Sometimes you want to eat well. Sometimes you just miss your grandparents. Petey's is a midwestern-supper-club-style time warp with flashes of Greek-American when the flaming saganaki appears. From the gorgeous neon martini sign at its Oak Lawn location (there's a nonretro outpost in Orland Park) to the blast of garlic bread gusting from the front door, Petey's harkens to a time when men ate their steaks in sport coats, and wedge salads were as big as their wives' bouffants. The food, alas, is seasoned and prepared to suit that era's indiscrimination—congee-consistency Greek lemon soup; huge, industrial-grade steak and chops; textureless rib boilbecue; etc. But the thick burgers are decent, and meals begin with massive complimentary relish trays, heaps of canned beets, and scoops of cottage cheese and macaroni salad, and end with ice cream, rice pudding or Jell-O. The real draw is the lifer waitresses, quick with the "hons" and "sweeties," and the swinging senior set that packs the place on weekends. —Mike Sula

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