Bartending trends have turned back to the basic, but mixologist Jennifer Contraveos, is thinking spring. first prize in the Shake It Up Battle of the Mixologists March 6 at The Show in Las Vegas, an annual convention and trade show for the nightlife and hospitality industry. She scored a spot in the national competition to battle against 23 other bartenders by submitting her original drink recipe for the Citrine: English cucumber and tangerine segments muddled with hand-squeezed lime juice, a half ounce of Grand Marnier, and one ounce of Belvedere vodka shaken and served up with a candied orange zest garnish.

“You really have to put your heart and soul into a drink and make it with fresh ingredients,” she explains. It must be working: Contraveos, an assistant manager at River North's Graze, just took home

In the finals, Contraveos had to think on her feet Iron Chef-style to create an original concoction using a mystery ingredient—the thick Banana Rum Pineapple Jam.

“If I can use a jam, I can use anything,” Contraveos says. While the Banana Rum Pineapple Jam cocktail's not on the menu, you can try the dynamic, complex flavors of the Citrine ($10) on the the newly launched spring cocktail menu at Graze.

Editor's note: If you've been a fan of this blog and are wondering what happened, our dive bar blog is on indefinite hiatus.

What else do you want to see metromix blog about? Let us know at metromix@tribune.com.

Search Google news for 420 today and you'll find a bunch of articles on pot (and sailing).

Four twenty, of course, is slang for gettin' high. The term supposedly originated at a California high school where a group of students would meet at 4:20 p.m. every day "to study." (Well, that's what I would have told my parents.)

I had always thought 420 stood for the California penal code number for possession of marijuana. Until I clicked here.

A couple of questions:

Does this unofficial holiday count in countries like Great Britain, where they write the date with the day first (i.e., 20/4)?

And does anybody but patchouli-wearing granolas actually plan their day so they can smoke at 4:20 p.m.?

Some answers:

Yes. But is doesn't really count.

No. Just them. Though you've got to hand it to anyone that can smoke a lot of herb and keep track of time.

And here are two bars where you'll likely find 420 friends (and "Uncle John's Band" on the jukebox): Weeds and Town Hall Pub.

Today is Dyngus Day, and to explain what the heck that is, I asked Donald "Dandy Don" Hedeker, front man for Chicago's favorite polka rock band, The Polkaholics.

Don knows loads about polka and has introduced me to a bunch of cool Polish bars. He also helped me sell a bunch of my dive bar books by promoting them at his shows, and we've been shamelessly plugging each other ever since. Consider him the Bob Uecker to my Johnny Carson. Or something like that.

Here's the interview:

First off, what is a Polkaholic?

A Polkaholic is an escapee from the tired and dreary world of self-important indie rock. Polkaholism is the serious disease of having non-stop FUN! Symptoms include beer drinking, wearing Old Spice, sporting polyester clothes, having a desire for horn-rimmed glasses and eating lots of sausages.

No cure exists because the Polkaholic has no desire to be cured and return to the aforementioned dreary indie rock scene.

Okay. What is Dyngus Day?

From what I have learned, Dyngus Day is the day after Easter and celebrates the end of Lent--just like Fat Tuesday celebrates the day before Lent begins. Thus, it is the day that partying can begin again, having been nearly dead for many weeks. So it is like the Phoenix of Parties, rising up from the ashes to maintain itself, reclaiming its power and living again!!!

Or something like that.

Where can I go to party, and when I get there will I have to dump water on a woman then let her beat me with a switch?

These activities that you mention are all a part of the traditional antics that make Dyngus Day so special. Usually, one has to pay good money for such pleasures, but on Dyngus Day, they are free.

And so is the Polkaholics Dyngus Day show. That's right--FREE! We'll be playing at 8 p.m. at Stanley's Kitchen and Tap. The water dumping and switch beating could occur at any point, so be prepared!

Thanks, Don.

Readers, I have to point out that Don's enthusiasm is in no way faked. Offstage, he and his excellent band mates are actually the same exuberant, down-home, happy-go-lucky guys you see jamming on stage.

A couple of years ago, I went to their Christmas show at Lincoln Square Lanes. I was in a bathroom stall when the band came in the men's room to get dressed for the show. As they put on their ruffled shirts and white tuxedos, I overheard the guys discuss past shows.

What did they talk about? Their best sets? Scuffles with management? Equipment malfunctions?

Not exactly

One Polkaholic said, "Do you remember the sauerkraut we had at such-and-such hall?" And another said, "Oh, my god--that kraut was so good. But do you remember the kielbasa from that such-and-such show?"

"Oh, yeah," said another, and they gushed on about their favorite kielbasa for a good ten minutes. Absolutely amazing.

This week I had a hard decision to make: stay at my comfy, boring job or quit and face the unknown.

If I quit, my security would be gone. No more regular paychecks. No more health insurance. Nothing to get up for in the mornings.

But if I stayed, what would I have? More paper shuffling. More gray cube walls. More of the same.

There are loads of job out there, I told myself. Oh, yeah? And how many of them do I want? And how many responses did I get from the dozens of resumes I've sent out in the last year?

I was tense. I couldn't concentrate on my work. I needed, I needed...an early lunch. It was a beautiful day. Maybe some fresh air would clear my mind.

I picked up a pastrami on rye and a cup of soup from Uncle Abe's Deli then headed to Cal's Liquors to eat lunch and drink beer.

I arrived at Cal's just before noon, but the bar was closed. I sat down--right on the sidewalk--and started on lunch. As I slurped soup, a man approached and asked for change--32 cents, a strange amount. He wanted to buy something to eat, he said.

Now that I was leaving my job, I couldn't just throw money around. "Sorry--can't help you," I told the man, well aware of the quarters in my pocket. I offered him some crackers that came with the soup. He refused.

Soon after, the bar opened.

Cal's ain't a fancy joint. The walls are plastered with punk rock posters and old set lists from visiting bands. The bar smells of stale beer. So I was surprised when the bartender took time off from serving customers to call his broker. He bought stock in a company that makes bottled water. "Water is going to be more valuable than oil," he said.

Was the world trying to tell me something?

Across from me was a fish tank, and I watched some small fish feed. A larger fish lurked at the bottom, and every so often it would have a go at one of the small fish. But those small fish were quick, and they always escaped.

Who or what was waiting in the shadows to gobble me up? Would I be quick enough to get away?

This was getting depressing. I paid the bartender and left.

Outside, the streets and sidewalks were packed. With the warm weather, it seemed the city's population had suddenly tripled.

At Daley Plaza, parents watched as their kids slid down the front of the Picasso sculpture. The city's fountains were bubbling, and next to them pale legs stretched out in the sun. In the harbor, moorings bobbed in the waves, waiting for the bridges to rise and the boats to return from dry dock.

The city is waking up, I thought. Why would I want to return to work, to my air-conditioned nightmare, and miss it?

The next day, I handed in my notice.

After a hard day's work, nothing beats beer and borsch.

On Saturday I went to a self-service junkyard on North Avenue & Pulaski Road and spent the day battling stubborn bolts, dodging huge fork lifts and trying to keep flakes of falling rust out of my eyes.

The weather was nice, so I removed my jacket. Subsequently, my jacket was stolen.

Afterwards, I dragged my tired, greasy self to Sak's Ukrainian Village Restaurant & Lounge. It had been awhile, but I knew I could trust Sak's for some real rib-sticking sustenance.

I went with my friend Tom and we ate at the bar. We started with bread, then I moved to a bowl of beet-red borsch. For my main course, I devoured a big plate of bratwurst, served with tangy kraut and two manly scoops of mashed potatoes.

My meal plus Tom's soup and four beers cost about $20. Not bad, and there's more ways to save.

I drank here one night (about two years ago) with a Russian who loved heavy metal (and the bar's heavy metal jukebox). We drank anything they'd serve us, and the bartender bought us every third round. She said it was policy. I'm not sure if that's still the case, but it's worth looking into.

Two more things: If it's not yet closing time but the door is locked, try knocking. The bartender should buzz you in.

And if you do try the borsch, remember to order it with sour cream.

Ever been in a situation where you weren't sure if a guy was going to slug you or hug you?

Last night I stop by Christina's Place, walk to the only open spot on the bar and try to flag down the bartender for a beer--no luck. In front of me is a pile of one dollar bills that belong to a bear of a man to my left. He has short hair, thick arms, and small, slightly crossed eyes.

The bear turns to me and says, "Hey buddy, what are you doing here?"

I resist the urge to run.

"Just grabbing a beer," I tell him, trying to keep my voice from cracking. I reach out to grab his paw, bracing myself for a crushing handshake. But he plays nice--so far this bear ain't so bad.

I introduce myself as Jonathan.

"Nice to meet you, Joe," growls the beer, and within two minutes he's talking about his ex-wife, about how crazy she is. He introduces me to his friend, a Paul Bunyan-sized fellow who paints lines in parking lots for a living. It's for him they invented the phrase "barrel-chested."

The two walk off to talk privately for a minute, but through the din I can still hear them. One offers the other five bucks to knock someone out. A joke, I think.

I exchange wary looks with two guys to my right. They've been watching Bunyan and the bear drain beers all night. One of them advises me (and I'm not kiddding): "Don't make any sudden movements. If he starts swiping at you, play dead."

Fast forward an hour later, and I've laughing and drinking with the sweetest bear in the world. He married a woman with three cubs, he tells me. Raised them as his own. He adopted the cub of a dying friend. He considers violence the lowest form of expression.

He breaks down the needs of man as follows: 1) To love, 2) to be loved and 3) to have something to fix--like a car or something.

I leave Christina's enlightened, elated and, most importantly, uninjured.

I watched the Sox home opener last night at my favorite Bridgeport bar, Bernice & John's Place.

Not a bad game, but that rain delay was a killer. By the time the fifth inning started it was 11 p.m. Thankfully, the bar served free Italian sausage and pasta. But there's only so much processed meat a man can eat to pass the time.

So I turned to an old friend: Erotic Photo Hunt.

You'll find Photo Hunt on those touchscreen trivia machines. The gist of the game is this: You're given two nearly identical photos of a scantily dressed woman (or man--you get to choose), and you have to point out five differences between the photos before time runs out.

For example, the woman in one photo may have a single strap on her bra, but in the next she has two straps. Or a building may have five windows in one photo, but six in the other.

You're thinking, "Yeah, Jonathan. Sounds thrilling. Find the missing bra strap."

Just give it a try. Of all the games on those trivia machines, Photo Hunt seems the one that lasts longest. And the photos can be damn funny, too--pouffy hair, shots on yachts, dated lingerie. Great for rain delays.

Comments on the game: Gauging from the crowd at Bernice & John's, Sox fans are feeling a lot better about Jim Thome than they did yesterday.

Following Thome's two-run wallop, the whole bar cheered, as one would expect. But after that the crowd settled into a kind of warm smugness reserved for champions.

And you could read the Sox fans' minds. Their thinking went like this: Thome's good. Our Sox, they're really good. Early predictions? World Series bound, baby.

Folks, I've got to get something off my chest. And no, it's not a third nipple.

I've got a secret. A burden. A large weight dragging down upon my conscience.

Here goes: Guys, I've been taking yoga.

That's right. I should be out getting hammered at bars, but instead I've been sneaking off to a Bikram yoga studio and twisting myself into a pretzel in a room heated to 105°F.

I'm officially new age. And with a BMW in the garage (okay, it's an '85), I'm also a yuppie.

I am a new-age yoga yuppie. And I can't get enough.

It's an age-old story. My friend Roomz got me addicted. Like all hard drugs, he ensured that the first sweaty, back-breaking, tendon-stretching hit would be practically free.

"Just try it," he said. "See if you like it. Everybody's doing it."

So I tried hot yoga, and over the course of a 90-minute class I sweated off six pounds and re-injured every body part I'd ever hurt during my 30-year existence.

Surgically repaired knees? Aching. Bad ankles? Swelling. Fractured lower back? Well, I wasn't laying on the sidewalk to look at the clouds.

How could I be addicted to this torture?

Well, after class finished, when the instructor turned down the lights and told the class to relax as my baking skin crawled, I was not addicted. No monkey clung to my back. I just wanted to cool down in the shower. Maybe see a team of doctors

But instead of heading directly to the nearest hospital, I made the crucial mistake of stopping at a bar for a beer. That's where the addiction kicked in.

I may have ordered Pabst, but I swear that brown bottle was filled with ambrosia, brewed with heavenly hops and virgin Arctic snows. I sucked that Blue Ribbon down with the speed of a Kapalabhati breath.

And the next bottle? Just as fast, just as good--as was the one after that.

For an hour I was Mr. Good Time Yogi--buying drinks, laughing, on top of the enlightened world.

Then came the crash. I grew sluggish and dizzy. My face became cold and pale. My skin was ice.

I slept for 12 hours that night. I needed three days to recover. On the fourth day, you know it--I was right back at that yoga studio, right back at that bar.

I've now got a three-yoga-plus-beers-a-week habit. And I've added another vice to my jones.

First, yoga. Second, beer. Third, anything with melted cheese.

Nothing is more stressful than entertaining guests.

You want to show them the city, but avoid tourist traps like Navy Pier. You them to have a fun, but also get a feel for what it's like to live here.

Most of all, you want to appear a lot cooler and cultured than you actually are.

I took some out-of-towners around last Saturday, and I'm still beat. Here's what I did. I hope my route gives you some ideas for when it's your turn to play tour guide.

We started with breakfast at Edna's Restaurant, a West Side soul food joint. Fried egg over easy, fried pork chop in batter, grits and two buttery biscuits--the kind of breakfast that erases a month from your life. In the '60s, it's said Edna's was frequented by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.--a fact that will surely impress guests.

From there it was a short ride to Garfield Park Conservatory.

First of all, I like the price--free. Second, there is nothing more incongruous than walking from a cold, gray, ugly Chicago to the warm and humid lushness of these gorgeous gardens, whose glass and iron greenhouses look like Victorian-era train stations.

The Conservatory turns 100 next year. I hope, as a city, we can continue to build public structures that can wow Chicagoans a century from now.

After the gardens we went to Atomix for a pick-me-up of strong coffee, then downtown to Ohio House Motel where my friends were staying. This cheap downtown hotel has gobs of character and a great little diner--highly recommended for budget travelers.

From Ohio House we headed underground to cruise Lower Wacker Drive, always a treat, on our way to IIT's McCormick Tribune Campus Center, designed by architect Rem Koolhaus. One guest ooh-ed and ah-ed at the stainless steel L tube, but when inside the Campus Center, she asked: "Are these ceilings finished?"

Answer: Those ceilings are supposed to look unfinished. It's called bad conceptual art.

To be honest, showing off Chicago's fanciest Orange Julius was just an excuse to play pinball. IIT has Star Trek: The Next Generation, the best pinball game ever made.

Next we popped into Seminary Co-op Bookstore of Hyde Park, where bookish visitors can find the rare titles not stocked at chain stores. A stop here will have friends thinking you're a real brainiac. That's unless you don't get turned around in Hyde Park's bothersome one-way streets.

For lunch we went north to Ukrainian Village for Italian subs at Fiore's Domestic Import Deli. They've got all kinds of goodies, but you can't go wrong with a prosciutto and fresh mozzarella with hot giardiniera.

Take my advice: Order a ten-incher or longer. Fiore's sandwiches dissolve in the mouth, and you don't want to finish lunch feeling hungry for more.

We finished the day at Pizza Lounge, a dive bar in Humboldt Park. Pizza Lounge has everything you want in a bar: cheap beer, dim lights and a great jukebox. We had room to sit and talk, and we all left drunk with enough money for late-night tacos (al pastor con queso) at El Taco Veloz.

A perfect day? I wouldn't go that far. But my visitors seemed happy enough.

I'm happy, too--now that they're gone.