An Ode to the Chicago Dive Bar

Pull up a stool, grab an Old Style and a shot of Malört, and if we’re lucky, the Tamale Guy will show up.

“The Old Style sign is like a beacon, shining in the night to offer a sweet respite for the thirsty and depraved,” is the kind of bad poetry I would have scribbled on a napkin while drinking at the Gingerman circa 2006.

If you stroll through the residential streets of Chicago for more than a couple of blocks you’re bound to come across a sight that brings giddy joy to my heart. The building will blend in seamlessly with the three flats and apartments but with one exception, a bright white sign with a blue and red shield hanging over the door. There are only two words on the sign — Old Style — but that is enough to convey exactly what lies inside.

There will be wood paneling. There will be stools, most likely with vinyl cushions. There might be a pool table or a Golden Tee machine, but never both. There will be a guy wearing a Bears hat sitting at the bar by himself, nursing a small glass of beer and eagerly awaiting the opportunity to opine about the team’s need “to play hard-nosed Chicago Bears football.” There will be little wooden bowls of pretzel sticks or popcorn on the bar. And I can guarantee there will be a middle-aged woman behind the bar whose name and life story you’ll learn in between cheap lagers and shots of Malört.

Most importantly, it will not feel like you’re walking into a business trying to make a profit by selling booze. Instead, it will feel like you’ve walked into the warm embrace of your cool aunt’s basement — cozy, welcoming, and filled with people you may not know well, but have a comfortable familiarity with.

Welcome to a true Chicago dive bar.