Triggered Sinatra Chicago Memory

So we spent a quiet FD -- FaceTimes from the Ds and the grandson and enormous puppy. And in the evening, after Wifey fetched me some sushi, she found an old documentary about Sinatra in Palm Springs. She knows my wheelhouse -- I love the Chairman of the Board.

A lot of the content was about his favorite bars and restaurants, and the surviving hosts of the places. It was also about how Frank would read the morning paper, learn of some sad tale, and have his lawyer in Beverly Hills send money to the aggrieved, anonymously. The local press knew whenever there was an "anonymous donor" who paid a medical bill, or rebuilt a food server's house, likely it was Frank.

He also paid to construct a synagogue and Catholic church. He treated his Black valet like family -- one of the interviewees was the valet's now grown son, and how he had free run of the Sinatra compound. Yes -- he was the man.

Anyway -- it triggered a nice memory I have -- of two April trips to Chicago several years back. Coincidentally, I was there the day the Cubs opened the season, and so all the restaurants and bars were packed -- even though the first trip, the game was snowed out!

I typically visited Gene and Georghettis, but had some mediocre food when a bunch of us were there for a Canes-Notre Dame game, and so decided to try Gibson's -- which was walking distance to my hotel, The Drake.

I waited for my table, and ordered my usual martini. The bartender was a very tall fellow named Mark -- with a classic "Da Bears" Chicago accent. He asked "You want I should make your drink as cold as my ex-wife's heart?" I had made a new friend.

We chatted a bit -- he had been to Miami many times, and asked about the state of his favorite places, like Joe's, and Tobacco Road. We talked sports -- he actually liked the Marlins for beating the Cubs after the way the fans treated the poor schlemiel Steve Bartman.

My name was called, and I left for my table -- tipping Mark very well, of course, and gave him my cliched Arnold "I'll be baaaack!"

Sure enough, the next year, I was. And Mark was at the bar, and remembered me: "Hey -- Miami dude!" I was impressed.

We caught up, about our grown kids, and his soulless ex-wife, and then I heard my name called for my table. I got up to leave, and he said "You have a little time tonight?" Indeed I did. He told me to wait, have another drink, and he went to talk to the hostess. Twist my arm!

Then my name was called again, and I was led to a small alcove table, under a picture of...Frank. Turns out, as Mark told the tale, Gibson's was near failure in the early 90s, and a visit from Frank and his entourage saved the place. It's been packed since. But then Mark told the great tale. He was a busboy at the time, and saw the whole thing.

The owner instructed his top waiter to greet each of the entourage by name, and ask for their drink orders as soon as they sat down at that alcove table. The scared waiter said, and Mark remembered the entourage was an Irish guy, Italian guy, and Jewish guy -- like a classic joke: Mr. Ginsberg, what can I get you? Mr. O'Brien? Mr. Giammatti? Frank?" There was silence at the table.

The Chairman said "Frank? Frank? Have we met before???" He pulled the server close, by the lapels, and said "Jack on the rocks -- the glass never fucking gets empty." And the chastened waiter of course complied.

The crew laughed -- I guess when Frank made it clear it was ok to do so. And they loved their meal -- so much that Frank came back several times, before he died in '98, at 82.

And I got to hear the tale from an actual eyewitness. 

Needless to say, Gibson's is now THIS devotee's Chicago steakhouse of choice. I hope I get back there sooner than later, and Mark is still behind the bar. I'll toast him, of course, as well as the Chairman of the Board.