"No man is an island," according to John Donne. Within the sphere of Chicago party spots, Uncle Fatty's (p.s. there is an enigmatic globe-trotting namesake who passes through, just whenever) is an island, according to me. The tiki-bar, sandy-beach environs and lacey mosquito-net canopies prove me right.

If you're turned off by ersatz tropical scenes in urban places, you've probably stopped reading. Uncle Fatty's doesn't fool you into thinking you've suddenly moved to paradise, with long piers and moon-glazed hammocks awaiting. The entrance is open air-ish. I remained aware of the Chicago reality that there were fire trucks somewhere nearby and a gang of smokers exactly 15 feet away. "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley wasn't played twice, or even once. Instead, an unshowered-looking band played '90s hits, almost too loudly.

But the drinks—wow. It's as if the bar purchased Spring Break and is selling its parts. The menu of frozen and sugary creations uses some of what works well and modifies classics so they work better (and can be served in fish bowls, how cute). I'm not as much of a boozer as Uncle Fatty's friends, so I didn't know that a lime-flavored beer will cut the tartness of a margarita by a third, leaving you only with the tequila-soaked citrus joy you wanted in the first place. Do you like waiting in soul-crushing, helpless lines to grab the next round? Do you like paying extra for a bit of convenience? Fine, no one does. So Uncle Fatty's gives you the "cooler service" option: you'll get an ice-packed cooler with 30 brews delivered to your table ($90 for domestics, $120 for imports).

The industry-savvy owners appear to be anti-vanity and are at Uncle Fatty's for the same reasons I was: a really great time with a decent soundtrack, drinks, sand and a game of "bags."

Centerstage Reviewer: Kate Anderson