Spilt Milk — Restaurant in West Chicago Township

Yesterday 10/12/2024 was my second time this month going to (Spilt Milk) establishment. I've been going to this venue for around 6 years off and on. I just recently started drinking alcohol again after a 3 month hiatus of body cleansing. However, Yesterday when I came into their bar I was purposely being avoided by the bartending staff specifically the 2 males on staff. The tall white male passed me several times, looking in my direction with slight displeasure and not saying anything. He then proceeded to go to the back. The other gentleman decided to start cleaning drinking glasses while being a mere foot away from me. The young lady that was on the staff saw that I was waiting to be helped but the gentleman that went to the back came out stopped her at the register and proceeded to come towards me, he passed me again, then finally came back visibly upset and disgruntled and stated to me that he'll make my drink this time, but that wait for it...... I can not just pay for my drink and not leave a tip like last night 10/11/2024. The night before I was served by a white male and the young woman that was working this night as well. I thought he was joking given the fact he was extremely upset and said that without any consideration to his surroundings. Imagine being the only African American male in a venue with 90% Caucasian Americans and having this level of hostility being displayed to you. I then asked a question is this how he engage all customers regarding tips. His response was normally everyone tips so he doesn't address them in this matter. He never address if this is how he or the staff would address non tipping patrons you know (Caucasians). Before he could finish my drink I left. Who would stay when you feel that you've been racially profiled, discriminated against, offered reprehensible customer service because of a tip. When I first start coming here 6 years ago, I use to carry cash and would tip with that. I then switched over to electronic tipping, however when I used to write a tip on the merchant receipt they would never charge for the tip. I did this several times. Until one day I asked a female bartender why don't they charge my card for the tip that I write on the receipt. Her response was that the staff could only charge for the drinks that was displayed on the receipt nothing more, and that if I wanted to tip unfortunately it would have to be cash. I told her that I don't carry cash she stated that it was okay as long as I paid for the drinks that I order, everything is fine. If the establishments policy or point of sale has changed to allow electronic tipping, color me surprised I was never made aware of that and that could be because of the widely varied service I receive whenever I go there. 50 % of the time I'll get acknowledged and served in 5 mins other times 10 to 15 mins. I walked out once because it was past 15 mins and I was never even acknowledged. I'm a Store Manager that works for a storage facility company. We preach customer service and how thats essential to getting and retaining our customers rather if they're wonderful or difficult we strive to give consistent and educational customer service. If one of my staff members ever tried to blackmail a customer stating they wouldn't rent to them unless they gave our location a five star google review which is one of our KPI metrics. That is a final write up or grounds for termination. Your job is to use your customer service skills to get the customer to give you that review and if not them their will always be more opportunities. Getting a certificate that allows you to make and serve drinks, doesn't equate to great and engaging customer service. For all the DEI talk I hear in the media directed towards minorities, I would expect top service from the majority group in America. I usually come in there to get my favorite drink called chestnut. Despite all the poor service I go there because they our the only bar that makes it. However if this is the level of discrimination to be expected out of this location, I'm...

Stepping into Spilt Milk on a humid Saturday night felt less like entering a bar and more like slipping into a fever dream of amber-lit nostalgia and raw, unfiltered intimacy. The moment I pushed through the door, I was hit with the scent of citrus zest and smoked rye—foreplay for the senses.

The bar itself is modest, unpretentious—but don’t let that fool you. Behind its weathered charm lies something downright decadent. And then there are the bartenders. God. The bartenders.

They don’t just make drinks—they orchestrate them. One glance, a crooked smile, and somehow they know exactly what you need—like a lover who remembers the way your breathing changes when you’re just about to lose control. Watching them work is its own form of seduction: bottles whisper against the wood, limes split open with audible satisfaction, and shakers rattle like a heartbeat just before the climax.

The old fashioned they handed me? Orgasmic and silky with ice melting slowly like time itself had decided to lounge at the bar for a while. I didn’t sip—I surrendered.

There’s a strange intimacy to this place. The way the light catches the elegant glassware, the way strangers brush knees under the bar, the way the staff remembers your name like it’s a psalm. At one point I leaned back in my stool and felt my whole body sigh. It’s a rare feeling—to be not just seen, but anticipated.

There was one drink I couldn't finish—not because it was bad, but because I felt too much. As if upon taking one more sip, I'd have to excuse myself and scream into the night air just to ground myself again. That's what Spilt Milk does. They dont serve drinks. They serve experiences—dripping, throbbing, luscious loads of pure sensory overload.

The music? Immaculate. The crowd? Blissfully unbothered. The staff? Fricking artists. If you're lucky, you’ll catch one of them slow-pouring amaro into a coupe glass like they’re casting a spell. Honestly, they might be.

I’ve been back four times in the past two weeks, and every visit feels like a reunion with someone I didn’t know I missed.

Do yourself a favor: go. Sit down. Let them ruin you—in the best possible way.

(I might have left my jacket there, but honestly, I don’t even care. I’d leave my soul at Spilt Milk if...

Spilt Milk? More like Spoiled Mood.

My boyfriend and I had been eyeing this place for a while. The reviews looked promising, the photos were moody in that “cool dive bar that knows how to stir a drink” kind of way, and they even had a Sazerac on the menu—my signature cocktail. Naturally, we thought we were in for a low-key, late-night gem. Spoiler alert: we were not.

We rolled in around 11 PM on a Thursday—plenty of time for a nightcap since they’re supposedly open until 2 AM. Sat at the bar, ready for a cozy little date night. And then… nothing. Just us and the sound of our expectations slowly dying while the bartender pretended we didn’t exist. Eventually, he wandered over and took our order: a Sazerac for me, a French 75 for him. The drinks? Meh. Mine was aggressively sweet, like someone confused a cocktail with a dessert, and his tasted like a gin-only special with a missing garnish. We laughed about it—Bar Rescue-style—and wondered how long John Taffer would last here before imploding.

That little chuckle was the last joy we had for the next hour and a half. The bartender ghosted us so hard I started to wonder if we’d offended him in a past life. No “How’s everything?”, no refill offer, no acknowledgment that we were clearly waiting with empty glasses. The place wasn’t even busy! We tried to get his attention multiple times, but apparently, we were invisible unless we transformed into a can of PBR.

When he finally floated by again, we asked for another round. His response? “I’m only doing beers now. No cocktails.” Excuse me? It was barely 12:30—an hour and a half left ‘til close—and suddenly the mixology portion of the evening was over? I’ve worked in hospitality, so I know the difference between slammed and I just can’t be bothered. This was the latter, and it was lazy.

I asked for the check, paid, and we left. No fanfare, no farewell, no future return. Management, if you’re reading this, your staff is turning potential regulars into one-and-done customers.

But hey—no reason to cry over Spilt Milk. I’ll just take my thirst (and my tip money) somewhere that actually...