By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
The corpses--Coppertank Brewing Co., Moon Under Water, Routh Street Brewery, Breckenridge Brewery, Hubcap Brewery & Kitchen, Yegua Creek Brewing Co., the Hoffbrau brewery on Knox--roll off the tongue like head foam.
Yet BJ's, a California import, has opened a microbrew pub in Lewisville with plans to open a second on Belt Line Road in Addison sometime this year. OK, technically this isn't a traditional brewpub as laws in Lewisville prevent the sale of beer brewed on premise. But the place is selling its own brand of suds, brewing the stuff under contract at Saint Arnold Brewing Co. in Houston from where it is shipped to Lewisville.
2609 S. Stemmons Freeway
Lewisville, TX 75067
Category: Bars and Clubs
Seven-beer taster set: $7
Avocado egg rolls: $7.95
Italian salad: $7.45
Grilled chicken pasta: $9.95
Fried chicken: $11.95
Pepperoni pizza: $3.95
BJ's burger: $8.25
Porterhouse steak: $23.95
Clam chowder: $4.95
Apple crisp: $4.45
And the results are fine, though not stellar. Yet BJ's, which bills itself as a kind of NFL temple when steroids are in season, perhaps has some training to do with the service staff on this count. Our server, eager and polite though she was, planted herself and the beer sampler between my face and the glorious picture tube relaying the final critical seconds of the dumbfounding 49er-Giant playoff game whose final six seconds included a muffed snap and a penalty, ending the sweaty-palmed match in a one-point squeaker. Her staccato tasting descriptions were still going after the clock ran out. Sacrilege.
This might be forgivable if the beer were extraordinary, but it wasn't. It featured seven brews, ranging from good to awful, the latter being a cider species called berry burst, a name that sounds a little like an air freshener. But it tastes like white zinfandel spun with Kool-Aid fruit twist, only without the finesse.
Most of the rest are simply sleepy, with the exceptions of the refreshing hefeweizen with an alluring clover bouquet, the zesty and full-flavored pale ale and perhaps to a lesser extent, the Jeremiah Red with a satisfying fullness and a fruity bouquet that kind of collapses on the finish. The blonde was insipid. Porter promises full flavor with hints of chocolate and perhaps coffee, but doesn't come through. Ditto the stout, reputed to be an aid to regularity and sexual potency (which can make for some strange evenings if true). BJ's stout allegedly trumps Guinness in the alcohol punch, ringing up 8 percent to Guinness' 4.1 to 5.5 percent. Plus, it pours like motor oil, at least according to our server. (She didn't indicate if this was an asset.) Still, it's a little shy on the fullness, complexity and heft you'd expect from a stout.
What you might expect from a brewpub, though, is solid, beer-slosh-friendly cuisine, maybe even grub as creative as the brew recipes (though berry burst is about as creative to beverage as "Piss Christ" is to art). And there is an Asian-Mexican taste bend. Now, Chili's perhaps charted new ground in this area with its Southwestern egg rolls--crispy flour tortillas wrapped around smoked chicken, black beans, corn and jalapeño jack cheese with red peppers and spinach--and grilled Asian-spiced chicken lettuce wraps. But what happens when the mesh plays out in a backdrop of micro suds with names like Piranha Pale Ale ("For hopheads only!")? It comes out as avocado egg rolls, gutsy wedge-cut cylinders swaddling a mudpack of avocado and cream cheese studded and flecked with dried tomatoes, onions, cilantro, pine nuts and chipotle. This is a surprisingly successful kitchen mongrel stunt--a merging that actually works. It dodges the avocado/cream cheese mush hazards and comes forward with distinct flavors.
Ribs are not only good to raft down on a flood of brew; BJ's has found they're good to assault with brew flavor treatments, too. The half-rack has moist chewy meat that slipped off the bones like stretched-out stockings. They were rich with a discernible smoke layer and a sweet but deft sauce (blended with BJ's Jeremiah Red Ale) that didn't gag or get under your fingernails. Plus the meat lacked the prodigious fat pockets that can sometimes make it seem like you're eating a tragic all-expense-paid trip to Paris on the Concord for your cardiologist.
Which is what the flame-broiled porterhouse steak is--a bone-in tragedy with a gooey composure and lots of fat sacs and gristle knots. The side of garlic mashed potatoes had no detectable garlic bite, but they did stick to mouth parts like Spackle, distinguished from the construction material only by the lumpy mushroom gravy.
The Italian chop salad was a utilitarian blend of iceberg lettuce scraps without browning edges or withering and limp flaps. It was a good mix of mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses, tomato, artichoke, olives, garbanzos, onions and salami in a tame but comestible dressing--a good antidote to the steak shakes.
Like the garlic mashed potatoes, the grilled chicken pasta was more construction adhesive than culinary enticement. Scorched and parched grilled chicken strips tangled with rotelle pasta strands and broccoli in a pasty cream sauce that left behind a film on the mouth.
We sought refuge in the Southern-fried chicken, but were again sent scurrying with wigged-out mouth sensors. The limbs had a modest breadcrumb coating that was greasy and bland, yet moist--the menu's big fried chicken boast. Those garlic mashed potatoes made another appearance, except this time they were saddled with a mushy, flaccid corn on the cob, a thing that would spring back to its original vertical stance after being bent 30 degrees. Maybe they should make road pylons out of this stuff.