So how fresh can fresh get? I guess it would have to be on some “only Jesus touched this shit and now I am eating it.” Of course, with farmers markets becoming all the rage these days, spots like Mado in Wicker Park/Bucktown are not falling too far from the tree. The owners call themselves, “green market dorks” and everyday, a chalkboard details farms which they will utilize for the evenings plates.
Even The Hambugler gets down wit dat fresh shit.
Keeping with the minimalist theme, Mado’s dining room is bare as a Alberqurque trailerpark commune. But the Mado team gets er done with scatterings of abstract realism oil paintings prolly created by some hipster named Wes (who also happens to play in a respectable streetfest indie band). The place only sits approximately 60 patrons, so there is a quaint/homey feel created by soft track lighting and exposed brick. Micheal Jackson’s “Don’t Stop (Till You Get Enough)” played softly on the Aiwa mini-stero somewhere behind the bar.
Seats please. We order antipasti and seafood delicatessen:
The smoked steelhead trout featuring beets and sorrel was redonkulous. Flavor profiles and the combination of savory and sweet took this dish intergalactic. The chef got Copernicus on us, bringing various elements of the stellar spectra on IKEA dinner plates.
Going green, we took bunny-nibbles off the snap peas and pea tendrils with lemon and mint. This dish was fresher than Crazy Legs and the Rock Steady Crew. The lemon and mint added sharpness to the uncooked peas. Who wants veggies that sag like Phil Michelson’s man titties? Not me. Simple and clean crunchiness resonated throughout.
Oh, you thought I forget that swine. Cured swine. Nah shunn. Europeans call this gourmet sausage; I call it a well seasoned meat stick. Sodium nitrate, HOLLER.
The main courses were lamb with braised swiss chard and California white sea bass with pea puree arugula and chillies. The lamb was fatty and succulent as a Southside White Sox fan. For da bass, it was all about the chillies; a perfect compliment to the pea puree. After consuming these two dishes, my belly was bewildered by this type of nutritional gluttony. Expedient signals were sent to the rest of my body that it was time break my structure back down to its normal peasant status.
I told my belly to fall back; gots to get that dessert on:
Yessir. Chocolate panna cotta with fresh cherries and almonds. This shit was so rich and gluttonous, I wanted go out and buy a Dollarmation.
Mado did have its faults: there wasn’t an ice bucket for our white wine, the fish was a bit raw, and I ordered the rosemary roasted potatoes not the creamy polenta, but we sure as hell ate the hellouttit when it arrived erroneously.
Don’t forget your brown bag of various liquor, cuz this spot is BYO for the time being.
Mado works on the food philosophy that “the restaurant has an Italian grandmother with distant relatives from Spain, North Africa and southern France.” The dishes won’t blow your top off, but if these green chefs decide to get all Ag wit it and slap some vegans around, this could def become Chi-City’s new fresher than fresh.