THERE ARE ONLY a few things that take me back to Milwaukee, my hometown. And except for bowling, moon boots, and watching bad football on metal bleachers in subzero temperatures, they’re all comestible. A Usinger’s bratwurst. Frozen custard. A 2 lb. block of sharp cheddar just like the ones Mom used to give us chunks of when we were teething. And, of course, a good beer. While “a good beer” means different things to different people, two beers brewed for decades in Milwaukee transcend subjectivity. Just as there is Truth, there is Good Beer; appreciation of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Schlitz is not a simple matter of taste, but of right and wrong. They are classic American brews that should be making a robust comeback in these heady days of swollen patriotism and the embrace of absolutes. Should be–yet I’ve spotted a worrisome phenomenon. Signs promoting Pabst and Schlitz may beautify the walls of bars and pubs throughout greater Washington, D.C., but finding an establishment that actually serves these beers is nearly impossible. Consider the Lost Dog Caf in Arlington, Virginia. The Lost Dog is the best sandwich and pizza place within 100 miles of the capital. Order “The Phoenix,” for instance, and a friendly waitress will soon deliver a warm pita stuffed with juicy, marinated chicken, lettuce, and garlic mayo, all smothered in melted mozzarella cheese. Fantastic. The White Pizza with chicken and bacon and spices–and let the record show I’m not a white-pizza guy–is enough to make you swear off tradition. And the “Dog Collars”? Tabasco-soaked onion rings that are certainly more habit-forming than any sleeping pill. But the main reason my weekly schedule now revolves around Friday night at the Lost Dog is the beer list. It’s pre-printed, on thick colored paper. The domestic selection includes some 135 beers. And that list, the bartender informs me with some pride, leaves out dozens of newly added brews. The import list can satisfy long-distance cravings from Thailand to New Zealand to Germany. I can relive the six months I spent in Europe, sitting in a wooden booth at the Lost Dog just a mile from my house. And for one hundredth of the average annual income in Ivory Coast, Lost Dog patrons can have 22.3 ounces of that country’s Mamba beer. In short, the Lost Dog has almost anything a beer connoisseur could want. Except Schlitz. Or Pabst. This despite the fact one of the Lost Dog’s largest decorative signs is a classic Schlitz ad. Picking on the Lost Dog is perhaps unfair. After all, the restaurant’s interior has a canine theme, and the Schlitz ad features two dogs sitting at a dimly lit table swilling “The beer that made Milwaukee famous.” The place is so customer-friendly that I suspect with some gentle pleading–or perhaps a copy of a whiny article pointing out the contradiction–the Lost Dog would offer its customers Schlitz and PBR. That so fine an establishment could be guilty of this oversight reveals the extent of the problem, for while such false advertising was once a minor irritant, it is rapidly becoming a widespread aggravation. Down the road just a few miles, for instance, Whitlow’s on Wilson prominently features a sign for Pabst Blue Ribbon. But when I ordered one, a smug bartender–who’s probably never quaffed anything other than a $7 microbrew–rolled his eyes and muttered in obvious disgust under his breath. Millie and Al’s, a traditional beer and pizza joint in D.C.’s Adams Morgan neighborhood, is the same way–a big Pabst sign, but no Pabst. (They do, however, get points for serving, on tap, another vanishing classic–Miller High Life.) These deceitful decorating touches have become as cheap and inauthentic as the signs for farm equipment found in every T.G.I. Friday’s. Maybe this shouldn’t be surprising–Washington is a town famous for invoking the spirit of blue-collar America, and, except for the occasional tax cut, doing very little. Politicians here, when they’re not busy working on behalf of “the children . . . our future,” tell us their policies will help “Joe Six-pack.” In much the same way, D.C.-area bar owners trade on the retro-hip appeal of these two Milwaukee-born beers, disregarding the fact that Joe’s six-pack was probably Schlitz or Pabst. Though I’m a strong believer in markets, in this case the market needs a friendly nudge. Why not a “Schlitz night”? Buy a case of Schlitz at the grocery store for $10–yes, that’s still possible even in D.C.–and sell each can for $1. Presto–a $14 profit. And any bar selling Schlitz at a buck-a-can bargain price can bet on swollen crowds on that very special night. Bowling alleys could sponsor leagues on Schlitz or Pabst nights and attendance would skyrocket. Man, I miss Milwaukee. –Stephen F. Hayes
