The Stumbling Monk is the kind of neighborhood bar that doesn’t need publicity—after four years as a bottle store and five more as a bar, only last month did the owners replace a small “typewriters” sign above the entrance with a modest, official hanging one. On warm nights, the musty smell of serious ales welcomes you into this denlike spot, where even a cask offering is routinely available. A chalkboard denotes Belgian beers on one half and Canadian/European on the other, with their proper glasses illustrated (a pint for Dick’s Silk Lady, a goblet for La Chouffe, Hoegaarden’s hexagonal tumbler). Mirrored signs advertising Trappist brews are the main decoration, while old-school Battleship and Sorry! games, and a Scrabble set with its letters in Tupperware, rest on wooden shelves. Really need those blanks filled in to get here? As with anything in life that’s unassuming yet awesome, you’ll start with an “um” and end with an “o.” RACHEL SHIMP