Back in 2018 I visited Milwaukee for one night following a conference in Chicago. In an Uber to the hotel, my driver asked what I was doing there. I said I’d never been before and was curious to see it.
“So, you’re visiting friends or family?”
“No, just visiting Milwaukee.”
“No work here or anything?”
“No, I’ve just always wanted to see Milwaukee.”
“Huh, I’ve never met anyone who was just here to see Milwaukee.” We both laughed, finding each other equally strange.
Last summer a friend texted me, he’d just returned from Milwaukee, and warned, “Don’t do Milwaukee,” as a Second Rate City. I was taken aback, “You didn’t like it?” He’s a barfly too, so at minimum, the bar scene should have provided more than enough fun for him. “No, absolutely nothing going on except our conference. No food of note… the Rave / Eagles club was cool but that’s it.”
The astonishment of my driver was funny, if a little surprising, but the ignorance of my friend was remarkable. I of course ignored his lazy observation and made my way back this summer, and conversely, I was struck by the abundance of activity in the city. Beyond that, every bar was of such a high caliber that my goal of seeing dozens was quickly whittled down to a handful. Each one was full of welcoming, chatty characters so I could never seem to pull myself away and explore more.
As the saying goes, “on every corner in Milwaukee, there’s either a church or a bar.” But enter any bar and you’ll learn that it’s difficult to uproot one’s self and explore new corners. Like shifting sand, the neighborhood taverns of Milwaukee have a way of grabbing hold, and rather than try to squirm free, it’s best to sink deeper down with your new friends.
It was 5 p.m. on Friday and I was on a timeline. The team at the Riverwest 24 highly recommended I be there at the start of the 7 p.m. race. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around the event itself, but I took the advice as gospel. But first, I needed to indulge in the Wisconsin tradition of Friday Fish Fry. After a day of travel this meal had consumed my thoughts. It has roots with the Polish and German Catholics who settled here, the abundance of freshwater fish in the state, and prohibition forcing the thriving taverns of Milwaukee to adapt and serve fish to ride out the dry times. These Friday meals became so popular that what started as a means to survive became a staple.
The Swingin’ Door Exchange is housed in the nearly 150 year old Victorian-style Mackie Building, one of the most notable downtown, and as expected, it was packed on a Friday evening. But I found the one stray seat at the crowded horseshoe bar and saddled up. The seating was compact with patrons elbow to elbow. The cluttered walls, wooden paneling, and dark stained glass windows made the space feel tighter. The chandeliers hanging above the narrow walkways between full, raucous tables added to the air of a celebration at critical mass.
While I waited for my combo fish fry — cod, lake perch, and shrimp — I listened to my sun damaged seatmates chat exclusively about wake boarding and jet skis. The clichés of a Wisconsin summer were immediately apparent, people snowed in for nine months now being released into their brief, jubilant summer window, chasing constant euphoria on the water.
The water is like glass, I go barefooting all the time! …
He could’ve bought a house out there and didn’t! …
We could be on the water together everyday, river or lake! …
The woman wedged between the two large men could only squeeze in a word or a nod but seemed perfectly content sipping a Spotted Cow while being regaled about water sports she’d no doubt participated in her whole life.
My food arrived without delay or fanfare. The mix of light, flaky meat with a heavy, traditional dry breading, along with coleslaw and fries, was divine. I was fortified, ready to dive into whatever might happen at Riverwest 24.
Despite reading up on the race, plus a few conversations with the organizers, what I understood of RW24 was limited. My poor grasp was no one’s fault, Riverwest 24 is larger than life, so it must be experienced to be understood. Its informal name, the People’s Holiday, is apt, because whatever that conjures in your imagination is likely applicable at some point during its 24 hour run.
I arrived at the corner of Center and Pierce in Northeast, the heart of the Riverwest neighborhood, just before 6:40 p.m. It was controlled chaos. Behind the start line, thousands of cyclists filled Pierce Street, making a blocks-long corral north to south. Hundreds more entered from the front, going against the grain on the sidewalks to take their place at the back of the race. Spectators filled what few gaps remained – on the streets, sidewalks, lawns, and porches.
The organizers of the RW24 took over a home near the start line with a PA system and a banner on the porch that read, “Relax, you are already here!” They rattled off directions, guidelines, reminders, and doctrines of the 19 year old event.
And you, with the highlife in hand, you are manager of blocking traffic …
Ok, we are done with safety, is that ok for now? ...
We’re going into philosophy now …
I’ve been saying this for 6-7 years now, I don’t know who all remembers this, but Black Lives STILL Matter…
While many participants and onlookers dressed in street clothes or biking gear, most teams chose identifying features like paper machete fish attached to their helmets, or flags on their bikes. Many were dressed in full costume – dragons, dinosaurs, cows, Packers gear, and in the case of the team next to me, cliché French attire – berets, striped shirts, and a hennin? All with French flags in hand. Racers rode tandem bikes, tall bikes, kids’ bikes, and sidehacks. A few people looked semi-serious about the actual ‘race’ portion of the event, but the majority of the crowd was decidedly not.
As the start horn sounded, all the majesty of this wonderful freak show rolled by in a congested wobble. My French neighbors waved as the circus passed, shouting “Bonsoir! Bon voyage! Au revoir,” over and over. Some were faces they knew, other shouts were in appreciation of a rider’s garb, or sometimes just as a pleasantry. I was beginning to understand why I couldn’t fully comprehend RW24 from afar.
15 minutes later, I made my way across the street, watching the volunteer-only staff block the intersection to thru traffic as the final bikes rolled over the start line. No cops here, just community. The first 4.6 mile loop of the race was underway.
The basic idea is to do that loop, which includes four check points you must hit in order, and having your manifest marked upon completion. Do that 10 times to complete your manifest, then receive a new manifest. And repeat. You can do this as an individual or a team. Yeah, sure. Makes sense.
It was hot and I was parched. I popped into High Dive, a DIY-feeling venue and bar, mostly cleared out for the weekend’s event, save for a few bar stools. I ordered a High Life, asking the bartender, “what’s with the bonus check points?” He shrugged, “I really don’t know,” but the long haired man at ease sitting alone chimed in, “Usually just a fun little game. It’s an optional side quest.” And just like that Adam and I were in cahoots. We stepped outside to check out the scene.
“I just have to assume there are some gnarly accidents we don’t see? Someone on a tall bike nearly wiped out. He saved himself by grabbing the start line canopy.” It was one of several near crashes I had witnessed during the congested start.
“Oh big time, some people are going to lose their cheeks.” The image had us howling.
Adam worked as a cook in Milwaukee for a number of years, and like any good person in the service industry, he knew people. We had two run-ins almost immediately. By the time we were inside for a second drink, we’d run into a third group. Small-waukee I was told. As we did intros, everyone assumed Adam and I had known each other for a while. The fact that we’d just met was of no concern, Milwaukee is friendly, and I was rollin’ with this group now.
We landed the prime real estate of an outdoor table at High Dive and settled in. Despite the cyclists having dispersed along the route, the street was packed, it was a full on party. And given that it was going to last 24 hours, we were in no rush. I blew off plans I’d envisioned for the night and opted to ride the wave of RW24.
A few rounds in, we made our way north. While the crowds ebbed and flowed street to street, the party atmosphere never died. There was always something happening – cyclists reloading on beer in the street, a DJ setting up on a balcony, or revelers spilling into the street from the dark, all without signs of car traffic. And someone in our group always seemed to find another friend in passing. We’d gained bodies and bikes, mobbing towards Art Bar. The whole neighborhood was a patchwork of revelers connecting one block party to the next, creating a unified neighborhood celebration that stood for miles.
We arrived to a rocking live band, and in front of them, fire dancing and aerial gymnastics, the Dead Man’s Carnival, according to the banner. They’d taken over the steps of the school across the street from the bar. Dozens of people sat in the street forming a semi circle around the performance, more stood behind them, all completely captivated. For the rest of us it was simply background noise to a party that seemed unbound by time or space.
Riverwest 24 might be best understood as a Mardi Gras of sorts, where the streets are the party, the bars merely help fuel the fire. Or, you might think of it as a Burning Man that doesn’t suck. Instead of building a temporary community in an uninhabitable place to make those with untold resources feel like they’re part of fringe culture, Riverwest 24 embraces their community at home, creating a legendary neighborhood party that rivals any celebration. There are no corporate dorks cosplaying as artists, narcissists reaching enlightenment through “ethical” non-monogamy, or tech bros consuming and claiming what was perhaps, a once down-to-earth event. RW24 is built by the neighborhood, buoyed by resident volunteers, and everyone participates in some fashion. There’s zero exclusivity, it’s for and by the people of Riverwest, but all our welcome. And the results are obvious: the people do indeed love their holiday.
We refueled on drinks at Art Bar, a space that gives the vibe of a low-key cafe and wine bar. Were it another night, I could imagine casual drinkers playing board games, reading, and appreciating the local artists’ paintings on the wall. This weekend though, it masqueraded as an anything goes dance party. The bartenders were exclusively topless and male, serving a line out the door. A DJ was spinning up front where tables were removed in favor of a dance floor. A group of dancers filled in, intermingling with the stream of customers queuing for the bar. Three men, at least one in his 60s, were sweating it out, dressed only in their boxers like it was their personal living room rave.
Once again, like it was our god given right, an open table appeared before us amidst the chaos on the street, and now, a live brass band was providing the entertainment. While the core of us stayed intact, other friends floated in and out of the group. “Oh shit, it’s already 11:10!” Someone we’d picked up an hour earlier was now back on his bike, about to ride to an unknown location, looking for his Riverwest 24 tattoo. It’s an annual tradition that a new tattoo design is created and inked at different locations. “I don’t one-hundred percent know where the tattoo is, but I gotta get mine in 20.” We were four and half hours into the race, he’d only done one lap, and was traveling to a site for which he did not have an address, for a tattoo design he’d not yet seen. That was what winning here looked like.
Past midnight now, vibes were still high and the streets still packed. But the prominent families and strollers that had earlier mixed seamlessly into the crowd of costumes and glittered faces had begun to wane. It was now us, those invigorated by party favors taken on the streets and buying more rounds from the plastic tables outside the Meow Bar & Lounge. Racers and onlookers continued filtering in from side streets, the make up of the neighborhood always in flux.
Just as quickly as we met, I watched Adam bypass the outdoor bar we were headed to, walk into the darkness, and away from the spectacle. An Irish goodbye for the ages. I went back to the group, and told them he was a goner. I was getting the itch to stay through the morning hours, but I chose my other commitments of the weekend over a full tilt into gonzo journalism. I left with hugs and swayed into the unknown. I’d only been in town for eight hours but I could feel the embrace of our country’s premier DIY neighborhood event.
While running off the previous evening’s decadence, I unintentionally stumbled onto Checkpoint 3 under the bridge of N. Holton Street, about a mile and half from the start line. I expected a group of haggard riders and revelers but was greeted by smiling faces, live music under the overpass, and that same smattering of young, old, eccentric, and normie coming together at 11 a.m., 16 hours into the race. A man wearing a bright red top hat over his helmet, riding a bike turned into a 6-foot Anglerfish, cruised by and gave me a gentle, elongated “Rawwwwrr!” as his team rolled by.
Along the Milwaukee River, I passed through a nice, if soulless, stretch of new build condos before heading into the varied architecture of downtown, along the Lake Michigan waterfront, and around the one-of-a-kind Santiago Calatrava designed Quadracci Pavilion, which houses the Milwaukee Art Museum. I was told by several people that the Pavilion, completed in 2001, along with the rise of the Bucks during the Giannis Antetokounmpo era, were key factors in the revitalization of the greater downtown area, but also the city as a whole. Amazing what a single, extraordinary design and some winning can do for a place.
I ended up at the Milwaukee Art Museum shortly after the run. It’s a wonderful spot, not only because of the art it houses, but because the building is art. Wedged between downtown and Lake Michigan, the “brise soleil” of the building, an exterior feature that deflects sunlight to moderate indoor temperature, doubles as movable wings that open and close twice daily, mimicking that of a bird. The museum offers extensive lake views, and in addition to being drenched in sunlight, the white interior and exterior are the antithesis of a stuffy museum. For a Saturday afternoon it was not overrun, making it a great casual pop in.
I mainly took note of the small but captivating exhibition on the Wisconsin Magic Realists, a group of mid-20th century artists from the area. They mix commentary on America, consumerism, and our relationship to nature with sharp and realistic portrayals of landscapes, natural and manmade, layered with distorted dream states. They even mocked regionalist artists as superficial, making themselves the art world’s punk rock predecessors. I’m confident there is a story behind the story somewhere here, and I patiently wait for Meaghan Garvey to uncover it. It just seems like the only way I’ll learn more about this small but impactful group.
I was now 24-hours into my stay and had yet to fully indulge in the beer of Brew City, but I’d already seen how omnipresent it was. I had passed a Blatz building, Schlitz Park, and several High Life “Girl in the Moon” murals, as well as the Pabst Theatre and High Life Theatre. I was even staying at The Brewhouse Inn, part of the old Pabst brewery complex. It’s surrounded by blocks more of the defunct facility in what’s conveniently named the Brewery District, an area slowly reviving the ghost of a beer mecca.
What used to be the big four breweries of Milwaukee have been reduced to one – Miller. At the turn of the 20th century, and for much of it, Milwaukee was the world’s largest beer producer with Blatz, Pabst, Schiltz, and Miller all calling it home, and together occupying all 4 of the top spots for largest breweries in the world. Even up until the 1980s, Milwaukee had the greatest brewing capacity for any city worldwide.
The big four’s fall began in 1958 when Pabst purchased Blatz, beginning a new era of consolidation in beer. Later, in 1981, Schlitz workers went on strike, with the union confident they could double their current benefits and wages, landing a similar deal to what they had secured for Miller and Pabst. But no such luck. Schlitz, it seemed, was not bluffing, the money wasn’t there and they closed a few months after the strike. And finally, in 1996 Pabst moved out of Milwaukee completely. That left Miller as the only macro brewery remaining.
While no longer the world capital for beer making, it’s worth noting that Miller is still producing 10 million barrels of beer annually. Pabst did end up purchasing the brand assets to Schlitz in 1999, relaunching in 2008, and reviving the great name. However, as of May 2026, the beer has been discontinued. A classic beer officially wiped off the map.
If you nerd out on beer then the Miller Brewery Tour is worth it for the sheer size. Silicon Valley has their tech campuses and Milwaukee has brewery campuses. We all know which one is cooler. The gem of the tour is the manmade Historic Miller Caves below the facility, carved out in the late 1800s. The caves were a way to keep the beer cool prior to refrigeration, so in addition to the already cool temps below ground, these caves were filled with ice cut from local lakes during the winter. Once refrigeration came into existence, the caves were closed off and forgotten for 40 years before being rediscovered.
As much as I am not a typical tourist, I did love the gift shop. If ‘The Girl in the Moon’ brings you joy, so too will their merch. Endless designs appear on tee shirts, hoodies, jackets, sweaters, button downs, hats, and socks. There’s dog gear, keychains, sunglass straps, glassware, even High Life soap. Whatever you can slap a logo on, they’ve got it.
Yes, macro-brews reign supreme in Milwaukee, and it’s fun to celebrate them. In a world where the $9 draft and $18 cocktail are now normal, we should embrace the $3 ice cold High Life bottle and put it on its deserved pedestal. But, like everywhere in the world, even if we are past the peak of the craft beer craze, it has carved out a home here too.
I’ve never seen microbrews done quite the way Pilot Project has though, a brewery and bar who promotes themselves as an incubator. This basically means they do all the hard work — production, marketing, distribution — for a new brewer who comes to the table with recipes and a vision. In this way, new brewers can test their ideas and build a fanbase without the full investment of a brewery and build out. The adjacency to a pub residency or commissary kitchen in which fewer barriers exist between a creative vision and a business was both cool and encouraging.
Originally started in Chicago, Pilot Project added Milwaukee to the mix in 2022, taking over the former space of MKE Brewing, in the Brewery District, and giving them their biggest footprint to crank out substantially more beer. In a city full of dark, classic neighborhood bars, Pilot Project feels more closely aligned with the Art Museum, offering a wide open and sun drenched space thanks to a fully skylit ceiling that feeds patrons, and the vine covered walls, much needed vitamin-D. It’s a great bar to try new and funky beers, drinking Pilot’s own Brewer’s Kitchen recipes, or becoming an early adopter of up-and-coming breweries like Donna’s and Funky Town Brewing that, as intended, proved they had a place in the market.
If Riverwest 24 taught me that Milwaukee is a place where the people create the world they want, then the Milwaukee Brewers’ shuttles reinforced this. I had no plans to see baseball Saturday night until I learned of the shuttle phenomenon. There are 40+ bars across Milwaukee that run shuttles back and forth between their bar and the stadium. They begin running 90-120 minutes before the opening pitch, until everyone has been transported, then resume at the 6th or 7th inning to start bringing people back. To ride, you just need to buy any food or drink from the bar and you’ll get a wristband that gets you onboard.
For a city without a downtown baseball stadium, this is the perfect outcome. Pregame at your favorite bar, avoid drinking and driving (but drinks are welcome on the shuttle!), take in the game, and return to the bar. The “Who’s on Third” bar shuttle was admittedly bro-ed out and felt somewhat like I was pledging for a fraternity. Part of me wanted to bail or be killed on the spot, but as a lifelong sports fan I’ve learned to accept the notion that the lowest common denominator people will often overtake any sporting event and try to infringe on my joy. To overcome you must simply take a deep breath, then a swig of beer, and rise above. So, despite annoying songs like “Hooked on a Feeling,” “Country Roads,” and “Living on a Prayer,” belted by the basic boys surrounding me, I was able to ignore their one-dimensional personalities and chat with the driver, Jesse, and my seatmate, Samantha.
As a driver Jesse assured me the money was good through the baseball season, while winters were hard with a fraction of the riders for Bucks games. “This city deals in meat, cheese, and alcohol, and I’m trying to get a degree in nutrition while driving the shuttle. Go Figure. It’s not always easy.” It was summer though, and his spirits were high as he drove the party to a midseason game between the worst team in the league (the Rockies) and the best (the Brewers). For Samantha, she was in town for a few nights before heading to Green Bay for the Packers’ shareholders meeting that Monday. She’d bought a share during their latest public offering and was taking in Milwaukee before heading north. No question that on this bus she was the only seatmate I could’ve tolerated.
While I chose Who’s on Third for sheer convenience, and the bar was perfectly fine, going to a bar that you want to spend time in will result in a preferred shuttle experience, a detail I overlooked. But hey, the game was fun, the Brewers won 8-5, and Jesse’s shuttle got me to and from American Family Field for free. And now post-game, I was free of any “obligations,” and armed with a naive optimism for documenting the endless bars of Milwaukee on foot.
Following a quick meal at Goodkind, their signature spicy crab pasta and a cocktail makes for a good reset, I headed to Puddler’s Hall, originally a union hall for immigrant iron workers, and the second oldest tavern in the city. It’s your standard neighborhood bar with sports memorabilia and historic photos on the walls, plus deep union ties. The slogan “eight hours for work, eight hours for rest, and eight hours for what we will,” is written across the wall. In our new world of private equity and scams as legitimate business practices, I’d like to suggest we reduce that slogan to “5 hours for work, 8 hours for rest, and 11 hours for what we will.”
I kept my conversation with the bartender and new friends, Joanna and Jim, to a couple of beers, but I still got some history lessons of the Bay View neighborhood – the unions, Italian roots, and two infamous incidents. The Bay View Massacre – where in 1886 some 14,000 trade workers gathered to strike against their employers, demanding the enforcement of the 8 hour work day. They were fired upon from the National Guard, killing seven and injuring several more. And the Bay View Incident of 1917, where anarchists disrupted a rally of a local pastor from a Methodist church, leading to two anarchists being killed and two police officers wounded. Two months later a bomb was found outside the church, believed to be in response to the incident, and taken to the local police station where it detonated, killing nine officers and one bystander – the worst police tragedy the country had seen prior to September 11th.
It was obligatory that I grab a beer at the Cactus Club, just a few blocks away, where the green neon called to me, and is the site of the first White Stripes show outside of Michigan, back in 1999. It has been a proving ground for bands who eventually break out (QOTSA, Amyl and the Sniffers, Bright Eyes, Death Cab) and the energy matched it. Inside the front bar was full while the street buzzed with frenetic smokers, kids flowing in and out of the all ages venue as the bass pulsed onto the sidewalk. I felt old but they have specific club rules that denounce all isms, including ageism, so I too was at home.
While waiting for a ride, I crossed over to Club Giribaldi where a metal band was loading their van and chatting with fans after a show. Inside, the bar had emptied, but the hip-hop duo Ultra (Kool Keith and Tim Dog) bumped from the speakers. If a spot is rockin’ the abstract profanity of Kool Keith, I’m in. I ordered a quick fernet, and like a gentleman, without a word, the bartender poured himself one and cheersed.
My true destination, Koz’s Mini Bowl, is not a place that can be fully captured by pictures and descriptions on the internet. It is indeed a dive that has mini-bowling in the back, but more accurately, Koz’s is of another era, frozen in the amber of spilled ale and wood paneled walls, an inclusive neighborhood joint that has always been welcoming, before inclusive was a word used to describe a public space.
Jim Koz, the owner, seemed to love a new face and immediately asked my name and toured me around the bar. The front room has darts and a pool table with walls covered in celebrity autographs and midwest sports and beer memorabilia. The mini-bowl — the internet calls it duck pin bowling but Koz corrected me when I used the term (and there is a difference) — is four shortened lanes with small, hole-less bowling balls, and all manual scoring. In the pindeck there is no technology to return the ball and reset pins, instead human pinsetters place the pins upright and send your ball back up the gutter.
“How long have you run the place?” I asked.
“Since I was born. What can I say? I’m a Koz.”
In my head I’d been transported to the 1970s, and outside of the TouchTunes streaming from my seatmate DJ’s phone, no one could tell me I hadn’t. Koz’s certainly created the atmosphere of an old-school bowling alley lounge, or the camaraderie of a quintessential cop bar from any number of movies, but it also had the comfort of a basement hangout where there’s a second fridge reserved for beer and frozen pizza. An older regular had even fallen asleep on his stool like it was his couch, beer in front of him, half full. No one bothered him. He woke up later, back in conversation with Koz like nothing happened. The space invoked a palpable nostalgia for something I’d seen on screens and pages more than I’d lived.
DJ was an easy going guy, so much so that I don’t know what spurred our conversation, it just began as they often do at these types of bars. He’d grown up in the neighborhood and still lived nearby, and in fact, his very first job was as a pin setter here. Koz didn’t remember him, and seemed unimpressed by that fact. DJ taught me dice (which I had a tenuous grasp of), a game so popular in Milwaukee, that in just about any bar you visit, you’ll hear a shaker getting slammed into the bar top. The first couple of times it happened, I thought an argument had turned physical, only to realize someone had kicked off another friendly game.
Koz was hyperactive, the kind of energy where your next drink was being served before you finished the beer in hand, a good thing to be sure, but there was also a meandering impulsiveness. Conversations started and stopped. They picked up later after he served others, returned from a back room, finished a different conversation, completed other obligations, or satisfied his endless whims. His energy manifested physically through a habit of drawing one of his long legs up on the drink rail so his knee was at his chest, bouncing up and down, as he chatted up customers. Despite the stance, no one was fazed.
The most fascinating thing about Koz’s was not Koz himself, or the mini-bowl, which I never got to play as it was occupied all night, or even the guestbook I forgot to sign where the first signature is, for some reason, the real Tom Segura. No, it was that someone who knew DJ from a past life, and seemed to consider him a snake, came to the bar, ordered a drink, and sat on the other side of DJ. He settled in close and let DJ feel his presence — a calm anger. It was immediately clear to me it was not a friendly encounter.
The acquaintance started down the road of settling what he felt needed an abrupt end that evening, opening the conversation with a faux-friendly directness, “So what’s up, DJ?” It carried a restrained tone of indignation, stating his name with a bluntness that alluded to violence approaching. He acknowledged me only with a glare then set his sights back on DJ. He said something to the effect of “So why haven’t you been around?” DJ, in no rush, eventually turned, acknowledged him, and began to explain himself. I mostly tuned out, chatted with Koz, and kept the corner of my eye on it all.
The back and forth remained calm, ending after a few minutes. The man kept his cool, but he carried a stewing uneasiness. Neither had moved seats — he stared straight ahead, sipping his drink while DJ turned back towards me. We started a game of dice and I began to forget there was a confrontation at all, but he remained one seat over. Now and again, I’d catch him shooting a peripheral glance our way. Eventually a “You know what?” was delivered with a firm hand on DJ’s shoulder. It was immediately met by DJ with a slight turn of his head and a raise of his own hand, coupled with, “Nah, I already explained this to you.” He shook his shoulders free but no eye contact was made. I tensed up, expecting an explosion of anger. But something in DJ had stifled him.
Whether he decided this was not the place to erupt, or he knew he was in the wrong, I don’t know. DJ had executed some deescalation wizardry and extinguished whatever was at the surface and about to burst. It was a beautiful thing that made me love Koz’s more, Wisconsin friendliness had snuffed out uninvited chaos. The night carried on with more dice, TouchTunes, and wild banter until closing time, when Koz reminded us, “Cullin Jenkins will be in at 2:30 tomorrow, come by and get some Packer’s gear signed.”
The best example of the neighborhood bar in Milwaukee may well be the Bubbler. It does all the things a good neighborhood bar should, yet with its location in southern Bay View, it was the rare case in Milwaukee where it was the only immediate option. But if the Bubbler is your only walkable bar, consider yourself blessed.
The building has a limestone front, novel amongst its craftsmen home neighbors. Inside, the bar is shaped like a long question mark, multiple tables line the wall, and there’s video poker in the back, plus a patio. On a Sunday evening after being a tourist for the day, there was no finer place to be. The bar had energy, but it was unobtrusive. The golden hour lighting passed through the windows, mixing with the red glow of the neon Bubbler sign, offering a relaxed ambiance for those nursing a hair of the dog drink. The smell of pizza wafted from the back, filling the room with warmth.
It must be Wisconsin law, because like everywhere else, before I could finish my High Life, a cold one floated down the bar to me. The predominance of the TouchTunes app was another phenomenon I’d not seen elsewhere, but I liked it if only because I could make small talk with a neighbor and get them to play songs I wanted to hear, without ever getting up. I did just that, chatting country music with my neighbor two seats down, a younger man free and easy, scrolling his phone. Having recently moved back from Nashville, he wanted to keep the country theme going, and asked what to play next. He lit up at the suggestion of Johnny Paycheck’s “Fifteen Beers.” I told him I’d roughly hit that number last night at Koz’s, so it only seemed fair.
We delighted in the rowdy romp & twang of Paycheck before our pizzas arrived. The Bubbler rents out the back to Vinchi’s, which makes tavern-style pizza — distinguished by the cracker thin crust, an abundance of cheese, and cut into squares. I ordered a small 12” SMO — sausage, mushroom, and onion — the classic topping trio of the region. It was perhaps the first time a 12” pie has felt like an impossible task to take down, the measurement was surely a poor approximation. The thin but rigid crust allows for heaping amounts of toppings too, and while no bite feels excessive, it is heavy.
The delight of the Bubbler could’ve easily been my farewell to Milwaukee, but I had to get to Bryant’s. In a city built by beer, it’s counter-intuitive that a cocktail spot is the most well known bar in the city and yet Bryant’s Cocktail Lounge is. It does so while skirting any trends or expectations of what a cocktail bar should be.
Bryant’s is famous for their drinks, not only because their bartenders are terrific, but because of how you order, there is no menu. Sure, you can grab a high ball or a classic, but the true experience is coming in and simply providing them with your mood or a theme. I told them I’d been hot and on my feet all day and needed something both light and energizing. I received a drink along the lines of a gin based mojito, the mint and lime were present, but there were hints of cucumber and maybe yerba mate or green tea for a pick-me-up? I don’t know, but it gave me life.
Another customer provided a much more ambiguous angle, “I want something World Cup inspired.” The bartender took it in stride and came back with a twist on the Spanish cocktail the Kalimotxo (Spain won the World Cup a few weeks prior, you see), taking the base of red wine and Coke, and reimagining a regional mainstay. Their dedication to the art of cocktails, knowing the classics in and out, and giving themselves the freedom for invention and expression, has won them national acclaim.
For my next drink they made me a Brandy Old Fashioned, a regional variant that swaps Bourbon for Brandy and mixes in a splash of 7Up (sweet) or sour mix (sour), and muddled fruit. The reason for the Brandy, they explained, was one part a taste for it and one part what was available post-WWII. Then, distilleries were closing down, low quality booze was being sold, and distributors were desperate for consistency when they stumbled upon a cache of well-aged brandy that would turn their fortunes around. And, of course, bring about another Wisconsin tradition.
What I found most endearing about Bryant’s though, was the relaxing vibe of the place, proof that a cocktail bar can be warm and inviting, not stuffy nor sterile, or overpriced (the majority of drinks here sit in the $10-$15 range).
Bryant’s is built in an old home offering a classic lounge feel so it’s certainly not the industrial chic vibe that’s common now, but it also avoids overstepping into imitation speakeasy. The seating is leather booths or cushioned, backed bar stools. There’s low red lighting throughout, but behind the bar is one aquarium that provides a cooling contrast to the room. Here, you’ll chat with the staff like it’s a neighborhood bar, ‘cause it is. Though Bryant’s has traded bottles of Miller for inventive cocktails, the vibe remains Wisconsin friendly and easy. Even the dress code was chill. I arrived in cut off jean shorts and a tee and saw other scrubs like myself mixed in with actual, well dressed adults you might expect at a high end joint. All are welcome.
What can I say? Milwaukee, Wisconsin just feels right. The comfort runs deep, so much so, that I blew off a few high priority spots without regret. I never got the 3 Alarm Special from Hosed on Brady’s — a beer, a shot, and a pull tab for $5. All day, every day. I never “Closed Wolski’s,” the most well known dive in the city. And I never visited the Uptowner, the oldest continuously running bar in Milwaukee. There’s too much quantity, and quite frankly, the quality is too high to see it all in a weekend. Understated from the outside, maybe, but once you’re inside any establishment here, the magnetism is undeniable.
Milwaukee has mastered the craft of being a low effort, high reward city. Like a classic book that only takes a few pages to transport you elsewhere, the only requirement being that you start reading, Milwaukee manifests in the same way. Step onto the streets and open any number of unassuming doors, the city will capture you, and you’ll be better for it. You only have to be willing to go.
Tremendous work as always man. I was dead impressed by the Chicago Pilot Project when I was there - had no idea they'd branched out, glad you enjoyed it. Koz = now VERY high on my must visit list.