Beyond the shadow of a stout.

In my continuing efforts to broaden my gastronomical horizons, I’ve begun delving into the wonderfully complex world of craft beers — the myriad interplay of malt, hops, yeast and the life-giving water that brings them together. For years, I had eschewed beer as too astringent without comprehending that such sharpness, contributed by hops, is deliberate on brewers’ part to temper the inherent sweetness of roasted malt (among other benefits, including preservation and aroma).

Despite this newfound insight into the intricate process of crafting a well-balanced beer, however, I find that my palate is still more inclined to enjoy sweeter brews, or at least those whose bitterness is largely subsumed by other flavours. In particular, I’ve come to appreciate stouts — robust, inky beers with pronounced “burnt” notes of toast, roasted coffee and dark chocolate — over their lighter-coloured, tarter brethren.

Many people only know of stouts through Guinness, and not without reason — the iconic tipple has been brewed for 250 years — but that’s merely scratching the surface. In fact, Guinness, as a “dry stout,” is actually considered light for its style at only about 4% ABV (alcohol by volume). Add Russian Imperial Stouts, milk stouts, chocolate stouts, oatmeal stouts, and even oyster stouts to the roster, and you begin to see the variety of flavours and potencies available to the stout enthusiast.

What I find most fascinating about the world of stouts, though, are the linguistic quirks surrounding their names — in many situations, the terminology could confuse an unwitting neophyte, as they did me before I researched the matter further. Fortunately, I’m here to give you a crash course in stout nomenclature so you can order a pint with confidence.

Russian Imperial Stout

These intensely rich brews — quite literally a stronger version of the already formidable stout — aren’t Russian at all, but were originally brewed in London for exportation to Russian czars. The first few batches sent into the tundra spoiled before arriving, however, so brewers added additional alcohol and hops (which, being acidic, have preservative qualities) to extend the beer’s life. The resulting brews, usually around 9-10% ABV, aren’t for the faint of heart, but offer complex, nearly overwhelming flavour. North Brewing Co.’s Old Rasputin is a delightful model to quaff — thick, heady, and powerful.

Milk Stout

If you’re anything like me, you may expect a “milk stout” (also known as a “cream stout” or “sweet stout”) to have milk or cream as one of its ingredients — something akin to Bailey’s, perhaps, with stout instead of whiskey — but we’d both be wrong. Instead, milk stouts include lactose, a milk sugar unable to be broken down by the yeasts traditionally used in beer, thereby contributing additional sweetness and a creamier mouthfeel. While I haven’t yet had the pleasure of sampling one of these delicacies, I have it on good authority that Bell’s Special Double Cream Stout, available seasonally on tap at Surly Girl Saloon, is excellent.

Chocolate Stout

Yet another victim of misleading terminology, chocolate stouts traditionally don’t have any actual chocolate in them — I call false advertising! — and thus may disappoint the chocoholics hoping to find ambrosia in a pint glass. Instead, chocolate stouts are made from some portion of what’s known as “chocolate malt,” which is simply malted barley kilned (dried) at higher temperatures than the lighter-coloured malts used in pale ale and porter. Because it’s roasted more intensely, however, chocolate malt gives up flavours reminiscent of burnt sugar and dark chocolate, emphasizing those qualities inherent in all stouts. To be fair, some beers — such as Young’s Double Chocolate Stout — do use a small amount of real chocolate in their brewing process.

Oatmeal Stout and Oyster Stout

These are fairly straightforward, albeit unusual (at least in the case of the latter). Oatmeal stouts, in addition to malted barley, also contain a good amount of oats — these increase the smoothness, if not the true sweetness, of the resulting brew. (I’m told that Wolaver’s Oatmeal Stout is very fine.) Oyster stouts, in some cases, actually do involve real oysters in the barrel used to age the beer, but may simply refer to the once-common practice of drinking stouts while eating the mollusks.

Stouts are, as you can see, curious but complex and satisfying beasts, and worthy of our respect. If you’re not a fan of acerbic beer, pick up a pint of Guinness sometime — being careful not to disturb the impressive foamy head — and savor its dry sweetness. Once you think you’re ready, graduate to a good Russian Imperial Stout (which is also wonderful poured over vanilla ice cream), finish your meal with a chocolate stout for dessert, and never look back to the uninspiring, insipid pale lagers that dominate most domestic taps. You deserve far better, my friend.

Simple—yet sophisticated—fare at Skillet.

Upon first arriving in Columbus — now little more than a year ago — I despaired that I had left the bosom of Southern California’s culinary bounty and entered a mass-produced kingdom where White Castle and Donatos reign from their greasy fast-food thrones. In exploring the city further, however, I discovered a vibrant, diverse food scene, populated by genuinely passionate restaurateurs and epicurean patrons alike. As the unofficial bon vivant among my group of friends, I’ve taken it upon myself to learn of remarkable eateries and pass them on. Thus it was that I happened upon Skillet.

Opened in early October as a small family operation — chefs Kevin and Patrick Caskey are father and son, with extensive restaurant experience between them — Skillet takes up residence at the Banana Bean Café’s former location in Schumacher Place. The space is small, holding perhaps two dozen guests, and sparsely but charmingly decorated; prints of farm animals and brickwork motifs contribute to a pastoral theme in an urban setting. (Their motto is "Rustic Urban Food.")

Orders are placed and paid for — and, in the case of take-out, picked up — at a counter that dominates the far wall and provides full view of the kitchen. This allows not only an opportunity to see one’s food being prepared, but access to the chefs themselves, who are more than happy to answer questions about individual dishes or the philosophy behind their operation. (They have indulged both my curiosity and inquisitive barrages with the utmost patience.) I’ve been fortunate enough to talk to Patrick during both my visits; his passion for, and knowledge of, his craft are evident, his enthusiasm absolutely infectious.

The Caskeys describe their menu as “comfort food with an edge,” offering only locally sourced, ingredient-driven fare — while this could spell froufrou pretension elsewhere, the dishes at Skillet are hearty, and simply but lovingly prepared with a farm-to-table mindset. Each morning, based on what meats and produce are available from local farms, as well as how inspiration strikes the chefs, a menu is devised and printed out for the day.

My friends and I visited on a Tuesday in the early afternoon, finding a table despite the vestiges of a lunch rush that had clearly filled the cozy room. The menu predominantly comprises meat-based sandwiches, though soups (one vegan) and pasta are also available, as well as sides that mostly subscribe to the belief that vegetables are even better with a little pork. (You know that’s right.) Our goal was to try as many dishes as possible, so we each ordered a different sandwich, plus two sides and one bowl of soup for the table.

Our initial side was Crispy Fingerling Potatoes and “Burnt Ends,” which here were leftover tidbits of roasted pork — crunchy, piggy goodness lending added flavour and texture to the herb-speckled potatoes. We ate greedily, plucking golden-brown morsels from the bowl with our fingers, and took this as a good omen for the rest of the meal. We also ordered the Pan-Roasted Late Season Brussels Sprouts, Smoked Bacon and Sherry Vinegar — I’ve always loved Brussels sprouts with pork, and this was no exception. The bacon is, in fact, double-smoked, and that sweet, smoky meat plays off the slightly bitter browned greens. Occasional hints of vinegar. Sublime.

The first sandwich to arrive was Braised Beef Short Rib & Italian Taleggio, served with what we determined to be horseradish mayo, as well as a “lagniappe” (a little something extra) made up of black-eyed peas, celery, carrots, red peppers and herbs. The beef, slow-cooked in a flavorful liquid, came out tender and flaky, complemented perfectly by the creamy, “funky” washed-rind cheese; the bread, buttered and toasted to a golden sheen on the griddle, was substantial without being stodgy. In all, a wonderful sandwich.

Next to come was my Porchetta — a sandwich of slow-roasted pork, infused with garlic, herbs and wild fennel pollen, on grilled ciabatta. Porchetta is made from a whole pig that has been emptied of bones and organs, stuffed again with its own meat, fat and skin along with the aforementioned aromatics, and wood-fired for hours. Fatty, moist and decadent, it’s essentially the Italians’ take on pulled pork, but even more delicious. Skillet’s version didn’t disappoint: huge chunks of pork, bathed in their own natural jus, melted in my mouth with each bite. The fennel pollen lent a flavour faintly reminiscent of anise, nicely tempering the meat’s richness. I’m not usually a fan of ciabatta, as it’s often too hard and dense to make a pleasant bun, but this bread’s firm crust gave way to perfect fluffiness.

Third, and a clear favourite of the table, was the Pan-Fried Potato and Cheese Pierogies, Caramelized Onions, Spicy Napa Kraut and Sharp Cheddar on Grilled Brioche. For those who haven’t encountered pierogies before, they’re basically Slavic dumplings — tasty, but not commonly found on sandwiches. It was quickly agreed, however, that this dish is something special — the contrasting textures and flavours of starchy potatoes, gooey cheese and still slightly crisp sautéed cabbage (kraut) somehow meld into something wonderful. One of my more colourful friends, in her own words, had a “pierogasm” in the course of eating this delightful, if unorthodox, sandwich. Just try it!

The Truffled Griddled Cheese on Brioche, served with an Arugula Simple Salad and a side of soup, was last among the sandwiches, and a second vegetarian sandwich option for those so inclined. I’d been eager to try this — how often do you get to have a grilled cheese sandwich with truffle oil? — and was in fact so quick to assault the plate that I forgot to take a picture first. (I hate when that happens. Don’t worry, I’ll add one next time I have lunch there.)

I chose the Cream of Tomato Soup with Peppered Bacon, fulfilling the classic pairing, but tried the salad first — as the name suggests, this is simply arugula leaves dressed in a delicate vinaigrette, but it contrasted well with the rich unctuousness of the sandwich. In an inspired decision, they paired Taleggio with sharp Cheddar for the griddled cheese — creamy, oozing and complex, with hints of earthiness and mushroom from the truffle oil, it’s everything a cheese sandwich should be. Even better was the sandwich dipped in the soup — rich and buttery, with chunks of fresh tomato and peppery bacon lending body, its sweetness harmonized incomparably with the cheese’s tang.

Truly, this is an exemplar of the soup-and-sandwich model.

We also shared a bowl of Pumpkin-Black Bean Soup with Toasted Pepitas, representing the only fully vegan option currently available on the menu. This is a quintessential taste of autumn — nutty pumpkin, smoky black beans and fall spices combine to create a rich, warming meal. Crunchy pepitas (roasted pumpkin seeds) add a pleasant textural contrast, as well as emphasizing the soup’s subtle smokiness. This would be perfect for a crisp fall day.

This isn’t even considering their brunch menu, which also looks to be immensely promising — it involves, for instance, a sweet risotto with brûléed peaches, bourbon and molasses. (Could anything be more beautiful?) My friends and I will be enjoying it this coming Sunday, and I look forward to documenting that deliciousness in a subsequent entry. The restaurant is currently only open for lunch and brunch, but extended dinner hours are planned for the future. (Hopefully soon!)

Skillet does something impressive in applying an understated sophistication to simple comfort food, living up to their seemingly contradictory motto and avoiding the affectation that can accompany ingredient-driven cooking. The Caskeys centre their menu around what the land provides, which means that every meal is something organic in its truest sense — intrinsic, harmonious, and extraordinarily fresh. It’s no coincidence that their dishes are also delicious and creative. What may surprise you is that nothing on the menu is over $9 — sides are only $3, and soups run $4 for a large bowl. That means you have no excuse whatsoever not to pay this humbly wonderful eatery a visit.

Hours:
Tue-Fri: 11 a.m. — 3 p.m.
Sat-Sun: 8 a.m. — 2 p.m.

Skillet

410 E. Whittier St.

Phone: (614) 443-2266

Twitter: SkilletRustic