Family of One Finds a New Dining Mecca Part II

As I checked out of the Peninsula Hotel on Monday, I mentioned to the concierge that my meal at Avenues was less than stellar and I would be warning folks not to try to the restaurant. He insisted that I meet with one of the managers, an idea that was well worth the time. Jisoo Chon, the assistant general manager for all of the Peninsula restaurants, helped to restore my faith in fine dining by taking my comments seriously and helping me to understand what had gone wrong. For example, the menu that I selected was Vegan which I should have been told. I should also have been informed that each course was available for $18, so that one could mix and match from each side of the menu. I shook my head in dismay. As he so nicely put it, “you chose our restaurant for your special Saturday night dinner and we completely ruined it for you”. He insisted that I come back for a do-over and, at some point, I probably will. I did read many rave reviews of Chef Curtis Duffy, so I should probably give it another try.

Now, on to other Chicago delights!

Gene and Georgettt---I heard mostly enthusiastic cries of YES when I said I was going there with the occasional “Why are you going to that dump?” It turned out be fabulous, not only a quintessential Chicago steakhouse experience, but one that also featured delectable Italian dishes that I am still thinking about. I went with a group of four, but am wondering if I could go there alone and devour the fried ravioli, shrimp de jonghe, and garbage salad on my own. The meat sauce for the fried ravioli was robust, but not overwhelming; the scampi-like flavor of the shrimp de jonghe was filled with citrus and just enough garlic; and the garbage salad, comprised of “whatever is left over in the kitchen” was glorious, but made magnificent by the best thousand island dressing that I have ever, ever tasted. Interestingly, my bone-in ribeye was my least favorite of the dishes, but it was still wonderful. The accompanying cottage fries truly tasted like potatoes with just enough crispness to make a perfect accompaniment to the steaks we ordered, along with sautéed mushrooms and creamed spinach. I wish that at this very moment I had the spumoni, clearly separated into four distinct flavors of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, each rich and flavorful. The service was crisp, but wonderful. When I dribbled some of the meat sauce from the fried ravioli on the pristine white tablecloth, the waiter came over with a napkin to place expertly over it and murmured, “I shouldn’t have done that—please accept my apologies”. The atmosphere was just what we wanted—bustling, energetic, but not clamorous.

Province—This is exactly the kind of restaurant that we all want in our neighborhoods where we can get anything from a few light bites to ten hour BBQ’d lamb with potatoes frites and house made ketchup. A wonderful space with lots of light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows, the restaurant is a truly green space, awarded Gold Level LEED certification. The floors and tables are made from sustainably harvested cork. The banquettes are covered with recycled material. But, the food is the most happy combination of interesting, familiar, and flavorful—just like we all long for. I put myself into Chef Randy Zweiban’s hands with only three requests from the menu—the house cured and smoked arctic char ceviche, the roasted and pulled Indiana duck with seedling farms BBQ sauce and smoked slaw, and the buttermilk whipped potatoes. Chef Randy supplemented my choices beautifully with an heirloom tomato salad and an delightfully unexpected version of shrimp and grits featuring farm raised shrimp, Anson Mills grits, and manchego cheese, all coming together with a POW of flavor unlike the more sweet/salty combination that I have in my dear Charleston where shrimp and grits are more ubiquitous than cheeseburgers. The aforementioned duck was superb, but not nearly as stellar as the smoked slaw which I will always remember. I also enjoyed every bite of the buttermilk whipped potatoes—peppery, robust, and creamy—just like a Southern girl likes. After this meal, I was happy to enjoy the housemade goat milk ice cream and sit back to savor the evening. Interestingly, I heard a lovely woman across the restaurant talking about developmental math, a phrase that I think is only used by folks in educational publishing and education in general. I yelled in a most unlady-like way across the room—as there was no one left but us—if she worked in college publishing and, indeed, she was attending the same sales conference as I was, but our paths had never crossed. We discovered that we had worked with the same author—nearly 30 years apart—a nice touch of serendipity for what was a lovely exhale of an evening. Chef Randy was an attentive and spot-on host and I very sadly departed, wishing that I could have my own Province in the heart of my beloved Grove. PS. Chef Randy had actually lived in Miami and worked with Norman Van Aken, another delightful coincidence.

Blackbird—I was greeted with a welcoming glass of champagne as I entered yet another bright and airy spot. My new friend, Donnie, came over to greet me and we chatted about my range of experiences in the various Chicago restaurants I had frequented. A quick glance at the menu—appetizers only—and I was in heaven as several of my very favorite foods were represented: sweetbreads, duck liver pate, softshell crab, and foie gras. I explained my dilemma to Donnie who helped me figure out a menu—

Coffee-scented fluke tartare with lemon cucumber, saffron, and bread sauce
Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, Dijon, pancetta, and fried egg (Donnie explained that this had been on the menu since the start of Blackbird—and it looked fabulous with its potato nest--)
Crispy Maryland soft shell crab with honey custard, edamame, yuba, and soy caramel (Donnie surprised me with this course)
Glazed veal sweetbreads with lime onions, tamarind, bee pollen, and fried chocolate
Roasted Hudson Valley foie gras with charred green garlic, black garlic, green strawberries, and shrimp salt

Every course was delectable with tastes that worked perfectly and, even after a delightful dacquoise, I did not fill overstuffed or ill. Just good. And happy.

It turned out that I was sitting next to a stunning couple around my age who was visiting from NYC. They work in the art world and were interesting and dynamic and we discussed our mutual love of travel and food and NYC and we were laughing and screaming like old friends, so Donnie brought over a complimentary dessert for them. After they departed, I chatted with a young couple from Kansas City and our conversation revolved around Roy Williams (friend or foe?) and, of course, North Carolina barbecue. We also laughed and screamed like old friends.

Being at Blackbird was like sitting in this bubble of wonderful energy. I talked books with the lovely Brittney, NYC restaurants with my server, Chicago observations with Donnie, I met interesting people, I savored so many foods that I love and wonderful wines to accompany them.

All of my dinners in Chicago were memorable—but the ones at Blackbird, Province, NoMi, and Spiaggia reminded me of why I am so passionate about dining and the incredible joy that it gives me. Which I hope I pass on to you! Now, how soon can I go back?

Family of One Discovers a New Dining Mecca

I was looking forward to a few days in Chicago. I used to spend a lot of time there when I traveled the country as an editor, but hadn’t really savored the city in recent years. I made my restaurant plans accordingly, consulting a variety of friends and restaurant reviews. But, I never imagined that I would fall in love with the Windy City dining scene. Especially when one of my first meals was one of the worst dining experiences of my life. I may write further descriptions of these memorable meals, but, for now, wanted to let you know what I’ve been up to and some great Chicago places to try.

Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.

Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?

The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.

You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.

Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.

Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.

To be continued. . . .

With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .