Was that you at Manny's last Saturday night? The last night in the Hyatt?
Were you one of the people crammed into the bar looking to make one last lascivious memory in the wood-paneled den of iniquity?
Maybe. Maybe not. I don't think you'd own up to it if you were.
Because people were nuts. They were trying to steal anything that wasn't nailed down. Some guy was busted trying to load a bar stool into his car in the ramp. People were trying to take the pictures off the walls. A lady walked out with one of the red-checkered tablecloths stuffed under her shirt. If you you're a guy who's ever peed at Manny's, you know the photo of the millionth bull to go through the Chicago stockyards that was posted over the urinal. A man took a knife and tried to pry it from the wall. Thank goodness Patricia had been secreted away earlier.
Even though it wasn't closing, even though Buster the Bull would be welcoming them to dinner again in less than a week, people were acting as if everything was about to go up in a blaze. By the end of the last day of Manny's on Nicollet, there were spanking machines requested by half-clothed patrons, suggestive photos taken on nearly every surface in the restaurant, and encouraging, if not semi-pornographic, words scrawled with Sharpies on the walls by loving guests who just had to leave their mark.
Because clearly, Manny's has left its mark on many.
Today heralds the first day in its new location at the Foshay. Go in and have a fat drink with Jocko at the bar, salute Buster in his new place of honor, have a big steak, and begin building your next twenty years of debauchery. Just don't steal anything.