One last shot for Mr. Sianis … Royko wants to talk again, sir

 by CYRYL JAKUBOWSKI

The Billy Goat Tavern under Michigan Avenue holds a special place for many journalists. The late great columnist Mike Royko comes to mind. He was a Northwest Sider for a bit, living in Edgebrook, then Lakeview, then Sauganash, and later in Winnetka.

He was the city’s voice.

His prose talked about the working blue-collar man. He was always giving it to the mayor, doesn’t matter which one.

Slats Grobnik was a frequent character, which to me was always a Polish dude on the Northwest Side, but that’s just my guess. He could have been anyone down on their luck in the city. And drunk and needing a paycheck.

Royko is to the Billy Goat as the Billy Goat is to Chicago. Just a legendary piece of lore that should be remembered.

And when news hit last week that Billy Goat proprietor Sam Sianis died recently of old age, the media gave their farewell. RIP Sam. He was 91.

Many in the journalism community knew Sam. He was always there, at the Billy Goat, doing the shtick for the tourists, “Cheezeborger, cheezborger, no fries, chips,” for DECADES. The Sianis family opened several locations over the years thanks to the notoriety of that SNL sketch starring Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi.

All that Sam marketing, plus several presidential visits, and over the course of the years, political photo opportunities, has made the place infamous.

Who can forget the “beer summit” between Mark Kirk and Alexi Giannoulias? Remember him?

If Royko was still alive, he’d butcher these politicians in his columns. Nevermind “Bilandic the Bland” and the snow storm, J. Daley and the ’68 convention, and “Richie” and his shenanigans. He’d chew on Emanuel and the school closings, Lightfoot and the pandemic, and CTU’s Johnson … for running the Chicago Bears out of town.

But to so many journalists in the city, past and present, the Billy Goat is hallowed ground.

It never mattered which newspaper flag you flew under, which news organization you belonged to, you were always there as a “friendly” to drink the home lagers, eat the burgers, and as Royko said that one time ranting about softball, “Hey Sammy, get a round.” 

“If you work for the city of Chicago Police Department, it’s very easy to put together a very good team,” Royko said. “All cop teams are good teams. They are made, primarily, of all Chicagoans who love softball – macho males, and it’s easy to put together a good team.

“If you play for a company like mine (Chicago Sun-Times), that has a relatively small amount of people, and a lot of them are Ivy Leaguers, who aren’t very good at softball – cuz they don’t want to hurt their hands – it’s very hard to put out a good softball team.”

The staff at the Tribune won a Pulitzer and they celebrated at the Goat. Of course. Where else?

All of these people have been brilliant writers and reporters with wicked senses of humor, but they also knew and understood journalism the way it was supposed to be understood. They knew what was newsworthy and what wasn’t. They could smell BS from a mile away, and they could also uncover and sniff out a story from the proverbial muck.

I wanted to share where my mind was in 2007, during my Billy Goat years at lower 430 N. Michigan Ave.

A lonely stairwell leads you there, giving you enough time to count how much money you have and are willing to spend, count the cigarettes for the night and how many of those you are willing to “bum” to the other drunks.

“Enter at your own risk,” the door says.

The warning is meant as a joke, but those familiar with the Billy Goat know that this is a legality that prevents the owner, Mr. Sianis, from any responsibility for the drunken time you are just about to have and what might you do in the future. At least I think.

They don’t even bother to scream “Cheezborger! Cheezborger! No fries! Chips!” once they recognize a familiar face, in this case, a bunch of familiar faces including mine. They remember me and this is a problem.

The Billy Goat tavern is the place where many of Chicago’s legends have drank in, smoked in, talked in, laughed in, cursed in and I wouldn’t be surprised if “screwed  in” also made the list.

What about the women? Trust me, so many female journalists have put down Wild Turkey shots like they were going out of style there, and put many “hardened reporters” under the table.

The Billy Goat is where Royko drank away his hard day of work.

It is the birthplace of the Chicago Cubs curse. It is also the place where Rick Kogan, former hard drinker and Tribune’s reporter, who frequently visited the place.  

“What does he want?” Kogan once yelled across the bar.

A shot.

“Give him one, Nick, so he shuts the f*** up,” he said.

It is just a place that has a soul and a rich history.

After many double-burgers and “You have to eat” warnings, the effects of the booze became apparent. Gotta get back to the Northwest Side. In a cab, preferably. “Where to?” “Belmont and Haaarlmmm.”

And that was just one of the nights at the Billy Goat Tavern.

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