Bells Beer is back in Chicago after a two-year distributor dispute. The popular local microbrew launched a stealth label, Kalamazoo, in response—it was always sold as “same as Bell’s”—but at least one liquor store clerk told us it didn’t compare. Bell’s Amber was chosen as the “best local microbrew” by Newcity’s Best of Chicago back in the early nineties, before Goose Island even existed as a brand.
While St. Louis frets about the effect of the sucking down of its beloved Anheuser-Busch by the Belgian-Brazilian combo InBev, news comes that Chicago will be a beer capital once more, with the newly created MillerCoors combo calling us home.
New Belgium Brewing entered the Chicago market about a year or so ago, with its flagship Fat Tire brand, and figured, now that it’s permeated the tap handles and sixpacks of Chicago, why not start shaping the city’s culture? To that end, it brought its freak circus of a bike carnival, Tour de Fat, to Humboldt Park on Saturday. While I rode over after lunch in time to catch Mucca Pazza, we heard that the morning’s nasty storm did not faze the hearty bicycle paraders, who numbered 500 or so. By afternoon, the crowd seemed to number in the low four figures, a perfect comfort level for Palmer Square, and the day’s events had the feel of a giant family picnic with ample beer. If your family includes lots of eccentric bicycle enthusiasts that is. By the time the day’s festivities came to an end, with a bicycle raffle and a ceremony wherein someone donated their car to West Town Bikes and was rewarded with a top-of-the-line human-powered two-wheeler by our hosts, the crowd was likely starting to wonder how we’d been so easily charmed by a beer brand. As one local publishing executive from another company quipped, “Goose Island must be feeling really stupid right now.” At least till Pitchfork. (Brian Hey)
On a chilly Saturday afternoon thirty-five miles west of the city, brew fans hail from near and far to fill up half-gallon growlers or take a seat and enjoy a pint at a newly opened and quite hidden spot. Tucked behind a frontage drive with a few non-commercial businesses surrounded by homes, you find a hidden treasure for any beer aficionado. The recently opened Two Brothers Ale House, a new addition to the eleven-year-old brewery, in Warrenville, boasts the finest in beer-making according to locals. Mark Wentworth from Lisle is eager for the opening of the ale house.
“It will need a few months to get noticed but they make great beers,” Wentworth says.
Jason Ebel and his brother Jimmy, aka Two Brothers, grew up in the neighboring town of Wheaton—the place they started making beer in their mother’s kitchen—so they wanted to stay close to home when they finally created their brewery and later on their new signature ale house.
“When I was 5 years old I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and my mother got mad. That’s when I knew I wanted to make beer,” Jason says.
Beers like Domaine DuPage, a French-style amber, and Prairie Path Ale remind many of where they grew up, which makes it all that more enjoyable. Jeremy Gethmann, a Wheaton native, finds comfort in drinking beer named after his childhood and brewed by fellows who grew up in his home town, as he places The Bitter End Pale Ale on the top of his list.
“Its bitterness is the end of arguments regarding the best of pale ales,” Gethmann says.
And while the locals can reminisce about the good-old days and go unbothered at their special place, Chicagoans don’t have travel far to enjoy the brew specialties. On the same chilly Saturday afternoon an army of cold Cubs fans pack Murphy’s Bleachers in Wrigleyville. While some continue with Old Style and Bud beers, others are curious. A patron asks about the tap labeled Two Brothers Murphy’s House Ale. James Murphy, a self-proclaimed beer geek—can explain better than anyone.
“I’ve been doing this for years and I’m kind of a beer geek. [Two Brothers Brewing] makes great beer. We wanted to adopt a house beer. The French Country Ale became our own. It’s really good beer and we were happy to adopt it,” Murphy says. (Anthony Regan)
By Tom Lynch
It all started when that first guy put that first lime inside of his Corona.
Beer cocktails. What has this world come to? We’ve grown into an age when things like Miller Chill happen, which is a little different than adding an orange to a Blue Moon.
Despite some friends’ claims that I’m a purist in all fields, I’ve never viewed myself as such. I just kind of, sort of, fear change. But that’s a bit of another story for another bit of time.
When the idea arose that I scavenge the city to find adventurous beer concoctions, I cringed. I don’t do new things very well. I’m a member of that crowd who will try anything, just as long as we’ve tried it before and liked it. But, I thought, what the hell—I’ll just make someone come with me, so I won’t puke alone.
That wasn’t easy. But to be fair, I didn’t sell it all too well.
“Hey man, would you come with me when I somewhat aimlessly run around the city trying out different gross beer mixtures?”
“Is this gonna be like that time you made me run around the city eating fish tacos?”
“Um, no…”
“I have to work.”
But beer is beer and my roommate finally gave in. First stop was Wicker Park’s Handlebar, where I had heard the Guinness Float, a pint of Guinness with soy vanilla ice cream on top, was actually pretty good. (You’ll notice all of the following locations are in the general Wicker Park/Bucktown area because: 1) I wanted to keep everything within walking distance and 2) Well, just because. I can do whatever I want when I’m doing something that frightens me.) I ask the bartender for the float. He says they’re not serving ice cream.
Backfire! This is exactly what I feared. Now I look like that guy who ordered a stupid drink and can’t get it. Nevermind that it’s summer and there’s no ice cream. When do they serve it? I improvise and order a Stiegl Radler lemon beer, a creation that’s half Stiegl beer and half lemon soda. It tastes… nice? More like a watered-down beer, sweetened with sugar. It’s refreshing, make no mistake, a lighter-than-light excursion that, honestly, smells better than it tastes. I would imagine a homemade lemonade-beer (Shandy is what it’s called, for me and the other ignorant saps) would be far too candy-like, and would be impossible to drink with food, let alone drink a hundred of them during a night, ahem, on the town. And that’s really really important for me.
Next up was over on Division Street, at the Adobo Grill, where my roommate and I were destined to sip what we idiotically kept referring to as the “spicy beer.” I know what the drink is called, but I also have a fear of mispronouncing things, so I won’t say it aloud. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the place is dead. We sit at the bar.
“Hey man,” I, goofy and nervous, say to the bartender, “can I have one of those spicy beer things?”
He looks at me with grated amusement. “A Michelada?”
“Uh-huh.”
We get two. And they’re good. Similar to a Bloody Mary, but with beer, a Michelada is mixture of bottled beer (the bartender recommended Pacifico) and various hot sauces, bloody Mary mix, tomato juice, salt and lime. The mug is rimmed with salt and hot pepper, and you drink it through a straw.
Once you get over drinking beer with a straw, the spice sticks to the back of your throat. The aftertaste is the best part, as the residue settles in the corners of your mouth. People like this, I think to myself. Mexican emo plays overhead. The Cubs just lost because they couldn’t hit. No one is in there but me and my accomplice. I’m getting dizzy.
After about a half an hour, I realize half of my drink is still left, and that, in the end, it’s probably not for me. I respectfully finish it, but feel the fireball brewing in my belly (I hadn’t eaten anything) and we decide to venture homeward, tired and hungry. We did stop at Jerry’s Sandwiches down the street—where if the original plan worked we would have scarfed some beer-and-vanilla-custard dessert they’re supposed to have—picked up some food and called it a day. “Flight of the Conchords” was soon on, and I was exhausted from being embarrassed for two hours.
The next night, I’m at Silver Cloud, somewhat late, and I get the adventurous bug—I needed to try that Guinness Float, because, first of all, out of everything I was set to sample, it sounded the best. Also I needed, deep down, to not have this disappointed feeling, this feeling of exclusion, that everyone else enjoys these specialty beers but me. Because, well, I fear being left out.
It’s not on the menu, of course—I’m convinced you have to have bars make this special; Hamburger Mary’s, a great burger and shake joint in Andersonville, didn’t know what the hell I was talking about when I called them and inquired, but said they would make it nonetheless—and when I ask for it the bartender smirks, but agrees to whip one up almost immediately. Don’t ever order it if the bar is busy—you may be killed.
Now, I’ve never been a fan of Black Cows (big surprise), but let me tell you, this thing is amazing. As you could probably imagine, the vanilla ice cream blends rather successfully with the creamy, smooth goodness of Guinness, one of the world’s finest beers. Eat beer with a spoon. I love it. The friend I was with had one as well, and she was delighted (she’s also a pretty, going-against-the-wind drunk, so, make of that what you will).
Everyone at the bar seemed interested. We only had good things to say. This was, indeed, the success I’d been looking for. “I’d drink these all the time if I was total asshole,” I said aloud to no one in particular. And I meant it.
After the Guinness Float had sunk deep into my stomach, there was that desire for normalcy you feel, like when you’re on your way home from a vacation, where you just want things to fall into place and get back to routine. I ordered a PBR, to wash down this bizarre trip. Aaaaaahhhhh. Now that’s tasty.
Handlebar, 2311 West North, (773)384-9546; Adobo Grill, 2005 West Division, (773)252-9990; Jerry’s Sandwiches, 1938 West Division, (773)235-1006 (try that beer and vanilla custard experiment, let me know how it is); Silver Cloud, 1700 North Damen, (773)489-6212.
Beer is good.
5,000 beer lovers attest to that today at the second annual Chicago Beer Fest at Navy Pier. Held in the airplane-hangar-sized Festival A Room, Beer Fest brings together more than fifty beer vendors—as well as four local bands—for four hours, all for just under forty bucks (tickets were $10 more for day-of sales). “Summer is beer season,” says Rick Cromer, cofounder of Beer Fest. Cromer is a native New Yorker, where the original Beer Fest was held three years ago. “The Chicago crowd is more interested in the beer—in learning about the beer,” Cromer explains. “The New York crowd is more rowdy.”
The diverse, predominately 25-40-year-old crowd in the afternoon session (an evening session was available) drifts around tall bar tables and red curtained vendor stands, elbows up and six-ounce glasses drained. Little Johnny, the band playing at the far east end of the hangar, is just loud enough to give Beer Fest a party feel without interrupting the love between connoisseur and brewmeister.
The major breweries, like Miller, and the major distributors, for beers as varied as Guinness to Pacifico, share the vast space with the imported beers and the quality, hand-crafted beers, which range from Tomos Watkin to Yesterbeer to local favorite, Goose Island. “Beer is four basic ingredients: malt, water, hops and yeast,” explains Adam of Goose Island. “Yeast is our secret weapon.” He goes on. Brewmeisters, like Adam, love to talk about their craft. Several refined tasters think that craftsmanship is missing at Beer Fest. “The exhibit is lacking more vendors with a lot of education in what they’re serving,” says beer lover Towanda Robbins. “They’re like, ‘Here’s your glass—drink.’”
Which isn’t such a bad thing for many people. The crowd is social, curious and fun—there are no obvious over-indulgers. But there is an element of love missing from the vendors. Most pourers are simply pourers—rented workers in tux shirts and bow ties or young women donning the company’s paraphernalia who don’t know the difference between an ale and a pilsner. You have to work to find the love.
A personal favorite is He’Brew, “The Chosen Beer,” and its assortment of handcrafted beers, especially the hoppy, refreshing pale ale. A stout man and woman serve the throngs, their love of beer reddened into their cheeks. Behind them the poster reads, “Christ, that’s good beer.” (Robert Duffer)
Pabst Blue Ribbon was my father’s beer when I was small, condensation-filmed six-packs brought home in the dry county from the nearby American Legion Club. Mom never really approved, but I never wanted to drink beer anyway: my beverage palate then tended to Dr. Pepper and since hemp was grown during World War II in Western Kentucky, potent ditch weed was as common as dandelions in every backyard. Years later, in my pre-21 drinking days of rum and strong screwdrivers, a friend one night at Neo found himself with two pints and only one thirst and passed the second along. Free beer? I know I’ll hate it. I don’t remember what the vogue-ish, trend-o pint was those many years ago but I know the locals’ beer of choice is the latter-day PBR, draft for $2. (Their provender brew had been Leinenkugel for over a decade, but when that company raised its barrel cost to boutique prices, Leinie got rubbed out to avoid any confusion about why it was now $4.50.) The tap’s lines are kept clean, they go through kegs and kegs of the stuff, and it’s always the right cold temperature, not too cold, but cold enough to prevent the rim of the glass getting sticky before you get to the bottom. A couple over the course of a night out hit the spot, and they lack the light skunkiness of the canned version. (Canned Old Style is another discussion.) The taste reminds me a little of Chicago tap water, which, at the right chill, is some of the best-tasting city water in the world. Too warm, and it’s not so hot. And I never tire of hearing David Lynch’s cracked tribute to working-class America, whether spoken aloud by someone bellied up to the rail, or in Dennis Hopper’s Frank Booth voice in my head, “Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!” Generations of Americans made that beer: German-Americans trump Germans any old night. (Even if it might have been brewed by Canadians.)
PBR’s everywhere; this pint’s the $2 draft at The Rainbo Club, 1156 North Damen. Pabstblueribbon.com
One of the funniest things in the lamest way to my ear is the Canadian provincial tradition of only the government selling beer: to hear a lilt of, “Oh, it’s down by the beer store” in a Canadian accent makes me grin like most people when they see a video of a fat boy falling on his bottom or a squirrel shrieking on the way out of a tree into the yard.
Rushing on a sunny Thursday noon across Lake Street to a destination five blocks and ten, twelve minutes away, I want to grab something to eat during the movie screening to come; the first stop’s a White Hen, where the prices are high, the readymade sandwiches are gone and a few dozen cases of beer re-stacked high block the drinks aisle. Plus the line ahead is a dozen deep, too: the gambler’s line deep with lotto and scratcher fiends, a few construction workers with tall Corona bottles, a couple of bike messengers buying forties.
Too much information: I know a 7-Eleven was nearer my objective. Also nearer street-level hangovers, as it turns out. Tatty sandwich in hand, I take my place behind two men, a jabbering, wild-eyed raincoat man and a dazed-looking dude with deadly bedhead, each with a naked forty in hand, the first of whom asks if I have thirteen cents, and when I say no, the second asks if I can spare a dollar.
The clerk rolls her eyes and murmurs, “Allllll day.” Lake Street lunch hour: land of the Chicago beer stores. (Ray Pride)
After seven years in Chicago, I have stopped caring what other people think. I pump 7-Eleven chili directly into my open bag of Fritos. I sing along with Willie, Lyle and Zona—loudly—and often refer to others as “all y’all,” which is the plural of “y’all.”
I wasn’t born in Texas, but as the saying goes, I got there as soon as I could and swore I’d never leave. That is, until I married a boy who got a job in Chicago. So began my life as a Texpat. Getting used to the weather was the biggest challenge (although buying a real winter coat did help), but I also found it annoying that my favorite beer, Shiner Bock, was only available as far north as St. Louis.
For nearly a hundred years, Shiner’s been crafted by the family-owned Spoetzl Brewery in the little Hill Country town of Shiner (population 2070). The easy-drinking, amber-tinted Bock tastes like lazy weekends, local bars and porch swings, and it’s got a slight sweetness that can stand up to even the most piquant jalepeno popper.
My Yankee friends may not understand my love of the Lone Star state, but soon they’ll be able to fall in love with my favorite beer. That’s because, starting this week, Shiner is officially available in Chicago.
It’s the end result of about ten-years-worth of requests from Chicago consumers, distributors and retailers, says Shiner marketing guy Charlie Paulette. “We weren’t trying to avoid Chicago, we just wanted to wait until the time was right,” he says. “We’re a little brewery, and we did the best we could.” And that’s plenty impressive: The fifty-employee brewery added a second shift to churn out the 4,000 cases needed to “seed” the city—the cases traveled last week to Chicago via three packed trailer trucks.
To create buzz for the big launch, the brewery has sponsored a series of teaser ads on buildings and in print. It’s also been hooking up local Texas alumni groups, big-time. “Donating beer is the best currency in terms of making people happy and spreading the word, and we’re relying on that word of mouth, especially from other Texans,” Paulette says. “Shiner grew out of the liberal, open-minded, laid-back crowd that exists in Texas—those are the people who made us popular, and hopefully we’ll connect with those same people in Chicago.” (Jenny B. Davis)
To find out where to enjoy Shiner Bock, visit shinerchicago.com
Before heading to Lincoln Avenue’s Delilah’s on this day, the grand decisions to make don’t entail attire—as they may on nights of metal, mod, punk or any other genre of rock the bar usually caters to—but rather in what beers from oversea you’ll be partaking in. For today, twenty dollars gains entry to the bar’s Vintage Strong Beer Fest 2007 and twenty tickets, each rewarding you with an ounce of well-built beer.
TVs beam English Premier League soccer matches, framed art leans crooked and loose from the walls of the bar and the seasoned hardwood floors support patrons of all ages, races and genders, each cradling their list of liquids including Belgian, Italian and English brews, amongst others.
“This is my fourth year in attendance,” says Matt Gumbaragis, an avid beer-fest attendee. “We’ve been to beer fests from Boston to Vegas… we try to make it to all the majors.” The “we” Gumbaragis refers to is his comrades, “The Horsemen,” of the “Horsemen Society,” a cigar club whose members appreciate fine cigars, good beer and, of course, great conversation.
So, what makes this fest particularly special for the Horsemen? “I just had a 10-year-old porter,” Eric “Rick” Ferguson says. Many beers found at the Vintage fest are “bottle conditioned,” which means filtering takes place inside the bottle, or filtered and then reseeded with yeast so further fermentation can take place.
“Other Chicago beer fests may have a few worldly beers, but nothing like this,” Gumbaragis adds.
The Horsemen also raise the fact that most beer fests across the country are in large halls, while here at Delilah’s, the setting is more personal and intimate.
“It’s gonna be shoulder to shoulder in here,” Ferguson promises.
And as packed as the quaint establishment becomes, the help doesn’t flinch a bit. “I like working here—everyone has a great time,” professes bartender Wes Nile. “This is the ninth year in a row we’ve had this fest, and my third working it. These people here, they’re absolute enthusiasts.”
But you don’t need to be an enthusiast to enjoy one of these unyielding broths, because no matter who or what you are, you’re going to leave with, well, a smile on your face. “With over a hundred beers to taste if you want, with each ranging eight-to-thirteen percent alcohol content,” Nile adds, “you’re gonna leave here feeling pretty good.” (Kevin Baum)
