There are certain stories small towns never let go.

In New Glarus, one of those stories has lingered for years in the way the best local legends often do: half whispered, half winked at, and always just believable enough to survive. Depending on who is telling it, Al Capone’s parents were somehow involved here. Or maybe it was his brother. Or maybe it was another Chicago mobster entirely, his story blurred over time into that of Scarface himself. Or maybe it was simply a hidden brewery, quietly serving a Swiss community unwilling to let Prohibition have the final word. Or something tucked away below street level, out of sight, in a village that already knew plenty about beer, bottling, and the value of keeping things cool and quiet.

It is not hard to understand why a story like that would endure.