Philadelphia Weekly

Chucking tradition: Which cut of beef does Esposito's provide for Prohibition's Gorgonzola-and-bacon-topped burger? Not even the owner knows. (photo by michael persico)

Once upon a time, the Loft District's only claim to fame was inspiring Eraserhead, David Lynch's surrealist Tilt-a-Whirl that makes Mulholland Drive look like Must Love Dogs. Even after grade-school sweethearts Michael Pasquarello and Jeniphur Whitleigh opened the sunny Caf� Lift in 2003, the 'hood was still the kind of dead zone you'd be warned about in a Verizon commercial.

But with the twosome's November addition of Prohibition Taproom, you're good! Not only can you get your precious emails (Wi-Fi throughout) but you can also enjoy one of the city's more interesting beer programs, with the likes of Baltimore's malty Heavy Seas Below Decks barleywine and vegan Samuel Smith Winter Welcome among the eight taps; Yards ESA on hand pump; and 60 craft and macro bottles spelled out on a chalkboard menu.

Outside, Prohibition's sign simply states "BAR," a comic-book thought bubble trimmed in scarlet neon. It's a welcoming beacon, one that models this tavern's easy, unpretentious vibe. "BAR," indeed, but so much more.

Which is just what the Loft District deserves. Nearly four years ago, Whitleigh and Pasquarello were ready to ink a deal for the space but the agreement fell through and Maker's Local moved in (and promptly closed) instead. Canavan's followed, pouring for only a few months before they too shut down, and fate, one might say, brought the building back to the couple.

Whitleigh and Pasquarello took over in June and checked the bar into serious rehab, installing a new kitchen, refrigeration and draught system. Out went the sagging couch and coffee table; in went the wood-top tables, matte black wainscoting and retro, Edison-style light bulbs, their copper filaments glowing like fireflies trapped in Mason jars.

Today an optimistic spirit floats over Prohibition's marvelous bar, as unexpected as the counter's twin peninsulas jutting into the dining room like cherrywood jetties. The impressive beer list is just one reason for the warm and fuzzies. The other is the food: earnest American stuff executed well and without pretense by exec chef James Henry and sous Jen Sherman. The fries are cut by hand, the wing sauce is from scratch and the only thing frozen is the vanilla ice cream plunked into a frosted mug of root beer.

Is it wrong to make love to a root beer float in the middle of a bar? Perhaps, but Prohibition's version of the soda fountain favorite was such a straight-up, old-school reproduction of Jack & Jill (est. 1929) and Stewart's (est. 1924), one could make a convincing argument that's just the way Philadelphia teetotalers drank 'em during America's Noble Experiment. I'm all for the spins and drunk-dialing my exes, but if temperance means replacing all mealtime beverages with root beer floats, I'll start burning down state stores rightfuckingnow.

But let's have some dinner first. Gotta love the Yards beer-battered string beans, snappy and greaseless, quickly becoming Prohibition's signature item alongside house-made roasted garlic aioli. Deep toasted sesame oil, plum wine and fresh chopped scallions elevated the chicken wings to a hoisin-glazed plane where crisp, cool daikon radish sticks stood in for standard celery.

Esposito's supplies the meaty wings, as well as the closely guarded ground beef blend for Prohibition's worthy burger. Not even Pasquarello knows for sure what cut of cow the secretive butcher uses. His guess? Chuck, but the results were a persuasive argument for why some things should remain a mystery: an 8-ounce badonkadonk full of juiciness and bottomless beef flavor. Bacon, sauteed leeks, Gorgonzola and a Metropolitan bun brought it home.

Twice-fried in the Belgian style, Prohibition's golden matchstick fries nuzzled the burger, as well as a tender grilled hanger in a steak frites that would be at home in any French bistro. Before being sliced into against-the-grain ribbons, the steak rested under a cap of truffled porcini butter; all that flavor reabsorbed into the meat, creating something so delicious it nearly rendered the frites (and definitely the tuft of baby spinach in metallic sun-dried tomato vinaigrette) superfluous.

For dessert, there's bread pudding, a seasonal fruit crisp and a silky (and huge) pot de cr�me infused with La Colombe espresso. But I'd probably stick with the float. In a taproom called Prohibition, what could be more appropriate?