Adios.....Bitch.

In 2010 Michelin finally brought its ubiquitous, yet world renown dining guide to the 312. All of the Chicago dining socialistas, including yours truly, were beyond excited. Securing tickets through my concierge hook up from the Peninsula, I was invited to the unveiling party. Hobnobbing with some of the best chefs in the world was a truly amazing and humbling experience. My date for the event (my mother---you don't bring randoms to events like that and I had yet to meet XV), was equally blown away. We strolled through Violet Hour rubbing elbows with my culinary heroes, entrenching my name at the top of  dining lists throughout the city. I was beyond happy that night, and it is still one of my fondest memories since moving back.

With all of that being said, there was one over the top head scratching part of the evening, that frankly, compromised the integrity of the entire endeavor. Since we were the first people to actually see the Guide and its list of winners (and losers I suppose) we were treated to celebrating with the likes of Grant Achatz and the crew from Alinea, and my friend Curtis Duffy and his team from Avenues at the Peninsula Hotel. But, still something was seriously amiss and everybody in the crowd knew it. Somehow, Crofton on Wells had sucked enough French dong that year to finagle a star out of the Guide. WHAT. THE. FUCK. Avec, Publican, Girl and the Goat all got left off the list, yet this pimply faced dorkus named Crofton, made it. For those of you not familiar with Crofton on Wells, their achievement of a Michelin star would be the equivalent of Beavis getting an academic scholarship to Harvard or Susan Boyle winning a beauty pageant.

Anyways, today Crofton announced that it would be closing. Citing a major downturn in business (they probably haven't recovered from paying off the Michelin people to buy a star), management could no longer keep the doors open.

While I don't often celebrate failure (ex-girlfriends aside),they nearly ruined an amazing night for a lot of us in the dining scene and made a mockery of the first edition of the Chicago Michelin Dining Guide. Thus, I'll make an exception this time....Adios, Crofton on Wells, you Michelin Star swindling shithole.

Leave of Absence....

Sorry for not posting in a few weeks folks, I've been dealing with a bunch of bullshit that's precluded me from dropping my typical long winded musings. Between dealing with some health issues (nerve damage in a pretty sensitive area), going back and forth to California for work, and dealing with the near death of my dachshund Zorba (she's like my child--eat a dick if you don't get "pets") it's been a rough four weeks. Nevertheless, these significant life events haven't kept me from dominating the Chicago dining scene as I always do. Keeping that in mind, reviews of Vie (Western Springs), Yusho, Balena, Nellcote, Allium, The Ogden, and follow ups at Anthem and Chicago Q are all in the queue waiting to be processed. Stay tuned for reviews of some seriously good and seriously bad experiences.....

Until then 312.......

TF vs. MT

For the second time in as many weeks I was forwarded an interview with fashion designer Tom Ford where two separate people commented on how much we were alike. For the record, I am clearly heterosexual and and don't quite carry the same name recognition (unless your'e making restaurant reservations in the 312). Considering the aforesaid, I thought a lot about the comparisons, and frankly, I am flattered that so much of what TF does and who TF is, reflects what I have always been doing and who I have always been.

We both have odd morning routines that involve weighing ourselves, guilt dieting for a few days if we are a few pounds off, and eating strangely regimented morning-time foods. We both get our days started at almost exactly the same time, guiltily consume some form of chocolate or candy every day, get entirely too many emails to bother reading, love Claridge's in London, and seldom eat lunch because it slows us down. We both have trouble sleeping, we both have our "uniforms" (he goes with black or grey suits with a white shirt almost seven days a week, whereas I go with jeans and Rod Lavers 99% of my time out), and we both seem to have culled down the many guilty indulgences of our lives to a degree which has oddly simplified almost everything. As I read the interviews I couldn't help but think of how our lives parallel each other in so many ways.

At the end of the day, I'm just happy to see that my mantra of focusing on the simple things that make me happy each and every day, is the same mantra that TF hangs his hat on. Culture, traveling, excellent food, amazing art, perfect clothing, and endearing love are what makes us both tick. Kudos to us, TF.

 http://blog.bergdorfgoodman.com/womens-style/tom-ford-a-singular-man

For Tom Ford's daily routine see Bazaar Magazine, February 2012

Napa Amazingness.....

One of my favorite regions of the world to eat in is Napa Valley, California. I lived in Northern California for a few years, and I developed a love for almost all things culinary in the Valley. A recent extended work trip to the area provided the perfect excuse for XV and I to get the opportunity to enjoy the region together. Whereas most people visit Napa for the wine, XV and I were visiting simply for the food and the romantic, uber-relaxing scenery.

I had been looking forward to this trip for a while, as it was going to be an exorcism of some old work demons, while at the same time providing a weekend full of relaxation and fun times with XV in Napa on the backend of the trip. After some brief early morning family pleasantries, XV and I got on the road for the drive from Sacramento down to the Valley. A quick stop at Temple Coffee in mid-town Sacramento (one of the very few redeeming qualities of Sacramento) gave us some added energy for the hour and fifteen minute commute. I have to plug Temple Coffee here, as it really is one of the finer coffee houses I have ever been to. They have some excellent blends, and the coffee is deep and flavorful. However, in typically small town fashion they fail in areas that could make the coffee epic. Most notably, they machine filter the coffee instead of hot water pours through glass cylinder filters. Nevertheless, they pour a very good cup of coffee.

Arriving in the town of Napa around 10:15, we made a B-line for the Oxbow Market outpost of St. Helena’s Model Bakery. The Model Bakery is a legendary Valley institution for one simple item of its repertoire, the English muffin. Sure we’ve all had English muffins before, but you’ve never had a muffin like this in your entire life. Where the traditional muffin is flat and lifeless, this one is puffy and vibrant. Where the traditional muffin flakes when it breaks apart, this one tears effortlessly into cakelike bites. Where the traditional muffin is small and rigid, this one is rich and buttery, almost like a doughnut. Anyways, a 20 second toasting/warming gave it a perfect texture to be slathered in delicious salted butter and berry jam, which provided a few moments of gastronomic ecstasy. Honestly, this item could be one of the single best things I’ve ever enjoyed at breakfast.

A small bite of breakfast behind us, we went to check into our hotel in downtown Napa. Passing by new additions to the Napa dining scene by East Coast Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto (Morimoto Napa was easily one of my top 5 eating experiences of 2011) and Tyler Florence, we arrived at the Avia hotel for our early check in. Avia is one of the newest upscale hotels in the region, and it provided a nice, if not simple, base of operations for us over the weekend. The hotel vibe attempts to create a Soho meets Napa vibe, which it does a good job of, but as far as delivering on luxury, you get more of a Hyatt than a Four Seasons feel. The room, while small, was nicely appointed with a pillow top bed, 42 inch plasma television, and a gorgeous European style bathroom. Again, while the Avia isn’t the Four Seasons, we were nonetheless very happy with the accommodations it provided.

After dropping our bags off,  we decided we would head back to Oxbow Market for a light lunch. Oxbow Market is truly a genius idea, as it combines some of the best culinary destinations/elements of the Valley under one roof. Hog Island Oysters, Todd Humphries and Richard Miyashiro’s Kitchen Door, Gott’s Roadside, C CASA, and Pica Pica Maize Kitchen, all bring their unique artisan purveyor techniques to one central location. Chicago’s French Market and Mario Batali’s Eatly in New York are all distant cousins of Oxbow, which in spite of its small town roots, easily holds its own against its big city relatives. After surveying the scene and perusing the vendors, XV and I settled on a couple small bites from C CASA. I ordered a spiced lamb with mint, goat cheese, and avocado tomatillo salsa taco, while XV ordered up a simple winter green salad adorned with Thai chilies, red peppers, avocado, deliciously fresh crabmeat, and a Meyer lemon vinaigrette. The flavors of the taco were simple, fresh, and delicious; a true testament to the produce, cooking styles, and culinary excellence of the region. XV’s salad, on the other hand, was anything but simple. A salad filled with simple ingredients became instantly complex on the first bite; with the bitterness of the greens, the sweet and acidic balance of the dressing playing off the richness of the crab and avocado, all highlighted by the spice of the pepper. It made for a salad more complex and deep in flavor than the average palate could comprehend. Overall, lunch was a huge success.

Following an afternoon spent touring the Valley and hitting different points here and there we opted d to return to the hotel to recharge our batteries. Upon returning to the hotel, I decided to return to the room for a much needed nap (it had been an intensely long week, and I was, at that point 10 days removed from having surgery), while XV settled on getting in a quick workout followed by a light massage. Perfect.

After freshening up, both of us had almost a glimmer in our eyes, we were so happy from the day we had just spent together. We put on some nicer clothes, called down to the valet, jumped in the car and began to make our way back to Yountville for our reservations at Bouchon. I’ve been to Bouchon a number of times, to French Laundry once, Per Se once, to Ad Hoc probably a half a dozen times, and I feel like I have a pretty good grasp of the Thomas Keller Empire of restaurants. While Per Se and French Laundry are certainly deserving of their 3* Michelin status, the true rock star of the group, is the Yountville location of Bouchon. A Michelin 1* in its own right, Bouchon is frankly the closest one can get, in my opinion, to Paris on this continent. Honestly, it’s an experience in its own right.

We arrived for our 9 pm reservation perfectly on time, securing parking easily across the street. As we walked in a familiar face greeted me at the door, Andres, the 30 something host was still manning his position at the door after all these years. Make no mistake, I am no regular at Bouchon, but I had been enough times when I lived in California to have made at least a mild impression on the staff, and surely my information stored in their reservation system alluded to the fact that I was no stranger to the Keller restaurant group. Adres warmly greeted us and told us a table would be ready in a few minutes and escorted us to the bar for a drink. We both ordered two glasses of house wine, and we settled in to waiting; admiring almost every single aspect of the restaurant. From the zinc shellfish bar, to muted cream mirrored walls, the crushed French red velvet booths, to the candle lit room and the expertly picked downtempo soundtrack, we were both enjoying ourselves to a degree that is usually reserved for Roman Emperors.

15 minutes later Andres informed us that the corner booth in the back of the restaurant (the best table in a tremendously packed house) was ours. As we chatted beforehand he mentioned that he remembered me from previous visits, and after some serious foodie chit chat (earlier in the day we had seen a black 750 BMW parked behind FL, and Andres confirmed our suspicions that Chef Keller was in the restaurants that evening), he invited us to take a tour of the back of the house and meet the Chef de Cuisine when we were finished.  We responded that we couldn’t wait, and thanked him for being the overall awesome guy he was.

We arrived at our booth with our glasses of wine in tow, completely content to be able to sit next to one another and survey the house from the vantage point of the perfect table. Not more than two minutes later, the kitchen brought us a surprise amuse of foie gras and cracked pepper macaroons for its favorite guests of the evening (us, duh). I’m of the opinion of anything that contains foie is immediately awesome by virtue of the inclusion of the foie, while XV still isn’t the biggest fan. Nevertheless, we both groaned pleasantly at the amazing, rich, and deep flavors of such a simple, yet sublime amuse. Honestly, of all the times I’ve ever been served an amuse (in the hundreds by now), none has ever struck me as being as fantastic as this one was. It’s greatness was only enhanced by the obvious exclusion of the rest of the diners, as we were the only ones given the chance to start our dinner with this delicious morsel of amazingness.

After a quick look at the menu we decided to wait to place our order and enjoy an appetizer of freshly shucked local oysters. Served with the traditional accoutrements of mignonette and cocktail sauce these delicious bi-valves yet again struck a high note with us. So fresh, so cold, so clean, so unctuous, and so delicious that we could barely stand it. Frankly, while the 312 is one of the preeminent dining destinations in the world, we just can’t get our hands on fresh, high quality oysters like these from the nearby San Francisco bay. Practically speaking, the oysters set the perfect tone for the dinner to come.

In traditional French bistro fashion we ordered simple starters of soup and salad to be followed by our entrees. I ordered the ubiquitous Soupe a l’Oignon (French Onion Soup), while XV ordered the Laitue, a salad of fresh bibb lettuce, herbs from the French Laundry garden next door, all covered with a deliciously light house vinaigrette. My soup was absolutely delicious. A deep, earthy and rich beef flavored stock was covered with high quality gruyere cheese, all with a few slices of Bouchon bakery boule and perfectly sautéed onions swimming underneath the gooey cheese. While the richness of the soup made it difficult to finish more than half of the serving, its deliciousness and complexity was undeniable. XV’s Laitue salad was simple, perfect, and amazing. Anytime you can use expertly grown, picked, and prepared produce the overall quality of the dish always goes way up, and this was no exception. The freshness of the herbs and greens struck such a perfect balance with the vibrant dressing that it was hard to deny that something so simple could indeed be so delicious.  Through two courses and an amuse bouche, we were blown away.

The entrees arrived quickly (but not too quickly) after the starters were removed. XV settled on the Gigot d’Agneau (Roasted Leg of Lamb with fennel dauphine, braised winter greens, garlic chips & garlic scented lamb jus) while I ordered the French bistro standard of Bouef Bourguignon (Braised Beef Short Ribs with bacon, cipollini onions, root vegetables, butter noodles, & red wine jus). When we had walked in we noticed that one of the specials of the day were truffle fries. I have been a truffle whore for some years now with one of my favorite restaurants in the world being Le Truffiere. XV on the other hand, is a recent addition to the truffle fiend club, and when we both noticed that there were simple “truffle fries” on special we just smiled at each other, dreaming of the righteousness of such a dish.

My Bouef Bourguignon was, in a word, excellent; a perfect rendition of the French bistro classic done with Thomas Keller ingenuity. The cipollini onions, bacon, and deliciously fresh root vegetables all paring perfectly with the amazing short ribs and jus. As good as my Bouef was, XV’s lamb was absolutely ridiculous. Imagine, if you will, the most perfectly butchered, highest quality, excellently roasted leg of lamb, accompanied with a fennel dauphine that had better taste and consistency than any mashed potatoes you’ve ever imagined, swimming in a fantastically aromatic jus, surrounded with the highest quality, most delicately cooked root vegetables on the planet. The dish was absolutely perfect. It’s hard to divert ones concentration from the amazingness of our entrees, but frankly, I could write a whole review on the truffle fries. These weren’t ordinary truffle fries, they are truly the Cadillac of truffle fries.

Here in Chicago we have plenty of places that like to throw around the term “truffle fries”. Somewhere at the top of that list would probably sit MK’s famous rendition of the dish (a derivation can be found at DMK Burger Bar, but its not nearly as good). MK serves up some delicious hand cut potatoes, fried in duck fat oil, and serves them with a delicious truffle aioli. It’s a great dish in its own right, but it doesn’t even remotely compare to Bouchon’s version. The truffle fries that were served were hand cut potatoes, fried in duck fat, topped with truffle salt, truffle oil, truffle butter, and shaved black truffles. I have rarely ever muttered this in my life, but the fries were so gluttonously decadent, that I almost felt disgusting eating them. Unfortunately, they were too amazing to let my conscious preclude me from enjoying ever single bite I could stomach.

After the meal we were presented with a desert list worthy of any bistro in France. After perusing the list we settled on a couple of cups of house coffee and an order of Profiteroles. The house coffee ended the night nicely, helping the meal digest and relaxing us as the dining room cleared out around us. Sadly, the Profiteroles were possibly the only let down of the night, though. The pastry shells weren’t crispy enough and you could tell that the long day in the cooler had allowed too much humidity to permeate the outer shell, only to ruin what should have been a perfect finale to the meal. The pastry shells weren’t the only problem, as the mediocre vanilla ice cream interior tasted less like something on the level of Chef Keller and more like something on the level of Chef Breyers, and the chocolate ganache poured over the top could have just as easily been some generic Ghirardelli junk as it could have been Keller level excellence. As underwhelming as the dish was, the entire meal and experience was still absolutely perfect.

As we were getting up to leave, Andres asked us if we would still like to come into the back of the house and meet the chef and take a tour of the kitchen. Nodding like school children, he escorted us back, past the serving stations, and into the kitchen where Executive Chef Michael Sandoval was awaiting our arrival. Chef Sandoval was an amazing host, escorting us through the entire Bouchon empire; through the walk-in, the kitchen, the construction at neighboring Bouchon Bakery, and the Bouchon and French Laundry garden. It was one of the most magical culinary moments of my life. After exchanging goodbye pleasantries with Chef Sandoval, I noticed a white wall in the kitchen where Bouchon’s Michelin star plaque was hanging. Above the plaque were three signatures; Joel Robuchon, Alain Ducasse, and Daniel Boulud. Standing in the kitchen of arguably one of the best French restaurants in the nation, looking up at the signatures of the French masters (the noted chef’s all have 3* restaurants) was an awe inspiring moment. I asked if I could sign the wall too, but Andres and Chef Sandoval both chimed in that right to sign the wall was reserved only for people who had Michelin 3* restaurants. Ridic.  

I could write reviews for the rest of the weekend, but what would be the point? This particular day was one of the most perfect of my entire life. Never before had I been able to enjoy company, food, life, love, landscape, and culture like I/we did that day.

Until next time 312……..

P.S. I left the swearing, cynicism, and typical snobbery out of this post as I didn’t want to ruin the memory of a perfect day with my typical tomfoolery. Go fuck yourself if you actually noticed, btw. 

312 BBQ Greatness

So with the weekend of Gastronomic Hype behind us, XV and I headed into the next weekend without much of an idea what we were going to do. The doldrums of our shitbag winter were setting in, and even worse I had just undergone a pretty massive surgery on the Monday of that week. XV had plans with the girls on Saturday for a Gilt Bar/BarrellHouse Flat evening, and I was left behind with only my fresh surgical incisions to comfort me. Alas, dear readers, this is where the socially elite rise to the challenge and make it out in spite of the obstacles. I consulted with some of the Significant Others of the ladies group heading to Gilt, and we all decided to rendezvous at Chicago Q for a low-key, hyper-masculine dinner.

It has been a warm winter by any standards here in the glorious 312, feeling more like Atlanta than the brutal January’s and February’s Chi-town residents have grown used to. Nevertheless, this particular Saturday happened to be one of the coldest of the Winter season, and bundling up was critical since my immune system was already in near shutdown mode after the surgery. Typically I’ll throw long underwear and a base layer under whatever I’m wearing, but on this fair evening I ran into a serious problem…..The surgery being fresh, I couldn’t  wear layers, I couldn’t wear jeans, I couldn’t bend down to put decent shoes on, and overall, my wardrobe was fucked. Ready to throw in the towel and crawl back into bed, XV, looking gorgeous in a slouchy Vince shirt, sexy leggings and leg warmers, black YSL pumps, and a vibrant shade of Tom Ford lipstick, made this exact comment “Babe, it’s a BBQ spot. I’m sure you’ll be fine in Lululemon’s and a pull over.”  I knew she was wrong, I knew I was going into the belly of the River North social scene, and I knew I’d regret it, but I decided to allow her advice and ridiculously well dressed sexy encouragement to puff out my chest far enough to ferret my hapless and surgically damaged self out the door……wearing Lululemon black Astro pants, Nike running shoes, and an Oakland Hills CC fleece pullover. I was fucked and I knew it.

I arrived on the scene early for our 8:30 meet up, and tossed the keys to the valet out front. $12 later I was inside Chicago Q and I was immediately impressed. The space was open, tastefully decorated, and struck an excellent balance; remaining an upscale city restaurant and still being a shit-ton nicer than the “nice” BBQ joint that exist down South. Having lived in the South I’ve been to the “nice” BBQ places and I’m well aware of their lame ass game. Usually you get something akin to a kitschy chain restaurant, modeled in a Chili’s or Friday’s style, that serves better than average BBQ. Thankfully I haven’t run into this level of impermissibly pathetic southern kitsch here in the 312, and Chicago Q was no exception. Places like Smoque, and Lillie’s (Go Noles!), do an excellent job and each have a cool urban vibe with outstanding culinary renditions of classic American BBQ, unlike their backwoods Southern progeny. If you think a BBQ shack can’t be a mix of urban hip and awesome BBQ, just ask Grant Achatz, chef/owner of arguably the best restaurant in the world, Alinea. Chef Achatz is a regular at Lillie’s and Q. Anyways, I digress…..

Arriving without a reservation was problematic, as I was quoted an hour and a half wait, at minimum. As my dining partners Queef and Jefe arrived I realized that my energy was waning, even in spite of the Puerto Rican gangster stash of Oxy I had in my pocket to keep me pain free. Not wanting to dip too far into my stash, I played the sympathy card on the moronic, would be sorority girl but couldn’t get into college so she’s hostessing hostess and her Men’s Warehouse cum Jos. A. Bank suit sporting manager who both assured me that they’d get my party seated ASAP. With a big smile on my face I began to survey the dining room and I immediately noticed two important things; 1) I knew at least 10 people between the dining room and the bar, and all were girls from my heydays back at the Bernardin 2) I was hopelessly underdressed, and even worse my outfit looked almost identical to the ones the valet were wearing. At least I didn’t have to talk to anybody I thought. That was of course, until two of my oldest Greek friends, Ev-$ and Metro walked in, dressed really nicely, with their very well dressed wives in tow. Kill me.

By 8:45 we were seated in a discreet corner and I was happily out of the line of social shame fire. Finally, I could focus on the deliciousness that was about to ensue. A quick look at the menu and we all settled on the same thing…RIBS. After consulting with the waiter we ordered up three slabs of competition St. Louis ribs, recently named one of the 100 best Chicago menu items in the city by TimeOut magazine. As the waiter placed an amazing set of BBQ style amuse on the table (house made bread and butter pickles and BBQ potato chips) I was left to ponder how this temple of BBQ came to grace our dining scene. In a nutshell, Chicago Q is just what it attests to be. A perfectly upscale Chicago restaurant, serving amazing BBQ. Chef Lee Ann Whippen is a pit master with a serious pedigree, having taken home trophies from some of the most prestigious BBQ Competitions in the world. Considering she is a graduate of the Culinary Institute of Arts, this makes her particularly dangerous, as she has a pedigree in both BBQ and fine dining, and it shows. Carefully constructing a menu that you rarely see in BBQ joint (Kobe Beef Brisket, “Competition” Style Ribs dutifully watched over for an entire day by a designated Pit Master), she has created a restaurant that brings the deliciousness of television BBQ competitions that have made millions salivate on their sofa’s, into reality.

I couldn’t imbibe but my dining partners ordered up a couple of Daisy Cutters off the affable, but somewhat limited beer menu, and before they were even half way finished the entrees arrived. Sauces came in little ramekin’s placed in the middle of the table, and while delicious, they weren’t even needed. As each of us bit into our first bite of ribs we all began to moan like whores. They were that good. The fall off the bone meat glistened from a day long lacquering of sauce and attention, tasting far better than I could have ever imagined. They were so good in fact, that I chose to not finish my dinner (not something I would ever do) so I could take a few ribs home to XV. I absolutely had to share the experience with her. Needless to say I haven’t been this impressed with BBQ, let alone with an item such as a rib, in long time. Maybe ever. I’m not kidding one bit when I say this, Chicago Q’s St. Louis ribs were one of the best things I’ve eaten in the last year. So good in fact, that I didn’t care about the delicious hand cut fries that came with order, nor the little bit of vinegary pickled red onions adorning the plate to cut the richness of the meat and cleanse the palate, or even the order of amazing cornbread and honey butter we ordered as a side. Shit, I even almost forgot about the much better than average macaroni and cheese we ordered when I was writing this….too busy dreaming about those magnificent ribs.

Considering the aforesaid, run, don’t walk to Chicago Q. IT’S THAT FUCKING GOOD. Mind you, this isn’t Kevin from the Office writing this review. I’m not some super fatass who loves the Bears and the Cubs, walking around looking for Italian Beef or some Wicker Park Beer Pig all day long….This is coming from an experienced palate, who’s eaten at some of the finest restaurants all across the globe. Knowing this, take my advice and find room to fit a BBQ night into your weekend. Oh, and for you idiot girls that won’t consider making Q a girls night out, there were tons of gorgeous girls there that night. In fact, I’ll take the people at Chicago Q over the people at Tavernita any day.

Pt. 2

Sorry for keeping you hanging on Part 2, fair readers…..Mags Bennett, XV, BW, and yours truly had planned for a while to hit up Ruxbin one night. So, on an average, cold as fuck, January Saturday night we all conspired to meet for dinner. Ruxbin, the recent recipient of its first Michelin star, is coming off a pretty big plug by both GQ and Bon Appetit who named it one of the United States, "Best New Restaurants of 2011". In spite of its popularity and accolades, Ruxbin takes no reservations and has a tiny, jewelbox of a dining room. Anyone who knows anything about eating out in Chicago, or who has ever been to Longman and Eagle on a weekend evening, knows this can mean waits up to three hours for a table. Nevertheless, we ventured over to West Town to see what all the hype was.

XV and I arrived on the scene around 5:30, knowing full well we were in for a wait. Needing to go pick up wine down the street at Lush (Rux is BYO), I mentioned it might be a good idea to put our name in for a table first as we drove by. Being fashionably early has its privileges, as we were the last people to get our names in before they were fully committed for the rest of the night (at 5:30!). The hostess told me they would call us when our table was ready, in about an hour and a half. Perfect we thought, as we had already planned on meeting Mags and BV around the corner at Leopold for a beer and a starter.

After picking up a couple awesome bottles of wine at Lush (probably the best wine purveyor in the city; all exotic and hard to find vintages) we walked into Leopold, grabbed a seat at one of the loungey tables near the back of the bar, and relaxed. A couple Belgian beers for me and a glass of cinnamon infused Leopold Whisky (no relation to the restaurant) for XV later, Mags and BW showed up. Mags being six months pregnant, and still in amazing shape, stayed away from the booze while BW and I kept downing Belgians. Before you knew it our table was ready back at Ruxbin. The time was exactly 6:38, well ahead of the hour and a half quoted. We were off to a pretty good start.

By the time we got back to Ruxbin it was exactly 7 on the head, and we were all starving hungry. The room at Ruxbin is tiny, but really well done, with a French bistro meets American contemporary vibe. It was warm and inviting, yet still intimate and exotic. Seated at a four top near the front window, we had a birds eye view of our 20 or so fellow diners, all whom seemed to be rolling their eyes in ecstasy over the food they were consuming. Between its 5 star Yelp reviews (in well over a hundred reviews no less), its Michelin star, and its endorsement by what seems to be every single national restaurant reviewer in the United States, I was seriously excited about the food to come.

The menu is small and somewhat limited, but there were a few things that caught our respective eyes. Mags and XV ordered the Apple and Plum salads, BW and I ordered the deconstructed Endive Caesar, and we all decided to share an order of calamari. As the waiter was taking our order we were debating on ordering the garlic fries, and both he and the table next to us interjected and convinced us that they were worth the splurge. The table of well heeled western suburanites out for a night in the big city sitting next to us remarked that the fries were the best thing that they ate that night, and the waiter only bolstered this claim by mentioning that he has an order after every shift. A strong endorsement for an item that I’ve routinely ordered at Giants games when I lived in California. More importantly, a strong endorsement for an dish which never really wowed me at all.

The starters arrived, and from the first bite we were all underwhelmed. The salads, while good, were nothing to write home about. For the most part they were exactly what they said they were on the menu; no more, no less. The Endive Caesar, tasted like a lot like every other Caesar I’ve ever had, and the Apple and Plum salads were so simple that there wasn’t even enough flavor or ingenuity to review here; a simple Apple and Plum salad with a light vinaigrette and some bitter winter greens. After ho huming it through the salads, the starters arrived. The calamari was served with chicken and pork forcemeat, potato confit, Korean chili, pickled fennel, and peanuts. It sounded interesting on the menu, but when it arrived it was far from interesting. A small plate of delicate calamari, browned from the chili and forcemeat, it ended up looking more like unappetizing mush, and tasted like someone had doused it in blackening spices and served it. Color me unimpressed. Next up was the fries, and guess what? They tasted just like the forgettable fries that I had ordered so many times at Giants games…Blah. We all remarked to each other in amazement how these little fuckers drew anyone’s attention, much less their rants and raves.

On to the entrees….I had done a lot of reading on what people were ordering and talking about beforehand so I felt like I was in the catbird’s seat to have a dynamite finale to the meal. Despite it not being something I’d normally order, and all my Greek heritage aside, the lamb was the single most popular dish amongst reviewers. People literally wrote life and palate changing reviews about this dish, so how the fuck could I avoid it? At the very least, I thought, if I missed on a different entrée I’d always wonder if the lamb was as good as advertised, and since I had no idea when I’d be back again, I took the plunge. The orders for the table were as follows: Mags---Amish Chicken, Roasted Breast, Confit Leg, Red Pearl Onions, Brussels Sprouts, and Pain Perdu with Apple, Gouda, and Walnuts BW---Pork Loin, Sweet Potato Gnocchi, Brown Butter Emulsion, Kale, Kalamata Olives, Cranberry, Sage XV---Hanger Steak, Wrinkled Long Beans, Candied Bacon, Chimichurri, Creme Fraiche, Heirloom Potatoes Me---Lamb, polenta, blah, blah, blah, blah. (I bet you can see where this is going)

The entrees arrived and we all tore into them with excited anticipation, hoping that these would finally instill the fanaticism and intensity that had led so many to rant and rave about Ruxbin. After a mere two bites, all I could think of was Rachel Dratch as Debbie Downer on SNL….womp, womp. BW ate his Pork Loin happily, but it drew no rants. Mags loved her chicken, but admitted that it was just chicken; a great piece of chicken and perfectly done, but chicken nonetheless. XV raved about her hanger steak, but like Mags, she admitted that it was very good but far from rave worthy. My lamb, well, not much to say other than http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJ_R-G_i4Xk . It was cooked perfectly, seasoned nicely, and the polenta was a very nice compliment. However, given the reviews and the insane rumblings about how amazing the dish was, it just didn’t live up to the hype. In fact, it didn’t come anywhere near living up to the hype. As my old Furby used to say....boooooriiiiiinnnng.

As a complete aside, about 2/3 of the reviews of Ruxbin noted that diners had to go the bathroom at least once during their visit, as it was like going into a space pod and was an experience unto itself. Yeah well, all four of us went to the bathroom, and guess what? Nobody had a life changing experience in the bathroom. Bottom line, it was a bathroom with a revolving darkroom door as an entrance, big fucking deal.

In summation, Ruxbin would get a two and a half to three star review (out of four) from me. On its own, without the reviews, I would have been impressed. But the minute you raise expectations to the level that people had, I expected more. Much, much, much more. At the end of the day you can’t serve me fuckin garlic fries and expect me to have a food boner big enough to give you a four star review. I’ve eaten all over the world, and moreover I’m a realist; when you give a four star review, a Michelin star, and you’re one of the best new restaurants in the nation you better do better than garlic fries and hanger steak. Don’t let the review dissuade you from going, but for those of you who have eaten at some of the city’s more notable restaurants, temper your expectations. 

Weekend of Gastronomical Hype Pt. 1

XV and I had been looking forward to this weekend for a while. The plan, in a nutshell, was to go to the opening of Tavernita, faux-celeb chef Ryan Poli’s new joint, and follow that up with a trip to Ruxbin with Mags Bennett and her husband the next night. We had never been to Ruxbin, but the accolades (Michelin, Yelp, Esquire, etc.) and word of mouth hype that has been going around has had it at the top of our list for quite some time. Couple that with the hype of a downtown restaurant opening and we had our culinary game faces on.

Friday night’s reservation at Tavernita was for a respectable 8:45. I always feel like eating downtown should be more New York than Chicago, i.e. reservations should seldom happen before 8:30. There’s just something romantically inspiring about being out in the cold of the city having drinks and dinner later at night on a weekend. Anyways, we arrived on time and found street parking on LaSalle Street not more than 150 feet from the door. A nice score considering we avoided the $12 for the valet and didn’t have to walk too far in the freezing cold. Tavernita is located on the corner of LaSalle and Erie in the old Martini Park space. Before you go getting bitter beer face thinking about all your old memories at MP, let me assure you that Tavernita is nothing like its predecessor; and that goes for the atmosphere, ambiance, food, and crowd.

Before I go any further in this review, I have to inform my gentle readers of my particular bias towards Tavernita and its chef. Chef Ryan Poli is a douchemonster of the first order, and he has been known to be associated with some of the city’s most reprehensible socialistas. Basically, his crew are a bunch of know nothing, meatheady douchebags and sorta slutty chicks who love to go around and play Sex and the City on Hubbard Street. Putting it plainly, these people, by and large, are a bunch of cubicle jockeying middle managers with low levels of education and even lower levels of pedigree. I’ve had a few run ins with the male members of his group, which have almost always resulted in insults being thrown  (punches at Paris Club over the summer), and have also had a few run ins with the female members of his group, as well. None of these encounters particularly endeared me to their group in any way, shape, or form. In fact, the result was quite the opposite as I genuinely developed a deep seeded disgust of the entire group of dingleberry dickfaces, both male and female.

Back to the review…….The renovated space is interesting, at best, unmanageably open and neglectful at worst. Dim Southwestern lighting meets even more dimly lit Catalonian motifs which sets the tone for a Spanishesque tavern and wine bar desperately trying to be cool and edgy. Imagine Mercadito, only the Spanish wine bar version with a lot of strange wasted table spaces that sit uncomfortably vacant. A bar and lounge area towards the front of the restaurant (LaSalle Street side) had yet to open, and its tall glass doors which open to the street and sidewalk look like they will make for a lively and fun midday or early evening drinking spot come summer. Unfortunately, it’s the dead of winter not the peak of summer. Needless to say, we were seated around 9:15 and offered a round of drinks for our wait, which was a nice touch considering I was drinking a $25 glass of McAllan 18.

By the time we sat down we were ready to order. We started simple with an order of Hamachi crudo, and Pork Belly Bocadillos. The hamachi came out simply prepared with a little picked jalapeno, avocado and lime and was absolutely delicious. The buttery hamachi paired perfectly with the spice of the jalapeno and the cool lime and avo. Almost as soon as we had finished, the bocadillos came out. Two small brioche buns topped with deliciously cooked pieces of pork belly, apple jam, arugula, and pickled onions made for an amazing little snack. Both the hamachi and the bocadillos were small in size, but they made up for their seemingly tiny plating with giant flavors and deeply rich undertones. All in all, the start of the meal was a pleasant surprise.

After finishing our small plates we ordered a carafe of Catalonia red, and placed the order for our main courses; Greg’s Meatballs, Artichoke Salad, Brussel Sprouts, and Scallops. Tavernita has an interesting beverage program, reminiscent of its Mercadito heritage, but with a European twist. Much like Mercadito, Tavernita’s cocktail list focuses heavily on mescal, tequila, and vodka without paying too much attention to the more mixable spirits that have come into popularity recently, like whisky/bourbon and gin. Since I’m not a vodka or tequila drinker and XV was nursing the backend of a light flu, we opted for wine with dinner. Tavernita has barreled wine, which means basically that when you order a bottle, the wine comes poured from a tap into a reusable bottle. It seems completely bourgouis in principle, but the wine we ordered was both delicious and affordable and made us forget about the giant keg below the restaurant that pumped our bottle out of a tap.

First to come out of the kitchen was the Artichoke Salad, and of all the dishes that we ordered I was probably most excited about this one. Sadly, it fell flat on its face. You could barely get any hint of artichoke and the salad was dominated by sea salt and heavy flavors from the blue cheese. After a few bites my teeth hurt and my lips were parched, a feeling somewhat akin to gnawing on a piece of blue cheese beef jerky. Thankfully though, the memory of the salad was quickly erased by the delicious plate of meatballs that followed. Greg’s Meatballs, named ostensibly, after one of Poli’s chefs, are made with a combination of wagyu beef and pork, and come with a creamy romesco sauce topped with panko cracklins. Considering meatballs hardly fit on a Spanish inspired menu, these stood as a shining star in spite of their somewhat peculiar menu inclusion. The meatballs were perfectly fork tender, super rich, and contained just a hint of spice to give them enough bite to offset their richness. Simply put, they were absolutely fantastic.  

Next up were the Scallops which were a complete dud. The scallops themselves were delicious; however the accompaniments were downright disgusting and made us wonder how a team of accomplished (embarrassing national T.V. loss to a housewife on Rocco’s Dinner Party notwithstanding) chefs could pick such an unusual smattering of flavors to pair with a scallop. Served with celery, grapes, almonds, olive oil croutons, and ajo blanco the dish ended up tasting like a terrible version of a Spanish scallop salad. The buttery hot scallops were run completely afoul by the inclusion of grapes, olive oil, celery and almonds, all items which can be found in a Waldorf Salad. XV aptly described this dish in one simple word, sickitating.

The Brussel Sprouts were supposed to be up next, but it was 10:45 and they were nowhere in sight. The waiter assured me he put them in when we ordered them, but lets face it, there is no fuckin way Brussel Sprouts take 45 minutes to cook. Full from the other dishes and not wanting to eat a side dish all by itself, we cancelled the order before it got to the table and opted to get a bill instead. Our flamingly gay, yet attentive, waiter was seen off in the distance explaining the situation to Poli, who after a glance over at our table bowed out of the situation altogether, opting to take the Sprouts off the bill rather than come over and gladhand us about the issue as many Chef’s do on opening night. Could it be because he recognized us and knew that we despise his crew of friends? Or perhaps it was because he didn’t care? Either way it didn’t matter, as in general the meal was pretty good and I doubt I would have bothered to mention any of the lows of the dining experience should he have come to the table.

The bill came out to about $85 without tip and drinks (they picked up our bottle of wine because of the wait) which XV and I both agreed was pretty reasonable a price for a weekend dinner out downtown. Overall, there were a few misses on the night, but the hits far outshined the misses. Considering we both went in wanting to hate everything about the place, the fact that we came out giving it mostly positive reviews should speak volumes as to the quality of some of the dishes we ate. While I don’t think Tavernita is on par with similar restaurants like Avec and Publican, I do think it has a lot going for it and once summer comes around and the windows and doors can be opened it will definitely be a place to visit again. Overall I give Tavernita a healthy 2 ½ stars out of 4.