As bars reopen, we find masks, no masks, open space, foamy taps, everywhere a sign - and a lot of smiles

Sign at the Green Hut

The hairy guy’s report:

What happens when bars suddenly reopen after being closed for – gee, how long was that, anyway?

People walk in and smile a lot, it turns out.

We can tell that because mostly they’re not wearing masks, though it’s tough to drink or eat with a mask on anyway. Life is full of risks, and time will tell whether this will come back to bite us in a few weeks. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy it.

But every bar now has an assortment of signs saying to do this and don't do that. "Do you feel sick?" asks one. (It almost invites you to act like a wiseguy and think, "Yes. I need a beer.")

Both hospitality and history at Jake’s South Inn

Joni behind the bar at Jake's South Inn

Doc’s report:

Within the square mile defined by St. Stan’s traditional parish, from 18th to 28th and Madison/Michigan to Lincoln, St. Stan’s is the only church of any denomination. I say “traditional,” because St. Stan’s is now incorporated, with St. Hyacinth Church, in the larger South End as Our Lady of Czestochowa Parish, due to a grant from the National Spelling Bee.

But in that square half-mile are nine bars (if you count the PLAV hall). That nine-to-one bars-to-churches ratio seems about right.

Paddy's Green Hut: Beer, euchre and Irish scenery but no more muskrat, regardless of the season

Guinness on tap

The hairy guy's report:

The 1960 phone book listing for taverns includes an ad for the Green Hut on Columbus that lists fish dinners, pizza pie and "muskrat dinners in season."

Fast forward to 2014, and it's called Paddy's Green Hut. On a recent afternoon, there was plenty of beer and assorted Irish stuff on the walls. Janelle the bartender was playing euchre with some guys at the bar. We interrupted to ask about the muskrat.

Nope, she said. That was under the previous owner. The muskrat is no longer ever in season. Nor is the fish or pizza pie. The only available food is snacks.

But there is, she said, that guy with the beaver.
 

At the Green Hut, the city's long Irish heritage is preserved in authentic kitsch that'll steal your heart

Former owners remembered

Doc’s report:

An unemployed Irishman with a hangover approaches a construction site manager on Chicago’s South Side, looking for work.

Sizing him up skeptically, the boss man asks, “Well, Mick: Can ya tell a girder from a joist?”

The Irishman mumbles: “One wrote Faust and the other wrote Ulysses.”

I’m the Irishman in that punch line.

I grew up in the Polish South End, with Dan Nowak, our deceased friend who co-founded this blog under the pen name Baldo. I miss him every day.

But as kids, we were aware that there were Irish north of 16th Street, on Columbus, around St. James Parish. Their boys wore green for sports and their mascot was The Irish, like Notre Dame. Some of their freckled girls had red hair. Some of their surnames didn’t end in “ski” or “weicz” or “wojewoda” and could actually be pronounced as they were spelled. Let’s say, for example, “Lynch” or, even, “Paveglio.” Who’s the victim?