Undoubtedly, the consumption of vast amounts of alcohol over a lifetime can do damage to body and mind, but if you had been sitting on one of the bar stools in Melvin B’s a few weeks ago listening to a few veterans of Chicago’s night life, you might have concluded that consuming vast amounts of alcohol over a lifetime can turn people into lively conversationalists.
“How many drinks have we had in our lives?” wondered Rick Kogan, whose night-life credentials include authorship of the 1978 book, “Dr. Night Life’s Chicago,” a guide to the city’s saloons. Now a writer for this magazine, he was here to introduce me to two other longtime denizens of the dark.
“Did we ever start counting?” asked Jack Binyon, owner of Melvin B’s.
“Why would we ever start counting?” replied Demetri Alexander, another nightspot owner. “And would we even want to know the answer?”
Alexander and Binyon both grew up in the night-life world as the sons of famous restaurateurs. Over the last couple of decades, Alexander and his partners have been responsible for such ventures as Alexander’s, Cristal, Lola’s, the State Room and, currently, BUtterfield 8. Besides Melvin B’s, Binyon and his partners run Stanley’s Kitchen, Mickey’s Snack Bar and play a role in other spots.
“The club, the bar scene is always changing,” Kogan observed. “If there are 80 places in ‘Dr. Night Life,’ 60 of them no longer exist,” he said.
“The nightclub scene is constantly reinventing itself,” agreed Binyon. “It’s a livelier scene than it was when we started.”
“More variety,” added Alexander.
Enough philosophy. It was time to get down to business.
I had come to seek the advice of Alexander and Binyon. They were going to help me plan a club-hopping Chicago evening. Though Kogan was there mainly to make the introductions, he also had this advice to offer, quoting his pal the late Mike Royko: “Except for abstinence or moderation, there is no way to completely avoid a hangover. But there are certain rules that, if followed, will ease the discomfort. First, stick with the same drink you started with. By that I mean that if you started the evening drinking champagne, beer and frozen daiquiris, stick with champagne, beer and frozen daiquiris the rest of the evening.”
In its most basic form, the plan was to see how the self-proclaimed “old guys” thought the “younger guys”–I was awaiting the arrival of a friend who would accompany me on my club-hopping–could handle a Friday night.
“Might even be an adventure,” Binyon said. “It depends on you.”
Alexander and Binyon said they were reluctant to send us to places dominated by one particular crowd–young, yuppieish, or trendy, for example–or confine us to a specific neighborhood. “The night should be a time for sampling,” said Binyon.
“But do not drive while drinking,” said Alexander.
Then they launched into a solid 20 minutes of serious conversation about saloons, rattling off names and areas. Kogan kept mentioning places that no longer existed, such as Orphan’s, the Embers, the Domino Lounge and the 2350 Pub. That was of some historical interest, but little help with my agenda.
Alexander and Binyon agreed that they’d pick places where singles and couples would feel comfortable. Not surprisingly, the list included their own places–Melvin B’s and BUtterfield 8–plus Grotto on State, Rednofive and Shenanigans. They also endorsed Domaine, Funky Buddha Lounge, Marie’s Rip Tide Lounge and Castaways on North Avenue Beach, but they were convinced we’d never make it that far.
Binyon laughed. “Five spots might be too many,” he said.
Notebook in hand, I was ready to go. But my wingman was a no-show. Concerned, I scrunched up my face like some twisted jack-o’-lantern and looked around the bar. Who was going to act natural around some dude in a club taking notes? I needed help.
“Take Julie,” Binyon said, motioning to bartender Julie Tabloff, who was rummaging through a beer cooler. She is tall with curly hair. The show must go on, so I introduced myself.
After I explained my mission, Tabloff asked if she could bring her friend, Amy Blomquist, who happened to be sitting at the bar. Kogan gave his blessing to this trio and said I should call him the next day.
“I just want to make sure you’re still alive,” he said.
And so it began.
Melvin B’s was not only a convenient, but a logical place to start. The bar/restaurant has been one of the city’s best adult playgrounds for years. Granted, Melvin’s is a scene; maybe even an uber-scene, a spot almost too popular for its own good: Concierges recommend it to tourists in the same breath as Oak Street Beach, a Cubs game and deep-dish pizza. But not even a veteran partyer, or wise old local, should begrudge someone a trip to Melvin’s on a warm summer evening.
Situated at 1114 N. State St., where State intersects with Cedar and Rush Streets, Melvin’s is casual, the customers are good-looking (or entertaining) and staring is perfectly acceptable. On any given summer night, the patio could be packed with people who love fancy nightclubs, people who insult fancy nightclubs, people fresh and crisp from the beach and people who come to show off their Harley-Davidsons. Everyone seems to get along, and some of these folks even date each other.
On this particular Friday evening, Melvin’s was dark and quiet at 8 p.m., filled with about a dozen regulars who had just gotten off work. Conversation centered on who was going out and who wasn’t. The outside area was empty, not a Harley in sight.
Blomquist was chatting with a man who wore blue-tinted sunglasses, a 5 o’clock shadow, a black button-down shirt and jeans. The man said he had just got paid and was going to relax for a while, maybe go home and play some video games.
“You’ll be back here,” Blomquist said. “As soon as it gets crowded.”
The man smiled and this was, unfortunately, the last conversation we had time for. It was Alexander’s idea to keep our team on a schedule, and Grotto was penciled in for 9:30 p.m.
This place, just down the block at 1030 N. State St., once home to the famous Arnie’s, is the latest addition to the teeming ranks of Gold Coast steakhouses. “It’s new,” Binyon had said. “But it’s going to do just fine.”
To Alexander and Binyon, this meant that big spenders and good-looking people would be flocking there soon, if they weren’t already. In their world–and particularly when it comes to the singles scene–everything works contrary to the way you might imagine.
According to Alexander, bars don’t become successful by attracting women; bars become successful when they attract men. Women are important, of course. But women won’t come to your bar or nightclub if they don’t approve of the men. Guys will go anywhere, at least once.
“It has to be a place where professional men go and women feel comfortable,” Alexander had told me. “You make the men happy first.”
At Grotto’s bar, acid jazz played below the conversations of dozens of well-dressed men and slightly fewer women. Some held drinks served in short cocktail glasses infused with neon green. Baseball games were playing on multiple televisions above the bar.
Grotto is as big as a suburban banquet hall, with a giant bar and several dining areas, framed around a jungle-like terrarium. All that plant life gives Grotto a tropical feel. The dining areas–dim, candlelit and equally tropical–were packed with couples and a few large parties.
We ended up at a far corner of the bar, retreating from a crowd that alternated between schmoozing and small fits of dancing. “No gold chains in sight,” said Blomquist, alluding to the Sopranos-like crowd that hangs out on Rush Street, adding to its reputation as the Viagra Triangle and often spooking the younger crowd. “Always a good sign.”
Grotto tends to turn the music up as the hours go by, slowly giving the place a nightclub atmosphere. Le Passage, a short stroll away at 937 N. Rush St., employs the same tactic, fueling our theory that it’s a way to ward off the gold-chain gang once the party hours roll around.
Tabloff knew the bartender, who suggested a shot with a name so lewd it may as well be the title of some pornographic magazine. This pink drink, by the way, was awful, tasting like cherry cough syrup mixed with cotton candy. The shots arrived only minutes before our 10:30 reservation at BUtterfield 8, so there was no time for a chaser.
Again, for the record: Alexander is the principal partner in BUtterfield 8, so he’s maybe a little biased. Regardless, BUtterfield 8, at 713 N. Wells St., has had a charmed and very crowded existence since it opened last year. Whether it’s due to skillful promotion or the supper club/nightclub concept, BUtterfield 8 has been undeniably popular. It’s named after an old Elizabeth Taylor movie (in turn, named for a classic John O’Hara novel), and the decor is suitably dramatic: white leather walls, yellow booths, a bar in the Louis-XIV style, and a frosted glass floor that changes colors between cocktails.
“You also have to eat,” said Alexander when he was plotting our course. “Think of it as a pit stop.”
We ate while the floor turned yellow, blue, green and pink and the bar grew more crowded. The table beside us ordered champagne and included two women in black cocktail dresses and a man in a dark sport coat, minus the tie. They leaned into their conversation to battle the dance music.
Soon, the drinkers would outnumber the diners and BUtterfield 8 would begin its nightly transformation into a two-floor nightclub. But things were still pretty calm and restaurant-like as we finished dinner and realized that we had only a few minutes before our mandated next stop, Rednofive.
Lines don’t typically form outside Rednofive, at 440 N. Halsted St., before midnight so we glided in with a group of women, sober by my estimation, who seemed dressed for an evening at the opera: high heels, shiny leather purses, blouses and dark pants.
For years, Redno wouldn’t have been a destination for these women. Respected as it was, the place was sweaty, dark and underground, pounding with some of Chicago’s best club music.
But last summer the vibe changed when the club hired several staffers from one of the city’s best nightclubs, the Funky Buddha Lounge, and renovated the entire space, installing a new VIP room and dozens of places to lounge. Club-scene regulars soon took notice, buzz was born, and Redno’s began attracting a new crowd.
Inside, hundreds of people were bobbing their heads, pushing for drinks and looking good doing it. The club’s main area is dominated by the dance floor, and just about everyone seemed to be moving. Adding to the energy is the fact that the club stays open until 4 a.m. on Fridays. Around midnight, the place was filled with people just beginning their evening.
Blending in meant moving to the beat, maybe even dancing, but that suddenly seemed impossible after four hours of cocktails and dinner. We snagged a corner of the main bar and leaned against it. Tabloff ordered a glass of water, and Blomquist waved away an advancing bartender. Our group was falling apart.
“Jack and Demetri said we’d never make it,” Tabloff said.
And so a final bit of advice: If you really want to make a night of it, pace yourself.
We grabbed cabs and headed home.
The phone rang the next day, the next afternoon actually, and I answered groggily.
“So?” asked Kogan.
I imagined him smiling as I recounted my adventures. “And you got home when?” he asked.
“I don’t really remember,” I said. “But I had fun.”
“You’ll be fine, eventually,” he said.
“We never made it to Shenanigans,” I said.
“Next time,” Kogan said. “Not to worry. There are about 5,000 bars in Chicago.”
I could feel my head pounding.
“And that’s not counting the suburbs.”
CITY NIGHTS
The portage’s single hotel was a barracks, its streets were pig-wallows, and all the long summer night the Pottawattomies mourned beside that river; down in the barracks the horse-dealers and horse-stealers were making a night of it again. Whiskey-and-vermilion hustlers, painting the night vermilion. In the Indian grass the Indians listened: they too had lived by night. And heard, in the uproar in the hotel, the first sounds of a city that was to live by night after the wilderness had passed.
–Nelson Algren, 1951
Running south on Lake Shore Drive/heading into town / Just slicking on by on LSD / Friday night trouble bound. / And it’s Friday night and you’re looking clean / too early to start the rounds / A ten minute ride from the Gold Coast back / make sure you’re pleasure bound / And it’s four o’clock in the morning / and all the people have gone away / Just you and your mind and Lake Shore Drive / tomorrow is another day.
–Aliotta, Haynes and Jeremiah,
“Lake Shore Drive”
