The Meat, Cheese, Beer pizza featured sausage, pepperoni, salami, bacon, mozzarella and white cheddar.

This is the second of a two-part column about Rogue Ales Public House in Astoria. Last week’s column focused on the beer; this week’s column focuses on the food.

“Which way?” my companion asked.

“Straight ahead,” I said, pointing towards the wooden, one-lane bridge to Pier 39.

“Whoa, this is cool,” he said, as the wheels tumbled over the sturdy planks. Indeed, the approach to Astoria’s Rogue Ales Public House is transportive. The Cannery Museum glowed, and sea lions barked across the water. The lights of downtown Astoria twinkled in the distance. While the rest of the pier beckoned, we made our way in to Rogue.

Unlike more recent industrial conversions, Rogue’s nearly decade-old repurposing of Pier 39 maintains history without an overly glossy, modern facade. It’s not lined with stainless steel or glimmering industrial chic. It’s heavy, wooden and worn, with high ceilings and plenty of headspace — though the floor is stocked full of Rogue product and memorabilia. Above a tall, compact bar near the entrance, chalkboards abound, listing the 25-odd beers currently on tap. (For a beer-centric column, see last week’s.)

Since the Newport-based brewery’s origin in the late 1980s, Rogue has expanded beyond beer. The company also operates two farms that grow all manner of produce, including hops, barley, nuts, berries, peppers and more. Rogue also raises chickens, pigs and turkeys. Beer is used in conjunction with the produce to create all manner of accoutrements, including sauces, dressings and so on. Something like a culinary/agricultural laboratory, Rogue Farms has contributed to nearly an all-encompassing ethic. (They don’t call the fan/membership club “Rogue Nation” for nothing.) On one of the Astoria pub’s busily decorated walls I came across something like a manifesto.

“The Creed” begins: “Rogue is a small revolution… The spirit of the Rogue brand, even the name, suggests doing things differently, a desire and a willingness to change the status quo.” While partly fun and cheeky branding, the self-determination stuff strikes a resonant chord — were Rogue nation to secede, you’d be hard-pressed to find more satiating sustenance. Whilst remaining a part of our good ol’ capitalist USA, though, Rogue Ales’ fresh, largely traditional, well-sourced pub fare largely meets the company’s stated goal of “working with the best.”

My companion and I began with a pair of appetizers (and tasting trays). The pair of Scotch Eggs ($7), hard boiled, rolled in Olympic Provisions sausage, breaded and deep fried, were cut in half and served with a side of house-made mustard. Powerful little protein balls with contrasting textures, they were warming — the crust kept the heat in. The Kimchi Crab Sliders ($9) came as a trio. The sweet, acidic slaw and Sriracha mayo were fine twists to the Dungeness crab patties, though the slider buns overwhelmed. The spongy white bread was one of the few ingredients in multiple trips to Rogue that dipped near average. Perhaps instead of sliders, crab cakes — still topped with kimchi — would be preferable.

For dinner, my companion had the Albacore Fish N’ Chips ($14), which, naturally, was beer battered. Dipped in Rogue Farms Good Chit Pilsner batter, the crust was thick, not too oily and crunchy. Our server called the tuna “sushi grade.” I can say it was clean, but what struck me about the fish wasn’t so much the flavor as the abundance — the four pieces were like steaks. Wallet-sized and bigger, it was nearly twice the amount of fish offered by the average North Coast order. Rogue’s was reasonably priced, too.

I had the Brutal Reuben ($11), which was absolutely tantalizing — so delectable that when I shared it with my companion I had to fight to get it back. It was just that good — melty, briny, a tad sweet, just perfect. Unlike the Jewish deli towers of meat with sides of bread, this sandwich was — as all excellent sandwiches are — a golden ratio, a song where all singers are heard. The hearty marble rye was just slightly toasted, the kraut sharp (and marinated in Shakespeare Stout), the thousand island dressing coy, the Swiss melted, the pastrami thick — and with just a whisper of being steeped in Rogue’s Brutal IPA. In terms of doing something traditional with excellence — just like Rogue does with beer — the reuben was outstanding.

So was the burger ($13). I enjoyed it even more. One of Rogue’s increasingly rare outsourced ingredients, the Kobe beef comes from Snake River Farms. I added blue cheese ($1) because, when I saw Rogue Creamery’s Oregon Blue as a choice, how could I not? It’s some of the best cheese I’ve ever tasted. (Not to be confused with Rogue Ales, Rogue Creamery, based in Central Point and named after the Rogue River, is renown the country and world over.) Indeed, when it comes to outsourcing, Rogue partners with not only the regional, but the region’s best.

So, the burger: Atop the hand-pressed, nearly inch-thick, perfectly-cooked-medium-rare, just pink-in-the-center patty was a thick, jagged roof of blue cheese crumbles, in their glorious, pungent perfection. Like the cheese, the quality of the beef was apparent — clean, succulent and rich. It was juicy but not sloppy. The bun, with a flaky outer layer and pillowy innards, stood up straight. It was one of the better burgers I’ve had in my travels as the Mouth. The accompanying salad, with toasted hazelnuts from Rogue Farms, more of those awesome blue cheese crumbles, plus cranberries and spring greens, was well worth the $2 up-charge. It was fresh and actually nutritional (e.g. free of iceberg lettuce), and the parts were heightened by Rogue’s house-made vinaigrette.

My attraction to Rogue Creamery drew me to the pizzas too. (OK, well so did my attraction to pizza.) At a server’s advice, I chose the Meat, Cheese, Beer ($15 for a 12-inch pie). It was, like the better part of Rogue’s menu, familiar fare with fine ingredients — sausage, pepperoni, salami, mozzarella and a sprinkling of gluttonous shards of bacon. Like the sandwich, the ratio was right on: The layers of meat, cheese, crust and marinara were all simpatico, taking turns in the conversation. The most memorable, though, was that Rogue Creamery white cheddar.

Buzzing not only on the beer but the food, my companion and I left Rogue to wander around Pier 39. A little bit surreal — what with the history, the largely bygone industry, the lapping water, the sparkling city in the distance, boats passing in the night and so on — we didn’t want to leave.