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LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 8.17 115 He meets some high school classmates at Check's on Monday nights. Today, Bud Light in hand, he is eating lunch with his son. "is is actually Schnitzelburg. ere's a big difference," he says. "My father wouldn't come to Schnitzelburg to drink. We had a bar 100 feet from my house (in Germantown)." Martin remembers carting buckets of beer from Check's and other local bars back to his house as a kid. "We called them growlers," he says, a practice that Murrow says continued into the 1970s. Martin remembers after-work meetings, when Joe would hand out complimentary beers from the Falls City delivery truck. "It's tradition," Martin says. "You can mention Check's to a family that grew up somewhere within a mile of here, and they know instantly. ey'll tell you the last time they were in there." In the half-century that Martin has been coming to Check's, he can recall only a single "incident," if you can even call it that. Reynolds, the bartender, im- mediately showed the door to someone who had been told not to come back. "As far as people drinking, which is a lot, nobody fights here," Martin says. He tells me that the most heated arguments at Check's are over sports teams. "I think everybody's into this trendy stuff now," Murrow says. "ere's five million ways to do a burger now, eight different types of burger meats. We still do simple, home-cooked-type meals." Large cod fillets ($7.50) nestle into slices of rye bread, a heaping portion that could make two sandwiches. ("Believe it or not, the fish is as good as any fish in Louisville," Martin says.) e "famous" — everybody uses that word — Check's chili ($4.85) is a red Texas-style, with beans and meat heaping inside a bowl with or without noodles, topped with onions, smashed saltines and an oozing shredded Cheddar that melts everything together. "Check's has not only survived, it's gotten gigantic," Martin says at the end of the lunch hour, the dining floor still half-full, the bar still entirely full. "I can tell you how many new people are here, because I used to come here and I'd know maybe one out of five, especially around the bar. I come in here sometimes (now) and I might not even know five people." Longtime bartender Billy Reynolds (left) with owner John Murrow.