Courtesy of Hubbell House
What makes a bar stand the test of time? Is there a set of know-them-when-you-see-them abstractions, akin to what makes a dive bar divey? Charm helps. The difference between antique, historical, and vintage is—respectively—at least 100, 50, and 20 years old. But a revered old bar is, of course, different from simply an old bar—those clapboard and tarpaper haunts buckled in the country like wet cardboard, which, while fun and serving their purpose, lack a certain charm. Ultimately, though, a bar is just a bar—old or not. What makes it special is up to you.
The Hubbell House
Mantorville (1856)
I can’t stress this enough: Visit Mantorville. There isn’t a tremendous amount of commerce to speak of, but it gives heavyweights like Lanesboro and Lindström a run for their money in the charm department. It’s a 1.48-square-mile ville bisected by the Zumbro River, with a population that barely tips 1,000. The homes are big and stately; the courthouse on the hill—the oldest in Minnesota—looks like it once held Edgar Allan Poe in contempt. The only chain in town is a Casey’s gas station (and, if we’re getting annoyingly granular, a Thrivent financial planner on Clay Street), and the whole place feels vaguely New England-ish. But Mantorville’s crown jewel, of course, is The Hubbell House.
Entering The Hubbell House, which is older than Minnesota itself, I get the same weltering in the chest that I do waiting in line for a ride at Disneyland: The atmosphere downshifts to another time and place. But, unlike Disney, the details are totally uncontrived—everything is gorgeous and authentic, from the light fixtures to the stained glass casting honeyed light over the bar. I make the 72-mile drive on a breezy afternoon in early February, eat an incredible Stagecoach Burger in about six minutes, and drive all the way home. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Provided by The Hubbell House
Waldmann Brewery
St. Paul (1857)
Waldmann Brewery was established “six months before Minnesota became a state, nearly four years before the Civil War began, and at a time when less than 10,000 people lived in St. Paul,” according to its website. And while the old-world enchantment remains—wood stoves, whale oil lamps, all virgin pinewood everything—it’s the food and libations that have kept the tables filled since the place reopened in 2017 for the first time in 154 years. However, that 154-year lapse presented some challenges.
“Challenges?” asks proprietor Tom Schroeder. “The building was basically abandoned and condemned, with multiple unaddressed code violations. Superficially, the building looked like it was in poor condition, but its bones were strong. The challenge of the restoration was to preserve as much of the original fabric as we could, learn from what we couldn’t save, and replace what we had to with original materials and techniques.”
Their signature pils is crisp and whiplash-refreshing, and the Jägerschnitzel (breaded pork tenderloin, pan-fried, and served over Spätzle with seasonal vegetables and mushroom gravy) will have you missing a großmutter (or grandmother) you never had. In other words: Come for the atmosphere, stay for the “Weihnachtsdunkelweizenbockbier” (a deep-brown ale, or “Christmas beer,” served at Waldmann).
Provided by the Minnesota Historical Society
Grant House
Rush City (1880)
I take a Friday and hit the Grant House Hotel in Rush City for dinner, which is about an hour north of Minneapolis. This three-story building, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, is actually the second iteration of the Grant House—it was rebuilt in 1896 after the original burned down. The historic hotel restaurant space, serving guests for over a century, is now occupied by The Fort Restaurant & Bar, the brick-and-mortar realization of Tim and Shannon Karnick’s popular Tiki Tim’s food truck, which settled into the Grant House last year. While the restaurant still holds vestiges of pioneer-era Minnesota—Victorian parlor chairs in the entryway, ghostly piano by the door—the menu is all modern vim: Old Fashioneds with fresh rosemary torched tableside, deep-fried pickle rollups with Sriracha aioli, and bacon jam burgers.
“Tim and I both grew up in Rush City,” says Shannon, “coming [to the Grant House] for breakfast or dinner with our families when we were young. I think most everyone in town and the surrounding areas appreciates our craft cocktails—made with house syrups and fresh-squeezed citrus—and craft beer selection. It’s something we’ve always had to drive to Duluth or the Twin Cities to find, and we decided we deserved them in our area as well.”
As for the locally notorious Grant House ghosts, Shannon says, “I’m told by the hotel owners the spirit of an old maintenance man likes to hang out in our dry storage pantry.”
Photo by Taylor Marie Photography
Neumann’s Bar
North St. Paul (1887)
Neumann’s feels like any bar, anywhere. Except it’s old—like, really old. When Bill Neumann opened its doors back in 1887 to sling Hamm’s to the locals, Minnesota was hardly even a state. Operating under the same name, Neumann’s has survived everything from Prohibition to the pandemic.
I sidle in and post up at the bar like so many before. The bar is exquisitely crafted in some kind of curved and buttery wood. It’s a relatively small space, and it sings with locals. On the wall hangs a taxidermy elk head, lending itself to Neumann’s universality—this could be a watering hole in Wyoming or the Yukon, Canada. My Fulton 300 slides over in a pint glass patchworked with ads for local businesses. A guy in a camo hoodie is making fries in the corner in what looks like a can crusher for potatoes. I order two Coneys with fries for $8.50, and it’s the best $8.50 I’ve spent in a long time. To say Neumann’s is a local favorite would be an understatement. It has been a local favorite for 138 years.
Photo by Keith Pelletier
Gluek’s Bar & Restaurant
Minneapolis (1934)
Gluek’s is known as the oldest bar in Minneapolis, with alleged roots dating to 1855. The place is huge, almost cavernous, and although I’ve never been to Germany, touches like the taxidermy warthog and a kind of arched proscenium ceiling feel appropriately Germanic. I take a seat at the expansive bar, and the place fills up around me. Some of the beers come in mugs near the size of coffee cans. The far wall of aged brick gives the place a rathskeller vibe, like a basement bar in, I don’t know, Düsseldorf.
If not for Steely Dan’s “Reelin’ In the Years” playing in the background and all the hoodies, this place could pass for a wartime movie set. It’s charming but big—charm on a macro scale. The fact that the Timberwolves are hosting the Bulls across the street is not lost on me.
The place is absolutely bursting for a Wednesday afternoon. And while I’m not eating, the stacked menu prices are absurdly reasonable for a downtown mainstay, with the most expensive items—a three-way tie between the Sausage Party, Famous Walleye Sandwich, and Schweineschnitzel Spätzle—all clocking in under $20.
