The Angry Waiter

Carol’s Pub gained popularity a few years back after the Tribune wrote it up as a great dive bar. And a dive it truly is.

Toothless customers, a bouncer who looks like a cross between a Hell’s Angel and John Popper and who sells lingerie on the side and bartenders who I haven’t trusted since the time four years ago when my girlfriend ordered an Absolute and soda and the thin, Irish bartender kept saying to her, “You like that drink? You’re gonna like that drink.” An hour later she was passed out at home after only having that one drink. Luckily, we only live around the corner.

This place is really low end. But, the Lincoln Parkers keep coming as evidenced by the relentless line of northbound cabs dropping off and the southbound cabs picking up.

So, what’s the draw? Well, the place has obviously gained a reputation as one of those places that’s such a dive it makes it fun to go drink at. Fun, that is, if your a post-college frat boy or sorority girl from the suburbs or from out-of-state who feels like slumming.

And, it’s the karaoke. Yeah, the place has karaoke and there’s nothing like watching drunk Young Republicans make complete fools of themselves. That alone is worth the cover charge and the stamp on the back of your hand which will take three days to wash off.

They also serve food, but take a look around and pay close attention to who might be preparing your food. If you eat here, you deserve whatever ailment befalls you.

Though I live so close I could stumble home completely blind drunk from this place, I rarely go there. Ordering bottled beer solves the shady bartender issue, the bouncer has never hassled me and I really don’t care how many teeth people have, fewer makes it more difficult to bite me in a bar brawl. What really keeps me away is the Thursday through Saturday night crowd. Not the number of people, but rather the type of people. Carol’s has a 4 o’clock license (open until 5 on Saturday) and by the time last call rolls around most of the patrons have forgotten they’ve graduated and moved into the real world and have regressed to their glory days on campus. If that’s what I wanted I’d drink in Chicago’s Mecca for post-collegiate hijinks - Wrigleyville.

My advice is to stay away. This is not where the cool crowd drinks, it’s where the wannabes in khaki pants and oxford shirts go and think they look good because everyone looks like them.

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