It's 80+ and sunny in Chicago. It's still just as windy. I think with Chicago there is always wind, if the weather is coming from the South or West, it's a warm wind, if it's from the North or East, it's cold. But it's shirtsleeves and watch how long I'm outside today.
I visited the 'Old Town' today, up in the north, to see if I could get some tickets for the 'Second City' revue, but they were sold out, with a waiting list for the late show. It finishes at one, and the 'L' Brown Line, which would get me back from there, stops long before that. Because I can't stay out in the sun too long, I find a bar to console myself. It is, of course, an Irish bar. There seems to be only one class of bar I like here, and they're all 'Irish'. This one does have a su'th'n belle behind the bar. Her voice tells me she has long relied on the kindness of strangers. She is truly, in the nicest possible sense of the words, slow and voluptuous.
Back in Greek town, I slip into an empty air-conditioned bar, to get cool, and out of the sun. The beer was 2.25, so I left a quarter extra as a tip. The barmaid refused it, saying perhaps I needed it more than her. I quickly agreed, and trousered it. She asked me what I expected her to do with a quarter, and I told her the usual process was to add it to all the others at the end of the day. It was, after all, I pointed out, 11% of the bill. She said I was a foreigner (clearly, from her accent, so was she) and perhaps didn't know local customs. I said I was always willing to learn. She said 20% percent was more usual. I didn't believe her. I said she would just have to make do with a "thank you", and, rather painfully, we shook on that. I shan't go back. I hope that doesn't disappoint her too much. 2.25 was rather cheap for a beer, but it was a small beer, and it was Foster's (well, Millar, actually, but you know what I mean).
Change is a bit of a social problem here. There are noticeable number of 'panhandlers' on the street, soliciting "change", with paper cups. This is clearly the fault of the various local governments, which add 'sales' tax to almost everything you buy. You never pay what you expect. You buy something for $3, and when you get to the till, they want, say, 3.18, so your pockets gradually fill up with change. And it's not just the pathetically poor: where London has all those charities panhandling on the streets for direct debits, here they don their tabards and circulate among the cars at traffic lights with buckets, asking for change.
I repair, at the end of the day, to what is becoming my local. I ask the barmaid for advice about the 'quarter' problem. It comes back into my mind because they want 4.50 for a beer, and I'm about to leave the two quarters change on the bar (the more arithmetical among you will have worked out that that is exactly the same percentage as before, 11). She says that's perfectly reasonable. I tell her about the Greek refusing gifts, and she says, quite sternly "very unprofessional": Americans think of bartending as a profession. The entire bar is watching 'Jeopardy' on the TV. The question is "Which Shakespearean hero has more lines in the play than he had days in office" (that wasn't quite the phrasing, but never mind) the entire bar including this very professional barmaid, know the answer (Richard III). So do all the contestants. I'm impressed.
The bar has a machine which foams with a constant supply of free popcorn. You just grab a bowl and dig in. Americans are not all as fastidious about cleanliness as I thought they were. The popcorn is delicious, and salted to go with beer.
At the end of the evening, finishing her shift, the barmaid hits on me. I think she was just looking for a free drink, but it leaves me slightly confused about what she meant by 'professional'.
Tomorrow, I board the 'Empire Builder' to head out West; well, Minneapolis, actually. But this is where the story should really begin. After Mineapolis (quite a long way after Minneapolis, actually) the 'Empire Builder', on its way to Seattle, stops in Glasgow Montana. I may actually meet a Glaswegian on the train.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment