The Handfelt Happy Hour: Prodigious Father/Son Weekend Compared to Both WWII and Patrick Swayze's Career in Size and Scope

"I think I'm gonna get the hot dog with the goat cheese."

Bernie was confident in his selection.

"Are you sure? You like goat cheese?"

I was dubious. I wanted to be sure.

"That's the white one, right?"

There are many white cheeses.

"Well, yes, it's white."

"Well, that's what I'm getting then."

And so began our Father-Son Epic Sports Weekend 2011. (Trademarked until I think of something more clever...Daddy Would You Like Some Sausage Weekend is on standby.)

Actually it had begun a few hours prior, when Cory and Bernie pulled an April Fools' joke that would be chronicled in children's history books, were I not such an easy mark to begin with. You see, this weekend had been planned for months. As Bernie's Christmas present, Cory and I had given him the supreme gift of our company, along with attendance at consecutive Cubs, Bulls and Blackhawks games, respectively. The Cubs being of particular interest since it was Opening Day, and they were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates, who inexplicably remain Cory's favorite team. And along with these competitive sporting events, we would be dining at some of Chicago's finest dive restaurants, as featured on the Brigette Nielsen's show, Diners, Drive-in's and Dives.

Given that backstory, you can imagine my horror when Cory knocked on the door Friday morning (Day 1) without Bernie, claiming that he was back at the hotel, sticken with a severe stomach bug that would cripple even the tannest American Gladiator. Clad in only a towel and a shred of dignity, I quickly dressed, worrying that weekend was off to a ominous start already. Given Bernie's history of bowel and stomach related ailments, I certainly had no reason to doubt the validity of Cory's tale of woe. As we walked over to the hotel, I peppered Cory with a plethora of questions, and even resorted to waterboarding him to make sure he wasn't withholding any information.

We got back to the hotel, er motel, and through the window, I could see Bernie, lying on the bed, covers drawn up to his chin, looking like he was waiting on the sweet release of the Grim Reaper to put him out of his misery. In classic Cory fashion, he couldn't get the key to work, so he had to knock on the door. Dad finally stumbled out of bed, his bones creaking in the process, to open the door, before hurriedly returning to his bed, throwing in a few groans worthy of a Lifetime movie (think Corbin Bernsen) on his way back.

Concerned only about his health, as any good son would be, and not merely the prospect of having this meticulously planned weekend ruined, I asked him all the appropriate questions; "You think you'll be ok?", "Are you pooping alot?", etc etc. Finally, when I appeared to be at my wits end, my father leaped from the bed with an energy unseen since the late 80's (literally) and shouted "April Fools sucka!"

Cory laughed. That son of a b. I openly weeped on the outside, but let out a huge sigh of relief on the inside. At least we could still eat at Smoque and XOCO, allegedly ill parents be damned.

And so it began.

I can't imagine it's often that the Cubs/Bulls/Blackhawks all play at home on the same weekend, and even if they do, why would you ruin this special moment by telling me that?

What followed was a weekend of gluttony, male bonding and high fives not seen since Caligula was in office. Let's go to the videotape.

Friday: Pirates defeat Cubs, 6-3 in temperatures that would rightly anger a lifetime Eskimo. This makes Cory happy, as evidenced by his motorboating and oddly erotic laughter. Lunch was at Hot Doug's, which was deemed solid but not wholly spectacular, dampened by Bernie's mistaken affinity for goat cheese. Dinner was at Taste of Peru...again, dampened by a rogue accessory, this time cilantro (naturally).

Saturday: Lunch at Smoque BBQ. Let's just end it here. This is it. No really. I saw Jesus eating here in a corner booth, taking pictures of his ribs and proclaiming how he needed to blog about this before Moses (classic pretentious foodie) did so. Dinner at XOCO. In classic DWYLSS ('Daddy Would You Like Some Sausage') tradition, I ordered the best thing on the menu, creating food envy among the less handsome Handfelt men. That's not to say that they didn't enjoy theirs, but not as much as I would have liked them to. Dammit, this is Rick Bayless...you don't have to like him, but you respect him, much as you would a mustache! The Bulls defeated the Raptors that night 113-106. Our seats were in the 4th row, 2 rows above Scottie Pippen, clad in a velour purple blazer that I let him borrow. After the game, Cory and I enjoyed a few Schlitz bottles at The Wild Rover, gorging ourselves on microwave popcorn while being treated to a interpretive dance by the mildly obese and horribly intoxicated bartender. Good stuff.

Sunday: Breakfast at Paulines...classic rib sticker. Dinner at Peaquod's Pizza, which I will still knife fight anyone that says it isn't the best deep dish in the city. After that we head back to the United Center for the Blackhawks - Lighting game. Sure, we lost 2-0, but that's not to say it was all for naught. For one, our seats were actually in one of the luxury boxes. Free booze, food and more importantly...desert cart! Carrot cake, brownies, sugar cookies...are we at the Blackhawks game or Willy Wonka's Chocolate (Cheesecake) Factory? Well, I don't see Gene Wilder, so it must be the Blackhawks game, but I digress. And sure, this can be said about most sports, but hockey is so much cooler in person. Lots of loud white people, cheering on guys whose names seem to be missing a few key vowels. I have to imagine the amount of chest hair in that place would rival the original Woodstock (guys and girls).

Monday: a quick breakfast at A Taste of Heaven...it was ok...although I would hope the Lord doesn't overcook His breakfast casserole next time. But Bernie was introduced to brioche toast, which may or may not have changed his life.

All in all it was a fairly remarkable weekend. There were hits and there were misses, but I'm seasoned (with thyme) enough to know that asking for Chicago sports teams to come through in the clutch every time is an exercise in futility. The important part was the time we got to spend together, sharing laughs (braces!), craft beers, BBQ meats and portly waitresses' phone numbers. Ok, well Cory hasn't shared that yet, but I know he's got it in his phone somewhere. Sweet Caroline...