Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights you might find Chicago Legends crowded. We go on a Thursday, when the place is empty but for a few regulars. The doorman jokingly questions the authenticity of our driver's licenses and welcomes us to the establishment. My friend and I belly up to the large bar in the center of the main room, awash in neon. A small dance floor stands empty near the front window. Flat-panel televisions line the glittered black walls, showing whatever happens to be on. Long mirrors separate us from a larger side room with another dance floor at its center. No one dances this evening. A neon sign shines bright with the offer of barbecue ribs, but the kitchen is closed. Live blues are played some nights, but all we hear is the stereo. No worries. We have $3 Bud Lights and discuss the state of things. The night rolls on.
Across the bar, the regulars share a laugh. One man stands out from the rest, as if he's holding court. It might be his inherent cool. Perhaps it's his fantastic hat. This man is King Bob. The group finishes their drinks and shuffles toward the door. King Bob rises to leave. As he exits, the bartender approaches us with drinks, compliments of the King. He disappears into the night before we can offer thanks. King Bob doesn't expect a display of gratitude, but he'll get it anyway. Thanks, King Bob.
Centerstage Reviewer: A.J. Weiss
