I’ll get this out of the way–no, I didn’t get any action.
The re-invigorated Bridgeport Brewpub re-opened recently, and the SSC crew hit it this past Sunday–an overcast, wet and warm day that happened to victimize us all, once again, by taking an hour of my life that I won’t get back until I no longer miss it.
seriously folks, I grew up sans daylight savings. I do not get it. I’m not even a great appreciator of 10pm daylight. It fucks with me.
Anyway, NW 13th and Marshall is the edge of the ever-expanding cancer that is the new revamped Pearl district, and the Bridgeport renovation is the newest addition to the high society vibe. The facility itself is a beautiful renovation, all dark wood, black laminate and steel. There are three zones–the pub, the bar and the restaurant. More than unique spaces, there are separate menus.
The thing about SCC is that at least one of us is hungover, and we are all usually hungry to the point of delirium. Thus, when we finally stumbled into the Bridgeport complex, the last thing we expected, were prepared for or capable of handling was a multiple choice test:
“here is the dinner menu, the pub menu and the bar menu–decide which menu has what you want and we will direct you to the appropriate area.”
no shit–we had a multiple choice test on what we wanted to eat, in order to determine where we were to sit. I wanted at least a pint and an app before perusing the rest of the menu–no luck here, they want to know right then. The hostess said it had something to do with kitchen capacity, specifically pizza production, but promised it would be remedied soon–I imagine they might go down to two menus, pub/bar vs. restaurant, since the Restaurant menu was quite a bit higher rent and higher priced than the pub or the bar menu, and the latter two share quite a few items. Confused, we babbled and scrambled and eventually Big-L asked which room was the most stylish, and we’d eat there. We ended up in the Bar, which is on the second floor.
As I mentioned, the renovation is spectacular–the bare, old brick, dark wood, black laminate and mixture of shiny and dull metals make the place look like, well, Henry’s on 12th, except older and newer at the same time. We grabbed a table against the far wall. A waitress approached with fresh copies of the menus we’d scoped at the entry, and a drink menu approximately 3 times larger–both in size and content–than the food menus. We order an appetizer of housemade pretzels with their ESB mustard, Billy’s Dad gets a ginger ale with lime and I ask for water. The waitress scurries off as we contended with the beer selection. We decided to opt for cask conditioned Blue Heron, and asked for it when the waitress returned. We got carded.
“oh! You’re from Arizona” said the waitress “I used to live in Tempe.” (pronounced by all, however incorrectly, ‘tem-peee’)
“I’m sorry” I said. Her face soured.
“I liked it there” she said.
“I’m scared of Tempe–full of the frat boy sorority girl culture.” I said. This is true, mind you, and well known–when the university that fills Tempe gets clowned by Ned Flanders, of all people, I figure it’s common knowledge and generally accepted fact. I was wrong. I guess in SCC I just don’t have much good luck with waitresses.
We got our pretzels. The $6 appetizer had 3 pretzels, each approximately the size of, according to Billy’s Dad, ‘the kind of tight coils Billy leaves in the neighbor’s yard.’ The pretzels were tasty, but lacked the yeasty, flavorful crust that I lust for in a soft pretzel. The mustard was quite good, but watery–it was as if they’d just dumped ESB into high quality whole grain mustard. That’s kind of what it tasted like as well. There was also enough mustard for 8 pretzels. By my calculations, this appetizer cost about 8 cents per calorie.
Billy’s dad pointed out that our waitress had cute girl syndrome–for those of you unfamiliar, it’s the term for attractive women who are incensed when people are not extra nice to them–my now weekly exercise in waitress-alienation shocked her genteel expectations of the world. It was downhill from here.
The rest of our meal was marked by encounters with our waitress, which never went well, and our snarky commentary about her. We can be fantastic assholes. Really, SCUDs. Billy’s dad ordered the stroganoff, Big-L the pork belly w/ pasta, me a salad. I suppose it is indicative of our visit that we haven’t much to say about the food–my salad was ridiculously overdressed, to the point of inedibility (waitress gets props for noticing and striking it from the bill), Big-L removed half her pork-belly, describing it as ‘gelatinized pork fat,’ and Billy’s dad complained of an overwhelming olive flavor. Given quality, the portions were not up to their cost.
Usually, I’d go on and on about the food, but the real fun on this SSC was the BS that happened later. Behind our table, or more accurately, in front of me but behind Billy’s dad, were some low slung couches and ottomans, occupied for most of our meal by a very quiet couple reading books and having a pint. They were replaced later by two couples, pearl rats in their early thirties. Two of them decided to do the clothed horizontal mambo on the ottoman. I kid you not, tonsil hockey and groping of completely inappropriate proportions. Obviously, our conversation topic changed. We started trading stories about PDAs in other countries, how in catholic countries kids live at home until they get married, so PDA toleration is astronomically high, how we’ve all regretted being ‘that couple’ at parties in high school, how we just can’t stand it when people decide make the world their bedroom–all in voices we thought just loud enough for them to overhear. Alas, they just switched to the couch, and she sat on his damn lap. Big-L had enough and switched to the other side.
No, we never got up and told them to knock it off. We hoped that the waitstaff, or the manager (who walked by them several times) or the friends they were with would do something.
nope.
their food came, and they started feeding each other.
we got out of there after a while.
Ultimately, the food was disappointing, especially considering the prices, the beer excellent, the building amazing, in that pearl-cancerous sort of way, and the service sorely lacking. As much fun as we had being snarky bitches, we won’t be going back for anything more than beer, and we’ll probably sit at the bar.
I never did get my water.
