Treasured Memories About Growing Up In Chicago, The Sequel: The Billy Goat Tavern
July 1st, 2008 by Scott Marks
How many nights did I close the Goats?
Long before John Belushi’s myth-making “Cheezeborger, Cheezeborger” transformed the Billy Goat Tavern into a tourist attraction, it was my bar of choice and it remained that way until the day I moved. It was the great equalizer, a place to drink with friends who hawked beer and Frosty Malts at Wrigley Field or catch a burger before hitting a screening with David Elliott. (Elliott never drinks…in public.)
There was nothing phony or pretentious about the subterranean watering hole. Buried beneath the Tribune Building in the bowels of Lower Michigan Ave., the Goat never saw the light of day. It was a spacious dive, it’s main room to the right as you walk in, the food court in the middle with an L-shaped bar off to the right. The nicotine lacquered walls were adorned with photos of many Chicago dignitaries.
Mike Royko wrote lovingly about the joint and many a night I saw the great Chicago journalist throwing back a few with everyone from Sun-Times pressmen to characters destined to influence his next Slats Grobnick column.
La Toitel (Credit Andrew Huff @ Flickr.com)
When I first started going there they actually had a live goat roped in a room located behind the bathrooms (Billy for boys, Nanny for girls). The hangout’s originator William Sianis was nicknamed “Billy Goat” for his uncanny resemblance to bovidae. Unfortunately, I never had the privilege of meeting the man. His son Sam Sianis, a stocky, flat-nosed Greek scrapper with the tail of his necktie forever tucked between the third and fourth button holes of his shirt, rose to power after the old Goat croaked.
Sam occasionally made an appearance at the grill (usually when the tour bus delivered a load of gawkers), doing his best imitation of Sianis-doing-Belushi-doing-Sianis. You could tell that the guy hated being reduced to a boneheaded stereotypical immigrant, but if it’s good for business…NO COKE…PEPSI!. On Saturday Night Live, the catchphrase was “No Coke…Pepsi,” while in fact the Goat served the most turned on Coca-Cola in greater Chicagoland. The high syrup-to-carbonation ratio of their pharmaceutical Coke was indeed invigorating. And a Boston coffee was always in order, particularly on those nights when it helped thaw the winter chill.
During my regime, a Greek fella named Paul was the chief burger flipper. This guy made the best goddamned double cheeseburger, so good that that’s what he called it. My pack and I would walk in the door, Paul would light up, hit the bell and yell out, “One goddamned double cheeseburger!” which was invariably followed by a softer, more sincere, “on a hard roll or bun?” I adore creatures of habit!
The horror…the horror… (Credit mnScouser @ Flickr.com )
In addition to transcending mere frozen, pre-formed beef patties, Paul prepared a miraculous bacon and egg sandwich. He’d space two pieces of bacon about six inches apart on the griddle. At just the right moment, he’d crack a hen fruit between the pigs, scramble it up, flip his creation and serve it on wheat toast. I’d stand and watch in rapt amazement, particularly after trying it at home and winding up with more egg on the floor than in the pan. And how did he get it so the egg never oozed past its bacon boundaries? The mind boggles!
Paul lived not far from me in Rogers park and many a frigid winter night he’d hop a ride home, light up a Chesterfield and talk about “the old country” and his teenage son that he worshipped. He was a God-fearing salt of the earth type, but every now and then on a slow night, he would partake in a couple of snifters with the Goat’s star busboy Hollis Crite.
Hollis was a true genius of himself. A tall, lanky, light-skinned black man with a goalpost grin who loved dancing with his mop and broom. “You better believe it,” was his phrase of choice. I’d place him in his late forties, but he had the charm and grace of an eternal child…with a couple of shots of Rock and Rye in him.
THE HOLY TRINITY: Irv Kupcinet, Mike Royko & Marshall Field - (Credit pantagrapher @ Flickr.com)
Study the sacred photo of Kup in SHQ here.
No need for cash tips, buy this man a Rock and Rye! Out of sheer curiosity, and to see exactly what Rock and Rye got that made Hollis think it was so hot, I had to experience a glassful. Hoofa twofa! A fruity fructose concoction made from rye whiskey. I’d rather guzzle NyQuill. Fruit and whiskey combined is almost as bad as downing a peanut butter sandwich with a glass of water, but Hollis swore by it. You better believe it!
A burly dupayash named Warren tended bar, and to paraphrase Mr. Sinatra, he spilled more than I drank. Imagine Jack Brickhouse if his head melted down and formed a size 26 neck. Hey! Hey! Warren was a man of few words: “What’ll ya’ have?” The poor mope literally spent hours trying to get legible reception with the TV’s sensitive rabbit ears. His big, burly mitts could splinter the antenna, but he gently twisted and cajoled and jiggled, always in vain.
It was the oldest, piece of crap color TV in all of Chicago. It took less time for WGN to convert from 16mm to videotape than it did Sianis to spring for cable. Given the bar’s hypogean coordinates, there was frequently more snow on the screen than there was on the streets. Even with reception that looked as if it was beamed from Uranus, nursing a Dewar’s and watching Marty McNeely or an equally inebriated Carl Grayson on Nightbeat was a moment to be devoutly cherished. “On the beat at this hour…”
The V.I.P. Room:Move the camera three feet to the left and you’re in Ma’s seat! (Credit jasmined @ Flickr.com)
Ganser Machers that we were, our group liked to sit in “The V.I.P. Room,” a secluded anteroom located to the left of the bar. My logical station should have been beneath Kup’s Holy Pictue on The Wall of Fame, but unless the joint was hopping, that section was frequently roped off.
Ma guarded the entrance to the V.I.P. Room. Ma was 146 if she was a day, a cross between Maria Ouspenskaya, something out of Thimble Theatre and Olga Baclanova in the last shot of Freaks. She had a high, cackly voice that she seldom used, so when Ma spoke every utterance was to be studied for the ages. If you thought Sianis-doing-Belushi-doing-Sianis was funny, you should have heard Ma do Hollis! More than an imitation, it was an incredible simulation. This sh*t made George Carlin sound like London Lee. There is no way to describe in print how Ma wrapped her tonsils around “You better believe it!” Next time we meet, ask me and I’ll perform my incredible simulation.
Many a sub-zero winter evening, the proprietors looked the other way and offered Ma a place to spend the night. Even though I never understood a single word she said, our hearts went out to her. One Christmas we all chipped in and bought her a pair of warm shoes. I think she smiled, but her eternal babushka masked her mouth. When asked if she like the shoes, Ma wowed the crowd with “You better believe it!” Killer! The timing…at his best Albert Brooks couldn’t touch Ma.
On second thought, who am I kidding? As soon as the lock clicked the old bird probably stripped down, poured herself a couple of strong ones, raided the icebox, prodded the goat with plastic kitchen utensils and pocketed whatever loose change she found in the register.
Three or four times a year we’d walk in and everyone in the place (except Ma!) was lit! Paul was feeling no pain behind the counter, Hollis tossed a coin in the jukebox and sleepily sambaed with his O’Cedar and Warren’s head was flashing redder than a firetruck light. On these rare sodden occasions, the stars were in their courses and all was right with the universe. You better believe it!
Most of these photos that I snagged off Flickr were taken within the past few years. I don’t remember the back wall of the V.I.P. Room being quite that iridescent. Sianis must have hired Hal Pereira and Richard Mueller to redress his set. Other than that, nothing has changed, except (I hope) the television.
Tags: Bar, Billy Goat, Billy Goat Tavern, Carl Grayson, Cheezeborger, Chicago, David Elliott, Hollis Crite, Irv Kupcinet, Jack Brickhouse, John Belushi, Marty McNeely, Mike Royko, Rock and Rye, Sam Sianis, Saturday Night Live, SNL, V.I.P. Room, WGN, William SianisShare: 
Filed Under Rants
Comments
2 Responses to “Treasured Memories About Growing Up In Chicago, The Sequel: The Billy Goat Tavern”
Leave a Reply
Twitter Feed- scottmarks: The Projectionist has final cut: A few thoughts on soft matte and hard matte 1.85:1: Soft Matte 1.85:.. http://tinyurl.com/5ses5u
- scottmarks: Dogsitting 4 friend, water pipe breaks & ServiceMaster sets up 4 huge drying fans. Sounds like Ford is filming THE HURRICANE in the bedroom.
- scottmarks: Scott Marks flies solo on KPBS Radio’s “These Days”: It is not as though I have nev.. http://tinyurl.com/6ryy56
- scottmarks: AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL is as ugly as its subjects r beautiful. Did anyone look thru the lens? More cut off heads than the French Revolution.
- scottmarks: Photos from Jerry Lewis’ THE NUTTY PROFESSOR (1963): In honor of Telethon Weekend (and because .. http://tinyurl.com/5k48av
- scottmarks: With all the great anti-war documentaries made in the past two years, don't waste your time on the made-for-TV-ish likes of TRAITOR.
- scottmarks: All- comedy KPBS Film Club airs tomorrow: With my partner Beth Accomando still recovering from the lo.. http://tinyurl.com/6nkpjh
- scottmarks: AMERICAN IDOL adds Kara DioGuardi to its panel of judges: Kara DioGuardi Just as my annual withdrawal.. http://tinyurl.com/6am72v
-
Quotes, Quips and Fun Facts
-
Fun Facts: When John Wayne died the autopsy revealed 40 lbs. of impacted feces in his colon. Let's move 'em out, Pilgrim!
-
Image Vault
What about the goddamned pickles, Scott? Come on…a stack of those bad boys alongside my double cheeseburger with grilled onions…add a bag of Vitners chips and maybe a “Billy Goat Dark” draft, and you have yourself the perfect lunch experience.
Okay, a Coke. I’m afraid of “Billy Goat Dark” draft.
The pickles were sensational. God knows how many hands picked through the container, but they still tasted great.