Rose’s Lounge | Lincoln Park, Chicago

We arrive and there’s a elderly woman in the back muscling a huge trash bag out from behind the bar. Attempting to muscle is more accurate. There’s one other patron at the place. He notices what’s going on and says, “Rose, let me get that.” He grabs the bag, takes it out the back door, and returns to his spot. Rose pours us a round of beers ($1 each and in frosty mugs, no less), then returns to the other end of the bar to watch Wheel of Fortune with the other patron. Holy fucking shit is this place bizarre.

Five minutes earlier we had walked past. “This is it,” I said and we all strolled along and peeked in the place to make sure nobody was getting murdered at the exact moment we chose to arrive. We stopped at the ATM next door, steeled our wills, and strolled back to the bar.

Round two comes and we decide to grab a table. One other person has arrived, who we find out later is Rose’s son. Every table is different and surrounded by entirely different chairs — really surrounded, no space between them. Everything in the place looks like it was scavenged out of a dumpster. The walls are completely covered with … stuff. There’s no really theme that I could detect, just … stuff. The only way to describe it is that it looks exactly like you showed up at your grandma’s house, took everything out of the attic, and hung it up on the basement’s walls. It’s amazing.

Wheel of Fortune has long since finished and we’re about ready to go. Rose’s son walks over and offers us pretzels. “Next time,” we promise.