Purple Hooter

·   One shot of Chambord

·   One shot of vodka

·   One shot of sour mix

·   Fill enough in a shaker to make the bar happy

If you want to find yourself falling more in love with Chicago when you least expect it, plant yourself under the “L” on a rainy day and surround yourself with buildings older, and taller, and cooler than you. Take in the rain that illuminates the city at night through either magnification of rain drops on streetlights or in puddles reflecting anonymous red taillights. The familiarity of the train that roars above while you stand in a spot where months prior the thunder on the tracks knocked loose a pile of grimy snow on you and left you with only one question: does this mean I need to shower again? You have been in the spot a thousand times. You have watched amateur photographers and tourists capture the tracks above that are somehow not a part of the city and yet, something that makes the city this city. The bricks and beams and bolts all stay pretty much the same, but the city is never static. For god’s sake, it more than likely might collapse on you, and you would be happy to say, “This is Chicago.”

I had the fortune of accompanying someone from out of town while they got to experience the city’s vulgar charm for the first time. We left O’Hare and raced the Blue Line back to the city. At some points I was ahead, but for the most part, the silver bullet kept the lead and finished victoriously. Instead of parking the car, we decided to explore a neighborhood and not the city. We pulled off the highway at California, then down Milwaukee, and found ourselves in Wicker. Parking the car, we proceeded to explore on a more face to face level. Walking down Milwaukee we passed by High Fidelity where John Cusack ran a fictional record store and made our way up Evergreen. In awe of the beautiful brick walk-ups, I decided to impress further. As we made our way past Nelson Algren’s apartment, we crossed Damen and ended up at Beer Baron Boulevard on Hoyne. Remarking on the spring greenery and complex architecture the late 19th century brought to the area, we made a loop back to the car. Before we departed and delved deeper into the heart of the skyline I had to make a note that what we saw was very much Chicago. It wasn’t about the high rises or the theaters or the Bean, it was about the history and what composes those streets in that moment.

We parked the car in its garage on North Avenue and Wells Street. It would not be a trip to the car or the neighborhood without stopping at the Old Town Ale House. Fortunately, the detour through the Near North West occupied enough time to allow the Ale House to open, but not enough time for it to get busy. The Ale House is perfect when there is nothing on the jukebox, the bartenders are drinking coffee, and there’s one lone beer drinker scribbling something into a journal. However, perfect is subjective and out of town company can require assistance. Before getting our drinks, I realized I brought a loud talker into an un-loud establishment. Not wanting to leave, I figured the only solution was to take a dollar and feed it to the jukebox in order to give ourselves and the staff and the sole patron some privacy from any conversation. Unfortunately, for the Old Town Ale House, they are a bar that likes conversation kept to yourself, however, the whole damn bar is a conversation piece. We admired pictures of Putin in a ballerina tutu, Sarah Palin giving her all in a pose with her beloved rifle, and the infamous Rob Blagojevich getting cavity searched in prison after being incarcerated from taking bribes for Illinois Senate seats. But as anyone who has been there before knows, take in the new paintings and be cool.

Having to catch a reservation at Gene and Georgetti’s we left after a few gin and tonics to make our way down Wells Street. After stopping in the condo on Illinois Avenue to change we took a block walk over to the restaurant and caught the setting to this story at Franklin and Illinois on a dreary evening. The rain began to come down and outline a poetic Chicago scene. The asphalt had a bright sheen to it from the streetlamps. The old firehouse magnificently stood across the tracks from the restaurant’s wooden building which had been rumored to have been built in 1872, one year after the Chicago fire when it was outlawed to build any more wooden structures that could turn the city into a tinderbox ready for ignition. Once inside, we found ourselves on the second floor between two large parties of financiers. It’s unfortunate that movie stars and proud politicians aren’t spotted in there anymore, although the place has never lost its charisma. The bar still makes the introduction with seeming regulars hunched over their cocktails as if a gravitational pull has them in an inspirational grip. The stairs to the second-floor dining area give us narrow passage to an intimate dining room in which we are greeted by our waiter immediately and then by our drink order in a close second. The martini goes down smooth as if the man making them had never left and his only assignment was to stuff olives and shake shakers. Moving past the Yelp review, I found myself fixated on the tracks at eyelevel now on the second floor each time a Brown and Purple Line came by. I wondered who else has seen this view that I had.

As dining comes to a close at Gene & Georgetti’s, we discuss where to next. In my head, it is one simple solution, but it is up for me to sell it. Richard’s Bar. It is the only place I want to go then and there. An easy walk down Grand Avenue and on a day when I knew I could catch some familiar bartenders. I say, “I know a place, but you will hate it.” I submitted the challenge because no one ever refuses a challenge. After making a quick trek across the north branch of the river and catching a glimpse of the skyline past the out of commission bridge planted at the original Wolf Point where Chicago truly began, we find ourselves at the infamous bar. Nothing too much is known about this bar and only speculation exists.

After a lively round, I struck up a conversation with a regular I had met a few times before and he became too talkative for my tastes. It went on for ten minutes and I thought he would tire himself out. By the fifteenth minute and second drink, I had to turn my shoulder on him, which is offensive, and he noted it, and I felt bad, but I did not know what else to do. We carried on after the next round and talked to the lovebirds next to us and engaged with the bartenders who were more than excited to meet my guest. It is when all eyes are on her she asked Frank, the man behind the bar, “do you know how to make a Purple Hooter?” Frank turns to Jack and says, “Purple Hooter?” like this woman had asked him if his left shoe was his right glove. Jack looked up and to the right as if to read an invisible cocktail book in the air before he recited “a Purple Hooter is a shot of Chambord, a shot of vodka, and a bit of sour mix.” And then he went on his way of counting the cash at the register. A Purple Hooter was ordered for the bar at the expense of my guest and without any protest everyone smiled as if they had been rewarded for being present.

Between the patrons and the shaker, there was enough left over for two shots. We split the shaker after cheersing everyone and taking our initial Purple Hooter. It is never a bad night at Richard’s as long as you keep to yourself, or you are buying. It is a simple and straightforward place. It is so straightforward that the couple to our left turned out to be on a first date. Richard’s was where the girl took her partners to have the bartenders vet them. It was clear she respected the advice of the white smock wearing guy behind the bar and it was clear he was no bullshit. With a nod of his head and a round of two shots poured for them, the poor date had passed the crucible without ever knowing.

The night was a fraction of the city, yet all of it in one. Go to any bar in any neighborhood and you will find a regular who has just as much faith in the person behind the bar as they do their priest. Your shoes will be scuffed and moist from the terrain as to mark the day of uncertain travels. And for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that the buildings and the people you are looking at are looking back at you.