Monday nights are sticky-floor, nasty-meat-market, sopping-wet-menu nights so packed that I spill half my drink just getting away from the bar. I always wear killer heels, and I can never get a table unless I cut into the wait-list line. By the end of the night I’m hurting from head to toe. Otherwise there’d be no point in going out at all. And from now on there isn’t. My regular beginning-of-the-week hangout, Mod, which hosts Martini Monday ($3 martinis all night), is closing this Sunday after brunch–five years to the month after its birth.
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The only place more congested than Monday night at Mod is Saturday night at Sonotheque, which isn’t surprising, since they share an owner. Terry Alexander, who also owns the beloved Danny’s Tavern and three Mia Francescas, and used to own Okno and Soul Kitchen, plans to breathe more life up the skirt of Wicker Park. “Mod has already run its course,” he says. “It’s not a sad thing–we’ve had five amazing years. It’s just time to move on.” A few weeks after Mod closes he’s opening an offshoot of Mia Francesca called Francesca’s Forno, which will serve drinks and snacks in the old Soul Kitchen space. “There’s plenty of bars in the neighborhood, but not that many new restaurants,” he says.
Two Mondays ago Mod was acting like a guy you’re about to break up with–on its best behavior, reminding you how amazing it can be, showing you what you fell in love with in the first place. A man with a shaved head and a soul patch kept calling me “young lady” while touching my belt, which was slung dangerously close to my nether regions. A young guy called Dimitri sashayed around in bright red socks–with sandals, no less–and red Daisy Dukes. Dimitri’s one complaint that evening was that his shorts weren’t short enough. Two hot young women ran around modeling dresses from their own line, Trois Chemises, whose every item is made of three T-shirts. And the gay black contingent that’s been hitting Martini Monday almost since its inception was turned out. They’re always dressed so good it hurts, in looks ranging from thrift-store nerd to tribal chief to obnoxiously affluent professional athlete to full-on pimp. I asked a few of them what they plan to do after Mod closes. “I don’t know!” wailed a guy in a sports jersey. And it hit me that I don’t either.
We got in line at the cashier’s desk to break our bills. Behind us, a lady in a gray sweatsuit and a fancy hairdo sighed impatiently and rolled her eyes as I ogled my friend’s fancy Labello lip balm. Finally the woman had to point out to us that a window was open, ready for the next customer, and we were holding up the whole line. I apologized. “Y’all are playin’ around with your lipstick,” she scolded. “You need to pay attention.”
