An Ode to McNally Robinson Polo Park

Oh, hi McNally.

... Remember when I learned all about steaming milk (the act, not the noun) while working as a barista at your restaurant and bakery?

And remember when I had to stare at my creative writing teacher’s picture on the wall all day because it was so near my view as a once-hostess?

Remember when my brother took a call from you and thought I was working at a tattoo parlour because of the name Prairie Ink (which I thought was cool, but decided I didn't want the pressure of reminding people to disinfect their piercings and whatnot)?

Remember when I got to listen to nice, lightly-amplified music while serving cute hippies?

Remember when I was working there and at The Sun and my coworkers would make a point to read my silly little stories?

Remember how cute I thought the story behind Holly McNally keeping her former flame's name in the brand was, until Wikipedia just told me it was because she couldn't afford to replace the signage at first? (It's still cute.)

Remember the tree erected in the restaurant?

Remember the staff book/meal discounts?

I do.

I remember it all well, and I will never forget one of my longest runs at any job (8 months — shut up, I’m commitment-phobe) and the place that helped earn me enough buck to move out into my first apartment.

What swell digs this place was, and what a great staff/atmosphere to boot.

May the best of this place trickle into Grant Park, and make it all the more swell.

P.s.: Sell my book one day.

RIP.