at your bar? And where do I go after you close, when the last place I wanna be is home? —Asher Klein
After last call If the Tamale Guy isn’t around, I’d go for tacos from Arturo’s or the Wendy’s drive-through route.
Janada Halbisen-Gibbs, bartender at Big Chicks
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Death row drink I would say this al fresco margarita that I had—fresh lime, sour, jalapeño, cilantro, and a ton of good tequila—in Hawaii, sitting in the sunshine by an infinity pool. You don’t see the rim of the pool; it just looks like it keeps going off into the water.
Customer apology The question is, actually apologizing for it? People do a lot of hilarious or wretched things, but they never say they’re sorry. So there was a guy who was making an ass of himself. He was definitely drunk, with his friends, and then he lost it on our coat-check guy, saying that he had stolen the coat—you know, all of his stuff, his car keys and his credit card and his phone was in it, and—he’s drunk. He’s going on and on about these things. He came in the next day, wearing his coat—uh huh—and had forgotten that he’d actually left it in his friend’s car. He was extremely rude, but he did come in and apologize. He also left an envelope with a tip in it for the guy that he lost it on.
Death row drink I would be sitting at the Edgewater Lounge, drinking a delicious hoppy double IPA and a shot of Jameson. That would be my dream on death row.
I’ve been kicked out of bars on several occasions. I like to believe that most of the time it was because I came to the aid of a friend who was being kicked out and then was kicked out by association. I like to believe that. But my most memorable time was when I was underage and was using my brother’s fake ID. I went into Desperate Annie’s in Saratoga Springs, New York (my hometown), and the bouncer looked at my ID and asked, “So you’re Mark Benjamin, huh?” I said confidently, “Yes, I am.” And the large, biker bouncer pointed across the room and asked, “Then which Mark Benjamin is that?” “That would be my brother. What’s he doing here?” And then . . . I was removed.
