When I want a drink at the end of a long day, I'll always favor the old neighborhood pub over the of-the-moment cocktail bar. There are special-occasion places, sure, but I've never much wanted to go to a fancy place to have a drink. That may be because I don't consider myself to be a "girly" girl. Or it might be because I work with a bunch of male cooks who just want to guzzle beer and whiskey after a long day's work. Whatever the reason, I almost exclusively drink in dives.

The dive bar: It holds a big spot in my heart. And we all know why they are so appealing. Dive bars are where you go to cry into a beer after "it" ends. They're where you go after work smelling like onions and garlic, and you don't need to give a fuck so long as the place is clean enough and has booze and working bathrooms. There's just something about the edgy, primordial, rock 'n' roll nature of these kinds of establishments that speaks to us. And they aren't just for boozehounds and hipsters. Usually tucked into a neighborhood, they offer convenience and tranquility. Even if you don't frequent them, they're still a comfort to have around. They're the old house shoe and robe to your black dress and heels. And they're disappearing fast.

Four of Chicago's most iconic dives just shuttered or are for sale. One is The Mutiny, that heavy metal bar that smells of piss and puke where you drank out of Solo cups and watched shitty bands play over in the corner because there was no actual stage. Another is Johnny's Grill, a great, shitty diner where they kept the mayo industry alive, the crinkle-cut fries abounded, nothing was priced over $10, and you had to walk through the dry storage to get to the bathroom. New owners recently bought Marble, an awkward little Logan Square bar chock full of, you guessed it, marbles, where the mediocre food was more than made up for by the conversations you could find there. (They've kept the name for now, but that will change soon enough.) And back in January, we lost Holiday Bar & Grill, a personal favorite of mine not just for its klller patty melt and friendly clientele, but also because it was a stalwart amongst the bright, shiny, short-lived establishments surrounding it on Restaurant Row.

Wu-Tang said it best with "Cash Rules Everything Around Me," and that includes the precious land and buildings where these lovable hovels reside. I'm sitting in a dive right now. Outside, a parade of Lulu Lemon and Buick-sized strollers are passing by, and it makes me wonder how long this bar will survive. As if on cue, a family walks in, and when I look up, a young girl with a pink bow in her hair scowls at me. Her dad, dressed in a bomber jacket, explains that this is what "old bars used to look like." The girl rolls her eyes, the mom laughs, and they promptly leave.

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The bartender ignores them, as she should. I know her and her daughter. Every day they drive from south side Chicago over an hour to the middle of Pretention City to tend this bar. She's a hoot, a real personality, and if she doesn't already know you, she's going to. Which is to say, dives aren't just for the downtrodden chef or third-shifter. I helped cook a fancy dinner at the James Beard House one night with a former chef of mine, which was co-hosted by a heavy hitter in the wine world. After a 17-hour day we needed tequila and fast. We hopped in a cab and jumped out at the now-closed Mars Bar in NYC. Once bellied up, we toasted three insanely over-poured tequila shots and choked them down. We drank on filthy floors, surrounded by old punk graffiti on the walls —a chef instructor at the time (me), a Master Sommelier (with taste so fine he was one of the nine Master Sommeliers in the U.S. to pass on the first try), and a James Beard–nominated chef. Yet in that moment we were all the same, in need of a liquor injection after a long days work—just like everyone else surrounding us.

Another New York City dive recently closed its doors: Milady's in Soho, an amazing, off the beaten path bar that despite it's small, dark entrance was very bright and airy and served up some great greasy chicken fingers as well as much needed reprieve from all the haughty stores around it. Another chapter closes.

If we love these divey places, then why do we collectively scatter when it comes to supporting them? Why aren't we fighting to keep them around? Where are the millionaire-billionaires that support the new establishments? Where's the Kickstarter for the old? So I ask of you: Support your local haunts. Belly up for whatever reason, chat up your neighbor, relax and be kind. You're in someone's home—while they can still pay the rent.

Maybe one day I'll walk into a shiny, empty bar and explain to my child that "society tried to fancy up having a drink and it made everyone uncomfortable. This is what is used to look like." We'll have a laugh and then head out for patty melts.

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This is The Spill, a series on Eat Like a Man where chefs, food writers, restaurateurs, policy makers—anyone who has something vital, incendiary, or earth-shattering (or just kind of amusing) to say about the food world today—can write what's on their mind. If you work in the food industry and are interested in writing for The Spill, please send your ideas to spill@esquire.com.

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