Credit: Jim Newberry


1424 W. Devon

Richard M.’s left office and Richard J.’s long gone, but nostalgists can take comfort beneath the benevolent face of the latter at the north-side old-man joint Cunneen’s, where a Daley Sr. clock lords over the bar. Reminisce about Daleys pere et fils over a mug of Berghoff and a game of pool, or sit at one of the lovely wooden tables that look out over Devon. But whatever you do, keep it down. This is one bar where you never raise your voice—and where, admittedly, nobody would be worse off if the music (vinyl that’s hand-picked by the barkeeps and consistently excellent) was a little louder. The bartenders here don’t seem to feel compelled to be overly solicitous to folks under, say, 45—and I should add that my friends and I are a pretty sedate crowd, all told—but the gruffness doesn’t detract from the charm. In fact, it’s part of it. Cunneen’s, way too hip to be your grandfather’s bar, is maybe your eccentric great-uncle’s—not the one who has (like certain ex-mayors) been featured in the New Yorker, perhaps, but the one who clips and shares its cartoons, which are, charmingly, on rotating display in Cunneen’s bathrooms. —Sam Worley