Fishbar Is Not A Thai Brothel

Yeah, I know, we never post anymore. We’re bad at it. Less post than a broke bail bondsman. But we haven’t quit eating–we’re still stacking calories like a shitty tetris game–it’s just that updating the site on a regular basis can mean taking what meager free time we have and flushing it down the internet toilet instead of, say, grilling brats or throwing rocks at telephone poles, both activities that, at least in my case, release waves of serotonin vital to getting to point B. Make brain happy first, write second. Now, if someone wants to toss some ducats this way, the latter and former become one and the same and well…

Things been happening while we been gone, though. Most importantly, two fish joints opened practically simultaneously, Fishbar and GT’s Fish and Oyster. Can’t call it a trend yet, but it’s approaching one. And, lord, what a wonderful trend ‘twould be. Places like New Orleans and Cape Cod fart out seafood joints like Dad after Moms leaves the bed on Saturday morning, but here, in what turkeys from the coasts refer to as “flyover country,” finding good fish isn’t per se, easy. Sure it’s out there, but not like gyros or burgers. Not even like charcuterie or pork belly. There’s more gap in Chicago’s seafood scene than Common’s closet. So just based on scarcity alone, you’d think Chicagoans, especially food-loving Chicagoans, would be doing cartwheels down Diversey to get to a joint like Fishbar. But not so, apparently.

Seems Fishbar can’t avoid playing the critics’ foil for other restaurants.

Suntimes’ Pat Bruno: “Was the wait worth it? Not really. Here’s the problem: I have too many parallels to draw upon when it comes to this kind of food.”

Mike Sula in his Reader review of GT Fish and Oyster: “In contrast to the cramped and schlocky Fish Bar…”

Timeout’s David Tamarkin also reviewing GT Fish and Oyster: “And in contrast to Fish Bar, here the nautical details lend the room a sleekness.”

Okay, so Bruno doesn’t like the food cuz he’s had better lobster rolls in Maine. Fine. But I’m pretty sure he’s not turning down blowjobs cuz of an epic one he got back in ’92. Besides, who’s reading Bruno anyway? Parakeets?

Sula and Tamarkin get in much shallower digs at the food, instead shining a light on Fishbar’s kitsch and schlock compared to the sleeker and more-polished GT Fish and Oyster. Admittedly, I’m the first (and probably only) fool in our squad to flip a plate to see who made it or to check the bar lighting as soon as I walk into a new joint, but Fishbar’s decor doesn’t hit me as schlocky at all. But schlock runs a fine line. Cleary Applebee’s has it. Dixie Kitchen, though? Maybe. What about Acre? Is their hitting of every hip restaurant element the new schlock? (Deer antlers? Walls and frame moldings painted the same color? Edison light bulbs? Check, check, and check.) Are Edzo’s and Hot Doug’s schlocky cuz they mimic hot dog joints, even though they deal in grass-fed beef and foie gras? I don’t know, but clearly one man’s schlock warms another man’s cockles. I like Fishbar’s casual bar, the maritime-themed soundtrack, and the fishing pole in corner. It’s comfortable.

Ultimately, we’re rearranging deck chairs. I just want to eat good seafood. And not horseshit deep-fried shrimp with the mouthfeel of a 12-year cicada. I want what Fishbar is serving up: chowder and gumbo, lobster rolls, oysters, crab rolls, smelts, rock shrimp, crab cake sandwiches. These are the kind of food items around which my road trips are planned. If I can get them at the corner of Diversey and Sheffield, well fire up the bike rickshaw, I’m heading to Lincoln Park!

Cups of gumbo and clam chowder cooling like pies on Fishbar's sill.

Not to sell the food short; much of it’s standout. The menu’s basically split evenly into raw and cooked categories, with all the dishes served on small platters or in mason jars and small cardboard boats. Seating’s mostly limited to the bar, but four booths accommodate peeps who need that back support. Gluttons step up to the bar and get rid of that hunger!

Clam chowder was was salty and buttery, a combination as classic as Mos Def and Talib Kweli and as perfect as Christine Hendricks. Of all the items on Fishbar’s menu, clam chowder may the most ubiquitous in Chicago. What sets it apart here is it’s consistency: an easy buttery, brothy-ness that seems only thickened by the addition of cream. No beurre manié, no extra starchy potatoes, no five-hour reduction as the pot sits over too-high eat all night long. Give me them mortar-thick versions, too. I’ll gobble those. But it’s satisfying to sit down to a clam chowder that doesn’t make you feel like you swallowed a gallon of papier-mâché. The clams themselves were big and delicious, not overly rubbery like the bubble gum you get at some joints. Same goes for the belly clams. A few were a bit sandy, but otherwise they were rich and creamy, full of clammy goodness, with a breading closer to light than to heavy. These little fuckers are dank. We ate them with extreme prejudice.

Fried clams deserve so much better than a vagina joke.

Prominently featured at Fishbar is a chalkboard listing daily specials: tartars, ceviches, oysters, and grilled fish du jour. And, no shit, these specials actually seem to rotate. This cannot be underrated. Gluttons basically quit M. Henry cuz their menu’s the same as it was when John Ashcroft was all up in America’s business. A restaurant that sells itself by its fresh, seasonal ingredients needs to actually follow the seasons. M. Henry is to seasonal what Chris Bosh is to “doesn’t look like a turtle.”

Fishbar indeed mixes it up. The tartars (tuna and salmon) have been solid, not overwhelmed with so many other flavors that the fish gets buried like Larry Craig’s sexual urges. The oysters have been underwhelming, but not inedible. The real money melon is the daily specials that don’t fall into the above categories. Smelt–delicious, delicious smelt–for example. And they’re cooked the way I grew up eating them: lightly battered and seasoned, pan-fried, still oily enough to shed that batter like basketball warmups if your not careful. Finding smelt like this is cause for celebration. Break out the Moet. We gettin’ live! Last visit featured Buffalo-style frog legs, soaked in a Buffalo sauce with hints of fresh chiles backing up the bottled hot sauce. Good-ass gams, for sure, even if the Buffalo thing seems slightly out of place.

Frog legs: because sometimes chickens are just to easy.

Salmon tartar glistening like ODB's teeth.

A thimble of other dishes fall short: gumbo was dark and flavorful, but there was only one half moon of andouille in the bowl. That’s less sausage than a Japanese circle jerk. Carpaccio was fine but not necessarily noteworthy. I wished it was plated with small capers instead of the larger ones. Still it was fresh, raw salmon and I didn’t have to hit up a baller-expensive joint to get it. Until neighborhood joints starts serving up fish carpaccio , I’ll take it where I can get it, which, clearly, is what she said.

Meanwhile the deep-fried rock shrimp, offered wet or dry, is gravy. The wet version is ladled with a sriracha-based sauce, the dry version I believe has the sauce mixed into the batter. The following advice is relevant to many of life’s carnal pleasures, but especially critical here: Opt for the wet one. Much more satisfying. And again the batter isn’t too heavy, allowing that sweet, lobstery crustacean meat to actually hit the palate. We swallowed them like popcorn.

Less famous than the B-52's "Rock Lobster," rock shrimp is far less grating and ten times as delicious.

Sandwiches show up here too. There’s the lobster roll, which Bruno knocked. But again, scarcity alone makes me want to keep eating this thing. Off the top of my head I can think of three joints in town where I can consistently get lobster rolls (The Fish Guy and Glenn’s, maybe Gaztro-wagon) so adding a new option, even it was pedestrian, is highly welcomed. Except it’s not pedestrian. It’s in fact very tasty. The bread is sweet-ish, the lobster fresh and tossed with a light celery mayonnaise. Authenticity be damned, cuz as sandwiches go, this one is higher on the totem than most. It’s a lobster roll, for god’s sake. The crabcake sandwich is also a solid version. But then again it’s slathered in Old Bay mayonnaise, so of course it’s badass. Glenn Beck could dip his pinkie finger in a tin of Old Bay and I’d lick it clean. So, yeah.

I head to GT’s sometime in the next week and fully expect to have to waistband a boner when I get up to leave. But even if it’s so fucking good I moved to tears, it won’t stop me from heading to Fishbar. Good seafood-shack food in Chicago? You better call somebody.

Lobster rolls are for closers only.

This horribly-lit picture depicts a crab sandwich that is far more delicious than it appears.

Ya'll get down with octopus? Gluttons keep these bedside for emergency midnight snacks.