The bar had been open for two hours, and all the beer orders were identical.
In the basement of Schubas Tavern in Lake View on Wednesday, only a quarter barrel remained. Tonight might be the night, the bartenders said, looking down the bar at the patrons sitting in front of tapered pilsner glasses etched with the word “Schlitz.”
They’d come to pay their respects, along with a sidecar of regret for not drinking more $5 drafts when they could.
The Pabst Brewing Company put the 177-year-old brand — the “Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous” — on ice last week, likely for the final time. The Wisconsin Brewing Company is permitted to make a final, original spec 80-barrel batch on Saturday.
Chicago’s history as a thirsty city only 90 miles from the founding Schlitz brewery has left ardent fans crying in their beer. Bars like Schubas have eulogized its passing with final pourings. Another bar with historic Schlitz ties — “Friends of Friends” in West Town, which opened last year — will host a Schlitz sendoff on Memorial Day.
Shortly after word went out last month that Schubas was down to the last few barrels, David Rzeszutko, 31, was among those who began flooding in to pay respects. On Wednesday, Rzeszutko was drinking a Schlitz with two friends and showing off a photo of his cherished thrift store jacket, part of his collection of vintage brand memorabilia.
“It’s aesthetically gorgeous, and its roots are in Chicago,” Rzeszutko said.
At the turn of the 20th century, Schlitz was the best-selling beer in the world. Chicago, with its heavy German population, was a critical market for Joseph P. Schlitz, who married the widow of founder August Krug, took over the business and named it after himself. After the 1871 Great Chicago Fire burned down many breweries and taverns, Schlitz was shipped to the rebuilding city, generating customer loyalty.
The company cribbed the “Tied House” concept from the United Kingdom, paying to construct European looking store-and-flat buildings that would advertise, legitimize and sell a single beer. Schubas, housed in a striking building designed in the German Renaissance Revival style, was such a place until Prohibition legislated an end to the practice. Ten former Schlitz Tied-Houses sporting the famous globe logo, plus a brewery stable, are official Chicago landmarks.
“Week after week, month after month, it’s our top draft seller,” said Adam Jevne, 38, Schubas’ beverage manager, who pours up to 500 glasses a week..
So the news from its distributor in mid-February that Schlitz was kaput “came as a total surprise,” Jevne said. “I said, ‘Done?! Done done?’
“I doubled my order immediately.”
Of course, few brands are immune to change. In the last half century, the Schlitz brand has been buffeted by cost-cutting changes to its recipe that turned off loyalists, as well as dubious advertising campaigns, buyouts by brewing conglomerates and a craft beer revolution that only worsened already-declining sales. Schlitz — along with other one-syllable names like Blatz and Pabst launched by other German immigrants in Milwaukee — had become a niche brand consumed by old men and young hipsters, even then as much for nostalgia as taste.
Pabst left people like Jevne in the dark about the “end days,” he said. The company said this week 7that the brand was put on an indefinite “hiatus” to reduce rising costs.
Interest in the original Milwaukee beers has been kept alive in part by a seemingly bottomless stock of collectible bar art and gear displayed or worn semi-ironically. In the highly competitive world of beer sales, signage, lighting and glassware were provided free to saloon owners to encourage brand loyalty.
When Alex Madsen heard Schubas was down to its last keg, he scotched his plans and headed over from his home in the neighborhood, arriving arrived at the bar when the doors opened at 5 p.m.
“If I’m not going to get the last Schlitz, at least I’ll be here when somebody does,” Madsen, 36, said in a raspy voice.
Madsen got the attention of bartender Jair Reyna and ordered two more Schlitzes, one for a newcomer. Reyna said he could tell from the lack of fizz that they were getting near the bottom of the barrel.
A few seats away, two women who had come for the music had heard the bad news. They sat with the fading light of sunset filtering through their golden drafts, waiting for their food order.
“It’s maybe not my first pick,” said Jenna Webb, 24, “but it’s a regular in the lineup. It’s just such a classic beer.”
“It’s delicious, it’s light, it’s crisp,” said her friend Kamila Czyszczon, 26.
Beau Hoffmann, 35, knocked one down before his gig selling concert merchandise. “It’s everyone’s dad and grandpa’s favorite beer,” he said.
But this week the biggest Schlitz fans at Schubas appeared to be the employees. “It goes down easy, and it’s cheap,” said Reyna, 26.
At about five minutes before 8 p.m., a patron ordered a Schlitz to go with his burger and fries.
Night manager Tyler Sone, 34, angled the glass and pulled the tap back as he had done so many times before. Not quite halfway up, the stream of beer ran dry.
“That’s it.”
Customers snapped to attention.
The remains trickled into Madsen’s glass, then into three shot glasses for the staff.
With a clink and a toss back, the last Schlitz was gone.