Old Style beer and reflecting on the good old days

There is something inherently timeless about enjoying a cold beer on a warm evening in Chicago, even as everything else evolves. For me, that memory consistently brings me back to Old Style.

In the mid 1980s, Old Style was more than just a beer—it was woven into the very fabric of the city. It was the drink you reached for without a second thought, the one that filled coolers and clinked in brown paper bags, and the beverage that appeared wherever friends congregated. It was, without a doubt, Chicago’s beer—or at least that was the sentiment. It didn’t matter that it was brewed in Wisconsin; that small contradiction only enhanced its charm, much like a family secret that everyone was aware of but no one truly minded.

Its popularity was well-deserved. Old Style offered a simple, straightforward taste that didn’t seek the spotlight but consistently delivered satisfaction. It wasn’t about impressing anyone, and that was precisely what made it successful. It was easy to drink, readily available, and perhaps most importantly for a group of young people in the city—it was budget-friendly. There was no need to fret over finances or argue about who owed what. You simply purchased a case or two, and the evening unfolded naturally.

The highlight of the week was undoubtedly Friday and Saturday nights. After a long work week, we would find ourselves outdoors—whether in backyards, on stoops, porches, at lake Michigan (regarding the lakefront, I am of the opinion that the statute of limitations has expired), or any place we could enjoy a breeze. The summer heat of Chicago would linger in the air, heavy and persistent, but that first cold sip would slice right through it. The cans would perspire in our hands as the sun set, casting a golden hue over everything before the streetlights began to flicker on.

Those evenings were not solely about the beer, of course. They revolved around laughter, the stories that grew more entertaining (or absurd) with each retelling, and the kind of friendships that felt unbreakable at that moment. Old Style was simply the common thread that connected it all—passed around, opened with a crack, and always present.

These days, my refrigerator appears somewhat different. It is stocked with microbrews—IPAs with names I can hardly recall, stouts that resemble dessert menus, and lagers made with meticulous care and pride. I have grown to value the diversity, the experimentation, and the artistry involved in it all.

However, occasionally, I find myself reaching for an Old Style.

When I do, it feels as though I am flipping a switch. I am transported back to those Chicago summers, interacting with friends, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the chill of the can in my hand. It is simpler, perhaps even a bit rough around the edges—but it is authentic.

Regardless of how many new flavors emerge, there remains something uniquely special about that familiar taste. Not because it is the finest beer I have ever tasted—but due to the memories it conjures.

And sometimes, that is precisely what one seeks.