BootsnAll Travel Network



Was Chris Farley Polish?

Chicago is often criticized as being a segregated city, but I don’t think that’s a fair assessment. Chicago is like a microcosm of the world. In my neighborhood, for example, there’s Cuba on the southeast side of the street, Puerto Rico to the north. There’s Poland to the Northwest, and Mexico to the southwest.

Because of this world within a city, an easy way to acclimate yourself to a new culture is to visit restaurants and bars within
one of Chicago’s ethnic enclaves. Restaurants provide an opportunity to practice basic survival skills, such as saying hello and ordering food. Bars, on the other hand, can offer a much broader opportunity for conversational practice- with the types of folks who like to hang out in bars.

One of my favorite bars is right in my neighborhood. The owner, a brilliant armchair historian and hardened misanthropist, provides the conversation and free vodka, is democratic in insulting all customers, and in fact mandates that you drink the free vodka. On overhearing a casual mention of the word “mariachi”, he’ll summon a band of mariachi musicians. On a slow night, he’ll light a puddle of vodka on fire. If there’s still any chance of boredom, he’ll allow customers to play with his sword collection.

Proving that he is one of the world’s hardest workers, he is usually passed out on his own bar on account of drinking too much of his own vodka. The rest of us are left clutching the part of our abdomen where we estimate our livers to be. I’ve never had a dull night there, but admittedly the free mandatory vodka makes it very difficult to go back there with any regularity.

My girl and I discovered another bar down the street that is slightly less dangerous. Like the other bartender, this bartender interprets the American custom of waving good bye, saying thank you, and attempting to walk out the door as a cue to crack open a couple more beers. Any attempt to wave off the drinks fails, as does any attempt to tip. “Not for money, for friends,” she says. So, by mandate, this had become our new home.

On our most recent visit to the “safe” Polish bar, we sat in safety at a table a few feet from the bar, when a staggering drunk crashed over our table and broke our glasses. My command of the Polish language is still very weak, but I’m pretty sure the first thing the drunk said after a few minutes of profuse apologies might roughly be translated as “may I borrow your girlfriend?”

To keep myself from assuming that Poland is a nation of Chris Farley-esque table crashers and girlfriend snatchers, maybe it’s time to learn about Poland in other settings. I am half Polish, after all, and I wasn’t born knowing how to crash tables.



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