MORSEL: ELSKE (May 2025)

Elske is one of my favorite restaurants, and it continues to be a poster child for so many of the traits that characterize excellence. These include a dream team of headlining craftspeople (an executive chef, executive pastry chef, pastry chef, and bar manager that have all won individual awards in their own right), a penchant for seasonality, a certain degree of adaptability (between the à la carte and tasting menus), a wine program that ranks among the best in city, and a pervading sense of value. This is to say nothing of the attractiveness of the space, the warmth of the hospitality, or the actual character of the cuisine, which swings from deep comfort to intellectual heights (sometimes in the very same dish).

Indeed, sometimes I stay awake at night thinking about what my hypothetical “Best Restaurants in Chicago” list would look like (a fool’s errand, a fundamental injustice, the kind of lowest-common-denominator content that feeds our laziest, most superficial inclinations). If we are to understand that such a ranking will naturally prize finer, more intricate, “special occasion” styles of dining (compared to the reliable satisfaction that humble places, serving straightforward fare, have delivered for decades), Elske inevitably appears toward the top. In fact, it kind of shocks me how (and this is based purely on emotion rather than some careful formulation of what the “right” list would look like) the Poseys’ concept competes for the very top spots alongside restaurants charging many times more, offering all sorts of luxuries, and putting on a much more distinctive “performance.”

In those wee hours, I smugly tell myself that Elske would be the surprising, subversive second or third (or dare I say first) entry on such a hypothetical list. It would be my slap in the face to Michelin sycophants and conspicuous consumers prone to associating quality with price. It would assert, once and for all, that being the “best” means being a little provocative and a little polarizing rather than playing things safe.

Immediately, Alinea comes to mind—is this not what they do? How to justify the fact that Achatz’s mothership, seemingly the standard-bearer for this kind of experimental philosophy, would not rank on my theoretical list at all? In truth, the difference is clear—and I base this contention on menus sampled in December of 2024 and January of 2025 (mentioned here) rather than, lacking any recent firsthand experience, trying to attack or defend the restaurant on the basis what Bibendum says. (Really, why pretend to be a critic if you’re going to defer to Michelin’s expertise?)

When one strips away Alinea’s smoke and mirrors and novelty, one is left with a couple bites that are delicious, a few that are disgusting, and a majority that are—in terms of texture and flavor alone—utterly forgettable.

Elske’s cuisine, by comparison, has nowhere to hide. The team’s work—creative and boundary-pushing as it is—is confined to the plate. Their effort is channeled only toward expressions of texture and flavor, and the resulting dishes retain a basic level of satisfaction no matter how adventurous or intriguing some may be.

I will not discount how special the Alinea experience can feel. In fact, I’m reminded of it every time I take a first-timer there. However, from a purely culinary perspective, I haven’t been impressed with the restaurant’s work in about a decade. It’s not a matter of the gimmicks getting stale (I can spot the tricks coming from a mile away). Rather, in a fine dining landscape now filled with tougher competition and smarter diners, one begins to ask why we can’t have both inventive presentations and delicious food?

Alinea’s cuisine, as much as the team tries to mythologize it, has no hidden depth. One either gets lost in the shock and awe, taking the food at face value as quirky, edible art, or looks past the performance altogether: discovering sickly sweetness, too much or too little salt, clashing flavors within courses, and flourishes of technique that are largely divorced from the pleasures of eating. I almost wish I could see Achatz’s work through the former group’s eyes—those of a newcomer, who wants to believe, who is unspoiled by expectations drawn from other tasting menus. Yet I belong to the latter, as any experienced gastrotourist visiting Alinea also does, and they’ll find that whispers of the restaurant’s decline are well-founded.

Yes, Alinea is the rare three-Michelin-star restaurant that gets worse and worse the more one goes and the more one grows their palate by visiting other top establishments around the world.

And Elske has proven just the opposite. It’s the rare restaurant that has grown with me and seemingly gotten better and better without ever straying from its philosophy. To this day, the food can sometimes perplex me, but, as discussed throughout my piece on Cellar Door Provisions, sometimes—burnt out from a lifetime of hackneyed fine dining—that is exactly what we need.

Still, does Elske live up to the lofty status I have assigned it in my imagination?

Let us begin.

Elske’s patio (actually more of a courtyard) has long stood as one of West Loop’s most serene, secluded spots. And, as one observes the creep of development along either side of Randolph, it feels like even more of an oasis today. To be fair, this particular block is still characterized more by a constant parade of gymgoers and canines (rather than the throngs of revelers found further east). But I already find myself eating in this neighborhood less often, and I take solace in knowing that this space will always be a haven no matter what comes to surround it.

Truth be told, I’ve never actually eaten a full meal out here before. Drinks? Dessert? Sure. However, it’s thrilling to have the patio all to oneself on this earliest of days in the corresponding season. As I write this, weeks later, the weather feels anything but conducive to this kind of eating—a reminder that one must proactively seize these moments before the shoe drops and everyone, suddenly, wants to eat outside.

Elske, to its credit, was ready to accommodate my choice: the furniture is staged and the heaters all put in place even if the majority of diners—finely attired—aren’t prepared to expose themselves to the elements. Kindly, I am seated in the very corner of the courtyard, where an overhanging segment of the building, fixed with lights, helps to illuminate my table once the sun goes down. Being positioned here makes service more challenging, as the team must open two doors and traverse the length of an adjacent garden bed any time they fill water, pour wine, and place or retrieve plates. Yet the front of house—assisted by a cheery flow of cooks delivering the food—does a brilliant job facilitating this lone party’s experience.

Eventually, another couple decides to dine al fresco. Part of me laments having my sense of peace and exclusivity punctured, but I’m also glad not to be the sole reason our server has to trek outside.

Plus, by that point, I’ve more than taken in the scene: the worn brick, the draped furs, the crackling fire (ensconced in a proud fireplace), the adjoining stack of hardwood, and the lurking gnome (with a few additional twigs tucked in his sack). Of course, it’s the slice of blue sky and the surrounding greenery—headlined by the towering tree out on the street but comprising all manner of plants and flowers and climbing ivy within the patio walls—that really shine. Yes, the space feels attractively worn and orderly and even a bit luxurious in good measure, but nature—gently guided by human hands—is given pride of place.

It’s all so striking that I even delay looking at the wine list: a selection that is updated online with some regularity but that also, inevitably, changes from week to week. Seeing what might be on offer here—often punctuated by the kind of natural and biodynamic unicorns I am amazed even come to Chicago—ranks as one of my biggest thrills in any restaurant.

Here are some of the current selections that catch my eye:

2023 Stein “Palmberg” Riesling Kabinett Trocken ($80 in the list, $39 at national retail)
2022 Domaine Derain Mercurey “La Plante Chassey” ($110 on the list, $54 at national retail)
2023 Domaine Tempier Bandol Rosé ($110 on the list, $49 at national retail)
2022 Mazière “C” ($120 on the list, $69 at national retail)
2022 Ferme de la Sansonnière “La Lune” ($129 on the list, $59.99 at national retail)
NV Chavost Champagne “Blanc d’Aseemblage” ($130 on the list, $59.99 at national retail)
2021 Château Le Puy “Cuvée Emilien” ($135 on the list, $59.99 at local retail)
2022 Domaine de Chassorney Saint-Romain “Combe Bazin” ($136 on the list, $65 at national retail)
2022 Clos des Vignes du Maynes Mâcon-Cruzille “Manganite” ($138 on the list, $66 at national retail)
2021 Massa Vecchia Rosato ($138 on the list, $76 at national retail)
2020 François Rousset-Martin “Mémé Marie” ($144 on the list, $78 at national retail)
2017 AR.PE.PE. Valtellina Superiore “Sassella Stella Retica” ($145 on the list, $60.99 at local retail)
2022 Andreas Tscheppe “Blue Dragonfly Plus” ($156 on the list, $109.99 at national retail)
2019 Fabio Gea Langhe Nòtu e l’albera ($168 on the list, $79.99 at national retail)
2017 Maison Valette Pouilly-Vinzelles “MesdemoiZelles” ($180 on the list, $92 at national retail)
2022 Domaine de Chassorney Volnay ($184 on the list, $79.99 at national retail)
2022 Maison Maenad “De l’Avant” ($200 on the list, $150 at national retail)
2017 Clos Rougeard Saumur Blanc “Brézé” ($345 on the list, $299 at national retail)
2019 Ulysse Collin Champagne “Les Maillons” ($420 on the list, $329.95 at national retail)
2019 Ulysse Collin Champagne “Les Pierrières” ($495 on the list, $364.95 at national retail)

The markups for this sample of 20 bottles range from 15% to 138% on top of retail price (with a mean of 89% and a median of 104%). On average, Elske takes a bit of a bigger cut than places like Cellar Door Provisions, Obélix, and Smyth (whose programs I also hold in high esteem); however, the difference is marginal.

Indeed, there’s nothing wrong with landing around that 100% figure. It still represents the height of fairness and generosity in an age when many restaurants still view charging 200%, 250%, or even 300% over what customers would pay at retail as their right. Yes, for the majority of diners who do not have an encyclopedic knowledge of market prices, I think Elske’s list will feel fair (with plenty of options landing in the $60 to $80 range). Proper oenophiles, in turn, may happily note that the most expensive bottles (i.e., the Clos Rougeard, Ulysse Collin) see their markups shrink to as little as 36%, 27%, or 15%.

I adore this system, which rewards customers drawn to the big-ticket items (likely encouraging them to spend more overall) and fosters a sense of occasion. I also adore the fact that I can find producers like Domaine de Chassorney, Chavost, Fabio Gea, Maison Maenad, Massa Vecchia, François Rousset-Martin, Andreas Tscheppe, and Maison Valette here when these wines are so scarcely seen across the city. Taking rarity into consideration, I am more than happy to pay a little more (again, only relative to the absolute best pricing one finds in Chicago) for the pleasure of sampling their work.

These bottles, it should be mentioned, are joined by a smart selection of by-the-glass offerings: one, at present, that balances bold expressions of crowd-pleasers like Champagne, Chenin Blanc, Gamay/Pinot Noir rosé, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot with oddballs like Malvasia, Grenache Blanc, and Grolleau. Pricing here (save for the Champagne) remains firmly in the $15 to $17 range, and Elske’s servers are equipped to make recommendations (as well as handle wine service more generally) with confidence.

I also cannot forget the cocktails: five options—“Shaken,” “Collins,” “Stirred,” “Martini,” and “Toronto” at present—each costing $16. Tonight, the “Martini” is crisp and bracing on entry, yielding to layers of herbaceousness and sweetness that end on a subtly bitter, citric note. The total effect is so balanced and so polished that I find myself, for once, thinking I could easily abstain from wine and enjoy these drinks throughout the entire meal. These cocktails, elegantly rendered and astutely matched to the cuisine, set a standard that few other fine dining restaurants (even those charging hundreds of dollars more for their menus) can hope to match.

Overall, the work of Emily Sher (on the wine side) and Monica Casillas-Rios (on the bar side) at Elske continues to be best in class. Most concepts would kill to execute either one of these disciplines at such a high level. Yet, here, talents combine to form a beverage program that is immensely rewarding visit after visit and year after year.

Moving on to the food, I choose to focus on the à la carte side of the menu tonight. For those who have already tried the set menu (its low price long forming one of the gentlest introductions to Michelin-starred dining in Chicago), these individual dishes—priced from $12 to $40—form the real starring attraction: a place where larger portions and fleeting expressions of seasonality can shine without upsetting the value proposition being offered to newcomers.

To be fair, I always recommend that first-timers mix and match between the two sections—whether using bread and cheese to supplement the tasting or asking if they might try a couple of the set menu’s smaller bites in the lead-up to their heartier fare. This adaptability (the manner in which one can make a hybridized individual or family-style meal) is one of Elske’s greatest virtues. On this occasion I took the latter approach, ordering 11 of the 13 items in the à la carte section and requesting two of the newer creations from the tasting up above. This would be followed by three of desserts: a thorough (if not entirely comprehensive) tour of the kitchen’s work at this very moment.

The first dish to arrive is one of those taken from the set menu: a “Shrimp Toast” that is typically served following an opening cup of tea and lamb tartare bite. Admittedly, I was expecting something more horizontal, stacked, and conventional to arrive but feel immediately vindicated for specially requesting this item upon seeing the form it takes. The “toast” is actually more like a crispy cylinder into which has been tucked a rich filling made from the titular crustacean. A ribbon of horseradish sauce, blanketed with nasturtium leaves, then forms the finishing touch.

On the palate, the “Shrimp Toast” delivers a clean exterior crunch matched by a plump, mouth-coating interior. When the horseradish sauce enters the fray, the bite takes on a decadent, creamy quality reminiscent of more rarefied shellfish. Though one might expect corresponding pungency, the root actually strikes with a milder sense of tang and sharpness that is careful not to obscure the latent sweetness of the shrimp. Instead, these two elements—boosted by the wrapper’s caramelized depth—meld well together, joining with the peppery tones of the nasturtium and a careful dose of salt to build toward a satisfying, savory finish. What a refined, hedonistic little finger food! I cannot imagine having missed this.

Expanding on that seafood note, I also find the “Salt-Cured Anchovies” ($15): something of a fixture on the restaurant’s menu by now (yet one, in turn, that forms a consistent foundation on which some of the more imaginative creations can sing). I pretty much always order this dish, which combines the diminutive, headlining fish with olive oil, some slices of lemon, a few drizzles of lemon gel, and a generous dusting of fennel pollen. This effortlessly attractive composition is paired with a few slices of sourdough bread that have been grilled—intentionally—to a black (though not entirely burnt) hue.

Despite being toasted to such an extent, the sourdough retains a bit of give. This ensures that the interior can sop up some of the oil and lemon gel when one looks to assemble a complete bite. Inevitably, diners end up with more bread than anchovy (unless they look to double up); however, on the palate, the ingredients harmonize beautifully. Yes, the crunch of the sourdough yields to the oily, meaty consistency of the fish and that added moisture interlaced within the crumb. Flavors of char and bitterness strike on entry, but a freshly salty sensation takes over, followed by ripe citrus and anisey tones, then veering back toward a different (more lemon pith- and olive-driven) expression of bitterness.

I’ve eaten this dish so many times by now, and—somehow—it still feels provocative. Just the same, it has always been captivating, and I find (perhaps owing to the steady development of my own preference for bitter flavors) more and more pleasure with each passing encounter. Not all guests will enjoy such an extreme rendition of what reads like a fairly simple dish. Nonetheless, the “Salt-Cured Anchovies” remains a faithful, memorable representation of Elske’s culinary ethos.

The ”Aged Gouda” ($20) that comes next is another classic: one of those eternally satisfying constructions the restaurant does so well (and that might just make fans out of diners who wouldn’t otherwise reach for this variety of cheese). Though the idea here always remains the same, specific ingredients tend to change over the course of the year. Currently, the gouda is sourced from Betty Koster’s Fromagerie L’Amuse (that is, a wheel from their “signature” line rather than the Wilde Weide variant which often features). The cheese is paired, as always, with crackers and honey but is joined on this occasion by a thick pool of strawberry-grapefruit jam.

Finished with a sprinkle of salt, this dish centers on the contrast between the crystallized, concentrated nutty tones of the gouda and the uplifting sweet and sour notes of the jam. The crackers, with their wheaty character and somewhat powdery crunchy, help to mediate this confluence: elongating and enhancing the dance of cheese and fruit. The honey, too, helps tilt the balance away from the grapefruit’s tartness and more toward pure decadence (personally I avoid it). But the end result, after a few bites, is a wonderful savory concentration—tinged with notes of butterscotch—that reverberates for close to a minute.

It always feels a bit unfair rating a mere “cheese plate” so highly (for what is the restaurant really doing when compared to the patient work of the fromagère?). Just the same, I do not see other concepts—no matter how they present cheese—reliably achieve the same result. I could name a couple (like Monteverde with its “Burrata e Ham”) that come close. Yet Elske’s “Aged Gouda” continues to demonstrate a unique degree of finesse, confirming just how perfectly attuned the chefs’ palates are.

There’s little to be said about the “Oat Porridge Sourdough” ($12), which is still sourced from Publican Quality Bread (nodding to David Posey’s time as chef de cuisine of Blackbird) and remains a staple of the menu.

The miniature loaf arrives boasting a beautifully oat-speckled, floury crust and a warm, somewhat denser (but also moist and pleasing) interior. On the palate, the bread offers a subtle crunch and hint of caramelization on entry that yields to earthy, nutty, and tangy undertones in the crumb. The accompanying cultured kōji butter—flavored with a mold used in the production of sake and soy sauce—seems particularly well salted tonight. It adds a wonderful richness and pronounced cheesiness to the mix that makes this serving of the sourdough, tonight, taste especially fine. For good measure, I make sure to drag a piece through the remaining olive oil, lemon, and fennel pollen (from the “Salt-Cured Anchovies”). This bread is an excellent companion for any stage of the meal. Those choosing the set menu should be sure not to miss it.

Speaking of the tasting menu, next to arrive is that other dish I requested to sample à la carte. Appearing immediately after the “Shrimp Toast” (for those subscribing to the proper order), the “Cured Tuna” is thinly sliced and draped over matchsticks of pickled kohlrabi. The fish is flavored with dill and juniper then paired with a tangle of shredded cabbage and—best of all—a fennel-dill crumpet.

Yes, despite already enjoying two kinds of bread thus far (maybe even three if you count the shrimp’s wrapper), I could not resist seeing firsthand how this griddled treat was executed. Though slightly misshapen (and seemingly baked in this case), the crumpet displays a crisp—then fluffy—consistency with some lovely salted, seeded depth. These accompanying bites (being more earthy and savory) help to ground what is found on the main plate.

This includes the sweet, tender tuna itself (these thin slices being impeccably cut) and the crunching segments of kohlrabi hidden below. The turnip—technically the stem of a kind of cabbage (hence the accompanying leaves)—is faintly sour and coated in a creamy sauce that emphasizes the grassier side of the dill. My first impression is that the resulting combination is a bit bland. However, as I work my way to the end of the dish, the flavor becomes more cohesive and distinctive: displaying some sharpness and tang from the juniper and a balancing sense of structure and sweet from the kohlrabi greens. Ultimately, this preparations lands more on the intellectual side of tonight’s offerings, but (on the basis of the tuna’s texture and the playful touch of the crumpet) I was happy to try it.

The “Belgian Endive” ($24) remains one of the standard-bearers for creative, delicious salad in Chicago. I mentioned this recipe when discussing the “Endive Salad” served at Cellar Door Provisions, and, in some sense, it highlights exactly where these two kindred restaurants diverge. Indeed, though the latter used the starring ingredient’s bitterness as a platform for an even greater, deeper expression of the same note, the former utilizes the leaves to construct a crowd-pleasing, almost decadent contrast. Understandably, Elske’s “Belgian Endive” is a hallmark of the menu—a guarantee—while Cellar Door’s “Endive Salad” represented just one of many weekly experimentations willing to push boundaries.

As always, the salad here is characterized by a thicket of larger leaves that shield a lower layer of shredded greens married with pickled raisins, walnuts, and a creamed sherry dressing. From a technical standpoint, the dish has always demanded a bit of manipulation. One can maneuver a long piece of endive onto their plate, then spoon the other ingredients atop it, then cut through the leaf, then take a bite. A more collaborative table, perhaps, could resolve to slice apart all of those larger leaves and then serve what remains in a more conventional fashion. Personally (and depending on my company), I have taken to transforming this salad into more of a finger food: grasping an endive, scooping up the other toppings, and sending a bite straight to my mouth. Whatever path one chooses, this dish continues to deliver an eye-opening balance of crunching, tangy, bitter, nutty, and sweet sensations. In sum, the “Belgian Endive” remains a monument to Elske’s ingenuity and ability to conjure deep pleasure.

A serving of “Rullepølser” ($26) has appeared here in various guises over the years, and it’s usually an ingredient I find myself struggling with. On the surface, there’s nothing about this brined, boiled, and sliced cut of pork belly that I’m predisposed to dislike. Just the same, it is often upon these stable foundations that the kitchen takes some of its bigger risks.

Tonight, however, I find the meat treated in a minimalistic fashion. One proud slice fills the center of the plate and, in turn, acts as a canvas for pieces of salted cucumber, some sprigs of micro cilantro, and a fine coating of toasted sesame seeds. Hidden below, there’s even a dab of tahini. This lends the tender, fresh-tasting pork a trace of creaminess that helps to weather the other toppings’ crunch. The resulting flavor is mildly salty (a real sign of restraint) and defined more by a beautifully nutty, hammy depth. Yes, it’s quite amazing to see how this humble “cold cut” has been all dressed up. It ranks, without a doubt, as my best encounter with this oft-polarizing ingredient.

The ”Smoked Arctic Char” ($32) is an entirely new dish for me, yet it engages with one of the restaurant’s favorite visual tricks. The plate arrives at the table with nothing but thin, wide curls of turnip to show for it. Nonetheless, after putting these slices off to the side, one is treated to a view of a moist fillet that is garnished with kombu, ginger, and a few larger chunks of the same root vegetable.

On the palate, the fish displays a wonderfully melty, oily mouthfeel with a pronounced smoky-sweet flavor. There’s enough intensity here to help penetrate through those encompassing layers of turnip. However, it’s really with the introduction of the seaweed and ginger that the recipe sings. While the former ingredient helps to bolster the arctic char’s presence by way of underlying umami, the latter punctuates its sweetness with more sharpness and tangy. This really helps to bring the root vegetable (serving to soften and enhance the effect) into the mix. But, at core, the ginger/kombu combination drives the fish toward a level of hedonism I rarely find from cooked preparations. Of course, this recipe more than winks at Japanese tradition. At the same time, it draws on this influence to builds a flavorful profile that still feels singularly “Elske.” A surprise hit!

“Soft Shell Crab” ($35) is sure to appear on the menu here when in season, and this is one of the restaurants I trust most to render it faithfully. The crustacean is fried, of course, yielding a cleanly crisp exterior with delicate, flaky pockets of interior meat. This preparation—so unerring—could star in its own right. (Just triple the portion and pass it around the table!)

However, courtesy of a watercress mousseline, some crunchy bits of artichoke, and a dose of lemon, the kitchen looks to up the ante. The result is a more layered texture (crisp, creamy, then more heartily crisp) blanketed by bright and tangy flavor. This, in turn, helps to emphasize the crab’s own subtle sweetness. That being said, the nutty, salty note that comes through on the finish is what I like most, for it lends the crustacean some of the savory, snackable quality I typically associate with it. Overall, the portion here makes for a bit of a tease, but the dish still represents a precise, creative interpretation of a prized seasonal offering.

The “Fermented Black Bean Agnolotti” ($29) is another tried-and-true form, one whose bold base allows for a modular swapping in and out of accompaniments as it appears throughout the year. At present, the pasta is stuffed with ricotta and paired with a medley of braised kale and morels. The result is a dish that balances elements of firmness, softness, and brittle crunch with earthy, semisweet, and lightly bitter flavors that meld effortlessly. Yes, the finish here—umami and almost woodsy—lasts for more than 30 seconds (and would make a dream pairing with an expressive Pinot Noir). One does not rush to take another bite immediately but, rather, is led to untangle just what it is they are tasting.

Certainly, this pasta continues to prize intellectual appeal more than sheer enjoyment. Yet, in this iteration, a certain heartiness and deep satisfaction is achieved. Ultimately, I am pleased to encounter this recipe again (even if I wonder what it might be like if the earthy notes stood more in the background rather than leading).

A preparation of “White Asparagus” ($30) represents, like the soft-shell crab, another habitual seasonal offering. In fact, I recall seeing the vegetable combined with rullepølse in the past, yet, here, it forms the base of one of the evening’s more polarizing constructions. On this occasion, the asparagus comes wrapped in a lentil crêpe, coated in a sauce of preserved lemon, topped with more lentils, and garnished with a sizable serving of miner’s lettuce.

The result is a series of bites that are crisp (from the crêpe), crunchy (from the additional lentils), then meaty and tender (from the asparagus) on entry. The lemon sauce adds a creamy finish and establishes a degree of sweetness (latent in the vegetable but also piqued by the preserved fruit) that dominates the dish. For my palate, it’s a bit too much—serving to obscure the nuttier, earthier, more savory notes I might want from the accompanying legumes. Surprisingly, it’s actually the miner’s lettuce (sweet and critic but also earthy in its own right) that helps push the recipe back toward balance. Tonight, it’s not enough. Nonetheless, I still appreciate how well the textures are rendered here and find the overall combination intriguing (if not quite enjoyable).

The “Frikadeller” ($33), a term denoting a kind of meatball, also provokes more than it does please. The browned, oblong nuggets of flesh (typically a blend of veal, pork, and/or beef in Denmark) look to offer a straightforward, carnivorous thrill. Meanwhile, accompanying ingredients like arugula (both leaves and a gremolata), fava beans (a kind of loose mash), pistachio (crumble), and rice pearls promise a degree of inventiveness while staying within the realm of familiarity.

However, while the meatballs are certainly tender, they almost break apart too easily and lack any satisfying length or presence one might expect from the form. Eaten on their own, they also lack much force of flavor. The soft, mouthcoating texture of fava beans helps to augment a dimension of heartiness. Yet, rather than gaining harmonizing sweet and nutty notes that might help to distinguish the meat, the dish is driven by bitterness and leads to a finish that almost tastes burnt. On paper, I know I should be finding more pleasure here than what I am sensing in actuality. Indeed, while certain composed mouthfuls feel promising, any resulting enjoyment simply seems muted. It’s hard to know if something here was misprepared or if the recipe, at core, just doesn’t work for me. Either way, this represents a rare miss that falls below “intriguing” and lands in the category “hard to like.”

A preparation of “Roasted Chicken” ($35) helps to end the savory section of the meal on a more positive note. For this dish, a few slices of breast (crowned by beautifully browned skin) are combined with a salad of green asparagus and fried ramps. A drizzle of gravy and a creamy sauce made from toasted yeast complete the presentation.

When it reaches one’s mouth, the bird is crisp on entry then proves tender and juicy with further chewing. Though the crunching vegetables help to extend a sense of heft and satisfaction (while also offering pleasing earthy, garlicky, allium notes), flavor here is really defined by the toasted yeast. This sauce not only brings savory backing to the chicken (its creaminess melding naturally with the softness of the meat). It is also cut with a tinge of acid that helps to invigorate the other ingredients. The end result doesn’t quite rise to the level of being memorable, but this is a dependable dish with well-crafted textures and mainstream appeal.

Dessert always forms a reliably high point at Elske, and tonight is no different. I decide to sample three of the five à la carte options while skipping two further choices (one a small bite, one a composed plate) I might have requested from the set menu.

To begin, a “Celery-Green Apple Sorbet” ($12) sounds more like a palate cleanser than something one might use to actually close out the meal. But the resulting puck—remarkably creamy with a bit more of a crisp, icy consistency at the very bottom—looks impressive. And the combination of tart and grassy flavors, in combination with an herbaceously sweet surrounding sauce of dill, feels powerfully refreshing and even cleansing. Really, there’s enough depth and precision here that a particularly abstemious diner could feel satisfied. This wouldn’t be my first choice, but it left me feeling impressed when it very well might have put me off.

A ”Mascarpone Semifreddo” ($16) is more along the lines of what I’d typically order, yet this is hardly a conventional take. The “half-frozen” base feels rich and jellied on entry then strikes with a bright bitterness drawn from grapefruit. With further bites, the mouthfeel tends more toward a kind of cream cheese density that finds a further contrast with the surrounding peaks of blood orange foam. Those tart, bitter flavors threaten to take over, yet the mascarpone demonstrates surprising resilience. It joins with the fruity-sweet flavors of rose to build a kind of custardy cheesecake sensation that just gets better and better through to the end of the bowl. What a journey—and an accomplishment.

Lastly, one finds the “Dark Chocolate Mousse” ($18)—a guarantee if there ever was one. There’s a little bit of interaction to be found here, as one must pulverize the brittle wafers that hide the plate’s contents. Doing so, one finds the titular mousse laced with pieces of crispy sunchoke and an accompanying sunchoke caramel. On the palate, the interplay of crunchy and creamy is well balanced. The chocolate tastes rich and decadent (but not too bitter), and the sunchoke provides a nutty, almost potato chip quality that actually helps steer the recipe away from the darker side and toward what someone who prefers a milkier expression of cocoa might enjoy too. In short, this is clever and confidently executed.

With those last few bites (and a pour of snaps, as well as a glass of oxidative Anders Frederik Steen poured by the glass), this three-hour meal comes to a close. That might sound long, but it went by at what felt like a perfect pace: two or three dishes being combined at a time to form seven courses that were served in 20- to 30-minute increments. To be fair, a half hour wait probably pushes the limit of what many diners find acceptable, but these were closing entrées, demanding a certain level of technique, staggered in such a way that we wouldn’t feel rushed or too full.

Plus, it’s hard to be fidgety when one knows what to expect, is totally awash in wine, and is treated to that same enchanting courtyard view. When it’s time to go, the sun has long set and the other set of diners has long gone. They’ve been substituted for a flow of well-dressed patrons looking to take their dessert—and a parting round of drinks—by the fire.

They warmly acknowledge our presence then turn inward to gush about the meal, the surroundings, and what might tempt them to finish. My check, free of hidden fees or automatic gratuity, comes and goes. Elske, its team still in the thick of service, glows on the other side of the glass.

Tonight, I’ve gotten to know their work from a place of peace and seclusion: just me, the plate, the constituent ideas (however soothing or surprising), and the occasional friendly face. It wasn’t a perfect menu—from dish to dish and thought to thought—but as an overall aesthetic experience it was sublime. The highs were high and the lows reminded me to stop, savor, and engage with the food rather than abandoning myself wholly to revelry.

I leave this dinner—this Elske terrarium world—feeling sharper, smarter, more appreciative of my palate (as it is), and of chefs (as it were) who look to drag it that next step forward. Of course, this is just a byproduct of following a philosophy wholeheartedly (rather than forming the goal). Yet as I walk through the gate back onto Randolph, I am reminded of how many restaurants aim lower, lower, and end up getting lost in the crowd. I continue to prize what I taste here, despite the occasional misstep, because the greater whole is singular, irreplaceable, and always rewarding.

In ranking the evening’s dishes:

I would place the “Shrimp Toast,” “Aged Gouda,” and “Belgian Endive,” in the highest category: preparations—simple, yes, but boldly 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 “Oat Porridge Sourdough,” “Salt-Cured Anchovies,” “Rullepølser,” “Smoked Arctic Char,” “Soft Shell Crab,” “Fermented Black Bean Agnolotti,” “Marscapone Semifreddo,” and “Dark Chocolate Mousse” These dishes (save for the bread) were often a bit more involved, yet they married perfect execution of their central elements (e.g., thinly-sliced pork belly, a melty fillet, crisp shellfish, al dente pasta) with inventive accompaniments that yielded plenty of enjoyment. Overall, these were great—even bordering on memorable—recipes I would happily order again. They just fell short of that extra emotional dimension.

The “Cured Tuna,” “White Asparagus,” “Roasted Chicken,” and “Celery-Green Apple Sorbet” would rank one step lower. These were merely good dishes that might have confused me a bit (as the first two did) or remained simple and straightlaced enough (as the last two did) as to not be horribly exciting. It’s hard to fault the latter items, for other diners may find in the chicken and the sorbet exactly what they are looking for. The former (the “Cured Tuna” and “White Asparagus”), in turn, did not seem to suffer from clear flaws. Their flavors (either too bland or too sweet) just didn’t seem to come together properly. Still, there was pleasure to be had from each of these preparations, which all displayed refined textures.

Finally, I would place the “Frikadeller” at the very bottom. This dish was not objectionable or even all that hard to finish. It simply fell below the standards the restaurant usually sets, displaying neither textures nor flavors I found appealing. Given the expectations I brought to this recipe (how could meatballs, fava beans, and pistachio not taste good?), I am tempted to say that something just went wrong during the cooking process. It happens. Or maybe this is the one creation that goes too far beyond the present limits of my own taste?

Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of 69% to 94% depending on how harshly one chooses to judge the items in the third category. In my opinion, given the à la carte format and degree of value on offer here, I think “good” is good enough in the context of the meal. Thus, deferring to the higher end of the range, one must acknowledge an immense degree of success (especially considering some of the risks that are being taken). Indeed, that 69% figure really only reflects the proportion of the menu I would not hesitate to order again—such a number of items that many diners would struggle to fit them into a single meal.

To return to the hypothetical “best restaurants” list I mentioned at the start of this piece, I have to admit that I have not gained much clarity.

Certainly, based on my evaluation of the “Frikadeller” and “Roasted Chicken,” one is tempted to say that Elske suffers a bit in the entrée department. Would ordering the “Grilled Striploin” or “Stuffed Lamb Saddle,” with all the carnal thrill they promise, have served me better? (Experience tells me these can be good dishes, but, likewise, they rarely rank among the best of the night.)

Smyth, to be fair, has flubbed their main course from time to time. It can be hard to cook as adventurously as these kitchens endeavor to do, working with these comparably simple proteins, while also delivering the expected degree of deliciousness.

Kyōten (with its headlining bites of tuna) and Cellar Door Provisions (with its roasted fish and steak) do deliver that kind of enjoyment, but these concepts are also more likely to err when it comes to smaller, opening plates. The same can be said for Warlord, which for my money is hitting some of the highest savory highs at the moment, but certainly puts out an uneven dish or two.

What of Obélix or Oriole or even Valhalla? They’re fairly strong across the board, yet are they aspiring to (let alone achieving) the same level of distinctiveness?

It’s a messy, degrading business trying to say that any one of these places is meaningfully better than the other. Doing so is senseless without an understanding of an individual diner’s value system: the development (or partiality) of their palate, their preferred service style, favorite kind of beverage, expectations of “luxury,” and capacity to return—over and over—and appreciate a concept’s dynamism. There’s even a train of logic, I acknowledge, that makes the molecular gastronomy spots I find so underwhelming the most suitable choice for a certain audience. There’s nothing backhanded about saying novelty, drama, performance, and presentation can take precedence—for some—in such an embodied and multisensorial art form.

If those couple entrées were better—if there was that one signature entrée (I’m not counting the chicken nuggets) that always delivered—could Elske be the hypothetical “number one”? Sure, but what would that do to a menu that already offers plenty of standbys and that continues to take big swings on some of its most expensive, high-expectation plates? How would that inhibit a larger culinary philosophy—one whose pursuit is so much more valuable than one diner’s top ranking, in accordance with one particular value system, that would only really poison (again via expectation) how other people approach the place?

It’s enough for Elske to be one of the best: to be best-in-class in a category that no one (not even Cellar Door Provisions for all my references) really touches on. What’s offered here—across every dimension of the experience—does not need to be compared or contrasted to shine. It can simply be appreciated—indoors or outdoors, with a cocktail or a bottle of wine, with the most reliable of recipes or the most experimental—as one of Chicago’s beacons of hospitality.

Years on, the restaurant offers little flash. Instead, it comfortably wears the patina of an icon. Elske, without qualification or reservation, remains quietly excellent. Its place at the bleeding edge of our dining scene must continue to be discovered, year after year, by those who are ready—and open—to its considerable charms.