Poor Phil’s (March 2007 - reviewed by Gary Strokosch)
As you enter this local Oak Park institution, you are struck by how it is dominated by a large central bar, surrounded on 3 sides by small tables. Oak Park was “dry” for many years and when the policy was lifted, restaurants with bars had to serve food with their alcoholic drinks. This restaurant floor plan looks like serving food was an afterthought. The food is good and moderately priced. However, poor Phil has been trying to be known for seafood, though the marketing effort has apparently never gotten traction. A sign on the wall pleads, “Eat My Fish.” Peculiarly, there was a small American flag that decorates the center of each table without any obvious explanation for the single patriotic symbol.

On the night we dined, the clientele consisted of mostly loud young people and the noise level eventually began to interfere with our tympanic membrane function. Fortunately, Dave provided attentive service to our table and we were provided unlimited free popcorn, as is their policy for all patrons. Quieter digs are located in a small dining area across the hall from the main restaurant, where several booths and small tables are located.

Phil has been proud to be one of the first Oak Park restaurants to be smoke free, though smoking is allowed in one of two outside seating sections. A sign on the wall smugly states that the restaurant is a “Kick Ash Joint.”

Finally, poor Phil tenaciously clung to having one of the oddest men’s bathrooms in Oak Park. Specifically, there was no door on the men’s toilet stall for several years and, therefore, no privacy for sitting, standing, administering insulin or whatever else a man wants to do privately in the bathroom stall without other men looking on. Of course, a urinal was also available, though not as multifunctional as a stall. Alas, there is now a door on the stall.

Shanahan’s Creole Home Cooking (February 2007 - anonymous review)
“Toupouzian,” I enquired of my old friend ... I am speaking, of course, of Dr. Toupouzian, famed practitioner of the medical arts, explorer, amateur archeologist and world class gourmet whom I chanced to encounter during a recent visit to the Pleasure Room at the House of Felix ... “I was wondering ... in all your various dining adventures ... have you ever had the opportunity to enjoy the comestible experience at a quaint little spot in Forest Park variously known as La Maison de Bon-Bon and Shanahan’s?”

“What?!” Toupouzian exclaimed, abruptly shifting his pink and substantial bulk on the bench opposite (whether out of excitement or simply to allow for an extrusion of gas one could not be sure). “You are knowink of this place? You are eatink there ... at La Maison Shanahan’s?”

“Why, yes indeed,” I replied, delighted that Toupouzian should seem to be conferring approbation upon any restaurant experience of my own. “In fact, just the other night with four gentlemen friends ... members of my (ahem) Literary Salon ... actually, I thought I may have mentioned it to you in the past ... but, anyway, as I was saying ... once each month we gather to immerse ourselves in the ambience of a carefully selected ... ah ... ‘salle de cuisine’ if you receive my meaning ... therein to celebrate Literature, food, drink and the devoted attentions of delectable mademoiselles de serveuse.”

“Ah,” Topouzian smiled broadly, “This is very interestink ... for yes I am knowink this place very well. And you were likink the service?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, “I should have to say that the courtesy and ... how shall I put it ... the wit ... yes that’s the word ... the propensity for witty repartee exuded by the demoiselle in whose care we found ourselves was ... well, I should say, it was exquisite. She was so ... so ... witty ... (am I at a loss for words?) ... and ... er ... charming ... and lovely too, I should say ... in a fireplug sort of way. But you, Toupouzian ... you’ve dined there?”

“No, is not the case. Actually, no, I am not ever eatink there and am thinkink, no, I’m not eatink there never.”

“Why then,” I enquired, I suppose a little crestfallen, “How do you know the establishment?”

“Oh,” Toupouzian sighed in his self-satisfied, worldly way borne of a lifetime of accrued success, “Actually, is big, important customer to me.”

“Customer?” I asked, astonished.

“Yah ... New part of practice is liposuction. Is BIG these days (hah hah). But what to do with the blobber I am sockink out? Ah, as always, I have spectacular idea... Now I am sellink to La Maison. Is great for preparation of kind of food they are servink.”

“Ah,” said I, revelation flooding the inward cranial interstices ... “So that explains why the calamari and fries were of such a strange and mushy texture...”

Slainte (November 2006 - reviewed by Russell Fee)
The evening of November 8th was spent in grand fellowship at Slainte, an Irish pub on Madison Street in Forest Park. Slainte, meaning “To your health” in Irish, is a new pub in the area with a modern Irish flavor. The décor is new, decidedly masculine, and very high tech, with eight huge flat screen TVs making viewing from any corner of the pub a pleasing experience. Yet the pub is also retro, having two pool tables comfortably arranged off the back end of the bar. Smoking (cigarettes and cigars) is permitted, and because of an efficient exhaust and filter system, second-hand smoke is reduced to virtually zero. The bar is very well stocked and able to cater to our members’ varied tastes in drink, which run from single malt scotch, varietals, and manhattans, to cheap swill. The menu contains the standard pub grub with the obligatory clever, but ultimately droll names for common items. However, the food is unusually good, more than fairly priced, and presented by the chef who is a great bear of a man in a tee-shirt that blares, “EAT.” We did, and drank too, and somehow found time to discuss our book for the month.