My New Year’s resolution for 2024 was to avoid dining at any of The Alinea Group’s restaurants. I almost accomplished it too. But FIRE, “Alinea’s first new restaurant in eight years,” just proved too tempting.
I dined there in late November—the night after the concept opened—and immediately regretted my decision. This halfheartedly rebranded Roister traded away its predecessor’s one virtue: the ability to order a substantive meal, à la carte, from a chef who otherwise locked his work behind pricier set menus. Of course, the place could be quite underwhelming in practice (never again reaching the heights it had attained under Andrew Brochu), but it represented something of a concession. It was part of the Alinea empire that Chicagoans could enjoy with more frequency, less pretense, yet some of the same guiding philosophy.
FIRE’s debut marked the final victory of style over substance within this famed group. (Let’s try to pretend, for all our sakes, that St. Clair Supper Club does not exist.) The experience reminded me exactly why I had made my resolution in the first place. A $115 tasting menu focused on “open fire cooking techniques” sounded like a perfectly fine idea. However, the food’s execution—lukewarm serving temperatures, limp textures, too much or too little seasoning—undermined all its presentational gimmicks. It became clear that FIRE simply represented the new entry level of the old, tired Alinea model: make the cuisine look good, wrap it in some special effects, and trust that a revolving door of one-and-done customers will be satisfied simply by taking and posting pictures—quality be damned. Grant Achatz himself was even on hand, alternating between torching kombu (for a steamed halibut dish that arrived tepid and bland) and checking his phone like some sort of celebrity chef animatronic.
It would be wrong to judge the restaurant definitively so early in its life, but I felt like the victim of a cynical marketing strategy. FIRE seemed concocted as a means of reinvigorating an underperforming space while boosting check averages and maybe even recapturing the Michelin star that Roister once held. The concept’s value proposition had nothing to do with hearty, comforting fare or even basic technical prowess. It just offered the cheapest performance within a group that had become totally defined by performance: one whose bluster could get diners through the door but lacked the talent, the sense of ownership, or maybe even the core desire to deliver excellence in the nuts and bolts of food, drink, and service.
The “Alinea” brand had found a winning formula, so why deviate from it? Operating in the realm of appearances—celebrity, social media, and surface-level novelty—is far easier than consistently serving delicious food (to say nothing of conjuring some sense of connection or emotion). Besides, Chicagoans shouldn’t expect too much from its culinary luminaries: chefs who have built their careers on the back of this city and define its taste in the eyes of the world. The programming provided by FIRE, Next, and Alinea amounts to more than any other group is offering, so who cares if it’s actually good? Chicagoans should feel lucky they get to taste the genius of such a renowned, genius, three-Michelin-star chef™ at all. And where else would the tourists flock to?
See, I sought to avoid The Alinea Group because any sense of magic at their restaurants has been gone for so long. The flaws (and there are many) come through starkly, and there is no sense of rapport (a sincere desire for feedback or invitation to play a part in the kitchen’s process of experimentation) or value (interesting wines at a moderate markup) to help soften the blow. It’s not all that fun to continually pick apart experiences from a team that seems so smugly self-assured yet totally disinterested in introspection. It actually feels grueling to be at their properties, awash in the servers’ uncanny excitement, cringing at the discord between what is promised and what is delivered. Ultimately, it feels sad, and I would rather spend my time writing constructive criticism (for those who might actually want to change) even if certain menus or certain themes prove tempting.
FIRE, nonetheless, ended my resolution prematurely. It ripped off the band-aid and stoked the fire to say something about this group that, year to year, seems to always reach a new low. I knew I didn’t want to stomach another two meals at FIRE, but I also didn’t want this to be a drive-by. With that in mind, checking in with the mothership seemed like a good idea.
I dined at Alinea in December of 2024 (“The Gallery” menu) and January of 2025 (“The Alinea Kitchen Table” menu), looking to contextualize my experience at the newest concept in accordance with the group’s signature, most premium experience. There were a couple clear positives to note: the restaurant had finally begun allowing corkage ($125 per bottle with a limit of one bottle per person) and the hospitality (this is thanks to one particular captain) displayed more of the ease and warmth I had always wanted (running contrary to the fart-smelling attitude that long reigned). Otherwise, the cuisine was arguably the worst it has ever been: a stereotypical hodgepodge of textures and flavors combined for the sake of novelty rather than pleasure. Two of these (char roe, carrot, smoke and poulet, almond, Fernet) were hard to stomach. The majority were forgettable (with the potato in the “Hot Potato Cold Potato” somehow, for the first time ever, arriving undercooked). Only an intermezzo of “Italian Ice” was truly great (and I will note that the chef de cuisine was left to lead the kitchen both nights).
The grandest presentations favored the use of fire, but most simply centered on custom plateware. Any resulting charm, even for the first-time guests joining me, could not overcome the fact the accompanying food was unconvincing. “Paint” (i.e., the table dessert) and “Balloon” continued to provide experiential peaks (for the newcomers at least), but it is worth noting that the staff had trouble removing one of the canvases from the ceiling of the Gallery—a flub that totally spoiled the former course’s musical accompaniment. The smoke effect paired with one of the savory preparations was also horribly overpowering, making it impossible to enjoy my wine. Overall (as is often the case), I was left with the impression that the team very cleverly (in their own minds) puts all these pieces together without anyone actually sitting down and enjoying the meal in sequence. Thus, all the intellectual work being done—satisfying in a vacuum—is totally estranged from what the dining experience feels like. It feels jumbled and artificial, and, whether using wagyu or ibérico or truffle, Alinea still seems incapable of delivering a hedonistic money shot.
The restaurant also comped hundreds of dollars in supplements, glass pours, and pairings across these two visits: sums I funneled back to it by leaving additional gratuity (in order maintain some real sense of the value proposition and erase any temptation to pull my punches). In my experience, this kind of treatment is atypical. Were these gestures meant to communicate a sense of enduring appreciation for a regular customer who hadn’t been back in a couple years? Or did they represent something more sinister? Either way, comps cannot make up for the lack of an actual relationship. Even if it is bad form (and sure to compromise any further show of favor), I would rather express my full displeasure with Alinea—even burn the bridge completely—for the sake of those forced to pay full price.
Despite my experiences at FIRE and Alinea, Next was the restaurant I really sought to avoid with my resolution. The concept, with its three distinct menus per year, plays to the group’s worst tendencies: allowing for three distinct marketing pushes, three sets of cheap theatrics, and three collections of contrived recipes that need never please because they’re here today, gone tomorrow, and destined to be forgotten once the chumps move on to the next shiny object. I say that as a former season ticket holder mind you. But it has gotten easier and easier for me to stay away. “Paris 1906” was a real low point, and “Tuscany” even made Tre Dita look good! Though Next had always been a place where Achatz could rehash his earlier work (a trend that continues at this very moment), its menus also increasingly honored other chefs. 2024 was defined by tributes to Julia Child, Bobby Flay, and Charlie Trotter, and I had little desire to see their cuisines interpreted by a chef who can hardly keep his own house in order.
I made it to 2025 without giving in, and this year’s menus would pose little temptation either. Yet I’m also human, and the prospect of enjoying Next’s “Charlie Trotter” tribute at Charlie Trotter’s itself really tugged at me. Having seen the announcement shortly after it was made, I hovered over the Tock page and fought the urge to click as I watched timeslot after timeslot fade to gray. I actually resisted (and would later watch ruefully as guests—including one or two of the city’s top chefs—reveled in all the nostalgia of the occasion). No doubt due to its popularity, Next would extend the residency (originally slated for just short of two weeks) for an additional two weeks. This time, I did not hesitate: booking a reservation for one of the menu’s final days.
The way I saw it, Next had been serving this food for close to five months. It was honoring a chef in his own home and with the full benefit of—not smoke or mirrors or parlor tricks—real living history. Could this be a chance at détente under the watchful eye of a chef (his spirit still present) who had his own misgivings about Alinea’s molecular gastronomy?
Just the same, while the first period of residency at Charlie Trotter’s occurred with all hands on deck, Next had since launched its new “Alinea Year 1” menu. The group’s newer, shinier object was now here (to say nothing of FIRE or the $495 per person flagship), so what resources would still be devoted to an idea that had just about run its course? Yes, there’s a certain degree of inertia and pride to consider (after all, it’s one thing for The Alinea Group to tarnish its own name, but Trotter’s?) Just the same, maybe they had gotten a little greedy, and, during this denouement, I’d catch the team with their pants down?
The idea was not to disrespect Charlie Trotter (his life, his work) at all, but, rather, to honor him in my own way by holding this experience, which trades on his name, to the high standard he set at a chef. Yes, there’s really no greater compliment than saying his cuisine—more than a decade later—cannot adequately be replicated (even by a Michelin-starred kitchen). To be fair, some parts of the menu would come close.
Let us begin.
Following my recent meal at John’s Food and Wine, it feels funny to travel back to the same neighborhood (just about a block south) and, seemingly, back in time: to when Lincoln Park formed the nexus of Chicago gastronomy.
To be clear, the area has its charms: a walkable assortment of boutiques, salons, corner bars, and brownstones. Yet the destination restaurants (i.e., Alinea, Boka, Esmé, Galit, and North Pond) have fallen behind their West Loop peers (and maybe even a couple West Town upstarts) when it comes to relevance. Instead, here, the biggest thrills come from more local, everyday concepts stewarded by Lettuce Entertain You, Hogsalt, and a range of independent operators. In fact, John’s Food and Wine felt so exceptional because it layered a superlative tasting menu on top of a core business model that was approachable, dynamic, and deep in its quality.
Today, 816 W Armitage Avenue is primely positioned right around where two channels of foot traffic meet. Charlie Trotter’s immediate neighbors include a couple shoe stores, an optometrist, and a donut shop tucked into an alleyway. Other restaurants, comparably, are a bit scarce—until one rounds the corner onto Halsted and finds ramen, sushi, pasta, tapas, Californian fare, and soul food within close proximity. As a consequence, Charlie Trotter’s retains some sense of isolation, of “destination,” rather than being lost to the larger sprawl.
The dual townhouses—framed by hedges, white wooden beams, red awnings, white lintels, and crowning cornices—stand proudly (if somewhat inconspicuously) alongside the larger brick structure they border to the north. The aforementioned alley, along with a couple cottage-like boutiques across the street, makes for a certain sense of openness and unimposing scale. Charlie Trotter’s feels quaint, friendly, and knowable despite its hallowed reputation. Born of an era before sleek, sexy entrances rendered in black or gray, the restaurant could easily be overlooked if not for the plaques and picture frame that surround its white door.
After traversing a few steps and passing through the vestibule, I find myself in a reception area with a towering ceiling, a quiet bar (its wine racks exploiting every inch of the room’s height), and an indentation (adjacent to the host stand) showcasing a portrait of Charlie Trotter (in honor of his 2000 Robert Mondavi Culinary Award of Excellence), a couple framed Miles Davis albums, and a small marble bust. Even though the assembled tones of brown paint and wood lend the room a subdued feeling, it possesses a certain grandeur: not just from the scale, again, but columns, ornate railings, and dramatic lighting. The restaurant is quietly confident—mature but not infirm—and the two hostesses that greet my party punctuate the space with a welcome energy. Their enthusiasm, communicating some sense of how special the occasion is, feels sincere.
In a flash, we are whisked away by a captain, led through one dining room, then up a flight of stairs to another, whose far railing overlooks the same foyer from whence we came. Here, the mood is unmistakably more intimate, with patterned banquettes encircling lower, moulded ceilings and white tablecloths warmed by light from petal-shaped sconces. Yet the juxtaposition of darker wood with cream wallpaper, along with the presence of windows (however opaque) and that view of the entrance, prevent the space from feeling cloistered. Certainly, the other parties—predominantly middle-aged or older and white—remain only a few feet away, but this is no less than one might endure at some of today’s fine dining spots. Plus, many look and sound palpably happy to be here, feeding the room’s sentimental feeling with their reminiscences.
When the captain formally introduces the menu, it seems hard to adequately express Charlie Trotter’s influence. We’re seated here, after all, in his actual gastronomic temple (so the rudiments of the chef’s style and reputation are clearly known). However, just the same, Charlie Trotter’s eminence slightly predated the explosion of American “foodie” culture and the democratization of fine dining (ironically and sadly so given how much he did to drive its development). Michelin only arrived in Chicago during the restaurant’s twilight, marking it with two stars though it might have merited three throughout the previous decades. Even being named the 11th best restaurant in the world in 2002 (on the Restaurant list that would later become “The World’s 50 Best Restaurants”) hardly meant the same that it would today. The James Beard Foundation, certainly, gave the chef his due. But, tonight, Charlie Trotter is introduced with reference to how he influenced Achatz and a generation of professionals in this city and beyond. This human element—rather than the honors—frames the meal.
Otherwise, before the menu begins, there are only couple decisions to make. One supplement is offered: a $95 “Twice Baked Potato” with black truffle (down from the $150 “Twice Baked Potato” with white truffle offered earlier in the season). And there is also the question of beverages.
I am happy to report that Next, like Alinea, now allows corkage ($75 per bottle with a limit of one bottle per person). This concession is long overdue, allowing diners to sidestep the pain of a program that has long forced pairings on its guests without recourse to any bottle list. For this menu, I also noted—via Tock—that a few different bottles could indeed be ordered as an alternative. Michel Gonet’s “Les Hautes Mottes” Champagne was an enticing choice, but the markup (triple retail price without accounting for the 20% service charge) gave me pause.
Instead, recognizing how important wine and wine pairings were to identity of Charlie Trotter’s, I opted for the “Ultra Reserve Wine Pairing” ($345): described as consisting of “the rarest wines from our collection, with only limited availability.” On this evening, the following selections were poured:
- NV Ruinart Champagne “Blanc Singulier Édition 18” ($119.99 national retail price)
- 2021 Rodrígo Méndez Rías Baixas “Sálvora” ($69.95 national retail price)
- 2021 Zind-Humbrecht “Rotenberg” Pinot Gris ($74.95 local retail price)
- 2022 Beaux Frères “The Beaux Frères Vineyard” Pinot Noir ($120 local retail price)
- 2019 Altesino Brunello di Montalcino “Montosoli” ($89.99 local retail price)
- 2008 Dal Forno Romano Amarone della Valpolicella ($285 at national retail, $565 at local retail)
- 2018 Royal Tokaji Wine Co. Tokaji Aszú 6 Puttonyos “Betsek” ($139.95 local retail price)
- 1994 Dow Porto Vintage ($119 local retail price)
The average retail price of the bottles poured on this pairing comes out to $127.35 (if I use the cheaper national price on the Amarone) or $162.35 (if I use the more expensive local price) with a median of $119.50. Really, one need only glance at the wines to recognize them, predominantly, as a hodgepodge of current releases that are widely available in this market. With the 2008 Dal Forno Romano and 1994 Dow, I get more sense of the “rare” and “limited” status that this premium offering promises. However, Alinea maintains a sizable collection of the former wine (perfectly good but priced so high that it tends to gather dust no matter what program it’s a part of) while also pouring the latter one by the glass (for $40).
The Alinea Group’s pairings have always prized cost-effectiveness above all else. They’ve also always favored the kind of standardization and simplification that reduces the need for additional training or specialized staff during the duration of its menus. The interplay between wine and food here is textbook: Champagne with caviar, Pinot Noir with mushroom-inflected fish (something Trotter popularized), Brunello with black truffle, Port with chocolate. I won’t hold the relative lack of French wine against them (for the program, under Larry Stone, spanned American, Italian, Spanish, and even Austrian selections). I’ll even admit that the dreaded Amarone formed the best combination of the evening (alongside a dish of venison and mole).
I am just left with the feeling, as I always am from the premium pairings at all the group’s restaurants, that the team has phoned it in. They have calculated just a bit too noticeably how to game the system: combining cheaper (but just obscure enough) bottles with a couple superficial diamonds (expensive, sure, but not particularly coveted) while maintaining a healthy profit margin. For diners who do not know any better, this turnkey solution may seem perfectly fine. But, for me, it always seems like a missed opportunity: one in which The Alinea Group could use its institutional power to secure smaller parcels of interesting wine from the best regions, rotate these selections continually, and put out pairings that are adaptative and engaging (and perhaps even rewarding of repeat patronage).
If this particular pairing cost $100 less, I might not be inclined to complain as much. However, these $345 ($395 at Alinea) flights do not feel like the products of a longstanding cellar. Rather than celebrating wine (at its most emerging, exciting, but classically-inspired frontiers), they feel contrived to appeal to a lowest-common-denominator consumer while minimizing the burden on staff. Again, the allowance of corkage is a welcome development that ensures someone like me is no longer left to the devices of these pairings. But, when Smyth and Oriole (or Valhalla or even Feld) run their programs with such passion, I am left asking why The Alinea Group doesn’t want to actually lead? It seems too comfortable playing to convention and expectation and the safest, most boring, and ultimately disappointing strategy possible. It feels no responsibility for fostering wine appreciation in Chicago, which, on the occasion of this menu, feels particularly antithetical to what Charlie Trotter’s represented.
Still, in the context of the overall “show,” these pairings keep everything moving with a sense of added flair and a sprinkling of fun facts. Beverage service, in this manner, is confidently managed—with no one less than the wine director for the entire group leading the charge on this evening. He, along with the manager and captain working the floor, are paragons of friendliness and polish. The food runners, on the other hand, can range from charismatic to self-consciously awkward to so quiet it is impossible to hear what they are describing. This is more or less the standard Next has always set: hospitality that is largely competent, sometimes (i.e., rarely) special, and other times a bit clunky or perfunctory. After all, this is a revolving door team that needs to be totally reprogrammed every few months and, above all else, must keep customers on schedule so that the next seating starts on time.
I’m not as offended by this as I used to be, for the experience, at the end of the day, will always hinge on the quality of the food. It would have been nice for the staff to note the left-handedness of one guest in my party, but, overall, the pacing of the meal was quite impressive. I counted 10 courses (comprising 12 dishes in total) served in just about 100 minutes: a sharp timeline that, nonetheless, allowed the food to take center stage and prevented dwelling on any missteps or misgivings that arose along the way.
With the beverage order settled, the tasting menu ($335) begins.
Arriving first is a dish titled “Osetra Caviar”—said to have been inspired by a recipe from Charlie Trotter’s Seafood and, for good measure, served on one of the restaurant’s original plates. The arrangement of the titular sturgeon roe, a few lobes of sea urchin, and some wasabi-flavored tobiko (i.e., flying fish roe) within swirls of daikon, vodka crème fraîche, and parsley juice is visually stunning. It really conjures a sense of eating jewels from the sea.
However, while these luxury ingredients strike the palate cleanly (exhibiting a fleeting creaminess and subtle “pop”), any resulting flavor is totally overshadowed. Yes, the peppery, somewhat bitter notes of the daikon and parsley remain firmly in the driver’s seat, negating any pleasing sweetness, nuttiness, or oceanic character I might expect.
Looking at the cookbook myself, it seems like Trotter sourced a higher quality of caviar and uni while also utilizing them in greater proportions (relative to the other elements on the plate). Here, strangely, the kitchen serves far more of the tobiko along with thicker strands of the daikon and a heartier drizzle of the parsley juice. Ultimately, I don’t think the recipe was followed faithfully. However, the osetra and sea urchin also probably weren’t very expressive to begin with. Pretty as this presentation might be, the resulting experience was forgettable.
Next, the table received a “gift from the kitchen” (something I have come to understand was given to regular customers and VIP guests): a dual delivery of “Madai Crudo” and “Vegetable Carpaccio.” The first of these comprises five slices of the titular fish (the term signifying red sea bream or red snapper) dressed in olive oil and blood orange vinegar then finished with a sprinkling of lemon thyme and pink peppercorn.
Crudo, as a form, remains popular (I might even say overdone) long after Trotter’s closed. That being said, this particular take is superb: combining plump yet tender flesh—imbued with a natural sweetness and umami—that is supercharged by the accompanying richness and tang. Even the garnishes are perfectly judged, delivering lip-smacking lemony and floral, spiced tones that last through the finish. As far as seafood goes, this crudo delivers all the boldness and definition I desired from the “Osetra Caviar.” It ranks among the best dishes of the night.
The “Vegetable Carpaccio,” I must admit, is also a clear success. It combines a trio of fresh produce—“bleeding heart” radishes, “sunburst” carrots, and plain ol’ beets that have been sliced and rolled into cylinders—with a simple dressing of olive oil and vinegar.
Each vegetable, plucked from the lineup and appreciated by itself, offers a hearty, layered crunch that quickly disappears. When it comes to flavor, a burst of tang hits first. However, the oil softens its punch and allows each ingredient’s varying level of sweetness to come to the fore. Ultimately, it’s hard to pick a favorite as each subsequent bite reveals different nuances of earthiness to go along with the natural sugars. In sum, this makes for a worshipful treatment of otherwise humble produce that does Trotter proud.
The “Bread” that arrives between courses is not introduced by the food runner. Its exterior is seeded, and its crumb is moderately fluffy. However, the interior proves a bit dry. Some salted butter (melted to perfect spreadability) helps, and those seeds, at the end of the day, ensure a baseline complexity to the bread’s flavor. There’s certainly nothing wrong with opting for something so simple. The kitchen just needs to execute it more carefully, for this ends up feeling like halfhearted filler.
A ”Chilled Heirloom Tomato Soup” that makes its way to the table soon after can be thought of as a companion for the baked good. The dish centers on a broth made from the yellow taxi variety of the star ingredient (known for its low avid and concentrated sweetness). In it, sit so-called “demi-sec” tomatoes and micro croutons. An avocado and coriander sorbet, neatly quenelled, forms the finishing touch. Here, the idea is that the frozen element can play off of the chilled broth, melting in a manner that provides textural intrigue and a delayed burst of flavor.
However, I find the sorbet to be so hard and unyielding (the same is true of all portions on the table) that trying to slice it with my spoon causes the bowl to tilt onto its side. Indeed, this element is frozen to the point of total inexpression, leaving a soup of pronounced acid and trace sweetness that is totally forgettable. Though I can see what the intention was with this recipe, it is also a bit embarrassing that the kitchen failed to temper the sorbet properly.
Thankfully, the next dish represents a return to form. This “Carrot and Potato ‘Cannelloni’” comes from the Charlie Trotter’s Vegetables cookbook, and it combines its headlining ingredients (stuffed into the “large reed” pasta form) with wilted baby spinach and a carrot-cardamom sauce that is tinged with vanilla.
The resulting serving is somewhat imposing—where to attack this mighty cylinder? However, the wrapper comes apart with ease and unleashes its carrot and potato filling. On the palate, the vegetables are surprisingly lukewarm but otherwise totally smooth. In concert with the sauce, they display a spellbinding brightness and sweetness that is anchored by a vegetal (and somewhat citric, floral) depth. Though this “’Cannelloni’” feels a bit weird on entry, it is really quite striking in its balance and depth. The recipe, no doubt, has aged well, and it ranks as one of the most intellectually appealing courses tonight.
A ”Chilean Sea Bass” that arrives next has all the makings of a superlative dish. It combines a golden-brown segment of the fish’s fillet with confit chanterelles, baby carrots, Tropea onions, and a delectable Pinot Noir reduction acting as a sauce. By drawing such depth of acid, sweetness, and earth from the sea bass’s accompaniments, the recipe imbues the mild flesh with a degree of savory power that totally transcends what one might expect from this star ingredient. For me, this works beautifully: the buttery, flaky flesh is charged with a fruity, umami character I’d expect more from meat. The wine reduction, too, is so good I want to gulp it down.
Nonetheless, one of the other members of my party receives a piece of fish that is so overcooked and tough as to be disgusting (yes, I sampled it too). Thus, though my particular serving of this course might have ranked as the very best dish tonight, I must instead brand the ”Chilean Sea Bass” as the worst. As with the sorbet in the “Chilled Heirloom Tomato Soup,” this is a fundamental error of such extremity (i.e., precluding any level of enjoyment) that it is unforgiveable at this level.
A course of “Poussin” that follows is a bit better. It centers on an attractive piece of the young chicken’s poached breast—milky white and remarkably tender—flavored by way of collard greens (cooked with bacon, brown sugar, and red wine vinegar), a black truffle “stew,” caramelized baby fennel, some black truffle foam, and a few leaves of micro sage.
As with the preceding dish, a range of bright, sweet, smoky, and earthy notes combine to imbue the lean meat with complex, savory power. Again, I just want to lap up everything coating the plate. However, the poussin, while succulent in its mouthfeel, offers no flavor of its own. Yes, it’s supposed to be delicate, but there’s no salt or sweetness or any real character that plays off of the accompaniments. Thus, despite the high potential shown by the collards and truffle, this course comes across as underwhelming. The sauce may be the intended star, yet it should also see itself transformed (however subtly) by the chosen protein.
It is at this point in the meal, alongside the “Poussin,” that the supplemental “Twice Baked Potato” ($95) arrives. As a reminder, this is the black truffle version (offering a double dose of luxury with the “stew” in the adjoining plate), and I have high expectations after seeing such enthusiasm for the white truffle variant served earlier during the menu’s run. Of course, white seems destined to beat black in any kind of comparison, but a form of such decadence surely wouldn’t suffer much. The dish (also inspired by Charlie Trotter’s Vegetables) comprises a baked potato base with a Robuchon pommes purée filling, some melted gruyère, a scattering of chives, and the headlining slices of Tuber melanosporum.
Alinea has always excelled in sourcing truffles, and these are no different: immediately exhibiting hints of their intoxicating earthy, musky aroma. Warming the slices by incorporating them into the potato should heighten the effect. However, the purée is lukewarm, dense, and (while adequately salted) just clunky and lifeless. It’s worse than any twice-baked potato one can order at any steakhouse in town. In fact, it tastes like a Maple & Ash dish gone horribly wrong: a total contrivance that actually disrespects its chosen luxury ingredient. Alongside the overcooked “Chilean Sea Bass,” this is a huge disappointment that ranks among the worst things I’ve been served (no less paid an additional sum for) at a Michelin-starred level. I do not doubt that this dish has been executed more skillfully in the past (for the idea is fundamentally sound), yet both orders tonight displayed the same lamentable flaws.
The final savory course tonight, a serving of “Venison,” helps get things back on track. Sourced from Broken Arrow Ranch, the protein is cooked over binchōtan (white charcoal) to medium rare. This yields a generous, comforting slab of meat served with a slightly spicy mole and a cashew vinaigrette. Some cherries, compressed apples, and Fresno chili rings form the finishing touches.
On the palate, the venison feels juicy and substantial. Its natural savory character melds nicely with darker tones of the mole (its spice remaining only a suggestion) and the nutty character of the vinaigrette. Meanwhile, sweetness and acid, drawn from the fruit and peppers, help prevent the dish from seeming too rich without sacrificing any of its satisfaction. Ultimately, this makes for a nice way of anchoring the menu: balancing boldness with mainstream appeal and a sense of sustenance. While I think the chosen flavors could perhaps be taken to a greater extreme, this would clash with the purpose of the Trotter tribute. Thus, in the context of the wider meal, the “Venison” ranks as a success.
The first dessert of the night is titled “Nancy Silverton’s Panna Cotta,” referencing the Campanile recipe Trotter loved so much he had to reproduce it. At Next, it is reproduced once more: combining an eggless, vanilla-tinged custard with a crisp pastry base and a trio of oven-dried fruits (fig, pineapple, strawberry) served over their purées.
The resulting dish feels highly engaging, with the purity of the creamy panna cotta serving as a blank canvas. Each fruit crackles (matching the bottom layer of pastry in a way) before unleashing its gooey essence—rather concentrated in sweetness yet modified, in turn, by the intensity of vanilla that’s present. In truth, the panna cotta could be termed a bit too one-note; however, once more, this runs contrary to what the menu is about. At the end of the day, the dish holds up nicely and is not shy about delivering obvious pleasure with a fun element of interactivity.
Next, another “gift from the kitchen” arrives: a “Black Truffle Ice Cream” (one I’ve seen listed as both a supplement and an exclusive for regulars/VIPs, so, to play it safe, I put extra money toward the additional gratuity). The dish’s accompanying elements comprise a surrounding orange coulis and a handful of toasted hazelnuts. However, here (and in comparison to the “Twice Baked Potato”) the expression of truffle is itself quite pleasing.
The ice cream’s earthier, nuttier qualities almost tend toward chocolate when combined with the sweet dairy notes on hand. The slices of truffle perched in the sauce are a bit more pronounced, but they remain balanced: offering an added layer of intensity that blends well with the rich, roasted hazelnuts. Still, it is the essence of orange that makes the recipe work, driving the earth tones into the background with its encompassing sugar and tang. Taken together, the dish tastes distinctly of truffle while ensuring the ingredient puts its best foot forward. Bold in its construction and refined in its execution, this recipe ranks as one of the best of the night.
The final dessert—and last dish of the night—takes the form of a “Warm Liquid Center Chocolate Banana Bread Pudding.” This mouthful is meant as an ode to the kind of “elegant decadence” Trotter often concluded his menus with. The chocolate-filled bread pudding base is topped with a coconut tuile, slices of caramelized banana, and a scoop of malt ice cream. A drizzle of dark chocolate sauce then forms the final flourish.
Visually, my banana bread pudding looks a bit misshapen (as if cracked throughout its middle), and, when I dive in, the liquid chocolate center is not warm at all. The mouthfeel remains pleasant enough, but it is soon blemished by a kind of stale toffee texture (whether from the tuile or the bananas I am not sure of). While the ice cream and chocolate sauce are still enjoyable, the foundation of this dish is clearly flawed. Despite playing in such a decadent wheelhouse and promising so much enjoyment, the dish is somewhat grating to eat. It ranks alongside a few other failures tonight (though surely not the most catastrophic).
With that, the captain brings over the bill for the “Twice Baked Potato” supplement and some handsome printed menus. A couple glasses of non-alcoholic cider have been comped, so (also being unsure if the “Black Truffle Ice Cream” is actually offered as a supplement or only provided as a gift) I throw some extra money on top of the 20% service charge.
A tour of the kitchen is offered: a journey into the nerve center of the operation and a more visceral representation of the restaurant—and its chef’s—history. I turn it down, and the party guides itself back down the stairs, through a packed dining room, and into the foyer (where the reaction of the hostesses seems to suggestion our arrival was unexpected). Nonetheless, they cheerily fetch our belongings while receiving the next group of diners that comes through the door. It is here and now, with my back against the bar, that I really appreciate Trotter’s portrait: a taciturn expression, a distant stare, a carefully poised glass of wine, but also a crossed leg, an outstretched arm, rolled sleeves, and a sense that the battle for gastronomy has, on this day, been won.
In the final analysis, there’s really no fun to be had in tarnishing what this menu and this residency in particular have meant to Chicago. Achatz and Next have honored a legacy that, for a new generation of diners eating in a culture that seems more food-obsessed than ever, has run the risk of being forgotten They’ve honored a man whom friends, colleagues, and customers never had the chance to say goodbye to. There’s an immense value to this work, however imperfect, at an emotional level. Anyone blessed with the chance to dine with a loved one, one last time, certainly wouldn’t think to critique the food. Even some mere suggestion of how things were would be enough to form a connection with the sense of transcendence that defines peak expressions of hospitality.
Just the same, consumers have seen companies cynically trade on nostalgia across pretty much every domain of art. Heritage brands hold power, but this trick has been so relied upon—so frequently butchered—as to now inspire eye rolls at first blush. Food culture, to be fair, has not quite grown so cynical yet. After all, showcasing old recipes or restoring a certain ambiance (especially in a pop-up form) demands far less investment than, say, reviving a blockbuster film series. There’s also little need to tinker with what is quite literally a formula: a set of ingredients and a balance of textures and flavors that, if faithfully followed, conjure an effect that is all but guaranteed to please. (Tastes may change over the course of a lifetime, but that shouldn’t preclude an appreciation for what is fondly remembered.)
The Alinea Group has proven particularly adept at monetizing nostalgia (though Smyth, with its “Greatest Hits” menus, and Boka, with its Balena pop-ups, have also indulged). Next, as a concept, effectively enables this work: hosting three limited engagements each year where Achatz’s earlier work (at Trio or various eras of Alinea) can find a natural home. Most of these recipes, given the chef’s style, do not seem dated in the slightest. They remain singular today, and the dishes can even rival what the flagship (perpetually seeking new frontiers) currently puts out. With these menus, reproduction and preservation seem like obvious goals. The food is faithfully represented for a period of time and then makes way for a new theme filled with novel creations.
Though the Charlie Trotter menu was approached in the same way—taking inspiration from the chef’s recipes while only gently altering them—staging it at the actual restaurant reminded me a bit of what The Alinea Group and Lettuce Entertain You had planned for Ambria. Though this idea would ultimately be scuttled, it prompts a more challenging question for any permanent operation looking to tap into nostalgia: is this a museum, trying to represent things as they were then, or a relaunch, looking to capture the same lightning in a bottle and channel it toward what diners want today? Put another way, is it more faithful replicate what something was or fully adopt its spirit and pursue what it could be, should be today?
The Alinea Group savvily ducked this question by rooting its work in Achatz’s time at Trotter’s and certain selections from the chef’s cookbooks. It had the plateware and, later, the revitalized original dining room to lean on. The kitchen need only execute a range of familiar (certainly more familiar) techniques and look to affirm that the ideas underlying Trotter’s cuisine remain timeless.
Looking back at the meal:
I would rank six dishes (the “Madai Crudo,” “Vegetable Carpaccio,” “Carrot and Potato ‘Cannelloni,’” “Venison,” “Nancy Silverman’s Panna Cotta,” and “Black Truffle Ice Cream”) as clearly successful. These were enjoyable dishes with refined textures and bold, balanced flavors. I would be pleased to encounter any of them again, but, in turn, none of them rose to the level of being truly memorable. Likewise, it is worth noting that half of these items were not, it seems, served to the general public.
Next, I would rank three dishes (the “Osetra Caviar,” “Bread,” and “Poussin”) as slightly underwhelming. Here, it was easy to see what each recipe was going for, and there was also some enjoyment to be had (whether purely aesthetic, drawn from a sense of sustenance, or based on great sauce work). However, a bit of imbalance, a textural lapse, or some muted flavors prevented the preparations from shining.
Finally, I would rank four dishes (the “Chilled Heirloom Tomato Soup,” “Chilean Sea Bass,” “Twice Baked Potato,” and “Warm Liquid Center Chocolate Banana Bread Pudding”) as clearly flawed. Again, I could see what each of these recipes were going for—in fact, my serving of fish might have ranked as the only real highlight of the meal. However, the preparations were blemished by frozen, overcooked, clunky, lukewarm, and jarringly brittle elements that compromised any sense of pleasure. More than anything, these are the marks of a carelessly run kitchen: one that has the ingredients and tools to succeed but is disengaged with their work.
Coming in at $430 per person ($335 plus the $95 “Twice Baked Potato” supplement) before 20% service charge, this menu’s hit rate of 46% (23% if I were to remove the dishes unavailable to the general public) is atrocious. I’m talking “early Feld” quality, without any of the risk-taking or creativity, at Kyōten or Smyth pricing! I won’t even rehash my thoughts on the wine pairing.
It is worth considering that this menu could cost as little as $235 per person (during less coveted timeslots) or even $175 (back at Next). I cannot say that paying a premium for an exclusive, supremely nostalgic seating at the actual restaurant wasn’t worth it (the tickets sold out after all—though the second set took noticeably longer). I also trust that the cuisine, whether back on home turf or when Achatz was working the residency, really did please Chicagoans as much as they said.
For all the flaws that characterized my experience, the ideas underlying the Charlie Trotter menu were sound. The flavors were bold, often inventive, and direct in the pleasure they sought to deliver. The dishes were only undone by a certain sloppiness—a failure in the rudiments of temperature, texture, and balance—that has nothing to do with the chef who inspired them.
It is not for me to say that Trotter would have been embarrassed by the effort. Valuable work, securing his legacy, was done, and other parties—on the very same evening—might have fared better in avoiding these flaws. Yet, as I speculated earlier, it’s hard not to blame my experience on a more pervasive lack of ownership: a group with a shiny new menu back at Next to debut (as well as another new concept next door) that is totally overextended yet unable to resist the payday two more weeks of this residency would bring. I wish I took the kitchen tour if only to see who was actually leading the line that night.
As The Alinea Group looks to expand into other markets, I eventually have to ask why they care so little about assuring consistency, quality, and value here at home? (I’ll never forget the heavy-handed way in which one of the managers at the flagship, many years ago, tried to assure I wouldn’t speak ill of the restaurant at an upcoming pop-up in another city. That night, all the frills were brought out to ensure an exemplary meal because, see, everything the group does is carefully calculated. In the same manner, someone calculated that they could phone in the second half of the Charlie Trotter’s residency and nobody would notice or care—the menu had run its course and they should feel lucky to be there.) Instead of worrying about me embarrassing them, the group should take a hard look at itself and ask if they are not embarrassing Chicago and Chicagoans by posturing as if they still represent any kind of excellence.
As a final thought, I believe a permanent reopening of Charlie Trotter’s could actually be valuable to the dining scene. Nonetheless, it needs to be the product of the same, original obsession. How many chefs working in Chicago are capable of changing their menu every day or adapting all their dishes, at the drop of a hat, to accommodate a guest’s choice of wine? How many sommeliers are equipped to revolutionize wine service (as was once done here) or forecast (as well as stock) the next generation of producers set to explode in popularity? Service, strangely, seems like the easiest part of the puzzle to solve: a real testament to how unrivaled, in certain gustatory factors, the restaurant remains today.
The right talent might be hard to find, but it can be cultivated with the right intention: not to trade on the Trotter’s name, doing what has already been done, but empowering the same kind of paradigm shift. That could mean cooking, just as the chef did, with the best fruits that nature’s bounty—today—yields. It could mean imagining how Trotter’s influences and style might have evolved had he been born to a different era or here, perhaps drawn back to the kitchen, to show us himself.
If Next has done anything well, it has been to demonstrate that there is an appetite for more of Charlie Trotter. The restaurant, through this residency, has also affirmed that effectively imitating this old master is anything but a foregone conclusion. Yes, doing so demands a degree of love—and, perhaps, a whole host of contradictions that come with such strength of personality—that is not easily found today. If Chicago does find it, it will be richer for it.