Treasured Memories About Growing Up In Chicago, The Sequel: The Billy Goat Tavern

July 1st, 2008 by Scott Marks

Credit anjan58 @ Flickr.com

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!

Credit mnScouser @ Flickr.com