When I turned twenty one you could get a bottle of beer at the taverns in the neighborhood for a Buck twenty five. That was the summer of 1987.
I considered myself an Old Style man well before my legal days. Everyone else was either a Bud guy or a Miller Genuine Draft dude. Two beers that I classified as “Panther Piss.”
In the 1970’s I cut my teeth on juice glasses of Becks and Lowenbrau at the Thanksgiving and Christmas table. That decade saw the end of historic beers in Chicago. Both MeisterBrau and Falstaff went out of business. Pabst, Stroh's, and Schlitz all saw declining numbers.
The last couple summers before I turned twenty one we bought Liberty packs for $6.99. Liberty packs of Stroh's were 30 packs with a picture of the Statue of Liberty on the box. Stroh's donated a portion of your purchase to the restoration of the 100 year old statue standing proud in the New York Harbor.
Everywhere you go today you can find a brewpub or small brewery. We are in the Craft Beer age. Everyone has their favorite local beer. Mine is the BuckleDown brewery located about a mile and a half down the road.
Being a Pilsner guy I like their beer called “Fritzicuffs.” Not only is it a helluva lager, but it’s named after my middle son.
The first craft beer place in the neighborhood was a place on Roosevelt Road called the Weinkeller. That was the first joint where I had a “homemade” beer. Sometime in the late 90’s they had Greek Lightning and closed down. They had a short run, but set the table for the future era of microbreweries.
The guy who bought my parents house in Oak Park has a treasure behind one of the plaster walls in the basement. There is probably close to two hundred Old Style bottles behind that south wall. All placed there when I heard my dad’s footsteps.
Nowadays I like to fill up a growler with Fritzicuffs and grab a sandwich from Alpine Subs. Find a picnic table or a park bench and have an impromptu meal.
I love the sound a long neck makes when the bartender snaps off the cap. It has its own onomatopoeia from the moment the opener grasps the metal top and pulls it away from the glass bottle.
“Shwapfts….. Sklipopta…. Wapftasht…”
....that’s what I hear when I order three beers.
That first gulp of beer that was sitting in the top of the long neck. Beads of cold moisture dripping down the side. That icy grip and the crisp taste of God’s nectar.
To me, that is heaven…. In fact when I go to heaven I expect Saint Peter to hand me an Old Style out of his cooler and say, “Welcome home Shep! There are some people waiting to see you….”
Today is National Beer Lover Day. Make sure to get a glass of beer, maybe a bottle. Some of you like it in the can.
Raise your beer to heaven. Put your lips on that lush foam, tip it back and feel that golden bite hit the back of your throat.
I’ll use my Uncle Chris McEvoy’s toast…. “Here’s to you… and here’s to me. In case we don’t agree… then the hell with you and here’s to me!”
