Somewhere between the formality of Chicago’s Michelin-starred Mexican establishment (i.e., Cariño, Topolobampo) and a wide range of more casual spots (whether specializing in particular dishes or surveying the cuisine more broadly) lands Mi Tocaya Antojería.
Since opening in 2017, the restaurant has ranked among the city’s most esteemed and most awarded (just look at how hard it remains to get a weekend reservation). At the same time, chef-owner Diana Dávila has established herself as one of the country’s leading authorities on Mexico’s foodways: cooking thoughtfully and distinctively within an approachable format that allows the widest possible to come along for the ride.
I visited Mi Tocaya a few times during its early years, and those meals left me feeling intrigued—if not totally blown away. My understanding of Mexican cuisine up until that point had primarily been defined by the aforementioned Topolobampo and by Daniela Soto-Innes’s work at Cosme in New York City. Certainly, I knew Rick Bayless’s crown jewel wasn’t a fair point of comparison (given the difference in aspiration and reputation). But the latter venue, as much as I resist comparing Chicago restaurants to those in other markets, spoiled me.
Cosme, so eminent in its time, offered a vision of contemporary Mexican cooking that winked at tradition and celebrated craft. At the same time, it was fundamentally a sleek, almost sparse Manhattan eatery with an essential cosmopolitan appeal: Spanish terms on the menu were italicized, traditional recipes were dressed up with luxury ingredients, European techniques were dressed down with native ingredients, and everything (if one bypassed the immense collection of agave spirits) could be washed down with fine French wine. The experience wasn’t dumbed down—just carefully curated, for a certain population of well-to-do diners at a certain moment in time, by a team of Mexican-born chefs. They chose to interpret the cuisine in a refined, international style, and the results were immensely satisfying.
Mi Tocaya, by comparison, felt more uncompromising. The menu was written in Spanish (with secondary descriptions mostly in English), and, while the dishes didn’t shy away from showcasing quality ingredients, they rejected luxurious interlopers and borrowed forms. Dávila approached contemporary Mexican cuisine in a more reflexive manner: pushing the boundaries of technique from a position wholly within the culture. This is not to say her thinking was insular. Rather, flashes of outside influence were assimilated into a pervading style rather than obscuring or cheapening the menu’s approach. The results, in turn, might be called “rustic” (which really only means unbetrothed to any outside standard). They could just as easily be termed unpretentious, unapologetic, uncommonly delicious, deeply inspired, and, at times, challenging.
I knew enough back then to imagine that this was rewarding food for those who could recognize the underlying heritage, note how recipes were being refined (or subverted), and revel in cooking that felt no need to pull punches for the sake of outsiders. And—again—I more or less enjoyed what I tasted and came away with a positive impression. However, lacking any headlining dish to hang my hat on (Cosme had a few of those), I just didn’t find myself planning ahead in order to make further reservations. On those occasions I did put a date on the calendar, it would almost invariably get cancelled to make room for a more established favorite.
On the other side of the pandemic, Mi Tocaya’s resiliency—while never straying from its culinary philosophy—stood out. Dávila’s concept was no longer a “best new restaurant,” but it had matured into an evergreen Bib Gourmand winner and staple on any list of the city’s definitive eateries. The chef herself had become a regular semifinalist (and occasional finalist) for the James Beard Foundation’s Best Chef: Great Lakes award. Whenever there was a collaboration, pop-up, or occasion for her particular expertise, Dávila seemed to be there. She could just as easily speak—and celebrate Chicago—as a humble business owner trying to build community on her block.
Whenever I find myself saturated by this kind of omnipresence, the tendency is to feel left out. The temptation, all the more, is to dismiss all this positive press as a feat of personal branding rather than bonafide quality. After all, my experiences at the restaurant were good—not great—and it’s easy to excel in a particular niche without necessarily rising to the level of being a top performer that totally transcends its genre.
The broader dining public certainly remained divided, with Mi Tocaya’s ratings ranging from 4.6 out of five (1,025 reviews) on Google to 3.9 out of five (494 reviews) on Yelp. Customers alternatively characterized the concept as “criminally underrated” and “fantastic” or “overrated,” “overpriced,” and “below average.”
Such polarization always intrigues me—what better task for a critic than to uncover and describe what divided segments of consumers might be sensing? Why not try to plant the signposts that might help guide individuals in making an informed choice?
My return to Mi Tocaya in June of 2024—the first visit in something like five years—was admittedly more impulsive. The restaurant was conveniently located relative to where that night’s actual dinner was planned. An early reservation would offer a chance to grab a drink and a bite, to get a sense of what was going on there, without the expectations that a full commitment might entail.
Despite intending to make a short, sweet stop, I ultimately sampled about a third of the menu. Most of the dishes were hits. A couple were just alright. I enjoyed the experience but was also left feeling more or less like I did in 2018 and 2019. Mi Tocaya still seemed to intrigue as much as it did satisfy. Certainly, one or two of the offerings sought to deliver pleasure directly, yet the majority took a roundabout route there. It remained hard to grasp onto this or that recipe as a shining reason to go back.
I wouldn’t say my understanding of Mexican cuisine had particularly grown in the interim (though, by that point, I had written about Cariño). But, in a larger sense, my palate had begun to prize more extreme expressions of texture, flavor, and seasonality. Feld had not launched, and I had not yet visited Cellar Door Provisions. However, I was slowly able to connect the dots—through Elske, through Smyth, and other restaurants (now forming my favorite subjects) at the more provocative end of the spectrum—in a way that cast Mi Tocaya in a new light.
Dávila’s work was not to be judged as a unique take on the “Mexican” genre—with all the baggage (for a certain audience) that might entail. No, the chef was engaged in the same exploration of ingredients and techniques that seems so legible when framed in an “American” or “Mediterranean” or “Nordic” context. She was cooking boldly and seasonally and sourcing products as thoughtfully as possible (combining them in novel ways) with the aim of elaborating a personal cuisine.
Mi Tocaya represented the perpetuation and regeneration of traditional foodways from a particular place with a defined terroir. But it also offered a lens through which the Midwestern and even broader American bounty could be seen. The restaurant embraced a set of tools that could be used to challenge any diner’s palate—across the conventions of genre—and grow it in accordance with a much larger, more sweeping “slow food” movement. Simultaneously, it still offered untold depth for those in possession of the right cultural touchstones.
From this perspective, Mi Tocaya took on more salience. What remained so captivating about the concept five years later became clear. It was not a misunderstood or divisive “Mexican restaurant,” but a dynamic, boundary-pushing, unapologetic farm-to-table establishment full stop. Its work needed to be placed in conversation with other kitchens—untethered to suffocating labels—taking similar risks, and I ventured that my present format could finally do justice to the cuisine.
So, I returned again, in May of this year, ready to sample as much as I could and interpret it in the right state of mind. What I tasted was as intriguing as ever—but also newly rewarding.
Let us begin.
Mi Tocaya Antojería sits on a quiet corner in a neighborhood that has become increasingly familiar as of late. The restaurant lies beyond the Kyōtens, beyond the disappointment of Daisies and Akahoshi Ramen, but short of Cellar Door Provisions (my newfound love). It can be found east of Logan Square itself, along the boulevard of the same name, which connects Dávila’s concept to kindred spirit Lula Cafe. Indeed, this is a part of the city where an appreciation for seasonal cooking—and understanding of the tradeoffs it can sometimes entail—has long been fostered.
But, with California Avenue as its cross street, Mi Tocaya also maintains a certain feeling of distance. This is an unabashedly tree-lined, residential stretch with a wondrous, unimpeded view (that quickly devolves into bumper-to-bumper traffic come rush hour). Churches and schools line the family-friendly blocks, yet the expressway also lurks—along with businesses like Popeyes, Starbucks, Subway, Burger King, and IHOP. This reality—the fact that Dávila pushes boundaries in a place where speed and convenience abound—makes what Mi Tocaya offers somewhat brave. Like so many great restaurants, it looks to inspire a different kind of eating in the surrounding community rather than playing down to (and extracting value from) prevailing tastes. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is Dávila’s own “home neighborhood,” and her daughter went to school “across the street” at time of opening.
When it comes to immediate neighbors, Mi Tocaya shares the block with a sandwich shop and a defunct assisted living home (set to be replaced by an apartment building). This is to say, Dávila and her team’s work headlines the block. Out front, the restaurant’s gated patio flows out toward the sidewalk. Shrubbery helps to shield these guests from the chaos of the intersection, yet the hum of conversation (set to a lively soundtrack of Latin music) overcomes the honks and adds character to the corner. So, too, does the line of prospective diners waiting for a chance at a table.
The eatery itself occupies a three-story brown brick building: faded—but handsome—with an elegant curvature and some sharp trimming around the windows and the roof. The space previously housed a concept called Catalpa Kitchen (the name referring to the species of tree found along the boulevard) which served American food with global touches. Aesthetically, any sense of the present genre is somewhat obscured—that is, until one spots the fanciful Mi Tocaya signage, notes the colorful native plants drawn onto the windows, and steps foot inside one of the city’s most kaleidoscopic dining rooms.
To be honest, simply approaching the host stand takes a bit of maneuvering. The space—irregular and narrow—has done its best to totally maximize the available seating. Parties wisely send lone emissaries to check in, ones who must dodge the flow of servers back and forth from the patio while also trying not to encroach on those who are eating at the bar. Once one’s time has come, wading into the scene (at least at peak capacity) can feel chaotic. Details blur into the thump of the music, the din of the other guests, and the sounds and smells of the open kitchen.
Yet the easy warmth of the hostess is reassuring. She leads me to one of several segmented banquettes that help to amplify the width of the room. From this foothold, I acclimate myself: to the faded brick, clashing patterns of tiling, the murals (with their vegetative, deep sea, and supernatural themes), the odd collage or canvas (referencing Mexican folk art), neon signs (the restaurant’s name, the ever-present cacti), small ceramics, religious iconography, myriad potted plants, flowers, hanging lamps fitted with antique bulbs, and a countless assortment of agave spirits (each bottle with its own shape, size, and adornment). One corner features a couple of the restaurant’s awards alongside a picture of Dávila holding her baby.
The tones—for all of the above—comprise a rainbow of colors. The sturdy feeling of stainless steel and dark wood frames reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, purples, and pinks in both pastel and deep, vivid hues. The sensibility extends to the barstools, the plateware, and even into the bathrooms, where one is confronted—intimately—by the full vibrancy of the chosen aesthetic.
The sum effect is undeniably maximalist. An uncharitable observer might even say it looks haphazardly cobbled together with clashing elements. But Mi Tocaya (“my namesake”) Antojería (a place serving “little cravings”) did not open with any sense of the honors or cult status that were soon to come. The concept never sought to tap into the feelings of sleekness, exclusivity, and stereotypical “luxury” that form any easy blueprint—across genres—for anyone looking to confect a hit.
True to the restaurant’s name, a certain homey, lived-in quality reigns here. The confines reflect the varied tastes and contradictions that define an actual (i.e., not a contrived or consciously refined) personality. They celebrate a vision of Mexican culture that is unbound by any outside convention of what an eatery (of this reputation and price point) should look like. And they reflect the kind of broad, searching approach—showcasing a range of favorite recipes while simultaneously probing the ingredients and techniques used to make them—that Dávila uses to shape her cuisine.
This is the heart of an antojería titled in such a familiar, beloved fashion. The setting demands that diners leave any sense of pretension at the door—and that they prepare for an experience that is not shy about expressing its full range of inspiration in an uncompromising, unfiltered form.
Such a posture—however “authentic” (that is, a true expression of self)—carries with it an element of risk: how do you meet the expectations of a diverse demographic of customers, some of whom are no doubt drawn to the restaurant as some kind of representation of the city’s “best”?
Indeed, when I look around the room, the crowd tonight is predominantly white and middle-aged (some being a bit older) with a sprinkling of black and Asian customers as well. The couple seated next to me notes that they visit Chicago from time to time and were given Mi Tocaya as a recommendation by a server at Topolobampo. They didn’t particularly enjoy the tasting portions at the latter spot but were hoping to find another satisfying à la carte meal like the one they enjoyed at Frontera Grill.
Rick Bayless, no doubt, excels as an evangelist for Mexican cuisine. But acclimating consumers (who might be used to a certain reliable, comforting baseline at his restaurants) to Dávila’s bolder style demands finesse.
Mi Tocaya’s staff, I have found, is more than up to the task. They match the freewheeling character of the space with a confident, informative, and patient approach that is adept at leading diners through a menu that might push them beyond what they have come to enjoy elsewhere. Moreover, the team—both servers and bussers—simply seem happy to be here, imbuing every interaction with a combination of easy cheer and sincere care that speaks to a hospitality culture built on real pride, respect, and spirit.
Though two dishes are recommended per person, servers barely flinch should one triple that amount (beyond offering a goodhearted assurance that you must be hungry). At a technical level, the staff is fairly attentive when it comes to the delivery and clearing of plates. I found that, once the restaurant grew more busy, getting additional bottles of water or refills of wine could take some reminding. Nonetheless, the server did still routinely visit the table during the course of the meal, and the rapport he developed from the first moment ensured that the table never felt forgotten even if we did have to jog his memory.
I was also impressed by how the server was equipped to handle wine service in general: introducing our bottle (with its constituent grape varieties), opening it with dexterity, and preparing an ice bucket that chilled the contents effectively (something, sadly, one cannot always rely on).
Yes, staff education marks one of the finest tests of any wine program, and, in the work of beverage director Estefanía Bermúdez, I have found a lot to like.
To begin, there are—of course—cocktails. The set of five options includes a “Margarita” ($15) made simply from tequila blanco, lime juice, and agave nectar. For my taste, it could use a little more sweetness and tartness. However, the expression of the spirit is superb: demonstrating far more length and depth than one finds in the drink’s more chuggable renditions. (It’s also easy to request a version of the recipe, made to one’s exact specifications, drawing on the restaurant’s library of bottles.)
A “Nixta Ponche” ($18) was more successful: combining a dizzying array of ingredients (like tequila reposado, yellow masa, cacao, vanilla, chiles, anise seed, clove, cane sugar, lime, and clarified whole milk) to great effect. The resulting tipple—boasting a glowing green tone—is round and rich with a carefully judged sweetness and a profound, can’t-put-your-finger-on-it depth of spice. It ranks alongside the best “milk punch” variants I have tasted in Chicago.
Though I didn’t sample it, there’s also a “Sangria” ($15) made from a four-year-old “mother” on offers. This joins a selection of mostly local beers and a few of the city’s most thoughtful non-alcoholic options: like four different “Agua Frescas” ($6), a “Tepache Colada” ($9), and a play on a “Cantarito” ($8).
However, as always, it is the chosen wine that catches my attention the most. Here are some representative selections from the bottle list:
- 2022 Modales “Contact” ($56 on the list, $18 at the winery)
- 2020 Bodega Murga “Joyas de Murga” ($59 on the list, $24.96 at national retail)
- 2022 Left Foot Charley “Crémant of Michigan” ($60 on the list, $28 at the winery)
- 2022 Moritz Kissinger “Null Ohm” ($60 on the list, $30 at national retail)
- 2022 American Wine Project “Summer Land” ($64 on the list, $26.99 at national retail)
- 2022 Terah Wine Co. Vermentino ($64 on the list, $28 at the winery)
- 2022 Two Shepherds Trousseau Gris ($64 on the list, $19.99 at local retail)
- 2021 Scheurmann “Anima” ($71 on the list, $45 at national retail)
- 2023 Stranger Wine Company Viognier ($72 on the list, $28 at the winery)
- 2023 Domaine Mosse “Bangarang” ($74 on the list, $29 at national retail)
- 2023 Barrigon “Remix” ($81 on the list, $59 at national retail)
- 2023 Radicante “Entreolivos” ($81 on the list, $35 at national retail)
- 2021 Philokalia “Grapes of Wrath” ($99 on the list, $74.96 at national retail)
- NV Lelarge-Pugeot Champagne “Tradition” ($109 on the list, $59.99 at local retail)
- 2022 Dos Búhos Chenin Blanc ($114 on the list, $45.99 at national retail)
In a header, Bermúdez describes this list as being “dedicated to the celebration of romance and freedom,” which can be felt by “drinking fruit from la tierra, molded by the people.” There, the beverage director also affirms that “the intersection of wine, the land, the people, and Mi Tocaya Antojería’s food fuse effortlessly together.” More practically, in turn, she states that the selections “focus on small production” and “minimal intervention farming practices” but—“most importantly”—a sense of “community and collective joy” leads the way.
Indeed, the chosen bottles run the gamut from France, Germany, Italy, California, and Mexico to Lebanon, Maryland, Michigan, Palestine, Peru, and Wisconsin. The chosen grapes, too, range from favorites like Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Sauvignon to Valvin Muscat, Rkatsiteli, Brianna, Grolleau, and Pineau d’Aunis. And, just for good measure, skin-contact and rosé styles make up about a third of the total options.
This is the kind of uncompromising list I’d expect from a place like Cellar Door Provisions, but, in fact, the producers may even be more obscure. The degree of value also isn’t quite as sharp—markups range from as low as 32% to as high as 220% on top of retail price (with a mean of 123% and a median of 131%).
The program here, like so many I admire, is not defined by offering screaming deals on cult producers. Nonetheless, I respect that the margins the restaurant is making remain fair, and I appreciate that the bottles on offer are so singular. The selections reflect a clear sense of personality and a preference for storytelling: whether it’s a tale of Midwestern terroir, Mexican terroir, indigenous grapes (matching an indigenous cuisine), a new take on classic varieties, winemaking in an area of conflict, or the fruits of an oddball, outsider approach to the craft in general.
These narrative threads—faithfully relayed by the rest of the team—form the perfect entryway for customers who would not otherwise engage with wine. They form the antidote for generations who are put off by the craft’s traditional hierarchies yet, framed in the right manner, might find a lot to like from the diversity of people and places it comprises.
(I should not fail to mention the separate menus, placed on each table, featuring a different winemaker each month. The story and tasting notes found therein, along with friendly by-the-glass pricing, represent another means of tempting otherwise skeptical guests to give something new a try.)
Personally, finding the Moritz Kissinger (a “summer red” from a young producer in Germany) and the Lelarge-Pugeot (a Meunier-dominant biodynamic Champagne from an eighth-generation estate) on the list at such fair pricing is more than enough to thrill me. (The former bottle is even sold by the glass!)
Otherwise, save for these two bottles, I might land more in the realm of cocktails or (with enough research) take a leap on something totally unknown. The latter choice is certainly what Bermúdez, in curating a selection that so effectively mirrors Mi Tocaya’s culinary philosophy, looks to inspire. And I admire seeing such a risk—at a concept that could get away with offering nothing special by way of wine—being taken.
Overall, I think the restaurant’s beverage program does well to keep pace with establishments like Cariño and Topolobampo despite the clear difference in entry price. The key being that Bermúdez and the team have faithfully pursued a singular vision and means of distinction rather than competing, section by section, within the same themes. Ultimately, this pervading sense of identity makes drinking at Mi Tocaya feel uniquely engaging and satisfying on its own terms. There’s also a certain degree of dynamism (observable when looking at past cocktail and wine lists) that adds to the excitement.
With the beverage order settled, the meal—at last—begins. Tonight, I choose to sample 12 out of 14 savory dishes on offer: skipping the “Steak Burrito” ($26) and “DIY Fish Tacos” ($32) with the intention (at least when it comes to the former) of focusing on items that might prove more polarizing.
Of course, there’s little controversial about “Chips y Salsa” ($7)—a crowd-pleaser if there ever was one. It could be tempting to challenge expectations and thoroughly subvert this form in some way that would really demand diners (all almost certain to order this snack) bend to the kitchen’s will. Yet, here, Mi Tocaya delivers quiet excellence.
The chips themselves (“non-GMO, all natural”) display a bit more weight and structure than your garden variety. Still, they crunch cleanly: offering a perfectly judged dose of salt and a corny depth of flavor that makes their quality clear. The “homestyle” salsa, in turn, is made with charred tomato, tomatillo, serrano, garlic, and other, undisclosed ingredients. This secrecy is probably for good reason, as the resulting balance of fruity, tangy, and nutty notes—backed by a mesmerizing, one-more-bite degree of heat—begs being copied. Yes, this humble item is well worth paying for (thankfully chip refills are free). It immediately, convincingly demonstrates just how well Dávila can impress with the simplest of offerings.
The ”Guacamole” ($12) tells much the same story: effectively doubling the nostalgic, hedonistic effect conjured by the “Chips y Salsa.” For this recipe, the restaurants muddles the headlining avocado with garlic and serrano in a molcajete (that is, a pre-Hispanic mortar and pestle made from basalt). Lime, sea salt, chile ash, and pea shoots then form the final toppings.
On the palate, I am struck by the dip’s combination of creaminess and weight. Indeed, if one looks closely, it is possible to see the variation between smaller and larger chunks of avocado that lend this handmade rendition a greater sense of presence and a more engaging mouthfeel without detracting at all from a core soothing texture. When it comes to flavor, the guacamole delivers a pronounced tang with plenty of backing salt, a hint of smoke, and even some subtle sweetness. Importantly, not a single bite of this sizable portion tastes bland. To the contrary, the ingredients combine in a way that imparts a surprisingly long, appreciably savory finish. In sum, this is as good an example of this recipe as I can ever recall tasting. Next time, I’d love to see how it combines with the seasonal vegetable “crudos” offered for an additional $3.
Next comes the “Costra Taco con Nopalitos” ($15), an offering from the “Manos Only” section of the menu that helps to demonstrate how the kitchen likes to mix and match dishes from various sections rather than progressing in a set order. This particular recipe centers on a hand-pressed tortilla (made from locally milled heirloom Oaxacan corn) that has been crusted with a caramelized layer of chihuahua cheese. A salad of lettuce hearts, radish, chiles, and nopales—the paddles of prickly pear cacti—serves as the topping while a salsa—itself made with cured cactus—forms the finishing touch.
On the palate, the essential contrast between the tortilla and the salad strikes a deeply comforting note. There’s not only the textural element—fresh, crunching, and fleetingly slick/slimy bits set against a brittle (but still somewhat melty) base layer—but a temperature one too, as the warmth of the tortilla envelops and broadens the flavor of the fresh vegetables. The headlining nopales, at core, are actually quite easy to enjoy. They offer a bright, tart, and almost herbaceous character that naturally counteracts the sharper, savory notes of the chihuahua cheese. I do think a touch of salt or a more forceful expression of the salsa (which kind of remains in the background) might drive this taco to a higher peak of pleasure. Nonetheless, the dish still delivers a memorable mouthfeel while maintaining an admirable degree of balance between its varied ingredients.
The ”Aguachile de Camaron” ($25) is perhaps the most visually arresting dish of the evening: an intricate assemblage of shapes and colors that promises untold complexity in each scoop. More practically, the recipe combines Sonoran shrimp, locally-sourced apple, chayote (a kind of pear-shaped squash), charred avocado, red onion, cilantro, peanuts, garlic shrimp “crunchies,” and a sweet potato-inflected leche de tigre—a citrus-based marinade used for the seafood (here drizzled over the entire preparation).
Best enjoyed with an occasional bite of tortilla chip (which helps to ground the swirling sensations whether or not one actually uses it as a delivery vessel), the preparation is defined—texturally—by the interplay of the softer shrimp and avocado, the crisper apple and red onion (this crispness also echoed by the cilantro stem), and the pronounced crunch of the peanuts (as well as the “crunchies” themselves). While the resulting mouthfeel is immediately engaging, the flavor takes a bit longer to build. Tangy—with medium heat—on entry, I’m surprised by the muted character of the apple and chayote. The avocado, too, is not seasoned as aggressively as it was in the “Guacamole.”
Nonetheless, working my way through the bowl, the earthier, fruitier, and (subtly) sweeter qualities of the sweet potato and assorted chiles eventually come to the fore. Against these notes, the occasional piece of nut absolutely sings. It provides all the savory backing I am looking for, leading to a satisfying, engaging finish marked with lasting heat. In sum, the degree of depth and slow-burning delicious achieved here is quite impressive. I thought I might be left disappointed at the first bite—only to have witnessed an incredible blossoming by the time of last one.
With the “Patacas en Tres” ($16), Dávila savvily expands her embrace of indigenous foodways to the Midwest. Beneath the dish’s listing, the chef describes how “sunchokes are native to this very Great Lake region and have been cultivated way before any European arrivals.” Celebrating the ingredient’s “nutty, floral” essence, she prepares it three ways: roasted (dressed with a play on salsa macha), as a dairyless crema (combined with almond), and as an enchilada topped with sweet potato pico de gallo. These elements arrive comingled on the plate underneath a scattering of pea shoots, with the idea being to get a complete, cohesive sense of what this tuberous root can offer.
Diving in, I first take aim at one of the larger, roasted pieces of sunchoke. It crunches cleanly against my teeth before yielding to a fluffier, potato-like interior. The tuber’s underlying nuttiness—the reason I have seen it feature on fine dining menus for more than a decade—is beautifully expressed here. And the presence of components like the crema—cool and rich against the crisper, warmer bites—and salsa macha (itself made from sunchoke) serves to amplify this nutty quality while also harmonizing it with notes of sweetness, smokiness, and spice.
The enchilada, which lies at the heart of the bowl, can be thought of as the anchor: dense, and absorptive, and suited to coalescing everything else that goes on. It does not offer the same obvious textural appeal as the roasted sunchoke. However, the accompanying sweet potato pico—sweet, tart, and tangy in its own—gilds the lily. It pushes the root’s caramelized character, so well expressed throughout the dish, to a maddening concentration. The result is a dish that seems to go in so many directions only to hammer that nutty note harder and harder until one’s palate is left in savory bliss. This was, undoubtedly, a highlight of the evening and the kind of recipe that could easily feature at a Michelin-starred (or multi-starred) level.
A preparation of “Asparagus a la Parilla” ($18) continues the exploration of fresh, local produce: combining grilled stalks of the titular vegetable (sourced from Nichol’s Farm) with foraged ramps (another indigenous jewel) and a dressing of navy bean (sourced from Three Sisters Garden) blended with green garlic. Crispy onions complete the presentation, whose connection to Mexican cuisine seems tenuous. Yet that is the beauty of a concept framed in such personal (i.e., unbounded, indefinable) terms.
This crunching, crisp salad forms one of the textural highlights of the meal, with the way the thicker segments of asparagus and thinner strands of ramp (opposite the beautifully brittle curls of onion) interact yielding persistent enjoyment. The accompanying flavor is more complicated. The dish is well salted and the dressing is appropriately creamy. While the navy beans add a buttery, nutty to the assembled vegetables, the green garlic skews more toward the grassy—almost bitter—side. I think I was expecting more of a tangy, umami-laden sensation from the sauce. Nonetheless, the overall combination remains intriguing, as well as forming a pleasant reprieve from many of the menu’s bolder impressions.
The focus on produce continues with the arrival of the “Setas con Mole Rojo” ($18). Here, perhaps due to the fact that the headlining donko shiitake mushrooms lack a traditional association with Mexico or the Midwest (though they can certainly be cultivated), the manner of preparation accords more with the former culture’s foodways. The fungi are prepared encebollado style (cooked with onions) and paired with chochoyotes (a kind of small masa dumpling). Spiced nuts, chayote, some sliced of radish, and a heaping portion of dill complete the recipe, which is finished tableside with a pour of the red mole.
On the palate, the basic interplay of the smooth, subtly bouncy dumplings and the meatier shiitakes—punctuated by the occasional brittle crunch of nut—is highly satisfying. All the dill on hand ensures that each bite is tinged with plenty of fresh, grassy flavor, and I worry that it might prove too much. However, the red mole underlies the herb with robust notes of earth, sweetness, and smoky that are (compared to many of the recipes tonight) free of all that much heat. Instead, I actually get a burst of concentrated umami that builds off of the onion. Could it be Maggi? Whatever it is, this element does beautifully to steer the dish through the brightness and spice toward a finish that fully captures the mushroom’s satisfying savory power. Ultimately, I enjoyed this recipe far more than expected. It ranks as one of the night’s surprise hits.
The arrival of the “Alitas de Pollo con Mole Poblano” ($15) shifts the flow of the meal back toward the kind of broad appeal and easy enjoyment that marked the opening chips, salsa, and guacamole. These chicken wings—rendered beautifully as lollipops—are cooked twice in their own fat, coated in the titular sauce (made from a three-month-old “mother”), then finished with a chicken chicharrón crumble and some lime.
When it meets your teeth, the wing is remarkably smooth and tender. It offers none of the faint firmness or crispness one expects from the form. The only degree of resistance or crunch comes from the haphazard sprinkle of the chicharrón. This is a choice, on the surface, I find a bit controversial. However, as the bird’s melting flesh yields to the encompassing mole, I begin to understand. With the rich, fatty chicken as its base, the sauce’s quoted 32 ingredients start to unravel. At first, I get hints of chocolate and a mild dose of spice. But it’s a more satisfying, savory character that reveals itself over time—along with a sweet, nutty note that carries over through the finish. I know many people for whom this kind of mole (even, say, Topolobampo’s signature rendition) proves overwhelming. Yet the version here feels finely-woven: showcasing depth, yes, without deviating from a certain, sheer deliciousness. I think this is a great example of the recipe (celebrating “the birth of Mexican cuisine” as the menu notes) packaged in a way that anyone can enjoy.
Perhaps the most luxurious dish on the menu is the “Enchipotladas de Langosta” ($32): a preparation of lobster and langoustine enchiladas (made from heirloom Oaxacan blue corn tortillas) coated in a lobster-chipotle cream with a topping of diced spring radish. The resulting plate—two sizable, triangular pockets awash in orange sauce—looks like one of the evening’s most delectable too.
Approached with knife and fork, the enchilada is easily sliced apart. It reveals a filling of rather fine flesh (think crab cake) and is easily maneuvered, along with some radish, into one’s mouth. There, the seamlessly smooth combination of lobster, langoustine, and tortilla is bound by the bisque-like richness of the sauce. I’d almost like for the pieces of seafood to be larger and more discernable (should those bits of root vegetable really offer the most distinctive mouthfeel in this kind of preparation?). Nonetheless, I cannot complain with the pristine sweetness—kissed with smoke and amply salted—that characterizes the enchilada’s flavor. All in all, I would likely order this item again even if I am not left wholly feeling it lives up to its high expectations.
The “Coliflor Ahumado Fundido” ($18) that comes next represents the last—and most decadent—of the evening’s dedicated vegetable preparations. It also stands as the closest thing to a “miss” that I would sample on this occasion. In theory, the combination of smoked cauliflower, a sauce of two-year-aged Hook’s cheddar, a tangle of lacinato kale, strips of roasted poblano, and salsa ranchera (made with fresh tomatoes, garlic, onion, and chiles) sounds like a sure thing.
In practice, the dish marries layers of crunch (the cauliflower, kale, and peppers) with a reservoir of gooey cheese but does not quite cohere them. Perhaps user error is to blame—taking bite down from the top rather than mixing the ingredients together from the bottom. In either case (or, perhaps, as a consequence), the resulting flavor—tangy, a touch smoky, with a mild degree of heat—also seems to fall flat. Ultimately, this recipe eats like a hodgepodge of elements, each pleasant enough on their own, just thrown together. Yet there’s no reason the chosen components shouldn’t add up to something more. I think I’d like to see the cauliflower, amply coated in aged cheddar, really take the lead while the kale, in turn, fades more into the background. Yes, cheesy satisfaction is really what I miss here, and it might be that the desire to make the plate look pretty somewhat superseded that goal.
A serving of “Pulpo a la Parilla” ($25 for a half-order) provides me with a shining opportunity to judge just how well the kitchen can prepare that tentacled test of technique known as the Spanish octopus. Paired with a clam salsa, some avocado wedges, cubes of radish, and dill, the dish also promises a unique take on the cephalopod.
On the palate, I cannot fault the cook on the starring attraction at all. The octopus, at its thickest end, marries a slight degree of chew with prevailing tenderness. At its thinnest curl, the bites are punctuated by a beautiful charred crunch. While I admire the thinking behind the clam salsa (indeed, I especially like seeing chunks of the bivalve peeking out among the tomatoes and onion), the finished product proves a little too briny. The sauce still carries the flavor of the dish, but it overwhelms the latent sweetness of the octopus as well as any greater nuance that the dill, radish, and avocado might have offered. That being said, this remains an interesting dish with notable textural appeal. It only needs some minor tweaking to really shine.
Closing out the savory portion of the meal (and clocking in as the last and most expensive of all the items offered) is the “Barbacoa” ($42). The term connotes an ancient, indigenous method of slow-cooking meat in covered pits. Dávila, terming it her “favorite [recipe] for large family celebrations (four day span),” adapts the process while preserving its essential character. The chef starts with grass-fed Colorado lamb neck and seasons it for 24 hours. The meat is then cooked “low and slow” in a consommé made from pasilla chiles, Mexican coffee, cider, and allium. Finally, it is served with leafy greens, pickled onions, a sweet pea salsa macha, and corn tortillas.
A preparation of this kind can only succeed on the back of superlative protein, and the lamb neck—I am happy to report—displays supreme tenderness with an underlying flavor that is a little earthy, a little sweet, but otherwise pristine. The tortillas, though they’ve been utilized in other ways throughout the meal, demonstrate their full splendor in this naked form. Slightly thicker and more absorptive than what one might be used to, these wrappers do well to catch the meat’s drippings while maintaining a degree of structure that weathers the weight and crunch of the accompanying elements.
On that note, I do like the degree of salt that the sweet peas provide. The cutting sourness of the pickled onions could, in turn, be stronger. And I am actually left wanting more of the heat I found in other dishes here (though, to be fair, I neglected to order the side of salsa that is available à la carte). That being said, the subtle corn note of the tortilla is more than enough to help the lamb shine, so I can certainly appreciate that the kitchen tried to be creative with the other parts of the recipe. Ultimately, the most important part of this preparation has been executed to perfection. Thus, the “Barbacoa” forms a worthy centerpiece of any meal here.
Of the four desserts on offer tonight, I choose to sample three (finding, if something had to be cut, the “Kristoffer’s Tres Leches” wouldn’t necessarily communicate much about Mi Tocaya’s own pastry work). As it happens, the “Helado de Kiwi-Nopal” ($6) “didn’t turn out the way they want tonight” (I appreciate this admission), so it would also have to be omitted. Thankfully, what remained would really impress.
First, there’s a “Flan de Queso” ($11) studded with slivers of pie crust, topped with apple slices, and situated atop a pool of sorghum syrup sourced from Wisconsin’s Rolling Meadows Mill. The resulting custard is dense and smooth with only mild notes of sweetness and tang drawn from the cheese. The pie crust—playfully—adds some textural intrigue but only a hint of butter. It is the sorghum, instead, that takes the lead: charging the dessert an earthy, nutty concentration of sugar that brings the flan to life. There’s even something of a “caramel apple” effect when the cleansing slices of fruit enter the equation. Overall, this dish is brilliantly executed. From a place of relative restraint, it suddenly delivers convincing decadence.
Second—and last of all—there’s the “Tamal de Xocolatl” ($16), a cocoa-focused preparation that would seem to have its work cut out for it. The tendency, after all, is to overcomplicate an ingredient that is so prominent and beloved outside of a gourmet context. But Mi Tocaya does not err. No, the combination of a chocolate tamale (steamed in banana leaves) with rich coffee cream, sunflower butter, cacao nibs, and a spiced chocolate sauce is sublime. Warm and oozing, it hits every note one might expect from a perfect lava cake while, at the same time, benefitting from a roasted, nutty complexity one would never find there. Indeed, any sense of bitterness or spice is actually carefully managed: ensuring that these notes (kept in the background) emphasize the hedonistic—rather than the intellectual—side of chocolate. The result? A dessert of intricacy and creativity that is sure to send everyone home happy.
And happy I certainly am as I trace those few steps through the chaos (which now, I admit, feels more like shared, unbridled revelry) and toward the door. The check—I should mention—was free of any nonsense. This is to say, Mi Tocaya charges 3% for health insurance (plainly stated, patently deserved based on my experience with the staff) and leaves any other gratuity wholly up to the guest.
When I find myself, once more, under the glowing cactus, I feel like I’ve gotten something of a deal: deliciousness but also depth, comfort intertwined with threads of cultural exploration and ethical consumption. Nothing about Mi Tocaya—its underpinnings, its philosophy—looks to beat consumers over the head. The tone here is light and conversational. The food and drink do all the convincing. And there are plenty of entry points (whether chicken wings or a study of sunchoke) ready to tempt diners no matter how intellectually they are prepared to engage with this cuisine.
When I turn back to take a parting glance, the restaurant absolutely hums with life. Never mind the unforeseen dust storm tonight, which sent all the parties on the patio ducking for cover. Somehow, despite the books being full, the team made space for this influx. And Dávila, with Mi Tocaya, has made space for all of Mexican gastronomy in Chicago over these past eight years. The chef has embraced sourcing and adapted technique in a way that transcends the restrictions of genre (especially those that might still be thought of as “ethnic”). She has built a restaurant, like so many of the city’s best, that can only be understood for its singular, indefinable identity: one whose work remains thought-provoking and wildly rewarding to this day.
Looking back, I must admit I thought Mi Tocaya Antojería might have formed one of my riskier, trickier meals to write about. I did not fear that the food would be bad by any means. Rather, I knew previous encounters had typically left me wanting a little bit, and it would be difficult—from a place firmly outside of this culinary tradition—to confidently assert that this or that dish a little bit off. How can one say so when faced with a range of ingredients and nostalgias they do not have access to? How does the critic step outside their individual experience (whether as an “everyman” all too happy to sneer at what they don’t understand or a self-styled “explorer” who’s perhaps a bit too eager to cheerlead something novelty) and arrive at some truth?
The shift in perspective I noted at the start of the article really did help me. It’s easy to go along for the ride (wherever it leads) when paying big bucks at restaurants touting multiple Michelin stars. But it’s through grappling with places like Elske—over a long period of time—and others like Cellar Door Provisions and Feld—more recently—that I’ve been able to interrogate my desire for pleasure. Of course, any visit to another city or another country is often enough to start the same conversation: why do the concepts that are so prized here not always accord with my own expectations and proclivities?
I do not speak only of literal seasoning. Rather, one begins to sense where they stand relative to a whole palette of flavors and textures that are geographically and culturally anchored—that are prized by some but that push the limit of what is considered “edible” by others. One learns that “balance,” the favorite bugaboo of the critic, is negotiated and agreed upon by particular people living in a particular time and place.
The tendency to judge any particular ingredient or recipe in terms of sheer pleasure—that is, relative to the idealized form we each keep in the back of our mind—closes us off from the further development of taste. Certainly, if one has centered their expertise on the evaluation of a single item (steak or barbecue or pizza for example), they may feel comfortable forcing every example to fit a certain orthodoxy.
Yet judging how a chef approaches an entire cuisine—or resists the label of a cuisine altogether (could Mi Tocaya not be considered “contemporary American” by a stretch of the imagination?)—demands some consideration of intention. It deserves the same degree of respect that allows me to excuse Smyth, Elske, Feld, or Cellar Door Provisions when they plunge headlong into creating something novel and provocative. A restaurant probably shouldn’t pursue such a strategy for the entirety of its menu. But curveballs, even if they miss, add a degree of intrigue and excitement to the meal that help the hits resonate more sweetly.
Mi Tocaya—upon closer inspection—fit this blueprint. It relies on a handful of evergreen hits to empower thoughtful, seasonal cooking. And, judged faithfully, the former and latter dishes must each be distinguished and understood for what they respectively hope to offer. This is the line separating hedonistic and intellectual appeal that runs through the heart of Dávila’s cuisine. One must respect how both sides of this equation (the two united by a common care for the quality and sourcing of ingredients) are, alternatingly, embraced in order to do the restaurant justice.
In ranking the evening’s dishes,
I would place the “Patacas en Tres,” “Guacamole,” and “Tamal de Xocolatl” in the highest category: truly great recipes of balance, depth, and unabashed pleasure. Of these, only the “Guacamole” might be called conventional—a familiar item that, nonetheless, spoke to the kitchen’s unique talent. The “Patacas en Tres” and “Tamal de Xocolatl,” by comparison, were inventive and more intellectual but did not fail to make a memorable impression. I would love to taste any of these again.
The ”Chips y Salsa,” “Aguachile de Camaron,” “Alitas de Pollo con Mole Poblano,” “Costra Taco con Nopalitos,” “Setas con Mole Rojo,” “Barbacoa,” and “Flan de Queso” all land in the next stratum: very good preparations—all, but the chips and salsa, quite involved—that married diverse elements and sharp technique while still yielding ample pleasure. I might have nitpicked a couple elements here and there (e.g., a need for more salt, a more pronounced sauce) but would hardly say any of these offerings were flawed. Indeed, I would very happily order any of them again. These recipes just fell short of the emotional reaction spurred by the previous three.
Next, I would place the “Asparagus a la Parilla,” “Enchipotladas de Langosta,” and “Pulpo a la Parilla” in the third category: good dishes—built on skillful technique and interesting technique—that did not come across as totally convincing. For the asparagus, that meant (for all the crunching textures) missing a degree of satisfaction. For the lobster and langoustine enchiladas, that meant failing to conjure the kind of plumpness and luxury that the description promised. For the octopus, it meant a clam salsa that simply overpowered the nuances the other ingredients might have shown. Ultimately, these were by no mean fatal flaws. I would even consider ordering these dishes again, but, on a menu like this, sacrifices have to be made.
Finally, I would place the “Coliflor Ahumado Fundido” at the bottom. As a reminder, there was nothing particularly off-putting about this dish. Instead, the various elements just felt disjointed, and it was hard to grasp onto any prevailing identity (either in terms of texture or flavor) that made a real impression or would induce me to order the preparation again. I’d call this “average” at the end of the day, and it was only really underwhelming in the context of how good many of the other items were tonight.
Tallying things up, this makes for a hit-rate of 71% to 93% (depending on how harshly one chooses to judge the dishes in the third category). Considering the à la carte format at Mi Tocaya, I see no reason not to be generous. The diner has plenty of control over the kind of recipes—whether more hedonistic or intellectual—they will sample, and it might be more accurate to say that 71% of the menu lands at the level of “must order again.”
This is a wonderful showing for a restaurant that takes some real risks, and, in doing so, it more than reaches the degree of success I encountered recently at Elske and Cellar Door Provisions.
The idea is not to pit these concepts against each other (an impossible, even degrading task). In terms of beverage program alone, it’s probably obvious where my partiality lies. But I like placing these spots in conversation due to an unexpected commonality. They are restaurants—jointly—at the vanguard of ingredient-focused cookery. I mean to say: they do not just prize seasonality but are willing to let the fruits of nature guide them to a place that can be a bit dangerous for the mainstream diner. And they do so in an à la carte format that is both highly accessible and the most prone to disappointment (compared to how consumers might approach a tasting menu).
Skillfully, these chefs know what concessions to make to ensure everyone leaves happy. Yet, by pursuing this balancing act at all, they confirm a commitment to craft—to challenging and growing taste in Chicago—that is all too rare.
Mi Tocaya is of that rare caliber: the kind of place whose work, on both sides of the hedonistic/intellectual spectrum, I find impossible to shake. I look forward to tracking the restaurant’s continued growth—and its transcension of Mexican cuisine altogether—as it heads toward its 10th birthday.