The fact we barely remember most of our meal at Brickhouse Café & Saloon doesn't mean it was bad at all. We arrived at the delightfully un-SOMA SOMA pub fairly late on a Wednesday night, having spent the previous four hours at a wine-tasting party bathing empty stomachs in syrupy Merlots. Without question, we recall a funny sort of loft upstairs, plus-size pinecones littering the countertops, and a long menu that undulated before us like a desert apparition.
The evidence slowly stacks up. A crumpled receipt reports that we downed a few $2 pints of Pabst. A scribbled note we pulled from our jacket pocket two days later reveals that the hissing slabs of Anchor Steam-battered fish ($14) we ate swam across a golden bed of “very average” fries, nuzzling against a cup of “somewhat less average” cole slaw. We're pretty confident that the fish trumped the famed “big ass” burger ($10) we also ordered, largely on account of the hefty ciabatta roll into which the latter was tucked. We prefer it when a bun melts into a burger, fusing with cheese and condiments, when it's just firm and functional enough to keep a sloppy sandwich from falling to pieces entirely. This huge puffy specimen made for an overly bread-centric assemblage. How do we know? “Burger = Bread”, our last note exclaimed idiotically. Minor and faintly recollected, broadly interpreted gripes aside, we cannot doubt that we had a nice, bleary feed. For our part, we pray that we tipped well, kept our conversation volume respectfully low, and spilled neither food nor drink in excess.
We do however clearly remember a few fascinating facts expounded upon in the menu's many pages.