Though I've been hearing and reading about Hopleaf for years, I have eaten there only once. Whether I go back again is a matter of some uncertainty for Vegas oddsmakers, and indifference to me.
While I didn't experience either off-the-charts rudeness or bad food, the 'tude was just unwelcoming enough, that the food and even the beer list are insufficient to overcome the mild antipathy with which I left.
It was early one weekday evening and I took advantage of a period of de facto bachelordom (wife and son had set out on the 2-city Great Grandma Tour of the Northeast: Summer '06; tour t-shirts and bomber jackets available) to go out on my own.
The joint was, if not actually jumping, capering nimbly, and I went straight toward the back room to see if conditions were propitious for solo dining. (Didn't want to take up a table if large parties were waiting.) It was as I passed through the limenal space between the rooms that my visit took a wrong turn and failed to recover.
The room was crowded with tables, patrons, and waiters squeezing around and about with large trays, so rather than planting myself in the entryway, I moved a few steps inside to clear the path for servers. As I stepped forward I heard from over my shoulder that very specific delivery of "excuse me?" that raises all my hackles at once. It is not the "excuse me" of a friendly proprieter eager to welcome a guest, but that of a floorwalker closing in on a shoplifter or panhandler. It proceeded from the epicene mouth of a none-too-neatly attired "host" who wished to make clear that I had violated house rules by walking right past the small, off-to-one-side-and facing-3/4-away-from-me sign that said "wait to be seated." Not that I had even entertained the thought of seating myself, but he wasn't taking any chances. Not when a well-placed, raised-eyebrow "excuse me" would preempt any potential infraction.
Once seated, I was served in decent time by an efficient if brusque waitress and ordered pate and mussels. They were both good, but the pate didn't come with near enough bread to spread it on and the mussels did not come with any sort of dish for empty shells, the lack of which made for a rather messy table.
I ate, paid my check and left without any sense of having been welcome, or of relaxing over a decent dinner and drink, which is something I want in a neighborhood joint. Perhaps with a gaggle of friends none of this would have made any difference. But just the previous night I had been back to my old haunt, The Athenian Room on Webster. Also alone. It had been years, and no one there now knows me, but the hostess evinced something like pleasure at being able to seat me quickly; the waitress smiled when she brought the menu and again when she took my order; the bartender at Glascott's chatted a bit pouring my drink.
And my $10 skirt steak Alexandros was not merely good enough, it was terrific. Marinated for a long time in some combo of wine/vinegar/herbs. As perfectly med.-rare as one would expect at a downtown temple of steak--charred outside, then pink, then red at the very center. Chewy, satisfying. Incomperable cottage cut fries, crunchy outside, imbued with lemon and oregano. And around me all sorts of people: DePaul students, young families with infants and tolddlers, professionals talking business and eating messy food with ties thrown over their shoulders.
That's what I want far more than just good moules and biere and that's what I'll go back for.
"Strange how potent cheap music is."