Seasonal Brews and Some Pretty Good Food at Heartland Brewery & Chophouse

Heartland Brewery and Chophouse

From the front window of a tiny cafe I see them swinging down the avenue on a gray day in their identical black leather belted jackets. Smileless with smoothed hair, Michelle looks like Emma Peel. After hugs, I guzzle coffee and they reminisce about their Friday night. Looking for lunch, we pass district (the lowercase is the proprietor's pretension, not mine). I see pierogen on the posted menu. Inside, it's full of soft ring-ting-tingle-ing holiday music. It's lighted in peach tones. It's wafting a cinnamon-and clove-scented infusion. It's perfect! It's closed.

Just as well?my friends always want to go to a brewpub. Barb bitches that I consistently bring her to diners.

"I can't believe you haven't reviewed a diner yet."

"I'm waiting for you to come with me."

She'd always meet her friends at Times Square Brewery, but it closed. We didn't like their beer and the service was even worse, but it was one of those cases of location, location, location. Commonwealth Brewery had good food and brews, but possibly the worst service I've ever encountered. Example: "Would you guys pleeease leeave..."

On the way to Heartland Brewery and Chophouse, Michelle yells at me because we're backtracking two blocks. "We have to go back the way we came?" The coffee hasn't kicked in yet so I'm all 'Oh! I'm sorry! We can keep going uptown...' Then I see the corner of the mouth turning up against her will. I know this girl forever and I still fall for it like Charlie Brown trying to kick that pigskin.

The Chophouse's dark wood and old-fashioned lanterns call up a turn-of-the-last-century saloon. Where's the handlebar mustachioed piano player with the shirtsleeve garters at his upright? Accommodating servers fit the vibe with a professional primness. The menu adds to the theme with items like crabcakes, clams casino, strip steak, surf & turf and, of course, lambchops.

A salad of field greens ($6.25) has the freshest baby spinach. I'd ask for less dressing next time, but Michelle has limited interest in conversing with us until she has cleaned the plate. So Barb talks about her friend Jay's wedding. He didn't invite Angelina as they had a falling out. I trash him, but Barb defends her friend. "I saw him hit a girl's car and she chased him through the parking lot yelling at him and he wouldn't stop. And once he showed up at Diane's with Chinese food and within five minutes he was groping her."

"Chinese food? You were just jealous." "Angelina was mad he brought a girl she didn't know to her wedding. I hope she wasn't mad I brought someone I was just dating." "I remember him. He was 12." Is that really necessary? They want to know who I'm seeing. "No one. I saw that guy we met, remember, a couple of times but he quoted Seinfeld too much." The large room has filled up for lunch with cheerful chatters under the chandeliers with glass shades of autumn colors. Speedy delivery of dishes and proximity to the Broadway houses make it a handy pretheater spot. The spinach dip ($6.95) arrives. Barb and I think we'll need more tortilla chips for scooping. Michelle makes it eminently clear that there's plenty for the two of us. It's a must-have if you go, hot and enriched with cheese and cream, pretty purple and golden chips on the side. We sip from the "seasonal voyage" ($10.50). Eight precious mini-mugs of five year-round and three seasonal brews. Pints go for six dollars. I find the blond harsh on its own, but great with the grub. The hefe-weizen is a standout; I've seen several sample it and everyone likes it. It's smooth, it's mellow and quaffing it all's right with the world. The last time I had it here, Alicia, a nurse with a loud mouth, a heart of gold and a Pepsodent smile, railed, "Why save money you should enjoy it if you're killed in a trade tower what good is money in the bank..." to stares from six-figurites who have yet to spend their first dime. Having just come from Letterman, Jon identified this as the second monologue of the evening. That Thursday night we'd spotted bespectacled Chuck Scarborough enjoying his evening break, through Citarella's windows. Some Freddy Ferrer hatred had been espoused. I'd summed up fall fashion: simple, khaki, denim, boots you can run down 100 flights in.

At the Chophouse we found a bland but nice crowd. The knowledgeable bartender provided tastes in the teeny mugs. Talk was of the banks cutting contractors' rates by 10 percent across the board and renegotiating salaries downward. And layoffs?I said don't worry, you know the first ones to get laid off are the ones who can't speak English and the ones who can't get along with anybody.

The black lager is a bit raw and malty for me, but connoisseur Michelle says it's a good specimen. The bartender's favorite: Indiana Pale Ale. They also craft their own sodas. Currently on-line: root beer, black cherry and yummy orange cream with vanilla smiling through. After some extended discussion, we finalize our selections. Smiling Pumpkin Ale for Barb, who likes the sweeter things in life (like liebfraumilch and Asti Spumante) and Old Red Nose Ale for me?heartier and nicely spicy to put me in the holiday spirit.

Chive-sprinkled "Buffalo" spring rolls ($8.50) are piping-hot large pieces of white meat chicken in thin wrappers served with hot sauce and tangy blue cheese dressing, for a mouth-zinging wings experience without the mess. The calamari ($8.50), fresh enough to bite back, are golden brown-breadcrumbed. Barb won't eat the legs (which taste the same as the rings); she's squeamish about seafood.

"Remember that New Year's when Diane served that huge bowl of huge shrimp?" "The pre-party?" Yeah?Barb had started on an empty stomach because of her seafood aversion. At the table was Scott, telling a 45-minute-long story with no breaks about spotting a pileated woodpecker, which he pronounced "py-a-lated." I was accustomed to tuning Scott out, as he had sat in the next cube from me for a couple of years. But Barb had no defense. She kept storming to the fridge for another and another from a case of Carlsberg Elephant beer. Those elephant malt liquors have more alcohol than your standard brew. By the time we got to the real party she was plastered and insisting that she wanted to go home with this guy she worked with. Michelle wrestled with her on a bed trying to dissuade her. "You're drunk. You shouldn't go home with Walter." Big Bruce came into his room, saw one girl lying atop another said, "Oh! Excuse me," and beat a hasty retreat. Barb got her way, went home with Walt and now they're married. Moral?if you want to stay single, eat your shellfish.

Recently, Michelle was looking at my pictures and saw one from that party. She said, "Barb looks like an idiot here," but on closer inspection, it was a picture of Michelle herself. I also was in the photo, wearing a stethoscope that I'd found on the premises. I vaguely remember demanding to examine people. And my dress getting splashed by champagne steadily dripping from the ceiling. Two other girls in the photo would later introduce me to a future boyfriend. We met at a club whose dress code was "No Cavariccis." He'd asked the girls, "What about Lane?" They said, "Um. Y'know, Itty's really nice." "Yeah, but what about Lane?" "Hmm. Itty's a really sweet girl. Isn't she cute?" "She's cute. Is Lane seeing anyone?" "Go ask Itty to dance."

Our side order of precisely arranged asparagus ($6) is baked with Parmigiano-Reggiano. Again the vegetables are young and fresh. At first I think the ginger chicken wontons ($7.95) are one-note due to the single spice running through, but I am soon subject to their tender, warm, addictive nature. And they are the perfect foil for the beers.

After lunch we stop by St. Patrick's so Barb can pick up some holy water for Uncle Charly. Michelle warns me to be cautious around it, as it burns Jews. While they're purchasing the plastic travel bottles, I get lost in the light-soaked cerulean stained glass. Woken from the reverie by "Lane, don't touch anything!"

Later in the afternoon, we're pelted by icy rain, and every barstool has a tourist atop it. Finally find a little bar space at Redeye Grill. At the entrance to the bar there are spinning bronze shrimp monuments; one threatens to knock me in the head. Three people are dug in at a booth with all they need on a rainy Saturday: coffee, cigarettes and a bottle of red. Foot-long snow crab legs on ice are on display.

A neat, glassed-in private dining room overlooks the bar. Our drinks are around $9 apiece. Friendly yet nonintrusive patrons enjoy their sushi, and the women at the bar discuss how handsome the bartender is. I hadn't even noticed. Maybe I'm maturing. Maybe I'm no longer superficial. Maybe I'm only interested in finding someone with a good heart. Maybe I found the conundrum of whether to have Frangelico or Kahlua in my coffee too all-consuming to register that the bartender was a hottie. The dinner crowd begins to file into the bar. "They're out of Ketel. One of those days," my neighbor warns. "And no Baileys," I pipe in. The girls simultaneously chirp, "The margaritas are good." They're sucking on their salt-dipped fingers.

Michelle, a Parrothead, says these margaritas rival Key West's. I'd had the perfect breakfast with her there during a Fantasy Fest. First cappuccinos near the Eden House, then joined the line waiting for Margaritaville to open. Unfettered, we dreamily walked up and down gravity-less Duval, window-shopping and people-watching with our creamy icy salty lime-ridden concoctions under embracing yet cool-to-the-touch sunshine. At this midtown bar, the gravity level is higher.

"Michelle, are you going to look for another job?" "Nope. I'm going down with the ship." Dodging bullets of rain, they grab a cab and I disappear underground. A couple days later Barb sent me an e-mail asking, "Will we always have the good times?" Barb, we all have to believe that we will.

Heartland Brewery and Chophouse, 127 W. 43rd St. (B'way), 646-366-0235.

Redeye Grill, 890 7th Ave. (56th St.), 541-9000.