You know a great bar when you're in one. If it's a dive, it's a Christ-this-place-is-a-dive dive. If it's an Irish pub, it's not an "Irish" pub. If it's a cocktail lounge, it's got some Tanqueray Ten and a bottle of rye somewhere. This story is about those places. One thing: We haven't patronized every bar in America, though we're working on it. For the parts of the country we've never had the honor of drinking in (Hoonah, Alaska, for instance), we asked our friends—the most knowledgeable and passionate of whom is Esquire drinks correspondent David Wondrich. Despite our connections, we've clearly shortchanged some great cities and have no doubt overlooked some great bars. Let us know what we've missed at esquire.com/bestbars. The crawl begins in the West and zigzags across the United States.

CHICAGO - Ted Allen

The Red Lion Pub
YOU'RE HAVING: A beer with the beans on toast.
To not mention Colin Cordwell, the co-owner and frequent bartender, would be to ignore this bar's best feature. He'll talk till he's forgotten you've ordered a beer. He'll talk till you've forgotten you've ordered a beer. And if the Lion were really about drinking, one of you might care. (2446 North Lincoln Avenue; 773-348-2695)

Bungalow
YOU'RE HAVING: A manhattan.
You'll never have to remind the bartenders what you are drinking. Ask mixologist Chad Johnson to make you the manhattan he perfected in Louisville. (1622 West Belmont Avenue; 773-244-0400)

The Matchbox
YOU'RE HAVING: A lemon drop.
Being in a triangular building, it should properly have been named the Matchbook. The original owner (he was off-the-boat Polish) had it right, though, in terms of scale, if not shape; there is as much room behind the bar as there is for the patrons on stools: about four feet. The Box's dedication to fresh, top-shelf cocktails is legend, from the house-infused vodkas to the twelve brands of gin to the row of ten shiny shakers beckoning from the bar top, the dregs of which are always left with the customer to top things off. (770 North Milwaukee Avenue; 312-666- 9292)

Hideout
YOU'RE HAVING: A whiskey sour.
If you think it's weird that the Meatpacking District in New York became trendy for three minutes, consider the Hideout, originally a third-shift bar for the garbage men and snowplow drivers who park their trucks directly across Wabansia Avenue. Surrounded by warehouses, it's now home to a percolating music scene with an alt-country bent—a sort of clubhouse for the Bloodshot Records label. (1354 West Wabansia Avenue; 773-227-4433)

Chipp Inn
YOU'RE HAVING: Honker's Ale.
Excepting that time each year when Kate Campion throws her annual adult spelling bee (named not for randy content but for the added challenge to literacy that alcohol represents), the Chipp Inn is not the sort of place that gets (or seeks) attention. Tucked in at the nondescript West Town corner of Greenview and Fry, it has no food, save chips and Slim Jims, although you can peruse the delivery menus if you like. It's got a barkeep, Joe, who has a passing resemblance to a young Mayor Daley, but he's probably tired of hearing that. If you buy a pack of cigs from Joe, he will unwrap it, flip the top open, and present them to you. This is a nice thing for Joe to do. (832 North Greenview Avenue; 312-421-9052)

Okay, may I please get this off my chest? Screw truffled popcorn.

I mean, seriously. I appreciate very much the idea of coming up with bar snacks more interesting than CornNuts, especially if I can be served my own private bowl instead of sharing one with beer drinkers who don't wash their hands in the john. But it is such a pretentious, played-out idea to take something homely (e.g., hot dogs, PB&J, grits) and tart it up with some precious ingredient—inevitably foie gras, truffle oil, or expensive mushrooms.

Instead, let's look at what the bar snack needs to accomplish. It must be salty and complimentary to adult beverages, thus making you desire more of them. It should be possessed of a fatty richness. And a bit of crunch is essential. At Outback Steakhouses across this great land, they serve Bloomin' Onions; well, those taste nice, but I want bite-sized nibblies to enhance swigs of Schlitz (okay, maybe Sam). At Cipriani Dolci in New York's Grand Central, they offer chicken croquettes—but I said bar snacks, guys, not high tea. At the hyperchic Supperclub in Rome, they serve straight-ahead crumbled Parmigiano-Reggiano on huge platters on the bar. This is actually very cool, and I recommend it.

But here's something you can put a little more of your own personal stamp on: fried olives. They're salty, rich, and redolent of herbal and grassy flavors that echo many of the notes in good beers, wines, mixers, and interesting gins. Get the unpitted kind if you can; they are fresher and more attractive. Buy them from the olive bar at your gourmet market (not, for God's sake, the tasteless and rubbery ones from jars and cans), and get several sizes and colors. Go with my recipe at right, or mix it up with the seasonings. You could even add a splash of truffle oil. But please don't.

1 lb mixed olives
1 tsp lemon zest
1 tbsp rosemary leaves
2 sprigs of fresh thyme
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes
medium garlic clove
3/4 cup goya olive oil
6 slices prosciutto
1/2 cup grated parmigiano-reggiano or pecorino romano
1 egg beaten lightly
1 cup fine bread crumbs with Italian seasonings.

Pit olives. Combine olives, lemon zest, rosemary, thyme, red pepper flakes, and garlic clove in container with cover. Add 1/2 cup olive oil. Stir. Cover. Refrigerate overnight, stirring occasionally.

Drain the olives. Finely chop the prosciutto and mix with the parmigiano or romano, and stuff it in the olives. Dip olives in egg, roll in bread crumbs.

Heat a saute pan over medium heat, add 1/4 cup olive oil to pan, and fry olives for 3 or 4 minutes on all sides til golden brown. Drain on a paper towel and serve warm.

By Ted Allen