The search for the oldest bar in Chicago is sort of like Bigfoot: A lot of people claim to have found it, but that doesn’t mean it actually exists. — This nugget of wisdom is the byproduct of a simple enough idea–hey, let’s take readers on a tour of a few of the city’s oldest bars! There’s a real Chicago story for you: It’s got history, it’s got interesting characters, it’s got beer. — Figuring out which bars to include, though, required the application of a wildly inexact brand of scientific inquiry; this may sound less toilsome than, say, exact science, but is still a daunting undertaking in a place that loves its juice joints as much as Chicago does. — Much depends on how you define “bar.” — In a bar, one drinks beer or a “drink”; cocktails, which are often recognizable by the presence of fruit or vegetable embellishments, are for cocktail lounges.
Also, true bars, otherwise known as pubs or saloons, must contain an actual counter that can be bellied up to. Bars do not serve hors d’oeuvres (popcorn is not an hors d’oeuvre) or, for that matter, any food with a French name (this does not apply to the French dip sandwich, which is perfectly acceptable). Bars often serve good hamburgers but rarely serve anything containing goat cheese.
Entertainment in bars is generally limited to television or video games (especially Golden Tee golf) or pinball. If people dance on a regular basis to music emanating from something other than a jukebox, the establishment is not a bar. It’s a club. Or a lounge. Or you may have wandered into a performance-art space.
Bars in nice hotels are not really bars. Bars in restaurants may be.
In trying to establish which Chicago bars are the oldest, things become murkier, the approach more philosophical. After all, who can really say?
Is the oldest bar the one that has been in business the longest, under the same management longest, or is it the one in the oldest space? And is a bar still in the running if it has changed hands, moved, temporarily closed or been through several incarnations?
Take the Coq D’or, for instance–which is in a hotel (the Drake) and is therefore not on the list. It claims to be the second establishment in the city to serve drinks (40-cent shots of whiskey) after Prohibition was repealed in 1933; this seems extremely difficult to prove.
It is probably safe to say that Schulien’s, before it closed in 1999, was one of the oldest continuously operating taverns in the city, even though it was not always called Schulien’s and moved several times. But safe to say because families are signs of stability and it was family-owned throughout its history, just like three of the bars on our list.
One spot that does not qualify as a bar according to these guidelines should be mentioned nonetheless. The sixtysomething Zebra Lounge (1220 N. State Pkwy., 312-642-5140), located in the Canterbury Court apartment building, has the heart of a true bar in spite of the attention to decor (call it sassy urban safari) and the star presence of the piano, which a very nice man plays as the crowd sings along to hits from his request list. Also, it is a nice place to console yourself if you had plans to visit the Hotsie Totsie, just around the corner, which opened back in 1935 and recently closed. Maybe someone will buy the old space and turn it into a bar.
It should be said that not every old bar in Chicago is a place you’d want to visit. Some have surly bartenders or, frankly, don’t smell very good, or have been taken over by outsiders, or simply don’t have a compelling background, fabricated or otherwise. We picked the ones with real character.
With that in mind, take this pub crawl of true Chicago bars that have been around a long time.
THE BERGHOFF
Where: 17 W. Adams St., 312-427-3170 www.berghoff.com
When: Weekdays: 11 a.m. to 8:30 p.m.
Saturdays: 11:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. (Restaurant open Monday through Saturday for lunch and dinner).
Claim to fame: That Herman Berghoff was issued the city’s first liquor license, the day after Prohibition was repealed. Can they prove it? Well, yes: if you look at a picture of Herman Berghoff holding the 1933 City of Chicago Retail Beverage Dealer license, you can see the words No. 1. But the real draw here is the “stand-up bar” itself, which did not allow women until 1969 (the absence of stools was meant to deter them), when the National Organization for Women marched on the place (this sentence as published has been corrected in this text).
Atmosphere: Every day is Oktoberfest. Today, the expansive, wood-paneled Berghoff may be primarily known as the city’s uber-German restaurant (complete with stained-glass windows depicting beer steins rather than religious figures and a tiny Alpine village in the front window), but the beer brewer Herman Berghoff originally opened it in 1898 as a small bar, the Berghoff Cafe, in order to sell his suds for five cents a stein (the sandwiches were free). The third- and fourth-generation Berghoffs (Herman J. and Peter, respectively) still run the place and continue to sell the house-made beer (including a root beer) and bourbon. And the “standup bar,” which is separated from the restaurant proper by a partition and a curtain, still serves sandwiches at lunch, but they’ll cost you.
Taxidermic items: Two salmon in the bar; pheasants in the window during Oktoberfest.
Televisions: 2, but they are largely ignored.
Tunes: None. And don’t think about singing, either.
Golden Tee: None, nor any other kind of entertainment; it’s not that kind of place.
THE GREEN DOOR
Where: 678 N. Orleans St., 312-664-5496
When: daily: 11:30 a.m. to 2 a.m.
Claim to fame: The landmark wood-frame building, which leans farther right than Jesse Helms, was built in 1872, after the Great Fire but before the city outlawed wooden buildings in the business district. It was originally a grocery store but became a bar and restaurant in 1921, according to the “history” on the menu. Lou Waddle and Joe Beale bought it about two years ago, and they seem to be trying to maintain the history of the place while also getting the crowds in. “We just did some interior decoration,” says restaurant manager Stacy Sherrier, “and we have a fireplace now.”
Atmosphere: If the Collyer Brothers, the famously prodigious pack rats who were found dead and buried under their own junk in their Harlem townhouse in 1947, had owned a bar, this is what it would have looked like. You’ve got your college pennants, your radio-controlled model airplanes (including a quite nice Spitfire and a P-39), your Budweiser Clydesdale lamp, your mirrored disco ball, and 9 million other pieces of highly entertaining junk. The cigarette-smoking, beer-drinking crowd occupies the bar and tables up front; people stopping by for one of the really good burgers with fries (or roast beef dinner or a tuna melt or fried things or . . . ) seem to head for the side porch, but you can order food anywhere. There are 10 beers on tap, 28 in bottles, and when it comes to Irish Whiskeys, says restaurant manager Stacy Sherrier, “we have ’em all.”
Taxidermic items: A huge moose head, a “jackelope” (jackrabbit with antlers glued to its head), a fox and a lot of birds.
Televisions: 5
Tunes: Most often from a sound system. And a jukebox is on its way.
Golden Tee: Yes, and a pool table is coming soon.
GLASCOTT’S SALOON
Where: 2158 N. Halsted St., 773-281-1205 www.glascotts.com
When: Weekdays: 10 a.m. to 2 a.m. Weekends: 10 a.m. to 3 a.m.
Claim to fame: A true family-owned bar since 1937, when it was opened by Lawrence Glascott. Although it was once an unwholesome speakeasy, today it’s filled with wholesome family photos. According to one of the few non-Glascott bartenders, Sarah McKinsey, “No matter what day of the week or what time of day you come, there’s a Glascott in here–a cousin or an uncle or a brother.” Sean Glascott, the manager and one of Lawrence’s grandsons, says that there’s always a friendly competition at family gatherings over who the most popular bartender is.
Atmosphere: Peaceful clash of cultures. At this quintessential Irish neighborhood pub (which is built around the handsome, hulking, 100-year-old mahogany bar and has tremendous windows, a tin ceiling and 20 beers on tap), the clumps of guys in baseball caps and flannel shirts watch the tube up front and show their affection for one another in a strictly heterosexual fashion, while in the back the newer breed of Lincoln Park guys plays pool in rolled up shirtsleeves and loosened ties. And everyone gets along just fine.
Taxidermic items: None. There was a man at the bar recently who looked rather stuffed, but that may have been due to the fact that drinkers are allowed, nay, encouraged to bring in the Greek food from the Athenian Room, which is next door but accessible through connecting doors.
Televisions: 12, including a back-room big screen.
Tunes: A democratic jukebox, to which much attention is paid. “A lot of what’s on it comes from a board where customers write suggestions,” says Sean Glascott, who manages the place.
Golden Tee: Of course, and pool and an electronic mixed video game.
KELLY’S PUB
WHERE: 949 W.Webster Ave., 773-281-0656
www.kellyspub.com
WHEN: SUNDAYS THROUGH FRIDAYS: 11 a.m. to 2 a.m. SATURDAYS: 11 a.m. to 3 a.m..
CLAIM TO FAME: The Kelly family proudly claims that theirs is the only bar in Chicago owned and operated by the same family in the same location since the repeal of Prohibition. “This is our 70th anniversary,” says John Kelly, who is not really sure how you’d go about proving which bar in Chicago is oldest. “What about the Berghoff?” he asks, adding. “I was in the service with Herman Berghoff.”
Atmosphere: Kiss Me, I’m Irish. This Hibernian haven, which is just a peep around the twist from Glascott’s, is marked by a foaming mug sign above the door and the booming rattle of the extremely close elevated train, which stops conversation at predictable intervals. The place is painted kelly green and white inside and has chrome stools, which somehow gives it the innocent air of an ice-cream parlor in spite of the basketball beer tap, the large silver fire bell and the expected beer and liquor signage. Rather than ice cream, you can get burgers, burritos and BLT’s, among other bar food, including a retro basket of fried mushrooms, onion rings and mozzarella sticks. At lunch, it’s a local business and construction crowd. At night DePaul University students pack the place in winter and overflow onto the outdoor deck in summer. There’s a big poster in here of Mayor Richard J. Daley marching in his last St. Patrick’s Day parade (“I don’t know if he came in, but his son has been in a few times,” says Kevin Kelly, whose father John still owns the pub), and you can buy your own copy at the bar for $10, if you desire.
Taxidermic items: None, although there is a Goose Island goose head beer tap.
Televisions: 5
Tunes: Sound system/jukebox
Golden Tee: Sure thing. Did you really need to ask?
SCHALLER’S PUMP
WHERE: 3714 S. Halsted St., 773-376-6332
WHEN: WEEKDAYS: 11 a.m. to 2 a.m. SATURDAYS: 5:30 p.m. to 3 a.m.
SUNDAYS: 3 p.m. to 2 a.m.
CLAIM TO FAME: “We’re the oldest family owned bar in the city,” says Jay Schaller, whose great-great-grandfather George, whose nickname was Harvey, opened Schaller’s Pump in 1881 in this very space. (The “Pump” is a reference to a beer brewery that was once located next door.) “This neighborhood is old, and nobody ever moves out,” says Schaller, explaining how his father’s tavern has maintained such a distinctively (some might say entrenched) Bridgeport crowd and persona.
Atmosphere: Frozen in amber. If you wander in from the street, you’ll get the distinct feeling that all the customers have known one another for decades and decades, and that they’ve been coming here just as long. “During baseball season we draw a big White Sox crowd, too,” says Jay Schaller, whose father is the owner (and who is a covert Cubs fan). Bridgeport has been home to five mayors, and with the 11th Ward Democratic Party headquarters right across the street, you don’t have to ask how many Republicans pop by for a toddy. The place seems like a community social club more than anything else. On a recent evening, the bar was lined with older couples (the women in gray salon-styled hairdos, the men in windbreakers) having the special, corned beef and cabbage with a side of carrots and a potato, along with a shot of whiskey or a beer; a few lone men stopping by for a drink and a chat with Lou, the 70-something bartender who works here part-time, and a few families out for an early dinner. Lou’s just great, sure, and so was the waitress on this night (Jay’s five sisters Jill, Sue, Colleen, Betty Jo and Kim take turns waiting on customers), but both of them forgot for a long, long time that a pair of strangers (or outsiders) was waiting down at the lonely end of the bar, near the front door that is never open (use the door off the parking lot), for a menu and a drink to arrive. The food is pretty good, and includes the expected steaks, fried seafood, chops (“Prime Butt,” $18.95) and something called a “slimline” for $3.95.
Taxidermic items: None.
Televisions: 2
Tunes: Conspicuously absent (unless you count an unplugged jukebox), until the keyboardist shows up to play the “oldies” the crowd likes to hear.
Golden Tee: No, nor any other newfangled contraptions.
