We lingered amid the other junky but endearing sculptures dotting the now destitute plaza (a few empty storefronts join discount and dollar stores). Several artworks have been worn down by the elements, but at one time, the plaza had the look of Rube Goldberg gone mad, thanks to mall owner David Bermant’s eccentric taste. A businessman and art collector, Bermant furnished the plaza with art including the since torn-down 1982 Big Bil-Bored, which resembled a giant porkchop breaded with tin cans, and the still-viewable The Kettle Head Choir, a succession of tin faces spinning around on a contraption resembling an old sewing machine.

Next, we checked out Berwyn’s second claim to fame (and with no more Spindle, soon to be its first): legions of bungalow and historic houses. We headed north to Berwyn Historical Society (1241 Oak Park Ave, accessible by Pace 311)—best used to dredge up facts on the housing stock—and spoke with Ralph Pugh, curator of the collections. He gave us an overview of the city’s history. Celebrating its centennial this year, Berwyn was settled by upper-middle-class Anglos who lived much like their neighbors in the northern suburbs: The Women’s Christian Temperance Union banned saloons while the railway helped the area burgeon into a commuter city full of high-pitched Victorian roofs. After World War I, Berwyn formed its distinctive personality when blue-collar professionals began migrating westward. It soon became a popular spot for Czechs moving from Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood. Claiming their own slice of lawn, they used their wherewithal to build cozy—now historic—bungalows.

Driving south on Oak Park Avenue, we swung a right on Riverside Drive. Several blocks are lined with “superbungalows,” (pictured) gorgeous, large versions of the traditionally squat abodes. Next, we drove south and west onto Windsor Avenue, up and down the blocks of the original settlement, viewing neat grids of brightly rehabbed Victorians and linear Prairie-style houses.

Craving Czech food, we stopped at a dour 1960s restaurant called Czech Plaza (7016 Cermak Rd). Everything on the menu is light brown with a greasy shine, and all the dishes we tried fit on a scale between two fairly bland extremes: slightly bitter like horseradish and a tad meaty like liver. Very, very Czech.

Extremely sated, we headed to a dive bar called George’s Tavern (6741 Stanley Ave) to top off our meal the old-fashioned way—with a beer and a shot. Talk ensued with a friendly Vietnam vet named Clem, and along with the rest of the bar, we called out the answers to Wheel of Fortune on the television above. The bartender joined us for a shot and then took a mere $6 for our four drinks, which were on the pricey side of the mostly dollar-a-drink offerings.

For entertainment, we hit the lively, local Cigars and Stripes (6715 W Ogden Ave). Knowing full well that we were early for its nightly 10pm offerings—8mm horror flicks or campy live comedy—we weren’t sure what would await us . The bar (cigars in front, booze and a small stage in back), likely suffering from the smoking ban, had a few regulars. We chatted easily with the bartenders. They’re funny and kooky; instead of television sports, they slid in a videotape for us. Frankenhooker. It was good. Really. And, in lieu of the Spindle, it gave us what we’ve been searching for: the kitschy Berwyn we’d come to expect.