The ‘Burbs: The Flying Pig Saloon

It’s late on a recent Saturday afternoon and the rain is relentless, cold and damp, yet, in here, amid the sturdy wooden beams, walls and flooring planks, with a convivial crowd of fellow drinkers who are sidled up to the copper-topped bar with me, precipitation and life’s troubles are forgotten.

 

Raw tunes cut through the jukebox speakers; Chris cracks a joke at the bartender as she is drawing me another cask-conditioned Bear Republic Red Rocket Hoppy Scotch Ale—possibly the best beer I’ve ever enjoyed. Life is good here.

 

Mainly, because the beer is good here—very good, in fact. The Flying Pig offers one of the better beer selections (by the bottle and on draft) in the entire western suburbs. Only a few notable others have such a well-crafted menu of yeasty potables, such as The Drafting Room, TJ’s Restaurant & Drinkery and Theresa’s Next Door, which all take their beer as seriously as this saloon.

 

Though I’ve been here before, I now linger rather than pass on through, since the Commonwealth’s smoking ban came into play almost two months ago. Before that, my motley brood of drinking buddies and I couldn’t take the hazy atmospherics, which were more noxious than most other places we had experienced. And that was a shame, because it really is such a fun place to throw back a few.

 

The first of my recent stopovers occurred at lunchtime with a coworker. The Pig was fairly quiet then, with a smattering of other officious-looking folks dining at nearby tables, while a crew of bar regulars drank their day’s second meal. Overhead, hanging down from strings, were dozens of whimsical little flying pigs—fuzzy stuffed ones, cute figurines—visual interpretations, I’m guessing, of the doubts that owners Frank and Steve (buddies since high school) came up against when they announced their decision to open this joint together. As the saying goes, “When pigs fly.”

 

The all-day menu is simple and fairly staid, with the typical assortment of appetizer staples: deli and hot sandwiches, platters and a few heartier specials to order. We chose the six-ounce lump crab cake sandwich, and the meatball parmesan sandwich.

Big mistake.

Each was puck-hard and off-tasting, obviously freezer burnt, complemented by a fierce, micro-waved defrosting. Visit #1 was inauspicious to say the least.

 

Visit #2 occurred one week later, an evening trip with a couple of fellow hop heads. (This was when I was first turned on to that heavenly cask-conditioned ale.) We stayed far into the evening, cheering our baseball team on to victory, and when I finally sampled more substantial aspects of the menu.

 

I tried “The Prime Example,” hand-carved prime rib, caramelized onions and creamy horseradish—basically a thick slab of medium-rare steamship beef on good bread.

Deduct points for poor trimming of fat off the beef, undercooked onions which were mostly the harder outer-peel section and a watery side of under-seasoned au jus. Score one for the ciabatta roll; it was light and seemed freshly baked

 

A roast beef sandwich with provolone was…okay. Much juicier renditions are found just eastward at the Berwyn Tavern, and around the corner at Casey’s Dugout Saloon in nearby Paoli.

 

A hearty bowl of chili was good enough to accompany that potent bottle of Flying Dog Gonzo Porter.

 

For those readers who know my writing style and my observational tendencies, this is the part where I would usually chide the Flying Pig for serving so-so fare with such a stellar and pair-able drinking selection. Far too often I see great thought processes put into beer lists, only to be squelched by basic, uninspired cuisine.

 

This does irk me. After all, the Del-Valley (unlike Philly-town next door) is absolutely screaming for an honest-to-goodness gastropub. That the Flying Pig could have such potential isn’t lost on my friends and me.

 

Except, as I really analyze the scene there, I realize the limitations Frank and Steve are dealing with. There’s a too-small kitchen and it’s likely operating with a working stiff’s budget, translating to line-cooked meals instead of a trained-chef’s ones.

 

When it comes right down to it: There is a seemingly contented nature that sides with what’s already working with regard to their clientele, meaning, you don’t hear Chris or his buddies complaining about the food, and they’re there most every night.

 

This Pig though, I have no doubt, could fly much higher if time and money were invested in the kitchen’s larder. That’s wishful thinking for the moment. Hell, the place doesn’t even have a dedicated website.

 

But sitting here with my Hoppy Scotch Ale next to Chris, listening to a killer cover band on the juke, while another regular dude regales us with yarns spun from third-beer remembrances, little of my undercurrent of discontents matter.

 

After all, Norm didn’t go to Cheers for the food. It was all about drink and the company; a place where everybody knows your name.