MORSEL: CELLAR DOOR PROVISIONS (April 2025)

At the risk of repeating what has recently (and rather convincingly) been said, I must write this piece. In fact, I’ve wanted desperately to do so since September of last year. Yet it is only with the development of the present format—with its flexibility and easy categorization of repeat experiences—that I think I can begin to do Cellar Door Provisions justice. Plus, in the time between my first visit (back in September) and my second (this past April), I’ve actually seen enough to dispel the solitary criticism I might have made if writing about the concept last year (more on that later).

In essence, this is kind of a sheepish piece. It’s not a celebration of a place I know and love or a (re)discovery of a place that’s fairly new and popular and finally debuting the kind of premium tasting menu that falls under my purview. It’s more an admission of guilt: of overlooking a place that by all accounts was perfectly attuned to my tastes but that had opened so long ago, so far away, that it was destined to get lost in the shuffle. It’s an acknowledgment that taking a top-down approach to dining—consistently pitting the best restaurants against each other, leaving no room for new entries to establish themselves unless they unseat a bonafide favorite—can leave one with some lamentable blind spots.

Not that I feel the need to be so hard on myself.

Whenever a gastronome resolves to eat the most challenging, technically adept, and thought-provoking food they can find in their city, and they set about doing so with regularity, a change eventually takes hold. I do not speak only of the hedonic treadmill: those diminishing returns one perceives upon consuming too much of a good thing too frequently. Rather, operating across a longer timeline, one’s preferences actually change. The notes of fermentation, preservation, florality, and earthy depth that once seemed so startling go on to form a new baseline. Extremes of texture (the raw and the dramatically crisped) become more prized than middle-of-the-road tenderness. Bitterness, the quintessential “learned taste,” is transformed from a marker of poison into one of pleasure.

Nostalgia, of course, survives, but old favorites can begin to feel static. One gets the impression that a precious few chefs are cooking in three dimensions—with a certain breadth and depth and vividness of flavor expression—while the vast majority are happy to play in two: favoring the conventional, the trusty, the timeworn. Even restaurants that you once considered to be among “the best” are stripped of any novelty. Their limitations—of ingredient sourcing, of technique, of vision—increasingly catch your attention more than their virtues. One must ask how worthwhile it is to keep paying for the same performance, time and time again, rather than placing more trust in—and paying more visits to—the chefs who are perpetually pushing boundaries.

By this process, the range of establishments one regularly patronizes might narrow. However, one also gains a sharper sense of what they’re looking for. Free of stale standbys (and the clutter of other concepts you visited just because they’re fashionable), you suddenly take a closer look at the faraway bistro with the daily changing menu (marked by unassuming ingredients) and an uncompromising natural wine list. It still looks a little weird and a little risky of a trek—but captivatingly so. It seems like it might form the next step (or at least an accompanying one) in the process of gustatory evolution and revolution that has brought you to this point.

This was how I came to Cellar Door Provisions: a mature diner encountering a mature restaurant (now open for more than a decade) whose charms I had long resisted despite the recommendation of several palates I really respect. It was just another one of those beloved “local spots” (up at the very northern boundary of Logan Square) that fell well beyond my own neighborhood and whose seeming value proposition (accounting for convenience and familiarity) could not quite compete with another visit to—say—Elske. Yet the good thing about a place like Cellar Door is that it continued to grow and change in its own way during all these years, almost in parallel, just waiting to dovetail (as the best version of itself) when I, myself, was ready.

As the story goes, the restaurant launched in February of 2014 with “no splashy press release” or even an indication of “who the chef was.” Rather, Cellar Door Provisions grew organically out of the “Bread Night” pop-up dinners that Tony Bezsylko (a Berkeley native looking to recreate what he sampled at Tartine) and Ethan Pikas (an Evanston native who attended culinary school out west before honing his fine dining chops at Binkley’s in Phoenix) put on. These collaborations inspired the pair to develop a “neighborhood spot.” Pikas, who had staged at Alinea and subsequently turned down a job there, “didn’t want to work in another tasting menu kitchen.”

So, they “signed a lease on a corner space in Logan Square,” secured “two long wooden tables for the dining room,” “brought on two more cooks,” “handwrote the menu on a roll of butcher-block paper,” and got to work. The earliest iteration of Cellar Door centered on “traditional café fare (pastries, quiches, salads, tartines)…in updated versions,” but a certain core philosophy would persist through all versions of the concept. The restaurant was “ingredient driven”—though never resorting to words like “local, sustainable, organic, seasonal, [or] farmers’ market” (because “this type of sourcing is so core to the…project that it all simply goes without saying”). The owners also looked to subvert the “traditional kitchen hierarchy” in favor of “true collaboration”: “weekly meetings to determine the menu, equal standing among all.”

Recipes were slowly mastered over time (Pikas noted that “figuring out how to make croissants” was a “one-and-a-half-year endeavor” and that “scones were a two-year project”), but Cellar Door’s momentum built. Emily Sher joined Bezsylko and Pikas in 2016—”first washing dishes, then working front-of-house, and…[eventually becoming] general manager and a partner.” Dinner service launched “on Friday and Saturday nights in 2017” with a weekly-changing menu. The team slowly tinkered with the design of the 1,000-square-foot space and stayed committed to their culinary ethos: that every recipe “is a work in progress” made with the least amount of ego and greatest amount of respect (for fellow employees, for the ingredients, for waste product) as possible. The resulting food ranged from the beloved (e.g., bread, a quiche, a canelé) to the experimental and “unhinged,” often celebrating “vegetables that aren’t selling” and are transformed into new dishes “day after day.”

In 2018, Bezsylko helped to facilitate two consequential openings on Cellar Door’s block. First, he connected Bradford Taylor—founder of Ordinaire (a natural wine shop, bar, and bistro) in Oakland and a regular at the restaurant—with the owner of the space next door. Taylor went on to launch Diversey Wine there that May, which led Cellar Door to get its liquor license and launch a by-the-glass list curated by its neighbor. Second, Bezsylko spied another available space across the street and put it on Ria Neri’s radar. She co-founded the roastery that had been supplying Cellar Door’s coffee since 2016, and, that September, Four Letter Word launched their café (complete with pastries sourced from Pikas and co.). To be clear, Cellar Door itself had not expanded, but, with a growing reputation, the team was sure to bring their friends and kindred spirits along for the ride.

By 2019, the restaurant had still “never received a formal, starred review from a critic,” yet, that same year, it earned a splashy feature by Julia Kramer (quoted extensively herein) in Bon Appétit. The deputy editor’s piece—terming the concept “the perfect restaurant that is positive it could be better” and one that turns out “some of the best food in the city”—confirmed the degree of cult appeal that Cellar Door Provisions had attained (yet, in turn, had yielded few actual honors). The team’s “indefatigable commitment” to their ethos and penchant for serving “not-crowd-pleasers” meant that the audience for the cuisine was sometimes “rather small.” But Pikas was always driven by the belief that “simple food can be more emotive than highly technical food,” and he, Bezsylko, and Sher were content with not taking a profit—and the restaurant (to that point) not turning a profit—if it meant investing in their labor and holding true to their principles.

In 2019 and 2020, Pikas earned semifinalist nods for the James Beard Foundation’s Best Chef: Great Lakes award. Earning plaudits (individual ones no less) was certainly never the goal, but national recognition helped mark how far the concept had come in half a decade. At the start of 2020, Cellar Door “employed 23 people serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the small Logan Square space.” The pandemic put a sudden halt to all of that, spurring a range of familiar solutions (like fundraising, curbside pickup, retail pastry offerings, delivery, and private dining) that looked to weather the storm of unforeseen closures.

By the end of 2021, both Bezsylko and Sher had left the concept. The former “had kids and moved away” (elsewhere said to be a consequence of “differing visions”) while the latter joined Elske, where she ranks as one of Chicago’s very best wine directors. Pikas announced an “extended winter break” in December, one that would stretch until August of 2022 and yielded a revitalized restaurant: “just a four-person team, a small dinner menu, and a focus on natural wine” in a “more elegant room” with a “minimalist aesthetic.”

Looking back, Pikas admitted that, as the team “gained more confidence and got a little publicity,” they “wanted to do more.” As a consequence, Cellar Door became “this massive beast of a restaurant” that ultimately “overwhelmed” the owners. The streamlining of the concept would limit food offerings “to about nine to 10 dishes,” providing the chef with “more time to refine each item. The menu would still change weekly—even daily—and it would lean into fermentation even more strongly than before. However, Pikas also “softened” his focus on local sourcing: continuing to secure “all vegetables, dairy, and proteins…from Midwestern farms” while also embracing ingredients seafood (flown in by Regalis), lemons, and Italian olive oil. The goal was to create a “more complete,” “well-rounded” restaurant that could accord with a rotating selection of wines reflecting producers who take the same approach to their craft.

The chef conceded that it would “take some time for people to understand the shift that’s occurred at the restaurant.” Nonetheless, he contended that “the food is the best that it’s ever been” and hoped the team could reclaim the James Beard nominations it had received before the pandemic. But, as it happens, Bibendum would chime in first.

Cellar Door Provisions earned a Bib Gourmand (“good quality, good value cooking”) for the first time in the fall of 2023, confirming—indeed—that Pikas was on the right track. Michelin characterized the restaurant as “perfectly content with itself” (in contrast to those concepts that “try very hard to impress and dazzle their customers”), putting out “honest,” “unfussy, [and] no-nonsense cooking where the seasoning is spot-on and the flavors are clear.” For good measure, the Guide reiterated that there were “no tweezers, no fancy wine glasses, [and] no military-grade kitchen brigade” here—just a “refreshed, breezy dining room” filled with “good eats” (like “a plate of tender runner beans with garlic confit” or a “smooth scoop of duck liver mousse paired with just-warmed country bread”). Cellar Door would go on to retain its Bib Gourmand in 2024.

And that year—last year—is when I enter the story. It took until September for me to make that first visit, yet momentum had continued to build. The restaurant starred in the kind of features that (save for the Bon Appétit piece) had largely failed to materialize during its past life. Nearly two years after reopening, the team’s uncompromising (even trailblazing) work was now starting to find a wider audience and foster a deeper understanding.

An article from WTTW really got to the heart of Pikas’s process (as it stands more than a decade later), particularly showcasing how the chef-owner works with new chef de cuisine Alex Cochran. I had gotten to know the latter’s work during his time heading the kitchen at Kumiko. Further experience at Smyth (beforehand) and John’s Food and Wine (after) made for a formidable resumé and, I thought, I good impetus to finally see what Cellar Door was doing now that a new (but also somewhat familiar) voice was being brought into the fold. After all, the writing made clear that Pikas was treating Cochran as a “full collaborator,” “riff[ing] on flavor combinations, drawing on the wide array of misos, ferments, cured vegetables, and fresh ingredients in their tiny kitchen.”

My meal that September was a modest triumph: perhaps not the kind of explosive, umami-forward extravaganza that typically makes me swoon but a distinctive, intellectual experience that engaged me in ways I associate more with Elske, Feld, or Smyth. There were leaps of faith—a bottle list that tested the limits of my love for natural wine, dishes seemingly geared more toward provocation than satisfaction—but also real rewards: unforeseen harmonies yielding the kind of unexpected pleasure that reminds cynical fine diners how little they know.

I left Cellar Door feeling impressed if not totally inspired to rush back there the next week. Yet, in the weeks that followed, I realized that the cuisine had wormed itself into my mind. It wasn’t decadent, but it was magnetizing. I found myself wanting to discover how many more of these experiments worked. I tracked the development of the menu online and lustfully liked the dishes pictured on social media (now confident in, rather than skeptical of, the pleasure they might hold).

As it happens, it took another half a year to find my way back. The bottle list, at that moment, felt right—in the “I need to get over there and drink this before someone else does” manner. My format, too, had evolved in such a way that I could simply dive in. I couldn’t speak to Cellar Door’s myriad identities (as “bakery, brunch spot, dinner pop-up, wine bar, and corner bistro”) over the years like John Kessler, writing for Chicago magazine, could. But the restaurant remained, in his words, “a love-it-or-don’t-get-it kind of place” (this polarization on display nearly any time the concept’s name is mentioned). Why not weigh in—and try to describe and explain the fruits of this ever-ambitious operation—myself? Maybe, with this second visit, I’d even crown a new favorite: confirming the kind of dynamism and perpetual growth I have learned, in this realm of craft, to prize over anything else.

Let us begin.

Tonight, the fight to reach Cellar Door Provisions feels harrowing. Rationally, the combination of an early weekday reservation (no less at a place known for accommodating walk-ins) and persistent lane closures is to blame. But, emotionally, I can’t resist tormenting myself: asking why I signed on to travel so far—and roll the dice—when there are so many “sure things,” cooking every bit as boldly and intellectually, in my own neighborhood. Frustration saps the sense of wonder and curiosity September’s meal left me with.

Yet, at this point, the dinner was so long ago that these feelings seemed destined to fade. Skepticism—the sweet temptation of saying “yes, in fact, I was right to skip going here all these years”—rears its insidious head. And just why does Kyōten seem so close when Cellar Door, separated by only a handful of blocks, seems so far away? To be clear, I haven’t had many great experiences eating up and around Milwaukee Avenue. But I like Easy Does It (quietly home to one of Chicago’s best wine lists) and Lula Cafe and Mi Tocaya. I’m familiar enough with the area, and, somehow, this stretch of Diversey stands apart: not quite Warlord’s fast food-adjacent isolation but close to it.

Cellar Door headlines a quiet block with the help of its friends (the aforementioned wine and coffee shops) and a couple other notable spots: fellow Bib Gourmand holder Superkhana International and NoodleBird, which rose from the ashes of Fat Rice’s ignominy. Still, the uncertainty of finding parking on this main street means one will likely get a sense of how residential the area really feels. Row after row of neat little houses (touting kempt lawns, ample tree coverage, and a constant parade of leashed dogs) buttress the restaurants on all sides. They situate Cellar Door and its accompanying businesses at the center of a cozy community: places to grab a brew, a bite, or a bottle. It’s easy to see why breakfast and lunch came first (and proved so popular).

Yet what Pikas and Cochran and Sara McCall (wine director / front-of-house manager) are doing now is much more risky, much more subversive. Serving globe-trotting fare (with a Mediterranean—or sometimes Japanese—bent) and affordable pours in an approachable space sounds like a winning combination. However, warping such a vision by way of uncompromising hyperseasonality, perpetual experimentation, a preference for purity, a celebration of simplicity, and a love of natural wine makes for an entirely different proposition.

I am not speaking to what surrounding community has the capacity to understand or appreciate. Rather, a concept of this ambition, totally rejecting ostentation and the trappings of “luxury dining,” would be misunderstood in any neighborhood. And might the mismatch—between expectations and reality (and even basic philosophy of what a restaurant should offer its community)—come off even worse in a high-traffic area like West Loop or River North?

The beauty of Cellar Door Provisions being on this block is that it retains some sense of destination. Sure, those who live closest might haphazardly stop in: surprised? yes, confused? maybe, but buoyed by a sense of convenience and value that hopefully (if not immediately) leads to some kind of appreciation for what Pikas and his team are doing. Others guests arrive, from further afield, with some sense of the concept’s reputation. Whether they know that “this place is really good” actually means “this place is really good in a way that is totally singular, totally unlike what you might imagine from dining at this level” remains to be seen.

However, Cellar Door fulfills that sense of destination by not pulling punches or playing down to an audience it perceives as only capable of supporting a certain vision. In fact, what Pikas and his collaborators have built totally transcends the idea of a “neighborhood restaurant” altogether. Cellar Door is not a place that’s contextually good (I think of darlings like Nettare and Oliver’s that, while strong when compared to what’s in the vicinity, left me with no desire to return). It’s a place that captures the spirit of Chicago’s very best restaurants, brings it down to earth, and leaves locals (as well as travelers) feeling like they don’t need to go and spend “tasting menu” money to secure the same thrill.

One might say that the thrill is even greater on account of how comfortable and effortless the whole experience feels. Tucked into the corner of a three-story brick building (the presence of a side street allowing for rays of evening light), the remodeled Cellar Door—the only version I have ever known—feels like the rare Chicago restaurant that could be deposited in Brooklyn or Paris and not skip a beat. It plays so effectively to that “natural wine bar” image—”we’re closer to a bistro that is highly focused on selling natural wine” Pikas says—but such an effect really has more to do with a certain intimacy and a soft touch.

Craft—food, wine, and service—leads the way here, so guests need little more than a handful of hardy wooden tables (free-standing on one side, a long banquette on the other) and an elegant counter (divided down the middle into two banks of four stools) to get down to business. The former area is defined by wraparound windows (framed with solid, black metal), a touch of the exterior brick, the lighter wood tone of the surfaces and seating, a whisper of leather, and the darker wood tone of the flooring. A series of orbs hang down from the ceiling, washing the room in soft, warming lighting once the sun goes down. Tapestries hang on the stark, white wall that towers over the banquette. These pieces, at first glance, make the surface seem bare or unfinished. However, on approach, the detail of the woven gradients (a kaleidoscope of colors joined to form subtle patterns) becomes apparent. A pervading sense of craft, again, becomes apparent, and there seems to be some resonance with the surface minimalism and surprising depth that characterizes Cellar Door’s cuisine.

The design of the counter, by comparison, feels more involved: its base is done in a lighter blue tone with a carved, concentrically rectangular finish. The crowning surface (dark wood like the flooring) is irregularly shaped, with an overhanging edge that is lit from underneath (helping to frame this bar area with a kind of glowing trim). This is also accomplished through track lighting on the ceiling and backlighting along the trio of shelves (devoted to displaying bottles from nights gone by) situated opposite diners. Save for a nook closest to the door, this is a working space: cutting boards, metal appliances, a hood, and hanging cookware. There’s no walk-in refrigerator here (a reality that has always informed the restaurant’s penchant for fermentation), so, between the combination oven, the range, and some smaller fridges, guests here are pretty much treated to a view of the entire culinary operation.

Yet, being seated back toward the windows, I only get a vague sense of the action. The mood here remains calm and light, backed by upbeat music (reggae on this occasion) and pleasant chatter at each table. The crowd tonight is predominantly white, yet the assembled patrons range from their early 20s (a young couple) through their 60s (old friends) with the bulk of customers seemingly in their 30s and 40s. When it comes to wardrobe, collars, sneakers, denim, and the occasional hoodie coexist here. Everyone is put together—but not self-consciously so. Nobody (myself excluded) seems all too concerned about “creating content” either. They all seem to sit back and enjoy each other’s company with a glass of wine in hand.

Undoubtedly, this feeling of ease—of come-as-you-are and be-as-you-are—flows from the very top. Pikas happens to be at the corner of the counter closest to the front door when I enter. His manner of greeting the party, despite being in the throes of service, is striking: a winning smile, a humble “welcome,” a twinkle of charm, but also a sense of gravitas befitting a chef-patron getting his hands dirty. There’s no time in this fleeting interaction for anything but sincerity, which lends the gesture, so slight, a unique power. (Cochran, when I see him running plates later, is cheery as can be. He describes a couple of the evening’s dishes with obvious pride.)

McCall, in her dual role leading the wine program and service, is the real anchor of the front of house. She exudes a sense of calm that effectively grounds and acclimates the energy (however harried in my case) coming in through the door. At the same time, this adeptly disarming demeanor does nothing to preclude a supreme attentiveness and thoughtfulness throughout the meal: all the observation, anticipation, facilitation, and communication that ensures plates, stems, utensils, and bottles arrive before one ever even thinks to request them.

The servers follow this example with a consummate friendliness and sense of ownership over each table. They are always on hand but never hover (though, pleasantly, they may linger a moment to engage guests about their choice of wine). Just the same, those who need guidance with Cellar Door’s menus (where certain ingredients and grape varieties may border on the arcane) will find that their questions are answered with total receptiveness and no trace of snobbery. Indeed, it is the absence of that last vice—the substitution of smug gatekeeping with a resolution to share the geeky and obscure with open arms—that does the most to subvert any sense of the stereotypical “trendy natural wine bar.”

All in all, it is a total pleasure to sit at Cellar Door Provisions and sample the team’s wares. The environment, its occupants, and its custodians make no demands of the diner. Rather, they lull you into a state of tranquility through which the experimental nature of the cuisine (and accompanying libations) can be perceived with an open mind.

To be fair, a glance at the wine list may risk breaking the spell for more conventionally-minded oenophiles. And, based solely on my experience at the restaurant in September, I thought I’d have to critique the selection (just a bit) for plunging too far, too stubbornly into the iconoclastic end of the natural wine spectrum.

However, the list I encountered in April changed my mind. It featured many of the producers I was looking for during my first visit: the kind that balance more traditional flavor styles with the same care for farming practices and rejection of additives that characterize the natural movement (across its myriad definitions). I think it is fair to say that their earlier absence from the list had more to do with low production and an inability to stock the bottles rather than a hardline approach that demands customers drink only the most esoteric examples of the craft. Indeed, the overall strategy here makes a lot of sense.

At the entry level (alongside a few beers, a couple cocktails, and one of the top non-alcoholic wines out there), one finds the by-the-glass offerings:

Sparkling

2022 Orsi “Sui Lieviti” ($14)
NV Podere Magia Lambrusco ($15)

White

2022 Ruth Lewandowski “Mahlon” ($14)
2021 Vins de Quimera “La Forca” ($14)
2022 Domaine Lavie “Le Lavurien” Muscadet Sèvre-et-Maine ($14)

Rosé / Red

2024 Bruno Duchêne “Titet” ($14)
2022 Noëlla Morantin “La Bourdinerie” ($14)
2021 Cantina Giardino “Anfora Rosso” ($13)

Faced with these options, drinkers who are drawn to the usual suspects—Champagne, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Cabernet Sauvignon—might do a double take. Indeed, grapes like Pignoletto, Arneis, Melon de Bourgogne, and Aglianico (with Grenache and Gamay being the most recognizable) are listed, but finding something safe and familiar is hardly the point. Rather, at the decidedly friendly price of $13 or $14 a pour, patrons are invited to discover natural interpretations of the broader styles (unbound by appellation and marketing advantage) they actually gravitate toward.

One finds (going down the list in order) a crisp sparkler, a more darkly fruity fizz (free of excess sweetness), a creamily textured white, a more oxidative white, a mineral-tinged (almost Burgundian) white, an explosively fruity rosé, a fresh/spicy red, and a weightier, more black-fruited red. Adapting one’s own taste (pinned to some region or imperfect heuristic) to these wines is a tricky process. It demands a degree of trust, but I think the team at Cellar Door (as well as the particular styles they have chosen to feature) are up to the task. Should a guest discover something they like (natural wines, at their best, delivering greater character at a cut-rate price), McCall will have effectively collapsed the industry’s traditional hierarchy by inspiring consumers to look beyond the label.

Given that I favor ordering bottles, I haven’t explored these options myself. However, if these glasses are served with some sensitivity toward mouse and the other flaws that can give natural wine a bad name (as I would assume they are here), it is fair to say Cellar Door is doing more than almost any other restaurant to broaden wine appreciation in Chicago.

I say that while fully acknowledging that these styles will not appeal to everyone. Just the same, they will appeal to those left cold by conventional wine, and—most importantly—they are served alongside a cuisine that looks to express the same philosophy (of experimentation, of minimalism, of the triumph of individual expression over what’s sensible or marketable). By highlighting and sustaining this harmony, Pikas, McCall, and the rest of the team are helping to reestablish wine’s essential place alongside food for a whole new generation. Wherever one’s own palate lands, this kind of rising tide can only improve the drinking experience across the entire city.

Turning toward the bottle list, I find much of the same attitude present (perhaps on an even grander scale). Nonetheless, it is balanced by a very savvy range of mainstream grape varieties produced by some of natural wine’s more established names.

Here are some representative selections:

White / Macerated

2022 Le Coste “Bianchetto” ($68 on the list, $36 at national retail)
2022 Domaine Derain Bourgogne Blanc “Landre” ($72 on the list, $38.95 at national retail)
2022 Les Vignes de l’Ange Vin “Cuvée Bistrologie” ($80 on the list, $48 at national retail)
2020 Werlitsch “Ex Vero II” ($84 on the list, $69.99 at national retail)
2018 Alexandre Bain Pouilly-Fumé “L. d’Ange” ($85 on the list, $46.99 at national retail)
2021 Maison En Belles Lies Monthelie Blanc ($95 on the list, $62 at national retail)
2020 L’Octavin Arbois “Pamina” ($95 on the list, $76 at national retail)
2019 Radovan Šuman “Sivi Pinot” ($120 on the list, $44 at national retail)
2022 Dard & Ribo Crozes-Hermitage Blanc ($130 on the list, $60 at national retail)
2021 Serragghia Zibibbo Bianco ($136 on the list, $121 at national retail)

Rosé / Red

2022 Domaine YoYo “Bateau Ivre” ($65 on the list, $33 at national retail)
2021 Slow Dance “Napa” ($66 on the list, $42 at national retail)
2022 Martin Texier Côtes du Rhône “Brézème” ($67 on the list, $39 at national retail)
2018 Vino del Poggio “Rosso” ($68 on the list, $28 global Wine-Searcher average)
2014 Sonoma Mtn Winery “Cuvée #1” ($70 on the list, $32 at national retail)
2021 Jean-Yves Peron “I Vicini” ($75 on the list, $49.99 at national retail)
2019 Anders Frederik Steen “Les Vignes des Enfants” ($80 on the list, $48 at national retail)
2023 Les Vignes de l’Ange Vin “Lumière des Sens” ($82 on the list, $54 at national retail)
2022 Le Coste “Rosato” ($90 on the list, $65.99 at national retail)
2021 Maison En Belles Lie Maranges 1^er Cru “Les Clos Roussouts” ($105 on the list, $66 at national retail)

Here, one finds the Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Chenin Blanc, Pinot Noir, Barbera, Grenache, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Syrah they might be looking for (from appellations within Burgundy, the Loire, and even Napa Valley). One also finds cult names like Gabrio Bini, Alice Bouvot, Jean-Yves Peron, Jean-Pierre Robinot, Anders Frederik Steen, and Ewald Tscheppe plying their wares—producers whom even Europe’s most revered natural wine bars might struggle to keep in stock.

Many of these bottles might still demand that diners take a leap of faith: I’m talking expressions of grape varieties and regions (however familiar) that prize more acid and oxidation and/or funk—while emphasizing less oak, lush fruit, and/or structure—than expected. However, they largely represent a cleaner, more consistent, and well-established side of natural wine that helps split the difference between traditional conceptions of taste and examples of this trendy genre that push things too far. Indeed, I think trying one’s favorite grapes and appellations through the lens of these farming and winemaking techniques may offer a gentler, more successful introduction to this world than jumping down the rabbit hole wholeheartedly and being exposed to bottles that challenge every conventional vinous assumption in a single gulp.

Considering the fact that Cellar Door’s markups land as low as 12% on top of retail price (with a mean of 74% and a median/mode of 67% for this sample), diners really aren’t paying much of a premium for the chance to explore a well-curated vision of natural wine. Indeed, when it comes to selections in the $50-$100 range, I hardly think a better bottle list in Chicago exists. One could devote a similar sum to traditional wines from traditional regions and drink like a pauper at other restaurants or, here, commit to the experience and choose among countless bold, characterful expressions that leave drinkers feeling the pleasure of discovery rather than the pain of compromise.

Truly, while I may slightly prefer Elske’s selection of natural wine to that of Cellar Door, the programs are actually complementary. The former is more like a “big brother”: stocking (among plenty of crossover) producers like Mark Angeli, Renaud Boyer, Bruyère-Houillon, Domaine de Chassorney, Ulysse Collin, Fabio Gea, Maison Maenad, Massa Vecchia, Pierre Overnoy, Clos Rougeard, Jacques Selosse, Maison Stephan, and Maison Valette that can run into the $200, $300, $400, or even $1,000 range. The latter, in turn, holds to about a $150 limit (with the majority of bottles under $100), and, while I sometimes chafe at being unable to really splurge, I feel quite happy drinking the cult names I mentioned at such a fair price.

I’ve never broached the topic of corkage (despite, after my first visit, really thinking I might need it in order to have a good time). It seems to be strongly discouraged—a decision I can respect given the degree of value the list provides. However, when Diversey Wine first opened, bottles bought from the shop could be enjoyed at Cellar Door for a $10 fee. If this is still allowed, it’s not advertised (and I think it would be a nice way to drink more expensive producers like Ganevat at the restaurant). Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel bad about setting a $40 or $50 corkage fee: not for the sake of punishing people who don’t want to drink natural wine but, rather, continuing to incentivize its appreciation (would you rather pay corkage or just try a bottle off of the list for the same price?) and opening the door to those who want to pair their own superlative bottles (also natural of course) with cuisine so well suited to the style. What other venue would be better suited to opening—and sharing—the biodynamic icons of Burgundy and the unicorns of the Jura?

At the end of the day, this is hardly a criticism.

McCall, with the weight of a chef-owner who is equally committed to wine behind her (and the help of those who have come before her), has built one of Chicago’s great programs—one defined by that “natural” label but smart and sensitive enough to transcend it. I’m hardly the first to praise her work, but I think I was also uniquely equipped to dissent if need be. Instead, I can only appreciate it even more deeply for being trailblazing, yes, yet also so deeply committed to educating and convincing customers of its philosophy one glass at a time. This is how the city’s wine culture survives.

And, as I understand it, Cellar Door’s program will also have to survive following McCall’s recent, amicable, emotional departure. With the foundation she has built, I do not fear for the list’s future. Instead, I am excited to see how a new perspective will try to live up to and sustain her work while also putting its own stamp on the restaurant. Just as I feel about Cochran’s position as chef de cuisine, I think there are few wine director roles as exciting and dynamic as the one here.

With the beverage order settled, the meal finally begins. Tonight, I ordered all of the dishes the kitchen had to offer. Rather than recounting them in the order listed on the menu, I will preserve the sequence in which they actually arrived at the table. This not only speaks to the kitchen’s workflow but, more interestingly, how they might structure and synergize their different creations.

To start, we have one of four items—more like snacks or drinking food—that are rendered in smaller font at the very top of the bill of fare. On its face, the “Warm Gordal Olive Escabeche” ($7) hardly seems worth bothering with. The restaurant is more or less just repackaging (and charging a premium for) a product that was already perfect when it left the grove.

However, the resulting portion of these large, green olives is actually impressive. Their flesh, true to the title, arrives warm—almost pleasantly hot—to the touch. And they are lightly dressed in such a way (with a light touch of oil, citrus, and spice) that the richness, meatiness, and fruity-sweet notes of the olive really shine. Ultimately, this humble dish was executed with real care, and I would not hesitate to order it again.

The ”Shaved Jamon Iberico” ($14) follows along the same lines: centering on the coveted ham (from black-footed, acorn-eating pigs) that has formed a familiar presence at some of the fine dining (and now even steakhouse restaurants) around town. It’s an ingredient I still associate with luxury—and with a corresponding high price, often charged by the gram, yielding gossamer slivers of the well-marbled, reddish meat. But Cellar Door, true to its style, brings the jamón down to earth.

Here, the ham takes the form of a few longer, thicker, glistening curls that come interspersed with Marcona almonds that, themselves, are flecked with orange zest and thyme. On the palate, the cured pork (despite being presented in larger pieces) displays the smooth, melting consistency I have come to expect. Coating one’s tongue, it delivers a clean, savory character with beautiful nutty depth (boosted by the almond) and a trace of sweetness (accentuated by the citrus). Importantly, the overall degree of salt is kept in check. While this dish (due to its simplicity and the starring ingredient’s wider popularity) isn’t one to remember, it formed a pleasant part of the meal’s opening sequence of bites. At this low price, I actually would order the plate again, and I appreciate the larger effort to bring a taste of this jamón—perfectly paired—to a wider audience.

A selection of “Pickled Easter Egg Radish, Carrots, Piparas Chilies, and Hakurei Turnips” ($6) might form the most interesting part of this sequence. These “Pickles” are the cheapest item on the menu, yet they speak so clearly to the chefs’ obsession with sourcing and preservation. To be clear, I didn’t think to ask where exactly these vegetables hailed from. However, in this form, the chosen ingredients each show a crisp, clean snap and a fairly pure flavor expression unobscured by too sharp or sour of a brine.

For me, the radish (subtly peppery) and turnip (subtly sweet) are the stars, and both of these also benefit from dangling strands of their roots (yielding an even finer, engaging crunch). I thought I’d enjoy the piparras more for their more pronounced, spiced character. However, the peppers were tinged with a bitterness I’m not sure was intentional or correct. Still, I enjoyed this plate in concert with the richer olives and ham. It was an attractive medley, and one I would like to continually order as its constituents change.

Cellar Door’s “Country Bread” ($10), presently made with Three Sisters Garden cornmeal (prepared as “polenta”) and served with house butter, is a mythical offering: one whose origin dates back before the restaurant was even conceived. Nonetheless, the loaves have remained a product of “constant tweaking and adjusting and willingness to change.” With this form, Pikas believes perfection is possible—just “not every week” or “even once a year.” Instead, the chef-owner counts just “five days” where what he made was “exactly what…[he] wanted it to be.”

When it arrives at the table, the “Country Bread” looks unassuming: four slices lean against each other, suggesting the rigidity of their crust while also proudly displaying the blend of fine and larger bubbles running throughout the crumb. The butter, quenelled and crowned with flaky salt, looks starkly white. It spreads easily against the surface of the bread, yielding a bite that balances a refined, shattering exterior with a fluffy (but tightly-woven) interior adept at soaking up all the fat. The resulting flavor shows undertones corny sweetness and cultured tang. However, it is really the depth of earthy, wheaty tones (bolstered by these accompanying elements) that impresses me.

Whether or not Pikas considered tonight’s loaves to be “perfect,” his work has yielded the quintessence of rustic bread: unassuming, indeed, but hauntingly satisfying in a way that makes one question whether large-scale, corporate bakeries are even engaged in the same craft. I admire the bread service at Bavette’s and Elske—as well as the work of Publican Quality Bread more broadly—but Cellar Door’s example, with its textural refinement and pronounced flavor, is special.

With the turn away from snacks toward proper, plated fare, the meal comes to life. Here, I get my first taste of how Pikas and Cochran fully flesh out their ideas (with an eye, especially, toward the preparation of vegetables).

A dish of “Vinegar Roasted Golden Beets” ($17) arrives first: seven attractive chunks of the taproot strewn across a base of stracciatella with an accompanying red cider reduction, some olive oil, and a few orange petals for good measure. It’s no secret that this earthy vegetable vexes some diners. However, the chefs handle it confidently: using the tang of the vinegar to coax out a pristinely sweet notes that comes packaged in tender, meaty flesh.

Yes, the mouthfeel of these beets is really exceptional, and they benefit further from the creamy coating of cheese. But I’m not sure the stracciatella does enough to augment the vegetables’ flavor (this could just be a personal preference for a little more salt, which might do more to delineate rich, milky tones.) Otherwise, via the cider reduction, the dish remains grounded in the same sweet and tangy tones. Perhaps it’s better to think of the cheese as a buffer rather than a defining element? Either way, the beets are excellently handled, and I still really enjoyed what I tasted.

The preparation that follows centers on “Shaved Lamb Heart” ($21) sourced from Catalpa Grove Farm. Secretly, it also serves as an opportunity to sample one of the restaurant’s other breads: a koji porridge loaf that is sliced, toasted, spread with horseradish cream, then crowned with blistered Jimmy Nardello peppers and curling slices of the headlining meat. The whole package—overhanging with toppings, its base displaying a jet-black crust—is almost imposing, and divvying up the dish demands some finesse.

However, the resulting bite is totally seamless: marrying the crisp (but thick and cushiony) toast with runny sauce, tender lamb, and a proud crunch of pepper on the finish. As these ingredients cohere, the concentration of flavor builds. First, one senses the deeply wheaty, caramelized, and cheesy notes of the bread. The lamb heart, next, tastes powerfully savory, yet it avoids any jarring gamey impression. Instead, the sharpness of the horseradish works against the organ’s streaks of fat, building a perception of sweetness that carries through to the Jimmy Nardellos’ own fruity, smoky finish. All in all, this makes for a bold—but masterfully balanced—recipe. I only wish I had ordered a whole serving for myself.

I think any salad at a restaurant as hyperseasonal and experimental as this one is faced with a tough task: how to be creative (and memorable) while also playing within the boundaries of such an established form? Here, the “Endive Salad” ($17) centers on a chicory that feels familiar enough in a starring role (I automatically think of Elske’s longstanding “Belgian Endive”). A dressing of Mandarin orange vinaigrette and accompanying shavings of Manchego (paired with a drizzle of vin santo) do not sound all that strange either. Nonetheless, the salad strikes a unique—bordering on polarizing—balance.

Texturally, the (admittedly huge) leaves of endive more than fit the bill as a crunchy, refreshing base. Yet the dressing, despite its citrus base, is only subtly fruity and subtly sweet. Even its acidity feels muted. Instead, the orange leads with a unique bitterness that really helps the sharp, nutty character of the Manchego stand out. I think the vin santo was meant to play off these notes from the cheese and imbue the salad with more of the sweetness I am looking for. However, as it stands, both dressings seem a bit too thin to amply coat the endive and ensure that each bite evokes the chefs’ combined, desired effect. Ironically, when I drag my bread through the bottom of the bowl, the result tastes startingly good—so there was clearly something there. But, based on my experience (and perhaps I didn’t coat the ingredients properly), I think this is a dish with intellectual appeal that just didn’t come together tonight.

Thankfully, the “White Asparagus Tempura” ($23) represents an immediate return to form (and boy what a treat). As the title suggests, these prized spears—two plump segments—arrive boasting a crisp, golden-brown shell. The sit atop a dollop of sauce gribiche with a couple of white anchovies and a squeeze of roasted lemon serving as a topping.

On the palate, the tempura batter proves crisp—even a little crunchy—and adheres nicely to the vegetable. The white asparagus, in turn, displays a fleeting firmness that turns meaty and tender with further mastication. Paired with the salt from the anchovy and tangy concentration of the roasted lemon, the dish is almost reminiscent of fish and chips. However, the eggy richness and uplifting anise of the sauce gribiche makes for a pleasing temperature contrast that also helps to reveal the asparagus’s subtler sweet, bitter, and vegetal tones. Overall, this preparation satisfies all the expectations of pleasure the word tempura spurs. However, it does so with an extra degree of depth and imagination that I think is unique to Pikas’s work. What a treat.

Closing out this section of the menu is a plate of “Roasted Tatsu Oysters” ($24). This obscure species is sourced from Washington’s Totten Inlet, delivering a classic “West Coast” combination of melon sweetness and crispness. To properly distinguish the shellfish (so widely served at restaurants across Chicago), it is gently warmed (already an uncommon choice) and paired with a truly singular dressing of chrysanthemum rice wine, white peppercorn, and fermented white asparagus brine. At five pieces per order (or $4.80 per shell), the bivalves are pricey, yet they more or less accord with what you’d pay in one of the city’s prominent steakhouses (for a much less creative rendition no doubt).

On the palate, the oyster feels lukewarm on entry and delivers a fleeting kiss of plump, smooth meat. There, on the finish, flavor builds: not the kind of acid or tang I’ve come to expect but a sense of brine and irony funk that yields to an intriguing vegetal sweetness and bright, cleansing pepper on the finish. Yes, this take on the shellfish is nothing like the bracing examples that domaine. Instead, it’s a decidedly meditative rendition: one that, though it might not deliver fireworks, offers a unique kind of pleasure that follows brilliantly on the back of the “White Asparagus Tempura.”

The next four dishes are separated by a line on the menu that states, “We recommend you order the following at the beginning of your meal.” In short, these are more involved preparations that, though not all costing more than what’s come before, are intended the anchor a proper dinner here.

Tonight, the first to arrive is a “Fazzoletti” ($22): a “[silk] handkerchief” pasta inspired by the Ligurian mandilli de sea. These long, thin sheets are dressed in a white endive burro fuso (melted butter) and paired with tangles of green garlic and ample olive oil. While pasta almost seems to promise a sense of satisfaction, here, at Cellar Door, it acts as a canvas for one of the evening’s most distinctive flavor profiles.

Texturally, the fazzoletti are a clear success. These sheets are remarkably thin, remarkably tender, and the surrounding confluence of garlic and butter and moistened greens only heightens their ephemeral quality. In a manner reminiscent of the “Endive Salad,” the chicories take the lead when it comes to taste. The sauce, for all its butter, is boldly bitter, and I think this degree of intensity is only partially counteracted by freshly sweet green garlic and fruiter notes of the olive oil. A little more salt, it seems, might provide the dish with a savory edge that could help maintain a better balance. But who is to say what the “right” amount of bitterness is when its pleasure is a learned one (and Italians, for what it’s worth, clearly love it)? As it stands, this was another recipe that offered more intellectual appeal than it did sheer enjoyment. But it’s also one I still enjoyed for its textural qualities and the conversation it provoked at the table.

As before, the turnaround from this more polarizing dish is immediate and unquestionable. In fact, the “Roasted Black Sea Bass” ($35) the arrives next ranks as the surprise star of the night. Really—I almost never favor fish cooked in this (or any) manner when compared to the delight they can deliver in raw form. But the chosen combination of celery root purée, olive oil velouté, and salt-cured black olive made for the most cohesive, deeply pleasing preparation of the meal. It might even rank as one of the finest “cooked fish” recipes I have ever sampled.

Visually, the sea bass boasts an impressively crisped layer of skin with ribbons of brown and black running across its scales. On the palate, this yields a fine—immaculately clean—crunch that is matched by firm, gently flaky flesh that tastes sweet and fresh all on its own. Building off this foundation, the creamy celery root and small chunks of olive enhance the fish’s mouthfeel with a sense of moistness and meatiness respectively. They also add herby-sweet and earthy-salty notes to the mix, joining with the velouté (free of butter but still smacking of savory stock) to drive the sea bass’s flavor toward perfect satisfaction. Really, compared to most of Cellar Door’s other recipes tonight, I don’t think the kitchen sought to do anything too strange or subversive here. They just smartly harmonized with the headlining ingredient’s flavor profile and executed the dish unerringly. They demonstrated the kind of restraint and precision that, beyond all the experimentation, makes this restaurant so rewarding.

The ”Burger” ($20), which forms one of the fixtures of the menu, taps into the same spirit. Indeed, as much as Cellar Door likes to push boundaries with its wine and food, the persistence of this humble offering stands as an ironclad assurance (to the neighborhood, to the wary traveler) that the team wants guests to leave full and happy. This is not to say that the kitchen phones the dish in to any degree. Rather, while prizing restraint and approachability, they put out a burger that is pretty singular in the kind of texture and flavor it presents.

Currently, the dish combines a thick, puck-like patty with a crowning dab of aioli and some caramelized onion on a housemade bun. Off to the side sit a few bread-and-butter pickles and a couple hulking leaves of lettuce sourced from Werp Farms. This separation serves to preserve the structural integrity and temperature contrast of each ingredient while also allowing diners to construct a bite in accordance with their individual preference.

Of course, I load my burger up with everything, and I think it would be a mistake not to. The greens are so generously seasoned (with vinegar and flakes of salt and pepper that even make their way on top of the bun) that they form the dish’s most distinct, invigorating flavor element. Yes, in a manner that’s feels softer and fresher than what one would get from mustard, the lettuces crunch against the loosely grained, smooth, and succulent patty and enhance its pristinely beefy character even as the sheer size of the meat threatens to dominate the other components. To be fair, the richness of the aioli and sweetness drawn from the onions and pickles do their part to flesh out the principal savory note.

But the lettuce, structurally, almost acts like an additional layer of the (beautifully fluffy) bun, carrying and imparting its seasoning throughout the full density of the dish. These greens tie the burger together in a way that is antithetical to the kind of limp leaves that plague one’s favorite fast food. And they honor the Cellar Door ethos (where vegetables lead the way) while also helping to highlight an unabashedly carnal take on the beloved sandwich.

Arriving on the heels of such a hulking burger, the “6 oz. New York Strip Steak” ($45) seems like it is destined to come up short. The dish comprises two medium-sized slices of meat that are dressed in a blood orange vinaigrette (I’m getting bad flashbacks of the “Endive Salad”), topped with a few stemmy leaves of winter sorrel, and flecked with a bit of salt. Overall, it’s an offhanded—almost sorry—presentation that makes me wonder if I’ve not accidentally ordered some kind of concession being offered by the kitchen (to a certain kind of diner) in protest.

However, as has become so clear by now, Cellar Door’s most unassuming dishes often hold the greatest power. Here, the steak has been cured in Spanish kombu, yielding a persistent savory quality as one chews through each slice of the relatively thick (considering how it’s been divided), juicy meat. Yes, despite the small portion, this beef lasts nicely in the mouth. It delivers a clear sense of satisfaction, with the tart, citric tones of the vinaigrette and sorrel not serving to obscure the steak but, through their contrast, heightening the expression of umami even further. Beneath a deceiving appearance, this preparation is nicely composed and uniquely pleasurable in its expression.

Though the savory section of the meal has reached its conclusion, a trio of desserts lurk on the reverse side of the menu. For good measure, I choose to sample them all.

First is the “Panna Cotta” ($12), a dish that stands proudly alongside the “Country Bread” and the “Burger” as one of the restaurant’s constants. Flecked with vanilla bean and topped with a drizzle of olive oil, the “cooked cream” is smooth and milky on the palate (only displaying a trace of its gelatin). This mouthfeel is further delineated and enhanced by the oil, whose flavor, on this occasion, feels rather tame. Instead, the dish maintains a fairly neutral, semisweet flavor that is, nonetheless, hard to stay away from.

The ”Chocolate Nemesis Cake” ($14) is a tribute to the famed dessert of same name served at London’s River Café. Here, the recipe’s essence—a rich, fudgy expression of cocoa—is preserved, but the chef’s give it their own spin with the addition of a pepita sabayon. This creamy custard encompasses the cake, punctuating its dense interior with crunchy bits of the pumpkin seed and broadening the otherwise intense expression of dark chocolate with the help of lighter nutty and fruity tones. The result is a dish of unquestionable decadence and deep enjoyment.

Finally, there’s the “Five Farms Irish Cream Liqueur Ice Cream” ($10) made using the farm-to-table product (made in County Cork) of the same name. The end result (paired, as always, with olive oil) is a frozen dessert of shockingly deep sweetness, spiked with just the right amount of salt, displaying good length and balance. Opposite the “Chocolate Nemesis Cake,” this dish really sung—squeaking past it as the favorite dessert of the night.

With every one of Cellar Door’s offerings now in the rearview mirror (along with a few bottles of wine to wash them down), there’s little left to do but exchange farewells and pay the check. Refreshingly, it arrives without any surcharges or service charges or the like—just the sales tax (10.25%) and restaurant tax (0.5%) clearly outlined. Guests are invited to leave an old-fashioned gratuity, and the overall sense of value, and intimacy, and warmth here leaves no question (in my mind) that a generous one has been earned.

Just a little more than two hours after my arrival, I make my way back toward the door. Every seat and stool in the restaurant is now full. The sun has just set—its last gasp of rays bouncing against a dining room that now glows warmly from within. And the pace of service is now frenetic.

I slip out without catching the eye of the chefs. It’s not a crime (no matter how endearing as a parting exchange of gratitude can be), but a promise: of how committed they are to executing this menu—here and now, however fleeting—only to start over tomorrow.

My meal tonight marks just one paragraph, of a page that forms the team’s weekly work, ones that join with others to form chapters of seasonality, sections of yearly growth (with some redactions), amounting to a story that is perpetually being repeated, rewritten, refined, and translated by a shifting collaboration of artisans and Pikas’s own soft, steady hand. This is the essence of Cellar Door Provisions: a restaurant I have only gotten to know in glimpses, at this stage of relative maturity, but that has immediately enchanted me and carved a place for itself among my very favorite places.

Yes, for all the talk of experimentation (and potential polarization) fueling the cuisine here, I thought this meal struck a wonderful balance. But was it luck of the draw?

I think kindred restaurants like Elske, Feld, and Smyth take bigger swings, which sometimes result in bigger misses, because they must live up to “fine dining” expectations while also working within such loosely defined (“contemporary American”) or simply unfamiliar (Danish-inspired) genres. These concepts prize ingredient sourcing in the same way Cellar Door does, yet the resulting dishes pull from a wider range of unfamiliar techniques and present conceptions of texture and flavor balance that many diners may have no reference point for.

In defining his cuisine, Pikas rejects the term “new American” (finding the term “doesn’t hold a lot of value”). Instead, his and Cochran’s preference “is for simple, clean dishes that spotlight the elemental flavors of their ingredients while belying the labor involved in making them, an approach they liken to Japanese cuisine.” Alternatively, the food has been labelled “focused” and “prepared simply yet with depth of flavor, with Spanish or Italian flair and Asian ingredients folded into the mix.”

I don’t think anyone should dare to put the scope of Cellar Door’s work in a box. Just the same, I agree that Italian, Japanese, Spanish, and even French influences characterize the kitchen’s work, and I think this broad (but quite legible to a mainstream audience) foundation naturally serves to round out the team’s edgier, more boundary-pushing ideas. Indeed, I am almost reminded more of a place like Obélix, where seasonality and experimentation across genres is effectively anchored to a familiar, decadent base.

I ranking the evening’s dishes:

I would place the “Country Bread,” “White Asparagus Tempura,” “Roasted Black Sea Bass,” “New York Strip Steak,” and “Five Farms Irish Cream Liqueur Ice Cream” in the highest category: preparations—some simple, others bolding blending textures and flavors—that achieved a truly memorable degree of pleasure. I would love to encounter any of these again.

In the next stratum, I would put the “Warm Gordal Olive Escabeche,” “Vinegar Roasted Golden Beets,” “Shaved Lamb Heart,” “Burger,” “Panna Cotta,” and “Chocolate Nemesis Cake.” Again, a couple of these recipes were as simple as can be—yet unerringly executed. Others were more complex and layered. However, they all delivered ample enjoyment (the kind I would like to order again) while, without any clear flaws, just falling short of that extra emotional dimension.

Finally, I would place the “Pickled Easter Egg Radish, Carrots, Piparas Chilies and Hakurei Turnips,” “Shaved Jamon Iberico,” “Endive Salad,” “Roasted Tatsu Oysters,” and “Fazzoletti” at the bottom of the pile. By all means, I would not characterize any of these dishes as “bad.” Other than the bitterness I sensed from the piparras, I’m not even sure I could say any of the recipes were flawed. Rather, these were all above average—even good—preparations that (apart from pickles and jamón that just weren’t terribly distinctive) provoked thought. In pursuing intellectual appeal, these plates sacrificed a degree of pleasure that would make me want to order them again. At the same time, their flavor combinations have surprisingly stuck in my head, and, considering how well the textures of these dishes were still executed, I would certainly give these ingredients and ideas another try in a slightly different form.

Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of close to 70%: a percentage that might seem low at first glance but, in truth, signifies the number of dishes I would definitely order again. Considering the amount of enjoyment (in terms of both particular components and resulting conversation) that many of the lower-ranked items still inspired, it might be fair to say the restaurant’s success rate was actually closer to 90%. In fact, I think I would leave Cellar Door feeling disappointed—given its reputation—if there were not a couple bites or sips of wine that left me scratching my head.

Pikas has, through cooking for more than a decade here, constructed a space in which the kitchen’s most confusing fare can be judged charitably and seriously, as the product of clear philosophy and intention, rather than being discarded as an example of creativity gone awry. His team continues to earn that right, night after night, by soothing stomachs with bread and burgers designed to win over even the most skeptical of guests. Is it enough? Certainly not for everybody. But I wouldn’t have the restaurant give an inch more—not even when it comes to the wine list (as much as I might prize corkage).

Cellar Door Provisions seems comfortable and confident in its skin: a place of approachability and sharp value that quietly represents a final challenge (the final challenge?) in Chicago gastronomy. I’m only at the beginning of my journey here on Diversey, but I’m not sure any other concept embraces dynamism to the same extent (spelled out on daily menus for all to see) while also executing on its ideas with such routine success.

If anything, I am left wanting more of what the team has to give: more wine and food offerings, at even higher prices, equipping the restaurant with the kind of pairings and ingredients that can match its endless ambition. But, by all accounts, Cellar Door has reached a happy equilibrium after a period of soul-searching, and the current manner of operation is already empowering incredible work. Sometimes, it’s right to resist the temptation of wanting to do everything (and, for the guest, enjoy everything) right this second.

Pikas’s work—a quixotic quest for unattainable perfection (that, paradoxically, often produces excellence)—has to be savored in bite-sized chunks from week to week. And, for habitual diners looking to foster a connection from week to week or month to month, I do not think there is a more exciting or rewarding place to bring one’s palate.

I may be late to the party in saying so, but I plan to prove it.