Today's wine-swilling art patrons would hardly recognize the River North of Rossi's original days: It was seedy, grimy and industrial, butting right up against the filth of the Chicago River's north branch. But while the neighborhood changed, Rossi's remains the same; slide onto a seat at this shack of a joint and you'll taste the grit of a Chicago that once was, slopped down at the feet of Marina City.

The signs duct-taped to the door are a clear indication of what's to come. Beyond the creaky screen door, a half-moon bar surrounded by stools serves late-lunchers and career drinkers, some of whom while away their boredom with the three TVs, internet jukebox and darts. The late afternoon brings the big-money execs who want to "slum it" for a short while before taking the train home to the kids.

The walls are covered with old pennants, beer promotion paraphernalia, and the fluorescent light of a beer cooler shows the way to the "gentleman's" room. The plastic bag jammed into the urinal lets you know in no uncertain terms that there are certain things here which will always be out of order.

Friendly but keeping a distance, the matronly barkeep makes small talk and swaps memories with the regulars. It's not uncommon for the bartender to leave the bar unmanned for ten minutes so she can get a sandwich. Want a drink? You gotta wait. Deal with it.

And that's what you learn to love about a joint like Rossi's. It's one of the last neighborhood bars in a part of the city that rejects anything lacking corporate sponsorship. It's wooden, dirty, disheveled, kindly and old, like a retired alcoholic neighbor. "A bartender is just a pharmacist with a limited inventory," reads a sign under the bar, but you quickly get the feeling that only one medication is needed: plain ol' booze.

Centerstage Reviewer: Karl Klockars