Tavern on Rush seems like a very easy place to pick up men.
It’s not that the place is a meat market in the usual desperate sense. In fact, it’s classy, extraordinarily well-lit, with a vast view of bright Rush Street through its marvelous floor-to-ceiling windows, and it’s even a bit on the expensive side. (A waitress may actually sniff at a $3 tip on a $14 bill here.)
But there is something to the clientele here, in the downstairs bar, that says, “Available,” as if in big block letters — and that’s particularly true of the men.
“Yes, I still want to do it before, you know, I’m 50,” says one fellow about marriage. (That’s right — marriage!) “That way I’ll still have half of my life to enjoy it. And kids. You know that Harry Chapin song? I don’t want it to be like that.”
When you look at the men here, it’s clear that they are mostly professional, mostly businessmen, lots of guys in advertising and related fields. They wear discreet and tasteful clothes: sweaters and tie-less Italian suits, designer eyeglasses. They have their hair styled, as opposed to cut, and pay accordingly. They drive BMWs and Accords, as evidenced by the parade of cars leaving the valet wait area outside.
But there are also a few other things to take note of: These guys weren’t exactly president of their class, or football heroes, or even valedictorian. They’re the nice guys from high school — the attendant lords to the handsome hunks, the b-ball champs and the really smart guys — who knew then, as now, that one wrong move could land them in nerd-dom fast.
At Tavern on Rush on weekends, there’s a flood of suburbanites and an avalanche of divorce stories. “It’s been three years,” says one fellow, who still feels the sting in his gut, even as he tries to smile and pretend otherwise while crushing a microbrew in his hand.
“I see my daughter on weekends, this is a lark, really, that I can be here,” says another, offering an outing to a Steppenwolf play. “But I could switch days with my ex-wife, we’re best friends.”
Then there’s the little clique of upwardly mobile young Latinos: slicked hair boys in white dress shirts, fashionable sweaters. They speak in English, hover around the blondest girls. When the busboys come by to pick up their empty glasses and dirty ashtrays, the Latinos in dress shoes all look down and away, as if making contact with their minimum wage brethren might give them away; as if saying a couple of words in Spanish as a courtesy could rip all their privileges out from under them.
This is a drinker’s crowd, too. There’s lots of teetering, of hanging on to chairs and stools and tables with lopsided, surprised grins. And the boys are too happy to help: “Are you all right?” “Here, give me your hand.” They squeeze feminine shoulders, feel familiar enough to hug within a few minutes, to pat thighs after a good joke.
“Come on, why not?” says one fellow to a tanned, tanned young woman.
“Because I don’t go home with guys I just met,” she says, although she might like him, just not his insistence. She is, after all, still sitting there next to him.
“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he says.
“You bet,” she tells him.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Why should I?”
“C’mon . . . you’re just a coward,” he says, daring her.
“It’s not that.”
“What then? You think I might be some sort of weirdo?”
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“No . . .”
“Then come on . . . “
“No . . .”
“Fine,” he says, mock-offended. “Your loss.”
“Fine,” she says, turning away, still there by his side.
“You’re just being stubborn,” he says.
“No, you are.” She puts on her coat.
“I’ll call you,” he says, almost snickering now, as if he could taunt her into taking him home with her.
“Fine,” she snaps.
He pays the bill, grabs his jacket. “I’ll call you when I get home,” he says in a softer voice.
“Fine,” she says, and they walk out together, hand in hand.
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We can’t seem to recommend them enough: Funkadesi, our town’s multiculti funk machine, plays Friday at Martyrs with a special guest performance by Fred Baker and the West Indian Folk Dance Company .
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the facts
Friday, doors open at 9 p.m., music starts at 10 p.m., Funkadesi, Martyrs, 3855 N. Lincoln Ave. For information, call 773-404-9494. Martyrs is wheelchair accessible.
Every day, 11 a.m. to 2 a.m., Tavern on Rush, 1031 N. Rush St. Call 312-664-9600 for more information. Tavern on Rush is wheelchair accessible.