Mixing with Kindred Spirits at the Latham Tap

Drinking establishments have always held a certain seduction for me. I chalk it up to my Irish heritage.

Nonetheless, I find one much-more seductive than all the others: The Latham Tap.

It's nothing fancy, but it's a neighborhood landmark.

It's a two-story house, turned into a bar and grill, which sits on a corner at the end of Latham Street.

It's in my hometown and its stood the test of time. In fact, time appears to have no bearing on it.

Before I was of age, and when the city was an industrial mecca, blue collar workers packed the place at lunch time.

It was well within walking distance of numerous factories, filled with lathe operators and tool-and-die makers.

Many would stop in after work for a couple of cold ones with their co-workers before heading home for dinner.

Unfortunately, most of the factories, and the men who operated the high-precision machinery,  are gone, victims of the economic decline spurred on by the demise of the automotive industry.

However, you can still feel their presence. Their kindred spirits, who've apparently taken up residence, enjoy our company and long for the good-old days.

Even the price of food and drink is a throwback. The prices are the cheapest in town, outside of the private clubs, which are finding it more and more difficult to sustain their memberships.

Not the Latham. It's remained vibrant. Catering to anyone and everyone.

In fact, I've been known to stop in for lunch with my 10-year-old grandson. He enjoys being the center of attention and the bartenders love him.

The menu is basic, prepared and cooked in the back kitchen: Burgers, fries, chicken, chili, Italian beef sandwiches, and fresh potato chips, which are made just a block down the street. You can smell them cooking a mile away.

The lunch crowd remains strong, requiring two bartenders everyday of the week. There are no waitresses.

The bar holds about 50 people, with half of the seating being stools that wrap around the horseshoe bar.

It's a very friendly and diverse crowd, too.

You'll find construction workers sitting next to attorneys, mechanics mixing with salesmen, and, of course, the retirees, who make happy hour a daily pilgrimage.

No condos in Florida or exotic locales for these guys. All they need is a shot and a beer, a ballgame on the tube, and a wink from the pretty young barmaid.

There's no shortage of regulars, either, which is what's kept the bar going for more than half a century. The bartenders know exactly what each one drinks and where they like to sit.

You can hear them call out each patron by name as they walk through the door.

"Hey, Randy," they'll shout, as they reach for my favorite bottle. "The usual? You just missed Gary, but he said to tell you he'll be back in a minute. He went home to let the dog out." 

My "usual" always arrives on the bar just as I'm climbing the stool in front of it. Not a second wasted.

That's a trick that neither of my ex-wives ever learned, which is ironic, because I met the second one while sitting on a stool next to her right there at the Latham Tap.

I can't hold that against the bar, though. Our first meeting had been secretly arranged by a friend. Some friend, huh?

Speaking of friends, you'll never be without one at the Latham, especially if you're from the neighborhood. You'll always know somebody.

The staff is amazing, too, consisting of some of the sweetest, friendliest, and most attractive young women in town.

They certainly know how to generate tips. Their charms are often on display. Kudos to Gabe, the owner.

Kathy, who quit the swanky restaurant down the street after 20 years as a waitress, is now a bartender at the Latham.

She's become a favorite, but each has their own following. She says the tips are better at the bar than they ever were at the ritzy restaurant. 

Without fail, she'll text me shortly after the bar opens on Saturday mornings, which is 11 a.m., and encourage me to stop in for lunch. I feel  like I've let her down if I don't show up.

It just doesn't get any better than that. 

Located just 13 miles from the Illinois/Wisconsin border, bartenders and patrons alike are anxiously awaiting football season. 

That means two Bear vs. Packer games. On any given Sunday, half the bar is sporting Bear jerseys, the other Packer.

Team spirit runs high, but things never get out of hand -- although there's plenty of good-natured ribbing.

With seven flat-screen televisions surrounding the bar, every game is available for viewing. As a result, a few Viking fans have taken up residence, generating even more banter.

The bar provides free food at halftime. Sometimes it's pizza, sometimes it's barbecue sandwiches. 

Kathy began a new tradition last season, bringing in homemade side dishes. It caught on fast. Patrons followed suit. It's become a buffet, complete with baked goods.

Every Sunday has become a Superbowl party, except for when the Bears and Packers are on the bye week. That's when the football widows stake their claim, dragging their husbands off to points unknown. 

The bartenders get to take a well-deserved breather.

But, they'll be completely rejuvenated and ready to serve their friends and neighbors with a shout-out and a smile on Monday morning. They wouldn't have it any other way. Neither would I.