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. . . .
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