We had a friend who used to quip that a steakhouse in Chicago called Biasetti’s was “a great place to fight with your wife.” We always thought this was a comedy gag, like “Galva, Illinois? Of course I know Galva, I get all my suits there!”
But after our friend died, we took his widow out for dinner. Somehow Biasetti’s came up—(perhaps it was impishly invoked)—and instantly, the widow exclaimed, “Oh my God! The fights Eddie and I used to have in there!”
A few years ago my wife and I discovered a great bar in Chicago, to which we might have returned many times. Except, the first night we walked in there, she opened the conversation by sharing a proposition that I immediately dubbed, “the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.” We sat there at the bar fighting—and, when the bartender came by, pretending not to be fighting—for two or three hours. We never went back, but if I ever know in advance that she and I need to throw down, I will know exactly where to take her. And she will know exactly why.
Anyway, when my pal Suki sent me this, I thoughtta that.
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