Chicago O'Hare (ORD)

July 2004: Out-living My Expectations

My sister calls.  "How's Poppy?" I ask without saying hello. I expect the worst. 

"He's sitting up.  Reading the comics." She says.

"WHAT?" I raise my voice, "he's supposed to be dead!"  

I'm at PF Changs in O'Hare.  I'm drinking Merlot and eating squash soup. Just five hours earlier I was relaxing at home in the hammock with a book, the dog asleep on the bricks below me. The monsoon clouds were roiling along the mountains and some distant thunder rumbles were sounding promising.  Then I got the call, bought this ticket, re-arranged my whole life and left for the airport in less than 30 minutes. Poppy's dying, my sister told me. This is it. Get here now. 

The guy next to me at the bar looks over. 

"Well, that's good, but I can't believe it." I say, lowering my voice.

"I KNOW!" My sister sounds incredulous "We really thought this time was it."

I am suddenly filled with guilt.  I'm glad he's not dead.  He'll still be there when I arrive tonight. I am a little angry though.  The hammock, the book, the pooch and the thunder...not to mention the simple pleasure of being home for a weekend with nothing to do.

"I'm glad I'm coming home." I say.

"I know." She says.

"I'll be glad to see him," I say.

"You will," She says. 

Chicago O'Hare (ORD)

June 2004: You say merlot?

The bartender, a small asian woman, doesn't appear to speak much English, but she winks a lot. Big exaggerated winks that crinkle up the side of her face and end with broad grins and a quick head nod. Real Liza Minelli winks. I order a merlot.  It arrives with a wink and smile. I begin drinking and take in the surroundings.  I'm in a bar called Prairie Tap, which I think a nice name.  Wholesome sounding.  Makes me think of amber waves of grain, big wooden barrels and Laura Ingalls Wilder. Nice logo too.  I'm staring at it across the bar.  It's very Frank Lloyd Wright. The glass is about two-thirds empty when the bartender walks past.  She stops and gapes at the glass.  

"You say Merlot?" she asks in her heavy accent, pointing at the glass and giving me a look of horror.

I nod. Maybe the accent is Korean.

"Oh shit! This cabernet!" She grabs the glass, dumps the remaining wine into the sink with a violent twitch of her wrist and gives me a new glass of wine. "On house! on house!" She cries and gives me the wink.

A few minutes later as she walks past, I order a salmon burger.  She winks, produces the merlot bottle from behind the bar and sloshes my glass full without speaking. I hadn't indicated that I wanted a refill, but I accept it and think its good prairie-hospitality. She winks again, leaning pretty far over the bar this time.  It's a wide bar, otherwise I might have thought she was being rather forward.

A variation on this event happens five times. One other time she does the "Oh shit! You say merlot!" thing.  Four other times she simply grabs the bottle and gushes wine into my glass without words.  I never protest, eat my salmon burger, and eventually remember that I'm in the airport for more than wine and salmon burgers.  I frantically check my cell phone for the time. I haven't miss my flight yet, but I might have to run for the gate. I ask for a check, suddenly considering that a glass of  wine in an airport costs between seven and nine dollars a glass. This bill could be more than I paid for my rental car. As I try to shake the fuzziness out of my head so that I can do some tip-math with the check, I think, "Damn!  This bartender is good."  I wonder how much 15% is going to be. She gave me good service, but can I afford 20%?

She slides a check my way, leaning in and giving me the wink.  It has one glass of wine and a salmon burger. When I ask her about it, she says nothing. Just winks.

Now that's good prairie hospitality! I tipped significantly more that I anticipated.