Schooners is pretty much as I imagined. So much so I wonder, as I walk in, if I have been here before. I know I haven’t. The place is a cliché. There are fishnets mounted on the wall for decorations. A heavily shellacked marlin hangs over the bar.
Otherwise the place is pretty typical old-style Chicago tavern—gritty tile floors, dim lighting, beer signs in different hues of neon in the window, barstools of cracked Naugahyde repaired fetchingly in spots with silver duct tape. The ceiling is pressed tin. The bar is dark, heavy wood, so solid it looks as though it grew out of the floor. Behind the bar, liquor bottles line up on three rows of shelves, mirrored glass behind them. In the center of the bar are the taps. Easy. I have the layout.
The Pet Shop Boys are playing, wailing about some
