Warlord belonged to that class of prominent, predominantly à la carte openings in 2023 (alongside Akahoshi Ramen, Daisies “2.0,” and Thattu) that I largely found underwhelming. These restaurants were honored as representing the “best” Chicago had to offer, but I found—looking not only at consistency but at their baseline of quality—these concepts were hardly equipped to reliably please native diners. Instead, I discovered clever marketing narratives—eagerly adopted by local journalists and regurgitated by their national peers—that worked to define whom the city and its tourists “should” be supporting (for reasons of branding or public interest) rather than corresponding to any mastery of craft.
Warlord was a critical darling of a different sort: a kind of anti-marketed, anti-branded concept centered on a trio of inconspicuous chefs and, more importantly, their ever-evolving work using live fire. No posted menu? No reservations? No problem. This was the kind of devotion to craft that didn’t feel the need to announce itself, and the strategy (or lack thereof) worked. If there’s one thing food writers love more than being fed tidy narratives from publicists, it’s feeling (every so often) like they actually discovered something good. Warlord was waiting so coyly, so temptingly to be thrust toward stardom. It possessed the sense of confidence and remove (more characteristic of high fashion and other uber luxury brands) that actually makes for a more convincing, more breathlessly rendered story than a business whose mission has been honed and focus-grouped to death.
The team (based on a post marking the restaurant’s second birthday) would probably attribute the path they have chosen to a kind of authenticity—not directed toward a certain culture or cuisine but (where it really matters) toward oneself. Rejecting promotion and the cultivation of expectations meant never having to dilute a thoroughly personal vision or race to the bottom by catering to a lowest common denominator of customer. It meant preserving and empowering an approach to cooking from before the days of celebrity chefs and social media. It meant succeeding or failing solely based on what happened in the arena: a cook, a cut of meat, a stove (or fire), a server, and thou who is served.
See? The concept just lends itself to a certain romance, but I stayed away. There was a short window of time (when the wave of hype was only starting to build) that I might have gone. Yet I wavered, as I often do when called to travel so far out of my own neighborhood, and the reviews and accompanying lines of prospective diners swept in. Yes, there were tips on how to work the system—not just showing up early, but finding that sweet spot between seatings or later at night. However, I was unmoved. Warlord was too far and too uncertain. Everything interesting about the restaurant had already been said, and the need to inconvenience myself (thrice!) to potentially offer a dissenting opinion (or, worse, just pile on the praise) proved unappealing.
From afar, I kind of did admire the concept, the understated branding, the dynamism of the menu, the penchant for dry-aging, and what I had seen of the wine list. Nonetheless, there were other stories to tell, and I took solace in the fact that I was regularly tasting Smyth’s own approach to live-fire cookery (along with the kind of interesting fermentations both spots seemed to prize) when making my rounds. Surely, this represented the superior version of whatever was going on in Avondale.
Thus, I was destined to observe Warlord jealously from afar: half impressed and almost tempted but resolute in not wanting to jump through hoops just to arrive at a party that had long started without me. Hype, of course, would go on to inspire the kind of expectations that the team had so decisively rejected. Most customer accounts served to fuel the fire—they argued the restaurant was worth the wait and then some. Yet I’d also read reports of forgotten parties, brusque service, and misprepared fare that spoke to the devil on my shoulder. “See? The positive press was all a farce. You’d have wasted your time going there. These chefs just excelled at working over journalists—and shaping their own narrative—in a subtler, counterintuitive, but no less contrived fashion.”
Of course, it’s all too easy to delude oneself (honing in on these negatives) in order to justify not doing something (or, even worse, to try and retroactively affirm one’s earlier lack of initiative was actually more of a savvy snub). When, about a year in, rumors swirled about staff turnover, sexual harassment, associated retribution, wage theft, and an overall abusive environment at the restaurant, it suddenly became even easier to spin my own abstention as some kind of principled, moral stand.
Readers will have to judge if these accusations, which persisted on social media (with a degree of anonymity some might find justified) but never yielded formal reporting (said to be in the works at the time), are disqualifying. The restaurant, for what it’s worth, responded blithely to the controversy, and I think it’s my job to provide perceptions of food, drink, and hospitality for those inclined to go rather than decide on the basis of personal judgment that nobody should. Indeed, it is my belief that abusive behavior and a toxic culture, when they exist, will make themselves known through the (poor) quality of experience offered.
With what amounted to a soft boycott from a certain segment of the dining community, Warlord’s honeymoon phase as an eccentric critical darling was over. Nonetheless, the restaurant’s cult appeal remained—both from existing fans and a population who found the concept’s plethora of positive press (since opening) unaffected by any surrounding context. The team forged onward and, as they approached their second anniversary in the space, set their sights on offering a greater culinary expression than anything that had come before.
Enemy, as Warlord’s “live fire multicourse dining experience” would be titled, was announced in early March of 2025. The menu promised eight courses (plus “wildcraft pairings”), served to only eight seats, set at 8 PM, during the four days a week (Thursday through Monday) the restaurant was open. It came accompanied by a piece of digital art from Chuck Anderson’s NoPattern Studio: a disturbing (in a good way), three-dimensional collage comprising inky tentacles, ice, bone, gnarled wood, a metal egg, butterflies, moss, leaves, rainbows, rosemary, chain link, and—of course—fire. Though Warlord only uses a snippet of this image to promote Enemy, the work should be appreciated in its entirety.
I cannot recall ever seeing this kind of art used in a gastronomic context. Certain motifs clearly relate to the restaurant’s aesthetic and even to particular ingredients that are used. However, there’s a more subliminal symbolism at hand—the juxtaposition of life and death, natural and artificial, solid and writhing—that speaks to the emotional quality of the resulting meal. Yes, I look at the piece now (having already enjoyed the menu) and think that, beyond Warlord’s typical cryptic manner of doing things, there exists a real resonance with the meal. This echo, nonetheless, only occurs at the level of feeling and in accordance with certain flourishes that seemed to serve no practical purpose at the time (but otherwise contributed to an overall mood). I’ll make clear just what these elements were when the time comes. However, I think this collaboration with Anderson—despite more or less needing to be discovered independently—actually forms an enriching thematic key. It represents a bold synthesis of chef and artist at an interpretive, subconscious level: one that makes some of the city’s other, more literal examples of these partnerships seem stilted.
Enemy launched with little fanfare later that same March—a superlative offering from a supremely mysterious crew that saw little need to suddenly start fighting for attention. The menu, it seems, was priced at $175 per person in its earliest iteration, rising to $205 in April and $225 in May. Each of these sums is inclusive of the aforementioned wildcraft pairing (choice of alcoholic or non-alcoholic) but exclusive of tax and a 22% service charge. No additional gratuity is solicited, for the receipt (given that the experience is prepaid) is not even presented.
Though the value of the included pairing should be accounted for, Enemy clocks in well above the tasting menus offered at Galit ($105), FIRE ($115), INDIENNE ($125-$135), Elske ($135), The Coach House ($135-$160), Jeong ($150), and Moody Tongue ($155) while landing closer to places like Topolobampo ($165-$185), Atelier ($175-$200), Schwa ($175-$245), Kumiko ($180), EL Ideas ($185), Boka ($195), Feld ($195), Valhalla ($198), Cariño ($200-$220), Next ($225-$265), and Bonyeon ($255).
This is rarefied, Michelin-starred (or Michelin-aspirational) territory, and Warlord’s move from the middle to the front of this pack (in terms of price) over just a few short months clearly signals the team’s intent.
At the same time, the overall strategy reminds me of what I saw at John’s Food and Wine: a restaurant that also opened in 2023, made its name serving refined à la carte fare to walk-ins only, and then (after more than a year of operation) expanded toward a reservable, premium tasting experience. Unfortunately, the concept transformed its eight-course offering ($175) into a five-course one ($115) shortly after my review. John’s has also started taking reservations more generally, situating its tasting as a seven-day-a-week, on-site option rather than a weekend, prepaid splurge. The set menu still empowers creativity (i.e., dishes that are distinct from the à la carte options), but it’s now more flexibly conceived for what is generally a friendly, neighborhood spot.
Warlord is certainly prized by those who live in the surrounding area (i.e., those best equipped to show up early or withstand long waits), but it represents more of a destination for much of the city. Long lines and uncertainty also form a much bigger part of the restaurant’s identity than they do at John’s. Thus, I think Enemy maintains a more robust competitive advantage: guaranteed seating, at a prime point in the evening, that totally subverts one of the signature features (some might say drawbacks) of the concept. This is to say nothing of exclusivity (only 32 spots per week), intimacy (the counter setting), a clearer theme (live-fire cooking), or a price point (higher, yes) that affirms the team wants to rival Chicago’s biggest openings (like Feld, Valhalla “2.0,” and Cariño).
Yes, Enemy finally formed the entry point through which I could get to know what Warlord is doing. I approached the concept with some familiarity—perhaps also tinged with some lingering doubts—but otherwise a clean slate. I’d be seeing the chefs put their strongest foot forward as a kind of first impression: an interesting vantage point, I thought, now that some of the early excitement has ebbed.
I made my first and only visit to Warlord at the beginning of April. It is atypical for me to write on the basis of solitary meals (not to mention so early in a tasting menu’s life), so the following impressions should be taken as tentative (rather than definitive): allowing for potential improvements on one side of the critical equation and lapses in quality or consistency on the other.
With that said, let us begin.
Warlord, as already revealed, lies well beyond the range I’d typically travel for à la carte food. But Thattu, admittedly, sat just as far north, and restaurants like Cellar Door Provisions, Lula Cafe, and Mi Tocaya (found a bit further south off of Milwaukee) never had a hard time convincing me to make the trek. What about Smoque or Spacca Napoli or even Boonie’s? The latter spot, to be fair, formed a nice accompaniment to my meals at Atelier, and Atelier, after all, brought me furthest uptown with the promise of a comprehensive “experience.”
The experience of waiting in line, to put one’s name on a list, to find out how much longer one needs to wait (while running the risk of being forgotten about or imbibing to the point of numbing one’s palate) never held much appeal. Certainly, the right kind of diner can make a night of it (especially with Avondale Bowl to be found just a few doors down). But uncertainty—of the nebulous, “watching the clock” kind—just doesn’t factor into luxury for me. The line between anticipation and frustration in this instant gratification culture is too perilously thin to chase an end product (dry-aged fish, an esteemed burger) I felt could be found in a more convenient (likely more refined) form.
But a reservation? A promise of comfort and facilitation? A cheery greeting amidst a sea of disappointment? (This is to say nothing of taking one of eight prime seats and putting $205—or $225—on the table to inspire the chefs’ very best work.) With the launch of Enemy, Warlord has effectively played to the inverse of its identity and conjured a whole range of emotions (exclusivity, assurance, effortlessness, even privilege) that speak immediately to fine dining. Given how strongly the restaurant forged its reputation doing things in the exact opposite manner, these feelings also strike with a unique force.
Yet, arriving at the corner of Belmont and Milwaukee on a rainy Friday evening, I am left questioning whatever I thought I knew about Warlord. The hip, hyped spot—a green façade with a faint warm glow on the ground floor of a three-story brick building—boasts no imposing line nor any discernible comings and goings. The surroundings—a bank, gas station, a collection of fast-food drive-throughs, a festively lit taquería, and what remains of the Maryla Polonaise nightclub—do little to suggest trendiness. Surely, was always part of the appeal: a live-fire diamond in the rough found among near-suburban plainness. Nonetheless, I clearly look a little lost as I search for the front door, leading me to being accosted by a (frankly rather polite) vagrant.
I cannot say I haven’t had the same experience in quieter parts of West Loop (or Manhattan for that matter) when stepping into a gastronomic temple. This interaction (the kind that really makes one question the excess soon to follow) only confirms that it’s quiet—and quite vehicularly oriented—out here. From the outside, this is not a dining wonderland: one in which prospective patrons haphazardly trip over eateries they’ve heard of (at least in passing) or whose storefronts (brimming with life) induce them to add it to the list. Here, one might venture more than a few blocks to get to the right spot (or end up hitting an Olive Garden). The most popular places (save for what’s been done by the Parachute team) are largely unpretentious and fly almost completely under the radar. I’m not sure non-locals, at this moment in time, would ever find their way to any of them.
Perhaps this is the context with which to understand what Warlord is doing. In opening their restaurant, the team did not seek to upend this Avondale ecosystem—to suffocate the concept’s peers (quietly toiling away) with the shock and awe of a marketing blitz, to try to overshadow them in terms of branding when cooking forms the fairest battlefield. The locals, naturally vested in the wider community, would have the first say: making the concept their own before it was served up to the rest of the city. The “foodies” would follow and be forced to wait, to stay a while, and maybe get to know the area. (Though I recall at least one of the restaurant’s enterprising neighbors promising to put prospective diners’ names on the waitlist for a fee—the kind of cottage industry that, when it doesn’t unduly burden other guests, can add a degree of charm to these buzzy spots.) The fine dining snobs would arrive last, about two years later, not forming any bit of the original focus but only a flourish, built upon a strong foundation, that still seems wary of the spotlight.
Stepping through the front door, I find myself in a darkened, narrow lobby. The room is cast in uneven blue light, lending the prevailing blackness a moody feel. Shelving, set against the windows, is lined with small plants (an extension of the green façade) while a bear trap sits off in one corner: a suggestion of the sinister, gruesome undercurrent Warlord playfully maintains.
The dining room is more or less obscured from my position. However, while the hostess handles a couple of patrons—the only other two in here at 8 PM—I peek around one end of the metal divider that separates the space. From this vantage point (more or less the northwest corner of the building), I can see straight down the pass: not just the counter (which I will soon be seated at) but the hanging ducks, bustling chefs, and crackling fire that define the kitchen. Looking further, I can make out the bar, the far wall, a collection of booths, and another surface of aged brick. I discern a warmth—all candlelight, all hearth—the calls me to come out of the eerie blue light.
Just then, the hostess engages, checks my name off her list, and asks that we wait just a moment. In what feels like seconds, a server rounds the corner with a couple glasses of Riesling Sekt. Pausing to allow for a toast and a sip, he ushers us a few steps past the divider to our spots at the close end of the counter. There (looking back toward the entrance), I am treated to a prime view of two DRYAGER cabinets stocked with whole fish, smaller fillets, and an imposing rib of beef. Turning the other direction, I faintly perceive the other six patrons, the few tables (affixed to banquettes) located behind us, and the raised bar/booth area I spied earlier.
The assembled tones of wood, metal, stone, black tile, faded brick, dripping wax, and green leather (along with the occasional, abstractly painted surface) feel surprising refined—like a strange lovechild of Smyth and Oriole (with a dash of Maple & Ash for good measure). Surely, the shadows help to hide what might (in starker light) not seem quite as luxurious. But I was expecting (and maybe even expecting to savor) something rougher around the edges, and the mood here actually feels quite civilized.
Tonight, I note a broad demographic of diners—men and women of all races and ages (30 to 60 years old would be my guess) dressed casually or in streetwear—huddled at their tables, engaged happily in conversation, and otherwise totally unhurried. Even the music (the blasting of which Warlord is known for) feels fairly calm. Yes, it reaches an impressive decibel during certain metal songs, yet this acts as punctuation rather than the norm. Instead, a mix of instrumental, trance, and more upbeat rock lends the space a meditative, almost cinematic feel. The overall vibe (reflected by the patronage) is calm and cool. Indeed, one senses the fire and attitude that underlie the restaurant’s identity, but there’s no degree of imposition or edge that actually detracts from the dining experience.
Those who have signed up for the Enemy menu are treated to the most engrossing perspective. The lighting, from those aforementioned candles, is so carefully managed that one forgets there’s anyone else at the counter. And this stage—half of which is actively used to cook for the entire restaurant (with everything else occurring just a few feet further, along the wall)—rivals any omakase or chef’s table in town.
Tonight, I watch Warlord’s headlining talent—Emily Kraszyk, John Lupton, and Trevor Fleming—work the fire and adjoining stovetop firsthand. Yes, the chef-owners are assisted by a few other cooks (allowing these central figures to devote themselves fully to crafting the tasting menu when the time arrives). However, I am left with the impression of a kitchen that acts as a fluid, collaborative space—by nature of its natural intimacy as well as a sense of teamwork and shared ownership honed over years together. The dance of butter (plucked from a heaping bowlful) and lemon squeezes, deglazing wine, baskets of fries, burgers assembled with surgical precision, and the occasional carved duck is mesmerizing. It forms a baseline—of action, aroma, and noise—that stands worlds apart from the tweezery sanctums that hog so much of the city’s renown.
Here, I speak of places that I actually like: restaurants charging a couple hundred dollars more, serving solitary menus of great finesse, with appropriately reverential tones. By comparison, Warlord has always been loud and brash—“catering to artists and industry” as they say. This energy, so attuned to a late-night, à la carte concept, really shines when grafted over to luxury dining. For it captures more of the directness, the irreverence, and the essential romance that resonate with a newer, broader gastronomic audience. Here, the “experience” is not staged at countless, semi-private tables or even a single, august counter. Instead, Enemy plants guests at a busy restaurant’s nexus, awash in the orders placed by other diners, waiting to see what kind of rabbit the chefs pull out of their hat. In turn, Kraszyk, Lupton, and Fleming coolly lead the team, manage the flow of food, and then concentrate their attention on a range of preparations that stand totally apart from everything else going out.
Those seated at the counter are engrossed in the entire performance: feeling the pressure of the repetition and precision demanded by service, then maybe noting the introduction of a yet unseen ingredient, seeing the chef-owners suddenly huddle together, followed by the technical elaboration of eight portions, their delivery, and the conjuring of something superlative out from the kitchen’s cauldron of activity. At least, that’s how it feels when everything comes together.
The one downside of this system—which shapes a visceral, “I’m really at the heart of a bustling hearth” feeling—comes at the level of hospitality. Actually, I’m not sure it’s a downside so much as it merely is a sacrifice. With all the chefs have to juggle, there’s not really the same opportunity for chit chat that one may find at Cariño, Feld, or Valhalla “2.0.” Yes, in exchange for an ambiance that feels more engaging overall, Enemy’s guests miss out on some of the interaction and potential for connection that more private counters (or counter-inspired dining rooms) can offer. In truth, this is not all that different from (and, in fact, still superior to) fine dining restaurants where the kitchen is located completely out of sight. However, it bears repeating that the chefs here are really being called on to cook for quite a few other tables too. They pursue that task (rather than just directing or embellishing what others might do) while contributing to a wider mood and spirit that precludes personally charming each customer.
Certainly, I think this strategy ties into the team’s persistent rejection of (self-) branding. Warlord and Enemy represent the work of many people laboring under a common banner rather than any one (or even a distinctly joint) “face.” Rejecting this kind of central point or personality means consumers (with no emotional groundwork to sustain them) will inevitably demand more from the food. However, if the chefs are up to the challenge, the environment’s romanticism becomes even more powerful. Nobody here tries to sell you on a particular narrative or experience. Dishes just seem to flow out from the fire, striking mind and body with force before one returns to their shadowy position on the sideline. Add in the music, and this makes for an unconventional—again, almost cinematic (in an unembodied sense)—kind of tasting menu. But it’s also thoroughly enjoyable for any party that cares only for food and drink and feeling (otherwise being perfectly able to entertain itself).
More practically, it is Fleming who takes the lead when it comes to hospitality: acting as master of ceremonies, tableside saucier, and chief narrator when it comes to describing what is actually on the plate. Of course, he’s also wielding food and flame and conducting things on the other side of the counter. But the chef-owner greets the assembled diners with real warmth. He sees them off with a palpable sense of humility and gratitude. And he does not think it beneath him to help out with less glamorous tasks like refilling water.
The sum effect, as much as Warlord might chafe at over-articulating what it does, is a kind of core personality: of a craftsperson—craftspeople—committed to the tending of the fire and a kind of easy (yet attentive and considered) manner of hosting guests. This style is one that nails all the essential points (of comfort or description) without commanding attention or commandeering conversation. It is one that leaves plenty of room for diners themselves to define the kind of night they wish to have: whether boisterous imbibing, intimate conversation, or trance-like sinking into the shadowy scene.
Apart from the three chef-owners and a few cooks in the kitchen, I count two tenders at the bar and three or four servers on the floor in addition to the aforementioned hostess. It’s a predominantly young, male front-of-house team (clad in tattoos, band tees, caps, and aprons), yet one that never resists smiling, responding with a “you’re welcome,” or dancing to the restaurant’s music when the urge strikes. These figures seem happy to work here, and they extend the sense of warmth shown by Fleming.
Also, though the restaurant’s interior seats 45 in total, the servers naturally gravitate around the counter—meaning that the staff-to-guest ratio (including the efforts of the back of house) feels particularly high. One, again, never waits for refills or a plate to be cleared. These cheery fellows always seem to be whisking about the background, observing from out of sight, and swooping in as needed to facilitate the performance being put on by the kitchen. They confidently hit the mark of what I might expect from this price point or an otherwise Michelin-aspirational experience.
The so-called “wildcraft pairings” (the former term referring to a kind of foraging with more ethical and regenerative undertones) are the brainchild of Stephan Jurgovan, who was formerly the bar manager of Michelin-starred brewpub Band of Bohemia. These drinks (predominantly cocktails but also including a couple interesting pours) are presented firsthand, lending an extra dimension of ownership and expertise to the guest experience. Given how creative and carefully attuned these beverages are to the food, I will cover each of them alongside their accompanying dish.
Having engrossed myself in the space and its workings, the meal begins.
The first course of the night centers on “Oyster,” and, seeing this ingredient, I am always a bit skeptical of how any given tasting menu might distinguish itself from all the others presenting the same shellfish. This is not an indictment of the bivalve itself—one of nature’s jewels—but of how little of interest there is left to say when placing them in your average chef’s hands. Here, however, the team can rely on their favorite tool: grilling the Maine oysters over fire. As far as dressing goes, Kraszyk, Lupton, and Fleming opt for a combination of soothing fermented kohlrabi butter and bold (if not entirely unprecedented) green Chartreuse.
Two half shells per guest arrive set upon embers strewn across the center of a metal plate. A juniper branch joins them for an extra aromatic touch. One of my oysters, situated away from the glow, is immediately ready to eat. The other, exposed to the hottest part of the pile, continues to bubble and risks burning fingers (or tongue) if taken. Though this could really vex an unsuspecting diner, I kind of appreciate the danger—that is, my own exposure to the concept’s defining fire—as I transfer the scalding shell to a cooler spot.
The resulting bite, when arriving on the palate, is warm, plump, and mouthcoating. The bivalve’s flavor, in turn, is not dominated by brine or herbaceousness or jarring alcohol. Rather, the oyster strikes with smoky-savory notes on entry followed by a pleasing kiss of sweetness and some bright, peppery depth that comes through on the finish. When I knock back the second shell, these latter qualities reverberate with even greater force. Overall, this dish is characterized by surprising balance and restraint, showcasing the starring ingredient in a somewhat provocative way yet honoring the sheer deliciousness it can and should yield.
A subsequent preparation of “Scallop” tells a similar story: how does this other bivalve, so pervasive in fine dining as to be hackneyed, hope to shine when the real task (for most chefs) is not to screw them up. On this occasion, the team chooses to lightly smoke the mollusk (sourced from Massachusetts) in a kombu wrapper. The resulting puck, as sizable as any portion of this shellfish I have ever been served, is presented on a sizzling plate.
This yields bites that are hot and fleetingly firm on the outside but cool and buttery throughout the interior. As someone who has come to prefer the texture of raw scallop, I think this contrast is superbly managed: showcasing the ingredient’s textural gradient in a gentle, approachable manner. Against this thick canvas of flesh, the notes of smoke and some traces of the kelp’s concentrated umami really shine. They penetrate the full expanse of the scallop, unlocking the subtle sweetness at the heart of the bivalve and blanketing each mouthful with unabashed pleasure.
An accompanying couple pieces of preserved apple, poached in brown butter, play well with the shellfish: backing (but not overshadowing) its sweeter tones with an understated cooked fruit character and some harmonizing nuttiness.
A small cup of mushroom tea (also used to accompany this course) remains hot to the touch even after the scallop and apple are gone. Nonetheless, the resulting liquid—being neither overly salty or umami—impressively speaks to the fungus’s flesh. Like the fruit, it forms a pleasing (if soft-spoken) companion to the main event: one, in closing, that left me quite impressed thanks to the nuance of the scallop’s texture and deep enjoyment of its resulting flavor.
To pair with both the “Oyster” and the “Scallop,” Jurgovan serves a blend of preserved peach, dill, and manzanilla sherry. Using the stone fruit as a base of roundness and sweetness, the latter notes speak savvily to the kaleidoscopic herbaceous quality of the Chartreuse (as well as brightly matching the seafood more broadly) and the umami (tending toward nuttiness and oxidative) tones shown by ingredients like the kombu or brown butter. As with the dishes themselves, I’m impressed with the combination of boldness and balance demonstrated here.
Turning the corner after a couple presentations of shellfish, a course titled “Daikon” demonstrates what the chefs are capable of when playing in the vegetable kingdom. For this recipe, the titular radish (rendered as a small, whole bulb) is poached in milk then flavored with a one-two punch of chocolate vinegar and shio koji (a salty condiment made from the same kind of inoculated rice used in sake production).
Though the “Daikon” looks and sounds unassuming, I find the resulting dish hard to fault. When it meets my fork, the root vegetable offers no resistance. Then, on the palate, it feels smooth and creamy. In terms of flavor, the radish is salted just enough: predominantly displaying tangy and subtly sweet tones on entry that build toward a savory, vegetal finish that is tinged with a can’t-put-your-finger-on-it cocoa depth. I almost expected this preparation to be overloaded with umami, yet, on the back of the “Scallop,” it goes in a totally different direction. Preserving the high degree of textural appeal the menu has thus far delivered, this recipe provides a more nuanced, thoughtful bite that trades immediate deliciousness for a more intellectual, meditative thrill. Considering the full scope of menu (and especially what’s to follow), this kind of composition offers a necessary contrast and relief.
An accompanying concoction made with kombu milk, genmaicha (a toasted rice tea), miso, and Delord Bas-Armagnac matches the dairy and shio koji elements of the dish masterfully. Again, I’d almost expect the chosen spirit to overwhelm the cocktail’s range of flavors. However, the brandy actually works to emphasize the (rather hard-to-detect) chocolate vinegar without taking away from the milky sweet, umami-tinged enjoyment of the other ingredients.
The course that arrives next looks to satisfy one of the wider environment’s biggest temptations. I do not speak of the fire (or the fryer) but the aforementioned dry-aging cabinets that I happen, tonight, to be seated closest to. While seeing cuts of beef hanging there is nothing new, it is the fish—and tuna in particular—that really catches my eye. The aging of seafood with this extra degree of cleanliness and control has yielded some of the best bites of my life, and the “Bluefin Belly” that arrives (even if it does not reach that lofty status) certainly ranks among the top dishes I have sampled this year.
To be fair, the chefs do not mention any length of time that this cut of tuna has spent in the cabinet (though I suspect it sees a small amount if only for the sake of preservation). The belly—a sizable portion comprising seven distinct slices—simply arrives at the center of a shell-like platter, being gently warmed and generously coated in a “root XO” (a take on the deeply umami dried seafood sauce made from root vegetables).
On the palate, the tuna lives up to the toro I’ve come to know across my omakase experiences. It displays the faintest trace of structure before giving way to buttery, structureless excess that coats one’s mouth in oozing fat. Such a sensation is not necessarily appealing on its own, which is why accompaniments like vinegar, wasabi, and soy (or in this case the XO) are so important. Here, the vegetable-based sauce imbues each slice of belly with an immense, nearly mouth-aching degree of umami that supercharges one’s perception of the fatty fish. Yes, texture and flavor are pushed to such extremes with this course that it becomes impossible to pick out or describe any subtler layers. Instead, I just grip the counter and submit further to each subsequent slice. The end result is a preparation that feels like the lovechild of Kyōten and Smyth’s best work—perhaps not matching these restaurants in elegance but equaling their efforts, every now and then, to deliver mind-bending hedonism.
Pairing with this impressive course, I am served a chungju (or Korean rice wine) from Yangchong Brewery that is likened to sake. Though I certainly favor the artistry that went into making the preceding cocktails, this still represents a unique choice. It also, somehow, matches the power of the tuna: displaying harmonizing savory tones alongside enough smooth, sweet character to remain an enjoyable drink on its own.
The next course of the evening is titled “Liquid Cleanse,” and it comprises what is called a “palate cleanser in one gulp.” Honestly, the listing of this item as its own entry on the menu (provided to guests at the end of the night) surprised me. In fact, I didn’t even bother to get a picture of this “dish” (which actually amounts to a small drink). However, I think one of the higher-order skills for any chef is to conceive of how a tasting menu’s constituent parts (often perfected in isolation) are actually perceived when a customer runs the gauntlet during dinner. (I’ll never forget when, a few years ago, Alinea served their “Black Truffle Explosion” on the back of a mole sauce that totally obscured the former bite’s prized burst of flavor.) The chefs here, being fully aware of how intense the “Bluefin Belly” is, choose to follow it with a carbonated apple and celery juice shot. It’s not life-changing, but it’s pleasantly spritzy, not too sweet, and leaves one’s palate with a refreshing “green” note that revitalizes guests ahead of the remaining savory fare.
Following in somewhat the same style of the opening “Oyster” course, the “Black Maitake” embraces another interactive (seemingly dangerous) presentation involving Warlord’s signature live fire. On this occasion, guests are armed with a weighty metal skewer but given no sense of what they will use it for. A plate containing a hearty dollop of koji (the same mold used in sake production and that shio koji sauce) cream offers little hint either. Nonetheless, when Fleming comes around the counter with a flaming log—one studded with mushrooms that seem to be growing, as they do, out from the wood—the idea becomes clear. But, for good measure, the chef talks everyone through the process: poking the crisp, compacted maitake and plucking it from its stoop.
With no other utensils provided to help portion out the bites, this dish demands a bit of dexterity. I dip the mushroom (which itself has been glazed in smoked soy sauce) into the koji cream and do my best to take a mouthful without compromising its structural integrity vis-à-vis the skewer. Doing so, I am treated to a faintly crunchy, then meaty (but tender) mouthfeel bolstered by the surrounding richness of the condiment. The maitake’s flavor, in turn, is earthy on entry but builds toward a salty, smoky, brilliantly umami character on the finish—all tinged with lip-smacking tang and sweetness drawn from the koji. Really, as much as one might be tempted to write the mushroom’s presentation off as a gimmick, the ingredient is handled with the utmost confidence. Thanks, no doubt, to the reset provided by the “Liquid Cleanse,” the “Black Maitake” measures up to the excellent “Bluefin Belly” (providing much of the same pleasure in a more measured, less indulgent package).
An accompanying cocktail—made from last year’s preserved raspberry in combination with fennel, coriander, and raicilla (an agave spirit originating in Jalisco)—tastes soft and cohesive. Somehow (and, yet again, this is a feat of balance), it reminds me of red wine—matching the mushroom’s smoky, earthy, and umami character with uplifting fruit and spice.
The final savory course of the evening raids the dry-aging cabinet once more while also involving guests in the most ambitious, spectacular presentation of the meal. An “onion heart,” roasted over the fire and paired with a dab of Japanese miso, arrives first. Just a minute later, the chef slides what looks like a nest over to our side of the counter. He hands over a flaming twig and invites us to set the structure (made from sprigs of rosemary intertwined along one end of a cow femur) ablaze. The flame reaches a dramatic height without ever seeming to lose control. It yields to smoke, then embers, then ash, and finally reveals a hunk of “Ribeye” that has been aged for 35 days. The meat is cleaned, divided up, and deposited on each plate (with some charred sprigs of the herb still clinging to its crust). It is dressed with a “bone jus” and comes complemented by a small cup of “root tea.”
Visually, the interior of the steak (despite being placed at the center of a bonfire) displays a nice medium rare. On the palate, the flesh feels robust—displaying a slight chew—yet satisfying, being adequately salted and further supported (when it comes to flavor) but the concentrated savory quality of the “bone jus.” For what it’s worth, the remaining leaves of charred rosemary also provide an appealing crispness (in lieu of a more pronounced crust on the meat) with some smoky, piney notes that help further delineate the expression of the beef.
As a side, that “onion heart” proves perfectly sweet and tender—its soft layers being well matched by the brimming umami of the miso paste. The “root tea,” in turn, follows in the footsteps of the earlier mushroom tea. Its appeal is not immediately obvious but shows itself after one has savored what’s on the plate: delivering subtly sweet, vegetal notes that are joined by a bit of rosemary that resonates through the finish. All in all, the “Ribeye” does not quite hit the highs of the “Bluefin Belly” or the “Black Maitake.” However, it delivers ample satiation and satisfaction at this late stage, using a memorable bit of unveiling and some unique sides to transcend flimsy, conventional A5 wagyu-toting “steak courses.”
To pair, a combination of beet, sumac, guajillo chile, and reposado tequila does well to yet again play the role that a red wine would. Here, the root vegetable’s sense of earth, structure, and trailing sweetness melds nicely with the tangy, spicy notes of spice and pepper (and, as always, a light touch of alcohol). I do not note any clear resonance with the ingredients on the plate, but the drink effectively stands up to—and further complicates the flavor of—the beef.
With the turn toward dessert, the team unveils another flourish: black furs, stretched across the full length of the counter, embellishing all the fire and metal and blood with the kind of luxurious pelts won by expert hunters (or warlords perhaps?). It’s an unexpected touch, but one that also makes total sense on a primal, tactile level.
As I run my hands through the impossibly soft tufts, Fleming addresses the assembled diners: thanking them again for coming and introducing a drink that precedes the next serving of food. Off to the side, one of the cooks submerges a piece of hot metal (rested in the fire) into a hardy pitcher of cream. This recipe, for a “hot tincture,” is said to be inspired by a practice that dates back to the taverns of the 1600s. It also bears a passing resemblance to the technique used for Roister/FIRE’s “Ember Ice Cream” (though, here, the method is actually performed in front of guests).
The resulting “burnt cream” is combined with maitake and matcha then poured into a crystal teacup whose etched design and translucence shine against the black, furry background. The liquid itself, upon reaching the palate, displays a luscious consistency and a careful blend of sweetness and earth that is not unlike (perhaps unsurprisingly) a good cream of mushroom soup. Overall, this brew makes for a nice few gulps that allow for an extra degree of showmanship and serve to slowly guide one’s palate toward the even sweeter fare to come.
As it happens, the first dessert takes the form of the menu’s only real totemic luxury ingredient: “Foie Gras.” For this dish, a small lobe of the decadent duck liver is seared and paired with a thickened wine sauce and a few slices of poached rhubarb. Texturally, the foie is impeccable: soft, oozing, and free of any connective tissue that obscures (neigh, ruins) its buttery mouthfeel. When it comes to flavor, the rhubarb offers a jolt of tartness that cuts through all the fat along with gentler, sweeter tones developed from the poaching. The wine sauce, surprisingly, lands more on the rich, earthy side with only traces of fruit. It helps to emphasize the meatier character of the liver, broadening its expression beyond sappy excess.
Overall, this is a successful dish that also represents one of the evening’s more classically-styled creations. I think Warlord’s particular interpretation hinges on how much the recipe transcends the sweet and tangy notes to actually present the savory side—as well as on the fact that the tasting menu continues to hit guests with umami on top of umami on top of umami (cleverly counterbalanced by the beverage program). I appreciate the effort (and enjoyed the dish) but think it still feels a little textbook and undistinguished when compared to the evening’s best offerings.
That being said, an accompanying blend of Sauternes and yellow Chartreuse poured over shaved ice is effortlessly balanced (combining nuts, honey, and herbs) and absolutely thrilling. I must concede that, if serving this drink is predicated on foie gras being served, I will graciously gobble up the liver. This is a beverage that (like so much of the food) aims squarely at enjoyment and hits the bullseye.
The final (and perhaps only “proper”) dessert of the evening centers on “White Chocolate.” For this recipe, the headlining ingredient takes the form of a thick, frosting-like ganache. It is joined by some dried fruit (below) and a brown butter crumble (on top), yielding rich, mouth-coating bites that are punctuated by brittle crunch. The expression of sweetness here varies from milky, to toffee-like, to darkly fruity. However, what really stands out is its concentration: every bit the equal of the menu’s savory preparations and capable of anchoring this side of the tasting menu with a sense of deep satisfaction.
A concluding, unlisted pairing takes the form of an amazake-inflected ice milk. This term typically refers to a frozen dessert made with less fat than typical ice cream. But Warlord’s rendition takes the form base layer of milky snow with a generous frothy crown. Opposite the “White Chocolate,” this ice milk only feels faintly sweet. However, the undercurrent of umami provided by the amazake (a drink made from koji rice) in combination with the cleansing dairy serves to cut through the density of the ganache. This helps to lengthen and broaden one’s perception of the dessert’s concentrated sugar, further enhancing the resulting pleasure and striking a wholly unexpected “cookies and milk” note.
With these last bites and sips, the Enemy experience comes to an end. Fleming, though he has already expressed his gratitude to the counter as a whole, now goes along to each party and offers a personal “thank you for coming.” A server appears shortly after with a couple of menus rendered in an attractively rough style (with handwritten labels, warped newspaper columns, and illustrations of—what else—fire). He invites us to stay a while and order from the à la carte menu if we wish. It’s a generous offer and a really nice bonus for those (like me) who see the tasting menu as a way to skip the wait but also want to indulge in the full breadth of what Warlord has to offer. It’s also just good hospitality: a reminder that there’s no other show after this one, no rush to seat more bodies, no need to shuffle guests who may want to linger, chat, or have a drink out the door.
Yet, tonight, I defer: not just because of the late hour, but because I actually feel uncommonly satisfied by the preceding nine courses. With no check (for water or supplements or some delayed form of gratuity) to pay, I offer my own thanks to the staff and retrace a path away from the fire, beyond the dry-aging cabinets, back into the lobby, and out onto the quiet, rainy corner where Enemy—betrayed by only a faint glow—rages.
Since transitioning to the present “Morsel” format, I must admit I’ve had a pretty great run of meals. Understandably so, for I get to spend more of my time writing about the places I (privately as a consumer) choose to go rather than restaurants I (as a critic) believe are important to explore and evaluate for the sake of the wider dining public.
Really, it’s rare that I think any new opening has a chance of supplanting one of my established favorites. The chef’s credentials, the ambition of the menu, and the wine list tell me almost everything I need to know without having to step foot in a given concept. Sure, some consumers find “trying new restaurants” to be a pastime in itself. I grew tired of that about a decade ago, choosing depth of experience over breadth of experience when deciding how and where to dine. I increasingly found that patronizing a small range of superlative spots, each driven by chef-owners thoroughly committed to evolving their craft, does more to perpetuate good eating than a parade of forgettable meals at superficially “novel” openings.
My belief is that once the city’s most thoughtful, talented practitioners reach a critical mass of customers, they might actually hope to expand, to promote from within, and to further grow the dining scene from a foundation of excellence. One can call this a “top-down” perspective, but it accords with an American consumer culture that is obsessed with obtaining “the best.” The once-a-month or once-a-year or once-in-a-lifetime fine diner deserves the clearest picture of what “the best” restaurant (in accordance with personal taste and the development of one’s palate) in Chicago is at any moment. And chefs should know that the race is not over—that it’s not time to sit back and pump out the same menu in perpetuity—just because Bibendum granted his stars.
This is all to say, I’ve been celebrating some of my favorite benchmarks lately alongside a couple tasting menu excursions from chefs (at Mariscos San Pedro and Kumiko) I otherwise already respect. Apart from an abortive meal from Next at Charlie Trotter’s, I’ve had little to complain about. That’s by design—I don’t seek out bad meals—but who wants to hear someone habitually rave about what they’re eating? There’s a whole other medium for that (one equipped to serve viewers more pictures with less verbosity). So, I suppose the point of what I’m doing now, in picking places with a higher likelihood of pleasing, is trying to untangle the small degrees of quality that define where these restaurants land in relation to what I consider “the best.”
Enemy, from Warlord, is a lot like the tasting menu at John’s Food and Wine in theory. It represents a new, premium offering from a pedigreed spot that built its reputation—walk-in by walk-in—on à la carte fare. I had little prior exposure to either concept (no visits to the former, one early lunch at the latter) but found the greater convenience and patient development of these new formats alluring.
At John’s, this slow and steady approach (supported by a model meant to retain top kitchen staff) yielded an eight-course meal of sharp execution and bold flavors that distinguished themselves within that nebulous “contemporary American” genre while even touching on some of the culinary style I have come to know at Smyth. The menu, in effect, offered an introduction to a few of the same cutting-edge ideas, along with many of the team’s own, in comfortable surroundings at a cut-rate price. I found that eating at John’s meant sacrificing some of the luxury and experiential virtues found at the one-Michelin-star level, but it delivered all the same (or even more) quality. Nonetheless, the eight-course format could not be sustained, and the restaurant has reverted to a more flexible, daily five-course offering that speaks more to its established neighborhood appeal. John’s has even started accepting reservations more generally.
With Warlord, I found much more of a destination: a restaurant in comparable isolation, known for its long lines, and almost a devil-may-care attitude toward whether its customers would actually get in. Enemy offered a golden ticket to bypass the uncertainty if one was willing to cough up the money. Otherwise, it was hard to know what to expect: did this “multicourse” menu just represent a clever monetization of the concept’s prized counter seats, or would the team—so comfortable running the place in an unapologetically hands-off manner—really be looking to compete with their peers at this price point?
The inclusion of the “wildcraft pairings” represented a good start. The Warlord setting—music, candles, the commotion of the kitchen—was naturally engrossing (dare I say delightfully subversive when it comes to “fine dining”?). Hospitality was as warm and attentive as I could want.
To be fair, the chefs didn’t regale us with stories or dive to deeply into what they had sourced or what they were doing or why. Over a period of two-and-a-half hours, they just cooked—for the entirety of the restaurant—while reserving the choicest ingredients and most careful techniques for those eating at the counter. The tending of the fire and a visceral sense of its warmth (opposite the cool air flowing from the propped open front door) formed their own, wordless performance. The flame even made its way directly to guests by way of courses like the ”Oyster,” “Black Maitake,” and “Ribeye.”
Relative to what I sampled at John’s, Enemy shines as a proper—and I think singular—experience in Chicago. Compared to what I enjoyed about counter (and counter-inspired) concepts like Cariño, Feld, and Valhalla “2.0” last year, Warlord’s team is operating in a manner that feels more effortless and romantic. They never try to impress (letting each plate strike with full force), having already shrouded any possible expectations in total mystery. They even veer, provocatively, toward a sense of spectacle and danger (without ever giving guests the sense they are not in control).
Beyond the fire, elements like the black fur (as well as Enemy’s associated piece of digital art), do not make immediate sense. Rather, they speak to compulsion, to something deep within, to the personality that Kraszyk, Lupton, and Fleming have so submerged in how they run the business (and that, when expressed through the food, shines like no other menu I have found at this price).
Yes, it would be easy to label Enemy’s experience as “quirky” or “unconventional” if the dishes were not so damn good. Their quality, ultimately, colors whatever show the team decides to put on (however meager in terms of conversation and cavalier in its wielding of fire) with a shade of brilliance.
In ranking the evening’s menu:
I would put the “Bluefin Tuna” and “Black Maitake” in my highest category: preparations that stand among the best things I have eaten (or will eat) this year. These recipes each combined beautifully refined textures with a degree of concentrated umami (and supporting depth of flavor) that was unforgettable. I dream about tasting them again.
The “Oyster,” “Scallop,” “Turnip,” “Ribeye,” and “White Chocolate” all occupy the next stratum: truly great dishes I would be thrilled to encounter on any menu. These recipes offered pleasing textures with bold, satisfying flavors that are hard to fault. I’m not even sure what to recommend to improve them. They were memorable—but just not magical—for my palate, and others may certainly find they stand among the strongest servings of the night.
Finally, the “Liquid Cleanse” and “Foie Gras” land in the last category: merely “good” offerings I wouldn’t mind encountering again (in fact, the former item actually played a key part in balancing the flow of the menu) but that didn’t quite reach the level of being memorable. Here, I cannot speak of any clear flaws—the duck liver, in fact, was executed adeptly and may very well form a highlight for other diners. These dishes just didn’t strike me as strongly as other parts of the meal.
Add in the included beverage pairing—drinks that were all creatively conceived and easy to drink (if not uniformly memorable) with a few standout hits (like the kombu milk punch, burnt cream concoction, Sauternes/Chartreuse over ice, and amazake ice milk)—and one is left with a hit-rate approaching 100%.
(To be extra critical, I could fault the “Foie Gras” and the root tea served with the “Ribeye” and calculate an overall rate, considering each component of each course, of 83%. However, to be honest, I would not say that anything I consumed tonight crossed the line of being unenjoyable.)
However harshly I judge it, this menu delivered an immense degree of satisfaction with an overwhelming number of dishes landing in the “truly great” and “best of the year” categories. This makes for an incredible performance overall, one that ranks alongside the one-off Obélix “Sugar Shack” menu and my Kyōten experiences as the finest I have encountered in 2025.
To go one step further, I think Enemy’s savory food strongly challenges (and, for my particular palate, surpasses) what I was served during my first few visits to Valhalla “2.0.” The latter venue certainly maintains an edge when it comes to dessert (and wine), but the former’s cocktail pairing (which, again, is included in the price) is also quite competitive. Of course, this is somewhat of an unfair comparison across styles (as well as one that does not yet account for the consistency or dynamism of Enemy’s menu), but it is meant to help frame the experience relative to a restaurant I rated highly in 2024.
Comparing Enemy to my experience at FIRE ($115 per person rising to $180 with the inclusion of the wine pairing) feels like more of a sick joke. Though The Alinea Group has swathed its concept in lofty language describing the “transformative power,” “elemental magic,” and “celebration of flavor, craft, and creativity” symbolized by the form, Warlord makes their work look amateurish. FIRE reduces its namesake tool to a series of tableside gimmicks while struggling to serve food that is hot, crisp, or appropriately seasoned. Enemy, in turn, nearly singes its guests with how bravely it wields the flame, using it to craft dishes that rank among the best in the city.
Judgements of this nature are always bound to sell each concept, with the full complexity of its distinct value proposition, short. They only form a roundabout way of saying that this meal at Enemy really surprised me—and just about blew me away. I am eager to go back (and already plan to), being particularly intrigued by how the tasting menu (now priced slightly higher) might change.
Some readers may find that the thought of patronizing Warlord, however good the food served as part of this new offering, remains impossible to stomach. Each prospective diner will have to tangle with the testimonies that have been presented, the restaurant’s response to them (or lack thereof), and the lapse in any subsequent reporting or organized boycott having to do with these accusations. Those who stand against the restaurant are, indeed, making an actual, commendable sacrifice—for these chefs are cooking at a level that everyone in Chicago should experience.
I, warily, have to trust the fact that Warlord’s team—at this present date and from my limited perspective—seemed happy to be there and were operating at a high level. I have to acknowledge, as always, that flawed (if not downright bad) people can produce great art. Do I have to support it? Do I have to promote it? These are questions I have to ask myself while hoping that providing more information and spurring more conversation will help others find an answer they, themselves, can live with.