There really is a Di. She’s a sprightly senior citizen who’s often around, sometimes tending bar, sometimes just chatting with customers. Regulars fill the stools, longtime Chicagoans who work as garbage collectors, nurses, and construction workers. These folks take a pull on their Miller High Life tall boys and give you an earful about the mayor, taxes, and potholes. They also throw darts: Di’s entire back room is devoted to the pursuit.
That all goes by the wayside, though, if there’s a big game on TV. The Blackhawks have a rapt audience, the Bears a grousing one, but the Cubs are the end-all and be-all. Di is a rabid fan. “Son of a bitch!” A cry erupts from the bar when the opposing team hits a homer in the ninth inning. The mood darkens, and insults about the pitcher’s man parts fly the rest of the night. On the other hand, a big win might mean a round of apple pie shots on the house.
Flashy cocktails and slick décor? Not at Di’s. An authentic patch of Chicago with cheap liqueurs? Bull’s-eye.
