Booze Muse

Logan Square is host to a food co-op, plenty of dive bars, at least one moderately classy tavern and, now, a brand new brewery. Revolution Brewing Company, a new restaurant and brewery ten years in the making, has opened its doors on Milwaukee Avenue just west of California. Josh Deth, managing partner, has a history with Chicago and beer. He’s logged hours at Goose Island and the now-defunct Golden Prairie Brewing Company (not to mention he had a large hand in starting Handlebar). Brew man Jim Cibak is no novice either. He’s worked alongside Deth at Goose Island as well as other breweries such as Three Floyds. Obviously, beer is the big draw with such homebrews as the Workingman Mild and Eugene, however, Revolution has a full food menu ranging from bacon-fat popcorn to Hampshire-Duroc Pork Chop. “It’s a very warm and comforting place,” Deth, assures. “You’ll immediately feel that when you come in.” Revolution Brewing works on a first come, first serve basis. So regardless of when you get there, you’re bound to see some familiar faces. As Deth points out, the place has been packed with “lots of neighborhood folks” since its opening. (Peter Cavanaugh)

By Ernest Barteldes

While I was living in Brazil as an adult in the 1990s, the liquor known as cachaça was regarded as a poor man’s drink found only in corner botecos (dive bars) where a shot could be purchased for as little as fifty cents. Broke youngsters and college students would buy a cheap bottle in order to make homemade caipirinhas in spite of the horrible hangovers that would follow.

I remember that quite well—as a perennially broke student in my college years, I often found myself with an empty pocket. But only a few bucks were enough for the cheapest of poisons.

Today, however, cachaça is reaching a more refined audience thanks to the efforts of a handful of dedicated companies that have done a lot to bring the spirit to a higher level. “Cachaça is today in the same position that vodka, chianti and tequila were about fifteen years ago,” explains Steve Luttman, producer of Leblon, one of the more recent brands specially created for the international market. Read the rest of this entry »

Howsthebar.com is a new Chicago-based Web site that invites participants to rate their local taps. Bar-goers are requested to log onto their mobile Web to evaluate their hangout, while still inside. The quick, five-question quiz asks participants to rate the pub on the basic criteria of: crowd size, gender ratio, average age, entertainment and drink value. This information is instantly processed and then averaged based on all users’ responses. “Some people may want a quiet bar and others may be looking for a crowded bar. Either way, users will get the information that they need to make the decision of where to go,” says Randy Rantz, the site’s founder. Rantz, who has been legally bar-hopping for the past sixteen years, came up with the idea for his site after having spent countless weekends on the phone with his friends. They would text back and forth, updating each other on their current destinations. He thought, “Why not get more people involved in communicating this information?” (Andrea Giampoli)

Green: it’s the color of money, the characterization of envy and, in today’s world, a double-edged status symbol that’s “changing the world”—for those who can afford it. Eco-culture is transforming grocery stores, clothing boutiques, car dealerships and now your local neighborhood tap. It’s a phenomenon I discovered on a recent pub crawl to three “green” establishments offering organic bar specials that included locally grown, pesticide-free and naturally cultivated wines, ales, vodkas, gins and house-infused flavors.

The first destination was the vegan-friendly Heartland Café in Rogers Park (7000 North Glenwood). Billing itself as “The Enterprise,” this commercial commune could have its own zip code, as it’s comprised of the café, a general store, studio theater, live radio show and our current stomping ground, The Buffalo Bar. The first thing my sidekick and I noticed, besides the not-so-environmentally conscious buffalo head giving us the evil eye, was the organic wine-tasting (Fridays from 7pm-9pm) and the absence of people enjoying it. Taking a seat at the bar, it became even more clear that we were the only ones ordering organic—and the taste test of Samuel Smith’s organic ale and an eco-friendly Cabernet Sauvignon proved why. The beer was so watered-down, it could have been from a Canadian spring. And, after the bartender mistakenly gave us the regular wine first, the comparison easily awarded the original the winner.

Our impression of organic ale and wine polluted, the green started growing on us once we arrived at our next stop, Wrigleyville’s Uncommon Ground (3800 North Clark), whose motto, “Live it Green,” was matched by a forest-friendly interior of rich earth tones and leafy paper lanterns. The cocktails served here are clean and sulfite-free (a bonus for my allergic cohort) thanks to Uncommon Ground’s almost exclusive use of Rain Vodka distilled from organic white corn grown on local Illinois farms.

Not only are the drinks palatable but—in the nature of green ideology—they pay it forward, too. The “Tree-tini” is a seasonally variable concoction that plants a tree each time it’s ordered—to date, over 2,000 trees have been committed to be planted in monsoon-devastated Tamil Nadu, India. And the “Rescue Me grilled pineapple greyhound” is a sweet citrus number that makes a donation to P.A.W.S. Chicago each time it’s ordered. So even with your hangover, you’ll at least feel good about yourself.

Although the do-good nature left a sweet taste in my mouth, it had me wondering—is this latest drinking trend a short-lived fad the way of Carrie Bradshaw’s cosmo, or do people consciously drink green in a bid to “save the earth”?

“Sometimes, I really don’t think people understand what organic is,” says Andre, former ecology-club president, and currently our bartender at the most popular of eco-bars, Butterfly Social Club (722 West Grand). “They just think it’s special.”

The newly revamped space is blatantly more modern with clean, white walls that leave room for the colorful drinks he serves up from a back wall littered with organic labels of every variety. Our favorites: the excellent Ginger Mojito (made of organic fair-trade Papagayo spiced rum) and Juniper Green Gin ‘n’ Juice, which goes down smooth, more like the latter part of the equation.

As Andre pointed out, it may be due to talking heads like Oprah that the green thing is sweeping the country—but for those honestly concerned with their health and that of the planet, a night of organic drinking is the perfect way to say cheers to Mother Nature. (Selena Fragassi)

By Jamie Murnane

Virginia Woolf famously said that all one needed to write is a room of one’s own. For some people, this may be true, but for others, all they need is a drink and a seat in a quiet pub, like Wilde Bar. At the new Lakeview bar and restaurant, there are two full-sized Victorian bars and numerous hefty wooden tables throughout, but the focal point is undeniably its massive library.

A raised open area complete with fireplace and an elaborate stained-glass dome, the library features towering authentic wooden bookshelves—not the IKEA-style wood we’ve grown so accustomed to, but real old-fashioned, no-Allen-wrenches-involved wood—packed with old hardcover classics.

On a quiet night, a patron can sit here, near the snap-crackling fireplace (with the flat-screen TVs out of view), and pen the beginning (or several failed beginnings) to the next Great American Novel. For inspiration, look no further than a book to your left, filled with prose that is best accompanied with a Hot Toddy on a cold Chicago night or the illuminated painting above the fireplace of the bar’s namesake: great Irish writer Oscar Wilde.

Looking back at Wilde and other great writers of the twentieth century, one would think that a bottle of beer goes hand in hand with a pen, a glass of scotch with a typewriter. Many other literary heavyweights—like Hemingway, Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs and Chicago’s own Nelson Algren—were known for their drinking almost as much as for their writing, which helped to solidify the romanticized vision of the drinker-writer.

“I see all these kids who want to be writers walking around with dog-eared copies of ‘Naked Lunch’ crammed in their back pockets,” says novelist and playwright Joe Meno, who also teaches fiction writing at Columbia College. “There’s this old, romantic idea that to be a writer you have to get drunk, swagger and pass out in alleys, but you can’t get drunk and have a career. It doesn’t work; you just can’t produce.”

And while it’s true that downing a bottle of tequila, shot-by-lime-and-salt-infused shot, will not an instant novelist make, the relationship between liquor and literature is nonetheless a huge part of Chicago’s lit scene, whether it’s in the form of writing or reading, or in the form of a beer or a Scotch. Writers like Meno (author of “The Boy Detective Fails” and “Hairstyles of the Damned”) have taken new approaches to sharing their work in bars as opposed to the typical bookstore route, and it has paid off—readings paired with drinks have become a new favorite pastime that gives writers, readers, listeners and perhaps just neighborhood drinkers a new way to get lit.

“The Hideout is perfect for literature events,” Meno says. On most nights, the Wabansia Street venue plays host to local and touring musical acts, but the owners are also very supportive of the literature scene and host regular readings. Author Jonathan Messinger’s popular lit series, The Dollar Store, ran monthly at the Hideout until this past November. Based on items purchased at a dollar store, a rotating roster of writers were invited to wax poetic on their cheap muses. Combined with cheap drinks, the night had been a notable success and will likely continue sporadically (Messinger keeps a busy schedule as co-publisher of indie publishing company Featherproof Books).

Similarly, Reading Under the Influence has the best of both worlds, but with a certain edge—participants and patrons are encouraged to drink shots before reading from published classics or their own written works. After the reading, more shots are consumed and a trivia contest based on the reading is held. RUI takes place on the first Wednesday of every month in the back room of Sheffield’s in Lincoln Park.

“I think reading series at bars provide literate folks with a more interesting thing to do than watching sports while getting tanked,” says past RUI participant Kathie Bergquist. Bergquist is the author of “The Gay and Lesbian Guide to Chicago” and also the manager of Women and Children First Bookstore in Andersonville. She names Danny’s Tavern in Bucktown and the Hungry Brain as other great bars that host frequent readings, but acknowledges that they do pose somewhat of a threat to typical readings that don’t generally provide attendees with alcohol.

“I think that readings out at bars have an aura of being ‘sexier’ than bookstore readings, because there is liquor involved and the perception is that the content will be raunchier,” she says. “I think it’s a shame, in a sense, as there are so many great free readings going on at bookstores throughout the city at any given time that are not getting as much hype.”

But she notes that W&CF has had to up the alcoholic ante to entice people into the generally dry readings from touring authors.

“One way we are trying to compete with what we call ‘off-site’ reading events is by picking one or two funkier, sexier readings a month off of our schedule and offering wine, and often food, at them. An example of this is when we had free mojitos and Cuban food for the release of Achy Obejas’ new anthology, ‘Havana Noir.’ Or, if we are having a group reading with a bunch of local writers, it’s a nice way to add a celebratory flavor to the reading, as well as an additional audience draw.”

She continues, “I realize that the lighting at Women & Children First is not as ambient as a bar setting, but at least when we offer booze, we offer it for free and you can buy your books there, too.”

The social aspect of bars and even bookstores that have accommodated writers and readers has allowed locals in the lit scene to sell and excel. Getting people to see a newly published writer at Borders is a little more difficult than getting a regular at Sheffield’s to pay attention to the man or woman reading their own short story at the front of the bar.

Brian Costello, author of “The Enchanters vs. Sprawlburg Springs,” says these kind of events are putting a new, entertaining twist on readings. “Typically, someone who might read at Borders just reads a little and might answer some questions at the end,” he says. “Then you might wait to have your book signed or shake their hand and say, ‘Oh wow, that was great.’ A lot of us who’ve been doing these kind of readings for a long time have always tried to react to these stuffy, stereotypical readings where the person just reads from their book and the audience is very serious. These new twists, with the help of a bar situation, remind people that these are stories for everyone, not just lit critics.”

At first, it might have seemed unorthodox, but when Drinking and Writing Brewery was founded in 2003, co-creator Sean Benjamin knew he had to offer a way for the two historically linked pastimes to connect. A figurative brewery, Drinking and Writing Brewery is a production company that started with a group of Neo-Futurists (famous for “Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind”) who wanted to do a show on Bukowski.

“First, we were focusing on Bukowski,” says Benjamin. “Then when we thought of him, we thought of Kerouac and more and more writers who fit that personality of the loner writer drinking in solitude.”

Though Benjamin shares Meno’s notion that it’s not as common these days for a writer to be both successful and a drunk, the connection between liquor and literature is omnipresent. “The more we say writers aren’t big drinkers as much, the more we see ones who are,” he continues. “A lot of writers drink to release inhibitions and [twentieth-century] writers drank so they had those experiences to write about, like Jack Kerouac drinking and going on road trips and writing about them.”

He continues, “Today, there aren’t too many writing jobs where drinking is as acceptable. But it’s harder to think of a twentieth-century writer who didn’t drink than one who did.”

What is still acceptable, though, are the events and readings that take place nearly every week in various bars throughout the city that celebrate and sustain the drinker-writer parallel. Brewing these kinds of events is something the Drinking and Writing Brewery has done for the last four years.

As Meno says, it’s events like these that allow modern writers to let loose. “The readings are the fun part, after you do all the work,” he says. “During my early formation as a writer, I lived in Rogers Park and went to the Green Mill a lot. Now, I spend a lot of hours at the computer by myself—sober. I know a lot of writers—the same for a lot of artists I know—who drink because alcohol is actually a depressant so it can subdue you when you’re getting excited about what you’re writing. So, you drink not because you’re hiding or you’re a tormented artist, but because you walk around all day with your head in the clouds.”

Perhaps what Chicago is missing, according to Bergquist, is a true “writer’s” bar. Besides the newspaper-famed Billy Goat Tavern, there isn’t one hangout that has been synonymous with writing.

“I was just in New York, at the KGB Bar there, which is truly a ‘writers’ bar, with nightly readings, and I lamented that there really weren’t any bars in Chicago that cultivated the writer crowd in as meaningful a way as they do,” she says. “Too bad, because we’re drinkers—big time.”

Wilde Bar could become the new spot, if it lives up to its namesake, but the location might make it more of a relaxing hangout that is an alternative to the otherwise hopping Boystown nightlife. On early weeknights (before the place gets too crowded, as new bars tend to do), patrons can get cozy near the fireplace of the library-like area, the most Wilde-esque part of the place, and scribble in their journals.

Bars like Danny’s Tavern and the Hopleaf, on the other hand, have long been revered among literary folks throughout the city. For many drinkers who happen to be writers (or writers who happen to be drinkers), Danny’s is a step-above a dive art-house establishment, complete with many dark (candlelit only) nooks and crannies to truly get into the loner drinker-writer persona. Plus, the tavern hosts the increasingly popular Danny’s Reading Series, featuring local authors and poets on the third Wednesday of every month.

Bookslut.com hosts a monthly reading series at Andersonville’s Hopleaf, which is also where the Drinking and Writing Brewery first began and holds it annual Drinking and Writing Festival. The bar’s owner Mike Roper attributes the big literary draw to the fact that his is one of the few watering holes in the city that doesn’t have a single television set. They also don’t play loud music and keep a good number of highbrow publications on hand, such as The New Yorker, The London Review of Books, The Nation and The Atlantic Monthly.

“We’d like to think all these things, as well as carrying better beers and wines and better, more interesting food than typical bar food, makes us draw a more cerebral audience,” Roper says. “So the kind of people who are attracted to book readings are all already our clientele. Plus, we have our separate upstairs space where Bookslut has its readings that is quieter—a real ideal venue.”

At Hopleaf, it’s not an anomaly to see a regular sitting by him or herself, reading a book at the bar on a quiet evening. But this would be at almost any bar in Wrigleyville, Roper says. “It’d be like, ‘Look at that creepy guy at the bar reading a book. Don’t serve him anymore.’”

“We like to introduce people to the fact that it’s possible to have an experience in a bar that’s not a loud place with people chugging Miller Lite and screaming for their sports team,” Roper continues. “I feel we’ve carved out a niche. Most bar owners think the thing to do to draw the most people is to be a little of everything, like an Irish sports bar with pizza and burritos, karaoke and darts. It’s just a train wreck. A train wreck that happens on almost every corner of the city. But I think you really just become too generic by doing that.”

It usually is the smaller, off-the-beaten-path bars that allure writers. The drinks are cheaper, so more can be consumed for less, and it’s less likely to deal with overcrowding, meaning there’s plenty of elbow room for damp napkin haikus and stained Moleskin prose.

“I have a strong visceral link with old-man bars as writer places, mostly for the Nelson Algren connection, but also because they are cheap,” Bergquist says. Algren, author of “Chicago: City on the Make,” famously frequented West Town bars such as Lottie’s in Bucktown.

It could be a testament to Chicago’s community—supportive venues champion writers all over the city, rather than in one place all of the time. With several publishing companies, small presses and lit magazines based here, the bar owners take notice, and offer their space as a supportive environment to share drinks and words amongst veterans and newbies alike.

As Bergquist says, “One thing is certain: Writers, and fans of writers, are big boozers.”

And our town is a writer’s town.

A lifetime second-hand smoker bellies up to the bar of Rainbo Club. You’re a smoker, the woman beside him reassures him, “You smoke as much as anyone in here including that beat-up leather jacket. The buzz won’t be the same, I guarantee you.”

The faded circa-1950s down-at-heel west side-Wicker Park-Ukrainian Village Bohemian vibe is nearly vanquished: no sawdust and dogs underfoot; the old man who hits on your sister is on oxygen; and now the end of the haze of gray-to-blue that’s risen since 1936. Three hours before midnight a recently married couple hustle up: a last chance to share a smoke in their favorite tavern. A photographer shooting close-ups makes smokers aware of the rude detritus scattered about: no flash, only ash in trays and dusting fingertips. A veteran of gestures checks her iPhone while lighting someone else up. Singles and Abe Lincolns carpet the bar. The place hasn’t had a cigarette sales license in weeks. Somebody’s brought five Parliament hard packs across from D&D. Junk everywhere.

The stroke of midnight is anticlimactic, no one’s quit yet, but then there’s always today. Closing time and out into the air. The sidewalk at closing: a crumpled fold of a Red Eye: pretty cover girl sucks one down. Flag up, flag down: the slushed streets race with traceries of taxi tracks, pulled to corners, zooming southward and eastward, a crush of dozens of revelers, one hand up in hope of a cab, the other glowing with a last, unconfined drag. (Ray Pride)

By Tom Lynch

It all started when that first guy put that first lime inside of his Corona.

Beer cocktails. What has this world come to? We’ve grown into an age when things like Miller Chill happen, which is a little different than adding an orange to a Blue Moon.

Despite some friends’ claims that I’m a purist in all fields, I’ve never viewed myself as such. I just kind of, sort of, fear change. But that’s a bit of another story for another bit of time.
When the idea arose that I scavenge the city to find adventurous beer concoctions, I cringed. I don’t do new things very well. I’m a member of that crowd who will try anything, just as long as we’ve tried it before and liked it. But, I thought, what the hell—I’ll just make someone come with me, so I won’t puke alone.

That wasn’t easy. But to be fair, I didn’t sell it all too well.

“Hey man, would you come with me when I somewhat aimlessly run around the city trying out different gross beer mixtures?”

“Is this gonna be like that time you made me run around the city eating fish tacos?”

“Um, no…”

“I have to work.”

But beer is beer and my roommate finally gave in. First stop was Wicker Park’s Handlebar, where I had heard the Guinness Float, a pint of Guinness with soy vanilla ice cream on top, was actually pretty good. (You’ll notice all of the following locations are in the general Wicker Park/Bucktown area because: 1) I wanted to keep everything within walking distance and 2) Well, just because. I can do whatever I want when I’m doing something that frightens me.) I ask the bartender for the float. He says they’re not serving ice cream.

Backfire! This is exactly what I feared. Now I look like that guy who ordered a stupid drink and can’t get it. Nevermind that it’s summer and there’s no ice cream. When do they serve it? I improvise and order a Stiegl Radler lemon beer, a creation that’s half Stiegl beer and half lemon soda. It tastes… nice? More like a watered-down beer, sweetened with sugar. It’s refreshing, make no mistake, a lighter-than-light excursion that, honestly, smells better than it tastes. I would imagine a homemade lemonade-beer (Shandy is what it’s called, for me and the other ignorant saps) would be far too candy-like, and would be impossible to drink with food, let alone drink a hundred of them during a night, ahem, on the town. And that’s really really important for me.

Next up was over on Division Street, at the Adobo Grill, where my roommate and I were destined to sip what we idiotically kept referring to as the “spicy beer.” I know what the drink is called, but I also have a fear of mispronouncing things, so I won’t say it aloud. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the place is dead. We sit at the bar.

“Hey man,” I, goofy and nervous, say to the bartender, “can I have one of those spicy beer things?”

He looks at me with grated amusement. “A Michelada?”

“Uh-huh.”

We get two. And they’re good. Similar to a Bloody Mary, but with beer, a Michelada is mixture of bottled beer (the bartender recommended Pacifico) and various hot sauces, bloody Mary mix, tomato juice, salt and lime. The mug is rimmed with salt and hot pepper, and you drink it through a straw.

Once you get over drinking beer with a straw, the spice sticks to the back of your throat. The aftertaste is the best part, as the residue settles in the corners of your mouth. People like this, I think to myself. Mexican emo plays overhead. The Cubs just lost because they couldn’t hit. No one is in there but me and my accomplice. I’m getting dizzy.

After about a half an hour, I realize half of my drink is still left, and that, in the end, it’s probably not for me. I respectfully finish it, but feel the fireball brewing in my belly (I hadn’t eaten anything) and we decide to venture homeward, tired and hungry. We did stop at Jerry’s Sandwiches down the street—where if the original plan worked we would have scarfed some beer-and-vanilla-custard dessert they’re supposed to have—picked up some food and called it a day. “Flight of the Conchords” was soon on, and I was exhausted from being embarrassed for two hours.

The next night, I’m at Silver Cloud, somewhat late, and I get the adventurous bug—I needed to try that Guinness Float, because, first of all, out of everything I was set to sample, it sounded the best. Also I needed, deep down, to not have this disappointed feeling, this feeling of exclusion, that everyone else enjoys these specialty beers but me. Because, well, I fear being left out.
It’s not on the menu, of course—I’m convinced you have to have bars make this special; Hamburger Mary’s, a great burger and shake joint in Andersonville, didn’t know what the hell I was talking about when I called them and inquired, but said they would make it nonetheless—and when I ask for it the bartender smirks, but agrees to whip one up almost immediately. Don’t ever order it if the bar is busy—you may be killed.

Now, I’ve never been a fan of Black Cows (big surprise), but let me tell you, this thing is amazing. As you could probably imagine, the vanilla ice cream blends rather successfully with the creamy, smooth goodness of Guinness, one of the world’s finest beers. Eat beer with a spoon. I love it. The friend I was with had one as well, and she was delighted (she’s also a pretty, going-against-the-wind drunk, so, make of that what you will).

Everyone at the bar seemed interested. We only had good things to say. This was, indeed, the success I’d been looking for. “I’d drink these all the time if I was total asshole,” I said aloud to no one in particular. And I meant it.

After the Guinness Float had sunk deep into my stomach, there was that desire for normalcy you feel, like when you’re on your way home from a vacation, where you just want things to fall into place and get back to routine. I ordered a PBR, to wash down this bizarre trip. Aaaaaahhhhh. Now that’s tasty.

Handlebar, 2311 West North, (773)384-9546; Adobo Grill, 2005 West Division, (773)252-9990; Jerry’s Sandwiches, 1938 West Division, (773)235-1006 (try that beer and vanilla custard experiment, let me know how it is); Silver Cloud, 1700 North Damen, (773)489-6212.

By Molly Each

Just over a year ago, local writers Amanda Snyder, Julia Borcherts, Joe Tower, Rob Duffer and Carly Huegelmann began the reading series RUI: Reading Under the Influence. Taking place the first Wednesday of each month at Sheffield’s (owned by fellow writer Ric Hess), the format is this: local writers are invited to read two pieces—one of their original work and one previously published piece. Before and after reading the published material, readers drink a shot of their choice, and end with four-to-six trivia questions related to the author and/or the work. Trivia winners receive a free book. Though RUI began as a fundraiser for a more formal reading, the unique format seemed to stick.

“The first time we held it, eleven people showed up,” Borcherts says. “But it was more fun than the formal readings, so we kept it going. We slashed the cover charge, expanded the trivia component and decided to add ‘special guests’ as a way to bring more of the literary community into the readings.” And it was working. Attendance was regularly reaching as high as seventy-five people, and local writers Gina Frangello, Jonathan Messinger and Brian Costello were among the participants.

Then last February the Chicago Tribune Magazine printed an erroneous four-paragraph piece on RUI. In explaining the trivia component, it incorrectly stated, “Whoever answers the most questions right wins a book and a free drink.” Six weeks later, Hess was served with a summons, stating he was to appear in front of the Illinois Liquor Control Commission for violation of the Illinois Liquor Act, a charge based solely on the Tribune article.

“The original position of the state was that because it was a trivia contest, we were giving away shots in a game of skill, which is illegal,” Hess says. “But the article was factually wrong. The people who win the trivia aren’t getting a drink. The shots have nothing to do with the trivia.” As for the shots that are consumed before and after published pieces? They’re taken care of by RUI’s $3 cover. “They run a tab, just like anyone else, and at the end of the day they settle the bill. Only the space is free.”

Hess and his lawyer, Ron Rosenblum, assumed the charges would be easy to dispute. “I wrote a couple pages where I went through point by point and showed exactly what was factually wrong. I emphasized that we do not give away liquor and we do not provide free drinks for a game of skill,” Hess says. But instead of dropping the accusations, the State of Illinois changed tactics. They accused RUI of “promoting the irresponsible abuse of alcohol,” a charge that Hess is still confused about. “It was a general charge, no specifics. It was a one-paragraph summary and it just said that’s what you do because we interpret it that way.” The creators were shocked at the charge as well. “The irony is that many of our guests don’t even drink liquor,” Borcherts says. “Sometimes I’ll drink shots of Diet Coke. Some of our guest readers just drink shots of Red Bull.” Snyder agrees, noting that the alcohol is hardly the focal point of the evening. “The drinking theme is just shtick, really. It’s a way to show potential audience members that it’s a laidback event, that we’re not the uptight, snore-a-thon that most readings are.”

Who knows if it was the letters written by RUI devotees that Rosenblum presented, or just a lack of concrete evidence, but finally the state agreed to dismiss the charges with prejudice (meaning Sheffield’s can never be accused of the same thing again). But only after Hess paid up. “At that point I thought fine, it doesn’t go down as a mark on our liquor license. I just had to give them $500. For what, I don’t know. To make the whole thing go away.”

Thankfully, it has. With the legal fiasco behind them, the creators of RUI and Hess are looking to the future. “RUI is 100 percent safe,” Hess says, adding that the event will be held at his bar as long as they want it there. The creators are looking to evolve the series—talks of traveling RUI and a possible anthology abound—but are committed to staying true to its roots. “Our audience is heavily composed of writers and literature lovers,” Borcherts says, “and they like that we treat literature as something that’s alive and interactive, as opposed to stuffy and pretentious.”

RUI: Reading Under the Influence (readingundertheinfluence.com) takes place the first Wednesday of each month at Sheffield’s, 3258 North Sheffield, from 7pm-10pm. September 6 features Todd Dills from THE2NDHAND and “Sons of the Rapture.” $3.