Rodan

One of the first places I visited when I moved to Chicago was Rodan, a Wicker Park hangout of the impossibly hip. If American Apparel opened a bar, this would be it. Glancing around, I recall thinking that my jeans weren't nearly skinny enough, and my host suggested facetiously that a cinching station be provided at the door for the fashion-challenged like myself. We then proceeded to down a few rounds of lychee martinis, which were of the insidiously intoxicating ilk of beverage that tastes like juice, acts like ethanol. The next morning I remembered the drinks, but couldn't remember where we'd had them.

Fast-forward six months--I dropped in for a quick beer, thinking I was a first-time visitor. Only after a minute or two of taking in my surroundings did I realize I'd been there before. There was a young couple dressed in all black at the bar, downing shots of whiskey and chasing them with flutes of sparkling wine. They bought the aloof bartender a shot of vodka, which he swallowed stoically. I glanced at the menu, but after realizing that I was the only one in the entire room whose hair was not dyed black and cut in some class of asymmetrical fringe, I paid my tab and exited.

Fast-forward again. I agree to meet a friend for dinner. I felt I owed Rodan at least this, having previously consumed only liquids on the premises. The menu of Latin American and Southeast Asian cuisine did, after all, look appealing, and despite the hip vibe and location, it's reasonably priced. We started with a round of lychee martinis which were as tasty as I remembered, though not strong enough to take the edge of my disappointment with the food.

A coconut and ginger ceviche was intriguing, though it lacked salt and was presented in a comically proportioned dish so small and shallow it only barely contained the chunks of fish in their accompanying sauce. The grilled shrimp with mango and corn salsa were tender, but again lacked salt. The salsa consisted solely of mango with a few shreds of green papaya thrown in for contrast. Again, comically, we were able to locate only a single kernel of corn in the whole melange. Sesame-orange tofu crepes, described as containing sauteed greens, were similarly misleading. The crepes were thick and chewy, more like rice flour pancakes which might have been okay had their contents been substantial enough to hold their own. But the slightly spicy tofu was flavored almost imperceptibly with orange, and the promised greens were a few measly pieces of something too overcooked to be recognizable.

My advice? Stick with the martinis, wear tight pants, and pretend you're just too cool to care about the rest.

Rodan
1530 N. Milwaukee
773.276.7036
www.rodan.ws

In Fine Spirits

Ah, the good old, bad old days of Al Capone's Chicago, when the bootleg could blind you and drown your sorrows all at once. Here in Chicago, booze has come a long way since then, and adding creative ingredients to bathtub gin to mask its unappealing flavor is no longer a necessity. Rather, mixology has become an art, less about hiding flavors and more about creating new ones, accentuating the nuances of fine liquor and spirits.

Speaking of fine spirits, a new gin joint by that name has recently opened in Andersonville. In Fine Spirits, one part retail, one part cocktail lounge, is a pleasing blend of the old and the new. Just in time for the cocktail fest that is summer, this place has brushed the dust of an old building and some old drink recipes, and made everything old new again.

What used to be the local animal hospital on Clark Street is a now a relaxing location to sip on a drink and enjoy a (pricey) nosh. The building got an overhaul that exposed the original tile flooring and tin ceilings, and added light wood and fresh paint in earthy, Mediterranean tones. The staff is friendly, and confident enough in their mixing abilities that they'll offer to make you a different drink should what you ordered not be to your liking. A recent visit to the bar for a Vesper and a Caipirinha left myself and a friend buzzed and impressed. The Vesper, a drink James Bond invented in Casino Royale, was a surprisingly smooth blend of Chicago Distillers Gin and Vodka evened out with a hit of Lillet. My friend, who married a Brazilian and has spent enough time in his native land to become intimately acquainted with the national cocktail, pronounced the Caipirinha to be authentic, if slightly more refined (ie. fewer chunks of lime) than the homemade version.

Head next door for the retail half, and get some recommendations on a new summer wine or beer to sample.

In Fine Spirits
5418 N. Clark
773.506.9463
http://www.infinespirits.com/

Alinea

If you plan on going to Alinea for the food, save yourself a few bucks (more than a few) and head to any number of Chicago's worthwhile restaurants. It isn't that the food isn't worth the cash--it is. But Alinea is more than a place to fill your stomach; it accomplishes chef-owner Grant Achatz goal of providing diners with experiences that link food and emotion, senses and memory. Alinea is pillows filled with warm, nutmeg-scented air, bacon wrapped in butterscotch and suspended from a Calder-like contraption, tender beef and intoxicating black truffle. Eating at Alinea is like eating in a foreign country; looking back on the meal years later, (yes, you will remember), you won't simply recall the flavors, the presentation, the cost--you will recall the feeling of being someplace different, an entirely different environment that colors the way even the most familiar flavors are perceived. Now, how on earth do they do that?

Well, it wasn't luck, I'll tell you that much more free. Speaking of free, Alinea is not. Not even close. The cost per head for the 24 course chef's tour tops out at around two hundred, before booze. Which is why it's best to think of it more like a vacation than a meal out. You won't be disappointed. As a friend of mine put it, you may go in expecting the kind of haute cuisine, frou frou food we all love to hate, but the reality of Alinea is unexpected, original, intoxicating, delicious.

Alinea
1723 N. Halsted
312.867.0110
http://www.alinea-restaurant.com/

Hopleaf

Before moving to Chicago I lived in a part of Massachusetts renowned by beer enthusiasts for two establishments, The Moan and Dove, and The Dirty Truth. The man behind their plan is one Daniel Lanigan, a fellow whose personality has linked him, for me and many others, inexorably with one of my favorite brews, Arrogant Bastard. But that is neither here nor there.

The Moan and Groan, as it is affectionately referred to by the locals, doesn't serve food. Yes there is the barrel of salted peanuts still in their shells to keep the munchies at bay, but the point is you go for the beer and you stay for the beer. The Dirty Truth, which arrived on the scene later and with whatever the hipster-cool equivalent of great fanfare may be, boasts a full menu featuring Belgian favorites like mussels and frites, as well as salads and, um, hummus. Hey, it's the Happy Valley. A sticker on every bumper and a hippie round every tree... My experiences with the food at The Dirty were always uneven. But the 40 taps had me coming back, and I wasn't alone.

Where am I going with this, you ask. Good question.

Here in Chicago there are also two places you go to for an ass-kicking selection of beer: The Map Room, and Hopleaf. So, liking good beer as I do, and curious to see Chicago's crop of arrogant beer bastards, it was off to Hopleaf of a Saturday night. Needless to say, the place was packed. We waited an hour and a half for a table, (I should say, my punctual friends waited, allowing me to swan in "fashionably" late ). A cold Hennepin Ale (Ommegang) made the wait (what was left of it) go that much quicker. The staff was slammed, and by the expressions on their faces, not in a good way. This should go without saying, but, if you tell your waiter you're ready to order a drink, and then you hem and haw over the lengthy list of taps and bottles, don't doubt it: he will turn around and leave. Especially if it's a Saturday night, and especially at a place like Hopleaf where sifting through the options could take a considerable chunk of time.

Ah, but sifting is half the fun! Where else can you find something like a milk stout on tap? Or Allagash White, that gamey, unfiltered goodness from my home state. Hopleaf also has a decent selection of wine. But let's face it, the place is called Hopleaf not Grapeleaf, folks.

We got a table in the back room, a dim, brick-walled den of a place with a fire crackling in the hearth and laughter all around. We should have been drinking from flagons and there should have been many more drinking songs. Alas. The Hennepin down I went for a Maudite, from Unibroue. Dark, a little sweet and citrus-sour. Delicious. We ordered a pot of mussels for the table, accompanied by frites as they should be, and aioli. Let's just take a minute here. The mussels were, well, perfect. Not overcooked, still plump and flavorful, (and oddly large). The broth of beer and onions was savory and encouraged much dipping of bread, and the frites were thin and super crisp. The aforementioned aioli had just the right amount of garlic.

Sadly, it all went south from there. The rabbit with mushrooms and spaetzle was tender, but the sauce was so heavy and excessive that the spaetzle was lost in it completely, and the mushrooms fairly swam. This might have been okay had what they were swimming in not tasted primarily of demi glace, which is to say, the base for a sauce that never got any farther out of the gate.

The duck reuben suffered a similar fate--the duck was lost amidst a chaotic and sloppy amalgamation of cranberry cream cheese, sauerkraut, and emmenthaler, the lot of which was sandwiched between pieces of burnt marble rye. Sigh.

It was a bumpin' Saturday, it needs be said. Nonetheless, stick with the mussels and frites and do as you would do at a good beer joint in any part of the country: go to Hopleaf for the booze. You won't regret it.

Hopleaf
5148 N. Clark
773.334.9851
www.hopleaf.com

Blackbird

About this time of year in Chicago, everyone's a little depressed. Not only have we endured a solid three months of winter, but our only consolation is that we "only" have another four, possibly three (?), to go. The predominant color is gray. The predominant temperature is fuckin' freezing. And the predominant mood is, meh...

Not surprising, then, that one's diet should begin to suffer from the same malaise. Even those of us who traditionally take comfort in food when everything else in life seems to be going to shit, can find ourselves bored by what what's on our plates. I, for example, have been cooking the same one-dish meal for dinner every night since at least Christmas. I know. Believe me, I know.

Thank god, then, for Blackbird. Or, rather, thank Mike Sheerin and Paul Kahan, the restaurant's Chef de Cuisine and Executive Chef respectively. While we're at it, let's thank Tim Dahl, too, shall we? The pastry chef's work is too often viewed as secondary to the savory, it seems. Shame, that, since it's his handy work that makes the final gustatory impression before a diner exits. The impression in this case was of bacon ice cream, a smooth concoction so shockingly redolent of smoky meat that days later I can still conjure up the taste.

Where ambiance is concerned, don't look to Blackbird for cozy. The minimalist decor is about as stark as it gets, utilizing a strict black and white palate that rightly makes the food the focal point. White tablecloths, black napkins, heavy silver, and broad white plates serve as the the backdrop for dishes composed with a jeweler's precision; a single sprout of green or glistening cluster of caviar placed just-so.

Consider this: seared maine diver scallops with black truffles, salsify, banana puree and candied oats. Anyone who puts banana and truffle in the same sentence, let alone dish, has my attention. The scallops, kissed with a perfectly caramelized sear, were still tender and soft inside. A silky puree of banana lent a subtle sweetness to each melting bite, punctuated by the occasional crunch of a candied oat. The entire dish was haunted by a few shavings of black truffle. (Turns out there are a few crazy American farmers for whom soybeans aren't good enough anymore. Yep. Get used to hearing, "I raise truffles.")

"Scotch" quail and egg with fresh bacon, pomelo, marcona almonds, parsnip puree and american sturgeon caviar. The egg, a soft yolk, was hidden within a "white" of juicy quail meat. A thick slab of pancetta-like bacon was topped with a salad of pomelo and marcona almonds--bright, crisp, crunchy. Mellow, sweet parsnip was a welcome counterpoint, but the delicate cavier was overshadowed by bacon's salt and smoke.

Round two. Sea bass and monk fish. The bass, accompanied by a fennel brandade, brussels sprouts, amaranth and cocoa nibs, proved the favorite. The fish was crisp-skinned yet juicy, the brandade smooth and satisfying. Brussels sprouts took the form of a fluffy chiffonade of green. Amaranth and cocoa nibs lent crunch, and an earthy nuttiness evocative of coffee and toasted nuts. The monk fish was equally moist, set off by a sweet date and parsley root puree and chewy bits of fragrant meyer lemon.

If you go to Blackbird, please, please, please don't skip dessert. Dahl's elegant compositions include a chocolate pave with caraway ice cream, poached pear and candied olives, as well as a mission fig beignet with cara cara oranges, butterscotch, and bacon ice cream. If candy bars are cloying pop radio (for which there is a time and place) then Blackbird's desserts are in concert and unplugged, full of nuances and subtleties, but charged with the electricity of a live performance. Elements like vinegary poached pear (think chutney), bits of crunchy, salty candied olive, and an almost herbal caraway ice cream are a very welcome reminder that there are still innumerable things to taste in the world, and that we posses the senses to recognize and enjoy them. We don't have to survive on rice and peanut butter sandwiches because it's the easy thing to do. We deserve wine that comes from a bottle without a kangaroo on it. The sky will not always be the color of cement. And it will not always be winter in Chicago.

Blackbird
619 W. Randolph
312.715.0708
http://www.blackbirdrestaurant.com/