Your intrepid CP editor escaped the NC 100+ heat to Chicago's relatively cool 95 degrees a few weeks back for business (no, surprisingly blogging about beer is not highly profitable) and took the opportunity to sample two of the Windy City's most talked-about microbreweries - Goose Island, well-distributed across the country, and Revolution, which seems perfectly content serving its own ultra-hip western neighborhood ("don't try to act like you like us NOW, you Michigan Avenue ingénue..."). My admittedly bourgeois hotel was picketed by disgruntled workers during my stay, further coloring my Chicago experience and, perhaps, skewing my reviews (beer is the drink of the People, as you know.), but I can’t be sure.
I was only able to sample three of the establishment’s concoctions – as you know, we labor leaders are in the fight only for ideological reasons and subsist on meager wages (just like you) – and they offer 30 - yes, 30 - fresh brews on draught at all times. As it was somewhat balmy on the day of my visit (though nothing like we (you) endure each day in your labor, I reluctantly quaffed Goose Island’s Summertime Ale, which reminds me of what it must be like to be in Moscow in the summer of 1917 – very light, no fruity aftertaste and refreshing, but very hard with which to maintain my dour visage. My second sample was distinctive – an IPA that was admiringly machine-made, following worldwide standard processing with the standard amount of hops and standard bitterness with standard bite at the back of the palate. Could you make a more sanitary (and perfect) beer? I was loving it (though I’m not allowed to use exclamation points).
Fellow workers, I work tirelessly every day to ensure that my compatriots are given the full measure of their value from ruthless management and the opportunity of escape to the people’s drink – beer – in draught houses across our great city of Chicago, a city built with the blood and sweat of the common man. From Pullman’s tyranny to the contemporary struggles of the NFL’s player-millionaires, the enjoyment of the people’s beverage in Chicago has served as a partial distraction from the perpetual repression from the Man. Brothers, I slumped into one of these establishments, Goose Island Brewery (Clybourn location), dog-tired from railing against your evil management, and plopped upon a stool (a lowly contraption, lacking back support…suitable for us working-class folks) to sate my thirst (for JUSTICE!).
My co-workers, I am reluctant to admit that I used your hard-earned dues on the last of my samples. Only in protest of the unspeakable forcing of mollusk ejaculation did I down a pint of the Squid Ink Saison (it was already exploited by then, right?). In deference to the labor undertaken by the misunderstood sea creature, I must admit that, minus the thrill of its nomenclature, the actual brew only approached a slightly bitter Guinness.
I reached into my shallow pockets to reimburse the hard-working bartender and ventured outside to find a fellow laborer to transport my now taxed soul to our next location. As the proud transportation professional inquired as to my destination, however, I regained my verve with thoughts of the legions of followers (no, I mean co-workers) that rely on me to fulfill their lives. On we go, to the Revolution Brewery! (I’m allowed that one because of the name.)
We arrived at our destination and I caught my breath at its stately façade –could a so deliciously-named establishment have a more appropriately Spartan entrance? I could barely contain my excitement as I burst from the hard-working taxi-driver’s office to approach the door. I could almost hear the Marche Slave (1876) emanating from the stone building…oooooh...). Once inside, my expectations were confirmed; comrades (oops, not supposed to say that either), the beer at Revolution Brewery was perfectly unremarkable.
Yes, I first ordered the French Saison, only for reasons of espionage – I certainly wouldn’t expect the bourgeois French to produce any sort of palatable popular beverage. Revolution’s Saison was toward the more equal, as we say, of this sort of beer, and was highly drinkable (you should stay away from it, of course, because it’s French). However, the brewery’s obvious dedication to our struggle would overcome any shortcoming in their liquids. Fortunately, those are difficult to discern. After forcing down the French brew, I regaled in the Iron Fist Pale Ale, which like our daily life, was dry, short and flavorful; a quality pale ale in a Black Sea of competitors.
As I reluctantly departed the loyalist establishment, I couldn’t help but salute its interior, highlighted by hand-carved raised-fist columns supporting its hardwood bar and its matching tap handles. I left with a full heart and realization that I had possibly visited Chicago’s brewery polar opposites in less than two hours. If you visit the city, you may think that you are limited to the corner purveyor of Old Style or PBR… just remember: “Sometimes history needs a push…”
Editor's Note: Carolina Pints learned after its visit that Goose Island was recently purchased by Anheuser-Busch...sorry.
