Edmonton is apparently home to more than one Odd Company.
This would've been useful information about twenty minutes earlier.
Whenever I'm in the city, I try to kill two birds with one stone. I check a few venues off my ever-growing review list, then catch up with the friends who moved away from Lloydminster, or never lived there at all.
On this trip, those two worlds collided.
My friend and I had planned to meet John for a beer at Odd Company. John has one of those living arrangements that's difficult to explain to anyone who isn't from Alberta. He works in Lloydminster four days a week, then drives back to Edmonton where he actually lives. In other words, he's a part-time Lloydminster resident and a full-time basement dweller.
We agreed to meet at Odd Company.
What nobody bothered to clarify was which Odd Company.
Confidently, my friend and I walked into the first location, announced we were meeting someone, and were politely informed they'd only had one customer all afternoon.
Unless John had somehow mastered bilocation, we weren't in the right place.
A quick drive across what I can only assume was Edmonton's tribute to one-way streets brought us to Odd Company Ritchie, where John was already halfway through his first pint and looking far too pleased with himself.
He claimed he'd only just arrived.
The evidence suggested otherwise.
Fortunately, the only thing bruised was our pride.
Stepping inside, Odd Company leans more industrial than cozy. Exposed steel, concrete, and clean lines give it a modern brewery feel. It's not the kind of place where you sink into a leather chair and lose track of the afternoon, but it doesn't need to be. The atmosphere fits the beer, the food, and the pace of the room. Comfortable without trying too hard to be something it isn't.
I started with the Chili Mango Mexican Lager, a limited-time cask that immediately caught my attention. Mostly because anything served with a Tajín rim has my curiosity before I've even taken the first sip.
Fruit beers can be a dangerous game. They're either refreshing, or they taste like someone accidentally dropped a smoothie into the fermenter.
This one landed comfortably in the first camp.
The mango leans pleasantly bitter instead of candy sweet, while the chili quietly builds in the background without trying to dominate the beer. The Tajín rim ties everything together, adding just enough citrus and spice that every sip is a little different from the last.
If this cask ever finds its way back onto the menu, order it. Limited-time beers have an annoying habit of disappearing just when you decide you love them.
For my second pint, I ordered the Juicy IPA.
This thing slaps.
Breweries love throwing the word juicy around these days, but this one actually earns it. It's crisp, refreshing, balanced, and packed with flavour without trying to strip the enamel off your teeth with hops.
It immediately entered the conversation for the Dining Unhinged Liquid Courage Laureate, an award that exists almost entirely so I can justify drinking more beer in the name of journalism.
It doesn't quite dethrone Sparky IPA from 4th Meridian Brewing, but asking it to is like asking every hockey player to be Gretzky. Second place is still elite company.
By the time the second round had arrived, our conversation had wandered into one of those completely pointless debates that only seem important after a couple of beers.
Cilantro.
More specifically, whether it tastes soapier when it's served hot or cold.
Science says heat releases more of cilantro's aromatic compounds, so if you've got the unfortunate "soap gene," hot cilantro should taste even soapier.
Respectfully, my taste buds didn't read the study.
I barely notice cilantro in hot dishes. Throw it on something cold, though, and suddenly it tastes like the chef grated a bar of Sunlight Lemon over my lunch.
Which led me to my own scientific theory.
Every '90s kid grew up with a mother threatening to wash their mouth out with Sunlight Lemon for swearing. Maybe cold cilantro isn't activating taste receptors.
Maybe it's activating childhood flashbacks.
The real question isn't whether cilantro tastes like soap.
It's whether it tastes like trauma.
Joke's on you, Mom.
I have a publication now, and I can say fuck whenever I want.
Thankfully, our completely useless research was interrupted by the arrival of the food.
The first thing to land on the table was the French onion dip with house-made chips.
I've eaten enough French onion dip over the years that I like to think I've become something of an authority on the subject. Mostly because chips are really just edible spoons.
Odd Company's French onion dip makes Philadelphia look like a little bitch.
That would have been enough on it's own.
John's Animal Fries had also arrived, piled high with rich dip and caramelized grilled onions. Then someone committed an act of accidental genius.
Reaching for another chip, they scooped up a generous pile of the caramelized onions from the Animal Fries before dragging the whole thing through the French onion dip.
It was one of those combinations nobody planned, but everyone immediately copied. The salty house-made chip, rich French onion dip, and sweet caramelized onions came together to create one of the best bites on the table.
After the first taste, nobody bothered eating them separately again. The menu missed a golden opportunity by not suggesting the pairing, or creating the menu item at all.
The Korean ribs arrived next, glistening under a sticky glaze and sprinkled with sesame seeds and green onion.
They were everything ribs should be.
Tender enough that the meat practically surrendered the moment you picked one up, spicy enough to keep things interesting, and sticky enough that napkins stopped being optional.
The kimchi was the only part of the plate that left me wanting a little more. It had a nice crunch, but I found it a bit lacking in flavour and was hoping for more of that bold, tangy punch that great kimchi is known for.
Then again, context matters.
Odd Company isn't trying to be an authentic Korean restaurant. It's a brewery serving elevated pub food, and judging by the ribs, they're doing that exceptionally well. The kimchi did its job, but the ribs were unquestionably the star of the plate.
By this point, we'd reached the stage of the afternoon where the conversation had wandered well beyond beer and food.
Somehow, we ended up discussing what I'm convinced is a secret society operating inside the hospitality industry.
I call it the Cult of May I.
Every new server gets indoctrinated the same way.
"May I clear your plate?"
"May I top up your water?"
"May I grab you another beer?"
"May I bring you the bill?"
Nobody just does anything anymore.
They ask permission first.
I'm convinced there's a dimly lit room somewhere beneath a chain restaurant where veteran servers in black aprons gather around a flickering candle and initiate the next generation.
"Repeat after me..."
"May I..."
"May I..."
"Good."
"You're one of us."
"One of us."
"One of us."
The thing is...
It works.
Every interaction with the staff at Odd Company felt genuine, never rehearsed. They were attentive without hovering, friendly without sounding scripted, and somehow always appeared exactly when we needed another beer, another napkin, or another round of water.
If this is the result of the Cult of May I, serve me up a glass of Kool-Aid.
By the time we settled the bill, it was pretty obvious why Odd Company gets recommended as often as it does.
Not because it's trying to reinvent brewery food.
Because it doesn't have to.
The beer is excellent.
The food is memorable.
The atmosphere is modern and industrial. It doesn't have the laid-back feel of some neighbourhood breweries, but it suits Odd Company perfectly.
The service quietly ties everything together.
It's the kind of brewery that knows exactly what it is and executes it exceptionally well.
As for John...
He was right to start without us.