Throughout, Taffer straight-up laces into the giggly, apparently stoned owner constantly. He also switches the menu offerings to something that resembles a futuristic prison mess hall where food served on metal trays. Taffer’s solution? Get a better booker, improve the sound system, and change the name to Panic Room (Caution: High Volume Bar), with a gigantic sign clashing beautifully with the neighboring porn shop. When Taffer shows up he’s greeted by an empty room as perhaps the worst punk band of all time plays. Portland’s Tonic lounge is a dingy throwback bar in a little hobbit-looking building that hosts generally terrible punk and hardcore shows. When Taffer screams him down, he says “If I was hitting on your wife, we’d already be outta here!” So. “Just by looking at the end of your arm, I can tell you what your vagina looks like. The best bit: The OBGYN turns out to be a total pervert. Not a place featuring Vietnamese food, velvet-roped bottle service, and bands that sound like Arcade Fire filtered through an American Apparel ad. The interior’s updated with mugshot selfie station and a bunch of digital displays showing what the bar used to be. So they ditch it in favor of a more “local” lounge called Bar 702 (the area code!!), re-doing the cocktail program so every drink made to look like beer with the help of steins and a foaming agent (because. It’s dingy and kinda great, but Taffer points out that 97% of people hate the blues. Sand Bar is a legendary Vegas blues bar that used to host folks like Clapton and Etta James in the ‘70s before closing, then re-opening thanks to an OBGYN who loves him some 12-bar. She later uses sign language to spell out “fuck him” to her kid. The best bit: The owner angrily asks Taffer if he dyes his hair while angrily coloring on a placemat with crayons. Chicago bros really like ukuleles and DMB clones. You can hear the owner’s teeth grinding and her soul being crushed. Once the whole thing’s stripped of tapestries and other hippie shit, it re-opens as a craft cocktail-focused place called \’clear bär\, which looks like a Panera Bread had sex with an underground brick-laden comedy club. They also serve frozen pizzas, which Taffer calls bullshit on because it’s Chicago, so he hires a Santa Barbara chef to make… naan bread pizza? Because that’s Chicago, baby! He also develops a bacon-focused menu, because “43% of men would rather eat bacon than have sex,” despite the owner’s militant veganism. They seem confused by the wispy-haired hippie owner, who performs her “unique” blend of squealing and piano jazz four nights a week. Then it moved to River North, a neighborhood dominated by preppy bros. Turns out every day can’t be National Talk like a Pirate Day, but there’s an inherent sadness that pervades this one, and you kinda have to respect the dude’s commitment.įor 21 years, Underground Wonder Bar was a legendary music venue hosting jazz, funk, and reggae. The best bit: One server quits because he’s no longer allowed to talk like a pirate at work. After shooting, the piratz revolted, burned an effigy of the host, and re-opened as their shitty pirate bar. By pirates using weird fake English accents. Not even finance bros would want to hang out at a bar called Corporate, let alone pirates. So naturally, Taffer transforms it into “Corporate,” a sterile bro bar to suit the local financial firms, complete with self-serve beer machines and servers who ditch their scarves and three-point hats for ties and hair gel. It’s divey, the workers dress like Jack Sparrow and do jigs, and the entire thing has the feel of a rundown Pirates of the Caribbean knockoff ride. But with a Z, so you know they’re serious. In the greatest episode of all time, Taffer hits Piratz Tavern, which is - yep - a pirate bar.
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