After more than five years and 1,000,000 words published, it is time for a change in format. My intention when starting this website was to push the conventions of food writing and, more particularly, restaurant criticism to their breaking point. Rather than hiding behind a sense of “authority” and spinning neat, digestible narratives meant to (heuristically) capture the essence of a given concept, I decided to pursue the very inverse process. Rather than cherry-picking, omitting, and otherwise going out on a limb to imbue the perceptions gleaned from a mere one or two meals with some veneer of validity, I visited restaurants three, four, five, or even 10 times before daring to offer a definitive opinion. Instead of wrapping myself in the decaying sense of trust ascribed to certain mastheads, I looked to construct a sense of reliability within each piece: providing an excruciating degree of detail and pulling no punch so that the reader, whether or not they align with my most indelible predilections, can accurately guide themself in relation to (if not in agreement with) what I sense.
Following my philosophy, which always seemed like the only way to really pay respect to the collection of souls that enliven a restaurant each night, meant at times embracing disciplines like anthropology, behavioral economics, history, media studies, psychology, and sociology to contextualize (and thus enrich) each subject. The goal was never to twist concepts in order to fit within a certain social science framework (a compulsion that, however useful in academia, yields biases every bit as pernicious as those afflicting journalists). No, my intention was always to put as many cards on the table as possible, to make room for as many ways of seeing as I could personally process, and to put forth the kind of deep, holistic work that retains some relevance (even as a simple time capsule) beyond telling the audience where to eat at this very moment. Of course, some fairly strong stands were taken—but, I hope, always within a framework that (however exhausting or imperfect) felt sincere. It was hard not to fall in love just a little bit even with those restaurants I enjoyed the least. Such is the effect of meditating, day after day, on a place’s story—so long (and this was not always true) as it had something humanizing to offer.
I am turning away from my old format (at least for now) because I feel that my training is complete. While these longer pieces only represent a particular era within a larger body of work, they also formed my ultimate challenge to date. They will remain as a source of inspiration and a foundation for what comes next. Because, frankly, I have also grown bored with Chicago’s dining scene. I find myself eating at the same five or six dynamic establishments over and over again, and my forays into what’s “new and exciting” often leaving me feeling the same way: asking, “must I really stomach coming here two more times just to declare it a good (not great) restaurant with savvy branding and a crack public relations team?”
In short, I have reckoned with much of what the city has to offer and want to spend more time writing about the places that speak to me week after week—more time chronicling the minute changes to food and wine programs that distinguish a select number of Chicago’s truly superlative spots. Many of these are places I am recognized and warmly received: an inevitable consequence when robust hospitality cultures meet repeat customers (to say nothing of any other “subtext” at hand). This kind of closeness makes for murky ethical waters, ones I have always tried to be conscientious of ever since noticing how many food writers are, in fact, really just writing about their friends. As a consequence, I have avoided celebrating places that totally deserve acclaim and, moreso, some special emphasis on just how habitually good and consistently creative their teams are. At the same time, I have also only talked about other favorite restaurants in the context of remodeling or retrospection: interesting paradigms in their own right, but ones, likewise, that tend to trade actual criticism (barring any actual meltdown) for something more descriptive at core.
My idea with this format called “Morsels” is to be both nimbler and more dispassionate. Eschewing ratings completely, I think of it as a “critic’s notebook”: a peek into the mental work that underlies each individual encounter with a restaurant (encounters that would usually be bundled and parsed to form a much longer piece). This open-ended format makes room for speculation, for self-doubt, and for the kind of raw, reflexive feedback I actually provide to the chefs I respect the most. It better acknowledges the kind of risk-taking and experimentation that makes certain concepts so captivating (despite the potential for missteps) compared to those safer spots that reveal a range of new dishes every two, three, or four months but still come up short. Several “Morsels,” indeed, should roughly replicate the movements captured by a traditional “Understanding…” screed, but, with this shift, I allow myself the courtesy of cutting out background and context in favor of a more precise focus on the fundamentals. Certain concepts (e.g., the “peak–end rule,” totemic luxury ingredients, uncanny hospitality) will continue to be employed; however, I hope to grapple more concertedly with the interplay of ideas and execution during each discrete service and across sequential, defined visits.
My mission is to, yet again, invert my manner of analyzing restaurants: trading the description of longer movements (that look to establish some “truth” via repetition and reflection) for an uncertain, piecemeal process that more accurately replicates each chosen subject’s own method of creation. By accepting concepts as they are at a particular moment, acknowledging both virtues and vices while putting faith in what further development might bring, I look to emblemize a kinder, more careful process of evaluation that denies a diner’s individual taste and ego for the sake of supporting the growth of culinary art. The ultimate goal is to cultivate an understanding of hospitality in which ratings—and the need to compare one establishment to another (especially on the basis of a solitary encounter)—are recognized as the last, worst heuristic of all.
Although I am drawn to this new format as a means to discuss places I particularly like, there will undoubtedly be bad meals, repeat dishes that shrink with further exposure, and total duds that never find their footing. Warm feelings toward the restaurant, an acknowledgment of the quality it can achieve on a good night, and a resolution to describe (rather than formally rate) should enable me to be brutally honest when the occasion calls for it. (Ethically, the fact that I always pay full price at these concepts despite repeat patronage ensures my perception forever remains tethered to the actual value proposition.)
I think the same line of thought should apply to approaching new (or new to me) restaurants. This format will allow me the opportunity to comment on a wider range of concepts, at a faster pace, without having to wholly commit to three visits. Over time, additional articles written about the same place may enable the kind of firmer evaluations and increased validity that characterized my longer work. In this case, the goal would be to elucidate the building blocks of a formal rating on the basis of several “Morsels,” each referencing the other and looking to answer my earliest questions (or misgivings) with some degree of finality. However, at core, each individual encounter with a new restaurant (and this holds particularly true for those unlikely to get follow-up visits any time soon) must be approached in the most generous, speculative manner possible.
Undoubtedly, it is bad form to review a restaurant that is less than two months old. It seems almost equally offensive to saunter into a longstanding establishment that is new to me and shoot from the hip without having familiarized myself with their work over some longer timespan. In these cases, not applying any formal rating is a good first step (and I am not certain that it would even be worthwhile to award pineapples at the conclusion of three separate visits/evaluations given my desire to totally transcend heuristics). Nonetheless, written analysis—even if it demands more careful consideration from the audience—can still be destructive. It may still undermine a new concept’s chance at finding its footing (or, for the more established, putting its best foot forward) given the level of quality consumers expect from fine dining experiences.
I want to (as with the favorite restaurants I will cover) be as brutally honest about the food, beverage, service, sense of value, and ambiance at any new place I visit. Readers deserve that, and the establishments, too, may benefit more from emerging feedback than a definitive, negative review a couple months later. Still, anything short of lukewarm praise (at the very least) will likely signal that prospective diners should bide some time before throwing their own money in the ring. My solution—in trying to evaluate new and unfamiliar concepts without damning them—is one of posture and tone. True to the “critic’s notebook” idea, I will pay respect to the potential, quality of ideas, and intention that underlie the realities of execution. I will try to maintain some sense of the excitement and mystery that surrounds a new or unfamiliar restaurant until the point, after several visits, one can speak with some certainty. The goal, again, is to cultivate a way of seeing and thinking about restaurants that can be both insightful and charitable—sincere, constructive, yet sensitive to how much cannot be known or determined with one solitary encounter—at the same time.
Beyond that, one other key philosophy continues to inform my work: a spurning of subscriptions or paywalls, the pursuit of likes or upvotes, the frivolity of being a public figure (clinging to fleeting “authority” or access), or even the humblebragging entailed by anonymously flexing one’s “foodie” credentials on a public forum. There remains no feedback loop for my writing (save for the occasional kind or kvetching comment), and that fact always ensures the most objective subjectivity I, a single palate, am capable of. It also guards against hyperbole, against clickbait, and any temptation to let pretty pictures or a snappy human interest story obscure mediocrity.
Ultimately, it remains just me, the restaurant, and the void in conversation (though, to be fair, I also benefit from always dining with someone of even sharper taste than my own). Food writing, otherwise, has no meaning if it is not fueled by a pure love of the craft—of cooking and hospitality themselves but, also, the uncovering of profound, shared emotions that lie at the limits of language and connect individual perception to something far greater. “Morsels” will tap into this fountainhead while evolving the manner in which my experiences are relayed. It is not a question of trading more content for less but, with some established sense of what I am bringing to the table, finding greater poignancy in parsimony and further deconstruction of the restaurant criticism form.
Condensing my customary overflow of detail into a streamlined (yet fully conscious of its own limitations) package seems like a worthy challenge—one that, in its own way, stands diametrically opposed to critics who cravenly stretch the same one or two experiences into a counterfeit of “expertise.” At the very least, it represents a new avenue to explore and a different kind of training. After all, Grimod himself declared “from forty to sixty years of age…[to be] the prime of a gourmand.” I have quite a way to go before entering that era.
With that said, let us begin.
Obélix is one of those restaurants that was so awarded, following its debut in May of 2022, that it hardly seemed worth it to invest so much time and effort just to bang the same drum. For one, it wasn’t a tasting menu concept—no crime, certainly, but a fact that usually makes a place less of a priority because I trust the average consumer can go, order what they deem to be reasonable à la carte, and walk away (in the worst-case scenario) without being totally burned. For another, I ate at Obélix during its opening month and felt the food was good, not great, not flawed either, yet also not rising to the levels of craveability or memorability that inspire me. Analyzing extremes of quality, like it or not, is simply more fun than nitpicking how this or that dish needs this or that tweak to come to fruition (though I think the “Morsels” format will now encourage more of the latter).
Obélix, nonetheless, came to anchor its quiet corner of River North. It represented a post-pandemic bright spot: an accessible, but inventive and (should a diner so choose) luxurious interpretation of French food at a time when the old guard of the cuisine’s practitioners had all but disappeared from Chicago. (Le Select’s debut in early 2023 and demise later that same year, though it cannot be ascribed to the choice of genre alone, would clearly signal that the success of these concepts—so foundational to the city’s gastronomic history—was no longer a foregone conclusion.) It also, importantly, represented the fruit of a multigenerational hospitality family and the kind of independent restaurant (built, carefully, upon a reputation that has lasted for decades) that forms a precious part of a community’s culinary heritage.
Le Bouchon (and, later, Taqueria Chingón) never fell within what I would consider “my” neighborhood, and La Sardine never caught my eye (even as it laid witness to West Loop’s total transformation). In short, I had no real sense of the Poileveys or their work. However, Obélix, for once, fell within a range that qualified it as a closer, convenient, impromptu (though reservations were certainly not always easy to come by) option. The first meal didn’t blow me away, but it piqued my interest. Two subsequent visits—in August and October of 2022—confirmed the restaurant was worth checking in on occasionally (if not running back to). Yet it was the launch of weekend brunch, in December of that same year, that really changed things.
Entering this category (one in which I still struggle to find suitable options) was a godsend. For brunch, Obélix combined some of the dinner menu’s lighter fare with unique sweet and savory creations and expertly made pastries. The restaurant was brighter and the mood in the room even more casual and comfortable than the (already decidedly welcoming) evening service. The kitchen, likewise, could channel all of its talent and technical expertise toward dishes that sought to deliver immediate pleasure, in a novel way, at a time of day when many establishments are tempted to phone it in. I could easily fill an entire piece with the virtues of Obélix’s brunch (which, for my money, remains unmatched), but, here, what matters is its role as an inflection point.
Those Saturday- and Sunday-morning services, ones I continued to consistently patronize during the first few months of 2023, formed my real acclimation to the restaurant. I was no longer just an occasional diner: destined to be lost in the scrum of date nights and business outings that descended on an opening of such acclaim. Instead, in those early, quiet hours—and with a sudden rush of visits every one or two weeks—it was easy to grow familiar with the staff (and thus get a clearer sense of the concept’s culture free from the pressures of peak evening operation). It was easy to track the growth and refinement of the menu (simplified, yes, for brunch but still demonstrating a noteworthy degree of dynamism and increasing refinement from weekend to weekend). I also, of course, could still take a peek at the wine list, following its own development and coming to realize what an essential part of the restaurant’s identity it formed. Plus, while ordering a nice bottle (albeit surrounded by other nice bottles) at dinner is still a good way to get special attention, popping Burgundy at a time of day when most other customers are sipping coffee or cocktails is surely a great one.
Quickly, I came to know Obélix and the Poileveys (Oliver and Nicolas), who more often than not could be found on the floor or in the kitchen during these brunches (and despite having other properties to look after). Connecting with ownership—young yet grounded, passionate about the industry (based in their own deep love of food and drink) and driven to put their own stamp on it—and sharing appreciation with the progenitors of a concept is always a turning point. It crystalized all the growth I had sensed since first visiting the restaurant in 2022 and, more fundamentally, personified the business. It marked me (not just in a technical sense, but in my own emotional sense) as a “regular customer”: solidifying the sense that I eat here, yes, because I enjoy it and also, more importantly, because I believe in what they are doing. Loyalty, some consumers need to be reminded, goes both ways: the dynamism I find so appealing allows for certain missteps, and even the simplest things can occasionally go awry. Through mutual understanding and clear communication, honored guests can enjoy the highest highs and graciously endure some of the lower lows without (and this is a fine line) transforming into the worst, entitled kind of diner.
A strong relationship, rooted in the good memories and sense of comfort those brunches provided, made visiting Obélix for dinner, in turn, even more appealing. By late March of 2023 I was back, followed by a few more evening visits in the months that followed. Surely, a mere change in perspective doesn’t explain everything: after a year of operation, the kitchen clearly had its footing and could effectively balance consistent execution of its classics with the constant development of new creations. Brunch or dinner, I became certain I’d be treated to some of the city’s best wine and a blend of novel and familiar dishes. As my palate grew (and the number of establishments I chose to patronize in my own free time narrowed), Obélix kept pace. The experience, year to year, has continually sharpened: growing richer and bolder and even more irreverent at times while simultaneously raising the baseline quality of each dish.
The concept has established itself as not just another “best new restaurant” flash in the pan but the rare restaurant, without a tasting menu or Michelin star to call its own, that bests nearly all the concepts Bibendum has awarded in Chicago. Hell, Obélix has practically erased the need for me to ever visit any of the city’s steakhouses at the same time too. Ultimately, I have visited this establishment more than 40 times through the present day (22 times for brunch, 21 times for dinner), making it every bit worthy of a proper evaluation.
Nearly three years after opening, Obélix remains the shining star on an otherwise quiet block surrounded by smart brownstones, apartment buildings, and emerging condo towers at the west end of River North. (Of course, I cannot forget about Entente: the first restaurant to occupy the space and one of the saddest pandemic casualties given the quality and creativity of the cuisine chef Brian Fisher was executing at his relocated concept.) Though Mr. Beef draws lines right over on Orleans and celebrated establishments like Asador Bastian and Indienne can be found just a bit further down the street, the Poileveys rule this particular corner. Any Uber traveling down this way or group of well-dressed pedestrians seems destined for Obélix’s door, and, to this day, I am accustomed to seeing as many as a dozen customers (including would-bes angling for a spot at the bar) lined up before opening.
Sometimes, they mistakenly venture west along Huron, mistaking the door to the 15-story condo building the restaurant anchors for the actual entrance. But, indeed, Obélix announces itself to the outside world courtesy of playfully uneven text (red with gilded edges) affixed to an overhanging metal beam. A matching sign sits on the wall adjacent to the door—700 N Sedgwick Street—along with an encased copy of the current menu. These flashes of life punctuate a façade that is otherwise dominated by a greyscale blend of brick, concrete, glass, metal, and stone. After all, the concept sits within a residential structure that is proudly contemporary (and proudly charging premium prices), a natural fit for the kind of refined American fare Entente was slinging.
Obélix (referencing the voracious character of the same name, Oliver’s “ideal customer,” from the Asterix series of comics) was described at its announcement as “French food through the eyes of a French-American chef who grew up in Chicago.” Yet, the restaurant cuts a subdued figure despite its eminence on the block. When the blinds are down, one might wonder if the place is consciously trying to subvert the obvious warmth and charm of Le Bouchon—does the future of French cuisine entail the kind of concocted exclusivity that has infected next-generation Italian dining (for one)? However, behind the sleek edifice, I have come to know a dining room that preserves the best qualities of a classic bistro while thoughtfully adapting others for the present day.
Upon pulling open the front door, any sense of pretense is immediately dispelled by the oversize rooster sculpture that watches over the vestibule. The next door leads to a narrow reception area, where, if I turn my head to the right, I can peer through a window that perfectly frames the length of the kitchen pass. Ahead, the host stand beckons: confidently and efficiently managed (despite the eager throngs) with the help of none other than Nicolas himself. I’m being pulled forward, soon to be whisked off to a table, but the expanse of the dining room—its energy and the tapestry of countless little details—already begin to make themselves known.
Checkered flooring, a sea of white tablecloths, and alternating segments of white and brown wood paneling form the foundation. There are bistro chairs—humble yet unwavering in their stability—but also plush banquettes that trace an L-shaped path along the restaurant’s towering windows. On the walls, illuminated by metal sconces, hang brightly colored paintings depicting friendly, pastoral images like a man eating a plate of oysters or a single blinking fish. Also, who can overlook the chalkboard that, being perceivable from nearly every seat, reveals the sourcing of the oysters, the identity of various specials, the kinds of cheese or ice cream on offer, and any noteworthy wines being offered by the glass.
At the very center of the room, an inconvenient concrete beam is transformed into a service station that, ironically, provides the surrounding perimeter of tables (ones on the floor that I generally do not prefer) with an extra dimension of separation and intimacy. Meanwhile, a low wall (also rendered in darker wood) serves to separate the dining area proper from the bar, where many a customer might tuck into a full meal while surveying the eclectic collection of spirits and trophy wines (from evenings gone by) that line its shelves. Otherwise, at the busiest point of the night, patrons can be seen crowding this slender walkway: imbibing, yes, but also cheerily chatting with favorite servers and even making new friends as they wait for a coveted table or stool to open up.
In sum, Obélix does not lean on any obvious or ostentatious design elements to distinguish itself as a next-generation French restaurant. In fact, the concept showcases many of the same totems diners might recognize from Le Bouchon—aesthetic anchors (the tablecloths, the chairs, a certain self-assured plainness) that just feel right at a subconscious level—while making the most of its particular space. High ceilings and an abundance of natural light deliver an expected degree of openness and comfort. The tables, too, feel they are set just a smidge more apart. But, importantly, one does not feel insulated from neighboring diners. Friendly interaction is almost a given, and, in this manner, the Poileveys have maintained a common emotional core between their two properties.
Obélix balances a sense of being part of the crowd—one of countless customers chomping on baguettes and guzzling wine—with the prevailing warmth of a neighborhood institution. The restaurant feels vast upon entry, for it is the assemblage of faces and fashion statements on any given night that provide most of the dining room’s character. But, being seated, one realizes that there’s more than an appreciation for culinary tradition connecting these tables. Each section—driven by each server and busser—builds its own ecosystem of banter and laughter. Recommendations are made between parties, stories are exchanged, celebrations are shared. For all the fine wine and luxurious fare on offer, Obélix’s essential accessibility and intimacy yields a merry, gracious mood. It is no coincidence that the concept caters to such a diverse demographic—traversing age, ethnicity, and a dichotomy of locals and tourists in a way few of the city’s restaurants, at this level of dining, are able to do.
Once I take my seat, the excitement is palpable. Though the restaurant is conscientious about updating its wine list online, it is impossible to know what new treasures the leatherbound book may hold (let alone which old ones have escaped the grasp of other oenophiles). Nicolas, as an owner-wine director, is more or less unmatched in Chicago. He combines passion and worldly taste with the relationships and financial backing required to source bottles other sommeliers, working within more restrictive structures, could hardly hope to stock. Most importantly (and this is rare to find at any restaurant in the world), he believes philosophically great wines are meant to be drunk rather than hoarded. Obélix charges some of the most meager markups in the city, applying them equally across all price points and effectively rewarding drinkers rather than cynically viewing them as a profit center.
Of course, there’s a trick: since Obélix offers half off of sparkling wine on Mondays, pricing on Champagne isn’t quite as sharp (though, in many cases, remains totally reasonable for some of the harder to find bottles). Likewise, the level of value being offered across the board (including by the glass) serves to justify a $75 corkage fee (per 750mL, no limit). However, I have found that sum is waved with a purchase off of the list, a courtesy that further affirms the restaurant’s commitment to celebrating the pleasures of the vine. Really (and though my adoration for the programs at Elske and Smyth has been made clear), there is no better place to drink.
Tonight, these are some of the bottles that catch my eye (and can help illustrate my point regarding markups):
- 2022 Emmanuel Rouget Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Beaune Blanc ($90 on the list, $69.99 at national retail)
- 2022 Domaine Labet “La Reine” ($125 on the list, $119 at national retail)
- 2020 Sylvain Cathiard Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits “Les Dames Huguettes” ($135 on the list, $99 at local retail)
- 2021 Sylvain Pataille Marsannay Rosé “Fleur de Pinot” ($135 on the list, $92 at national retail)
- 2020 Jean-Claude Ramonet Saint-Aubin 1er Cru “Le Charmois” ($210 on the list, $163 national Wine-Searcher average)
- 2021 Thibaud Boudignon Savennières “Franc de Pied” ($300 on the list, $265 at national retail)
- 2022 Mugneret-Gibourg Vosne-Romanée ($350 on the list, $295 at national retail)
- 2022 Domaine Roulot Meursault “Meix Chavaux” ($350 on the list, $325 at national retail)
- 2020 Domaine Bizot Marsannay “Clos du Roy” ($995 on the list, $1,200 at national retail)
- 2017 Coche-Dury Meursault ($999 on the list, $930 at national retail)
In this sample, the markups range from 47%, 36%, or 29% (on top of retail price) to as low as 19%, 13%, 8%, or 5%. In the case of the Bizot, this wine is being offered for 17% less than the retail price (and, to be totally honest, 55% less than the one bottle currently being offered for sale in the United States). Of course, I have chosen to focus on selections that are often speculated upon, which heightens the effect. However, fundamentally, Obélix is taking a fair, one-time markup on its wholesale price—a system that, when the vendors themselves resist the temptation to be greedy, ensures guests will always find a sense of value relative to retail.
Having made my selection, wine service is left, on this occasion, to the server. While hearing Nicolas’s passion for the program firsthand is a thrill, the rest of the staff displays ample knowledge and enthusiasm about what they are pouring. This speaks to the caliber of education being offered by the owner and also makes for a nice degree of continuity as the same server is equipped to “do it all” (and thus build a deeper bond) during the course of the meal. This includes providing ice buckets, decanting, or double decanting as necessary.
Otherwise, service at Obélix blends effortlessness and warmth (totally befitting the environment described earlier) with serious guidance regarding the food. For newcomers, that might mean some basic sense of how many dishes to order for a particular party size. However, for returning guests, servers are quick to identify anything new (including when the set served with more longstanding items has changed): not only listing ingredients but describing how they work together and conveying (often giddily) some of the pleasure a preparation yields. They are proactive about describing (or even helping visualize) portion sizing, ensuring diners strike a balance between “not enough” and “too much” without a hint of judgment. They also do a good job of keeping tabs on the table once food starts coming out: soliciting feedback, making time for small talk, and offering a gentle reminder that the soufflé, if desired, takes 30 minutes. The bussers, in turn, are always quick about refilling water, clearing plates, and offering serving after serving of additional bread.
In sum, the hospitality at Obélix ensures that the dining experience, however approachable and adaptable and social at its core, runs like clockwork. And, from this sense of precision, a sincere emotional connection between server and server can easily form. I never worry about being taken care of here, and it is no coincidence that several members of the team have come from esteemed establishments like Kumiko, Oriole, or Smyth.
Now for the main event: cuisine that, for all the virtues of wine and service I have mentioned, really keeps me coming back. Though Oliver is engaged on the culinary side as an owner, credit must also be given to executive chef Nathan Kim (formerly of Tru, Sixteen, Bellemore, and Jeong) and executive pastry chef Courtney Kenyon (formerly of North Pond, Oriole, and the Miami branch of Thomas Keller’s Bouchon). Add in a chef de cuisine (with experience at Alinea, Yūgen, and Claudia), a sous chef (with experience at Momotaro, Claudia, and Wherewithall), a pastry sous chef (with experience at Boka, Lost Larson, and Sepia), and a head baker (with experience at Oriole) with their own estimable credentials, and one is left with something like an all-star team. There is not only a high level of talent being channeled toward executing this food, but a wide range of cultures and influences interacting to shape the recipes. It is through this collaboration—and the sense that any dish can go in any direction so long as it’s delicious—that Obélix really shines.
To begin, the busser brings over a serving of “Baguette.” The loaf’s loosely braided form facilitates sharing while also ensuring that each of the pieces develops brittle curves and points of crust. The bread arrives warm with an accompanying swirl of butter that holds its form but is otherwise spreadable. On the palate, the baguette is crisp on entry yet yields to a soft crumb and a subtle, satisfying chew. Astutely seasoned, the bread is mild and savory on entry while displaying a delectable tinge of sweetness (especially with the application of butter) on its finish. Overall, this is a good, dependable example of the form that is generously replenished throughout the meal and makes for an excellent vessel for many of the kitchen’s sauces.
Next to arrive is the “Hamachi Crudo” ($21), comprising generous slices of raw yellowtail flavored with lemongrass and avocado mousse then garnished with cucumber, kiwi, nasturtium, and rice pearls. The fish, lightly coated in oil, is remarkably soft and succulent on the palate—a real treat even for those used to encountering it at omakases. Crunching twirls of cucumber and the finer rice crisps help provide definition. However, the hamachi remains the star: its smooth mouthfeel joining with the creamy avocado mousse to form a rich, buttery sensation. The combination of kiwi and lemongrass, in turn, delivers contrasting, uplifting tang backed by a bit of sweetness. Ultimately, I find the dish somewhat understated but carefully balanced and especially enjoyable on the finish. Adding a burst of umami would attune the recipe more to my personal taste, but this remains a nice crudo with clear textural appeal and a clean, light flavor profile.
The ”Foie Gras and Crispy Rice” ($18 each), by comparison, delivers all the savory power I am after. It combines a crunchy base (made from the titular grain) layered with umeboshi (salted, pickled plum), Japanese mustard, the seared duck liver, and two slices of fatty tuna belly brushed with soy. Obélix has a tendency of pushing decadence to the extreme (a point that, when I see it approached elsewhere, I am tempted to term “gimmicky”), but the kitchen always marries its irreverent approach to luxury ingredients with faultless execution.
Here, the pronounced crunch of the crispy rice yields to a softer interior and a creamy, oozing coating of fat drawn from the triple-stacked foie gras and tuna. Really, the effortlessness with which these layers of liver and fish melt on the tongue is just stunning. Meanwhile, all the resulting richness is amply countered by the pungent, sour, and salty condiments: an explosive confluence that drives one’s palate right to the edge of overwhelmment before fading into a long, lip-smacking, umami finish. At the end of the day, this bite may be pricey, but it surpasses most of the canapés served at multi-Michelin-starred concepts around town. Wow.
The ”Black Truffle Gougère” ($16 each) can be found among the specials, providing another luxurious bite with which to begin the meal. Relative to the crispy rice (a singular confluence of cultures), this baked pastry is approached in a rather textbook manner. On entry, the shell of choux dough is crisp and flaky. It breaks cleanly apart, revealing a core of melted raclette and comté that arrives fully warmed (but never comes close to scalding). The richly nutty, fruity, and semisweet notes of the cheeses coat the palate as the slices of black truffle (sourced from Piedmont) fall into place. There, the luxury ingredient is activated by the heat of the filling and unleashes earthy, umami tones that amplify the rich, nutty flavors—with each inhale and exhale (via retronasal olfaction)—all the way through the finish.
It is hard to find fault with this bite, which I would rank just behind the crispy rice on account of the latter’s increased intensity. Ultimately, heightening the flavor of truffle would mean more expensive sourcing and an increase in price (that, surely, would remove some of the charm). Instead, I recommend biting the gougère in half, tucking the truffle slices into the filling, and enjoying them with the benefit of further warming and expressiveness.
With the arrival of the “Galette aux Pommes” ($22), the meal starts to get more substantial. This freeform crusty cake (made with pâte brisée or, essentially, an extra buttery shortcrust pastry) happens to be a vegetarian dish. I would hardly ever seek such a thing out, but there’s no sense of sacrifice or substitution in this case. The galette comes filled with thinly sliced apples (sourced from Mick Klug Farms), caramelized onions, and a blend of raclette and Époisses cheese. Crispy sage and an apple cider gastrique coat the pastry’s top, which boasts a gnarled, golden-brown crust. Finally, to the side, sits a simple salad interlaced with more slices of the fruit.
When it meets the accompanying steak knife, the galette comes apart with ease. The dough is flaky (rather than crumbly) and holds its structure as I portion out individual bites. On the palate, it displays a clean, buttery crunch that yields to a creamier, quite understated mouthfeel of apple, onion, and melted cheese. Their resulting flavor is long and savory (the Époisses providing its classic meaty notes) with only a tinge of perceptible sweetness coming through on the finish. The accompanying salad, when embraced, provides some contrasting acid in what is otherwise a rich, meditative dish. That being said, the pastry crust is undoubtedly the star—providing a sense of engagement and enjoyment that transcends its simpler filling. I may not order this dish again, but I enjoyed it and am enthusiastic about the overall form.
“’The Obélix Dog’” ($27), which arrives next, might rank as the most irreverent dish the kitchen has served to date. Yet, as always, the team shines not by simply coming up with such outlandish ideas but, in fact, executing them in a manner that actually lives up to the promised deliciousness. For this preparation, a duck and foie gras sausage is battered and fried like a corn dog before being topped with a ribbon of foie gras mousse, some pickled mustard seeds, a few pickled cherries, and a couple dabs of cherry mostarda. More of the latter sauce sits on one side of the plate while, on the other, a scattering of corn nuts helps to drive the theme home (and acts as a platform for the main event).
Though a knife is provided to divide up the dog, I think it is best enjoyed in the traditional fashion: by the stick. Doing so, one must be careful that the foie gras mousse and its assorted toppings do not slide off and scatter over the plate (as happened on this occasion). However, even at its messiest, the corn dog is a triumph. It combines the snap of the plump, juicy sausage with a vein of melty liver and a crisp, cornmeal coating. While the mousse amplifies the sense of creaminess found within, the mustard seeds provide a contrasting pop. Along with the cherries, this latter element suffuses the dish with an incredible blend of sweetness, tang, and pungency that more than meets the match of the double dose of foie. Even the corn nuts, when thrown into the mix, offer a lovely burst of salt. In sum, this dish takes decadence to the extreme without ever seeming sloppy or cloying. It delivers a memorable, deeply enjoyable expression of duck and its liver that should light a fire under chefs who are otherwise tempted to play things safe with this luxury ingredient.
Next from the specials menu, a preparation of what might be my favorite food: “Ris de Veau” ($25). Here, the sweetbreads are breaded, yes, and fried—looking like the oversized chicken nuggets that they truly replicate at their best. Nonetheless, the surrounding flavoring is where things really get interesting. A coconut soubise forms the base layer and is followed by a drizzle of lemongrass ravigote, spoonful of nam phrik phao (a kind of Thai chili sauce) fortified with bone marrow, some leaves of Thai basil, and a few curls of chili pepper.
On the palate, the sweetbreads themselves are remarkably smooth and tender on the inside but only subtly crisp on entry. As a consequence, some of the stemmier leaves of basil actually deliver more crunch (and, thus, are a bit jarring). That being said, the interplay between soothing coconut, bright lemongrass, and umami-loaded heat is sound. These elements combine to enliven the creamy mouthfeel of the sweetbread and more or less cancel out, leaving behind a savory sensation that helps reveal the star ingredient’s own subtle sweetness. Still, to be honest, I am still left wanting more caramelization and crunch. This might be the weakest dish of the night (especially given my high expectations), but it remains one I found some enjoyment in.
In all its forms, the “Tête de Cochon” ($27) is a favorite, but I must give special credit to the current set, which really epitomizes the cultural exchange going on in the kitchen. To begin, meat from the pig’s head is crisped and formed into a neat patty that is coated in black garlic hoisin. Surrounding the flesh, guests find a couple “mochi crepes” (that I would liken to a more rigid, slightly chewy flatbread) and a suite of toppings: chili crunch, onion kimchi, whipped tofu, cucumber segments, and perilla leaves.
Though the pork is juicy and full flavored when eaten on its own, it really shines when layered (via a wrap) with the accompanying creamy, chewy, and crunchy condiments. Each bite taken in this format is endlessly engaging, with so many dimensions of crispness playing off of the pig head’s own shattering crust. The meat’s depth of sweetness and umami, too, is enhanced by notes of nut, tangy allium, anise, and a tinge of heat. As seen in so many of Obélix’s best dishes, an impeccable sense of balance ensures these diverse elements are channeled toward a deeply savory sensation of broad appeal. There are no rough edges here—just a fun, hands-on expression of carnal pleasure. The “Tête de Cochon” continues to be a real highlight of the menu.
The newest dish sampled on this evening, appearing under the “Plats pour Deux” section of the menu, is a “Halibut Rôti” ($85). This preparation of fish replaced a dover sole that had been offered for some time and, in the same manner, looks to deliver a sense of fullness for those looking to end the meal with seafood. The halibut itself arrives pan-roasted and boasts a golden-brown crust that is blanketed by thinly sliced chives. Grilled links of merguez sausage and a handful of Manila clams join the fish in its tureen, whose base is filled with a “bouillabaisse sauce,” marble potatoes, cherry tomatoes, and a bit of fennel to finish. The resulting presentation is a feast for the eyes, capturing the sense of variety and generosity one always craves from these shared plates.
On the palate, the halibut displays a supreme degree of tenderness and flakiness that is just about held together by its crisp exterior. The fish is mild and fleetingly sweet, yet its mouthfeel maintains enough presence to bring the other elements in. The merguez—snappy, delicately spiced, and gamey—and the clams—bouncy, briny, and sweet—imbue the fish with more powerfully meaty tones. At the same time, the tang from the tomatoes, licorice notes drawn from the fennel, and saffron-seafood complexity provided by the encompassing sauce serve to round everything out (with those marble potatoes adding an extra sense of substance in lieu of more bread). Overall, this makes for a dish of contrasting textures and satisfying flavors that, while perhaps not an absolute showstopper, would form a welcome part of any larger party’s table.
Though Obélix offers preparations of beef and lamb worth indulging in, the star—for me—is always the “10-Day Dry-Aged Duck Breast” ($51). The exact recipe changes over time (and, indeed, it is always rewarding to see how the kitchen will next approach such a totemic ingredient). However, the focus remains the same: two sizable cuts of Rohan duck breast, each boasting a blushing pink interior, a well-rendered layer of fat, and a crisp cap of skin that benefits from an extra layer of puffed grains. Taking everything else out of the equation, this meat is succulent—releasing mouth-coating juices with each yielding chew—and totally seamless until one hits the shattering, crunching exterior that frames it so well. Though Boka takes the same duck and ages it even longer, the team here more effectively presents the breast’s textural extremes. In flavoring, too, Obélix is much more attuned to my taste, with the current combination of sauce l’orange, onion soubise, and orange marmalade mostarda striking right at one’s pleasure center.
The nostalgic combination (refined of any sickly excess) nestles the bird’s deeply savory character in uplifting acid and sweetness (drawn from both fruit and allium) that drive it further toward decadence. An accompanying croquette is crisp and satisfying, being filled with tender threads of confited duck meat that are just a bit too salty in this case. An endive, off to the other side, is enjoyably soft and nutty (if easy to overlook). Finally, the foie gras (offered as a bonus by the server as a token of gratitude for sharing a pour of wine) works quite nicely too: coating the sweetened flesh with even more richness and fat. But, at the end of the day, this dish hinges on the cook of the breast meat, the crispness of the skin, and the resolution to celebrate duck flavor at its purest and most pleasurable. Even in the context of Smyth’s many memorable preparations, this is a reliably exceptional rendition of the bird.
Though I hesitate to devote too many words to a mere serving of “Frites” ($9), they are well worth the splurge. Unerringly crispy and salted right at the point of compulsion, these fries are countered nicely by the accompanying garlic aioli (or, better yet, dragged through just about any sauce that graces one of the larger plates). This item is a staple for a concept like Obélix, and the kitchen does not err.
For dessert, there can only be one option: a “Soufflé” ($18) flavored, on this occasion, with pandan and coconut then topped with a quenelle of mango milk tea ice cream. I certainly tend toward more traditional versions of this dish, but the balance here is beautifully judged. Namely, thanks to the pandan, the expression of coconut is on the toasty, nutty, brown sugared side. This ensures the main thrust of the soufflé is unabashed decadence while the ice cream, being malty and tropical, actually builds on the pleasure rather than wholly contrasting it. Of course, the change in temperature is welcome—especially as I find the inside of the ramekin to be a bit too wet and molten. Yes, though the top of the soufflé captures the soft, puffed structure that makes the form so enjoyable, the bottom seems a bit thin and loose. As a result, one gets less of the creamy, eggy texture they might expect. However, this is really just splitting hairs. The dessert still offers plenty of enjoyment, and the kitchen is able to execute them one after another without any lapse in quality. Add in the creativity shown in flavoring the soufflé, and Obélix shines as perhaps the most noteworthy custodian of this beloved form.
In the final analysis, I left this meal feeling pleased that Obélix had measured up to the high potential it is capable of. Though my longstanding appreciation of the restaurant has been made clear, I tried not to stack the deck in its favor. (Though one enjoys more control when ordering here compared to a tasting menu, the pricing is high enough—including a 4% “staff retention” surcharge—that a degree of expectation always reigns.) Instead, I looked to sample dishes that were entirely new or new to me (i.e., “Foie Gras and Crispy Rice,” “Galette aux Pommes,” “Halibut Rôti”) alongside novel renditions of familiar forms (i.e., “Hamachi Crudo,” “Ris de Veau,” “10-Day Dry-Aged Duck Breast,” “Soufflé”) and a few old favorites that hadn’t changed (i.e., ”Black Truffle Gougère,” “The Obélix Dog,” “Tête de Cochon”).
Of these, my favorites tonight were the “Foie Gras and Crispy Rice,” “Tête de Cochon,” “10-Day Dry-Aged Duck Breast,” and “The Obélix Dog” in that order. These are dishes that can rival the pleasure derived from the best dishes at the best restaurants (fine dining or otherwise) I visit in a given year.
The ”Black Truffle Gougère,” “Soufflé,” “Halibut Rôti,” and “Galette aux Pommes” follow in the next category. These were good dishes demonstrating technical proficiency and balance but falling short of a gripping, memorable degree of pleasure. That is no insult, for I would certainly order some of these again and find all them perfectly trusty in the right situation.
Lastly, I would put the “Hamachi Crudo” and “Ris de Veau” at the bottom of the pile. These dishes did not demonstrate any flaws (the one stemmy bite of Thai basil in the latter preparation might be the closest thing to it), and, in fact, the ideas underlying the recipes are unique and totally sound. Further, I found enjoyment in both of them. They just rank closer to “above average” than they do “exceptional,” and I would like to see certain elements taken further (namely, more umami in the crudo and more crispness from the sweetbreads).
At the end of the day, this is a brilliant batting average: one in which even Obélix’s weakest creations rank above what many chefs serve at the Michelin-starred level. That is no surprise given the chefs’ pedigrees and, I will admit, the freedom of an à la carte format that allows for $18 canapés, $27 appetizers, and a host of pricier shared plates and entrées stacked on top of each other. But when I consider the wine, the service, the energy of the room (and yet the overwhelming feeling of comfort), I ask myself how many tasting menus in Chicago really merit the degree of submission they demand?
Strip away the branding, the conceit of a culinary “narrative,” and the basic novelty provided by a progression of bites. Think of where the kitchen is truly empowered: not looking to justify a ticket price by appealing to the lowest common denominator but confident in its identity, beloved by its loyal customers, and, thus, driven to constantly push boundaries of cultural exchange and decadence without needing to sacrifice its fundamentals.
One can eat and drink like a king at Obélix while sacrificing almost none of the intellectual stimulation a tasting menu provides (at its best). In that respect, the Poileveys have built a place that challenges fine dining as Michelin would have Chicagoans know it: packaged products of marketing hype that star chasers check off the list, post their pictures of, and promptly forget about as they move on to the next imposing name.
Obélix is every bit the antithesis, for it does little to reward conspicuous consumption and can only really be known across repeat visits. With every new bottle and every new dish, the restaurant further convinces me of its sincerity: to celebrate the kind of excess (but also value) and evolution (but also permanence) that is petrified by the tasting menu form. Philosophically, the team has chosen to push the core pleasures of dining and hospitality to their limit, rejecting any pretense so that the immense quality they are able to offer flows unadulterated to their patrons. In that respect, Obélix is simultaneously one of Chicago’s most contemporary and classic concepts—to say nothing, no matter the caliber or price point, of being one of its best.