Hopleaf

Before moving to Chicago I lived in a part of Massachusetts renowned by beer enthusiasts for two establishments, The Moan and Dove, and The Dirty Truth. The man behind their plan is one Daniel Lanigan, a fellow whose personality has linked him, for me and many others, inexorably with one of my favorite brews, Arrogant Bastard. But that is neither here nor there.

The Moan and Groan, as it is affectionately referred to by the locals, doesn't serve food. Yes there is the barrel of salted peanuts still in their shells to keep the munchies at bay, but the point is you go for the beer and you stay for the beer. The Dirty Truth, which arrived on the scene later and with whatever the hipster-cool equivalent of great fanfare may be, boasts a full menu featuring Belgian favorites like mussels and frites, as well as salads and, um, hummus. Hey, it's the Happy Valley. A sticker on every bumper and a hippie round every tree... My experiences with the food at The Dirty were always uneven. But the 40 taps had me coming back, and I wasn't alone.

Where am I going with this, you ask. Good question.

Here in Chicago there are also two places you go to for an ass-kicking selection of beer: The Map Room, and Hopleaf. So, liking good beer as I do, and curious to see Chicago's crop of arrogant beer bastards, it was off to Hopleaf of a Saturday night. Needless to say, the place was packed. We waited an hour and a half for a table, (I should say, my punctual friends waited, allowing me to swan in "fashionably" late ). A cold Hennepin Ale (Ommegang) made the wait (what was left of it) go that much quicker. The staff was slammed, and by the expressions on their faces, not in a good way. This should go without saying, but, if you tell your waiter you're ready to order a drink, and then you hem and haw over the lengthy list of taps and bottles, don't doubt it: he will turn around and leave. Especially if it's a Saturday night, and especially at a place like Hopleaf where sifting through the options could take a considerable chunk of time.

Ah, but sifting is half the fun! Where else can you find something like a milk stout on tap? Or Allagash White, that gamey, unfiltered goodness from my home state. Hopleaf also has a decent selection of wine. But let's face it, the place is called Hopleaf not Grapeleaf, folks.

We got a table in the back room, a dim, brick-walled den of a place with a fire crackling in the hearth and laughter all around. We should have been drinking from flagons and there should have been many more drinking songs. Alas. The Hennepin down I went for a Maudite, from Unibroue. Dark, a little sweet and citrus-sour. Delicious. We ordered a pot of mussels for the table, accompanied by frites as they should be, and aioli. Let's just take a minute here. The mussels were, well, perfect. Not overcooked, still plump and flavorful, (and oddly large). The broth of beer and onions was savory and encouraged much dipping of bread, and the frites were thin and super crisp. The aforementioned aioli had just the right amount of garlic.

Sadly, it all went south from there. The rabbit with mushrooms and spaetzle was tender, but the sauce was so heavy and excessive that the spaetzle was lost in it completely, and the mushrooms fairly swam. This might have been okay had what they were swimming in not tasted primarily of demi glace, which is to say, the base for a sauce that never got any farther out of the gate.

The duck reuben suffered a similar fate--the duck was lost amidst a chaotic and sloppy amalgamation of cranberry cream cheese, sauerkraut, and emmenthaler, the lot of which was sandwiched between pieces of burnt marble rye. Sigh.

It was a bumpin' Saturday, it needs be said. Nonetheless, stick with the mussels and frites and do as you would do at a good beer joint in any part of the country: go to Hopleaf for the booze. You won't regret it.

Hopleaf
5148 N. Clark
773.334.9851
www.hopleaf.com