Vanishing Chicago: The Lincoln Restaurant

I was a sickly kid.

I spent much of much of my childhood in and out of hospitals with various ailments: Chronic tonsilitis, eventually leading to a tonsilectomy; a kidney infection that landed me in hospital for nearly three weeks; a viral infection that caused me to have internal bleeding and stuck me in St. Elizabeth's Hospital (the same institution where I was born) on New Year's Eve (grape juice at midnight, yum!); persistent migraines; a broken right wrist and a 2" gash in my left foot, necessitating stitches and walking with crutches for two weeks.

As a result of these illnesses and injuries, I spent a lot of time in my family doctor's office, which was in a small professional building at the corner of Lincoln Avenue and Irving Park Road.

My family doctor was a real-life version of Marcus Welby--a kindly, silver-haired man went the extra mile for his patients and always visited me in the hospital, even though the doctors there were taking good care of me. (We even shared the same birthday--May 4.) When Mom and I went to visit him, I might have been scared of what might be wrong with me, but I was never scared of him.

Even so, his office was nowhere near where we lived, and sometimes the appointments were late in the day (after I'd finished school and/or Mom had gotten home from her shift at the plastics factory). That meant either waiting until we got home from the doctor's office to eat dinner--which, given that we did not have a car and would have to submit ourselves to the none-too-tender mercies of the CTA, could be eight or nine o'clock--or we could walk around the corner from the doctor's office and go to the Lincoln for dinner.

The Lincoln Restaurant, like so many places and things in our city (streets, neighborhoods, parks, etc.), bears the name and likeness of the 16th President of the United States, and the interior of the restaurant was decked out in an appropriate Civil War theme. The food, though, was standard diner fare. I can't remember how many times Mom and I ate there. It might have been just once; it might have been a hundred times. (Memory has a funny way of either creating reality that was not real or of obliterating reality that was.)

I know we went there at least the one time--I had the meatloaf sandwich, served open-faced with mashed potatoes and gravy. And I know that meatloaf made me feel better, regardless of what was wrong with me that particular day. (Like I said, I was sick a lot, so it could have been any one of a dozen things.)

Flash forward a couple of decades or so. Both the original La Casa del Terror and its nearby successor lie within long walking distance of the Lincoln, so I would occasionally pop by and have dinner there. Did the meatloaf taste the same as what I remember from those sick days long ago? No. Nothing ever tastes that good, really. But was it good nonetheless? Yes, it was, especially since, as a now-all-grown-up person, I could have a Samuel Adams with it if I wanted to.

With the sweet, though, comes the bitter, like meetings and dinners best forgotten more for the circumstances surrounding them than for the venue or its food. I know. That's just how life is. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

Just as I didn't like this news: The Lincoln Restaurant is closing.

Details are vague, seemingly because the owner (who is apparently retiring) doesn't want to talk about it. His right, of course, and I'll not intrude any more than to say this:

I'll miss you, Lincoln Restaurant. Thanks for the meatloaf.