Circumnavigator, Part 2

by Matt Dunn

Chicago was interesting.

FRIDAY

The Hopleaf is a very fine establishment. The crowd is young and hip. Tattoos, clever t-shirts, and throwback sneakers seem out of place amongst the rather slick and sophisticated decor. Around 10pm it was packed. Little standing room and no place to sit at either of the two bars. We'll just have dinner then. Party of two please.

The beer selection is impressive. However, as is sadly typical for many great beer bars, their menu advertised more than they actually had in stock. I struck out on Giardin Gueuze, a Fantome, and De Proef's Primitive ale. But we did score a large bottle of Dupont's Moinette to accompany our mussels. Which were good. And large. The "mussels for two" is more like "mussels for two for two days." You can choose to have them steamed in Wittekerke Witbier or white wine. Of course we opted for the Witbier. Their dinner menu is small but diverse including a fried smelt appetizer, grilled tuna seaweed salad, and a rabbit stew entree. Certainly an excellent place to play beer-food matchmaker.

Their draft selection is good with around 30 taps including Bells, Victory, North Coast, Goose Island, and some Belgians like Popperings Hommelbier, Duchesse du Bourgogne sour ale, and Kwak. Even with only half of their bottle list in stock, the selection would still be considered very good. They concentrate clearly on Belgian and Belgian-style brews. They range from 3Founteinen, Oud Beersel, and Cantillon lambics to St.Bernardus, Rouchefort, Jolly Pumpkin, Allagash, and eleven Unibroue labels. They also claim to stock three Liefmans and bottles from the smallest brewery in Belgium, Duysters. And just for good measure, they throw in seven excellent beers from the Nord-Pas de Calais region of France including Theillier, Thiriez, and St.Sylvestre. On the border with Belgium, traditional beers from this area are often of the Biere de Garde style. They are "keeping beers": typically strong and very much in the "Belgian" tradition.

Oddly enough, one of the things I remember most clearly about the Hopleaf is the quality of their beer menu. The classification scheme wasn't the best a beer novice could hope for, but at least every beer was clearly listed with price and a brief description. The Map Room, one of Chicago's other famous beer bars, leaves something to be desired in this respect.

Standing up from the table I'm swollen with beer and food. I waddle downstairs to the bathroom and linger for five minutes examining the Perfection Anglers Guide. Oh Hopleaf, you done me so good. Waiting to catch a cab outside, a large orange ball of fire travels rapidly in a semicircle behind the front window. It explodes from the door carried by a skinny, mussy-haired young lad in a clever t-shirt who throws his torch to the ground, stomping it out on the sidewalk. His arms flailing, obviously terrified by the whole ordeal, he creates quite a scene. Careless smoking near newspapers is not advised.

SATURDAY

Cars and busses and trolleys and trains swerve madly onto the sidewalks. Avoiding the curious conveyances at all cost, they cut broad swaths out of the pedestrian masses. It is 2006 and Segways rule Chicago.

They were upon me before I heard them. The entire Navy Pier Gang bearing down on us at a deceptively fast 12.5mph. The Segway is a silent stalker. The quiet whir of electric motor and gyroscope are undetectable in the brisk breeze off Lake Michigan.

We begin to run. Tracy, now several paces ahead of me turns to give assistance. She reaches for my hand. I bat it away. "Save yourself woman! Run!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

"Just go! I think I can make it to those stairs. Rendezvous at Goose Island!"

"The one in Wrigleyville?"

"No! The one in Lincoln Park! On Clybourn! They always have more beers on tap!"

"Be strong! God speed!"

I peel off to the left as Tracy sprints ahead, steadily distancing herself from the bloodthirsty herd. The gang leader's long, tangled red beard and ratty plaid kilt flap in the wind as he barks commands Scottishly from atop his scooter:

"Blot-ee ëell! They're splittin' oop! Snake, Knife, you go after the girl. All you other lads, head the slow one off at the stairs!"

My angle of retreat was shallow. They were gaining on me. I'd never make the stairs at this rate. I was painfully winded. Lungs seared. Tired. Muscles aching, lactic burn. I turn again towards the lake. My only option now was the water. Segways are notoriously poor performers in the wet. But could I make it? Snake and Knife, apparently unsuccessful in their pursuit of Tracy, had now turned their attention to me. I was surrounded. The circle was quickly closing. Like a livestock lynching lariat. I was cooked.

But no! Just as Snake is close enough to grab for me I plant my right foot on the precipice, pushing off with all my might. "Ahhh-eeeeeeeeee! Segways be damned!"

Plunging into the cold blue-green water takes my breath away. I bubble back to the surface, two grey scooters sink slowly into the clear lake. Snake being helped back onto shore. The others circle on the ledge, cursing me, shaking their fists in anger. The large Scotsman expectorates in my direction, taunting me in his native tongue: ""Ye're lookin' awfy peely-wally, son, guddling round the cold drink!"

I scream back defiantly. My staccato cackle crackles quickly over the water, echoing off the concrete pier: "I can float here all day you fools! What makes me such a slow runner also happens to provide me abundant natural insulation. I'm an excellent swimmer. Much like the manatee. Or walrus."

"Damn it all! Well, we gave this one all we have. Twas a fair fight and ye bested us. Now, let's ride!"

I bob up and down as the gentle waves lap softly at the dock, watching the riders retreat under the sun to the south. I give it a safe ten minutes then drag my well sodden body onto land. Passersby gawk.

Goose Island arrival. Tracy safely ensconced in a corner booth demurely sipping Saison, reading the newspaper. I like the Goose Island bar. Fifteen very fresh, very well made beers provide for a pleasant time. But it can also make for a drunken afternoon. And the fact that I was still soaking wet didn't bode well for my immune system. So I had to be careful. Which I wasn't.

As the waitress came to take my order I was drip drip dripping lake water onto the floor. "Nothing to see here folks. Nothing to see. I like your earrings very much miss. They go well with your original yet sensible hair stylings and stunningly beautiful smile. I'll have a five beer sampler please. The Celebration Red Ale, the Saison, the Second Hand Smoke, the Rye PA, and the IPA. And two dozen Buffalo style wings as hot as you can make them."

She writes down the order and leaves, never the wiser for my watery trail. I smile a relieved smile and sink down into the huge, cushy bench, my wet jeans making a horrible ssssppppluuuurrrrrrrch sound sliding along the soft leather. "Tracy, I saw a used clothing store around the corner on my way in here. I'm going to try and find something dry to wear. Don't touch my wings."

Ten minutes later: "You look absolutely ridiculous Matt."

"I know. But at least I'm dry."

The used clothing store didn't have much in my size. It was either the brown, corduroy suit with bell bottoms from 1979 or Cross Colour overalls from 1991. I went with the overalls. They were oversized overalls. Billowing like the sails of a tall ship. Miles of half-inch-wide black, green, red, and yellow stripes on the fabric. A giant brown leather African continent sewn onto the chest with yellow cord. The only shoes that would fit were clunky white sandals, size 14. I managed to find a sky blue t-shirt. Unfortunately, nothing clever was written upon it.

The Celebration Red Ale was quite good. Big citrusy American hop flavor with medium to low bitterness and a hefty malt character. The Rye PA boasted amazing lace. Nice spicy flavor. Goose Island's Saison was interesting. Little sweet, little tart, astringent, on the dark side with big banana esters. ED was a very good brew. A hefty Scotch Ale that comes in at 9.7% abv. Very sweet. Big caramel flavor. A hint of smoke.

But my favorite thing about Goose Island was the Second Hand Smoke. A clever name to be sure. It is a small beer. A low alcohol beer made from the grains previously used to brew a strong beer (ED?). A way to extract every last drop of sweet, precious malt nectar. This one shows an intimidating German wood smoke character. There's something about smelling and tasting smoke that tends to get my Paleolithic juices flowing. I'm making flint tools in a cave. Skinning a deer. Smoking its meat. Primitive. Agriculture is thousands of years in the future. And yet this beer is delicate. Light on the palate. Very easy to drink. Refreshing with flare. It would go well with barbeque or, as I'm pleased to report, two dozen spicy wings.

We linger at Goose Island for several hours. Small talk, hand pulled pints of mild, and more food put me in a good mood. Some of Tracy's friends meet up with us around 9pm and we pile into a cab, heading for the Map Room. They are confused by my manner of dress. Tracy tells them I grew up in Brooklyn in the late 80s. Bed-Stuy. "I was actually an extra in ëDo the Right Thing'". This only confuses them more.

The Map Room is awesome. Easing into my top five favorite bars of all time, sadly displacing Jack of the Wood Pub in Asheville NC. The Map Room's beer selection is ridiculous. Their drafts in particular. Chouffe Houblon, Bear Republic Hop Rod Rye, Lagunitas Copper Ale, Sierra Nevada Torpedo, Gouden Carolus, La Rulles, Fullers, Great Lakes, Three Floyds, Unibroue, Ommegang, I could go on.

My first draft was the Chouffe Houblon. Big lemon rind bitterness and perfect final gravity. Not too sweet, not too dry. Magnificent head and lace. Sierra Nevada Torpedo, eh? Never heard of it. I'll take one sir. More like Sierra Nevada Naval Mine if you ask me. It doesn't really inspire the slicing and dicing dynamic feeling that a torpedo may bring to mind. It's hoppy for sure, closer to their IPA than to the famous Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale. The latter is dynamic. Layer upon complicated layer of nuanced hop goodness. The Torpedo, however, is a dense, almost homogenous sphere of herbal bitterness. Sharp, prickly points protruding portentously into an ocean of medium malt sweetness, waiting for an unsuspecting drinker to drift into detonation. Hence the Sierra Nevada Naval Mine.

A bottle of Three Floyd's Rabbid Rabbit Saison followed a draft Maudite and a draft Hennepin. Three Floyd's Saison isn't much of a Saison. It isn't much of a Belgian beer, particularly after the Maudite and Hennepin. The Rabbid Rabbit really isn't much of anything. My least favorite 3Floyds brew? Then it was a Jolly Pumpkin Luciernaga. Cask conditioned, from the hand pump. This was strange. I didn't like it too much. It may very well have been in a cask, but it wasn't conditioned. Very flat. This style should be effervescent. I don't like it flat. Too much spicing. Harsh citrus finish. I've enjoyed this beer from the bottle before, but I wouldn't recommend it from the hand pump.

The bottle selection is great. Good selection of lambics. We enjoyed some Boon Framboise which was decent. Struck out on the Cantillon Rose de Gambrinus. The Map Room needs to work on their bottle menu. All the bottles are listed alphabetically in tiny font on one sheet of paper. With no prices. That's a real pain in the ass. Particularly for the vintage bottles they carry.

But I suppose this is something that contributes to the Map Room's character. While it's far from being a dive (they have a very nice espresso machine), it certainly is an unrefined bar. Well worn. Reduced pretension. It's a simple bar. It's a bar with regulars. It's a bar that doesn't serve food. It's a bar whose patrons range widely: fresh faced 21 year olds, tall attractive women in click-clacky high heels, hippies, punks, the regular dudes, gray haired quaffers sitting at the bar. It reminds me of the now defunct Blind Tiger in NYC. People are friendly. People are talking. People are packed tightly in the room. Pool tables. Stacks of National Geographic for your perusal. My beer glass runneth over.

We cascade out of the bar and I stumble into two guys standing on the sidewalk smoking. "Yo, watch it there Afrika Bambaataa."

"Um, yeah, sorry. I don't normally dress like this, ahhh, it's really a long story, I, um-"

They laugh at me. We hail a cab. Just barely make it home alive. The driver repeatedly weaves into oncoming traffic around double parked cars and throngs of drunken pedestrians. This is fine, we can walk from here. No, no, quite sure. Thanks.

SUNDAY

Up early, relatively speaking. A solid breakfast of French toast and eggs fuels my escape from Chicago. Heading northwest on 90 I hit serious traffic. Tolls. Four lanes of bumper to bumper traffic and only three toll booths? What kind of a cruel joke is this? "Open Roads for a Faster Future. Thanks for you patience!" I sit nervously in traffic, waiting for the ambush to come. Segways streaming from the trees. I just want to get to Wisconsin, the land of milk and honey. Or at least milk. And excellent beer. And Madison. A very fine city. And New Glarus. And cheese curds. And trout fishing. Oh dear god, set me free upon thine open road!