Momma said knock you out, so, yeah, sorry about this...
Now that all the magazines and food guides have finally gotten around to finishing their awards (did you guys have something better to do for the first three fucking months of 2012?), I can finally eat where the man tells me to eat. So we pulled up a chair at two of the past year or so’s popular new kids of the eater scene – GT Fish & Oyster and Acadia.
I’ve avoided GT Fish & Oyster for the longest time because, while hype can be good seasoning, we like to keep our taste buds relatively uncompromised by things like the utter Yelp circle jerk (Redundant? Digression: seriously, though, can we pretty please IPO for a massive pile of gold if we promise to shill for businesses, manipulate scores and act as a low-rent dating service for people with eating disorders?) around this restaurant. To be fair, it has enjoyed heaps of praise by more reputable sources so it is with no small degree of anxiety that I tell you I am completely fucking baffled as to why anyone is talking about this place beyond putting bets on how long it will be open. Look, I am down with the flourishing Boka empire as much as the next guy – Chef Tentori’s alma mater, Boka, and Girl and the Goat are nearly pitch-perfect dining experiences and the only thing better than the food is the tender loving care with which they serve it. The service at those two crown jewels is better than almost any place in town at any price. With this in mind, I had high hopes for both the bread and the circuses and those hopes were dashed against the jagged, unyielding, rocks of mediocrity. Mediocrity and soft jazz.
We arrived on a Tuesday night and were seated in a table off the beaten path. This was a plus since the restaurant is louder than an Italian family reunion turned up to 11 and being shown to a seat at one of those communal tables would have spun me on my heels for the exit. The waiter was competent when he was around, but I could barely hear what he was saying. Starting out with a serviceable, but forgettable, cocktail, we settled in for what would ultimately be the high point of the dinner – a giant plate of oysters. We had a couple of each variety and they were excellent.
Time passed. I was starting to get worried. I was also starting to gnaw on my fingers due to the fact it took the kitchen almost thirty minutes between courses. Thirty minutes. This would have been more bearable were I able to actually carry on a conversation with my dining companion without shouting. Since most of our conversations tend toward the sordid sex lives of powerful politicians we hang out with, most of our downtime was instead spent gazing longingly into each other’s eyes, and at our neighbor’s food.
When our food finally arrived, things went from bad to worse. The promise of the Bento Box sounded awesome, conjuring false memories of a childhood in Japan where I enjoyed delicious fish served in painfully beautiful lacquered boxes instead of real memories in which I choked down PB&J after goddamn PB&J from a rusting Empire Strikes Back lunchbox. Sadly, this was essentially a few pieces of marginally sushi-grade fish paired with ingredients, that while novel, competed with the fish instead of complimenting it. Macku does this fish+weird ingredient thing much, much, better. Hell, so does Boka. The Baja Shrimp Bruschetta tasted better, but $11 for one and a half shrimp in a simple preparation is the kind of deal that beckons for the lube. Next, everyone knows I am a shameless slut for cauliflower, so I shook off previous disappointments and hoped the Cauliflower with Mint and Harissa Yogurt would redeem this excruciating slow train wreck of a meal. Well, choo choo, motherfucker – the cauliflower was rendered unrecognizable with funky batter and breading and the yogurt sauce was overworked. I could barely choke down half of this dish and I was famished. The coup de grace, though, were the Fish Tacos. Insult layered with injury layered with loathing and what can only be a healthy disrespect for the nearly unfuckupable beauty of the simple and noble fish taco. Bland, falling apart in a bad way and an absolute shadow of the fish tacos at Old Oak Tap for only 50% more money! My wife and I were so let down, we skipped dessert completely and both had a case of the bends later. I am not implying we suffered from food poisoning. We merely suffered from a shitty meal.
I don’t get it. Rock star management, a proven chef and a golden opportunity to be the best seafood place in a landlocked hell of a city and this is the result? And people are cheering for it? Don’t give me that ‘must have been an off night’ bullshit. The food wasn’t improperly prepared, it was ill-conceived. The oysters were great, but all they had to do was buy and shuck them for god’s sake. I left GT Fish & Overrated shaking my head in disbelief – if this is this truly what passes for one of Chicago’s ‘best new restaurants,’ we are doomed.
Luckily, I was rescued from the dark fires of food depression by Acadia. Like GTFO, it also made some lists. Like GTFO, it is also the brainchild of some local food rockstars. Happily unlike GTFO, it is good. Criminally good.
We arrived early for our reservation and were placed at the 7-seat bar. I had heard good things about this part of the restaurant and our bartender, chief mixologist Michael Simon, made Hoffman’s Rainman look pretty easygoing by comparison (I’m being half unfair. To his credit, he handled my intentionally lame request for his favorite drink without having a seizure). He also made easily one of the best drinks I’ve ever had in my life. The Rum and Kola Smash was an absolute prog rock symphony in a glass, bitter, sweet, herbal and things I didn’t even understand, coming together to make every sip hurtle me a little closer toward drunken nirvana. I was actually a little sad when they told us our table was ready. I could have planted there and merrily blitzed my way through the entire cocktail menu.
Escorted to our seats, we were greeted by the handsomest waiter in Chicago (seriously, dude, how many of the ancient rich women pinched your lunges-hardened ass the night we were there?). We ordered a bottle of prosecco (perfectly recommended for pairing with our entire meal using uncanny skill by sommelier and GM, Jason Prah) and got down to business. We asked for three starters and our waiter recommended the order in which they’d be best enjoyed (he was right), so first up – the “Risotto” and the Peeky Toe Crab. “Risotto” is in quotes because it isn’t risotto. It is super-finely chopped potatoes and apples served in a creamy truffle sauce. It was a great incorporation of molecular gastronomy without rubbing your face in it and it was delicious. The crab was beautifully presented and paired well both flavor-wise and visually with the “Risotto.” These were clearly exhausitively planned and perfectly executed dishes.
Next up was the Duck Egg, served on its own because it is rich like an Instagram founder (seriously, Facebook, anyone, call us). It was just a really soft-boiled duck egg with some supporting ingredients. It was perfectly simple, showcasing its star performer without screwing around. We were so tripped out by the quality of the meal thus far, that we added another first course. I’ve had pork belly done just about every way and didn’t think I could be surprised by it anymore. I offer it has become something of a lazy chef’s fad dish (sure to please the bridge and tunnel crowd) and, if not properly done, it’s just a fatty piece of disappointing pig flesh. Well, I’m an asshole because this was a delightful preparation and we were left licking the plate. My wife tried to bite the lady attempting to clear our dishes.
Lobster Pie. Believe it.
Finally, we stagger onto the main courses. One order of the Wagyu (LIARS) beef and one order of the Lobster Pie. Ho-lee shit, folks. Sometimes, when the first courses are such special playgrounds for the chef, the main dishes get left in the dust. Our jacked up surf and turf increased the ante ever so slightly in every way to ensure we were left dumb, sweating and a bit fatter. Really, really, good.
Here's the beef.
Somehow, we were able to blurt out a garbled request for dessert and it is a damn good thing we did. What showed up was some passionfruit ooze, high class coffee cake, coconut gelato and what I assumed was an 8-ball of high test booger sugar. In retrospect, the stares from our AARP’d out neighbor tables when I snorked half the dessert clued me that it was probably something else, but what a unicorns and sugarplums end cap to a remarkable meal.
Good grief...
One lovely glass of Chartreuse (green, of course) to aid in digestion and I’m wearing a perma-smile as big as my thoroughly distended belly that lasted for nearly a week (the smile, that is. The belly is going to be around for a bit longer, I guess). So, like Moses presented with a burning bush, my faith in Chicago restaurants has been fully restored. Chef Ryan McCaskey’s Acadia is a relatively unsung restaurant that serves up an all-you-can-handle buffet of food and drink orgasms.
Two restaurants, both more expensive than pizza delivery. One of them (the pricier one) presented a phenomenal value for the money and I would go back in a half heartbeat. The other (the more famous one) made me wish I had stayed home and just punched myself in the face for free.
No comments