The regal-sounding Belford Tavern keeps with the long, strange Chicago tradition of naming businesses on the streets they intersect near. The Beachwood Inn (Beach & Wood Streets), the Bel-Long Pantry (Belmont & Long), even Sears' Homart brand (Homan & Arthington, where the old Sears HQ once stood) are all shining examples. The Belford, at Belmont & Pulaski, was around before the name change from Crawford Avenue to Pulaski Road by Mayor Ed Kelly in 1933.
I challenge each and every one of you that has claimed to step foot in a dive bar to try this place out. I am a seasoned veteran of many, many decrepit, stinky, dank, and downright scary joints. I have seen things that would make Travis Bickle's skin crawl. And this, my friends, is the diviest of all of the watering holes I've ever seen.
I knew when I moved into the neighborhood in January that I had to check this bar out. Unlike other dive bars that shun sunlight so that you can forget that it's daytime, this place embraces it. Its large windows and glass door let in so much light that you might as well be at a street festival in the summer. The Sox sign in the window, the domestic beer signs, and the corner-hugging way the bar stands were all textbook dive bar. But this place was more than that. Much, much more.
If you come in here at night, you'll notice that the bar has flourescent lights on that exude the ambiance of a hallway of a government building built in 1950. Whatever time of day, you're sure to get stared down and even jeered at. But not by one or two lonely souls. By about thirty of them.
My third time there, earlier today, I walked in to a Chilean girl (I found that out later) and some Mexicans yelling "Myspace!" at me. Was it my messenger bag that tipped them off that I wasn't one of them? I sat down and ordered a bottle of Miller Lite. $2.25. The bartender, Jimmy, asked if I was Polish. I told him no and laughed and he told me I looked European. Everyone was drinking this mixture of tap beer (MGD) with raspberry "Cracovia" syrup - Jimmy said "to sweeten". I figured, when in Rome and got some. A huge challice of beer for $2! No wonder it was so popular. It actually wasn't half bad. You could also get a 12 oz pint for $1 or a shot for $2.50-4.
Everyone in here was smoking. Except for maybe the dogs, one of which was too busy shitting all over the place. The girl that was holding him started yelling until Jimmy provided her a (single) napkin that she cleaned the dog off with. Quite a few men thought this was funny. Most didn't notice.
If you want to take in a modern day version of what an immigrant's pub must have been like in 1915, come here. You've got about 5 different languages being spoken, probably most of what I couldn't understand was peppered with curse words. Most of the guys here were actually pretty funny. One time my young-looking friend Greg ordered a beer and a Miller hat-wearing mullet asked if he was old enough to drive.
The faded, yellow 1985 Bears poster. The Hydrogen Peroxide stored right next to the vodka. The Lottery Machine (and drunks buying lotto tickets). The fact that this place doubles as a liqour store with no store, just a few racks of booze. The front and back doors. The security camera TV shooting the parking lot out back. The booths. The 6:30am opening time. The random closing times. The rowdy immigrants.
So just remember, while you're out there munching on your tagine at Lula or drinking your La Fin du Monde at the Map Room, there are still rowdy immigrants trying to whet their whistle same as you. This is their place. Cheers to them. read more