Nancy Young wrote:

> Around here many towns have limited the number of liquor liscences.
> This is because they don't want booze sold on every corner, even in
> restaurants. Even if a restaurant qualifies for a license doesn't mean
> there are any available. They have to wait until someone else goes out
> of business. And, no, they are not cheap, last I heard.


Yup, this has become a "quality of life" issue here in Chicawgo. When Mayor
Daley II got into power in 1989 one of his goals was to put the kibbosh on
the large number of likker licenses:

http://www.chicagomag.com/stories/0703liquor.htm


The Dry Season
By Steve Rhodes

"Let's face it: Chicago is no longer a shot-and-a-beer town. The rep
lingers, but reality has moved on, sort of like the notion of the Chicago
Bears as skull-cracking Monsters of the Midway. The city of neighborhoods
was once the city of neighborhood taverns. No more. There are just over half
as many taverns in the city today (1,479) as there were a decade ago
(2,728).

This isn't just a reflection of the changing attitudes toward drinking in
America, though that is certainly a part of it. It is more squarely the
result of the aggressive liquor policy of Mayor Richard M. Daley, with an
assist from numerous aldermen. In one respect, the mayor has cleaned up the
town, creating stringent new liquor licensing procedures that keep out the
riffraff, including organized crime, more effectively than in the past. His
administration has shut down scores of bad bars and troublesome taverns with
histories of selling drugs, serving minors, or disturbing the neighbors

In another respect, though, the clampdown on Chicago's drinking life has
eroded one of the city's special charms, a development that troubles Ray
Oldenburg, a retired sociologist whose widely praised 1989 book The Great
Good Place celebrated neighborhood bars, coffee shops, bookstores, and
salons as being at the heart of communities. "I guess the city is being
rendered safe for puritans," he says. In Chicago, bars that are purely
places to drink are a diminishing breed; in at least some parts of the city,
it's nearly impossible to get a liquor license if you don't serve food. "If
someone came in here wanting to get a tavern license, I'd pretty much let
them know right up front that the answer is no," says North Side alderman Vi
Daley (43rd). "We haven't done a tavern license in a long time."

Some 37 of the city's 50 wards are covered at least in part by moratoriums
prohibiting new liquor licenses-except for restaurants. "That's why there
are so many Bar Louies," complains one of the city's prominent
restaurateurs.

It's not that restaurants have it easy, either. Even upscale restaurants
backed by well-known owners and chefs routinely open without their liquor
licenses, due to the arduous application process, which requires, among
other things, that every investor-and investor's spouse-be fingerprinted for
a police background check. "Every opening is without a license," the
prominent restaurateur says. "When Mia Francesca opened on Bryn Mawr, the
license was three weeks late. There were seven [other Francesca restaurants]
already. C'mon!"

While many cities have instituted more restrictive liquor policies in recent
years, it's particularly striking to see it happen in Chicago. Yes, the
temperance movement had deep roots here. But if ever there was a city whose
history has been tied up with booze, this is it. "Free-flowing alcohol is
what cemented the original relationships between fur trappers, settlers,
soldiers, and local Indians in the 1600s and 1700s," Robert G. Spinney wrote
in his history, City of Big Shoulders (2000). In 1855, Mayor Levi Boone, of
the Know-Nothing Party, touched off the Lager Beer Riot when he banned
alcohol sales on Sundays. Al Capone built his empire as a bootlegger. In
1931, Anton Cermak was elected in part on a pledge to end Prohibition; the
mayor was known as the "wettest man in Chicago." And let's not forget that
when Alderman "Paddy" Bauler famously declared Chicago was not ready for
reform, he worked out of a saloon that doubled as his ward office. The
"wets" and "drys" have always competed for power in Chicago.

Daley isn't dry. But though he's not a teetotaler, he certainly is not wet.

About a year ago, Jerry Roper, the president and chief executive of the
Chicagoland Chamber of Commerce, acting on business owners' rising
frustration with the city's liquor policy and its stranglehold on the
hospitality industry, arranged a meeting with Daley's liquor czar, Winston
Mardis. Roper had a single question: Why has it become so hard to get a
liquor license in Chicago?

* * *

The short answer: Because that's the way Daley wants it. Even during the
1989 special primary, before he was first elected mayor, Daley thought
Chicago was awash in neighborhood nuisances, and he consulted with experts
about how to gain greater control over liquor licensing in the city. "A bad
liquor establishment can tear the fabric of a neighborhood and send it into
a decline," he would later declare. (Daley did not comment for this story.)

By state law, the mayor is the city's liquor commissioner. But in practical
terms, the job's daily decision making falls to the director of the Mayor's
License Commission and Local Liquor Control Commission. After he became
mayor, Daley appointed a little-known bureaucrat named Winston Mardis to
that job. His ability to implement the mayor's vision is the (not so secret)
key to his success. "If he didn't do the mayor's bidding, he wouldn't have
lasted," says former Far Southeast Side alderman John Buchanan (10th), who
was often at odds with Daley and Mardis.

[...]

Daley's liquor policy is clearly informed by his vision of the city as an
orderly, clean, family-friendly place. In his first year in office, he set
about reworking the city's liquor ordinance, making it tougher to get a
license, and giving residents a say in allowing new liquor establishments in
their neighborhoods.

[...]

Over the years, the Daley administration has tried a variety of measures to
crack down on liquor establishments, including an aggressive sting program
involving undercover minors. In 1993, Daley said the city had "far too many
liquor licenses" and called for a freeze on new licenses. It's hard to know
if the mayor was serious or just keeping the pressure on. No new bars or
restaurants that serve alcohol at all? It's hard to imagine a robust Chicago
under those conditions.

"We are not looking to systematically reduce the number of licenses in
Chicago," Mardis says. "Absolutely not." And in fact, while the number of
tavern and liquor store licenses has dropped dramatically in the past
decade, the number of incidental licenses-for restaurants and other
establishments that do not serve primarily liquor-has risen slightly (1,610
to 1,881).

[...]

--
Best
Greg