Latest Chicago restaurant reviews

Let’s get this out of the way: Roister is not your typical fine dining establishment. It’s loud, it’s boisterous and you sit at a bar. The concept that occupies the former iNG space comes from Alinea’s Grant Achatz and Nick Kokonas, with chef Andrew Brochu (Alinea, EL Ideas). “The kitchen is the restaurant, the restaurant is the kitchen,” is the slogan on the website, a nod to the fact that for the most part, seats surround the open kitchen. There are a few two-top tables and a handful of seats at the liquor bar toward the back. If you can score a reservation, you have the option of the a la carte menu or the chef’s tasting dinner. The chef’s tasting dinner will sit you in front of the open kitchen, whereas the a la carte menu is served in the dining room and back bar. The a la carte menu is packed with small, medium, large and shareable plates. Whatever you decide to order, you need to get the beef broth—a small plate umami bomb with beef cheek and tongue and soft egg in al dente bucatini noodles. Speaking of things you should absolutely get, the chicken you’ve been hearing about is well worth the hype. It’s on the shared courses menu, which serves 2–6. Our server thought it was ambitious for two people. I’d say you could feed three comfortably with it, and four with a few other plates. It comes three ways: braised chicken breasts, deboned fried thighs and a chicken salad made with the legs and the wings. The breasts are perfectly braised and juicy, the fried chicken is cr

Springing from the mind of chef Grant Achatz, fine dining institution Alinea has been the recipient of numerous awards and is regularly named the best restaurant in Chicago (and the United States, for that matter), bringing culinary expertise and flawless service to each and every meal. In January of 2016, Alinea closed for renovations, reopening in May with a complete overhaul of the menu, tossing out the original one, which changed frequently, that had garnered the restaurant many accolades.  This was my first Alinea experience, which is a pretty big deal, not just because of its reputation, but also because I consider some of my first visits to other Alinea Group restaurants to be some of my finest eating and drinking experiences in Chicago. My first time at the Office—when I was invited down to the bar on a whim by my server at the Aviary—left me forever lusting after the browned butter bourbon concoction they whipped up for me. But Alinea was a bit different—my trip was planned in advance while avoiding all the murmurs about its magical new menu. I wanted to see it for myself. And it is magical. The food comes and goes effortlessly, wine glasses filled and replaced throughout the meal, with the sheer beauty of excellent service extending all the way down to your entry. We walked in and were immediately whisked to the second floor salon for the most affordable meal ($800 total for two diners including a wine pairing). The salon is meant for groups of one to six people,

It took some time wandering through River West on an icy, blustery night before we finally found the much raved-about Oriole—from industry vets Noah Sandoval, Genie Kwon and Aaron McManus. The door in the back alley is relatively unmarked, as if the restaurant knows it’s worth seeking out. And it’s not wrong. Here is a fine diner that gets everything right, right from the start: The moment we entered, the host whisked away my jacket and replaced it with a steaming cup of sochu-laced cider. It was like she was reading my mind. The room itself is a jaw-dropper—exposed brick gives a warm feeling, while tall wooden columns remind you that you’re in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in town. Pristine white tablecloths drape every table and napkins are folded perfectly. The first choice you’ll make when that napkin is safely in your lap is whether or not to take the $125 drink pairing with the $190 tasting menu (you should—it’s perfect); the last choice you’ll make is if you want tea or coffee when it’s all done (you want that too—you’ll want to savor every moment you can at Oriole.) Our meal starts with a bite of Golden Osetra caviar, with a rich coconut dashi, lychee and grape to brighten the bite, which feels lavish and sets the tone for the rest of the meal. It’s served in an almost egg-shaped bowl with all the components resting inside providing an extra element of surprise. Interestingly presented dishes appear throughout. Take the puffed beef tendon—an über-fancy pork rin

Be forewarned: A trip to Proxi will undoubtedly leave you wanting more. It’s not that the menu is lacking; on the contrary, it’s rife with so many tough decisions that you’ll have to book a second visit to try it all. Tempura elotes or roasted baby potato carbonara? Baby octopus or raw tuna? BBQ lamb ribs or Wagyu sirloin? It’s not for the indecisive, but Proxi has officially landed on my short list of restaurants I’d gladly frequent every weekend if I could. The magic starts as soon as you walk through the massive doors off Randolph Street (Proxi is located next to its sister restaurant, Sepia, and down the street from Avec and Blackbird) and into the sun-drenched, tile-adorned bar. My date and I arrived early and grabbed seats at the bar for a round of cocktails. I was immediately enamored with the Don’t Chouette It, a play on an Aperol Spritz with blood orange juice and champagne ice cubes (really); the bright orange concoction evolved as I sipped, making it both dynamic and delicious. The bold but sweet Josper O.F., on the other hand, was the perfect transition into dinner, with Japanese whiskey, roasted demerara, Thai bitters and barbecue smoke. Back to those tough decisions. Chef Andrew Zimmerman’s menu is divided into three sections—veggies, fish and land-cruising meat—and your server will advise you to dabble in each. You can’t walk out of Proxi without trying the tempura elotes, clusters of perfectly fried sweet corn with chives, chili, lime, parmesan and a mayo dr

Before Vajra opened this winter, my only experience with Nepali cuisine was as a menu addendum at Indian restaurants—steamed momos (dumplings) and cauliflower-potato curries scattered among pan-Indian staples like butter chicken and saag paneer. It’s not surprising when you consider that Nepal—which shares borders with India, Tibet and China—has been isolated for much of its history, only opening to tourists in the 1950s. Named for a mythical weapon used by the Hindu God of Thunder, Vajra illuminates this diminutive yet diverse destination through adaptations of the dishes co-owner Dipesh Kakshapaty grew up eating in bustling Butwal, from tandoori-roasted game to soothing root-veg curries. Our senses were abuzz the moment we walked through the door. Head bartender Juanjo Pulgarin presided over the narrow bar, streaming colorful house-made syrups into shakers and coaxing smoke into a wine decanter filled with whiskey and soju. The latter cocktail—dubbed the Spiny Babbler’s Nest—would be cascaded into my rocks glass minutes later, its lazily snaking smoke turning heads nearby. The drink’s campfire-sweet aroma disguised the ambling burn of szechuan-infused demerara syrup. My sister’s thirst-quenching Fields of Elysium tasted like a melted pisco-spiked lime freeze pop, mingling tropical-sweet kiwi purée and elderflower liqueur. I’m already plotting return visits to eat my way through Vajra’s entire small plates menu, a parade of classic Himalayan dishes in miniature, lik

This is not an exaggeration: I’ve eaten fried chicken at more than half the restaurants I’ve reviewed since starting this job three months ago. I’ve also eaten it at places that I’ve covered for other stories, or where I ate it just for fun (sometimes I get to go out to dinner for fun). I’ve eaten it for dinner, lunch and brunch, in sandwiches and as part of fried chicken dinners. We’re clearly in a golden age of fried chicken in Chicago. So when a restaurant opens that’s centered around fried chicken, they need to do something special to set themselves apart. And Honey Butter Fried Chicken does—the chicken is served with soft, whipped honey butter that you slather all over it. This namesake dish at the new Avondale restaurant debuted at Sunday Dinner Club, the longstanding pop-up dinner series hosted by chefs Christine Cikowski and Josh Kulp, and it was so successful that they decided to open a restaurant around it. But you should get everything else on the menu instead. Don’t get me wrong—the chicken is good. If you order the two, four or eight-piece orders of fried chicken, they’ll come out on a brown paper–lined silver tray, deboned (except for the chicken leg, which didn’t appear in our order), with a piece of cornbread and a small dish of honey butter. The chicken is locally sourced and brined with sugar, salt, spices and citrus, then battered and fried, and topped with smoked paprika salt. It’s good fried chicken, salty and sweet, but something (besides the bones),

Sarah Grueneberg left Spiaggia to open her own restaurant, Monteverde, in late 2015, but while she brought along the masterful Italian techniques she honed there, she left the fine dining trappings on Michigan Avenue. At Monteverde, the Top Chef alum's wonderfully relaxed West Loop restaurant, assistant servers wear Blackhawks hats, a TV flips on when the hockey game starts and a gluten-free menu is featured prominently on the website—a nice touch for a pasta-focused restaurant.  That menu is important, since the pastas are the main draw. Made in house, they’re all perfectly cooked and accompanied by sauces and ingredients that look surprising on the menu, but make sense once you’ve taken a bite. The cacio whey pepe ratchets up the classic with four peppercorns and whey, so it’s creamy and intensely peppery. To make the wintery tortelloni di zucca, Grueneberg stuffs squash into delicate pasta, then serves it with apples and bacon. If you sit at the bar, you’ll spy pasta-makers rolling out pappardelle, later tossed with tender nuggets of duck, olives and parsnips. Grueneberg knows more than just pasta—arancini packed with spicy nduja sit atop poached tuna sauce; artichoke crostino come with rotating toppings, including shaved black truffle; and grilled octopus chunks share a skewer with sweet potatoes. Desserts are on the smaller side, which is ideal after so much pasta. Salted butterscotch budino wears a delicate bruleed cap, while the perfectly nice sorbetti are upstaged b

“Are you sure it’s west of Ashland? I can’t see it,” the mister frowned, as we strode down Chicago Avenue, past novelty and jewelry shops and the palatial Annex on a Sunday evening. It was chilly, so the sprawling restaurant’s windowed facade was closed, and the dim, candlelit interior hard to see from the sidewalk. But that only made entering this boho-chic boite that much more transportive. Bonhomme Hospitality (Celeste, Black Bull) has a knack for aesthetics, and this dramatic, three-part space evokes the sense of being framed inside a singular, precious shot in a Wes Anderson film no matter where you stand. Executive chef Marcos Campos and chef de cuisine Jonathan Meyer’s global shared plates inhabit this namesake’s bohemian spirit fairly successfully, while the cocktail menu proves low-proof sippers can be just as tasty as their boozy counterparts. It’s hard to keep your mouth closed when you first walk in. To the right of the entryway, an atrium-like enclosed patio bedecked in colorful tiles, painted brick, climbing ivy and potted plants, recalls a sun-bleached courtyard in southern Spain. Our two dates were getting a headstart in the sexy cocktail lounge, which is anchored by an L-shaped brass and vintage tile bar beneath repurposed street lights from 1970s Chicago. A host led us up a short gangway—ducking to avoid a slap from a waving palm—and through the back dining room to a table overlooking the bright open kitchen. Mixing elaborate antiques (midcentury chandeli

Plenty of new Mexican restaurants have set up shop in Chicago over the last couple of years, but Mi Tocaya in Logan Square is one to watch. Upon opening the menu at this buzzy, modern eatery, your eyes will go straight to the tacos (and you should order a few of those), but the antojos section is where you’ll find chef Diana Dávila’s best work, like the timeless fish con mole and the lobster-studded esquites. Start with an order of the house guacamole, which is showered in smoky chile ash and served with a generous helping of warm tortilla chips. The peanut butter y lengua appetizer—braised beef tongue with peanut butter salsa, pickled onions and grilled radish—is another crowd pleaser for first-timers and adventurous eaters alike. (Even if you're not a huge tongue fan, we recommend giving this dish a go.) A table of four hungry diners should be satisfied with three to four shareable antojos. Just know that you won't find typical Mexican-American cuisine on Dávila’s menu, save for a steak burrito and those aforementioned tacos. Instead, lean on your server to talk you into dishes inspired by the chef's childhood. The tuetano con sabores de caldo, for instance, includes roasted bone marrow that's studded with hunks of tender short rib and stewed vegetables. All that goodness is scraped onto a tender but hefty housemade tortilla. It's the kind of dish that truly allows you to taste how much love Dávila pours into her food. You can't go wrong with a round of Modelos for the t

“Nostalgia works because it takes us back in time, which is the only place we can’t go,” says Dana Salls Cree, the former Publican brand executive pastry chef who opened Pretty Cool Ice Cream with Bang Bang Pie owner Michael Ciapciak this summer. For Salls Cree, nostalgia is standing at the end of her driveway with change in her pocket awaiting the melodic jingle of the ice cream truck to indicate her favorite cherry-pineapple swirl pop was within reach. Over the past few years, making ice cream has become her main preoccupation—yielding an approachable cookbook (Hello My Name is Ice Cream) and, more recently, a four-seasons ice cream shop in Logan Square. I met two dates at Pretty Cool just before dinner: One of them, a bouncy toddler with a stuffed ice cream toy under her arm, gaped at the sight of the handheld treats lining the display case like technicolor soldiers. “Which flavor do you want?” her mom asked. With a sweeping gesture, she pointed to what I could only decipher meant “all of them.” Starring cream from Lamers Dairy in Wisconsin and an ever-shifting cast of fruits sourced via Local Foods, the pops stand out most for their beautiful density and texture. A peanut butter bar coated in thick chocolate and studded with salty potato chip pieces crunched snappily before giving way to the stretchy chew of nutty, rich custard. Blue moon, Salls Cree’s Smurf-blue take on the beloved Midwestern ice cream flavor, tasted like a concentrated sip of cereal milk from the bo

You’ll find some of the most interesting and indulgent dishes at Smyth. Case in point: On one plate, tender pieces of Dungeness crab are covered with slices of rich foie gras and scrambled kani miso (a.k.a. crab innards). It’s a small but powerful bite that oozes with opulent ingredients. It’s surprising, then, that it feels like you’re eating it in your best friend’s living room—if your best friend happened to be a particularly fantastic cook with impeccable taste in décor. It’s all part of the high-low mix that defines Smyth. The West Loop fine-dining destination is homey and welcoming with dishes that are truly over the top. That balanced dichotomy is all part of the vision for chefs and owners John and Karen Urie Shields (Charlie Trotter’s, Alinea), who dreamed up a happy, easy-going spot that would highlight the time they spent in Smyth County, Virginia. The restaurant is filled with oak wood, yellow light and lived-in touches, such as vases of thistles and a rolling bar cart. Like the Loyalist, the relaxed but classy bar downstairs, it feels like a place where you could truly unwind. The big difference here is the caliber—and price—of what you’re about to put in your mouth.  First things first, you’ll have to decide how many courses you’re in for: five, eight or 12. We went for the 10-course menu, which has since been discontinued. Regardless of your choice, prepare for luxurious ingredients (think caramelized lobster, crispy duck tongue and creamy uni) to make their

Restaurant review by Amy Cavanaugh The morning after attending a rather boozy party, two friends and I slumped over the counter at Dove’s Luncheonette, hoping that a hefty serving of diner food would cure us. Dove’s isn’t your typical diner, though, so we wouldn’t be getting a greasy plate of overcooked bacon and rubbery eggs. No, we’d be eating blood sausage and drinking Bloody Marys, as Dove’s is the latest entrant into the nouveau diner landscape, which is already populated by Little Goat Diner and Au Cheval. But neither of them really feels like an old-school diner—Au Cheval is dark and glamorous, like all Brendan Sodikoff restaurants, and Little Goat is a loud family restaurant serving foot-tall goat burgers. But Dove’s has the spirit of one. The latest spot from One Off Hospitality (Publican, Avec and others), Dove’s is located next door to One Off’s Big Star and it shares a building with the relocated taco take-out window. The only seating option is padded stools placed along steel counters, which line the perimeter of the cozy restaurant. It’s open from 9 in the morning to 10 or 11 at night. There’s a black and white board listing breakfast and dessert specials and a record player spinning in the corner, with a jukebox to come. There are big windows overlooking the CTA construction on Damen Avenue, retro photos on the walls and counters set with paper placemats printed with pictures of mountains. The menu, which features Norteño cuisine (that's food from northern Me

Let’s knock this out right away: You’re getting the arroz gordo. It’s a spectacle to behold, a paella-like thicket in which sausage, pork, clams and prawns are piled on a bed of rice—a dish worthy of sharing its name (which translates to fat rice) with the restaurant itself. Tackle the prawns first: Crack their shells and disengage their plump insides. Now the clams. There might be a stray sandy one in there, but the rest have integrity. Next, a tea egg (boiled, then cracked and steeped in tea and soy sauce, such that the liquid seeps in, marbling the exterior): It’s fragrant and saturated with seasoning. And now the unsightly hunks of pork, a disappointing mass of tough and chewy meat. Just when the arroz gordo becomes almost senseless, there’s an olive: an acidic reprieve. And then there’s the soul of the dish, crisped black at the pot’s edges, packed with nuggets of Chinese sausage and pickled raisins that burst with sweet, tangy juices. I’m talking about the rice. There’s something about big, conglomerate dishes like this—the fat rice, the low-country boil at Carriage House, the moqueca at La Sirena Clandestina—that makes them immensely pleasurable to eat. They’re the opposite of faddish: They’re dishes with long histories, things you don’t have to think about to enjoy. This sense of history and of place is what makes Fat Rice’s approach so successful: Owners Abraham Conlon and Adrienne Lo (formerly the duo behind the supper club X-Marx) are cooking the food of Macau,

The new West Loop spot from husband and wife David and Anna Posey (he of Blackbird, she of the Publican) has a name that comes from the Danish word for “love”—a nod to David’s heritage and the fact that the couple got engaged in Copenhagen. The food, however, is not Danish; the menu was made with simple fare and seasonal ingredients in mind. You can choose from a prix fixe menu (eight courses) or à la carte options; on our visit it seemed that groups were taking the latter route while couples opted for the tasting menu. Elske is a perfect intro to fine dining, with reliable and approachable dishes that will school diners new to coursed meals on what to expect—with complicated ingredients that are still complex in flavor, but without overly meticulous plating. We were hooked from the first dish. Two bowls—one filled with smoked fruits and vegetables like radishes topped with dill, the other an herbal tea of the same fruits and vegetables—contrast the bright crunch of the plants with the warm beverage, their flavors blending seamlessly together. The initial combinations (with options for wine or non-alcoholic beverages) were a sparkling Spanish white from the Canary Islands and a white grape juice carbonated with yeast and star anise. My date and I shared both, and after the first sip of the “juice pairing,” as our servers called it, we were taken aback. It’s bubbly and dry—it could have passed as wine. I’d never thought about how closely dry drinks could mimic their boozy cou

If you sit in the back half of Mott St, you’ll be dining next to shelves stocked with Cholula hot sauce, jars of beans, tea…and a box of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. Is that a dessert ingredient? Nope, it’s breakfast for “the early crew,” our server told us. With little storage space in the kitchen, Mott St has constructed a pantry within the dining room. The front half of the restaurant features a bar and two- and four-top tables, and there’s a communal table in back. Add in huge windows, materials sourced from Craigslist and pulsing music, and the room has an energy that makes you want to stay all night. Everyone—the enthusiastic and knowledgeable servers, the kitchen staff, the twenty- and thirtysomething diners, apparently even that early crew—is having a ball at chef Edward Kim’s playful new Asian restaurant, which opened a month ago not far from his much-lauded Ruxbin. But while the vibe may be relaxed, the level of cooking is anything but casual.  The Asian night market–inspired menu feels overwhelming at first. There are about two-dozen dishes, many of which require peppering your server with questions. What’s the forcemeat of the day? On my visit, it was a mild but flavorful Chinese sausage that’s fried like a spring roll. You fold it into a lettuce leaf with sprouts and basil, then dip it in a tangy fish sauce. What’s the collar of the day? Yep, Mott St has a daily fish collar preparation. We had halibut, pan-fried and served on the bone. (While the cut is rich,

A framed print of Shel Silverstein’s poem Me and My Giant hangs on the wall of this ironically named Logan Square restaurant—it’s tiny, sitting only 44 people. But what Giant lacks in space it makes up for in flavor. After closing Nightwood in 2015, chef Jason Vincent took time off from the Chicago dining scene before opening Giant with partners Ben Lustbader and Josh Perlman in summer 2016. The menu is filled with shared plates, each with a bit of its own flair. The theme is “simple, unpretentious Midwestern fare,” but expect nothing but big flavors from dishes that might sound unassuming on the page. The menu starts with an attention grabber: uni shooters, bite-size fried balls with a crunchy exterior filled with melty, buttery, briny uni. Peppers are abundant, beginning with sweet biscuits with a sugary crust and a jalapeño honey. Pasta is the other star—our favorite is the “sortallini,” a little like tortellini, served in a refreshingly acidic and bright sauce that’s packed with guanciale, basil and pine nuts. As hard as it is to go wrong with anything on Vincent’s menu, it would be a shame to overlook dessert; choices like cajeta ice cream bring nostalgic notes of strawberry crunch ice cream bars. You’ll feel cozy in Giant’s small confines—the restaurant is crammed with tables that you’ll have to maneuver to get in and out of. But somehow, it doesn’t feel overwhelming—with evenly spaced courses the small space works. Just don’t expect much privacy; you’ll be right up n

Something awkward happened just after the craggy, golden-fried chicken thigh arrived at our table at S.K.Y. The meat was propped up on a ring of sweet creamed corn, and a beaker of bright orange hot sauce sat expectantly in the center of the plate. The server glanced from my date to me. “Shall I pour the sau—” “Yes!” I interrupted, nearly launching out of my chair. As the sauce pooled into its creamed corn barrier like magma, my date brought a sense of civility back to the conversation with a well-timed remark about last seeing a beaker in middle-school science class. In all fairness, though, I wanted that chicken in my mouth as quickly as possible. Lacy, tempura-like crust crackled audibly at the suggestion of my knife, revealing succulent thigh meat imbued with garlic and Korean chili flake. I dragged my forkful through the fiery lake of fermented habanero-vinegar hot sauce, scooping up bits of the creamed corn dam as I went. The resulting bite was a textural, irreverently American jumble of tangy heat, umami and sweetness. The entire pan-Asian menu at chef/owner Stephen Gillanders’s first solo venture—named for his wife’s initials—reverberates with a similar alchemy of meticulous skill, humor and heart. Aromatic, nuanced cocktails and craveable desserts make this striking Pilsen newcomer a must. Walking in, you can easily imagine the window-filled space flooded with natural light by day. At night the dim, bluish-hued room envelops you like a snug wine cellar. We walked

Restaurant review by Amy Cavanaugh Start with the baked potato bread. Available in two sizes—whole and half (the half size is four slices)—it’s a Chinese bing bread stuffed with baked potato, bacon and scallions, with a smear of sour cream butter on the plate. If you order it as soon as you sit down, and you’ll get to snack on something utterly delicious while you peruse the rest of the menu. That’s what I did upon arrival at Parachute, Beverly Kim and Johnny Clark’s new Korean-American restaurant, which opened in May in Avondale. The husband and wife pair, who previously worked together briefly at Bonsoiree, teamed up to open their own place, which is striving to be a casual, approachable restaurant that serves great food.  They’ve succeeded. The restaurant is one long room with a handful of tables and a long wrap-around bar with woven bar stools. A line of speakers along one wall forms a shelf for plants. If you head toward the back, you can see right into the kitchen, where Kim and Clark were toiling away, although Kim occasionally ventured out into the dining room to visit tables (there were several chefs in the dining room when I was there). Kim, formerly of Aria, is the better known of the pair (she was on Top Chef: Texas), but the effort here should make both of them household names. That’s because Clark and Kim’s menu, a mix of small and large plates, is impeccably executed, creative and surprising. Take the boudin noir, a blood sausage, which is served not as an

At Longman & Eagle, there are old fashioneds, stirred slowly and carefully behind a dark, gorgeous bar. There are dozens of whiskeys for three bucks; the house favorite, Cabin Still, is mellow and gentle. And there are flannel shirts, and mustaches, and Grandma sweaters. A lot of them. But if you’ve gotten it into your head that eating at a restaurant owned in part by the Empty Bottle guys means that you’ll be systematically ignored by a waitstaff of smelly, aloof, strategically scruffed dudes and the waifish, Lycra-clad women who dig them, then you have seriously underestimated the genre. Truth is, the folks working here are some of the friendliest and most professional hipsters you’ll ever meet, and their graciousness isn’t lost on the neighborhood. Why else would I have been seated next to couples with babies and families with tweens? Yet, however welcoming and well-informed my server was, T.G.I. Friday’s this is not, and it was hard not to notice that those groups were ordering their fair share of burgers. And, not to start things off on the wrong foot, but the Kobe burger, like most Kobe burgers I’ve had, is nothing to get excited about. The meat’s mushy, the bun’s too big for the patty, and mine reeked of smoke from the bacon, despite the fact that the strips were scarcely cooked. (If those tweens were ordering it simply for the awesome beef fat–fried fries, though, bless their hearts.) To do this restaurant right, you’ve got to allow yourself organ meats. Get the bee

There’s nothing to do except come out and say it: There are some things at Kai Zan I can’t describe. I was at the sushi bar, a display of wrapped seafood the only barrier between me and brothers Melvin and Carlo Vizconde, the chefs and owners. I’d elected to do the omakase menu, a nice value at $50 a person. (There is a $5-per-table corkage fee.) The only hiccup: Most of the food was handed across the bar in rapid fire and without explanation. It started with the “pearls”: bites of gently seared maguro (fresh tuna) arranged atop spheres of rice, with wasabi sauce and chili oil binding the elements. There were one-bite “rolls” of salmon-wrapped scallops (called “Orange Rush”) and shrimp tempura wrapped in strips of avocado (the “Green Monster”). If these sound a little indulgent, they are. But this is the mystery of Kai Zan: The chefs veer close to excessive but never go anywhere near the grotesque cream-cheese realm that has poisoned many a neighborhood-sushi restaurant. Instead, their creations are positively refined. The Vizcondes are masters of maki; I became merely, and happily, their subject. And what a territory: This is the sweetest, tiniest restaurant on Earth. The room is seamlessly both contemporary (a video projector screens fish swimming around the floor of the entryway) and traditional (tiny plants and lovely ceramics turn the booths homey). And the service is as unpretentious as it is attentive. Inquiring minds want to know: Is Kai Zan as good as Arami? It’s…

When I first glimpse the menu at Beatrix, I’m confused and, frankly, a bit skeptical. Chili-chocolate salmon with corn tacos butts up against a snack of potato salad deviled eggs. Hummus (served with naan, rather than pita) is coming out of the same kitchen window as a hamachi crudo with citrus that looks like it’s straight from a sushi bar. Could a menu that just seems cobbled together from every food trend of the past five years possibly be good? Somehow, it is. The latest offering from Chicago restaurant empire Lettuce Entertain You, Beatrix builds a menu mostly of dishes from the Lettuce test kitchen that couldn’t find a home. These orphans were so delicious that Lettuce boss Rich Melman decided to create a place just for them. Despite the restaurant’s slogan, “taste over trend,” in reality each dish could come straight from a food trend roundup. Kale salad! Deviled eggs! Vaguely Mexican flavored fish! Savory bread pudding! Quinoa! Each craze has swept the restaurant world in the last few years, and they’re all together at Beatrix, like an awkward family reunion of has-beens. But as I dig into each dish, I realize that there was a reason that each trend became, well, a trend. Even better, each dish has a spin that makes it seem a little bit new. Take that kale salad, called the “Emerald City Salad” in Lettuce-speak. Instead of the tired, obligatory kale dish that’s on every menu in Chicago at the moment, this kale salad is fresh and crunchy. The leaves are mixed with c

Walking back through Intro to Naoki Sushi feels like navigating a secret passageway to tender sushi and thoughtful dishes. Unlike its sister restaurant, Naoki offers a more laid-back atmosphere that still feels high-end—but maybe not so posh—and complements that with candid, savvy servers. Hidden behind the kitchen of Rich Melman’s Intro, the warmly lit sushi bar is the latest project from Naoki Nakashima (who also runs the sushi program at Shaw’s). Whether you’re a sushi veteran or just starting to explore dishes beyond tuna rolls, Naoki Sushi offers familiar items and interesting, original plates. Before diving into the sushi, the appetizers are a must, ranging from traditional to fun—like addictive tuna tacos made with crisp wonton shells and truffle chawanmushi, an egg custard with a dashi broth. You can’t go wrong by following your servers’ recommendations for the rotating sashimi and nigiri specials. On my visit, options included a slightly sweet and tender kinmedai topped with dehydrated yuzu lemon, to complement the fish. A melting salmon nigiri crowned with smoked soy and shallot is a great choice in the classic nigiri section. While the maki provide heartier portions, it’s easy to stick to nigiri and sashimi. Still, ordering the fatty yet delicate hamachi maki with scallion, cucumber and yuzu is anything but a miss. If there’s one thing to skip on the menu, it’s the main course—the seabass, while tender and buttery with soft bok choy, is too heavy next to a menu

“It’s hard to lump this food into a category,” says Bellemore executive chef/partner Jimmy Papadopoulos, of the self-appointed “Artistic American” label Boka Restaurant Group selected to encapsulate his menu. “It’s very bold and bright with unique layering. I like cooking from the heart and soul.” If I were tasked with summing up the utterly captivating dishes emerging from the tidy open kitchen at this newcomer in the former Embeya space, I might lean toward “enchanted woodland romp.” But diners would probably prefer a less esoteric descriptor. Two dates and I arrived early on a snowy Saturday. I was grateful I’d made a reservation as the restaurant and bar were already brimming with life. There’s an unmistakable luxury-furniture-store vibe to the soaring room, where plush crescent booths, a marble bar and hulking chevron pillars are illuminated by arching floor lamps and brass chandeliers. Bird-themed touches—like an oddly magnetic photo of a nude torso with flapping dove head, taxidermied peacocks and a fanciful owl mural overlooking the back dining room—lend welcomed humor. I first crushed on Papadopoulos’s imaginative cooking at Bohemian House, where he breathed elegance into oft-clunky, homespun Czech stalwarts like beef dumplings and chicken paprikash. At Bellemore, he balances resourcefulness and evident skill with an unmatched knack for layering textures and flavors. Barman Lee Zaremba’s smart cocktails reflect the kitchen’s affinity for intricate flavors. My fro

There are rules when eating at avec. One of them is “No talking about Israel.” A few weeks ago I was eating dinner and my friend—not I—was breaking that rule. Loudly. The man sitting next to me, whom I did not know but whom I spent the evening less than one inch from, leaned into our space and said, “What nation are you talking about?” This is why you don’t talk about Israel at avec. I shut down the conversation by slicing an X in the air with my hands and saying one word: “no.” But the man—his name was Brandon, I learned later—was undeterred from talking to us. He changed the subject. “Have you guys ever had these dates?” he asked. He pointed to the hot casserole in front of him with only one date left. “They’re so good.” The bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed dates are, of course, another rule of avec. You must order them, every time, until you’ve had them so often that you no longer need to be at avec to taste them—you close your eyes, access your taste memory, slip into a bliss coma…. “Are you guys tourists?” I asked Brandon. He and his companions looked wounded. “We live up the street,” they said. The idea that a Chicagoan exists who has not yet eaten the avec dates was inconceivable to me. But here were three people who had lived in Chicago for years and were just now at avec for the first time. Rules dictate this situation, too. “You must eat the focaccia,” I said. “And probably the brandade.” They nodded and smiled. But I knew they weren’t listening. They’d alr

Ever since it launched in the spring of 2011, Next Restaurant has been wowing us with ever-evolving concepts. There are three themed menus a year, which have included Paris, 1906; Modern Chinese; Vegan and more, and all deliver innovation and flavor. The dinners are ticketed, so you buy tickets in advance.