A slinger at The Diner: Treasure or trouble?

On the wall is a sign that serves as part advertisement, part warning. Simple and to the point. It reads: “Slinger only $7.50. Don’t ask, just eat.”

That in itself is sure to make people curious enough to order it. But in case you’re not up for surprises when deciding on grub at The Diner near the corner of Ashland and Irving Park, I’ll fill you in on the mystery. The slinger, in all its splendor and glory, is two orders of hash browns, topped with two eggs over easy. Grilled onions. Then two cheeseburger patties. Then chili. Not a couple spoonfuls. More like a couple bowls worth, steaming with all kinds of beans and beef and brown goodness. Out of a ladel so big it would make an army cook proud.

It is, dare I say, the specialty here, at the restaurant that time forgot. Walk into The Diner, and it’s like walking back into the ’60s, when poodle skirts, crew-cuts and vanilla coke were the norm. There are 12 stools at the counter and, well, that’s it. If there’s not room for you or your group, you lean against the ledge behind the stools and wait your turn.

You order when the cooks look your way, and your meal is prepared right there in front of you. Always in a state of motion, they pull bacon from the drawer, spread the hash browns on the grill, even wash dishes when the need arises. Everything is timed perfectly to arrive on your plate at the same time. The tiny TV blares in the corner, and old music sometimes seeps through from a record player in the back, as the outdated flip-page juke boxes haven’t worked as long as I can remember.

In the morning, it’s aging regulars. Neighborhood types who’ve been coming here for years, enjoying their fourth cup of coffee, glasses on the nose, thumbing the sports page or bitching about politics.

In the wee hours, though, it’s drunkards. Lots of 20- or 30-somethings, fresh from the bar, looking for the cure for the late-night hunger pains, smarting from being shot down by the blonde in the skirt but still able to laugh about the misfortune with their friends. It’s loud, it’s active. It’s time for a slinger.

Some order a burger with fries. Others an omelette, maybe pork chops, or pancakes. But anyone who knows The Diner is well aware the slinger is there, waiting, taunting, staring you in the face like a mountain to climb. A mountain of manly food that will put hair on your chest and make you beg for mercy the next morning. It doesn’t discriminate. It can come back to haunt anyone.

Kenny, one of the cooks, informs me they serve 50 or so slingers on an average Saturday night, maybe more after a weekend Cubs game. But few orders are placed before the bars close. This is not exactly a meal for the sober.

I ask him if women ever attempt to tame a slinger, and he quickly recalls a guy who placed an order for his girlfriend, thinking he was pulling a fast one on her. He weighed about twice what she did.

“He couldn’t finish his, but she polished hers off no problem,” says Kenny. “The joke was on him.”

He remembers another guy putting on a show one night, finishing four slingers. And he did it in a little more than five minutes.

“One after another, we had the plates lined up,” Kenny says. “I don’t think he even chewed. ... He would’ve ordered more, but the ATM was broke.”

Not long after that, Kenny says he saw the same guy on TV, telling a WGN reporter what it took to become the world’s fourth-ranked speed eater. “I thought, that’s the SOB that ate four slingers in here,” Kenny says. “I couldn’t believe it.”

Most people can’t fathom the record is four slingers — let alone in five minutes — and if you saw one just one, on a plate by itself, looking all intimidating, steaming with about a quart of chili spread over the top and causing bystanders to point and stare, you’d be right there with them. Kenny wouldn’t have believed it either had he not seen it with his own two eyes.

“There’s guys who want to try and break it though,” he adds. “Someone will probably do it too, just not in five minutes.”

About this time, I’m breathing deep and staring at the last bite of my slinger. I used to live two blocks away and have been to The Diner a fair amount, but it had been awhile since I ordered one. The last time, I recall, was when I was out late one night with a friend from college. He coated his with hot sauce. Then jumped on a flight to Florida that left a few hours later. I forgot to ask him whether there was extra turbulance on the way home.

After showing your cook a clean plate, you’re rewarded with a certificate of completion, signed and dated, with cartoons depicting a guy getting his heart checked by a doctor and a dog sitting nervously on the toilet.

I put down the last bite, thank Kenny and head to my car, knowing my stomach may soon be waving a white flag, asking what it did to deserve this.

Don’t ask, just eat.

Trent Modglin
Publisher
The Real Chicago
Trent@TheRealChicago.org

Click here for more Up Front