Blue Stem Martini Lounge

1935 W Irving Park Rd
Chicago, IL 60613
(773) 880-8470

I have met my match and she is a wild-haired Greek woman. Somehow, I always knew this would be the case.

I'd read a lot about this bar before coming. I wanted to try it, but I was a bit afraid. Some of what I'd read made it seem as though Lefko was the Martini Nazi and I knew that I would not have my isht together enough to NOT screw up an order and get kicked out. I was scurred. So, I brought along two friends who were even more clueless than I about how this place worked. I figured, if I brought along some folks who had NO idea what was going on, they would befall the wrath and I would sit back and shake my head at them, all disapprovingly-like. Sacrificial lamb and all that.

We walked in and there were some people standing at the bar. Lefko was doing her thing. And we, we stood there. In the doorway. Motionless. "Man, am I not even going to make it to ONE drink before getting thrown out?" Lefko looked up and I played it off. I walked to the bar and asked for a menu. She gave me one and said she'd be with us in a bit. Whew.

I brought the menu back to the table and studied it vigorously. I knew what I wanted, but wanted to peruse the other offerings. Lefko arrived at the table. She pointed at me. "White Cosmo, please." She points at my friend. "I'll take a Pear Martini." She points at my friend's friend. "Uhm," as she drums on the table, "I don't know. I don't like sweet drinks. I think I just want a dirty martini. Do you serve those here?" I went into survival mode. Much like Jerry was forced to disavow himself of his girlfriend in order to sup at the Soup Nazi's table, I was ready to slide over one table and pretend like I rolled into Blue Stem solo. As I closed my eyes & braced myself, I heard, "I'll make you the dirtiest martini you've ever had - and you won't see it coming." One eye open. Pat myself for bullet holes. We're all still here? Right on!

Within two shakes of a lethargic lamb's tail, we had our drinks. As she delivered the drinks, Lefko stuck around for our reaction. Me: (internally, "Juice!! Yum!! Yayyy!!") "This is quite good. Thank you so much." My friend: "Wow. This is great. I can't taste the alcohol at all." My friend's friend: "This IS good." And the night went from there. Success.

Two closing thoughts: 1.) It's not juice - as evidenced by my inability to move my legs or feel my lips after my third drink and 2.) don't eat at the taqueria across the street. I think they served me dog tacos. I have *never* tasted "chicken" like that.