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
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
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
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)