s soon as the subject of eating in brewpubs comes up, the jokes about the food begin. It's generally the kind of fare that's available, if you wish, but you won’t expect much in the way of striking culinary pyrotechnics. Helm serves just that sort of pub fare, full of soft textures, potatoes and funny names. But eat as you laugh, because you just might find yourself enjoying more of the food than you could imagine.

The Mile-end bar, from the owners of L’Assommoir and Baracca, takes over the space vacated by Futenbulle, yet another brasserie. Helm, according to our effervescent server, is an acronym for the basic ingredients found in Beer: Houblon (hops), Eau (water), Levure (yeast) and Malt.

Slicked up since its earlier incarnation, the space is now in that reverent, vaguely sepulchral, uniquely pub sort of way. Hurried but polite waitstaff scurrying here and there, delivering the two house brews available and tapas-style snacks to various tables.

The dim, warm dining room is a hodgepodge of rustic wooden tables, flea market chairs and oil-burning lamps. Antique chalkboards, brick walls and an oval island bar in the middle of it all. It's a suitably kitschy derivation for a place that, with the combined forces of weather, mood and food, can turn into a thoroughly ideal spot.