Hector Dominguez’s “If on a Summer’s Night, a Blogger, or: How You Learned to Love El Barrio (and Not Exploit It)” is a fast-paced, almost breathless romp through a single night in Chicago. In part a tongue-in-cheek critique of society, in part an excavation of place, this story will keep you riveted.
If on a summer’s night you—influencer, minor TikTok celeb, gastronomista by day, cocktail connoisseur by night, blue checkmark such that you are—should find that Fulton Market, now Chicago’s very own SoHo, is inaccessible (the foodies having completely booked the three-Michelin-star molecular cuisine wonder for the season; the barbershop with the sliding bookcase leading into a speakeasy is no longer a secret, hence the line of tourists spilling out its doors onto the sidewalk; and the new rooftop movie theater/cocktail bar that you couldn’t wait to “discover” just made Thrillist’s “Top Ten Places for a Quirky Date”) then you may look in desperation to up-and-coming Pilsen, a neighborhood you’ve heard is artsy, maybe still an itty bitty dangerous, yet full of promise, which a quick Googling reveals: only ten minutes to the south, two independent breweries, vintage shops galore, dive bars aplenty, twenty-six taquerias, and—wait, how many taco joints? NopeNopeNope, not your aesthetic, not for your target audience (because if so you may as well give it up, don a flamed bowling shirt, spike the mane with platinum blonde tips, and call your blog: Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives). The vibe is just too boho and your subscribers want the upscale, the elevated, and the high-concept: places where artisanal, al forno, with hints of cardamom, and notes of frankincense and myrrh roll off the tongue. (Besides, how would you even work in the word “deconstructed” to bistec tacos, refried beans, and rice unless describing it blowing out the tail end of your digestive tract?) Yeah, no, Pilsen will not do, a waste of time it will be—unless, unless you turn the evening into the disaster night episode, the “Night-out Gone Awry”—a strategy you’ve not yet resorted to, one every blogger is afforded, that clickbaity headline, but thinking about it: The video thumbnail of you sitting on a toilet suggesting a case of food poisoning—think of all the new viewers. Sure, you might lose a few loyal highbrow ones, but that comes with growing a channel and building a following, growing pains, you know… So yeah, yeah, yeah, Pilsen might just do. And so, the evening adventure begins by getting there ASAP.
First, open the Uber app on your phone.
Enter destination: Pilsen.
Target distance: 2.6 miles.
Choose a ride: Comfort.
ETA: 31 Minutes.
Choose a ride: Uber XL.
ETA: 39 minutes.
Okay, switch over to Lyft.
Select: Lyft Black / Priority / XL VIP.
ETA: > 35 minutes.
Lyft Share?
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(If it gets you there quick, you may have to slum it with the peasants.)
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(There goes the night and your precious minutes of content.)
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Wait—there’s a rare yellow relic turning on Randolph Street!
Start recording (with your iPhone 14 Pro Max which isn’t the top-of-the-line model, nor the latest, but it’s still got a 48-megapixel camera; though the only problem is when you need high definition ultrawide angles in cramped spaces—like the inside of a cab!—that the resolution scales down to a measly 12-megapixels and that’s where the camera on the new 16 Pro Max would help get those super high res images with minimal pixelation because it has that 5x zoom, and it’s a real shame because it feels like only yesterday your current phone was snappy and sharp and sleek, but now it’s a laggy scuffed up dinosaur, hardly apt for vlogging and dammit, you’re a power user that deserves the latest, cutting edge tech—you owe your subscribers that much) and flag down the cab.
No, wait. Better yet, hail it.
taxi—
No, no. Like you mean it and need it.
Taxi—
Louder, please.
Taxi, Taxi!
Loud-er.
TAchk—sēēeee!
Great, now all diners on the patios heard your voice crack pubescently and still the cabbie didn’t hear you. You’ve managed to embarrassingly accomplish nothing.
Forget that. Just whistle it over. How does one whistle again? Two fingers under the tongue angled, downward? Do they have to touch the tongue? Gross.
Pfft. Thbptttttttt. Pftttt.
You’ve spit all over your knuckles. Hopeless, so hopeless, you.
The obvious problem: No one can see you. Slide past the hordes of folks on the waitlists, edge over to the curb, extend your arms and wave your hands in the air (like you just don’t care).
Oh, look! The cab is speeding up, weaving between lanes, and its dome light just turned off. Success.
The cab pulls up in front of you, brakes hard, hits the curb, and misses your toes by a smidge. Well, don’t just stand there staring at your Ferragamo loafers—get in!
You tell the cabbie, Pilsen, please. I’ll give you a destination once we’re close, and return to searching spots on the phone while the cab turns on Halsted Street, blazing out of Fulton Market into Greektown.
Your Google Maps search for restaurants and bars isn’t very promising. Yelp isn’t much help either: hundreds of pedestrian reviews, some of the joints already covered by lower-tier YouTubers. The only establishment that could cater to your audience only has a two out of four-dollar bill rating, but you already knew that: You’re not seeking a table in Alinea, just a rando place to get you out of tonight’s jam.
The cab’s already at University Village. (Remember, back in college before you declared yourself a marketing major, in your sociology course the professor mentioned this neighborhood being appropriated by urban developers and university administrators, displacing the Black and brown people to expand their dorms and free up commercial space for tapas lovers and upscale whiskey drinkers and this racket was called g████████████n—Oh shoot, don’t say that word, it’s subscriber poison, it’s a sure way to be labeled the “woke” blogger, followers don’t want to hear that, nor does America. So, hush hush, keep the politics to yourself.)
On your phone, more dead ends: a patio with nine-dollar margarita pitchers; an all-night Polish hotdog stand; a birrieria? Oh, what’s that?
♦ AI overview: Birria is a popular Mexican dish, typically a slow-cooked stew of meat, especially goat, braised in a flavorful broth made with chili peppers, spices
—goat meat, WTF? It’s hopeless, utterly hopeless, and the cab driver isn’t helping by attempting to break the land speed record. You look up from your iPhone 14 Pro Max and the structures blur past you, the streetlamps streak across the windows from the lightning speed in which the cab’s moving. The numbers on the taximeter are rolling rolling rolling. You may as well be riding a missile straight to Pilsen. Ahhhhhh hooooooo!
You glance at the driver for the first time. Paint brush moustache, snubby nose, corrugated forehead. He’s wearing one of those old timey newsboy caps and looks like a guy that knows a thing or two about craft beer, so you ask him, Hey, where do you kick back on your down time? to which the cabbie turns and leans his arm on the passenger headrest and responds:
OyeChicoPeroTuNoSabeDondeQuiereIrYMeTraeDandoVueltaYVuelta¿QuePiensaQueAndaEnLaGuaguaTurista?
Obviously, you don’t get any of that—no one could—and you want to ask him to repeat all of it so Google Translate can work its magic, but you don’t want him to take his eye of the road again, so instead you nod your head and say, Oh, that sounds lovely, amigo.
On 18th street he turns again and pulls over on Morgan Street. You hand him your platinum AMEX, but he waves it away and taps on the taped handwritten in Sharpie sign that says, CASH ONLY. You pull out your emergency fifty hidden in the recesses of your wallet and step outside while he breaks change but instead he tells you, Okey, gringo. Bai bai, and he takes off, leaving you coughing amid the tailpipe smoke. At least you’re in Pilsen now and you’ll just have to find a place on foot. You pass:
– a casual pizza, wings, and beer joint
(Too casual.)
– a six-table restaurant that sells only pork and chicken tamales
(Not trying to load up carbs tonight.)
– a tequila and taco bar with giant sugar skulls etched on the windows
(Just like Coco! But it’s not quite Halloween, eh?)
– a Oaxacan mole and banana leaf tamale restaurant
(How many different types of tamales do people need?)
There’s a red storefront in the distance with cars pulling up into the fire lane. Lots of them double parked. This has got to be it! But the closer you get, the more the rusted fire escape under the entrance and the retractable iron gates on its windows and the yellowed sign that reads EL TREBOL LIQUORS—LOW PRICES convince you of it being another dud. Fine, at least walk in and ask for directions.
Inside, White Sox and Corona Extra neons hum. Industrial coolers full of thirty packs of Nattys, Ice House, and Old Style line the walls. Pork cracklings and sunflower seed packets nest on wire basket displays. Smokes sit on the shelves behind the register. There is something awfully familiar about the place. Or, perhaps it’s just the typical liquor store, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see here, keep moving.
There is a short Latino man in a mesh trucker hat working the register nonplussed by snaking line of cheap beer enthusiasts creeping their way to the counter. The bustle inside resembles a Wall Street trading floor. Folks in the hood sure need their booze tonight!
You wait your turn and spot two men casually move past a tower of stacked Modelo cases into a doorway off limits to customers. Another man walks in. A different man walks out. Two in. One out. Two out. One in. The men shuffle about like cards in a deck. All of them are uncanny in their indiscrete similarities: Brown skin, middle-aged, Latinos wearing Obama-type jeans, loose fitting shirts with stitched names and phone numbers on them and not in some ironic Gen Z thrift fashion type way. Those might be their actual names and numbers.
A dim and amber hue emanates from the room and you step out of line to get a better looker. A murmur of music and chattiness rises to your attention, one you hadn’t noticed before, washing in and rolling into your ears like waves. Curiosity beckons and now you’re determined to peek inside, you pull out your phone, open the camera app, and are about to hit that red record button…
Here, blogger, trendsetter, content creator, is where I tell you: Halt. Turn back. You Shall Not Pass! and in the process drawing attention to myself.
You may have questions like: Whose voice is this, if not mine? Who are you? Who is this intrusive narrator full of injunctives? You see, I am not your inner voice, your subconscious, or some second-person narrator. I am here to stop you, the last line of defense, guardian of the cantina. Yes, maybe I have broken the fourth wall but only to stop you.
Stop me from what? you might ask.
You’ve stumbled into a place you shouldn’t have. A home to locals (like me). A locale with unspoken codes and patrons unwilling to acquaint outsiders to them. Check the entrance doors, the exterior, there isn’t a placard, a signpost, or even a gesture to the existence of any other goods or services beyond the cerveza and chicharrones displayed in front. Why do you think that is?
Look around for the working hours? Did you see them on Google? None are advertised. The establishment opens and closes at will, when it wants, being as unaccommodating to people with itineraries as it can be. Its livelihood is sustained by the local few; it is all it needs for survival. It doesn’t promote to the masses because once inside it’ll be difficult for bloggers not to plaster their findings on their socials, all the platforms, and announce their discovery like a feather in their cap, a hipster badge of cool before cool, and in the process disrupting this haven for many of us.
But since I see you’re already tuning me out and stepping inside, what can I do but show you the right way of engaging this place, our space?
When you make a move to the door, the clerk punching numbers on the register will stare at the brushed suede of the Ferragamo penny loafers on your feet (or the shimmer of the luxury logo on your clutch), certainly he’s clocked you enough to ask, Hey, can I help you?
Tell him you’re getting a drink by saying, una cerveza, and point to the back. He might escort you there depending on the inflection and pronunciation of your Spanish.
Once inside, put the phone away (unless you want to get mean mugged by the clientele—more on them later) and sit at the bar. The old register from the 1960s, the room’s walls and the canopy over the back bar lined with wood planks, all look familiar. By now you may’ve realized this was the bar used in the Death Wish remake. Then again, you may not be into Bruce Willis flicks or films featuring white middle-class vigilantes (it’s obvious who the bad guys are in those).
Keep from staring at others and order a shot. Ask for Cien Años or Tres Generaciones. Not Jose Cuervo. Not Pah-troun. Pretend you know decent tequilas. The bartender won’t speak English (to you, yet), but he’ll reach for the reposado and a shot glass and pour to its brim. Forego the whole lime-and-salt-on-the-crook-of-the-backhand ritual, this isn’t Federales at Fulton or Moe’s Cantina on River North: No one does that here. (Also, gross.) Don’t fluster the bartender with nonsense. Instead tell him, Y una Vicky tambien, or, una Pacifico, por favor. He’ll reach into the coolers behind him and titter at your broken Spanish (without you noticing), and when he turns to hand you the beer he’ll hand it to you straight-faced. Say, Gracias, compa.
Ask him if he’ll take a shot. He won’t (right now), but your gesture will be appreciated and will go a long way to ease the sternness off his face. Lift the shot to your chin and let the amber drops trickle down your fingers. Now chase it with the Victoria or Pacifico.
Refreshing, right? It’s a nice way to cleanse the palette, too; some sitting here think it’ll even cleanse a bad day.
You’re doing well, showing you’re no narc. Sip on your beer more; it’s important you do because notice there isn’t central air, only fans scattered about. The cold cerveza will undo the heat of the spirit sinking in your belly. Hang your blazer on the hooks under the bar’s lip. (No one is thieving here.) Relax, as if you’ve had a busy day at the office and don’t mind the bar counter’s scuffs and scratches because who cares, you’re not eating off it.
Once settled, you’ll draw less attention to yourself though you look nothing like the forty-, fifty-, or sixty-year-olds in the barroom: the plumbers, landscapers, mechanics, and construction workers that landed here after a day of manually laboring. You can tell by the tar on their steel-toed boots, the dirt under their fingernails. Some are alcoholics with predispositions, learned paternal behaviors, coping mechanisms for their marital troubles, surviving the world of minimum wage, the increased hustle and diminished socialization after moving here (we’re back to those sociology courses: Remember Durkheim’s thoughts on work and isolation? That’s how I clocked you, we were in that class together… but I forget you’re a blogger now and don’t want to hear about anomie and all that Marxist college nonsense). Whatever you do, don’t ask them about work. They’ll really hate you if you do.
Depending on the resilience of your bladder, at some point you’ll need to seek out the restroom. There are three doors behind you. If you watched Death Wish, then you’re wondering which of those leads to the repository of stolen goods where Willis shoots up the bartender and the perp’s right-hand man. Don’t ask the patrons. They won’t be happy their haven was fictionalized as thug headquarter central. The owners, well they don’t advertise the place as a space from a Hollywood flick. That says a lot.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the restroom. Just choose one that’s empty and on the way out, check out the old jukebox opposite the sink. Browse the catalog and delight in the whir of the plastic carousel’s gears, the CD covers slapping one after the other. You won’t recognize any of the albums: They’re all Mexican oldies—ranchera, norteñas, 70s and 80s baladas. No Vampire Weekend, The Strokes, or Imagine Dragons here. This music is hardly ever on the radio now: The songbook of my abuelos, my tias, a throwback to days in el rancho. Music connected to the agrarian life of my grandparents that was destroyed by NAFTA and forced mi Apa to immigrate. Today, Mexico has moved on from that way of life; through these oldies, we relive, we remember.
Play something; you must if you wish to stay. Here’s a pro tip to choosing Mexican music: The artist’s attire on the album cover signals the genre. Long sleeves, slacks, or casualwear: Ballads. Cowboy hats, boots, or ranch hand aesthetic: Norteño. If you see a broad sombrero, that’s the easiest: It’s ranchera.
A suggestion: Find Juan Gabriel. He wrote at least a thousand songs and sung over multiple genres in his lifetime so you’ll find him in any Mexican jukebox. When you play him, you’ll be amazed by the men here, often characterized as conservative machistas, and how they delight in the songs of a gay mariachi singer.
If you can’t decide on a song, choose “Inocente Pobre Amigo.” If you can’t understand the lyrics because they’re in Spanish—first, why don’t you know Spanish?—just know that the lyrics are a story: The narrator is preemptively ending a relationship, he knows his partner is cheating on him (and with whom), and he is giving his blessing. It’s not a song of resignation but of relief and pity for the new partner. The song alternates between a fast and slow tempo, and in the slower parts Gabriel’s voice sounds like it’s intimating rather than singing. The patrons will like this, and it won’t be long before one of them bellows, Aaaaaaayyyyyyyyy Yayay, during this interlude and give his Modelo a good chug. If it’s me I’ll come over and say, Buena rola, buy you a shot and maybe even ask if you’ve an ounce of Mexican blood in you. You can probably tell why I’m drinking here if that’s the song that hits home. But don’t worry, I won’t linger. I’ll be back to my table in the corner.
If you stay and play more songs, eventually all patrons will forget you; you’ll recede to the background like the framed Chivas jersey on the wall or the broken linoleum under your feet. No one will mind you if you put away the phone away, flip through the jukebox’s discs, and sink down your tequila. You might even find that by returning here to imbibe the bar’s liquor and keeping the jukebox thumping you’re actually staving away the rapidly encroaching city that’s so hellbent on consuming all of us in one gulp.
Hector Dominguez teaches creative writing and English at the University of North Texas where he is currently a doctoral candidate. His essays and short fiction are forthcoming in New Letters and Chiricú Journal, and he is working on a historical novel that follows the Yucatec Mayans living along the Tren Maya route. When not teaching or writing, he wanders the national parks and forests of the Southwest, straying away from the concrete sprawl that engulfs his home in Dallas.