Scenes of Evanston

"The cause of my promotion was a waiter's mutiny. On a rainy afternoon several of the waiters had suddenly thrown down their napkins and aprons and walked out. One had punched the chief busboy in the nose and another had upset a tray filled with Spode demitasse cups." Ludwig Behelmans, from "Art at the Hotel Splendide"








As we drove in the dark of the night to a hotel that we had only previously seen in pictures, the Margarita Old European Inn, tucked away from the more glossy downtown selection in Evanston, we saw a vision of light and of a facade that struck us the color of orange marmalade. The grounds out front were particularly white and striking, offering up the occasional bush and plant box. Wide open windows revealed the now modern familiar beams and rafters of the more up tempo brew pubs that mix and match iconic styles of perhaps the chateau on the outside and the iron warehouse of the inside – its eclecticism enticing and the hope built from that initial impression is that the beer inside just as much. And so as quickly as we could we found our little European room at the Margarita, up on the third floor, decked out in golden ovular mirror and baroque pillow, drove the necessary half of a block behind the alley to find our parking spot guarded by a hedge and an ancient oak, then walked along the dark slate streets of Evanston until the vision appeared again, Smylie's Brewpub. And what a fantastic labyrinth of little dining alleyways and seating pods it was. Cleared out at the main floor, next to the bar, and within sight of the cylindrical metal aging barrels that stand in the corner like high shouldered sentries themselves guarding over their most divine creations.  We sat in among the larger crowds so folded our hats over our hears so that that college hum of voices were muffled just enough leave it all bearable. "I will have the Baltic Porter, Belgian Ale Mussels, and the Roasted Apple Salad!" I believe asked in a louder voice, ears capped, then likely necessary. The staff here was in their hustling hour, to be sure – the late night dinner crowd is not the one that I belong to any more, but remember it well. For my own, the 20 some mussels and light salad topped off by a home tumbler of rich porter was just the touch to relive, even if briefly, the wonderful new world of the high octane, and well appointed brewpub. Not a detail out of place; the food handled by well trained chefs; the beer carrying the kind of richness and complexity that is a mark of brewmaster who knows his stuff, which he does, Smylie himself. What better name to write across the front of this wildly glowing modern chateau of steel and mussels?