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

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

First Post

It begins . . .

with a placeholder.


(Reviews are based on no fewer than one visits. To increase the accuracy of the reviews, subsidies are welcomed, encouraged, and demanded.)