The first trip here was on a very cold November night, snow was coming down in lake-effect flakes the size of Garrett's popcorn. It was going to be a rough winter, I'd need a warm place to hang out after work. Someone had asked me in October if I'd been to Richard's Bar yet. I asked them where it was and they laughed in disbelief. Being who I am, they were astonished I wasn't' currently sitting on one of its stools.
After shedding three or four layers of winter wear and hanging everything up properly, now I was sitting on one of its stools at the far south end of the bar near the door. Lesson number one in the Chicago dive bar scene, cash only. A personal rule of mine is to keep an eye open for regulars, those who come every day, and relinquish my seat if it's "somebody's spot."
Richard's Bar is the only place in Chicago where you can legally smoke inside. On this, my first ever evening in this legendary spot, the jukebox pumped out Mr. Francis Albert Sinatra telling us his version of why that lady was a tramp. The bartender, a very tall, white-haired man, leaned over to take my order and introduce himself. "Bob," he said. "An MGD, please," I hadn't seen a Miller Genuine Draft since the 90s and was feeling nostalgic.
MGD seems to be the official beer of ex-cops, something of which Chicago has no shortage.
Bob asked the basic questions which I did my best to answer. It was that time of year when it was already dark by the time you left work, which makes the lights in a bar brighter and the music louder when it's not that crowded. Bob walked over to adjust both. The interior lights now a bit dimmer, and the music lower, we could hear one another a bit better. Bob was just about to tell me something when an overly bright light hit his face from outside.
I was only one of four total patrons in the bar on a Monday evening at 6:15 p.m. and seemed to be the only one wondering what the hell this was. Bob, another bartender, and an intimidating man at the far end of the bar all smirked toward the source of the light and saluted its operator with birds. I looked out the winder just in time to see the light turn off, revealing a Chicago police officer grinning ear to ear. The squad car crept along toward the intersection at Milwaukee and Grand (and Halsted), disappearing from sight.
Everyone enjoyed a good laugh, even me, though the humor I saw in the situation was surely different from the others. Ordering a Jameson for my beer, my attention turned to the corner near the now infamous window. Infamous in my mind. In that corner stood two poker machines, above them, a console television with chicken wire in front of the screen. Today, I believe it's a small flat-screen TV, but in 2013, I'm pretty sure it was as I've just described it. If not, it should have been. Either way, it wasn't turned on.
Another round and Bob was telling me that the poker machines actually pay out, he plays them all the time. He asked the other bartender a question. Strolling over while wiping a glass, the other bartender asked him to repeat the question. Bob introduced me... to Bob. Only this was "Milwaukee Bob." He looked like he was stealing from me. He wasn't shady, he wasn't slick, but making eye contact with Milwaukee Bob was like having your pocket picked.
I liked him immediately but could also tell we would never be friends. You could tell Milwaukee Bob's only true friend was probably a switchblade or a kid he watched die in a tragic accident at least 15 years earlier. The Bobs went about their true business, which was giving one another shit at an impressive rate with applause-worthy creativity.
"You still datin' that ham-salad sandwich with legs?"
"She's better lookin' dan your mom... or was that a picture of your dad you showed me? The mustache is confusing."
It's a floor show that can sometimes go on for hours, depending on how many get involved. The minutes passed rapidly and Monday Night Football eventually kicked off as the crowd grew to a now snug level. Dolphins/Bucs, not many cared. Though there were a couple guys toward the far end going through the motions one would if he were making book. Something I recognize.
The taller of Bobs reacted to a slight head motion made by the intimidating man at the far end. Bob then made his way back to me with a small, laminated piece of paper. "You got one comin' on Bobby." I studied the small drink ticket and gave a respectful wave and nod to the intimidating gentleman who was in the middle of lighting up a smoke.
Looking straight on in the middle of the bar, I'd moved down to get a better look at the small console TV about the intimidating gentleman's head, there is a maybe 20-year-old, handwritten sign on what once was white, loose-leaf notebook paper, in Bic pen it reads, "No Smoking." It's now stained yellow by years of smoke, mostly coming from the packs sold from just behind the sign.
Not only is it the only public place in Chicago to allow smoking indoors, they have the cheapest cigarettes in town. I had to assume this was due to someone driving to Indiana or Kentucky every couple of weeks. The selling of them just as legal as the smoking of them. Last I heard, Richard's was still being fined regularly for smoking violations. But they were allowed to flip off cops so, surely there was some sort of agreement.
I began wondering who the alderman was.
It was cold and, if I stayed too late, I'd miss the last bus "home," I was renting an illegal basement from a friend of a friend. Nothing major, just illegal because basements have to have two exits in Chicago. The Blue line ran me up to Division and I then took the bus out to Homan, near West Humboldt Park. In 2013, this was a good place to get shot and adrenaline from the nightly adventure was addictive. I'd moved from NYC to Chicago that August to work in the big, red CNA tower complex thing and here I was, finally, leaving Richard's Bar on a crisp, now clear, November evening.
On the train, I thought back to my exit, around football halftime. I'd thanked Bob and Bob, then walked over after gearing up) and shook Bobby's hand. He reacted as if it was a rare and weird thing, but subtly, someone who likes to hear their own voice might not have noticed. But I picked up on it. I imagined all kinds of stories about the place and couldn't wait to go back.
After shedding three or four layers of winter wear and hanging everything up properly, now I was sitting on one of its stools at the far south end of the bar near the door. Lesson number one in the Chicago dive bar scene, cash only. A personal rule of mine is to keep an eye open for regulars, those who come every day, and relinquish my seat if it's "somebody's spot."
Richard's Bar is the only place in Chicago where you can legally smoke inside. On this, my first ever evening in this legendary spot, the jukebox pumped out Mr. Francis Albert Sinatra telling us his version of why that lady was a tramp. The bartender, a very tall, white-haired man, leaned over to take my order and introduce himself. "Bob," he said. "An MGD, please," I hadn't seen a Miller Genuine Draft since the 90s and was feeling nostalgic.
MGD seems to be the official beer of ex-cops, something of which Chicago has no shortage.
Bob asked the basic questions which I did my best to answer. It was that time of year when it was already dark by the time you left work, which makes the lights in a bar brighter and the music louder when it's not that crowded. Bob walked over to adjust both. The interior lights now a bit dimmer, and the music lower, we could hear one another a bit better. Bob was just about to tell me something when an overly bright light hit his face from outside.
I was only one of four total patrons in the bar on a Monday evening at 6:15 p.m. and seemed to be the only one wondering what the hell this was. Bob, another bartender, and an intimidating man at the far end of the bar all smirked toward the source of the light and saluted its operator with birds. I looked out the winder just in time to see the light turn off, revealing a Chicago police officer grinning ear to ear. The squad car crept along toward the intersection at Milwaukee and Grand (and Halsted), disappearing from sight.
Everyone enjoyed a good laugh, even me, though the humor I saw in the situation was surely different from the others. Ordering a Jameson for my beer, my attention turned to the corner near the now infamous window. Infamous in my mind. In that corner stood two poker machines, above them, a console television with chicken wire in front of the screen. Today, I believe it's a small flat-screen TV, but in 2013, I'm pretty sure it was as I've just described it. If not, it should have been. Either way, it wasn't turned on.
Another round and Bob was telling me that the poker machines actually pay out, he plays them all the time. He asked the other bartender a question. Strolling over while wiping a glass, the other bartender asked him to repeat the question. Bob introduced me... to Bob. Only this was "Milwaukee Bob." He looked like he was stealing from me. He wasn't shady, he wasn't slick, but making eye contact with Milwaukee Bob was like having your pocket picked.
I liked him immediately but could also tell we would never be friends. You could tell Milwaukee Bob's only true friend was probably a switchblade or a kid he watched die in a tragic accident at least 15 years earlier. The Bobs went about their true business, which was giving one another shit at an impressive rate with applause-worthy creativity.
"You still datin' that ham-salad sandwich with legs?"
"She's better lookin' dan your mom... or was that a picture of your dad you showed me? The mustache is confusing."
It's a floor show that can sometimes go on for hours, depending on how many get involved. The minutes passed rapidly and Monday Night Football eventually kicked off as the crowd grew to a now snug level. Dolphins/Bucs, not many cared. Though there were a couple guys toward the far end going through the motions one would if he were making book. Something I recognize.
The taller of Bobs reacted to a slight head motion made by the intimidating man at the far end. Bob then made his way back to me with a small, laminated piece of paper. "You got one comin' on Bobby." I studied the small drink ticket and gave a respectful wave and nod to the intimidating gentleman who was in the middle of lighting up a smoke.
Looking straight on in the middle of the bar, I'd moved down to get a better look at the small console TV about the intimidating gentleman's head, there is a maybe 20-year-old, handwritten sign on what once was white, loose-leaf notebook paper, in Bic pen it reads, "No Smoking." It's now stained yellow by years of smoke, mostly coming from the packs sold from just behind the sign.
Not only is it the only public place in Chicago to allow smoking indoors, they have the cheapest cigarettes in town. I had to assume this was due to someone driving to Indiana or Kentucky every couple of weeks. The selling of them just as legal as the smoking of them. Last I heard, Richard's was still being fined regularly for smoking violations. But they were allowed to flip off cops so, surely there was some sort of agreement.
I began wondering who the alderman was.
It was cold and, if I stayed too late, I'd miss the last bus "home," I was renting an illegal basement from a friend of a friend. Nothing major, just illegal because basements have to have two exits in Chicago. The Blue line ran me up to Division and I then took the bus out to Homan, near West Humboldt Park. In 2013, this was a good place to get shot and adrenaline from the nightly adventure was addictive. I'd moved from NYC to Chicago that August to work in the big, red CNA tower complex thing and here I was, finally, leaving Richard's Bar on a crisp, now clear, November evening.
On the train, I thought back to my exit, around football halftime. I'd thanked Bob and Bob, then walked over after gearing up) and shook Bobby's hand. He reacted as if it was a rare and weird thing, but subtly, someone who likes to hear their own voice might not have noticed. But I picked up on it. I imagined all kinds of stories about the place and couldn't wait to go back.
