Tipsy in Cleveland

I realize I could probably begin each blog post with an apology for not posting in so-and-so long, but that seems really boring. Plus, I’m not really sorry—I post something on here when I’ve got the time and something (relatively) interesting to say. So let’s have at it, shall we?

The ‘Ole lady and I recently spent a weekend visiting my pal Evan up in Cleveland before school gets too revved up. Our main objectives were twofold: booze and food, in both ample quality and quantity. To achieve these ends, our Friday itinerary included Morton’s, The Steakhouse and the Velvet Tango Room (VTR, for short). Before the Columbus branch closed, Morton’s was our go to anniversary spot. The Cleveland iteration is pretty much exactly the same as C-bus—waiters decked out in penguin suits presenting the menu items tableside on a trolley. It’s the type of place that changes its menu once every couple of decades, where you half expect to see Frank and Dino in a neighboring booth packed full of dames. The drinks and wine (and everything else) are old school and mucho expensive, but if you feel like blowing a paycheck or two on a meal, I guarantee you will eat the best steak of your life. My New York strip, as always, was perfection.

We stumbled onward to VTR for post-meal cocktails. Tucked away in an anonymous residential neighborhood, VTR doesn’t look like much of anything—then you step inside and the joint is jumpin’. The narrow space is decked out in dark wood and plush seating, with Prohibition era nick-knacks adorning the walls, and a sharp dressed dude slapping a mean bass for good measure. I kept expecting to have to deliver a password or secret handshake at the door. Unsurprisingly, this place specializes in pre-Prohibition era cocktails.

So I ordered my usual, a Manhattan. Anywhere else that’s a simple procedure, but not at VTR. I chose Old Overholt rye for the booze, the house made vermouth, and blood orange bitters. You could also select the house made or another variety of bitters, several vermouths, and of course various bourbons/ryes for the alcohol. Every ingredient is top quality and usually house made. Three ingredients, dozens of permutations, but only one of them yours. In addition to a list of signature cocktails, the menu has sections devoted to sours, sidecars, Old Fashioned’s, etc., each with the nano-customizability of my rockin’ Manhattan. For those not fluent in cocktail, the waiters are more than happy to make suggestions, as was the case with the wife’s tasty White Lady, a gin cocktail topped with whipped egg whites.

(Forewarned, a cocktail at this place will set you back around $15 bucks, but let me try to explain where that money goes. There’s a guy whose job it is to make ice. That’s it. Perfectly round spheres of super cold ice with no impurities that will chill your drink without diluting it. That’s the level of detail that VTR strives for, and that’s just the ice.)

We retreated back to Evan’s stomping grounds in the ‘burb of Tremont for a nightcap. Within stumbling distance of his apartment, Tony’s is another hidden gem. From the old sign out front, you’d think it served take away pies to drunken college students, but inside they’re slinging high end cocktails. The owners are an ex-cop and his wife who open two nights a week to a full house of loyal locals. He stands at the end of the bar and bemusedly shakes his head at his guests’ drunken ramblings; she mixes badass drinks. There’s barely enough room to stand three wide, but the atmosphere is cozy and everyone knows everybody else.

I’m normally a bit skeptical when someone tells me so-and-so makes amazing cocktails. Some call me snooty—I just call it standards. Well, I ordered a rye drink called a Pumpernickel, and it was good. Like, slap yo mamma good. While a very strong flavor, and probably not to everyone’s taste, the cocktail tasted just like a buttered pumpernickel loaf, and really hit the right balance of sweet elements, spicy rye and savory caraway. The drinks menu changes with the season, and there were plenty of other lookers on there to keep the Pumpernickel company.

The next day we nursed the previous night’s wounds with a greasy breakfast (with Bloody Mary’s, of course) and some shopping at the Westside Market in the Ohio City neighborhood. Luckily we didn’t have to wait long for libations with Great Lakes Brewery nearby. Most people in central Ohio have probably sampled at least one Great Lakes beer, but the brewpub also has a few special offerings that don’t make it to the bottle. The first of these we tried was the excellently named Triple Dog Dare, a Belgian tripel. It seems a lot of craft breweries slap the tripel label on any boozy beer that uses Belgian yeast, but this beer has some of the dry, sweet elegance of a Duvel, if not the depth.

In addition to a lager whose name I can’t recall, the brewpub also served Alberta Clipper, a porter with Belgian chocolate and raspberries. Now some fruit beers strike me like the sickly mystery chocolate in the box, but the Clipper’s fruit served as a nice tart sweetness to offset the bitterness of the chocolate and roasted malt. I decided to take a growler of it home, but sadly, the pub was out of growlers after the holidays. A reason for a return visit, I suppose. A note of caution—the brewpub was packed and standing room only for our visit, and the barmen were absolutely slammed. I’d definitely recommend a weekday or early afternoon visit if possible.



We retreated to the relatively relaxed confines of the Bier Markt, which specializes in Belgian brews. The space, like a lot of the recovered industrial buildings in Cleveland, is cavernous, with one of the longest bars I’ve ever seen. After finally getting to try Dogfish’s excellent Chicory Stout (roasty coffee flavor with an interesting dry, tea-like finish), Evan and I decided to split their ten sample tray. Ouch. A “sample” is more like a high ball, most of them full of potent, high gravity Belgian beer. Though this exercise in gluttony left my pallet and my frontal lobes scorched, I can make a few recommendations; Bear Republic’s Racer 5 is a friggin awesome IPA, Kwak (that’s the name, seriously) served a nicely malty/sweet contrast to the other nuclear Belgians, and the Belgian IPA Hop Chouffe was the unanimous Best In Show. Oh, and stay away from the Duchese de Bourgogue, a Belgian sour that is like drinking balsamic vinegar. Icky.

Though my body screamed “enough”, I just had to try Cleveland’s newest brewpub, the Market Garden Brewery. First, I love what they’ve done with the big, open space. Some might find the spare, open look to be a bit hipster-ish, but I dug it. There are separate bars for beer and wine/cocktails, and the crowd seems to congregate along those lines. I had the wickedly named Cluster Fuggle IPA, named after the iconic hop varieties of America (Cluster) and England (Fuggle). True to form, it skates a tasty line between the citrusy and earthy styles of American/English IPAs. They also had a Scottish Ale and a Winter Porter that I’ll have to investigate further.

Back to Tremont, for one last stop at Michael Symon’s restaurant Lolita for cocktails and bar nibbles. Note: While the smoked prosciutto and bacon-dates were awesome, the Brussels sprouts are a game changer. I’ve always hated sprouts—no more. Slap some bacon, capers, anchovies and walnuts on those bad boys, deep fry em, and you’ve got something worth selling your kid into slavery for. Or, if not your first born, a second cousin, at least. Best. Bar. Food. Ever.

We were introduced to Will the bartender. Will’s a bit cocky, but he should be: I tasked him to come up with a cocktail using a peaty Scotch whisky, and he nailed it. The Scotch Bonnet really incorporates the smoky notes of Islay malts whilst enhancing the tropical fruit notes that often get overlooked in super peaty whiskies. Just gets nudged by the Pumpernickel as the best drink I had all weekend, but only on creativity points, not taste.

I haven’t always viewed our Northern neighbor on the lake so fondly. A large part of that has to do with my college roommates, who at every turn told everyone within shouting distance how Cleveland rocks and whatever city they were from sucked (actual wording). There’s also the post-apocalyptic, blasted cityscape that greets your drive into downtown like some dreary Cormac McCarthy novel. But far from hanging their heads, entrepreneurial Clevelanders are reclaiming industrial spaces and turning them into something extraordinary. In particular, the Tremont area has a cool Village vibe minus the uppity attitude. Sadly, I’m finishing my last Great Lakes Christmas Ale as I write this, but I’m looking forward to seeing what Cleveland offers up in the near future.