Hey Now! You're An All-Star!
A few days ago, The Frugal Hipster came to me complaining about his woes at the dish in his fall softball league. (I was actually recruited to be in said league, but games are up at Loyola on Monday nights...and with the playoffs 2 weeks away and Monday Night Football starting up, I need as much ass-on-couch-time as possible.) I figured a sure-fire remedy for this would be to take young Aaron to Stella's, my favorite batting cages in the universe.
Stella's is out in Lyons, a near-west suburb of Chicago. Although the place is crawling with chunky suburban kids and is only accessible via Ogden Avenue, it's still worth the 25- minute drive from downtown. We bashed through 6 tokens worth of balls each, and then started feeling that rumbly in our tummies meaning it was time for dinner. Aaron, being the always-prepared type had a GoogleMap along with him with various eateries flagged.
The first joint was Waterworks. Scary as hell. There was no one in the joint under 45, and they all looked funny at the 2 city slickers who looked it. Plus, it was quickly evident that the place was all bar, no grill.
Can't remember the name of the second place for the life of me, but it was billed as a steak and banquet house. 8:05 on a Wednesday and it was quite closed.
So The Frugal Hipster says "hey, let's try this All-Star Cafe place." Sounded like an innocuous and generic suburban sports bar, so I figured what the hey. It was a bit of a drive from the main drag in Lyons and located next to a trailer service place and there were a lot of trucks in the parking lot, but no big shake.
Walked in, promptly was accosted by a big tattooed guy with a lip piercing who probably spent his spare time moshing at Limp Bizkit concerts asking for ID. Somewhat flattered, I handed my license to him. Aaron asked if the kitchen was still open, and the bouncer answered rather enthusiastically that it was.
Faded faux wood panels and plenty of mirrors in this place. "Candy Shop" blasting through the speakers.
Plopped our asses down at the bar. Ordered beers. (One only for me, I was driving) and asked to see a menu. The menu was a laminated piece of copy paper with about 5 items on it...but man was it cheap. "Jackpot!" I thought. Cheap grub. Ordered a steak sandwich, Aaron went with the pork chop.
It was about then that I noticed the chick in the peach thong and bra set who walked by with a bunch of money in her hand. "Hmmm...shot girl on a Wednesday night" I thought. Then again, it's the suburbs, so all bets are off. I sipped my Bud slowly and watched the Braves-Phillies game on ESPN. I wasn't about to ask them to put on the Sox game for fear I might get bottle whipped or something.
My eyes wandered around a bit. It was then that I noticed the two semi-hot-in-that-slutty-way chicks at the corner of the bar hanging all over a couple guys. I asked TFH if he thought they were strippers. He's like "they prefer the term dancers" and kinda grinned at me.
He'd figured it out. It took me another 5 minutes.
All-Stars is a half-assed strip club. They feature "fashion shows" which are bascially lingerie lap dances. By the time "Freek A Leek" had finished blasting over the sound system, we'd been asked for a dance. We both demurred.
Aaron wolfed down his pork chop sandwich. I gave up on my steak sammie, since I did NOT want to know where the cook's hands had been. Left the semi-hot but fully clothed bartender a nice tip and hightailed it out of there.
Oh yeah. I got home, plopped down in my office chair with my shanks all akimbo and fired up "Candy Shop" on iTunes. The Better Half (who got a semi-intelligible phone call from me where I was trying not to laugh my ass off on the way back) just rolled her eyes and slammed the door.
A few days ago, The Frugal Hipster came to me complaining about his woes at the dish in his fall softball league. (I was actually recruited to be in said league, but games are up at Loyola on Monday nights...and with the playoffs 2 weeks away and Monday Night Football starting up, I need as much ass-on-couch-time as possible.) I figured a sure-fire remedy for this would be to take young Aaron to Stella's, my favorite batting cages in the universe.
Stella's is out in Lyons, a near-west suburb of Chicago. Although the place is crawling with chunky suburban kids and is only accessible via Ogden Avenue, it's still worth the 25- minute drive from downtown. We bashed through 6 tokens worth of balls each, and then started feeling that rumbly in our tummies meaning it was time for dinner. Aaron, being the always-prepared type had a GoogleMap along with him with various eateries flagged.
The first joint was Waterworks. Scary as hell. There was no one in the joint under 45, and they all looked funny at the 2 city slickers who looked it. Plus, it was quickly evident that the place was all bar, no grill.
Can't remember the name of the second place for the life of me, but it was billed as a steak and banquet house. 8:05 on a Wednesday and it was quite closed.
So The Frugal Hipster says "hey, let's try this All-Star Cafe place." Sounded like an innocuous and generic suburban sports bar, so I figured what the hey. It was a bit of a drive from the main drag in Lyons and located next to a trailer service place and there were a lot of trucks in the parking lot, but no big shake.
Walked in, promptly was accosted by a big tattooed guy with a lip piercing who probably spent his spare time moshing at Limp Bizkit concerts asking for ID. Somewhat flattered, I handed my license to him. Aaron asked if the kitchen was still open, and the bouncer answered rather enthusiastically that it was.
Faded faux wood panels and plenty of mirrors in this place. "Candy Shop" blasting through the speakers.
Plopped our asses down at the bar. Ordered beers. (One only for me, I was driving) and asked to see a menu. The menu was a laminated piece of copy paper with about 5 items on it...but man was it cheap. "Jackpot!" I thought. Cheap grub. Ordered a steak sandwich, Aaron went with the pork chop.
It was about then that I noticed the chick in the peach thong and bra set who walked by with a bunch of money in her hand. "Hmmm...shot girl on a Wednesday night" I thought. Then again, it's the suburbs, so all bets are off. I sipped my Bud slowly and watched the Braves-Phillies game on ESPN. I wasn't about to ask them to put on the Sox game for fear I might get bottle whipped or something.
My eyes wandered around a bit. It was then that I noticed the two semi-hot-in-that-slutty-way chicks at the corner of the bar hanging all over a couple guys. I asked TFH if he thought they were strippers. He's like "they prefer the term dancers" and kinda grinned at me.
He'd figured it out. It took me another 5 minutes.
All-Stars is a half-assed strip club. They feature "fashion shows" which are bascially lingerie lap dances. By the time "Freek A Leek" had finished blasting over the sound system, we'd been asked for a dance. We both demurred.
Aaron wolfed down his pork chop sandwich. I gave up on my steak sammie, since I did NOT want to know where the cook's hands had been. Left the semi-hot but fully clothed bartender a nice tip and hightailed it out of there.
Oh yeah. I got home, plopped down in my office chair with my shanks all akimbo and fired up "Candy Shop" on iTunes. The Better Half (who got a semi-intelligible phone call from me where I was trying not to laugh my ass off on the way back) just rolled her eyes and slammed the door.
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