Fast Eddie’s Bon Air, an 800-seat bar in Alton, Illinois (population 25,000), is rumored to be the country’s highest-volume bar. Located a half-hour from the St. Louis airport, the sprawling corner space has become a beloved rite-of-passage stop for thousands of newly minted 21-year-olds—an estimated 6,500 a year, to be exact.
On a recent Saturday, Fast Eddie’s was already humming by 11:30 in the morning—the country music cranked up just enough to be heard over the regular conversational din. Middle-aged couples were arranged around the 24-seat horseshoe bar drinking Busch Light, while the line to order food at the grill was the shortest it would be all day. I pulled up a seat to order a Blue Moon, which arrived atop the solid wood bar in a heavy, footed beer glass chilled to subzero temps. Fast Eddie’s has the aroma and feel of every old, well-loved bar I’ve ever been in, but spend an afternoon there and it’s clear that this is not your average dive.
The sheer quantity of beer Fast Eddie’s sells in this small town is staggering, to the tune of over 50,000 cases a year at a time when overall beer consumption is steadily declining. Bon Air (sans the “Fast Eddie’s” moniker) was opened by Anheuser-Busch in 1921 and operated by the beer behemoth for 10 years, until it was sold to Sam Balaco. Balaco’s family would operate it for the next 50 years, turning the bar into a fixture of Alton daily life. “At the time, there were factories like Owens-Illinois Glass Co. across the street,” says manager Corey Bazzell, a 25-year employee of Fast Eddie’s, “and the bar was a big support for those workers.”
At the time, the bar itself took up far less space in the building than it does now. Downstairs, the back half of the space contained community showers and restrooms, along with a barbershop. Upstairs, there were lodging rooms, some occupied by factory employees. “At 6 in the morning, all of the workers would come over here when the bar used to open,” says Bazzell, “to cash their checks and then just stay and drink. There used to be a magazine rack up front and milk and bread available to buy.”
The barbershop is now a second bar area, and everything downstairs is configured for drinkers to congregate. Inside, the elongated space is adorned with Fast Eddie’s infamous metal sign collection, which spans road work markers, cigarette advertisements, beer mirrors and old lit-up neon signs. Outside, the massive patio supports another two bars and a stage where live music is performed seven days a week. No reservations are taken, nor are they needed; even a busy Saturday afternoon can accommodate the frequent busloads of partygoers that show up to celebrate birthdays, weddings, divorces, anniversaries and any other event of significance.
It’s difficult to prove one way or the other if Fast Eddie’s is indeed the highest-volume bar in the United States. Anyone who’s lived in the St. Louis area and has been to Fast Eddie’s seems to have an opinion on the topic—naturally, so does Reddit. What’s beyond debate, however, is how unlikely it is that a 100-year-old-bar in a town of 25,000 people even has a chance of holding that title. Much of that is thanks in large part to the efforts of “Fast” Eddie Sholar, who took over Bon Air in 1981 and threw his name on the sign.
Back then, the local glass factory was closing down. In the years that followed, the paper mill shut and the steel mill after that. A town that was known for industry suddenly had none. Alton pivoted to tourism, improving its waterfront and introducing Illinois’ first floating casino, to try and fill the gap. Sholar pivoted, too. He rapidly expanded the amount of seating at the bar, installed a grill to offer a small menu of cheap eats—like the Big Elwood tenderloin steak on a stick for $5.99, or homemade bratwurst for $3.99—and brought in live music. Perhaps most significantly, he identified the untapped market in those newly legal drinkers coming to Fast Eddie’s to order their first drink. Not long after taking over, Sholar debuted the bar’s famous 21st birthday T-shirt. “We probably hand out 100 to 150 shirts a week,” Bazzell estimates.
Sholar’s son, Eddie Jr., bought the bar in 2008 and continued the expansion, taking over the open street next to the space and transforming it into a sprawling patio. In 2023, as he approached his 50th birthday, Eddie Jr. realized it was time for him to step back from the day-to-day, but he couldn’t bear the idea of selling to one of the corporations that had shown interest in buying and franchising the bar. That’s where Ross Laux comes in.
Sharp-eyed with an easy smile, Laux had been visiting Fast Eddie’s for two decades, since his own 21st. “My friends and I would race to get to the back bar,” he recalls. “That was always our spot.” A local resident and restaurant owner, Laux took over operations as a 50 percent owner, alongside Eddie Jr., in May 2024. “The idea is to keep the personal touch we’re known for and preserve the legacy with growth moving forward,” says Laux.
He knows what not to touch, like the free popcorn machines positioned strategically around the customer walkways. And while the price of the burgers (proudly ground in-house) was raised from $0.99, before COVID, to $3.99, the hike only ensures the bar breaks even. No profit is made on the food, in keeping with Sholar’s vision of good, cheap eats to draw visitors, “just like Las Vegas does with drinks while you gamble,” explains Laux. Until recently, none of the TVs that line the perimeter of the restaurant could operate independently; whatever channel was on one, was on them all. Neither Eddie saw any issue with it—this was a bar, after all, not a sports bar. But its position just over the border from Missouri, where sports gambling is illegal, made it a potential haven for folks who “want to place a bet on their phone, have a drink and also watch the game they’re betting on,” says Laux.
Laux has also brought Fast Eddie’s into the digital age, refreshing the bar’s dormant Instagram feed, where he now shares frequent posts about their ice-cold drinks, food and music lineups. A couple of brightly colored murals of the Fast Eddie’s logo were added as backdrops for Instagrammable shots or group photos along the side of the building. The payment policy of the last 100 years is also being re-evaluated, something Laux admits he’s loath to do. “Cash-only is cool and I love it,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s the way forward.”
For places like Fast Eddie’s, even small changes can be disruptive to their loyal regulars, many of whom have been coming here since their first legal drink. “They may be regulars we see every day or every week or sometimes every year on the same day,” Bazzell says. “We’ve held every important event in people’s lives here, and then they want to come back to remember that day.” Laux also knows it’s important that Fast Eddie’s continues to thrive for them, too.
By 1 p.m. on Saturday, Fast Eddie’s was as full-throttle as it gets—this is a bar built for day drinking, after all. The two-person live band cranked on a mix of 1970s and ’80s rock, while the pickup numbers for food steadily ticked upward. Servers swept through the crowd, dropping off beers, picking up glasses, reliably inquiring if customers needed anything. Twenty bucks bought enough food to keep me going all day. Neither Laux nor Bazzell are particularly concerned about whether they are the biggest, busiest bar, or whether they sell the most beer. They’re more proud of preserving the spirit of the place: the buzzing old neons, the chilled beer glasses that hold the coldest drafts around, the easy all-comers hospitality.
“The core of Fast Eddie’s is what people feel when they come here,” says Laux, “and everyone comes here—from 21 to 81.”
