"Yessir, Bailey's with whipped cream on top," Mac insists.

Then he's off and running, racing through Chicago with me at his side, making the scene come alive. I imagine us now: two best friends in a fire-red Ferrari with matching Ray-Bans and blazers, sideburns flapping in the breeze as we barrel down Lake Shore Drive seeking to suck every ounce of air out of the Windy City. Mac says we'll cruise Lake Shore, past the awe-inspiring skyline, all the way down to Navy Pier, where the museums are strung out like pearls on a necklace.

"The Field Museum and the Museum of Science and Industry, that's sweet," he says. "Like being in a computer, but being inside the computer with all of the information right there. You can walk Lake Shore Drive. But you're going for a nice little boat ride over by Navy Pier."

His voice is low, smoky, cool. It draws me in like great music, especially when he manages to insert my name into practically every sentence. "I'm not a club guy, Mark," he says. "I'm a wine, dine, five-star restaurant/bar cat."

"So am I, Bernie, but it's a bit too early to get into serious wining and dining," I say. "First, what about lunch?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "The John Hancock Building. The Signature Room."
Having seen the city's architectural wonders from sea level, he says we'll be understandably famished and seeking the highest heights. I envision the two of us stepping into the John Hancock elevator and soaring 95 stories skyward until our ears are popping.

"They've got nice entertainment, nice jazz, and everything going on," he says of the Signature Room. "You see all the structure of Chicago, all the sweet buildings, the lake."