I first visited John’s Food and Wine in October of 2023, slipping in for lunch on the very first Saturday the restaurant was open. To be honest, the concept almost escaped my attention (its name being so straightforward that it risked signaling blandness just as much as it connotes confidence, friendliness, and charm today). However, I read those magic words—that chefs and co-owners Adam McFarland and Tom Rogers met while working at Gramercy Tavern—and my pulse quickened. Boka, of course, was consciously inspired by the iconic Danny Meyer property, but I never sensed the same magic when dining there: cooking that could reach heights of refinement while also delivering palpable comfort (the “Angel Biscuits” come to mind), service that blended unerring professionalism with effortless warmth, and a wine program that boasted encyclopedic proportions yet maintained a sharp (even shocking) degree of value.
Yes, Gramercy Tavern is the kind of neighborhood establishment of national relevance that New Yorkers take for granted. Surely, Chicagoans have their own spots serving their own communities in singular ways. But no one—not even Lula Cafe (for all its well-deserved eminence)—matches the scale, the sureness, and the institutional power that Gramercy Tavern brings to seasonal American cuisine. To be clear, John’s Food and Wine wasn’t promising to replicate all of that. Nonetheless, the chefs were tapped into what made the Flatiron District restaurant great, and they planned to channel an earlier era of “honest and approachable” dining without the need for reservations. They’d also debut a “hybrid service system” with customers ordering at a counter before taking their seats (where bottles of wine and additional items could be chosen if desired). Only food runners (including some of the cooks) and a sommelier—rather than servers or captains—would work the floor. And all hourly employees would benefit from a 20% service charge assessed on each check with no other gratuity being accepted.
I didn’t know any of these specifics when making my first visit in 2023. Yet, that afternoon, the restaurant was quiet. I had little trouble adapting to the system with the help of an attentive, unburdened staff. I also got a strong sense of the wine director’s freedom and ambition in designing the program. Over an attractively priced bottle of 2010 Morey-Blanc Meursault Charmes, I enjoyed dishes like “Chicken Liver Mousse,” “Lobster Salad,” “Mafalde,” and a “Pulled Pork Sandwich.” The kitchen had to be reminded to send out our dessert, but the experience was an overwhelmingly positive one. Quality, value, and depth—no matter the peculiarities of how the owners chose to structure the operation—were clearly there. I affirmed that I was enthusiastic about returning for a full dinner, and I really meant it.
John’s Food and Wine, nonetheless, was destined for greatness. Critics and locals alike responded to the unique model, which, at the end of the day, was conceived of as a gentle push toward “restaurant reform.” More practically, it allowed the concept to grow its kitchen staff and reduce turnover by “paying people more than anyone else.” In effect, the quality, creativity, and consistency of the food was prioritized while streamlining service as much as possible. Cocktails and wine were also handled with care, but guests could trust that any inconvenience they faced from the novel system would be more than made up for when it came to flavor and texture. McFarland and Rogers, in this manner, were not resorting to some marketing gimmick that would help define them as “enlightened” owners in the eyes of the press. Rather, the chefs had actually conceived of a way to maximize their culinary firepower in a way that hadn’t really been done. Compared to places like Daisies “2.0” (with its own 25% service charge) and Thattu (with no service charge or gratuity but higher prices and QR code ordering), any sense of sacrifice here can be justified as yielding tangible benefits for the average guest. Crafting the best cuisine, as it should, took precedence.
Still, John’s Food and Wine was a neighborhood spot, and, by not offering reservations nor really landing within my own neck of the woods, it was hard to ever commit to braving the crowd. I had my own standbys with their own friendly faces and their own dynamic menus closer to home. I continued to follow the restaurant with admiration—sometimes writing halfhearted reminders that I could more easily find seating during weekend lunch—but it just didn’t break through. The concept was one of those “oh it was so good,” “oh we should really go there again” places that otherwise fades into obscurity between the newer opening and the all-time favorites.
With that in mind, the launch of an eight-course tasting menu at John’s Food and Wine in December of 2024 was a most welcome surprise. It not only circumvented that whole uncertain process of walking in and waiting in line to order (via Tock prepaid reservations), but also represented a new, superlative creative expression from a team traditionally channeling its talent toward à la carte deliciousness. In short, this would be more of John’s than me or anybody else had seen before: a worthy reintroduction to a place that had passed its first year of operation with flying colors.
Priced at $175 per person (and notwithstanding that 20% service charge), the tasting menu comes in above restaurants like Galit ($98), Sepia ($125), Indienne ($125-$135), Elske ($130), The Coach House ($135-$160), and Jeong ($145) while landing closer to places like Topolobampo ($165-$185), Atelier ($175-$200), Schwa ($175-$255), Kumiko ($180), EL Ideas ($185), Boka ($195), Feld ($195), Valhalla ($198), and Cariño ($200-$220). ($175, I will note, is also the exact price charged by Gramercy Tavern for its own five-course “seasonal menu.”)
Though I first sampled this offering in January of 2025, this piece will focus solely on a second experience in February of 2025. However, it is worth noting that despite only 32 days separating these two meals, seven out of eight courses had changed by the time of this subsequent visit. I struggle to think of more than a couple other restaurants in Chicago—even at the very highest level—that are motivated to transform their menu to this degree. Certainly, there are common ingredients between the two meals to keep in mind, but, with the support of its core business to count on, John’s Food and Wine has undoubtedly entered this more premium category with guns ablazing.
With that said, let us begin.
The stretch of North Halsted that John’s Food and Wine calls home is not one I typically find myself visiting. Perhaps Armitage Alehouse, a few blocks to the west, is the one place I dine at (brunch at to be more specific) with any regularity. Evette’s, from time to time, has been a favorite too. But Boka and Alinea (to the south), Esmé (to the east), and Galit (to the north) are not really destination restaurants for me anymore. The fleet of Lettuce Entertain You concepts immediately down the street don’t offer much temptation either. Certainly, the neighborhood spots are there for those calling this area home (like Athenian Room, which lies just up the other end of the block). However, John’s has provided the only real reason to come out this way since its opening in late 2023 through the present day.
When I think of the state of the storefronts in River North and West Loop, I can understand the appeal: intimate restaurants tucked alongside salons and boutiques with each block being crowned by a corner bar. Even during winter, the sidewalks buzz with the activity of people going store to store (and good luck finding parking). John’s Food and Wine sits snugly at the base of a three-story brownstone, where the pale green of its door and window frames uniquely (if subtly) contrasts the white, black, and red tones that define the surrounding properties. The concept’s immediate neighbors—a custom fragrance workshop on one side and a physical therapist on the other—close just as dinner service really gets started. Yet a park and community center (located opposite the businesses) help lend the street an expansiveness that is missing from the more strictly residential and commercial tracts found up and down the street.
Stepping through the door of 2114 N Halsted, I am met by a sweeping bar with some twelve black stools set on white geometric tiled and rising toward a white marbled countertop. According to my recollection, guests used to place their orders at the corner closest to the entrance. Now, the space is devoted solely to eating and drinking, with a mirrored arch (loaded full of spirits), a piece of abstract art (piano keys? hands on a clock?), and a half-dozen hanging metal lamps (casting warm, comforting light) defining it as a sleek, welcoming area with obvious curb appeal. On the other side of the room, I find a collection of letter boards listing all the various food and drink options. They lead toward a weighty host stand, also rendered in a white marbled pattern, that now serves as the nerve center of the restaurant. On busy nights, it also forms a chokepoint: the boundary that waiting customers hope to reach to place an order and finally sit. Thankfully, with a reservation for the tasting menu, I bypass the line and head straight to the hostess. She offers a kind greeting, relieves the party of their outerwear, and hands us off to be whisked into the dining room.
In truth, the boundary of that space is only a few feet away. It’s a fairly slender area (moreso than the entrance) characterized by a corner booth and a long banquette overlooking the pass. There, white brick and wallpaper are offset by wood flooring, chairs, tabletops, and a bit of brown leather. Potted plants, another mirror, and a couple more abstract canvases help to provide some depth, but the overall impression is one of warmth (again accomplished through the lighting), a certain rusticity, a come-as-you-are comfort, and a basic intimacy that is drawn from one’s closeness to the kitchen. A door at the end of the dining room leads to the bathrooms and an additional seating area. However, the primest front tables are reserved for those doing the tasting menu.
When dining earlier in the evening, I have found the mood at the restaurant to be a bit subdued. Nonetheless, the staff—not just food runners but also managers (who help orchestrate this premium experience)—displays attentiveness and good humor and, thus, keeps the table engaged. As prime time approaches, the dining room quickly comes to life. A sea of customers (young families, old friends, first dates) fills the space, waving familiarly to the hostess then tucking into meals of varying length. The concept’s accessibility ensures a persistent sense of energy and appreciable waves of excitement as each subsequent party (from the perspective of someone enjoying a longer meal) takes their seats.
Enjoying a luxurious tasting menu at an otherwise bustling spot is, in this manner, a real treat. It dials down the seriousness that can characterize fine dining while amplifying a sense that one is out on the town, amongst the crowd, yet still covertly enjoying superlative fare. Plus, even at the peak of dinner service, the team never falters in their hospitality. Drinks are refilled, plates are cleared, and courses are fired in a prompt manner. Check ins are frequent (but also confident and friendly). Overall, there is an enduring sense that the restaurant is grateful to be hosting its guests and especially focused on making the tasting experience seamless. I am left with the sense that the restaurant is not just offering this menu because they can but, rather, because they are deeply motivated (across both front and back of house) to deliver an even higher expression of their craft.
Upon taking my seat, I have learned to keep an eye out for the beverage menu, which is tucked into a cubby hanging on the underside of each table. Given the order-at-the-counter model that most customers must tangle with, this is a clever conceit: ensuring that oenophiles need not hem and haw with a whole line of people behind them. They also don’t have to flag down a food runner, browse the options, flag them down again, and wait for the bottle to appear while dishes are already working (and almost destined to arrive before there’s any wine in the glass).
Those enjoying the tasting menu never have to worry about being overlooked—even when the restaurant is at its busiest. However, it is nice to dive into the selections immediately while water is being filled and pleasantries exchanged. Cocktails, beer, non-alcoholic, and by-the-glass options are all present (as well as a pairing priced at $125), but my experience (from that first visit in 2023) has centered on the bottle list. John’s Food and Wine, as the name suggests, has been a “wine restaurant” from the very beginning. It was honestly shocking to see the kind of cellar they (i.e., Jonas Bittencourt) had curated even during that opening week. The program is now headed by Owen Huzar, and, under his care, it continues to demonstrate how seriously the concept (despite its accessibility) looks to celebrate the marriage of fine food and wine.
Here are some illustrative selections:
- 2023 Gober & Freinbichler “VP 004” Blaufränkisch ($62 on the list, $18.99 at local retail)
- 2022 Tiberio Trebbiano d’Abruzzo ($64 on the list, $23.99 at local retail)
- 2023 Giacosa Fratelli Barbera d’Alba “Bussia” ($74 on the list, $25.99 at national retail)
- 2020 Fosse-Sèche “Eolithe” ($80 on the list, $37.99 at local retail)
- 2023 Marcel Lapierre Morgon ($95 on the list, $31.99 at local retail)
- 2022 Arnot-Roberts “Watson Ranch” Chardonnay ($95 on the list, $46 at local retail)
- 2022 Charles Audoin Bourgogne ($105 on the list, $46 at national retail)
- 2020 Pierre Morey Bourgogne Cote d’Or ($105 on the list, $49.99 at national retail)
- 2022 Peter Lauer “N°12 Unterstenberg” Riesling ($112 on the list, $44.95 at national retail)
- 2022 Chanterêves Bourgogne-Aligoté “Les Monts de Fussey” ($128 on the list, $82 at national retail)
- 2021 Guiberteau Saumur “Clos de Guichaux” ($130 on the list, $59.95 at national retail)
- NV Ruppert-Leroy Champagne “Martin Fontaine” ($141 on the list, $85 at national retail)
- NV Adrien Renoir Champagne “Le Terroir” ($170 on the list, $69 at local retail)
- NV Frank Cornelissen “Munjebel Perpetuum II” ($210 on the list, $108.99 at national retail)
- 2012 Château Rayas Châteauneuf-du-Pape “Pignan” ($470 on the list, $425 at national retail)
- 2022 Bernard-Bonin Meursault “La Rencontre” ($480 on the list, $360 at national retail)
- 2017 Cédric Bouchard Champagne “Côte de Val Vilaine” ($585 on the list, $225 at national retail)
- 2022 Paul Pernot Bâtard-Montrachet ($588 on the list, $374.95 at national retail)
For this sample, markups on wine range from just 11% to as high as 226% added on top of the retail price. However, a mean of 117% and a median of 114% suggest that the restaurant is more or less only marking the bottles up once compared to what customers might encounter in store. It is also worth noting that many of the highest percentages are assessed on the cheapest wines in the sample and, in turn, that the lowest percentages are found on the most expensive, allocated, and speculated upon wines. Though it is worth remembering that the 20% service charge will apply to any bottles ordered, I actually like this telescoping system.
An average guest, when faced with the list, will find some 58 different options all predominantly priced from $60 to $100. This selection checks all the boxes—affordable sparkling, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling, Pinot Gris, rosé, Gamay, Pinot Noir, Nebbiolo, Sangiovese, Grenache, Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, Zinfandel—while balancing classic producers (those offering outsized value) with newer names providing competitive, approachable expressions of their chosen varieties. Added to this, one finds a range of stranger, more adventurous choices—pét-nat, field blends, co-ferments, Furmint, skin-contact Gewürztraminer, Blaufränkisch, Mencía, and the like—that might push many palates out of their comfort zone while simultaneously championing a “natural” or low-intervention style of winemaking.
Customers can pick their poison (indulging in a unique expression of what they already know or signing up for something totally new) while staying comfortably below that $100 mark. They can do so over and over (it is a neighborhood place after all) without running out of options. In fact, the menu even features annotations to help provide guidance: both the practical kind (“blood orange & silk,” “hazelnut & brioche,” “green bell pepper,”) and the impractical kind (“handled with care,” “lunar,” “wine of knights”) in accordance with the best practices I outlined. Even at their worst, these descriptors imbue a list of clear personality with a literal sense of voice. And, ultimately, though markups can teeter toward that 150% or 200% level on occasion, this is not done systemically. Rather, the idea is to give diners at this entry level a wealth of options drawn in large part from producers and places they have little reference point for. Meanwhile, glasses of wine (generally in the $16 to $19 range) and cocktails (priced at $16) remain as value plays for those who might not want to commit.
Huzar’s program really shines when experienced drinkers turn to the “Nice, Nice List” located at the back of the book: a compendium of rare and limited offerings rising beyond $100 and all the way up to $600. Sequestering this selection ensures the average customer can avoid any sense of sticker shock, helping to define the restaurant in friendlier terms. However, those passionate about wine will find a treasure trove: producers like Bernard-Bonin, Cédric Bouchard, Chanterêves, Clos Rougeard, Egly-Ouriet, and Rayas that are not only scarce around these parts but, here, are also generally marked up the least (as low as 57%, 33%, or 11% on top of retail price). For anyone more inclined to spend $120 on a solitary bottle rather than a pairing (or, say, $240, $360, or $480 on multiple bottles depending on party size), these offerings are tantalizing. They form a wonderful surprise that immediately builds a sense of loyalty with wine-loving patrons. They also allow the restaurant to still make a tidy profit on the bottles without any gouging, and, in exchange, the staff benefits directly from the 20% service charge being assessed.
At a time when many restaurants choose to punish oenophiles (squeezing wallets mercilessly when it comes to top bottles), John’s Food and Wine unquestionably rewards them. Really, the concept rewards everyone through a degree of dynamism and value that transcends what one might ever expect from a place many patrons visit for a mere burger and fries. However, from my vantage point, the restaurant succeeds in conjuring the rare kind palpable excitement—a pervading sense of “what will they have next?” and “how little will they charge for it?”—that really drives me to return somewhere regularly. I have not personally seen Huzar across my visits, but it is clear he is doing great work. Moreover, the rest of his team is totally equipped to provide confident wine service in his absence, stewarding this wonderful program with all the respect it deserves.
With the beverage order settled, the meal, at last, begins. Across my meals, I have not only spied chef-patrons McFarland and Rogers in the kitchen, but executive chef Carlos Cruz (whose credits include Cultivate by Forbidden Root, Longman & Eagle, and a long stint as director of culinary operations for 16” on Center), chef de cuisine Evelyn Aloupas (who spent two years at Smyth before leading pop-ups in Paris and London), and sous chef Jackson Cretin (a grill specialist who joined the team after spending time at Warlord).
True to the philosophy guiding the restaurant’s 20% service charge, this is a massive amount of talent (to say nothing of the other cooks on hand) stewarding John’s Food and Wine through its processes of experimentation and execution. Most concepts would be lucky to have one of these five professionals in a leadership role on any given night, yet, here, guests get to taste the fruits of a collaboration that could scarcely exist under conventional means of compensation.
The first course of the evening is actually more of a bite: a “Fluke Croustade” adopting the same crisp pastry form that I have come to associate with the canapés served at Smyth and Oriole. Of course, it’s all about the filling, and John’s has chosen to marry raw chunks of the titular fish with a “lemon drop” kosho aioli, shavings of horseradish, and bergamot. On the palate, the croustade’s shell breaks apart cleanly and yields to the creamy filling. The fluke retains enough of its structure to help punctuate the vessel’s crunch, yet the mouthfeel quickly turns smooth and melty. The fish is fairly mild on entry, yet its subtle sweetness is accentuated by waves of tang and pungency. I do not get much heat or salt from the kosho but, instead, really sense the floral, musky qualities of the bergamot through the bite’s finish. Though, ideally, I’d like a stronger sense of satisfaction from this recipe, it works brilliantly as a bright, cleansing start to the meal that leaves one pondering its aromatic depth.
Arriving next, the “Sumo Citrus”—being served in a small bowl with an accompanying spoon—feels like the first proper course. It is also a rousing success, ranking among the most delicious preparations of this meal and this year (thus far). The titular Sumo Citrus is a trademarked brand of hybrid mandarin known for its size, easy peeling, and seedless fruit. (In fact, the orange is currently being advertised on a billboard across from my local Jewel.) Here, the fruit is sliced into shining segments that are dressed in Thai bird’s eye chili vinaigrette then topped with leaves of shiso and a dollop of golden osetra caviar. John’s resists the temptation to label the latter luxurious roe as the star of the recipe, which I appreciate. On this occasion, the precious orbs do not simply gild the lily but actually, meaningfully contribute to the dish’s flavor profile.
On entry, the citrus, being totally free of pith, bursts without overshadowing the delicate pop of the caviar. A sublime sweetness—underscored by buttery, nutty, salty tones—strikes first. However, a depth of spice and piquancy quickly builds, never overwhelming the palate but continuously shapeshifting (as it contrasts the concentration of fruit) throughout an immense finish. Really, this course left me shaking my head in disbelief. The constituents are so simple yet perfectly poised, and the resulting combination is not only memorable and mind-bending but lick-the-bowl delicious. Bravo!
The ”Lobster Mousseline” that follows marks a transition toward the meal’s more satisfying, soothing constructions. However, this is not to say that there is any compromise on technique. The mousseline, on this occasion, refers to a literal mousse made of forcemeat rather than the sauce of the same name. Lobster meat is cooked, processed, put through a sieve, mixed with cream, and set within a cabbage leaf wrapper before being gently cooked and sliced into medallions. The plump pieces are then coated in a potato beurre blanc and garnished with fines herbes.
On the palate, the mousseline is true to its name: being impeccably smooth in its texture and concentrated in crustaceous flavor. I note one bite that is just a little jarring due to the fact that a segment of the cabbage wrapper has become crunchy. Nonetheless, the creamy beurre blanc (backed by hints of the potato’s earthy, nutty notes) helps maintain a sense of decadence while the fines herbes, in turn, really define the dish’s finish. For my palate, there’s just a bit too much grassiness and anise standing in the way of the lobster—its butteriness and sweetness—really singing. Yet I must also admit that this amounts to nitpicking an otherwise impressive, wholly enjoyable preparation.
Choosing to serve a feeble mollusk after such a prime piece of crustacean might seem misguided, but the “Hokkaido Scallop” more than lives up to its place on the menu. In fact, I prefer it! The dish centers on a sizable puck of the shellfish whose exterior has been seared to a golden-brown crisp and whose interior retains a raw, milky tone. The resulting portion is sliced in half and situated within a chicken fat velouté, where it is accompanied by pieces of maitake mushroom and grapefruit.
On the palate, the scallop displays traces of firmness and brittleness at first but quickly yields to a smooth, succulent mouthfeel I rank among the most superlative of all proteins. The mollusk exhibits its natural sweetness and umami before being supercharged by the velouté, which amplifies the recipe’s savory notes while adding an extra degree of richness. While the maitake further bolsters a sense of meatiness and satisfaction (with traces of earth), the grapefruit delivers alleviating tang and bitterness to help delineate all these pleasing flavors. Overall, this makes for a textbook dish that is unerring in execution and unapologetic about delivering sheer enjoyment.
A dish of ”Agnolotti,” arriving next, demonstrates some of the kitchen’s range. This particular shape, really applicable to any “stuffed pasta made with locally available resources,” is rendered in a rather loose, oversized, dumpling-like manner here. The resulting pockets are filled with a sunchoke purée that has been flavored with espresso. They arrive, three per serving, in a shallow bowl laced with country ham brodo.
On the palate, the pasta’s wrapper offers some fleeting resistance but proves soft and mouth-coating with further chewing. The sunchoke, in turn, feels fulsome and creamy. Its flavor offers sweet and roasted notes that are further bolstered by the bitter, chocolatey tones of the espresso (a surprising but successful addition). Just when the dish runs the risk of seeming sickly, the pristine porcine quality of the brodo provides a hint of meatiness that brings everything into balance. Though certainly unconventional as a “pasta course,” these “Agnolotti” combine inventiveness and intrigue with real pleasure.
At this point in the meal, each guest receives a serving of “Milk Bread.” Somewhat uncannily, I cannot avoid associating this variety with both Oriole and Smyth (though the rendition at John’s is more generous than the former and less polarizing than the latter). It combines a fluffy crumb with a perceptible sense of richness and sugar in the dough. The bread is adequately salted and sticky to the touch, with accompanying notes of shio koji and burnt onion adding deeper sweetness and some bright, floral tones to the finish. Ultimately, I respect this dish as a standalone offering. It looks to push the “bread course” beyond its usual role as an accessory or piece of filler. However, following the sunchoke filling, the dish hits upon similar sweet flavors in a way that can feel overwhelming. Perhaps the secret is to wait for the course that arrives shortly after, shifting one’s palate back to the savory side and allowing the “Milk Bread” to better shine.
The ”Duck” of which I speak is a real treat, and I would put it right alongside the preparation sampled at Obélix (that is, at peak of quality as far as this bird goes in Chicago). At John’s, guests receive a solitary slice of breast with a blushing, reddish interior and a golden-brown, lightly-scored exterior with a well-rendered subcutaneous layer of fat. On the palate, the duck delivers a pleasing contrast between crisp skin and juicy, tender flesh (offering a hint of firmness without any undue chew).
The real excitement comes courtesy of a black garlic and date fudge, which has more of a saucelike consistency. It coats the breast and imbues its natural savory character with a burst of umami and a balsamic, molasses kind of sweetness. Lip-smacking in its intensity, the fudge is countered by the bitterness of an accompanying salad made from Castelfranco radicchio. Yet, as the shavings of foie gras that serve as a garnish melt, they echo the interplay of meat and sauce: forming a vein of fatty sweetness that lasts through the rousing finish. While other restaurants in the same neighborhood may be shy about how they dress their duck, the team here pulls no punches. They achieve—in a manner that feels rather novel—a level of hedonism that rivals any preparation of any protein in town. I just wish I had ordered red wine to accompany it.
A preparation of “A5 Wagyu Striploin” that arrives next represents a tangle with the one totemic luxury ingredient that Chicago’s fine dining concepts seem unable to live without. It represents, by extension, a means by which to judge John’s relative to peers charging double (or even close to triple) for their menus. Here, the familiar slab of steak displays shimmering pockets of fat set within a reddish interior. The meat comes coated in a beef cap jus that also serves to dress a sizable pile of charred turnip greens. Halved hakurei turnips hide below while, off to one side, shaved radish forms a finishing touch.
On the palate, the striploin is simply a marvel: striking with all the tenderness of melty “wagyu” promises but so rarely delivers. (Really, nobody has grown more jaded about this luxury beef than me, and it’s hard to understand how John’s puts out a better product than restaurants with two or three Michelin stars.) While the beef cap jus serves to coat the steak with rich, beefy flavor, it really shines when transported by the turnip greens. These charred leaves augment the sauce with their own bitter, peppery notes and extend one’s appreciation of the fleeting flesh. The actual turnips, when one gets to them, are buttery and sweet while the shaved radish, milky and cleansing, provide a sense of relief. That being said, the interplay of wagyu, beef jus, and crunching greens in this dish is just tremendous. How has the team here done what no other chefs can? Overall, this course ranks alongside the “Sumo Citrus” as a truly special preparation of citywide quality.
In the lead-up to dessert, I cannot resist asking for an order of “Beef Fat Fries” ($13), which the staff graciously accommodates (and even notes that many guests enjoying the tasting menu make the same request). Served with a melted leek aioli, the potatoes display a moderate crispness and really excel in the fluffiness of their interior without any trace of grease. Nicely salted, the fries are satisfying on their own but benefit from the subtle allium sweetness of their dip. Personally, I found myself running out of aioli, but these are a good representation of a thicker style and the kind of decadent add-on (in the realm of unfulfilling tasting menus) that cannot be beat.
Forming something of a cheese course or intermezzo on this occasion, the “Beignet” was originally served as the meal’s opener during my first experience. There was certainly a “shock and awe” factor to that positioning, but, now, the item appears as an off-menu surprise (meaning, when one counts the “Fluke Croustade,” that eight courses are more like nine). This beignet immediately calls Smyth’s savory doughnuts to mind and, in fact, is structure the same way: a cheese filling (Pleasant Ridge Reserve in this case), a beef fat toffee glaze, and, for good measure, more golden osetra caviar.
On the palate, the bite combines a subtly crisped exterior with a warm, gooey interior. However, the caviar, both in texture and flavor, gets a bit lost. The cheese, too, comes across as mild and only faintly savory. It shines more on the finish, but I think this preparation could use more pronounced sweetness. (Or did the fries just throw my palate off?) I definitely enjoyed this more the first time I had it, but it is by no means bad tonight. One way or another, the idea is worth pursuing even if it needs some tweaking.
Finally, I come to dessert: a “Toasted Yeast Ice Cream” that suggests the chefs aren’t going to let off the gas in order to score easy points with something simple and crowd-pleasing. Here, the titular frozen treat comes tucked beneath a trio of vanilla wafers. Upon shattering them (with a satisfying crunch), one finds squares of banana cake and ribbons of Thai banana dulce de leche hidden deeper within. The resulting combination is crisp and creamy with a pleasing density and rich, sticky quality upon reaching those latter elements. The dish’s ultimate flavor, too, is distinctly and enjoyably salty: surprising, yes, but serving nicely to frame the nutty notes of yeast and concentrated, caramelized notes of the banana. Without all that salt, this dish would be perfectly enjoyable, yet its inclusion really provides a degree of contrast and delineation that extends the dessert’s pleasure beyond one’s expectations. Somehow, I can still taste it on my tongue—an affirmation that the menu aims to offer bold, memorable creations all the way through the end.
With the meal having concluded, the bill is presented for any beverages or additional dishes the party has chosen. The 20% service charge is assessed (before tax), and the staff does not even give us the option of leaving an additional tip. Instead, we are allowed to leave at our leisure: traversing the short walk back to the host stand, receiving our belongs, sharing well wishes, and bidding farewell to a restaurant still simmering with energy.
In the final analysis, McFarland and Rogers’s connection to Gramercy Tavern—the one that first excited me about John’s Food and Wine—is not most clearly expressed at a culinary level. Yes, I certainly sense a common thread in the restaurant’s approach to seasonality: one that balances dynamism with refinement and (most importantly) comfort. But, true to the chefs’ stated intentions at opening, they did not seek to immediately capture the glory of present-day Gramercy Tavern: the Michelin star, the white tablecloths, the bearing and grandeur. No, they built a friendly neighborhood concept of sneaky depth and ironclad quality.
McFarland and Rogers did things slowly and sustainably—not the sustainability of Daisies “2.0” (overworked servers and tepid pasta for a 25% premium) or Thattu (anonymous service and a habitually misfiring kitchen for a baked-in premium), but of mature chefs. With John’s Food and Wine, the pair concocted a way of simplifying service by relying solely on food runners and passing some of the burden (i.e., the ordering process) on to customers. They charged guests 20% for the pleasure but—and this is key—put the spoils toward maintaining a sommelier, a shockingly extensive wine list, and a crack kitchen team.
McFarland and Rogers took a hard look at the industry and imposed a key structural change. They did not do so for the sake of marketing or media attention but, rather, with the purest intentions: maximizing the quality and value of the food and wine that form their restaurant’s namesake. Over the course of a year, the chefs succeeded in convincing critics and locals alike as to the virtues of this system. They assembled and nurtured the kind of team it was always meant to support. Finally, in December of 2024, John’s took a turn toward fine dining. There was little fanfare: no social media stardom, no drumming up of expectations, just something superlative nestled on top of a concept the public had grown to love.
John’s Food and Wine took its time building a foundation that could reliably support a tasting menu rather than going all-in, from the start, in pursuit of a glory that means so much less to so fewer people than a truly great neighborhood restaurant. From this position, the team has crafted an expression of fine dining that really accords with the concept’s existing identity: that blend of approachability, creativity, and unerring execution. In short, the slow and steady and sustainable route has yielded something spectacular.
Looking back at the evening’s courses:
I rate the “Sumo Citrus” and “A5 Wagyu Striploin” as the kind of top, top preparations I would be thrilled to encounter at any restaurant at any level. They both delivered a degree of pleasure, leavened by creativity and careful balance, that immediately ranks among the best things I have eaten this year.
The “Lobster Mousseline,” “Hokkaido Scallop,” “Agnolotti,” “Duck,” and “Toasted Yeast Ice Cream” belong to the next category: very good (or even great) dishes that I would welcome as part of any tasting menu and would gladly eat again. These recipes lack something like a clear flaw. In fact, I am comfortable saying they are more or less guaranteed to impress a wide audience. However—and this is sometimes due to being too novel or intellectual in their combinations (really not a bad thing)—these dishes fall just short of that magical, memorable top ranking.
Finally, I would put the “Fluke Croustade,” “Milk Bread,” and “Beignet” at the bottom: what I would merely term “good.” There’s no shame in that, especially considering that one of these items is basically an amuse-bouche and the other two are essentially bonuses. Further, I can see what the chefs are going for with these bites. The ideas are valuable (and already enjoyable to a degree), but I think there’s still room for them to grow.
All in all, this is a stellar showing from a restaurant that has only been serving this menu for a few months (and, on top of that, has already proven committed to evolving its courses). Likewise, it is not surprising when I consider the kind of team and foundation the owners have built. The flavors here are always big and bold but remain distinct: moving from citrus/heat to herbaceousness to concentrated umami to roasted sweetness and back to an even higher concentration of umami (married with even more sweetness) to finish. A plurality of voices in the kitchen ensures that, in this manner, the menu always feels fresh. Yes, looking back at this meal, there’s no singular “John’s Food and Wine” style I can pigeonhole. Rather, a range of influences converge: taking expertly-prepared proteins and sending them in far-flung directions yet always expressing the chosen ingredients with sureness and intensity.
For me, it’s hard not to see Aloupas’s experience at Smyth shine in preparations like the “Fluke Croustade,” “Duck,” and “Beignet.” (I would almost add the “A5 Wagyu Striploin” to that group, but does Cretin not also deserve some credit for how perfectly that beef was cooked?) However, even if one can note shared techniques, execution and the exact style of flavoring remain distinct. I might even say that these dishes, at John’s, capture a good amount of the Smyth ethos while rounding out some of the rough edges and serving for nearly a third of the price. But that would be reductionist.
What matters is that McFarland and Rogers have made a place where all this local talent can take the next step and begin to flex their creative muscles without the sacrifice entailed by waiting it out in a renowned kitchen or the risk involved in fully venturing out on one’s own. John’s Food and Wine, in this way, is not only a neighborhood restaurant serving its community of local diners, but a fine dining concept serving a community of emerging chefs. This kitchen forms the next, essential rung on a ladder that can otherwise feel like it just ends, and, more than that, it is empowering some of the very best cooking in Chicago.
To compare it to the places I reviewed last year, John’s tasting menu takes the bold flavors of Cariño, the “dream team” factor of Valhalla “2.0,” and the seasonal grounding of Feld and combines them. It does so subtly, sacrificing elements of experience and interaction that some may rightfully prize. But, dish for dish, John’s also maintains a higher batting average than any of those spots. The restaurant channels all its resources toward food and wine without overlooking hospitality or abandoning the core business that has made it beloved. Doing so, the team has turned the traditional fine dining model on its head: reaching higher highs by doing more, asking more of customers, but galvanizing the engine that makes it all work. I only wish—here and now—I could formally award them for it.