Every diner has their one bugaboo. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how overrated or overpriced an item is, you just get it. I have a soft spot for alfredo. One friend will order rice rolls (RICE!). And my sister will order crabcakes. I put on my crotchety old man pants every time I look at a menu and there is a $15 crabcake. Singular. This time I felt a little better about it, as they were crawfish--which aren't exactly flying around Chicago kitchens--and this was Big Jones. But still, I was a little nervous when two dainty little snickerdoodles masquerading as crawfish fritters showed up on the plate.
But these were greaselessly fried, thick with meat, and jumped up with an aggressive seasoning that I loved. I almost wished there was a giant $15 puck I could order. Almost.
Less successful were some beignets. Which were overshadowed by the Grand Lux Cafe. It's not a good sign when chain restaurants got you. But then again, who doesn't love McDonalds? And the tete de cochon is a bit of a trip. Gelatinous and uncompromising, something more to be respected than enjoyed. Some stone ground mustard and pickled red onions aren't interesting enough to rectify the dish.
The eggs benedict comes on a popover. Not a fluffy cloud of a popover, but something a little bit more sad and mashed down. Thankfully, there are poached eggs spilling their thick golden yolks over salty ham and a hollandaise that is inexplicably southern.
I liked Big Jones. I did not love it. Perhaps it might just require swimming from their shallows and into the deep end.
3/5 stars
Friday, November 2, 2012
Andy's Thai Kitchen: Dinner Review
I hate Thai food. Or at least, what I am pretty sure is not Thai food. One of the biggest disservices inflicted upon the food scene is the way your grungy ethnic spots refuse to translate, sell, or even offer "secret" (read: what owners would actually eat) menus. This disservice is perpetuated by the people who refuse to try to find and eat those foods, even when a menu like Andy's finally comes around: a veritable eye strain encapsulated in a few pages that have more characters than a Matrix screen scroll. That reference seems dated.
So I was excited to eat the fermented pork sausage, the raw shrimp, the strange and weird delights that I was hoping would rise beyond the bad stir fry people believe is East Asian food. Unfortunately, my dining companions were less than interested in such things. The more accessible choices certainly aren't bad. Garlic pork ribs are fan-friendly, though they are a little drier than I'd hope, and they come in such a dainty portion that you can't enjoy that sweet pig-out comfort of ribs on a cold Chicago night. Boat noodles also come with a reasonably fine broth, nicely tempered though nothing exceptionally deep. A friend passes off the beefballs (non-testical division) to me; she finds the spongy texture off-putting. The other orders garlic noodles with a few pieces of shrimp. When I ask him later what he thinks of Andy's, he quickly dismisses the food as unexceptional yet inoffensive, and priced a few bucks higher than your average Thai place.
I disagree. Andy's to me was a clear cut above the average Thai take-out place. And what's setting it apart certainly aren't the decor (contemporary, crowded, a little bit bland, and a whole lot more welcoming than most Asian joints) or the service (shared menus at first, an hour wait for food, no apologies or explanations). I ate the crispy on choy, and unlike a few Chicago reviewers whose opinions I greatly respect, it was not one of the best dishes in Chicago. But that didn't make it an ambitious, gaudy, mess of a dish that I was always entertained eating. Crackly tempura-fried mostaccioli-like tubes of water spinach dumped among curls of shrimp and over-dry bits of ground chicken meat. I wish someone would find a way to make ground meat compelling and flavorful without smashing it into a sausage. The sauce was bright and kicky and aggressive, though it lacked some of the deep and soulful funk that I was looking for. But oh, did it come close.
I think that's where the heart of much Thai food comes from. Soul. Funk. To borrow a word, I don't quite know: stank. What numerous restaurants lack these days is personality. Andy's is not the restaurant I would marry. But parts of it are interesting, compelling, ambitious, and once in a while, worth ignoring the wait.
2.5/5 stars
So I was excited to eat the fermented pork sausage, the raw shrimp, the strange and weird delights that I was hoping would rise beyond the bad stir fry people believe is East Asian food. Unfortunately, my dining companions were less than interested in such things. The more accessible choices certainly aren't bad. Garlic pork ribs are fan-friendly, though they are a little drier than I'd hope, and they come in such a dainty portion that you can't enjoy that sweet pig-out comfort of ribs on a cold Chicago night. Boat noodles also come with a reasonably fine broth, nicely tempered though nothing exceptionally deep. A friend passes off the beefballs (non-testical division) to me; she finds the spongy texture off-putting. The other orders garlic noodles with a few pieces of shrimp. When I ask him later what he thinks of Andy's, he quickly dismisses the food as unexceptional yet inoffensive, and priced a few bucks higher than your average Thai place.
I disagree. Andy's to me was a clear cut above the average Thai take-out place. And what's setting it apart certainly aren't the decor (contemporary, crowded, a little bit bland, and a whole lot more welcoming than most Asian joints) or the service (shared menus at first, an hour wait for food, no apologies or explanations). I ate the crispy on choy, and unlike a few Chicago reviewers whose opinions I greatly respect, it was not one of the best dishes in Chicago. But that didn't make it an ambitious, gaudy, mess of a dish that I was always entertained eating. Crackly tempura-fried mostaccioli-like tubes of water spinach dumped among curls of shrimp and over-dry bits of ground chicken meat. I wish someone would find a way to make ground meat compelling and flavorful without smashing it into a sausage. The sauce was bright and kicky and aggressive, though it lacked some of the deep and soulful funk that I was looking for. But oh, did it come close.
I think that's where the heart of much Thai food comes from. Soul. Funk. To borrow a word, I don't quite know: stank. What numerous restaurants lack these days is personality. Andy's is not the restaurant I would marry. But parts of it are interesting, compelling, ambitious, and once in a while, worth ignoring the wait.
2.5/5 stars
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Au Cheval: Dinner Review
Au Cheval is the sort of place I hate myself for wanting to go to. An upscale, hipster diner crowded with scenesters trying to order $8 bacon and $2 eggs--the only thing worse would be if they were featured in some sort of artistic magazine about the hidden gems of Americana while shilling beet salads and farm-to-table gorging. And yet, I want to go these places, and I do.
It's smaller than I imagined, and there is a brief wait even on a random Tuesday night in fall. But despite our coats, my companion and I quickly find comfort at the bar, where we have a great view of the kitchen action. The menu is unabashedly rich, but the food churned out is well made. They are all familiar flavors that won't surprise you, but they'll be done right. Salmon rillettes are a lovely mix of smoked and fat-poached fish, served with over-buttered toast, dainty pickles, and a delicate little quail egg. It's a great off-the-menu special for cutting through the excess of the rest of the night.
The General Tso's chicken is more Korean, and highly reminiscent of the famed Crisp, though with moister meat and a more gentle, subtle touch. Unfortunately, subtlety is not necessarily something I ask of my fried chicken, and there are a few dry spots. I prefer it to the still-enjoyable Crisp, though it compares less favorably to Lawrence Ave's Great Seas' crispy, punchy, spicy mess of chicken.
Then there are the fries, which I am concerned for A) why they are $10 and B) why it is a popular dish. I blame my companion! In a restaurant that is so reasonably priced (thank you $10 gourmet burgers!), this seems like a sad anomaly. They come with an ultra-thick garlic aioli I could caulk my bathroom with and a mornay, neither of which are more than fine. The egg is not nearly enough to saturate the fries with silky goodness, and the fries are strangely undersalted, though this turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Salt burns can abound even with the most well-seasoned of fries.
But Au Cheval is still a more than pleasant evening. Too pleasant in fact. Our waitress' demeanor starts to turn sour somewhere in the night, and it is only when we are about to leave and check my watch that I realize we've easily gone from lightly lingering to outright camping. Guilt abounds.
Luckily I still have the taste of a scoop of Black Dog Gelato in my mouth, a smooth and silky ball of pure, distilled peppermint, complete with a little pitcher of melted chocolate. Lovely.
So go to Au Cheval. It's a bit of a scene. But when you waddle out, you understand it's not the sort of place to go to when you want to feel good about yourself. Attend a salad bar for that.
3.5 out of 5 stars
Sapori Trattoria: Dinner Review
When I looked up Sapori Trattoria online, my immediate read was "slightly-above-average neighborhood Italian joint." Unfortunately, these eateries are a dime a dozen, fortunately, they're still above average. Just as suspected, Sapori is a casually elegant spot, its ambiance avoiding the checkered tablecloths-Frank-Sinatra-on-the-wall cliches.
The service is charming and quick, though I wish my server could help me choose between two disparate dishes, especially with a bit more description. Only, she seems so put on the spot, I feel sympathetic for her and give up. But after a pleasant but unremarkable bread service I end up with the cappellaci all'aragosta. To the pain of true Italians, I would describe cappellaci as ravioli-like pasta, and I have a rule (one I obviously play fast and loose with) about never ordering ravioli. Usually you end up paying $4-5 per raviolo along with the requisite self-loathing.
This one is the same: five cappellaci bathing in a sweet, creamy pink sauce, except there is skill involved here and I am actually full by the end. Unfortunately, the lobster inside is chopped up (the usual practice), where larger chunks would really help break up the monotony of texture. A touch of something else: crunch, acid, a burst of salt would help as well. There is a hint of mild sweetness from the crustacean, but otherwise it is mostly lost in the sauce, despite the latter's own lack of aggression.
It's a solid, inoffensive plate of food with fresh well-made pasta. If that's what you're looking for, Sapori is a good bet. I just wish my neighborhood's joint took a few more risks. That's one I would surely return to.
2.5 of 5 stars
The service is charming and quick, though I wish my server could help me choose between two disparate dishes, especially with a bit more description. Only, she seems so put on the spot, I feel sympathetic for her and give up. But after a pleasant but unremarkable bread service I end up with the cappellaci all'aragosta. To the pain of true Italians, I would describe cappellaci as ravioli-like pasta, and I have a rule (one I obviously play fast and loose with) about never ordering ravioli. Usually you end up paying $4-5 per raviolo along with the requisite self-loathing.
This one is the same: five cappellaci bathing in a sweet, creamy pink sauce, except there is skill involved here and I am actually full by the end. Unfortunately, the lobster inside is chopped up (the usual practice), where larger chunks would really help break up the monotony of texture. A touch of something else: crunch, acid, a burst of salt would help as well. There is a hint of mild sweetness from the crustacean, but otherwise it is mostly lost in the sauce, despite the latter's own lack of aggression.
It's a solid, inoffensive plate of food with fresh well-made pasta. If that's what you're looking for, Sapori is a good bet. I just wish my neighborhood's joint took a few more risks. That's one I would surely return to.
2.5 of 5 stars
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Sushi Para II: Dinner Review
With family-wide sadness, my father announced that our favorite sushi place, Shiroi Hana, had been sold to its competitor Matsuya and had abandoned its all-you-can-eat plan. Long our bastion for B-grade sushi, questionable service, slow cook times, and happy bingeing, we were cast adrift on a sea of endless Northside sushi joints. Due to a previous bad experience with Matsuya, my dad decided to try out Sushi Para II (strangely spelled Too on their restaurant sign). Later of course, we would find out when his last visit was.
"In college."
"You mean forty years ago?"
"Yes."
This aside, we buckled in, ready to keep our expectations low. It's difficult when you go from a staple restaurant to a new one. Your old standbys are never the same: the silky spicy salmon handrolls, the generously crispy spider, the daintily smooth green tea ice cream. Sometimes they're missing altogether. So we sat down, doing out best to keep an open mind. Too bad the fish shut that door again on its own. All the fish that came out of the kitchen was indistinguishable from each other, the only exception the notoriously oily and pungent mackerel, which came out too oily and pungent. It's almost shocking that a half dozen specimens can taste the same and have no taste at the same time. Even more strange was that all of our fish came out warm. The worst was a seared peppery tuna, that had an offputting, chalky, almost chemical flavor to it.
The only semi-pleasant thing we ate was a handroll smothered in spicy mayonnaise, the lone very dim light in a very dark tunnel. The most incredible thing of all is that the place was inexplicably packed, full of attractive young couples chopsticking seafood over crowded tables. I have a Yelp policy on restaurants: sushi and Italian joints are always inflated by a star or two. It's time we set our sights higher.
0/5 stars
"In college."
"You mean forty years ago?"
"Yes."
This aside, we buckled in, ready to keep our expectations low. It's difficult when you go from a staple restaurant to a new one. Your old standbys are never the same: the silky spicy salmon handrolls, the generously crispy spider, the daintily smooth green tea ice cream. Sometimes they're missing altogether. So we sat down, doing out best to keep an open mind. Too bad the fish shut that door again on its own. All the fish that came out of the kitchen was indistinguishable from each other, the only exception the notoriously oily and pungent mackerel, which came out too oily and pungent. It's almost shocking that a half dozen specimens can taste the same and have no taste at the same time. Even more strange was that all of our fish came out warm. The worst was a seared peppery tuna, that had an offputting, chalky, almost chemical flavor to it.
The only semi-pleasant thing we ate was a handroll smothered in spicy mayonnaise, the lone very dim light in a very dark tunnel. The most incredible thing of all is that the place was inexplicably packed, full of attractive young couples chopsticking seafood over crowded tables. I have a Yelp policy on restaurants: sushi and Italian joints are always inflated by a star or two. It's time we set our sights higher.
0/5 stars
Owen & Engine: Dinner Review
There are days you crave a burger and beer. You know those. Owen & Engine is not the sort of place one thinks of on such days. There's such little street credibility among hipster gastropubs. You can tell right away from the far too attractive interior appointments, the glass dividers, the fireplace, the upstairs salon and the armchairs. But it was also $3 beer nights (2 select) Monday through Wednesday, and for the past few years, I have been on a quest for the perfect burger.
I love burgers. Everyone does. There is a primal, simple elementalism to them. Buns, beef, cheese. The problem is that it is one of those foods that while imminently enjoyable, I think is hard to be blown away by, despite all the raving of people about how such and such burger has changed their life. I am skeptical. However, Owen's version was like a shot across the bow. An oniony crisp potato bun, that I was afraid would be too thin, but somehow was both proportionate and held up to the delicious grease and juice of the burger. The pub uses one of those magical blends of different cuts that sounds more like some kind of magical aggregate animal, some supercow. But I fear I must point out some of the weaknesses.
The burger comes with the option of $2 cheese and/or egg, $3 rashers. I'm sure they're all sourced from responsible farms with beautiful ingredients, the cheese I ordered definitely is (a beautifully aged cheddar oozing funk and personality), but when a properly topped burger is swimming around the $20 range, the very tiny flaws become incredibly, noticeably magnified. The meat is wonderfully beefy, but the medium rare is edging towards medium, a tiny bit thin on the juice. And the cheese is a tad light, even as it marries perfectly to the sweetly caramelized onions. It's a damned shame I have to start worrying about the money when I'm eating it, but at that price, I'm wondering where the lobe of foie is or (insert gourmet topping). Yet at the end of the day, I would pony up for it again. I am a slave to food.
And there is some mighty fine cooking going on. Fries are abound. Textbook chips, perfect size, crunchy and crispy on the outside, toothsome yet soft on the inside. And as my companion says, "Fries always taste better in a cup." They surely do. They also always taste better when they come with vinegar malt aioli, of which I shamefacedly request extra.
I also get in a few meager bites of Owen's famous fish and chips. My friend and I have contractually agreed on an exchange of 25% of each other's dishes. So I am sadly limited in the bites of fish, similarly textbook to the fries. Soft and flaky cod beneath a paper-thin crust, set upon a smear of pea puree like a sweet vegetable kiss. I watch her devour it with more than a little bit of sadness.
The drinks are also entertaining. The deal of a night is a solid but unsurprising citrusy bourbon cocktail and two beers: a rich Mudpuppy Porter, pleasantly bitter with chocolate and coffee notes, it's smooth and creamy all the way down, and a Central Pilsner, clean, crisp, and biting from all the carbonation, though it could use a touch more personality.
Luckily, Owen & Engine doesn't need more of it. Too many places like this could be too precious, with the faux British interior, the challenging menu, and flannel-shirted staff. But it's not this place.
4/5 stars
I love burgers. Everyone does. There is a primal, simple elementalism to them. Buns, beef, cheese. The problem is that it is one of those foods that while imminently enjoyable, I think is hard to be blown away by, despite all the raving of people about how such and such burger has changed their life. I am skeptical. However, Owen's version was like a shot across the bow. An oniony crisp potato bun, that I was afraid would be too thin, but somehow was both proportionate and held up to the delicious grease and juice of the burger. The pub uses one of those magical blends of different cuts that sounds more like some kind of magical aggregate animal, some supercow. But I fear I must point out some of the weaknesses.
The burger comes with the option of $2 cheese and/or egg, $3 rashers. I'm sure they're all sourced from responsible farms with beautiful ingredients, the cheese I ordered definitely is (a beautifully aged cheddar oozing funk and personality), but when a properly topped burger is swimming around the $20 range, the very tiny flaws become incredibly, noticeably magnified. The meat is wonderfully beefy, but the medium rare is edging towards medium, a tiny bit thin on the juice. And the cheese is a tad light, even as it marries perfectly to the sweetly caramelized onions. It's a damned shame I have to start worrying about the money when I'm eating it, but at that price, I'm wondering where the lobe of foie is or (insert gourmet topping). Yet at the end of the day, I would pony up for it again. I am a slave to food.
And there is some mighty fine cooking going on. Fries are abound. Textbook chips, perfect size, crunchy and crispy on the outside, toothsome yet soft on the inside. And as my companion says, "Fries always taste better in a cup." They surely do. They also always taste better when they come with vinegar malt aioli, of which I shamefacedly request extra.
I also get in a few meager bites of Owen's famous fish and chips. My friend and I have contractually agreed on an exchange of 25% of each other's dishes. So I am sadly limited in the bites of fish, similarly textbook to the fries. Soft and flaky cod beneath a paper-thin crust, set upon a smear of pea puree like a sweet vegetable kiss. I watch her devour it with more than a little bit of sadness.
The drinks are also entertaining. The deal of a night is a solid but unsurprising citrusy bourbon cocktail and two beers: a rich Mudpuppy Porter, pleasantly bitter with chocolate and coffee notes, it's smooth and creamy all the way down, and a Central Pilsner, clean, crisp, and biting from all the carbonation, though it could use a touch more personality.
Luckily, Owen & Engine doesn't need more of it. Too many places like this could be too precious, with the faux British interior, the challenging menu, and flannel-shirted staff. But it's not this place.
4/5 stars
Kingsbury St. Cafe: Brunch Review
After spending far too much time in Chinatown, rarely does service factor largely in my head when considering a restaurant. If the food is good, I can usually put up with a bit of negligence or perfunctory service, as long as no one is outright rude. Furthermore, I like to see how a restaurant handles its service mistakes. One of my favorite services occurred at Sepia, when my waiter delivered a giant hulking piece of pork shoulder to me without a knife in sight. When I turned around to look for him, he gave a start, already hurriedly but unhurriedly gliding across the room to provide the cutlery for me before I could even raise an arm. Right then and there he won me over, though this might also have to do with the fact that he was a dead ringer for Kyle Chandler, the actor of Early Edition and Friday Night Lights, whose smiling compassion could probably settle things on the DMZ.
Today, I arrived with my family in tow, unfortunately made 10 minutes late for our reservation by a series of construction cutting off roads all around the place. Normally, knowing issues of seating and turnover, I like to apologize for lateness, but this was impossible as the hostess was absent. Then she appeared and after a "Hi" began cleaning the hostess stand. While she did this, she continued to ignore us even though the three of us surrounded the stand. Only after a few minutes of eternity did she even think to mention that she had spilled some coffee. A delicate plea for patience from an overworked staff member would have been charming. This just told me where our hostess's priorities lay.
Furthermore, there are other people waiting before us, though there are empty tables. And the whole place looks understaffed, despite it being Sunday brunch at a predominantly brunch place. After she finally acknowledges us and then goes on to seat all the other parties, then our hostess begins running about, cleaning up tables and rearranging chairs between tables with a confused look on her face. No one is seated at these tables when we are finally seated without a hint of apology and given our menus, though we're already a bit soured on the experience.
Luckily, we're hungry. Unfortunately, the first dish is a salmon hash, a dish I always love on paper, but am usually disappointed by a lack of imagination and technique. It's packed with appealing crunchy tator tot-like potatoes, a nice little spin, but the whole dish is amateurish. The vegetables are tasteless, and more egregiously, the salmon is underseasoned and overcooked, a few steps from completely dried out. And trying to get some yolk out of the poached eggs is like squeezing blood from a stone. The hash doesn't necessarily taste bad, but the whole thing just makes me sad.
Things start to get a bit better with the pancakes. Much has been made of the carrot and lemon ones, frequently described as "lighter than air." I didn't manage to quite get airborne, but they were definitely a cut above the usual. The carrot is crested with a dollop of cream cheese and pecans, the whole thing rich and pleasant entirely forgettable. But the lemon is smashing. Sauced with a lemon creme anglaise that should be bottled, set in counterpoint to a biting, beautiful tart slap of lemon curd and speckled with plump blueberries. The only bad part about this dish is that it comes a little stingy on such a gorgeous element. Too bad our waiter never comes back with the requested hot sauce and the extra anglaise and curd. Our inept hostess has to come and ask us if we're getting everything we need. Answer: no. We've had several people come to our table now, most unrecognizable because they keep never coming back.
Things end with us having to flag down a waiter to take our check, after we set it down, rearrange it to make it more obvious that we're done, and even stand up the leather folder. I realize now why our water is set down in a table pitcher for self-pours. The staff likely couldn't even handle water service.
Are the lemon pancakes good enough to come back for? Yes, probably. I just recommend the Kingsbury get their act together before they need to turn into a drive-through.
1/5 stars
Today, I arrived with my family in tow, unfortunately made 10 minutes late for our reservation by a series of construction cutting off roads all around the place. Normally, knowing issues of seating and turnover, I like to apologize for lateness, but this was impossible as the hostess was absent. Then she appeared and after a "Hi" began cleaning the hostess stand. While she did this, she continued to ignore us even though the three of us surrounded the stand. Only after a few minutes of eternity did she even think to mention that she had spilled some coffee. A delicate plea for patience from an overworked staff member would have been charming. This just told me where our hostess's priorities lay.
Furthermore, there are other people waiting before us, though there are empty tables. And the whole place looks understaffed, despite it being Sunday brunch at a predominantly brunch place. After she finally acknowledges us and then goes on to seat all the other parties, then our hostess begins running about, cleaning up tables and rearranging chairs between tables with a confused look on her face. No one is seated at these tables when we are finally seated without a hint of apology and given our menus, though we're already a bit soured on the experience.
Luckily, we're hungry. Unfortunately, the first dish is a salmon hash, a dish I always love on paper, but am usually disappointed by a lack of imagination and technique. It's packed with appealing crunchy tator tot-like potatoes, a nice little spin, but the whole dish is amateurish. The vegetables are tasteless, and more egregiously, the salmon is underseasoned and overcooked, a few steps from completely dried out. And trying to get some yolk out of the poached eggs is like squeezing blood from a stone. The hash doesn't necessarily taste bad, but the whole thing just makes me sad.
Things start to get a bit better with the pancakes. Much has been made of the carrot and lemon ones, frequently described as "lighter than air." I didn't manage to quite get airborne, but they were definitely a cut above the usual. The carrot is crested with a dollop of cream cheese and pecans, the whole thing rich and pleasant entirely forgettable. But the lemon is smashing. Sauced with a lemon creme anglaise that should be bottled, set in counterpoint to a biting, beautiful tart slap of lemon curd and speckled with plump blueberries. The only bad part about this dish is that it comes a little stingy on such a gorgeous element. Too bad our waiter never comes back with the requested hot sauce and the extra anglaise and curd. Our inept hostess has to come and ask us if we're getting everything we need. Answer: no. We've had several people come to our table now, most unrecognizable because they keep never coming back.
Things end with us having to flag down a waiter to take our check, after we set it down, rearrange it to make it more obvious that we're done, and even stand up the leather folder. I realize now why our water is set down in a table pitcher for self-pours. The staff likely couldn't even handle water service.
Are the lemon pancakes good enough to come back for? Yes, probably. I just recommend the Kingsbury get their act together before they need to turn into a drive-through.
1/5 stars
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)