Archer Heights

Zack and I knew so little of Archer Heights before this week that we kept calling it "Archer Square." I was ready for a dud neighborhood. But after reading a bit about the area, I became pretty excited to take the Orange line to Pulaski (the last stop before Midway Airport) in southwest Chicago.

We arrived at Pulaski on that frigid winter night and headed down the winding Archer Avenue — past Polish bakeries and Polish bars advertising "piwo" rather than it's English translation (beer) — and up to the heavy wooden door of Szalas, a Polish Highlander restaurant. Yes, Polish Highlanders — something else I'd never heard of until this trip. Apparently the Polish people of the Carpathian Mountains, which run along Poland, Slovakia and the Czech Republic, have a distinct culture from that of other Poles — and this culture was represented proudly at Szalas.

In order to get into the place we had to pull on a thick rope from the door that rang a brass bell inside. The doormen (dressed in traditional garb) greeted us with "Dobry vecer!" as we entered, and to their disappointment we responded in English, asking for a table. There were no tables, however, because a Polish-American wedding reception was taking place in the main dining room, so we took a couple seats in the bar. The rooms were separated from each other by a wooden facade of a cottage, a stuffed black bear and a turning water mill. The log cabin interior was adorned with a various mounted animal heads — bison, deer, etc. Traditional Polish Highlander clothes (one must assume) were displayed, and some sort of ancient automobile hung from the ceiling (for some reason). This was ambience.

We chose Okocim from the list of beers on tap, which included Golden Pheasant and Weissbeer. The bartender served us our pints and went off to chat with some other patrons before taking our dinner orders — and this is when we realized we were probably the only English-speaking, non-Polish clientele. But besides the fact that everyone was Polish, it was an otherwise diverse crowd: young guys with tatoos wearing White Sox jerseys, an attractive middle-aged couple, a group of thirty-somethings sipping wine, children in formal dress running in from the reception.

When the bartender explained that soup came with the meal, he told us our choices were broccoli or chicken noodle. Not a huge fan of broccoli, I went with the chicken — only to find later when Zack received his "broccoli" soup that the bartender meant to say "cabbage." My soup was much like any chicken soup you'll ever have, but Zack's soup was great! It came with this big hunk of meaty pork in it. Ah, Polish Highlander cuisine.

The potato pancakes with sour cream and applesauce came next - even better. And then our meals came: I ordered the Hunter's Stew (bacon, pork, beef and sauerkraut in a tomato base) and Zack got the Cabbage Roll (pork and beef rolled in cabbage). Mine was pretty good, although I was completely stuffed by then and couldn't eat any more. Zack's was amazing. Trust me. Much better than it sounded on the menu.

Sufficiently stuffed, we hung out and tried to understand the Polish TV channel on the small TV behind the bar and listened to the traditional Polish band — two violins, an accordion and a cello. The man next to me tried to start a conversation, but as he spoke very little English, the only thing I could get from him is that he's from 80 km outside of Krakow and has lived in Chicago for 4 months. The convo awkwardly fizzled and Zack and I headed out for our next Archer Heights adventure down the street at Tony O's Studio 31 Lounge.

An adventure it certainly was. The first thing that hit me as we walked into the bar was the overpowering smoke (we were just a few days away from the Chicago smoking ban). Tony Bennett crooned from the jukebox, neon lights lit up the bar lined with bottles from Amstel Light to Zwiec. Electronic slot machines stood along the perimeter like wallflowers. We were probably the youngest people in there by 10 years, but most patrons were about 20 years older than us.

We took two seats at the bar. Within a minute, Tony Orlando, the owner and retired cop, introduced himself to us. He was dressed in a sharp suit with slick hair. "Check out the sports bar, and on the other side we have a dance club. Very reputable," he said. "If at any time you feel uncomfortable out here, feel free to join us in the back." Interesting. Very friendly guy. He even bought us a round of drinks, which he signaled to the bartender by placing shot glasses upside down in front of us.

A minute later, a man I'll call "Richie" (he asked me not to reveal his name) sat down next to me and sparked a conversation with us. He told us about Tony Orlando ("A total class act. Very classy guy."), the 2.5 years he spent in jail for being a bookie ("My partner only got 6 months — and he was the one who beat everyone up! You know why? It's 'cause I'm Italian."), his father, the Chicago bank robber ("My teacher called him in for a parent-teacher conference. He beat me in front of her. They never scheduled one of those conferences again."), and his brothers, all of whom he hates and one of whom died from drug use. I told him he should write a book.

I was so entertained by Richie's somewhat tragic stories that I hardly noticed him chain smoking Parliaments in my face. Soon after he left, however, I felt pretty sick. We checked out the dance club half of the bar, thanked Tony for the drinks and hospitality, and headed back to the El.