Walk down Michigan Avenue and you’ll see the high-end shops, the gleaming glass of the Wrigley Building, and tourists snapping selfies by the Chicago River. It’s polished. It's expensive. But if you look for a specific, somewhat dingy staircase leading into the subterranean darkness of Lower Michigan Avenue, everything changes. Down there, the air smells like onions and exhaust. That’s where you find the original Billy Goat Tavern.
It’s not just a restaurant. Honestly, calling it a restaurant feels a bit too formal for a place that basically thrives on shouting at its customers. It’s a subterranean cave of Chicago history, journalism, and weird sports lore that’s managed to survive since 1934 while the city above it turned into a playground for billionaires.
The Curse of the Billy Goat: More Than Just a Marketing Gimmick
Most people know the name because of a goat. Specifically, Murphy.
Back in 1945, William "Billy Goat" Sianis—the Greek immigrant who started the place—tried to bring his pet goat into Wrigley Field for Game 4 of the World Series. He had a ticket for the goat. He even had the goat wearing a sign that said "We got 'em." But P.K. Wrigley, the Cubs owner, kicked them out because the goat smelled. Sianis, who was a master of the "bad press is better than no press" philosophy, allegedly declared that the Cubs would never win another World Series at Wrigley Field.
They didn't. For 71 years.
People think the curse was just a fun story for the newspapers. But for decades, Chicagoans took it seriously. Sianis’s nephew, Sam, would regularly bring goats to the field to try and break the hex. They brought priests. They brought "exorcists." When the Cubs finally won in 2016, a lot of the older guys sitting at the bar at the original Billy Goat Tavern just stared at their beers like they’d seen a ghost. They’d spent their entire adult lives defined by a curse started by a guy who just wanted to sell some burgers.
Don't Ask for a Salad: The "Cheezborger" Reality
If you’ve ever seen the old Saturday Night Live sketch with John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd, you know the routine. "Cheezborger, Cheezborger! No Pepsi, Coke! No fries, chips!"
That wasn't an exaggeration.
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Bill Murray and the SNL crew used to hang out here when they were at Second City. They just took what was happening at the counter and put it on TV. Today, the guys behind the grill still shout it. It’s a bit performative now, sure, but it’s rooted in a very real, very old-school Chicago efficiency. They don't want you to browse. They want you to order, eat, and let the next person in line get their fix.
The menu is aggressively simple. You get a burger. You can get a double or a triple. You get chips—never fries, because they don't have a deep fryer in that cramped kitchen. You get a pickle. The burgers are thin, gray-ish, and pressed flat on a greasy flattop. On their own, they are unremarkable. But when you load them up with the DIY condiment bar—piles of raw onions, pickles, and mustard—they become the perfect Chicago meal. It’s salty. It’s messy. It’s exactly what you want at 11:00 PM on a Tuesday.
A Sanctuary for the "Ink-Stained Wretches"
The location is key. Being tucked away on Lower Michigan Avenue put the original Billy Goat Tavern right between the old Chicago Tribune building and the Chicago Sun-Times building.
For decades, this was the unofficial headquarters for the city's journalists.
Legendary columnist Mike Royko basically lived here. You can still see the "Wall of Fame" covered in yellowing clippings and photos of reporters who spent more time at the Goat than in their own newsrooms. This wasn't a place for networking or "synergy." It was a place where reporters came to hide from their editors, trade tips, and drink cheap beer in the middle of a shift.
There’s a specific energy that comes from being in a basement bar where some of the biggest stories in American history were debated over greasy burgers. It’s a grit that you can’t manufacture with Edison bulbs and reclaimed wood. The walls are dark. The lighting is harsh. The floor feels like it’s seen a few floods.
It's perfect.
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Survival in a Changing City
Chicago has changed a lot since Billy Sianis bought the Lincoln Tavern for a $200 bounced check back in the thirties. The neighborhood around the tavern is now a "Magnificent Mile" of luxury retail. Most of the old newspaper guys are gone—the Tribune moved out of its iconic tower, and the Sun-Times is blocks away.
Yet, the Goat remains.
It stays because it’s one of the few places left that doesn’t care about your status. You’ll see a guy in a $5,000 suit sitting next to a construction worker who just finished a shift on the Red Line. They’re both eating the same greasy burger. They’re both drinking the same Billy Goat Dark Ale.
There’s a comfort in that.
The tavern has expanded, of course. There are locations at Navy Pier and O'Hare Airport. But those feel like "tributes." They are too clean. They have too much light. To get the actual experience, you have to go down the stairs. You have to smell the exhaust fumes from the delivery trucks on Lower Wacker Drive. You have to feel a little bit like you’re entering a secret bunker.
Navigating the Subterranean Labyrinth
Getting there is half the battle. If you’re standing on the sidewalk of Upper Michigan Avenue near the Tribune Tower, you’ll see a small, inconspicuous sign that says "Billy Goat Tavern & Grill" with an arrow pointing down.
Take the stairs.
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You’ll emerge into a world of concrete and shadows. This is Lower Michigan Avenue. It’s where the city’s plumbing and logistics happen. Follow the smell of grilled onions. When you walk in, don't expect a hostess. There isn't one. Walk straight to the counter.
Have your order ready. If you hesitate, the guys behind the grill will let you know about it. It’s not that they’re mean—though some of them definitely are—it’s that they have a rhythm. Don't break the rhythm.
- The Order: Just say "Double Cheez." Don't specify toppings yet.
- The Drink: They have their own house beers. Get the Dark. It cuts through the salt of the meat perfectly.
- The Toppings: Once you get your burger, turn around. There’s a station with tubs of onions and pickles. This is where the burger actually gets its flavor. Don't be shy.
- The Seating: Find a stool near the back if you want to look at the memorabilia. The front is for people who are in a rush.
Why It Still Matters in 2026
In an era of QR code menus and "curated" dining experiences, the original Billy Goat Tavern is a middle finger to modern trends. It’s loud. It’s cramped. It’s physically difficult to find.
But it’s real.
It represents a version of Chicago that is rapidly disappearing—a city defined by its work ethic, its weird superstitions, and its refusal to be fancy. When you sit at that bar, you aren't just a customer; you're part of a lineage that includes Hall of Fame writers, cursed sports fans, and generations of locals who just wanted a cheap meal in a place that felt like home.
It’s easy to dismiss it as a tourist trap because of the SNL connection. And yeah, plenty of tourists go there. But look closely at the people sitting at the bar at 2:00 PM on a weekday. Those aren't tourists. Those are the people who keep the city running. They’re there because the world might be changing above ground, but down in the "Billy Goat," the rules are still the same.
Cheezborger. No Pepsi. Coke.
Actionable Tips for Your Visit
- Bring Cash (Mostly): They do take cards now, but the "cash is king" vibe still lingers. Having a few fives and singles makes the counter interaction much smoother when things get busy.
- Timing is Everything: Avoid the peak lunch hour (noon to 1:30 PM) unless you enjoy being yelled at while standing in a line that stretches out the door. The best time to go is mid-afternoon or late at night when the atmosphere settles into a slow, rhythmic grumble.
- Explore the Walls: Don't just eat and leave. Walk the perimeter. Read the old columns by Mike Royko. Look at the photos of the original Sianis family. It’s a museum disguised as a dive bar.
- Don't Forget the History: If you’re a baseball fan, walk over to the photos of the goat. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the weirdest stories are the ones that end up defining a city’s culture for nearly a century.
- Check the Stairs: There are multiple entrances from the lower level. If you get lost, just keep walking toward the sound of clinking glasses. You'll find it eventually.