Two months after a rather successful meal at Oriole—with a 100% hit-rate and some 69% of dishes reaching that “would love to have again” caliber—I return to a restaurant (considered by many to be Chicago’s best) that is very much still in a process of becoming.
Indeed, with All Well now serving as an outlet for more casual, accessible fare, chef-owner Noah Sandoval has continued evolving his flagship in collaboration with chef de cuisine Colin McHugh and executive sous chef Evelyn Aloupas.
As I have stated before, it’s a delicate process: one that demands respect for the signature recipes (e.g., the foie gras, the capellini, sablefish with sweet corn, many winning renditions of wagyu, the impossibly decadent triple-cream soufflé) that have earned the concept its stars and, more importantly, its reputation as the city’s greatest guarantor of pleasure.
However, the team’s early efforts have been immediately engaging, overwhelmingly successful, and highly dynamic. Yes, while recent menus have not quite put forth as many “best of the year” recipes as Oriole’s halcyon days, they have demonstrated ample creative energy without ever veering toward combinations of ingredients that feel too weird.
Pursuing this process does not only make the restaurant more enjoyable for repeat guests (who, accepting that some of those emblematic creations are gone forever, must begin to appreciate a broader house style). Rather, it forms a pathway through which new classics may hopefully be developed and take the old ones’ places—a fitting project for a place that has recently celebrated its tenth year.
Sandoval, McHugh, and Aloupas’s work takes on special salience given the departure of executive pastry chef Kyra Farkas a couple months ago. The latter’s work immediately boosted the quality of the dessert program and ranked, I think, among the finest in town.
Nonetheless, with Aloupas taking responsibility for the pastry side of the menu, there is now an opportunity for a different approach: one, perhaps, that is uniquely rooted in the character of the savory fare and (whether consciously complementing or contrasting those dishes) expressive of especially unified vision. Of course, it’s the taste that ultimately counts.
Otherwise, with that all said, there’s nothing left to note before jumping right in.
Let us begin.
Up the stairs, through the elevator, and into the lounge, I find my mouth watering in anticipation of the indulgence that is just waiting to meet it.
Yes, it is here at the bar or at one of the surrounding couches that Oriole, post-renovation, has presented some of its most memorable work: luxurious bites of seafood—and sometimes wagyu—that establish a baseline of pleasure from which the rest of the evening never deviates. In fact, it can sometimes be hard for the menu’s fully composed plates to measure up to the brilliance of these smaller, self-contained servings.
Nonetheless, I only say that to provide some indication of just how seriously the kitchen endeavors to immediately blow the audience away, substituting amuse-bouches that merely tickle and tease for those that truly affirm diners have come to the right place.
Tonight, with a pour of a sparkling peach, melon, and tonka bean cocktail in hand, I am told the chefs have chosen to pursue something a little different: not a showcase of tuna or scallop or uni but a series of “bouquets” celebrating local farmers and referencing the ingredients guests will encounter elsewhere throughout the meal.
The first of these, titled “Lolla Rosa,” comprises leaves of the titular, red-tipped lettuce that have been interwoven with shiso, mint, and Thai basil. Set atop ice, the bundle doesn’t really strike me as what anyone is paying upwards of $300 (and north of $400 starting in December) for.
And yet, an accompanying nước chấm (i.e., a Vietnamese dipping sauce) brings the combination to life: countering the bitter crunch of the Lolla Rosa and its cooling counterparts with vivid notes of sweetness, tang, subtle heat, and ample backing umami. The sum effect is far more balanced and satisfying than a humble bite like this has any business being. Somehow, it even ranks among the evening’s highlights.
The arrival of the “Little Gem Lettuce,” wrapped with sorrel, oxalis, and nasturtium, confirms that Oriole’s opening sequence really is going to center entirely on these combinations of humble greenery.
However, it’s the provided dip—a turbot brandade—that again proves decisive: countering the uplifting citrus notes of the herbs with a rich, creamy fish emulsion whose savory undertones (enhanced by a handful of chives) actually draw out the sweetness of the starring lettuce. For my taste, this bite might form the weakest member of the trio, but there’s no question it remains refined and enjoyable.
A bundle made from “Mustard Greens” (and joined by endive and radish) completes this portion of the menu, and the final sauce—an A5 wagyu aioli laced with Kampot pepper oil and wagyu “bacon bits”—promises a corresponding surge in decadence.
On entry, the chosen greens marry a hearty crunch with the kind of sharpness and bitterness for which they are known. The introduction of the aioli helps to soften the effect, yet, rather than shifting the flavor profile toward a meatier, saltier finish, the wagyu’s mouthcoating richness makes room for a range of warmer, fruitier tones (drawn from the Kampot) to take hold. Indeed, rather than ending on a note of indulgence, this last bouquet strikes me as surprisingly cleansing.
Looking back, this is not the kind of sequence that will easily attract acclaim when it is posted on social media. Further, by celebrating humble lettuces and herbs, the bites clearly break from a longer tradition (at Oriole) of always serving the most recognizable luxury totems.
That said, I really admire the thematic grounding that these bouquets provide, and their accompanying saucework—blending textural finesse with confident seasoning—certainly aligns with the broader, flavor-forward style for which the concept is known. Ultimately, I’m quite excited to see how the chefs push this new approach even further.
Moving to the kitchen counter, I have a pretty firm sense that the “Hudson Valley Foie Gras” (the last and maybe best of the restaurant’s reliable signatures) has not gone anywhere. After all, given how the preceding items have waned in their outright indulgence, wouldn’t the menu’s changes present an opportunity for this most legendary preparation of duck liver to strike with even greater force?
Here, blueberry substitutes for June’s green strawberry in what remains an evergreen construction: brioche cooked in yeasted butter then topped with foie gras parfait, anise hyssop, pink peppercorn, crème fraîche Dippin’ Dots, and gold dust. Texturally, the transition from crumbly to creamy is faithfully executed tonight, and I also appreciate how the fruit’s elevated acidity works to emphasize the liver’s concentrated savory character rather than masking it entirely with sweetness. A new pairing, imbued with the flavor of Marsala, completes the effect: making for a distinctly rich, caramelized rendition of this winning recipe that really shines opposite all that lettuce.
Upon reaching the table, I am met by a new opening dish: one that extends the assortment of small bites that began in the lounge and, structurally, delays the moment that the menu really kicks into its next gear.
“Cantaloupe,” as the preparation is titled, combines a compressed piece of the fruit with a gel made from the same and toppings of coriander, basil bud, habanada, and an XO sauce made from Edwards Virginia Smokehouse ham. After seeing Feld fashion its own melons into various (rather similar) bites utilizing fresh herbs to play on cocktails, my expectations run high. Thankfully, Oriole’s composition—juicy, a touch musky, and only barely sweet but smoothly incorporating a fresh floral quality and pronounced pork depth—is expertly conceived. In fact, while I might like the juxtaposition of cantaloupe and ham to be a bit more explosive, I also cannot deny that the skewer’s balance (especially through the long finish) is impeccable.
When I last encountered the “Golden Kaluga Caviar,” it took the form of what was essentially a bluefin tuna dish (and a great one at that). However, on this occasion, the coveted roe forms less of a frivolous topping—the kind that really could have been excised from the recipe with minimal impact—and more of a decisive element.
Yes, the caviar is incorporated into a black currant leaf-smoked, lemon- and chive-laced beurre monté that is generously spooned over a portion of Norwegian king crab and spinach. I’m tempted to say that the crustacean is really the star of the plate, yet its supremely buttery texture acts as a perfect canvas for the notes of earthiness, nuttiness, allium-kissed sweetness, and deep, savory satisfaction that are unveiled by the sauce. Even better, I can actually discern each orb of the Kaluga as it flows across my tongue. “Seamless” is the word that ultimately comes to mind here. This creation not only ranks among the finest of the night but, in an entirely new manner, conjures just the kind of decadence Oriole has long been known for. Bravo!
After enjoying a handful of new preparations this evening, I am met by the “Hokkaido Scallop,” which provides me with the chance to reevaluate a recipe that debuted back in June. I enjoyed it then—only erring in the fact that I didn’t really used the accompanying spoon to really compose my bites. Otherwise, the course’s constituents remain the same: comprising cured and brined slivers of the starring bivalve that come dressed with a Virginia ham broth, pieces of green asparagus, some spruce tips, and a few horseradish flowers.
Texturally, the scallop itself—being so plump and soft and mouthcoating—is beautifully rendered. The porky, salty depth of the accompanying broth also ensures that each sizable bite of seafood is charged with enough underlying flavor to really satisfy. Nonetheless, the sharper and greener notes found in the other ingredients shift the bivalve’s balance toward a cleansing quality and degree of refreshment that diverges from the preceding caviar. Certainly, there’s no rule that the menu needs to continually increase in richness, yet I am left wishing for just a little more umami to carry through on the finish and build on what I tasted before. Overall, this dish more or less reaches the same level of quality I observed last time.
The “Carabineros Prawn” also represents a repeat from June—albeit with a little more of a twist. The crustacean is still cured in citrus, placed atop a chawanmushi base, and layered with a broth made from its head. Finger lime, tangerine leaf, saffron, and black truffle still form the supporting notes.
However, enoki mushrooms have now been replaced with the cauliflower variety, whose meaty mouthfeel and pronounced savory flavor enhance my enjoyment of the composition. Indeed, given how much this course centers on creamy, soupy textures and an uplift of citric tang, the new fungus does a better job of anchoring the expression in something more substantial and earthy (if not always entirely recognizable as “prawn”). This, too, ranks right alongside the previous version of the recipe, but, more broadly, I still consider it to be one of the restaurant’s more successful examples of this particular custard and mushroom form.
With the arrival of the “Turbot,” we return to the newest of the chefs’ work: the kind (in this cooked fish category) that has long formed one of Oriole’s greatest specialties. Frankly, I felt that the skate wing I sampled in June really fell short of the deep enjoyment I have come to expect here. However, this combination of turbot roulade, genmai (i.e., brown rice), corn velouté, chive oil, and crispy skin seems to consciously reference the sablefish preparations of yore. It even comes with a serving of Japanese milk bread—another one of the kitchen’s dearly departed offerings.
On the palate, the fish strikes me with its substantial (yet entirely smooth) mouthfeel, which accords with its placement just before the meal’s headlining proteins. While the perfect crunch of the turbot’s skin and the occasional pop of a corn kernel add to the fun, a roulade of this density absolutely demands ample flavoring. Thankfully, in the velouté, I find it: it being a moderate sweetness (drawing out the fish’s own latent character) marked by allium and almost anisey depth. Rather than coming across as confected, this saucework is backed by more than enough savory power (no doubt helped by the genmai) to leave one feeling sated.
When introduced, the wonderfully fluffy milk bread—with its koji-corn butter—does a great job of extending and enhancing the notes of the velouté. I will note that, in the past, the portion size was about double (meaning diners could save some of these baked buns for the next dish), but the team is happy to replenish your supply upon request.
Overall, the turbot makes for a hugely successful addition to the restaurant’s canon of cooked fish courses. While I think it still falls a little short of Oriole’s best sablefish presentations, it could easily reach that level with a little more tweaking.
“A5 Miyazaki Wagyu,” despite its totemic (largely hackneyed) status in fine dining, has always formed another specialty of the house here. The key, I think, to Sandoval’s vision is that he’s never been afraid to flavor the meat in a distinct, decadent manner rather than leaving it to more or less stand on its own (an approach that inevitably reveals Chicago’s disadvantage in sourcing the luxury product).
For this new composition, a ribeye cut of the wagyu comes seasoned with shio koji and sansho pepper then dressed in a veal jus. Off to the side, a charred eggplant emulsion sits covered by a few slices of pattypan squash, whose fleeting crispness does well to accentuate the juicy, melty steak. That said, it’s the smoky, deeply savory notes of the nightshade—in combination with the ample salt, contrasting sharpness, and backing beefiness of the other condiments—that ensures this attractive texture is matched by a convincingly intense, satisfying finish. Indeed, after a couple iterations of wagyu that veered too much toward rhubarb and endive, this recipe represents a clear return to form for who might be the city’s best champion of the ingredient.
The final savory course of the evening is titled “Lamb Loin.” However, it actually comprises four distinct parts.
There’s the titular meat itself—dressed with black garlic, a caramelized onion mustard, some mustard seed, pickled gooseberries, spigarello, and nasturtium—which displays a robust (though tender) mouthfeel with sharp, sweet, and savory backing. Nonetheless, I do find a strong grassy note really dominates the flavor profile, meaning that, in terms of satisfaction, this lamb actually pales a little to the wagyu that came before.
An accompanying “Lamb Tea” is meant to sipped on as one navigates the main plate. By emphasizing the loin’s depth of umami, it helps to bring things back into balance. Still, there’s an uplifting quality to the brew that, while well-matched to the corresponding dish, doesn’t quite eliminate its flaw.
Served atop juniper, the “Lamb Pressé” is made from meat that has been confited for two days and pressed for one more before being grilled. Glazed with a sauce made from Jimmy Nardello peppers, the resulting skewer provides the kind of concentrated, carnal expression I sought from the loin. It’s crisp then juicy and only fleetingly sweet but captures all the pleasure I desire from a headlining protein. In fact, the pressé ranks as one of the very best bites of the night.
Finally, the “Lamb Butterscotch Canelé” expands on the role this pastry has come to play alongside the menu’s savory fare. Texturally, its juxtaposition of a crisp exterior and custardy interior is beautifully executed. I also really enjoy how the note of caramelized sweetness (new to the recipe) plays against the darker profile of the crumb and the grilled meat. That said, one of the canelés does topple over on its way to the table, causing the butterscotch (which sits in the depression at the pastry’s top) to spill out. At this level, it really should’ve been brought back to the kitchen and replaced, for my dining companion did not enjoy their example nearly as much.
Overall, if I am to judge this sequence as a whole, I would label it a modest success. However, both the pressé and canelé are quite strong, and it’s really only the starring loin that needs a little bit of rebalancing in order for the wider course to really shine.
Turning toward dessert, I am met by the “Honeydew Sherbet” (which, replacing Farkas’s longstanding “Rosemary Ice,” provides my first taste of the chefs’ new vision for this section of the menu).
Layered with parmesan panna cotta, mint granita, meringue, and fig leaf oil, the sherbet marries crisp and creamy textures to reveal a seamlessly musky-sweet, nutty, and salty flavor profile with just enough of a cooling finish to work as a transition. Ultimately, I find the dish to be clever and quite pleasing (even if it falls just a little short of the recipe it replaced).
Tonight, a “Chocolate Financier”—made from 64% cacao then layered with a white chocolate mousse, passionfruit curd, kombu caramel, and toasted buckwheat ice cream—serves to anchor dessert.
Texturally, the contrast of the crisp, flaky topper with the denser cake and gradient of creamy, sticky stuff below is skillfully composed. Dark chocolate, understandably, takes the lead when it comes to flavor: melding easily with the earthy note of the ice cream and even some of the umami at hand. However, the character of the passionfruit is quite pronounced, and I find that its tartness actively saps my enjoyment of the decadence rather than subtly enhancing it. On the finish, the chocolate notes do come back, so this may be a matter of personal taste. Still, I don’t quite find this dish to be convincing as a closer.
Finally, we have a trio of petit fours:
The “Satsuma and Chamomile Madeleine” is enjoyably crumbly and buttery with a long, floral finish whose character coheres nicely with the notes of sweet citrus.
The “Blackberry and Hojicha Pâte de Fruit,” in turn, is darkly jammy and a touch bitter despite its sugary coating.
Lastly, the “Caramelina and Jasmine Bon Bon” matches the success of the first bite: incorporating its floral quality into a persistently sweet, appropriately caramelized package that is easy to like.
With that, the meal reaches its conclusion: some 19 dishes spread across 12 courses and served in a matter of only two hours.
It’s the kind of pacing—fueled by pours of cocktails and wine during one’s tour throughout the space—that colors the experience as more of a thrill ride than a careful, hushed consideration of gastronomy.
And I’m not saying that the food isn’t deserving of such study. Rather, Sandoval’s stated aim is for guests to leave the table with some amount of energy to burn, and it’s hard not to feel a little thrill when you step outside Oriole, find that the sun has not set, and start to dream up which of the city’s infinite possibilities (from this position of general satiation and semi-drunkenness) you’d now like to explore.
In ranking the evening’s dishes:
I would place the “Golden Kaluga Caviar,” “A5 Miyazaki Wagyu,” and “Lamb Pressé” in the highest category: superlative recipes that stand among the best things I will be served in any restaurant this year.
The “Lolla Rosa,” “Mustard Greens,” “Hudson Valley Foie Gras,” “Turbot,” “Lamb Butterscotch Canelé,” “Honeydew Sherbet,” “Satsuma and Chamomile Madeleine,” and “Caramelina and Jasmine Bon Bon” all land in the next stratum: great items that achieved a truly memorable degree of pleasure. I would love to encounter any of these again.
Finally, there’s the “Little Gem Lettuce,” “Cantaloupe,” “Hokkaido Scallop,” “Carabineros Prawn,” “Lamb Loin,” “Lamb Tea,” “Chocolate Financier,” and “Blackberry and Hojicha Pâte de Fruit”— very good—even great—preparations I would always be happy to sample again (but that just failed to elicit an extra degree of emotion).
Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of 100%—far surpassing the 76% I reported in March and matching the same overwhelming degree of success I found in both January and June.
Further, while only 16% of offerings landed in that “best of the year” category (a slight improvement from two months ago), a full 58% reached that “would love to have again” caliber (compared to 41% in March, 47% in January, and 69% in June).
During a period that is still marked by transition (i.e., Farkas’s departure) and continued growth (of the collaboration between Sandoval, McHugh, and Aloupas), this makes for a commendable score.
Indeed, with the exception of Oriole’s signature foie gras bite, every single dish that ranked in the two highest categories was new to the menu (or, in the case of the canelé, meaningfully altered). I must give special praise to the turbot (with its milk bread!) and wagyu for reimagining some of the restaurant’s classic courses while preserving the same degree of pleasure. In turn, the various opening bouquets and items like the lamb pressé point toward a future in which the kitchen can increasingly build intricate sequences that never fall short on flavor.
On the lower end of the spectrum, preparations like the Little Gem, cantaloupe, scallop, and prawn (the latter two being more or less repeats from last time) only lacked that extra burst of intensity and satisfaction to really shine. Only the lamb loin (marred by herbaceousness) and chocolate financier (blunted by tartness) fell a little short of expectations—though not enough to spoil my general enjoyment of the recipes.
It goes without saying that it would be quite easy for the team to build upon this novel menu, make a few tweaks, and earn their highest score of the year on the back of a significant creative effort and evolution.
If I were to be exceedingly critical, I would argue that it’s a little unfair to rank individual petit fours (however impressive) when the menu actually strikes me as needing one more plated dessert. Yes, while I know that the soufflé is never going to return, the movement from sherbet to nutty ice cream to a few measly bites and then out the door doesn’t quite accord with Oriole’s broader identity.
I don’t have the solution, yet I’ve long felt that the unbridled decadence found on the savory side (via the foie gras, the fish, the pasta, and the wagyu) needs to be matched by at least one sweet expression that swings for the fences in the same way.
Otherwise, when the wine (a 2020 Soldera offered at a mere 24% markup) and warmth of hospitality remain so alluring, it’s hard to nitpick.
Oriole, viewed from the wider perspective afforded by this year’s repeat visits, has embraced a more challenging path, yet it feels like the rewards of the process are now finally starting to flow.