Latest Chicago restaurant reviews

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

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 harder than it looks to nail it, the look and the feel of “effortless cool.” It’s even harder to straddle the fence between bar and restaurant, so that everyone eating gets drunk and everyone drinking ends up feeding their face. But that’s what’s happening at Maude’s Liquor Bar, the latest from Brendan Sodikoff (Gilt Bar, Curio). The two-hour weekend wait signals restaurant. But ramble up the stairs late night and it’s a whiskey-fueled roundtable of postwork line cooks, serving themselves from a community bottle then paying by the honor system at the end of the night. That industry crowd rarely makes it to Maude’s before midnight, when the kitchen closes, so they miss the food their brother-in-arms Jeff Pikus is putting out, a menu as indulgent and classic as his past work at Trio and Alinea was groundbreaking. But nothing is lost on the deep-pocketed scenesters who arrive before them, who gulp down delicious whiskey smashes and stab at $70 shellfish towers. These are the folks paying for those gleaming subway tiles (which don’t come cheap, not even the randomly chipped ones), the mismatched crystal chandeliers and that Victorianesque sofa. But in return they’re getting butter-smooth chicken liver slathered on toast with fig marmalade, ideal with a gin and crème de violette concoction dubbed “Smokey Violet.” And still-quivering oysters from both coasts. And big fat mussels, smartly steamed in a broth studded with punchy picholine olives but inexplicably, annoyingly left

When we first walked up to 5 Rabanitos, my date asked if we were in the right spot—the signage doesn’t provide a lot of promise that it’s going to be a great meal, but once we were in the door, his attitude changed immediately. It’s nothing fancy, but the green walls and a sparse dining room with old Spanish love ballads playing in the background give it a charm that’s perfect for devouring as much Mexican food as possible. Chef Alfonso Sotelo, a XOCO alum, helms the kitchen, providing delightfully comforting dishes with just the right amount of personality. His dishes are flavorful and heartening—if I could sit and eat his food for hours I would. This is definitely a spot where you can hunker down and order a huge plate of tacos without breaking the bank—each is only $2.25. I’d pick at least two of the carnitas tacos, but there’s no doubt in my mind that all varieties are delightful. The only question our server asked after running through our large order was if we also wanted an order of guacamole (the answer is always yes). The refreshing and creamy dish came out on a beautiful plate garnished with radish slices. Actually, everything here is garnished with radishes as a tribute to the restaurant’s name—“rabanitos” is Spanish for radishes. The rest of the menu doesn’t disappoint, whether you’re having the ceviche verde with avocado tomatillo lime salsa, dotted with bits of jicama and cucumber and pieces of tender calamari and shrimp, or the caldo de res, a delicious soup

Restaurant review by Amy Cavanaugh While we were driving to dinner at Boka last weekend, my dinner date confessed: “All I want to eat for dinner is chicken.”  “You’re in luck,” I said. “Lee Wolen is a god of chicken.” When the Boka Group overhauled its ten-year old flagship restaurant earlier this winter, it made a few key changes. It revamped the space so it’s unrecognizable from its previous, staid incarnation—now, there’s a huge moss- and plant-covered wall (designed by former Time Out dining editor Heather Shouse’s Bottle and Branch horticulture company) with paintings of elegantly dressed-up animals; a bar area that feels like a boisterous brasserie, with dark leather, brick walls and dim lighting; and portraits of Bill Murray and Dave Grohl as generals. Bartender Ben Schiller had already departed for the Berkshire Room, and he was replaced with Tim Stanczykiewicz (GT Fish & Oyster, Balena), who handles the list of crowd-pleasing cocktails that don’t overpower the food, like a bee’s knees. And it brought in chicken god Lee Wolen, formerly chef de cuisine at the Lobby, to take over for GT Fish & Oyster’s Giueseppe Tentori. At the Lobby, Wolen’s star dish was a roasted chicken for two, a dish brought to Chicago from New York’s NoMad (the sister restaurant to Eleven Madison Park, where Wolen was a sous chef). It’s a different dish at Boka, but it’s still a knockout—lemon and thyme brioche is stuffed under the skin, then the breasts are roasted and the legs confited, shr

It’s been a big year for Chicago’s dining ego. First Conde Nast Traveler named us America’s top dining destination; then Bon Appetit dubbed us Restaurant City of the Year. How then, despite this unabashed boosterism of our city’s food cred, am I still suffering from residual Second City Syndrome? I turned inexcusably bratty upon learning that celeb chef Michael Mina would open his first Chicago restaurant in the Gold Coast (actually two—the second being all-day companion café, Petit Margeaux). “See, New York?” I bragged to no one. “We got Michael Mina first.” While I work through these childish feelings, I’m happy to report that Mina’s Midwestern debut brings as much substance as style to the third floor of the palatial Waldorf Astoria. Sure, Margeaux Brasserie may not live in the realm of bootstrapping envelope-pushers and ethnic owner-operated spots that have made us singularly, perfectly Chicagoan in the eyes of the national press, but its celebratory menu and world-class service guarantee you a damn special—albeit pricey—experience. Through the Margeaux-dedicated entrance and up the Margeaux-specific elevator, the marble tile threshold inlaid with the restaurant’s name in gold was a fittingly showy welcome into this sultry boite, which is broken into three dining areas. While I waited for my date (a persnickety fellow writer) I ventured over to the side dining area, where four-top tables with blonde-leather winged chairs are scattered across an expansive oak-plank floo

Now under the talented Cosmo Goss, Paul Kahan's Publican is still as relevant as it was when it opened in 2008. It boasts a fantastic beer list, packed with Belgian and local brews; a menu that equally celebrates meat, seafood and veggies; and the best brunch in town, served Saturdays and Sundays. The chicken is legendary, the oysters pristine, and the desserts, from Anna Posey, are inventive—we'd happily eat every meal here, if we could. 

We’re all guilty of preconceptions. When I read that mfk.’s Sari Zernich Worsham and Scott Worsham were opening a spot inspired by the Basque region with Joe Campagna, I pictured a sunny boite slinging garlicky prawns and cascading bright, fizzy wines from porrones into delighted open mouths. Delayed debuts and pre-opening chef shuffles notwithstanding, the entire Chicago foodsphere was awaiting this opening with rapt attention. Thanks to joyfully irreverent design and a broad mix of dreamy, Franco-Spanish–tinged eats from chef Johnny Anderes (avec, Honey’s) to match botanically inclined cocktails, Bar Biscay upended many of my expectations. And I can’t wait to return. My husband and I arrived before our two dates early on a Friday to find the bar already teeming with weekend revelers. That half of our foursome (my BFF and I) had spent time in the Spain portion of Bar Biscay’s purview only ratcheted up our anticipation. As its name suggests, the restaurant focuses its gastronomic sights on the roughly 1,100 square miles of Spanish and French coastline edging the Bay of Biscay. For a spot that stakes such a clear geographic claim, Bar Biscay doesn’t necessarily scream “Spanish” or “French” in its design. In fact, I can’t think of any place quite like this South Beach-lite brasserie from the future. The three-part space is bright and airy up front, with blonde-wood booths and tables, pastel-toned wire chairs and natural light seeping in from the wall of windows facing Chica

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.

Oyster Bah, the new seafood spot from Lettuce Entertain You, is a bit of a misnomer. Besides being ridiculously silly (shouldn’t it be “Oystah Bah,” if you’re truly trying to embrace a Boston accent?), the name doesn’t fully get across how wide-ranging the menu is. Oysters from both the East and West coasts share menu space with New Orleans barbecue shrimp, fish tacos and tuna poke. Classic New England dishes are here, but this restaurant is more of a paean to American seafood, in all styles, rather than a New England seafood shack. And that’s a fine thing, given how expertly chef Peter Balodimas prepares dishes. Starting with raw or chilled seafood is necessary, and cleanly shucked oysters, teeming with liquor, pop with a drop of tangy stout granita, while plump chilled shrimp come with or without a sprinkle of Old Bay seasoning. On the cooked side, a pair of hearty New England stuffies pack chopped clams and chorizo into quahog shells—it’s a classic dish I love but never see around Chicago. Entrees are fairly simple, like steamed crab legs with lemon and butter for dunking, though the most buzzed-about dish, the crispy one-sided snapper, is a scene-stealer. Spicy Thai chili glaze adds heat to the flaky fish, which is served on the bone. It’s not surprising that Oyster Bah is so strong so soon after opening—it’s the little sister to Shaw’s Crab House, which has long been my favorite Chicago seafood restaurant. Though between the casual space and thoughtful drink offerings

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,

Restaurant review by Amy Cavanaugh With almost no exceptions, you want to order the dish a restaurant is named for. At Momotaro, that’s the momotaro tartare, which melds dehydrated tomato, a spicy hit of Dijon and onion puree into a slightly sweet, savory spread. It’s served with puffy rice crisps, which are totally unnecessary, since my dinner date was content to just scoop up the tartare on its own—and for that matter, so was I. It’s a wholly unexpected dish, and it sets the tone for a dinner at Momotaro, the latest restaurant from the Boka group (Boka, GT Fish & Oyster and others), a restaurant group known for opening exceptional restaurants. Here, chef Mark Hellyar and sushi chef Jeff Ramsey have teamed up for a take on Japanese cuisine that’s elegant, and in most cases, delicious. If you haven’t made a reservation (and even if you have), you may wind up waiting for a table along with boisterous groups of 20- and 30-somethings. There’s a small bar area in the huge, wood-paneled dining room, but a better bet is the downstairs izakaya, which glows with red light and has a four-sided bar and seating designed for groups. I liked the space so much that on a recent Friday, we went to the izakaya to wait for our table and returned to end the evening with a nightcap of Japanese whiskey. There’s a 15-deep Japanese whiskey list, which includes easy-to-find types, like the Yamazaki 12 and Hibiki 12, along with Coffey Grain, a relative newcomer to the U.S., which is round and swee

Before going to the Angry Crab, some advice: Wear clothes you don’t mind getting messy and bring lots of booze. The new BYOB Cajun-style seafood restaurant gets packed at dinnertime, so track down the server doubling as a host and get your name on the list. You’ll probably need to wait for 30 minutes to an hour, but once you’ve cracked open a beer, it’s not so bad. Especially because the wait is worth it. The menu is simple, with seafood like clams, crabs, lobsters and shrimp sold by the pound and tossed with your choice of spice—lemon pepper, garlic butter, Cajun or all three mixed together. While the lemon pepper didn’t offer much flavor, the luxurious garlic butter and spunky Cajun spice really complemented the seafood. Then choose a heat level. The second level offered slight spice, but the third made my lips burn, and that’s what I’d get again. Don’t miss the two-pound Dungeness crabs, which are packed with sweet meat. They’re a mess to eat, and you need to really work at them with crackers. The tender crawfish and plump shrimp were easier to unshell, and we dipped everything in excess garlic butter at the bottom of the plastic bag, which is how the food arrives to the table. There’s not much beyond seafood, though Cajun fries sated our hunger before we ordered, and steamed rice helped quell the spice. Some post–Angry Crab advice: Take a shower, as my hair smelled like garlic the next day. Gross, yes, but it just reminded me how much I can’t wait to return. Vitals A

I arrived at Blackbird two weeks ago at 9:45pm on a snowy Thursday. I walked in, and the hostess kindly asked for my coat. I hesitated. It was a cold night. I had walked a mile in bad weather to get there. I was still thawing. But I was also familiar with the legend about Blackbird’s owner, Donnie Madia, and how coats on the backs of chairs made him furious. Having met Donnie a few times, I could see how this would be the case. I handed the coat over. But I kept my bag. I took a seat at the bar, by myself, and I had every intention of eating my dinner unoccupied—no phone, no book. That was the way I wanted it. It was also the way I think Donnie would have wanted it. Still, should a cocktail instill in me the boldness to take out my novel, I wanted to be prepared. The place was almost empty—just a few tables still occupied in the back, near the kitchen. I had the bar all to myself. So when I saw the bartender, my server, ruffling through the day’s newspapers, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had leaned against the wall and started reading. Instead, she fished a New Yorker out of the pile and handed it to me with a raised eyebrow. Yes? she asked with her eyes. Yes, I nodded, and took it from her hand. It was the type of service gesture I expect from a specific kind of great restaurant, but not necessarily from Blackbird. My last meal here—lunch, several months ago—had been presided over with excruciating snobbishness. And since then, the Blackbird group of restaurant

This time last year, the Peninsula Hotel was deep in its search for a new chef for Avenues, a process that, in the Chicago restaurant scene, is a little like the hunt for the Dalai Lama. Avenues doesn’t just hire chefs; it launches them. The Peninsula was looking for its next Graham Elliot. The search focused on a chef named Lee Wolen. At the time, Wolen was a sous chef at Eleven Madison Park in New York, but he had put in time here at Moto and Butter, and, in between, at Spain’s famed El Bulli. For a chef who wanted to come back to Chicago, there is probably no greater pull than Avenues. So when he was offered the job, he accepted. The plan was to rehab Avenues from top to bottom—not just the food but also the room. But then, the plan changed. The Peninsula, responding to pleas for more event space, decided to turn Avenues into a wedding hall. That left Wolen with the Lobby—the Peninsula’s least-revered space, the one tossed off as a place for guests to eat pancakes. I’m guessing this was a little soul-crushing for the chef. But I’ll also posit the Lobby might have been an unexpected gift. Wolen doesn’t come from the Graham Elliot or Curtis Duffy school of food—he is less infatuated with visual tricks and powders—and had he taken over Avenues, the inevitable comparisons would have muddled the conversation about Wolen’s food. And in the Lobby—which of course is both the literal lobby of the Peninsula Hotel but also a beautiful space unlike any other hotel lobby in the city

I’ve only been to France once, when I spent a few days in Paris in 2015. All it took was a single apéritif at a café in the historic Marais district for me to fall in love with the French approach to everyday dining—the inviting storefronts, the tin-print ceilings smudged with decades of cigarette smoke and the honest cooking served on no-frills plates. This intoxicatingly egalitarian vibe is immortalized in framed old photographs near the entrance of Café Cancale and homaged through its nautical-lite decor and deliciously simple cooking. Perched at the elegant zinc bar awaiting my date, I envisioned Cancale similarly aging into what it’s supposed to be, even as it sits on the fast-corporatizing intersection of Milwaukee, North and Damen Avenues. This Wicker Park eatery lived several lives before assuming its inviting current form. Most recently it was One Off Hospitality’s Publican Anker, a moody pub that served a lengthy beer list and a fantastic burger from chef de cuisine AJ Walker. Anker called it quits earlier this year, but Walker stayed on and seems right at home cooking pricey, unfettered French fare starring expertly cooked seafood.  A jewel-like quenelle of trout tartare with buttery brioche toast arrived first. Its succulent, coral flesh—lightly redolent of horseradish and cucumber—was a blissful study in subtlety, washed down with Mirth in the Afternoon, an understated sparkling wine cocktail mixed with absinthe, anise-flavored liqueur, lemon and fruity Pineau

Either people really like this new barbecue joint, or the pitmaster is simply not making enough food. Having finally scored some eats after two 8pm visits were met with, “Sorry, we’re out of ribs and chicken,” I decided both theories are correct. People really like it because the food is damn good and the owners have yet to figure out just how many Chicagoans are starving for great barbecue. On the nights Smoque was cleaned out, I was told to call ahead to reserve slabs and birds, the two most popular items. After doing so, I was rewarded with near-perfect spareribs—juicy, pull-apart tender, with subtle smokiness that didn’t overwhelm the tangy spice rub clinging to the sticky, crunchy exterior. As a testament to their deliciousness, I dabbed a bone with the decent house-made sauce only once. The baby back ribs, true to their nature, were lean, so they came out a bit dry, but the pillow-soft chicken more than made up for it, with slick seasoned skin giving way to meat that’s partially pink from smoke and fully flavorful. Like everything I ate, pulled pork was only lightly seasoned, letting the charred bits and juicy strips of shoulder speak for themselves. Beef brisket wasn’t juicy enough; a cut with more marbling might help. Canned pork-and-beans get gussied up with caramelly onions, bits of brisket and brown sugar, while creamy mac and cheese gets a perfectly simple crust of bread crumbs. Don’t bother saving room for the so-so cobbler; order another slab of spareribs inst

I’m sure there’s a cliché analogy to be made comparing Bad Hunter’s return to Restaurant Row to a phoenix rising from the ashes of a grease fire. And it wouldn’t be inaccurate: The veggie-focused spot from Heisler Hospitality recently reopened after a fire broke out in its kitchen in late 2018, leaving the restaurant in a state of limbo for seven long months. Still, the phoenix feels a bit understated compared to what’s coming out of the newly revamped kitchen at Bad Hunter. “The format of the menu hasn’t changed, but everything on it has,” our server advised as soon as we settled in. Though there’s still plenty for vegetarians to love, executive chef Dan Snowden is showing carnivores some attention with meat-dominated large plates, like the perfectly charred Snake River Ivory trout, which was served whole and accompanied by snappy bits of asparagus and dill crema, and the adobo-roasted half chicken presented over farro and accented with caramelized onion labneh. But true to its name, Bad Hunter still shines a massive spotlight on vegetarian- and vegan-friendly fare, and Snowden has turned the volume all the way up on the creative possibilities. A generous helping of burrata was accompanied by slices of potato and strawberry, chili crisps, bits of garlic and dill—a flavor combination so insanely confounding that it works. A delightfully refreshing heirloom tomato and watermelon salad sat atop a purée of black shallot feta and was showered with corn husk ash, again pairing s

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

I didn’t grow up eating the delectable, Filipino chopped pork skillet known as sisig. But the version at Cebu—with pig-face nubs, duck livers and jalapeños slicked in oyster sauce and topped with a poached egg—elicited childhood memories of the ham hashes my family would fry up the day after a roast. Cebuano-style barbecue chicken wasn’t in my regular dinner rotation in the Chicago suburbs, either. But on hot summer nights, Dad would nestle chicken thighs into an aluminum pan with a whole bottle of Sweet Baby Ray’s sauce and grill them till tender and sticky—flavors that flooded back as I tore into Cebu’s caramelized, bone-in chicken inasal painted with sugary sauce. Cebu is one of a small handful of restaurants around the country specializing in the food of its namesake Filipino island province, known for sugar-white beaches and lechon (crisp-skinned roasted pork). This easy-going Wicker Park café’s generous, meaty comfort dishes have a transportive quality that takes you somewhere warmer but also familiar. This skinny North Avenue storefront lives in the bygone locations of Euro-emulating Americano 2211 and brunch fave Birchwood Kitchen. As my date and I walked in, our eyes were drawn to chef de cuisine/partner Malvin Tan methodically assembling Halo-Halo, the layered shaved ice dessert, at the marble counter behind a glass display case. Tan opened the restaurant with his two siblings, pastry chef/partner Cybill Tan and partner Marlon Tan. If you couldn’t yet tell, this

The restaurant is called Boeufhaus and its tagline is “eat carnivorously,” which might mislead you into thinking that this is merely a palace of beef, where vegetarians and pescatarians will be left out. You’d be wrong, since the French and German-inflected steakhouse, led by chef Brian Ahern, gives as much thought to its non-meat dishes. The menu is blessedly focused, and you begin with a mix of snacks and starters. A firework of fresh crudités are beautifully presented in a glass dish and served on ice alongside a creamy Green Goddess dressing. Thin slices of salmon are drizzled with ginger oil, then decorated with pickled mushrooms, chilies and crispy skin. A velvety polenta comes topped with nubs of escargot, a dish I’ll dream about come cold temperatures. A foray into meat led us to the fleischschnacka, pork sausage pinwheels wrapped up in pasta.    The starters are so ridiculously good that it’s a little let down when the meal starts to falter. There are steaks, of course, like the 55-day aged ribeye, pricey for the area at $60 (though not for the city), which is well-salted with a nice funk. But it, and the seared halibut, were served lukewarm, while the bread crumbs atop the cauliflower gratin were burned. Desserts change frequently, which is good, since the tiny apple tart felt like an afterthought. Still, there’s a ton to like here, including the delightful server, who knowledgeably guided us through the wine list. Boeufhaus isn’t perfect, but I’m already thinking

Restaurant review by Amy Cavanaugh Prior to last week, I had never eaten bear. Or snail roe, which I didn’t even know was something people ate. Or foie gras molded into tiny owls. Welcome to dinner at Elizabeth, Iliana Regan’s two-year-old Lincoln Square restaurant, which is equal parts fascinating and adorable. It’s easy to be charmed by soup served in owl mugs and decor like tree branches or a white deer head that greets you at the door. But at $354.78 for dinner for two (with service and tax, but before drinks), merely to be charmed by dinner is not enough. My dinner (always) needs to be delicious and, if I’m paying that much, it needs to be something I can’t get elsewhere. Dinner at Elizabeth is both. Elizabeth opened in September 2012 with communal tables and three tasting menus, which ranged in price and size. In other words, your enjoyment of dinner depended heavily on your tablemates, which you had zero control over, unless you bought the whole table. Now, two years later, the communal tables have been replaced with two or four-seat tables, there’s a single tasting menu each night, and there are beer pairings in addition to wine and nonalcoholic pairings, plus a cocktail list. And while you can order tickets online, a la Next and Alinea, as I did, you can also just call up the restaurant and reserve a table. In other words, it’s become a more diner-friendly experience. According to Elizabeth’s website, the restaurant offers “new gatherer” cuisine, which is a way o

Hummus, falafel, shakshuka, labneh—hell—even pita. You will have no doubt already experienced many of the dishes on Galit’s broad-spectrum Middle Eastern menu. But this Lincoln Park newcomer from James Beard award-winning chef Zachary Engel (Shaya, Zahav) is where you go to revise the standard for how they should taste. My date and I posted up at the long slab of a bar at first, where bar manager Olivia Duncan presides over the mostly low-octane cocktail lineup. In the bittersweet Shrub Don’t Shrug, puckering rhubarb is reduced with green cardamom, sugar and vanilla, then cut with champagne vinegar and aperol for an appetite-stirring sipper. My date, who has a food allergy, was immediately won over as Duncan listed the safe options without so much as a pause; her Orange You Glad cocktail was savory and low-proof, with saffron-infused vermouth and tonic syrup. Then Duncan wordlessly closed out our bill just in time for the host to walk over and guide us to our seats—the quiet, seamless sort of hospitality that cushions you without you knowing it. Sadly that was the sole service highlight; we received one duplicate order that resulted in an awkwardly long exchange, while two other dishes didn’t show up at all. (Our server brought them later, making up for it with free dessert.) Our glasses sat empty for long stretches. At first, I chalked this up to our location—tucked in a perimeter booth in the private dining area lit by the dim, yellowish cast of a Marriott conference room

Food writers often squirm at the descriptors we lean on to talk about restaurants and bars (I’m looking at you, contemporary American). But “fusion,” or the idea of combining elements from different cuisines into a single dish, might be the worst of all. The word first cropped up in the 1980s, when chef Norman Van Aken claims to have coined it in the name of “Floribbean”—squirm—cooking. In my dozen years of food writing, I can say that chefs on the whole can’t stand the term, mainly because it represents a glib catchall for the years-long process of tinkering with flavors and techniques to achieve flawless balance. “I hate the word fusion,” said Pacific Standard Time executive chef/partner Erling Wu-Bower as he knelt beside me, sweating and coated in flour, on my first of two visits. “This food is American.” Unfortunately, diners require more context from restaurant slogans, however inadequate or trite. For instance, I might have rolled my eyes the first time I read PST’s tagline pledging Californian warmth and authenticity. But visiting cemented how maddenly short this descriptor falls of conveying the enterprising dishes that mingle pristine West Coast bounty with Mediterranean influences and Wu-Bower’s sensory memories of cooking with his mother, a Chinese immigrant and food writer. Then again, maybe not. “People have always cooked that way out west, no boundaries between cuisines,” Wu-Bower told me. Perhaps we should call it assimilation cooking. With tables booked

Just when it seemed that the fried chicken bubble was dangerously close to bursting, here is Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken, a storied Memphis import that serves tender chicken cocooned in a light, thin exterior that shatters when you cut into it. It’s spicy, with heat that gently sneaks up on you, though not remotely close to the incendiary Nashville-hot style at the Roost and not so hot that it doesn’t benefit from a squirt of Crystal hot sauce out of a plastic packet. I usually prefer dark meat, but Gus’s breasts are surprisingly juicy and flavorful.  The chicken, which is fried in peanut oil, is available in single pieces, combinations of up to 20 pieces or a half bird. It comes with white bread, very sweet baked beans and crisp cole slaw. Adding on the cornmeal-crusted fried green tomatoes is a good call, though the too-soft mac and cheese is not. The dessert menu is comprised of pies and a root beer float, and the chess pie is sweet without being cloying.  Gus’s has outposts across the South, though the Chicago location is the first phase of an ambitious expansion that includes openings in Detroit, Kansas City and Los Angeles. I can’t speak to the fried chicken scenes in those cities, but in Chicago, even though the past two years have brought us exceptional fried birds at The Roost, Honey Butter Fried Chicken, Analogue and other spots, the dining landscape still has room for a place like Gus’s.  Vitals Atmosphere:  With checkered tablecloths, neon signs and lots