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
Maison: Raw Bar Review
Tucked away in the secret valley of Lakeshore East next to my beloved Mariano's Fresh Market and Eggy's, the brand new diner of impeccable benedicts, is the addition of Maison. When I first heard a new restaurant was opening there, I was a touch disappointed to know that another French brasserie was coming, with classical renditions of classical dishes. What was there to distinguish this brasserie from other ones?
Well for one thing, there's a half-off raw bar from 10-11pm Monday to Saturday. I wish I could say that my life did not revolve around filling my body with affordable food, but this would not be true. On first impression, even at 10pm, there should be a host manning the podium at the front. The second: this is one of the most swanky beautiful places I've ever walked into, especially late at night, with gorgeous red banquettes creating spicy accents in an elegant black and white interior. In many other restaurants, the place would be coldly calculated, stylishly sterile. Against the night sky and the park, it's just plain lovely.
We are sat next to the panoramic windows and quickly set to work on a basket of bread, butter, salt, and radishes, the latter of which are strangely served whole. Then out comes the centerpiece, a triple tier seafood platter. While the waiter struggles identifying a few of the accompanying sauces (the standout a spunky, creamy tartar), he quickly judges the tenor of our table and relaxes into charming casualness. While he mixes in a gentle sell in every once in a while, he also shows a generosity of spirit. Extra bites and sips are offered throughout.
The oysters are nicely briny, but they lack the plumpness I'm seeking. And one of them is poorly shucked, with a broken shell and bits of debris. The crab and the lobster (half of one) are fine, but they lack the necessary chill sweetness that makes you close your eyes. Luckily, fat juicy shrimp, lightly poached, redeem the whole thing, and they are helped by the steamed mussels. The gougeres have a wonderfully fluffy texture, though they are strangely lukewarm, and the gruyere needs extra salinity.
However, any mixed feelings are wiped away by the ice creams and sorbetti. We try a hazelnut, just incredible, intense flavor, that makes you instantly recognize the difference between artificial versions and the right stuff. The almond is pleasant though less memorable, but we're quickly jolted out of any tedium by a shot of raspberry, a puckeringly sweet-tart shocker with lemon notes. It's a lot of fun.
The food might not have been overall amazing. But when you sit down at night for a couple sleek glasses of wine, platters of seafood, intense dessert in good company in a beautiful restaurant and come out at about $30, you're doing pretty darn well anyway. I'm glad this brasserie's in town.
3/5 stars
Well for one thing, there's a half-off raw bar from 10-11pm Monday to Saturday. I wish I could say that my life did not revolve around filling my body with affordable food, but this would not be true. On first impression, even at 10pm, there should be a host manning the podium at the front. The second: this is one of the most swanky beautiful places I've ever walked into, especially late at night, with gorgeous red banquettes creating spicy accents in an elegant black and white interior. In many other restaurants, the place would be coldly calculated, stylishly sterile. Against the night sky and the park, it's just plain lovely.
We are sat next to the panoramic windows and quickly set to work on a basket of bread, butter, salt, and radishes, the latter of which are strangely served whole. Then out comes the centerpiece, a triple tier seafood platter. While the waiter struggles identifying a few of the accompanying sauces (the standout a spunky, creamy tartar), he quickly judges the tenor of our table and relaxes into charming casualness. While he mixes in a gentle sell in every once in a while, he also shows a generosity of spirit. Extra bites and sips are offered throughout.
The oysters are nicely briny, but they lack the plumpness I'm seeking. And one of them is poorly shucked, with a broken shell and bits of debris. The crab and the lobster (half of one) are fine, but they lack the necessary chill sweetness that makes you close your eyes. Luckily, fat juicy shrimp, lightly poached, redeem the whole thing, and they are helped by the steamed mussels. The gougeres have a wonderfully fluffy texture, though they are strangely lukewarm, and the gruyere needs extra salinity.
However, any mixed feelings are wiped away by the ice creams and sorbetti. We try a hazelnut, just incredible, intense flavor, that makes you instantly recognize the difference between artificial versions and the right stuff. The almond is pleasant though less memorable, but we're quickly jolted out of any tedium by a shot of raspberry, a puckeringly sweet-tart shocker with lemon notes. It's a lot of fun.
The food might not have been overall amazing. But when you sit down at night for a couple sleek glasses of wine, platters of seafood, intense dessert in good company in a beautiful restaurant and come out at about $30, you're doing pretty darn well anyway. I'm glad this brasserie's in town.
3/5 stars
Friday, July 6, 2012
avec - Dinner Review
I have visited the Holy Grail of foodies and come out clean. I have finally been to avec. It was not always a sure thing.
While I respect the laws of supply and demand, and the urge for restaurants like Next, Ruxbin, and Davanti Enoteca to carve out as great a profit margin as they can, there is something antithetical about restaurants boasting an amazing diner-oriented experience and impeccable service when we have to spend hours of our lives and precious sanity trying to buy dinner tickets that sell precisely online at 4:27a.m. on the third Tuesday of every month each time there is a harvest moon. Do I sound bitter? If I don't, you're either incredibly sweet, or incredibly naive. What happened to taking a simple reservation?
So it was with great and fearful joy that I managed to convince an out-of-town friend to drive with me through Chicago rush hour on an early Monday evening to possibly, potentially, maybe wait an hour and a half for a table? I'm exaggerating, I called ahead. I just didn't want to disappoint the guy. Luckily, after we finally pinpointed the half-hidden entrance and stepped inside this charmingly stylish walk-in closet of a restaurant, we had an immediate seat at the bar. I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever's been said about the acoustics has already been said. It's kind of like being at a concert: packed, ragingly loud, and everyone is having a good time in spite of (because of?) it.
On this boilingly 100-degree summer day, we decided that small plates and some rose would be a good idea. The introductory burrata is a dazzlingly creamy thing, something you imagine celebrities use to moisturize after exfoliating. And the accompanying beets (pickled into delicious edibility) join with ramps (also pickled, but already delicious) to make a wonderfully light balancing act. Add in some Italian rose, and things get even better. A baba ghanoush crostini with radishes, salmon roe, and sumac vinaigrette is less memorable, though a pleasant distraction. The roe pop with a delicate salinity, but you imagine that a touch richer roe, something more defiantly saline, should be sprinkled atop to counterpunch with the acid.
"The dates?" you ask. The bacon-wrapped dates of avec have almost become an urban legend themselves. You almost roll your eyes each time someone mentions them, they're such a cliche unto themselves. Then you eat them, and your eyes roll for another reason. Crispy, salt-packed bacon. Sweet, smoky Spanish chorizo mixed in a simultaneously loose-dense alchemy with dates and a spicy tomato piquillo pepper sauce. The recipe's online, and it's kind of like Walter White posting the recipe for blue sky meth for any junky to make. Cliches survive for a reason.
Unfortunately, the hangar steak with cremini, shaved artichokes, and kale chips is a bit of a disappointment. Despite its friendly color, it goes down a bit tough, and its accoutrements seem less the delicate chemistry of avec's other dishes and more like someone dumped the contents of a box labeled "umami" on top. I kick myself for not going a few weeks earlier during avec's leek-mascarpone version, but that's the sort of roulette you play with when you dedicate yourself to seasonality. Most times, though, you win. A final additional order (a sign of confidence from my eating-averse friend) brings a charred flatbread to the table. It's leaking mustard oil (in a good way), packed with thin-sliced cucumbers and powerfully pungent bursts of pure flavor masquerading as anchovies. It makes sense in my head, but it's a bit unbalanced by the strength of the fish, and this comes from someone who thinks of "pungent" as a compliment.
Even still, I enjoyed the eating of it. Which is sort of the magic of avec and its big sister Blackbird. All of their dishes feel like little experiments, carefully honed, edited, and lovingly worried over time and time again until they're perfect. Even the ones that don't ring my bell feel far less like failures and more like experiments just a version or two before the "Eureka!" moment. So I will be back, to eat their trademark pork shoulder and taleggio come hell or high water, whether I have to wait till a blizzard or 11th hour Monday just to thin the crowds. Because eating at avec isn't an act of masochism, it's straight, pure hedonism.
4.5/5 stars
While I respect the laws of supply and demand, and the urge for restaurants like Next, Ruxbin, and Davanti Enoteca to carve out as great a profit margin as they can, there is something antithetical about restaurants boasting an amazing diner-oriented experience and impeccable service when we have to spend hours of our lives and precious sanity trying to buy dinner tickets that sell precisely online at 4:27a.m. on the third Tuesday of every month each time there is a harvest moon. Do I sound bitter? If I don't, you're either incredibly sweet, or incredibly naive. What happened to taking a simple reservation?
So it was with great and fearful joy that I managed to convince an out-of-town friend to drive with me through Chicago rush hour on an early Monday evening to possibly, potentially, maybe wait an hour and a half for a table? I'm exaggerating, I called ahead. I just didn't want to disappoint the guy. Luckily, after we finally pinpointed the half-hidden entrance and stepped inside this charmingly stylish walk-in closet of a restaurant, we had an immediate seat at the bar. I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever's been said about the acoustics has already been said. It's kind of like being at a concert: packed, ragingly loud, and everyone is having a good time in spite of (because of?) it.
On this boilingly 100-degree summer day, we decided that small plates and some rose would be a good idea. The introductory burrata is a dazzlingly creamy thing, something you imagine celebrities use to moisturize after exfoliating. And the accompanying beets (pickled into delicious edibility) join with ramps (also pickled, but already delicious) to make a wonderfully light balancing act. Add in some Italian rose, and things get even better. A baba ghanoush crostini with radishes, salmon roe, and sumac vinaigrette is less memorable, though a pleasant distraction. The roe pop with a delicate salinity, but you imagine that a touch richer roe, something more defiantly saline, should be sprinkled atop to counterpunch with the acid.
"The dates?" you ask. The bacon-wrapped dates of avec have almost become an urban legend themselves. You almost roll your eyes each time someone mentions them, they're such a cliche unto themselves. Then you eat them, and your eyes roll for another reason. Crispy, salt-packed bacon. Sweet, smoky Spanish chorizo mixed in a simultaneously loose-dense alchemy with dates and a spicy tomato piquillo pepper sauce. The recipe's online, and it's kind of like Walter White posting the recipe for blue sky meth for any junky to make. Cliches survive for a reason.
Unfortunately, the hangar steak with cremini, shaved artichokes, and kale chips is a bit of a disappointment. Despite its friendly color, it goes down a bit tough, and its accoutrements seem less the delicate chemistry of avec's other dishes and more like someone dumped the contents of a box labeled "umami" on top. I kick myself for not going a few weeks earlier during avec's leek-mascarpone version, but that's the sort of roulette you play with when you dedicate yourself to seasonality. Most times, though, you win. A final additional order (a sign of confidence from my eating-averse friend) brings a charred flatbread to the table. It's leaking mustard oil (in a good way), packed with thin-sliced cucumbers and powerfully pungent bursts of pure flavor masquerading as anchovies. It makes sense in my head, but it's a bit unbalanced by the strength of the fish, and this comes from someone who thinks of "pungent" as a compliment.
Even still, I enjoyed the eating of it. Which is sort of the magic of avec and its big sister Blackbird. All of their dishes feel like little experiments, carefully honed, edited, and lovingly worried over time and time again until they're perfect. Even the ones that don't ring my bell feel far less like failures and more like experiments just a version or two before the "Eureka!" moment. So I will be back, to eat their trademark pork shoulder and taleggio come hell or high water, whether I have to wait till a blizzard or 11th hour Monday just to thin the crowds. Because eating at avec isn't an act of masochism, it's straight, pure hedonism.
4.5/5 stars
Monday, May 28, 2012
Balena: Dinner Review
On a parchingly hot summer morning, I weighed whether it was better to wear shorts to a nice restaurant, or find myself slowly cooked to a roast on my day about town. So I don't know if it was just the day's weather, or the natural state of the restaurant, but when I showed up at Balena well-ventilated, I didn't find myself feeling out of place. At least that day, it seemed the sort of restaurant where you'd feel as comfortable in sandals as blazer/ties or Saturday girls'-night-out dresses. This is in part because of the service, carried out with warm humor and natural grace, as well as the food, which will no doubt has people reaching for thesauruses for words like "unfussy", "rustic", "peasant", and "damned tasty."
The space is the third part of that trifecta, a lofty-ceiling Italian barn-style (I imagine. I've never been in an Italian barn.) divided room, with homey-chic light fixtures, leather chairs, and a warm, earthy palette that never nears drab. There are a few minor issues, the up-front area by the bar and wide-glass doors are a little less exciting, a little less comfortably intimate than the back and second room. And sometimes you feel you're about to topple off the high chairs, along with the somewhat cramped tables. But for the most part, this is enviable ambiance and interior. In fact, the whole place screams for a patio; I'd be chowing down brunch on their rooftop or in their courtyard in a hearbeat.
But imaginary major renovations aside, the chow is the draw. We order the "Balena" cheese and salumi platter first, along with a couple of glasses from an interesting list. Let me tell you: the Balena is not meant to be shared for two. It's a literal smorgasbord of breads, spreads, meat and cheese, including a funky blue oregonzola and a terribly, terribly creamy robiola I would rub all over myself if this were a horror story and not a review. Aside from a few tough breads (Why do people like hard bread?), the platter is a fun mix-and-match game that you will win, and perfect for a table of four. The only thing I regret about this dish is how full it left me.
So we continued lightly. The smoked mackerel starter is meaty despite its clean and sushi-like appearance as well as quite small and expensive. Regardless though, it's a lovely dish, if not quite transcendent. The soft-cooked egg and pangrattato are wonderful, but the aioli could use more salt.
The tagliolini nero is similarly subtle. It's really a whole study in subtlety. Oftentimes, I am loathe to go to Italian restaurants. I love Italian food. But it's hard to make pasta, meat, and cheese taste bad, and harder still to justify the mark-up for such simple cooking. Only, the tagliolini falls nimbly between simple and complex. It tastes like the best ramen I've ever had. Oh, I wish the uni was a little bit brinier, a little bit stronger, and that big, sweet chunks of lobster were used instead of the crab, which is a touch washed out. And yet, the dish is a marvel of tiny, balanced, nuanced flavors: the smooth creaminess, the squid ink, the spice and the sea. The dish kept revealing more and more as I ate it, and the plot twists were good ones.
I wish I had had the room for one of the big meat dishes, but by this time I was dying. We had to back our way into dessert, a tiramisu and a Kir Royale sorbetto. The latter was fruity, cool, the right choice for a hot day, but it was sadly strong-armed by the alcohol. The tiramisu however was simultaneously light and dense, married to an appealing crumble and a espresso-roasted pear I wish was better integrated into the dish. Yet I left thinking Amanda Rockman's work was a breath of new life into an old stand-by.
All the nitpicking aside, Balena was the right choice for that night, and the right choice for many other nights. Laid back but convivial, casual yet elegant. It was somewhere between the wine, the fun little bites, and the stupid, ridiculous stories we were telling each other as I was being slowly and dangerously and entirely-voluntarily packed with meat and cheese and pasta that I was thinking Balena was a fun night out. Take advantage.
4.5/5 stars
The space is the third part of that trifecta, a lofty-ceiling Italian barn-style (I imagine. I've never been in an Italian barn.) divided room, with homey-chic light fixtures, leather chairs, and a warm, earthy palette that never nears drab. There are a few minor issues, the up-front area by the bar and wide-glass doors are a little less exciting, a little less comfortably intimate than the back and second room. And sometimes you feel you're about to topple off the high chairs, along with the somewhat cramped tables. But for the most part, this is enviable ambiance and interior. In fact, the whole place screams for a patio; I'd be chowing down brunch on their rooftop or in their courtyard in a hearbeat.
But imaginary major renovations aside, the chow is the draw. We order the "Balena" cheese and salumi platter first, along with a couple of glasses from an interesting list. Let me tell you: the Balena is not meant to be shared for two. It's a literal smorgasbord of breads, spreads, meat and cheese, including a funky blue oregonzola and a terribly, terribly creamy robiola I would rub all over myself if this were a horror story and not a review. Aside from a few tough breads (Why do people like hard bread?), the platter is a fun mix-and-match game that you will win, and perfect for a table of four. The only thing I regret about this dish is how full it left me.
So we continued lightly. The smoked mackerel starter is meaty despite its clean and sushi-like appearance as well as quite small and expensive. Regardless though, it's a lovely dish, if not quite transcendent. The soft-cooked egg and pangrattato are wonderful, but the aioli could use more salt.
The tagliolini nero is similarly subtle. It's really a whole study in subtlety. Oftentimes, I am loathe to go to Italian restaurants. I love Italian food. But it's hard to make pasta, meat, and cheese taste bad, and harder still to justify the mark-up for such simple cooking. Only, the tagliolini falls nimbly between simple and complex. It tastes like the best ramen I've ever had. Oh, I wish the uni was a little bit brinier, a little bit stronger, and that big, sweet chunks of lobster were used instead of the crab, which is a touch washed out. And yet, the dish is a marvel of tiny, balanced, nuanced flavors: the smooth creaminess, the squid ink, the spice and the sea. The dish kept revealing more and more as I ate it, and the plot twists were good ones.
I wish I had had the room for one of the big meat dishes, but by this time I was dying. We had to back our way into dessert, a tiramisu and a Kir Royale sorbetto. The latter was fruity, cool, the right choice for a hot day, but it was sadly strong-armed by the alcohol. The tiramisu however was simultaneously light and dense, married to an appealing crumble and a espresso-roasted pear I wish was better integrated into the dish. Yet I left thinking Amanda Rockman's work was a breath of new life into an old stand-by.
All the nitpicking aside, Balena was the right choice for that night, and the right choice for many other nights. Laid back but convivial, casual yet elegant. It was somewhere between the wine, the fun little bites, and the stupid, ridiculous stories we were telling each other as I was being slowly and dangerously and entirely-voluntarily packed with meat and cheese and pasta that I was thinking Balena was a fun night out. Take advantage.
4.5/5 stars
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Blokes & Birds: Brunch Review
At a faux-Irish restaurant-bar, a friend recently ordered bangers and mash. She wanted to see the hype, she explained, and I watched with grim anticipation as she received, stared, ate, and sighed. I don't understand bangers and mash, delicious as a marriage of sausage and potatoes sound. I am similarly torn about eating brunch in gastropubs, as much as I love the idea of pubs with a real sense of place, style, and a bar that takes as much pride in the food they turn out as in the drinks they shill.
Brunch is a place of sunlight-thick windows, of airy rooms and airier hollandaises. But eating brunch at Blokes & Birds is a bit like eating in someone's hangover. It's dark, the tables are awkwardly placed, and running TVs are an incongruity. More importantly, a few of the chairs are dirty and sticky. The only thing worse than experiencing someone else's hangover is experiencing their walk of shame.
Fortunately, the food helps brighten the place up a bit. A banana nut muffin and a danish arrive, strangely without accompanying plates, a mistake that is never addressed even as our party sweeps up our own wayward crumbs. But the pastries and cucumber water are simple and refreshing. Then the benedict, topped with chewy prosciutto. It's tasty, though it lacks an acid foil and the brioche it sits on could be a good deal lighter and fluffier. Same for the french toast with peaches and cherries. It's dry enough that the dearth of sauce and fruit practically wave their arms at you.
Moister is the meat of the duck hash. It's a hearty portion, and it should be at a still overpriced $16. It's an umami battle I wouldn't run away from: tangles of duck confit, truffle and mushroom. But it compares unfavorably to the one at Longman & Eagle's, one of my favorite bites of last year. That one had duck eggs rolling with rich, flavorful yolks, crispier potatoes, and a welcome shotgun of green onions. That dish was both rich and bright, Bloke's was just rich. Which pretty much sums up my time there: solid, hearty brunch fare that could use a touch more precision, and a lot more light with the dark.
2/5 stars
Brunch is a place of sunlight-thick windows, of airy rooms and airier hollandaises. But eating brunch at Blokes & Birds is a bit like eating in someone's hangover. It's dark, the tables are awkwardly placed, and running TVs are an incongruity. More importantly, a few of the chairs are dirty and sticky. The only thing worse than experiencing someone else's hangover is experiencing their walk of shame.
Fortunately, the food helps brighten the place up a bit. A banana nut muffin and a danish arrive, strangely without accompanying plates, a mistake that is never addressed even as our party sweeps up our own wayward crumbs. But the pastries and cucumber water are simple and refreshing. Then the benedict, topped with chewy prosciutto. It's tasty, though it lacks an acid foil and the brioche it sits on could be a good deal lighter and fluffier. Same for the french toast with peaches and cherries. It's dry enough that the dearth of sauce and fruit practically wave their arms at you.
Moister is the meat of the duck hash. It's a hearty portion, and it should be at a still overpriced $16. It's an umami battle I wouldn't run away from: tangles of duck confit, truffle and mushroom. But it compares unfavorably to the one at Longman & Eagle's, one of my favorite bites of last year. That one had duck eggs rolling with rich, flavorful yolks, crispier potatoes, and a welcome shotgun of green onions. That dish was both rich and bright, Bloke's was just rich. Which pretty much sums up my time there: solid, hearty brunch fare that could use a touch more precision, and a lot more light with the dark.
2/5 stars
Friday, May 18, 2012
Deleece: Brunch Review
Deleece is a pleasantly modest place in a pleasantly modest part of Lakeview. It's the sort of neighborhood spot that I wish was a few blocks closer and was cooking at a few levels higher. The space is airy and modern, the waitstaff friendly.
My lobster benedict, however, intended to be a luxurious overindulgence, was mildly disappointing. The lobster lacked the luscious sweetness necessary to slice through a truffle hollandaise that buries the dish. The thing about truffle, is that it belongs either as a gentle accent to more complex dishes, or as the aggressor to aggressively one-noters like fries. Every other bite I try, from the promising-sounding cinnamon caramel beignets and the steak and eggs are also similarly fine, somewhat comforting, and mildly disappointing.
It's a nice spot of town to waste a few sunny weekend hours. If only the food was made to match.
1.5/5 stars
My lobster benedict, however, intended to be a luxurious overindulgence, was mildly disappointing. The lobster lacked the luscious sweetness necessary to slice through a truffle hollandaise that buries the dish. The thing about truffle, is that it belongs either as a gentle accent to more complex dishes, or as the aggressor to aggressively one-noters like fries. Every other bite I try, from the promising-sounding cinnamon caramel beignets and the steak and eggs are also similarly fine, somewhat comforting, and mildly disappointing.
It's a nice spot of town to waste a few sunny weekend hours. If only the food was made to match.
1.5/5 stars
Bread and Wine: Dinner Review
I was asked to help choose a restaurant for a friend's birthday. My parameters: it had to be nice, not too expensive, and generally satisfy the tastes of six different people. When old friends gather to eat, choosing a restaurant becomes as pleasant as splitting the check: which is to say unpleasant. And the birthday girl doesn't eat pork, seafood, or anything cooked below a medium well. I'm not kidding---once she had a friend microwave a pink roast into well-done submission for her. Which is how we ended up at Bread and Wine, one of the more aggressively inoffensive restaurants we've been to.
I'd read the Sun Times' Michael Nagrant describe it as the sort of restaurant that you would take non-foodies to when they're taking their first few baby steps into the world of overpaying for tiny plates of food. Everything from the menu (steak, chicken, pasta) to the interior (farm-to-table chic) screams "crowd pleaser." It's extremely hard to hate it, and it's extremely hard to be blown away by it.
Things do get started off strangely though. When I ask our waitress which is a better money sink, the chicken liver spread or the panna cotta, she gives me a look of surprise and recommends the latter, which I go along with. She then doesn't hear my attempt to order the carbonara and brings me the panna cotta out with everyone else's entrees. An ordinary enough mistake, and a sometime fault of my quiet ordering, but most fine dining restaurants would've added a gesture in addition to the apology. And when we discover the mistake, she says, "I'll set it aside for you," and I do a double take. The very least she could've done was pretend the chef would whip up a fresh one for me. So this too separates Bread and Wine from fine dining.
But come on, how does the food taste? The herb salad and ricotta crostini is a surprisingly nice starter for someone who likes neither ricotta nor salad. But it's got a nice nuttiness to the ricotta and a bright, spring flavor, though I come to this dish by way of one of my companions, who ordered it and hated it. The stinging nettle carbonara has good texture, but lacks the lightness of the best-handled heavy dishes. The accompanying lardons taste surprisingly like Chinese barbecue pork, in a way that I don't love, but the poached egg and hedgehog mushrooms are nicely done. However, the portion size has one of my dining companions, who ordered similarly, staring in dismay, and I don't blame him.
And finally, my butterscotch panna cotta. Even sitting too long, it is cool and jiggly and delicious and incredibly sweet in a way that definitely does not offend me. It's an indulgence and shows a dash of brave brio that I wish the rest of the menu showed. But mission accomplished: the birthday girl enjoyed it. So without invoking the restaurant name too much, Bread and Wine is the place for a slow and gentle foodie conversion.
2.5/5 stars
I'd read the Sun Times' Michael Nagrant describe it as the sort of restaurant that you would take non-foodies to when they're taking their first few baby steps into the world of overpaying for tiny plates of food. Everything from the menu (steak, chicken, pasta) to the interior (farm-to-table chic) screams "crowd pleaser." It's extremely hard to hate it, and it's extremely hard to be blown away by it.
Things do get started off strangely though. When I ask our waitress which is a better money sink, the chicken liver spread or the panna cotta, she gives me a look of surprise and recommends the latter, which I go along with. She then doesn't hear my attempt to order the carbonara and brings me the panna cotta out with everyone else's entrees. An ordinary enough mistake, and a sometime fault of my quiet ordering, but most fine dining restaurants would've added a gesture in addition to the apology. And when we discover the mistake, she says, "I'll set it aside for you," and I do a double take. The very least she could've done was pretend the chef would whip up a fresh one for me. So this too separates Bread and Wine from fine dining.
But come on, how does the food taste? The herb salad and ricotta crostini is a surprisingly nice starter for someone who likes neither ricotta nor salad. But it's got a nice nuttiness to the ricotta and a bright, spring flavor, though I come to this dish by way of one of my companions, who ordered it and hated it. The stinging nettle carbonara has good texture, but lacks the lightness of the best-handled heavy dishes. The accompanying lardons taste surprisingly like Chinese barbecue pork, in a way that I don't love, but the poached egg and hedgehog mushrooms are nicely done. However, the portion size has one of my dining companions, who ordered similarly, staring in dismay, and I don't blame him.
And finally, my butterscotch panna cotta. Even sitting too long, it is cool and jiggly and delicious and incredibly sweet in a way that definitely does not offend me. It's an indulgence and shows a dash of brave brio that I wish the rest of the menu showed. But mission accomplished: the birthday girl enjoyed it. So without invoking the restaurant name too much, Bread and Wine is the place for a slow and gentle foodie conversion.
2.5/5 stars
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Eggy's: Brunch Review
Something about the location (residential Lakeshore East) and the name (recalls Egg Harbor) sets expectations low, very low, especially for Opening Week. This is not to say the neighborhood is bad, it's quiet, lovely, and I know it well, but the name gives off the whiff of suburban brunch chain fare: over-dense pancakes with sugar bombs, stiff omelettes, ham-fisted ham dishes. But the thoughtful, playful menu boasts twisty takes on "Green Eggs and Ham", pork reubens, and "Peter and the Wolf" hash, and the trendy interior suggests more some sort of foodie hipster haven on the Northside.
Thankfully, there is only one table that is communal, though the setup is a bit strange. Still, despite the unusual combination of black and white photo banners, the giant kitschy lit arrow, and the lack of reservations, things remain figuratively accessible and inviting, the staff pleasant. Right away, from the golden brown texture of my companion's fries, it's clear these people can cook. They're crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and have that dastardly effect where they don't seem overly salty until you eat a generous tin of them and find your mouth burning. The red curry chicken salad on his plate is also a kick. This is not a shy sandwich but something that packs a tremendous oomph of cool chicken and sharp, sharp curry heat. Beware in the best possible way.
My own eggs benedict arrives on toast with brown butter hollandaise and maple-glazed pork belly. Suspicious of sweet entrees and salad on my meat and eggs extravaganza, I tentatively dig in and am quickly proven wrong by the airy lightness of the hollandaise, the way the greens cut brightly through the fat, and an egg poached so perfectly that when I split its white vestments, the yolk remains a whole golden bubble on my bread. And somehow, with the brown butter and the pork's maple glaze, it is like I am simultaneously eating a savory benedict and mapled pancakes, and for some reason, the combination is delicious. I have eaten more benedicts than Gaston, and this may be my favorite one.
The smoked salmon omelette is the only thing that is unexciting, and even this is an inoffensive dish. The salmon is a tad sparse and lacks the cured silkiness of the best kind, and the addition of gruyere fails to spice up the party. But it is also hard to make smoked salmon and eggs taste bad (though Ann Sather's has succeeded in this regard) and they don't. Looking back broadly, things aren't perfect: the lack of reservations, the touch-higher price points, the tendency of the kitchen to run out of dishes. But when you find a place that can mix and match precision with whimsy, you come back, and you come back fast.
4.5/5 stars (Opening Week)
Thankfully, there is only one table that is communal, though the setup is a bit strange. Still, despite the unusual combination of black and white photo banners, the giant kitschy lit arrow, and the lack of reservations, things remain figuratively accessible and inviting, the staff pleasant. Right away, from the golden brown texture of my companion's fries, it's clear these people can cook. They're crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and have that dastardly effect where they don't seem overly salty until you eat a generous tin of them and find your mouth burning. The red curry chicken salad on his plate is also a kick. This is not a shy sandwich but something that packs a tremendous oomph of cool chicken and sharp, sharp curry heat. Beware in the best possible way.
My own eggs benedict arrives on toast with brown butter hollandaise and maple-glazed pork belly. Suspicious of sweet entrees and salad on my meat and eggs extravaganza, I tentatively dig in and am quickly proven wrong by the airy lightness of the hollandaise, the way the greens cut brightly through the fat, and an egg poached so perfectly that when I split its white vestments, the yolk remains a whole golden bubble on my bread. And somehow, with the brown butter and the pork's maple glaze, it is like I am simultaneously eating a savory benedict and mapled pancakes, and for some reason, the combination is delicious. I have eaten more benedicts than Gaston, and this may be my favorite one.
The smoked salmon omelette is the only thing that is unexciting, and even this is an inoffensive dish. The salmon is a tad sparse and lacks the cured silkiness of the best kind, and the addition of gruyere fails to spice up the party. But it is also hard to make smoked salmon and eggs taste bad (though Ann Sather's has succeeded in this regard) and they don't. Looking back broadly, things aren't perfect: the lack of reservations, the touch-higher price points, the tendency of the kitchen to run out of dishes. But when you find a place that can mix and match precision with whimsy, you come back, and you come back fast.
4.5/5 stars (Opening Week)
Hearty: Brunch Review
Let me preface things by saying that I love brunch. My family loves brunch. My friends love brunch. If you think brunch is overpriced eggs, then you are technically correct and also incredibly wrong. Brunch has the power to transform a forgettable thing like breakfast or lunch into something greater, and for some places, this power is a touch necessary.
Hearty is almost hidden on a modest little piece of street, and it keeps things civilized in modern 70s chic and a pleasant host in mesmerizingly red pants. Our waitress is a bit more cold, though that may be written off to the crowd on Easter day, though Hearty carries neither a holiday menu nor a particularly holiday crowd.
My plate of chicken and waffles smells inviting and homey, and the chestnut farina waffle and sorghum butter are simple and comforting. The chicken, however, lacks seasoning and spice to bring out the pleasantly sweet bird flavor, and it's unfortunately fried into toughness. The pork belly hash shows a similar lack of precision. This time the meat's tender, but the hash is also watery and lacks seasoning and flavor once more. But there is something magical about the breaking of two properly-poached eggs and the joys of watching gooey yolks spread over potatoes and pork.
And the lemon curd pancakes are fluffy and creamy and, in fact, taste like a well-made lemon bar, which may be a detriment to some, and a plus for me. So despite my ambivalence and wishes for salt and spice, my time at Hearty ends well. The windows take the sunlight, the eggs ooze, and useless piece of meal like Sunday lunch is briefly turned into something better.
2/5 stars
Hearty is almost hidden on a modest little piece of street, and it keeps things civilized in modern 70s chic and a pleasant host in mesmerizingly red pants. Our waitress is a bit more cold, though that may be written off to the crowd on Easter day, though Hearty carries neither a holiday menu nor a particularly holiday crowd.
My plate of chicken and waffles smells inviting and homey, and the chestnut farina waffle and sorghum butter are simple and comforting. The chicken, however, lacks seasoning and spice to bring out the pleasantly sweet bird flavor, and it's unfortunately fried into toughness. The pork belly hash shows a similar lack of precision. This time the meat's tender, but the hash is also watery and lacks seasoning and flavor once more. But there is something magical about the breaking of two properly-poached eggs and the joys of watching gooey yolks spread over potatoes and pork.
And the lemon curd pancakes are fluffy and creamy and, in fact, taste like a well-made lemon bar, which may be a detriment to some, and a plus for me. So despite my ambivalence and wishes for salt and spice, my time at Hearty ends well. The windows take the sunlight, the eggs ooze, and useless piece of meal like Sunday lunch is briefly turned into something better.
2/5 stars
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Frog n Snail: Dinner Review
For a long time, I had been dying to go to Dale Levitski's Sprout. Cheeky pairings, whimsical presentations, and an intimidating pricepoint--I maintained a sullen inner monologue that this was one restaurant out of my league. When I first read about Frog n Snail's mission statement (updated versions on bistro classics) opening up on my doorstep, I was bored. When Eater displayed the images of the interior, I remained bored. Everything looked clean, classy, and minimalist, but I was searching for a sense of personality.
I went anyway, my excitement-meter still managed to point right as opening day neared and neared, and I ended up going in the restaurant's first week (always a tough time, so caveats aplenty). Still, the service was pleasant, with one minor fumble quickly corrected, and our waiter was effusive and personal in a good way. He heavily pimped the brook trout and barramundi muniere (untried), as "aromatic" and other sorts of superlatives and the mussels. The mussels were certainly good, if not No.1 or 2 as advertised. They lacked the kick of absinthe we were looking for, and the broth was a touch oversalted, but still plenty enjoyable.
The "incredibly aromatic" brook trout smelled like fish and almonds. This is not a bad thing, nor is it an incredible thing. I'm still waiting for fine dining to elevate the simple fish, which is quick, easy, and tasty in the hands of a homecook who won't destroy the damned thing. Someone do something about it already! The marcona almond cream sauce is fine and light, and the escargot are sauteed well, but without the usual accompanying butter and herbs, which I begin to quickly miss.
The lamb curry is similarly disappointing. It follows in the recent and troubling tradition of good Chicago restaurants cooking cuts of meat to proper tenderness with little flavor. It's devoid of the gamey mineral flavor I had from a few supermarket chops I enjoyed earlier. The curry is meek and I am forced to hunt for my goat cheese, just a few tiny bits scattered around that when discovered, lend the dish some much-needed funk and flavor. I'll admit, of the accompanying mint gnocchi, I think I just don't enjoy gnocchi in general (How is it any better than regular potatoes?), but one doesn't order a lamb curry with goat cheese if they're looking for something simple and spare. Like the restaurant and the fish, it is incredibly clean, light, and washed out of any personality. There is a difference between purity and simplicity of flavor and muting the best parts.
All this sounds tough on a brand-new and strangely-affordable restaurant filled with talented and pleasant people working out the kinks. And the lamb is one of the few dishes on the official menu that has been updated (broccoli, BLT, and boursin aioli). These people certainly deserve more chances, they should just give their own creativity some.
2/5 stars (Opening Week)
I went anyway, my excitement-meter still managed to point right as opening day neared and neared, and I ended up going in the restaurant's first week (always a tough time, so caveats aplenty). Still, the service was pleasant, with one minor fumble quickly corrected, and our waiter was effusive and personal in a good way. He heavily pimped the brook trout and barramundi muniere (untried), as "aromatic" and other sorts of superlatives and the mussels. The mussels were certainly good, if not No.1 or 2 as advertised. They lacked the kick of absinthe we were looking for, and the broth was a touch oversalted, but still plenty enjoyable.
The "incredibly aromatic" brook trout smelled like fish and almonds. This is not a bad thing, nor is it an incredible thing. I'm still waiting for fine dining to elevate the simple fish, which is quick, easy, and tasty in the hands of a homecook who won't destroy the damned thing. Someone do something about it already! The marcona almond cream sauce is fine and light, and the escargot are sauteed well, but without the usual accompanying butter and herbs, which I begin to quickly miss.
The lamb curry is similarly disappointing. It follows in the recent and troubling tradition of good Chicago restaurants cooking cuts of meat to proper tenderness with little flavor. It's devoid of the gamey mineral flavor I had from a few supermarket chops I enjoyed earlier. The curry is meek and I am forced to hunt for my goat cheese, just a few tiny bits scattered around that when discovered, lend the dish some much-needed funk and flavor. I'll admit, of the accompanying mint gnocchi, I think I just don't enjoy gnocchi in general (How is it any better than regular potatoes?), but one doesn't order a lamb curry with goat cheese if they're looking for something simple and spare. Like the restaurant and the fish, it is incredibly clean, light, and washed out of any personality. There is a difference between purity and simplicity of flavor and muting the best parts.
All this sounds tough on a brand-new and strangely-affordable restaurant filled with talented and pleasant people working out the kinks. And the lamb is one of the few dishes on the official menu that has been updated (broccoli, BLT, and boursin aioli). These people certainly deserve more chances, they should just give their own creativity some.
2/5 stars (Opening Week)
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Telegraph Wine Bar: Dinner Review
The Telegraph seems almost too cool for Logan Square, which while an up-and-comer, remains deserted enough to look like it won't be any destination neighborhood for another five years. You just imagine that if Longman & Eagle or Owen & Engine were on Mag Mile, they'd be mobbed even more than they already are. That being said, the Telegraph exudes hip, scaled-back chic. It has the charming split, the light fixtures, and the distressed, salvage wood that has an occasional tendency to poke me when I'm rude enough to put my elbows on the table.
Service begins well with a sample pour of a few ciders: I choose a soury cider and my dining companion ends up with a pleasantly mellow, woody red (writer's note: This isn't the blog for oenophiles.). First up are oysters mignonette. It's got vinegar and sumac, candied hibiscus, and a bit of overly-strong salt foam under the shells. The accoutrements are nice and vivacious, but they end up overwhelming the small oysters. More promising is the proportionally-friendly steak tartare, which I've tricked my companion into ordering. It comes with less capers and more pickled radishes and a dearth of toast. While I look around for the bread, the busboy strangely comes about and asks if we are done. There's over half left. I tell him to go away so I can eat my raw meat.
This strange hiccup aside, dinner goes smoothly. My DC ends up with a bowl of lovely handmade pasta in light broth with lamb sausage and clams. It's wonderfully fresh, again nicely-portioned, and subtle and sweet. A touch more garlic or spice is welcome, but it is imminently enjoyable. Meanwhile I take out some sweetbreads set over a sunchoke puree with leeks and cherries. One blogger I read raised the question of whether sweetbreads are only eaten to prove foodie credibility. My DC tries one and proclaims it "delicious." Then she finds out they're thymus glands, calls it disgusting, and refuses to eat anymore. I'm not sure if the blogger is incredibly right or incredibly wrong. The sweetbreads are nutty, well-caramelized and unfortunately bathed in a too salty puree. The cherries are a lovely accompaniment to temper the salt, but they are scattered and few and I found myself carefully adding them to each forkful. If fully integrated to balance out the saline levels, the dish would have been less of a (still-tasty) chore.
Dessert is also an off-balance affair. The red bean pound cake is almost aggressively unsweet, even for someone who enjoys low-sweet desserts as much as I do. It's a touch dry and the tiniest bit bitter (by design), but it's accented by nice bits of rich chocolate toffee and caramel butter that you wish were a little more generous. Despite the occasional missteps, nothing at the Telegraph is bad, though nothing is great. Yet if you were to design a restaurant to entrap me: cozy, creative small plates wine bar is at the top of the list. The place oozes sexy, and is simply a good time.
3.5/5 stars
Monday, March 12, 2012
Table Fifty-Two: Dinner Review
When I made the reservations for Table Fifty-Two, I felt a little guilty, kind of like I was joining Oprah's Book Club. (Which of course, there's nothing wrong with. Okay there is.) Still, I was happy to get a crack at a good dinner, and Restaurant Week is as good an excuse as any. Even better, it was a nice alternative to the typical fine dining establishment: noveau American-French; tiny, precious little portions; and the same dishes I've seen over and over again. Pork belly, duck confit, beet salads with goat cheese, it was good to see some old-fashioned Southern comfort plunked down on a plate.
Walking in, it's easy to be comfortable, after the initial awkward standing-around in the tiny, nonexistent waiting area. Everything's charming from the marble bar, the hanging bronze pots, the brick oven, and the nicely-perfected mood lighting (which more restaurants botch than you think). We were quickly seated and introduced to the amuses. The goat cheese biscuits are good, but not the mind-blowing affair I was looking forward to, and to be honest, only warm instead of hot. But they still had a buttery-crisp texture, and a pleasant funk from the goat of which I wanted even more of. Your mileage may vary: my dining companion said they were the best biscuits she'd ever had. The deviled eggs were deviled eggs.
Next came my favorite part of the meal. The fried green tomatoes did not blow me away immediately. But at some point I realized I was spreading it out tiny forkful by tiny forkful like desert island rations, and I was trying to find a way to discreetly lick off the smoky aioli. Mission failed. The peanut fried batter is nice, and I wish it had found a better way to adhere to the tomato. But it is a study of contrasts of flavors, texture, and temp: the hot crunch of the fry, the cold and tart green tomato relish, the salty, airy ham, and a tiny bit of greens to lighten it up. I've never actually been glad to see lettuce, but I was now. And married with the smoke and tang of the goat cheese and aioli, it's a subtle winner I find myself thinking about even after.
The short rib entree is a little more problematic. It comes on a giant plate and looks terribly small and disappointing at first. Then you realize it's all an optical illusion, and it's a surprisingly large and dense piece of meat. Value is a bit questionable though--$37 for the short rib a la carte is a lot for a mostly unadorned piece of meat that isn't a steak. It's tender enough, though with a stringy makeup. The real problem is that it lacks extra notes. It could have used a little punch of acid, some textural crunch. And the macaroni unfortunately follows suit. A note about the writer: I don't know how many times my friend has been forced to talk me out of ordering macaroni off of dinner menus. This time I cracked for Art's famous. It's extremely gooey and filling and certainly tasty, but again it lacked a counterpoint. It was also the first time I've ever left macaroni on the table. At this point I was dying from fullness, and I typically eat about twice the portions of a normal person.
All this sounds as if I wasn't enjoying my time at Table Fifty-Two, but that wouldn't be the truth of it. The restaurant is truly lovely, one of my favorite ambiances and interiors I can remember. The service is smooth and friendly, albeit with a tendency to ask us too often how the meal is going (well). Dessert is a hummingbird cupcake, a play on the chef's famed cake. It's a little drier and harder than I'm hoping, but the flavor is there: a tryst of banana and pineapple, cream cheese frosting, and a quenelle of vanilla ice cream lightly touched with sea salt. Like many snobs, I appreciate an unsweet dessert. Maybe it's not perfect. But it's simple, homey, and all too comforting.
It's definitely not a metaphor at all.
4/5 stars
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(Reviews are based on no fewer than one visits. To increase the accuracy of the reviews, subsidies are welcomed, encouraged, and demanded.)
(Reviews are based on no fewer than one visits. To increase the accuracy of the reviews, subsidies are welcomed, encouraged, and demanded.)
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