Restuarant: Revolution Brewery |
Address: 2323 N. Milwaukee Ave. |
Phone: 773.227.2739 |
Trotsky, Guevara, Levski, Mao Zedong, Spartacus. If the first few weeks of business at Revolution Brewing are any indication of what is to be expected in the years to come, historians should go ‘head and add Josh Deth and Jim Cibak to the list of muhfuckas who flipped the script.
Tommie Smith and John Carlos hold down the movement
The long and arduous story of Revolution Brewery is a familiar one for many Logan heads. No one could have blamed kids for being pissy like ghetto mattresses about the delays either. Nine years is a fucking long time. But, like a double imperial stout, time aged the concept well. Revolution is destined to become a work of art; utilizing craft brew and eclectic cuisine to paint their masterpiece. Take Cibak’s brewing résumé for example, which is tall enough to knock out the fucking light fixtures. Shit includes stops at Weinkeller, Goose Island, Three Floyds, Firestone Walker and Crown Brewing Companies. The progression culminated in May 2009, when Deth and Cibak teamed up like freedom fighters, aimed to liberate the Chicago craft brew scene, viewed by some as more restricting than a 2 inch condom on baby arm
With their opening, Revolution pierced through ribbed latex. A stark, minimalist space, where the only artful presence is some used wood barrels and exposed brick. Decoration not required when you got FIST PILLARS, son.
During a 7 day period, me and the krew were able to take full advantage of the brew lineup as the ‘Iron Fist’ Pale Ale dried out, and was replaced with the ‘Bottom Up’ Wit. “…we only have four fermenters and people are drinking the beer faster than we can make it.” said Deth, on the Revolution Blog. For a young brewmaster with a bit to prove, nocturnal emission must be made of this.
If you are one of the busters out there that (use ninny voice) “doesn’t like flavorful beers” or “can’t stand all these high ABV brews,” you
a) should fall the fuck off like limbs infected with leprosy (T. Kweli)
b) still gotta feed that bitch ass
Apps were devoured with resistance to stagnation, raining down gluttony like some Pacman Jones and Nelly shit.
Four versions of Brushcetta: duck confit/crimini mushrooms, roasted beet/belgian endive/goat cheese, roasted cauliflower/white bean arugula, and plum tomato/red onion/ basil/fresh mozzarella. Yessur.
My birthright: the sausage and ham plate. Dark rye and gherkins surrounded by 4 savory meats?…That’s just plain dirty.
Bacon popcorn, what! A harmonious mixture of kernels fried in bacon fat, then topped with crumbled bacon, sage and shaved parmesan. My black ass needed GPS to map out the flavor country.
With three dishes south of the belt buckle, we filled up the members only mugs and forged on…
…but we didn’t know shit was going to be fierce like this. Portions were heavier than Kristie Alley pre-Big Life, yo. I mean, gotdamn, lets get Revolution and Maggiano’s on some head to head shit. Gluttony skills were not ready for the revolutionary assault. Even the vegetarian bowl of lentils, quinoa, brussel sprout, turnip, parsnip, etc. was pleasantly unsettling.
Flavor profiles were so bright, I applied SPF30. Most notable were the garlic creme cheese mash potatoes, apple-cranberry compote, and honey-jalapeno slaw. The mustard herb chicken breast was moist and lovely which, for brewpub standards, makes less sense than bathing with a washcloth. As I worked through my plate of Hampshire-Duroc pork chop, best believe I got touched off. Like my Masai Mara brethren, not even the gristle was wasted.
Hakuna Matata, my ass. Ima Bear Grylls this shit.
Group concensus: Regal Fatness Status sprinkled with a dash of Glutfuckery
. After a couple-three brews and all of this goodness, I needed some man-ternity leave for the small child built up inside of me. We Port-au-Prince shook up. Revolution televised.