MORSEL: ORIOLE (September 2025)

Since writing about Oriole “2.0” in February of 2022, I’ve visited the restaurant another 13 times. I’m not talking Smyth numbers here, but of a semi-regular kind of patronage—during an era that has witnessed sweeping changes to the concept’s hospitality, wine, and culinary teams—that has always prized chef-owner Noah Sandoval’s cuisine (and the experience he curates) as a baseline.

Oriole, then and now, does not look to explore the furthest, boundary-breaking extremes of texture and flavor. It does not look to push plating or environmental effects into the realm of spectacle. Instead, the restaurant occupies a comfortable place somewhere between the avant-garde and the timeless. The former reveals itself via punky accents, a corresponding rejection of pretense, and a globe-trotting gamut of techniques; the latter is anchored by the polish of the staff, the classicism of the wine, and the way in which luxury ingredients are channeled—simply—toward pleasure.

When one considers the polarization that surrounds what Alinea and Smyth are selling, it’s not wrong to say that Oriole is the easy consensus pick for “best restaurant in Chicago.” Throw in Sandoval’s recognition as “Best Chef: Great Lakes” this year, and the eminence of his concept seems particularly well-established.

The most enduring and accurate critiques one can make about Oriole are only really salient when one looks at gastronomy from a national or international perspective. Within Chicago, you’re really not going to find a nicer dining room, a more broadly enjoyable tasting menu, or (for those seeking the feeling a multi-Michelin-star splurge) a better sense of value. Outside of Chicago, it’s not hard to find other Japanese-inflected concepts with a penchant for ticking all the luxury ingredient boxes. The most experienced palates will naturally compare this example of uni, caviar, truffle, wagyu, or foie gras to that one. And, while I think Sandoval has a case to make that he’s mastered the latter, competing with any of the former amounts to something of an arms race.

Ultimately, Chicago cannot go toe-to-toe with other major dining cities (not to mention a few minor ones that just happen to be awash with conspicuous consumers) in the genre of “international luxury.” That’s just geographical—and maybe even cultural—reality. (One sees what it costs Kyōten to try and source at an international level, as well as the skepticism the omakase’s price point has long invited.)

Faced with this limitation, a local restaurant looking to carve out a global niche needs to shape a singular identity. Looking beyond any bonafide signature recipes, a well-traveled diner can sense what an “Alinea-style” or “Smyth-style” dish looks and tastes like. Their chefs have worked with certain ideas and certain motifs in certain ways for long enough that that overarching logic—a distinct style (whether one appreciates it or not)—can be sensed.

To that point, I can name my favorite Oriole dishes but am not quite sure I can articulate a core “Oriole” savoir-faire. My mind returns to fruit-flecked foie gras, a breadstick larded with jamón, buttery sablefish crowned with caviar, truffle-studded pasta, a pristine slab of A5 wagyu, and cheesy soufflé. But I’m not sure I can really articulate a way that the kitchen does things—other than delivering dishes of beautiful richness and concentration at times and ones of more aimless, forgettable character (with or without those luxurious, Japanese trappings) at others.

The goal is not to force every restaurant to be experimental, provocative, and ever-changing. Oriole excels, within Chicago, as a guarantor of gastronomic delight in a market torn whose other actors err on the side of value, shallow gimmicks, the aforementioned polarization, or total obsolescence.

However, Oriole has also relied on certain standby ingredients and constructions to defend that status: ones doomed to lose some of their magic as novelty (for return guests) fades and the rest of the world’s dining public comes to know chefs, working in the same decadent fashion, who reach higher highs using the same coveted products.

There’s a tension here: why is being the best restaurant in Chicago—adept at pleasing the vast majority of Chicagoans that come through your doors—not enough? Why kill a golden goose you know will reliably please that clientele when those who tire of those signature recipes—so privileged, so snobbish—have the means and desire to eat elsewhere?

Well, there’s that third Michelin star, and world rankings, and myriad other lists to think about. And, while these affirmations should never overshadow the customers who leave feeling pleased night after night, onlookers and operators alike have to ask: what does it take to reach that next level?

I’m no expert, but I can put forth a thought. Oriole already boasts a best-in-class ambiance, beverage program, and service standard within Chicago. It wields these features with a warmth and charm that—even if some other restaurant, in some other city, is operating at a grander scale—doesn’t really need to be improved upon. The hospitality here rings true to the character of the city and the wider region (and to the evolving tastes of a newly democratized pastime) in a way that’s a clear virtue.

Oriole’s cuisine is, by the same token, worthy of admiration: for it avoids the pitfalls of chef egoism (“bend to the proclivities of my palate,” “indulge me as I do something nobody has done before”) and dares, simply, to please. This is not to say the food is simple. Rather, harmonizing hues of texture and flavor look to satisfy and amplify (not subvert) the essential, idealized character of ingredients that many customers, choosing to splurge, desperately want to see.

We can acknowledge that this is the kernel of the “Oriole style,” and it’s not one that needs to be discarded—just fleshed out. I’m not even sure the concept needs to stop calling itself “contemporary American” (a term that is now almost devoid of meaning but, in the same sense, kind of freeing). The Japanese influences (now also so predominant as to be indistinctive) can stay.

But growth, now nearly a decade on, will have to come from an acknowledgment that the luxury ingredients sourced and served in Chicago have their limitations. That “arms race” I mentioned cannot be won without undermining what makes Oriole so special in this market.

The solution comes from a turn inward: a privileging of the same kind of deep pleasure (and maybe even the same kind of ingredients) that is filtered more concertedly through the kitchen’s distinct personalities, influences, and obsessions—however high, however low. With enjoyment (rather than wanton experimentation) as a north star, the cuisine should plumb the depths of individual taste in pursuit of something universal. The idea being that, by trusting the voice within, the team will take techniques to new extremes and find inspiration from far-flung places: shaping recipes that delight patrons in the manner they have come to expect but also lack any easy point of comparison outside of Chicago.

This is all easier said than done, and it’s particularly hard for anyone on the outside—however many times they’ve eaten at a restaurant—to identify which trains of thought may lead to a restaurant’s best work.

The good news is that Oriole has already embarked on this process: a tricky transformation (if not total substitution) of its most winning recipes for the sake of forging something new. After all, it’s much more constructive to judge the fruits of such efforts than merely advocate for them from a privileged position of overfamiliarity.

Considering that this evening marks my second visit to the restaurant this year—yet only my fourth in a period of roughly two-and-a-half years—I think I am well-positioned to evaluate what the kitchen is doing (and where they might be going) with something of a fresh perspective.

Let us begin.

Years later, the alley-like confines of Walnut Street—just west off of Desplaines—have only grown in their allure.

While West Loop has surrendered to concepts of a decidedly mainstream (if not actual “national chain”) variety, Oriole remains an outpost. It’s not tucked away at the furthest reaches of the neighborhood (where places like Maxwells Trading and Creepies contend that the area is not quite finished yet). Rather, it’s sneakily situated closer to downtown in a residential pocket: one where “factories with several hundred people are now condos with four apartments” and family-owned businesses are scarce.

The closure of Fast Track—the iconic hot dog stand located (across from Kumiko) over on the corner at Lake—after 31 years of operation formed a symbolic moment for the block, signaling that the “hardhat workers” and “late-night revelers” that had sustained the train-themed eatery were no more. With demolition of the site having occurred back in January, an eight-story, 49-unit building is set to take its place.

Certainly, the existence—and wild success—of $20 cocktails and a $325 tasting menu up the street would’ve signaled how local tastes had grown beyond $3.99 char dogs. Not that I think these offerings shouldn’t or couldn’t coexist together. In fact, they form a perfect complement to each other.

Instead, I only reference Fast Track’s departure as the harbinger of further development. Yes, within eyesight of the Haymarket Memorial, even the traces of the places that once sustained the neighborhood’s working-class population are being erased.

But, walking down Walnut Street, one sees some remnant of industry: the loading docks and trucks, garage doors, graffiti-adorned dumpsters, and oversized windows (matched to faded brick) that suggest the old warehouse spaces which now house lofts. Never mind the condo building that sits at the end of this stretch. Ignore the tent city that sits, just a bit further, on the slope that sinks down toward the freeway. Try to tune out the sounds of revelry coming over the fence from SUNNYGUN.

Approaching Oriole (at least for those not being deposited right at the door) retains some sense of walking through a bygone Chicago. Of course, there’s something deeply ironic about invoking a vision of manual labor when traveling to indulge in big-ticket gastronomy. However, judged relative to the tree-lined brownstones that border Alinea, the towering apartment complex that casts its shadow over Smyth, and the faceless structure that houses Ever, Oriole’s surroundings convey a kind of terroir. Indeed, the restaurant seems to reflect the city it calls home more than its peers—occupying the kind of forgotten, timeworn armpit now so easily romanticized as an “authentic” expression of urban life.

I might be playing up the effect, but this emotion (however strongly or weakly felt) remains salient for a concept that works so successfully and memorably within a visual domain.

Though the courtyard and garden (with shining Oriole signage) assures arriving diners that they have found the right place, the journey up the stairs and through the front door leads to a shadowy lobby. There, the greeting is warm, yet the existence of a freight elevator—what has now become a signature aesthetic element—invites guests into the kind of industrial scene they might have vaguely sensed outside.

After a cup of tea and a moment’s pause, the other side of the chamber opens: revealing your awaiting captain (as well as an equally emblematic image of a white rabbit). Following a second (even friendlier) greeting, the short walk to the lounge provides a quick sense of how sprawling the space really is. Along the way, a peek into the wine cellar might hint at what level of luxury the team is aspiring toward.

Yes, once patrons come to their first stop of the night, the polished wood, fine upholstery, and suited staff confirm the level of refinement on offer. Peering into the private dining room—and then into the distinctively-ceilinged kitchen—one cannot help but (still) think, “they just don’t build restaurants like this in Chicago.”

All the while, the anchoring effect of exposed brick—in concert with the concept’s most prominent artwork (reminiscent of street art in their own right)—maintains a sense, however subtly, of that outside, industrial world.

Though many of Oriole’s most engaging flourishes speak to the depths of Sandoval’s taste (centered on music but spanning other realms of pop culture), they are deployed in an environment that feels connected to the surrounding city. Even if that vision of Chicago (idealized and broad-shouldered) is fading, the restaurant effectively embraces the fantasy. It’s not a cold, cavernous canvas for molecular misadventures, but a warm, rugged, intensely individualistic place.

Fine dining, the privileged pursuit that it is, might feel diametrically opposed to the thankless warehouse work of eras past. Yet, without ostentation or self-importance, Oriole embraces a sense of timelessness: situating the crafts of service and cuisine, practiced here by hand, in a grander historic context.

The sum effect, from Walnut Street to the elevator to the lounge, kitchen, and table, remains intoxicating: a lesson in building anticipation—and ultimately gravitas—without ever seeming to try too hard.

That said, a restaurant’s environment is only as good as the people who enliven it and actually shape the mood. Though, as a longtime customer, my perception of the hospitality will always be skewed (toward familiarity, routine), this does not stop me from observing—not only how the staff interact with first-time guests but also how they continue to refine and reimagine their processes for returning visitors too.

At a mechanical level, the standard set by the front of house is still (as I affirmed earlier) best in class. The dark suits they don, which could so easily constitute the uniform for the most snobbish of maître d’s, belie the total lightness and deference with which they approach their charges. Given Oriole’s wholehearted rejection of dress codes (one regularly sees t-shirts, shorts, and sandals on display here alongside all the expected finery), it feels nice to be served by “Ladies and Gentlemen” (to borrow the Ritz-Carlton motto) even when one indulges in an attire of total comfort. It goes without saying that the team welcomes such guests with the same enthusiasm—dare I say even more, for they so faithfully embody the attitude (whether one terms it “punk” or simply willing to challenge fine dining’s mores) that informs the restaurant’s distinct style.

Nonetheless, any irreverence toward the rules of an antiquated gastronomic establishment is counterbalanced by a total reverence for the people who have chosen to spend their evening here. Hospitality is as patient and reflexive as it is precise and technically adept. One never waits for refills or is forced to linger for more than a moment over an empty plate. Wine, whether one orders a pairing or helps themself to handful of bottles, always reaches the glass long before the intended course arrives (something that went disastrously wrong last time I dined at Ever). Coffee, in the same manner, is offered and is presented before the last of the dessert is served (also a surprising sticking point at this level).

Yes, anyone and everyone on the floor—captain, back waiter, sommelier, general manager—is motivated to jump in when the occasion presents itself (always in groupings that allow for perfect synchronization).

The progression of the meal, correspondingly, maintains a sharp pace. Tonight, I count a span of two-and-a-half hours from the arrival of the first dish to the arrival of the last. Spread across 12 distinct courses, this makes for an average wait time of twelve-and-a-half minutes: an absolutely textbook orchestration that probably lies at the faster end of what the kitchen is capable of (but could easily be adjusted for diners who prefer to linger longer over their food).

To offer some kind of critique, I count one instance toward the end of the night when I drop my napkin—realizing and retrieving it before any member of the staff can come to the rescue. But this is obviously splitting hairs (and, admittedly, I was actually happy to get my hands on the cloth while escaping attention).

In practice, the caliber of service on display at Oriole is something close to faultless. Further, any hiccups (and none really come to mind across my past two experiences) are easily forgotten in the face of thoughtful details like the labeling of wine glasses, the tidy bagging of one’s corks, the personalization of guests’ menus (going so far as to list bottles brought as corkage), and a row of bathrooms stocked with the kind of toiletries that would put a five-star hotel to shame.

Emotionally, I think the hospitality strikes the right chord too. Mechanical excellence, anticipation, and more tangible expressions of thoughtfulness are tempered by a manner of interaction that is relaxed and sensitive. These are not uncanny robots armed with spiels (and it certainly helps that the restaurant’s cuisine does not demand extended explication of arcane ingredients and techniques). Rather, consistent aesthetic principles that make themselves known throughout the environment (and, indeed, the food), tableside manner is radically disarming, comforting, and lingering in a way that makes room for genuine connections between server and served. Unsurprisingly, it helps to have ex-Smyth employees on board at the restaurant and helping to lead that charge (as well as Sandoval himself, whose presence as executive chef should not be discounted).

To be clear, I’m not sure Oriole has ever restored the standard of hospitality set by Cara Sandoval. In terms of raw talent and ownership (figurative as well as literal) over the guest experience, those shoes seem nearly impossible to fill.

However, an overarching culture and friendly tone of service has endured here. It might miss the magic touch of its superlative practitioner, yet it still accords itself well with a national—even international—standard capable of pleasing a new, free-wheeling generation of diners and older, staid ones alike.

Now snugly seated in the lounge, I need only decide what to drink.

In terms of pairings, Oriole offers “Spirit Free” ($125), “Standard” ($195), and “Reserve” ($350) options that represent a collaboration between beverage director Emily Rosenfeld and Kumiko’s Julia Momosé. I understand that the vast majority of guests opt for one of these offerings and, based on my own preference, there’s little firsthand experience I can speak to.

Still, anyone who is familiar with Momosé’s spirit-free cocktails can vouch for their creativity and depth of flavor. Plus, based on my observations, Rosenfeld’s work at the “Reserve” level remains highly competitive with (if not, for some palates, downright better than) what is being poured as part of “The Alinea Pairing” ($395) or Smyth’s “Super Mega” ($475).

Specifically, I see bottles of aged Barolo (e.g., Giacosa), Bordeaux (e.g., Latour, Lafite), and Cornas (e.g., Juge) being matched to the menu’s headlining pasta and beef preparations. Add in selections like Antica Terra, Dom Pérignon, Egon Müller, and Ramonet elsewhere in the meal, and one is left with a wine experience that delivers recognizable (if more classically conceived) pleasure that is likely to please those who want to splurge (but otherwise not tangle with the full list).

For me, those bottles undoubtedly form the main event. Yet, tonight, I start by sampling a cocktail—a nice way to make the most of one’s sojourn in the lounge. “The Martini” ($21), made from Roku gin, two different shochus, and Dolin Blanc, is bracing but beautifully balanced. It stands alongside the best examples of this cocktail served across the street at Kumiko. The “Apple Spritz” ($20)—a “Kitchen Collaboration” recipe blending the same vermouth with a Honeycrisp reduction, sparkling wine, and orange—also impresses: delivering brighter, sweeter notes that invigorate the palate ahead of the menu to come.

Turning now to the wine list, here are some representative selections:

2017 Kumeu River “Village” Chardonnay ($45 on the list, $23.99 at national retail)
2021 Benoit Ente Bourgogne Aligoté “Antichone” ($95 on the list, $79.95 at local retail)
2023 Bénédicte et Stéphane Tissot “Patchwork” ($95 on the list, $53 at local retail)
2019 Alice et Olivier De Moor Chablis “L’Humeur du Temps” ($115 on the list, $70 at national retail)
2020 Sylvain Pataille Marsannay “Clos du Roy” ($125 on the list, $97 at national retail)
NV Benoît Déhu Champagne “Initiation” ($130 on the list, $74 at national retail)
2022 Weingut Keller “RR” Riesling ($130 on the list, $69 at local retail)
2020 Domaine Leflaive Mâcon-Verzé ($135 on the list, $77.98 at national retail)
2022 Miani Chardonnay ($150 on the list, $119 at national retail)
NV Agrapart Champagne “Terroirs” ($175 on the list, $84 at national retail)
NV Anne et Jean François Ganevat “Victor de la Combe” ($175 on the list, $69 at national retail)
2017 Simon Bize Savigny-Les-Beaune Premier Cru “Les Fornaux” ($189 on the list, $89.98 at national retail)
2017 Bérêche et Fils Champagne “Cramant” ($190 on the list, $185 at national retail)
NV Roses de Jeanne Champagne “VV/R22” ($220 on the list, $185 at national retail)
2015 Domaine Roulot Bourgogne Blanc ($220 on the list, $163.38 at national retail)
2021 Domaine Dujac Chambolle-Musigny ($250 on the list, $179.99 at national retail)
2016 Chartogne-Taillet Champagne “Hors Serie” ($280 on the list, $200 at national retail)
2019 Domaines des Comtes Lafon Meursault ($310 on the list, $189.99 at national retail)
2021 Benoit Ente Puligny-Montrachet ($350 on the list, $229.99 at national retail)
2017 Bruno Giacosa Barbaresco “Rabajà” ($350 on the list, $229 at national retail)
2006 Giuseppe Mascarello Barolo “Monprivato” ($397 on the list, $250 at national retail)
2007 Giacomo Conterno Barolo “Cascina Francia” ($425 on the list, $333 at national retail)
2020 Jean-Claude Ramonet Chassagne-Montrachet Premier Cru “Les Ruchottes” ($460 on the list, $375 at national retail)
2010 Robert Chevillon Nuits-Saint-Georges Premier Cru “Les Vaucrains” ($531 on the list, $249.99 at national retail)
2019 Stella di Campalto Brunello di Montalcino “Bacia” ($550 on the list, $369.99 at national retail)
2020 Weingut Keller “Abts E®” ($550 on the list, $389 at national retail)
2019 Thierry Allemand Cornas “Chaillot” ($650 on the list, $295 at national retail)
2005 Giuseppe Rinaldi Barolo “Brunate-Le Coste” ($650 on the list, $399 at national retail)
2017 Domaines des Comtes Lafon Meursault-Porusots Premier Cru ($666 on the list, $410 at national retail)
2018 Domaine Roulot Meursault Premier Cru “Clos des Bouchères” ($700 on the list, $497 at national retail)
2001 Domaine Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage ($750 on the list, $479 at national retail)
2018 François Raveneau Chablis Premier Cru “Forêt” ($750 on the list, $441 at national retail)
2016 Diamond Creek “Lake” Cabernet Sauvignon ($830 on the list, $745 at national retail)
2014 Egly-Ouriet Champagne Millésimé ($850 on the list, $466 at national retail)
2020 Domaine Dujac Clos de la Roche ($900 on the list, $749 at national retail)
2021 Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet Premier Cru “Les Pucelles” ($990 on the list, $709 at national retail)
1985 Louis Roederer Champagne “Cristal” ($1,350 on the list, $699.99 at national retail)
2021 Domaine Leflaive Bâtard-Montrachet ($1,900 on the list, $1,449.95 at national retail)
2010 Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier Bonnes Mares ($3,000 on the list, $1,699 at national retail)
2018 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Romanée-St.-Vivant ($4,675 on the list, $3,099 at national retail)

At first glance, Oriole continues to stock a roll call of the world’s greatest estates: names like D’Angerville, Biondi Santi, Chave, Chevillon, Conterno, Cotat, Dönnhoff, Dujac, Egly-Ouriet, Jamet, Keller, Krug, Lafon, Leflaive, Mascarello, Méo-Camuzet, La Mission Haut-Brion, Mugnier, Palmer, Ramonet, Raveneau, Ridge, Rinaldi, Romanée-Conti, Roulot, Sassicaia, Vega Sicilia, and d’Yquem (as well as many more in regions I just don’t personally favor).

These are balanced by a selection of cultier producers (some of whom embrace “natural” techniques): names like Le Boncie, Cédric Bouchard, Thibauld Boudignon, Stella di Campalto, Ente, Ganevat, Thierry Germain, Miani, Nicolas Joly, de Moor, Morgan Long, Pataille, Occhipinti, Radikon, Rousset Martin, Tiberio, Tissot, and Walter Scott.

The bottles offered range in price from $45 (a thoroughly enjoyable Auckland Chardonnay) to over $4,500 (grand cru Burgundy from what many believe to be its greatest domaine. Markups, in turn, land as low as 2.7% on top of retail price. For this sample, they also go as high as 120% on top of retail price (which, I should point out, would form a rather generous minimum at most restaurants). When one considers that the mean (56%) and median (53%) come in on the lower end, it becomes clear that winos of all stripes can expect tremendous value for their money when ordering from this list.

Stylistically, there are always more avenues the selection could explore: I’m thinking (and, again, this accords primarily with my own taste) low-intervention Burgundies, the next generation of German producers, still rosés, and more elegant, early-drinking expressions of Nebbiolo. But Rosenfeld has unquestionably built on the work of Aaron McManus, growing the contents of Oriole’s showpiece cellar while preserving the program’s essential philosophy.

Yes, it’s almost a shame that the pairings prove so popular, for the sale of more bottles (and, indeed, I recognize more than a few that have been sitting—price unchanged—since the last time I wrote about the restaurant) could supercharge the addition of even more new offerings. However, as it stands, the wine list is a veritable treasure trove: one that lies in wait for oenophiles who care enough to look and, to their benefit, is picked from rarely enough that the most tempting bottles actually have a chance to sit.

Factor in a friendly corkage policy ($50 per 750mL, with a limit of two), as well as the generosity with which Rosenfeld tops of pairings or provides bonus pours, and one can only acknowledge that Oriole’s beverage program—from spirit-frees, cocktails, to wine—stands at the city’s summit. It forms a highly celebratory, totally inclusive foundation on which a sense of occasion (first shaped by the ambiance) effortlessly flows.

The further one digs into the details and precise value proposition being offered, the brighter the work of Momosé, Rosenfeld, and the rest of the team manages to shine—even (or especially) in relation to what is being offered Chicago’s other multi-Michelin-starred spots.

When the tasting menu, at last, begins, it does so within the cozy confines of the lounge: an embrace of the renovated restaurant’s spatial capabilities that debuted with the launch of Oriole “2.0.”

Traditionally, the meal’s opening salvo has centered on finger food, with trios of bites utilizing luxury ingredients like scallop, jamón ibérico, sea urchin, prawn, and caviar often forming one of the evening’s highlights. Tonight, Sandoval does not shy away from the same kind of decadence. However, he expands this sequence into something more like a series of small plates: one in which guests can savor several mouthfuls of more elaborate, cohesive dishes rather than chasing the high of fleeting, dainty morsels (however memorable in their own right). I actually welcome this change, for it shifts the kitchen’s work into a higher gear from the very start.

A preparation of “Razor Clam” kicks things off, with small segments of the bivalve being set atop an almond milk custard and paired with notes of fava bean, fig leaf oil, and geranium. On the palate, the shellfish displays a pleasant trace of firmness (indicative to the ingredient) that proves soft and tender with further chewing. Moreover, plucking each piece from the bowl feels dainty and refined.

When it comes to flavor, the razor clam offers a foundation of sweetness and brine that melds nicely with the fresh, citric geranium. The fava bean—a rather interesting addition—adds nutty, savory backing on the finish too. However, the almond milk and fig leaf oil strike me as being just a little too creamy, vanillin, and—yes—sweet. I understand the intention here, which is meant to amplify the qualities of the bivalve that are probably most prized, but the effect is just a touch overdone. While, for this reason, the starring ingredient is a bit obscured, I still think this is a nice start.

The ”Bluefin Tuna” that arrives next fares even better. Two slices of the prized fish arrive cured in soy and paired with a couple peeled Sungold tomatoes, some shiso, and a coriander aioli. Texturally, the tuna proves soft and mouthcoating in a way that accords well with what one might be sampling at the omakases around town.

The resulting flavor is fairly unique too—veering toward the powerfully ripe, fruity character of the tomato and bolstering it via the sweetness and citrus of the coriander. For me, the balance proves just a little too sweet yet again, and I’d rather see the soy (or some larger sense of umami) take the lead here. That being said, I think the tuna is better represented than the razor clam was, and there’s still plenty of enjoyment to be found in this dish.

“Kampachi” (a species of yellowtail) draws this opening sequence to a close. Curls of the fish are entwined with matching pieces of compressed honeydew melon and dressed with a combination of kabosu (a relative of yuzu), fish sauce, and lime leaf oil. Rose petals, tucked into the folds on the starring ingredient’s flesh, form the finishing touch.

When it reaches the tongue, the kampachi—like the tuna—comports itself well: displaying firmness on entry that turns rich and buttery with further mastication. The texture of the fish does well to match the crisp (then juicy) consistency of the melon too. The resulting sweetness here is to be expected, and it pains me to say, yet again, that it proves to be a little too much. A greater proportion of fish sauce could certainly help. However, I think it is fair to say that the kitchen has a certain conception of balance for these three dishes—one that might (I’m thinking of the food served at Ever) please many people with its exuberant, sugary notes. In isolation, these recipes can work, but I find that they grow tiring when paired together.

When I’m whisked out of the lounge and deposited at the kitchen counter—the third of four stops (if one counts that moment in the elevator)—I almost feel apprehensive. I know what’s coming, but I also know I’ve been complaining about errant sweetness. Would my problems with the prior preparations extend to what I have long considered to be Oriole’s most dependable, ever-pleasing creation?

The ”Hudson Valley Foie Gras,” in its current form, combines the usual brioche base (cooked in yeasted butter) and a parfait made from the titular liver with this season’s fruit topping: dried and fresh blueberries sourced from Michigan. Some peppercorn, sprigs of oxalis, and crème fraîche Dippin’ Dots complete the presentation, which comes (in a final flourish) dusted with gold.

Tonight, I note that the brioche possesses a firmer, almost biscotti-like consistency (which is by no means a bad thing). It does well to cushion the foie gras, whose rich mouthfeel and supreme savory concentration are enlivened by the double dose of fruit. There’s tremendous sweetness here—yet it is perfectly balanced by the tang of the crème fraîche (those dots also offering a brilliant melting effect) and the tartness of the oxalis. Fundamentally, the liver (due to conventional associations and the buffering nature of its fat) is just better suited for this kind of sugar. The result, years on, is a tremendously decadent couple of bites that still leave me wishing for another piece. Ultimately, this preparation has defended its place at the very mountaintop of foie gras dishes. Nonetheless, if I am being honest, the usual level of hedonism was slightly dampened by what I encountered in the lounge.

Taking my seat at the table, I am ready for the real show to begin: no frivolity (and no more sweetness)—just a core expression of this kitchen’s capabilities. Things move in the right direction rather quickly.

The “Golden Kaluga Caviar” served tonight takes an entirely novel form. The roe, neatly quenelled, sits atop a pile of peas dressed with a sauce of green garlic and an egg white garum. Off to the side, lobster meat lurks under a layer of foam.

Texturally, the bits of crustacean and caviar and the gently warmed sauces combine to form a soothing effect. The peas themselves are buttery on entry; however, they display a hint of firmness (a sign of slight overcooking) that detracts from the subtle pop of the roe. Here, the flavor is a little sweet on entry (and so I get scared). But, working my way through the bowl, the dish becomes more balanced, with notes of nuttiness, garlicky sharpness, and toasty umami ensuring this recipe lands firmly on the savory side. Overall, I’m not sure the caviar is all that easy to pick out, yet it contributes to a welcome cohesiveness in which seafood and fresh produce join to create lasting satisfaction.

A preparation of “Badger Flame Beets” is also entirely new to me—though I have certainly encountered this carrot-like cultivar (almost entirely free from earthiness) before. For his take on the ingredient, Sandoval wraps slices of the root vegetable up with curls of peach to form a kind of flower head. The chef then fills the space between the layers with microgreens and serves the whole thing atop an ice cream made with sake lees. An accompanying sauce, flavored with chamomile, forms the finishing touch.

On the palate, the twirl of beet and peach displays remarkable elegance. Both components are soft and juicy in a way that leads diners to confuse the two (a remarkable achievement for the former, oft-maligned, veggie). Taken with the faultlessly smooth, coconut-tinged frozen dessert, the produce displays a soothing sweetness that is free of any aggressive tartness. Instead, with the help of the chamomile, the recipe closes on a long, honeyed note that draws out the cheesy depth of the ice cream. In sum, this is a beautifully executed dish that turns what guests think about the starring ingredient on its head. The only problem? It should really be served after the savory food (either as a palate cleanser or a bonafide dessert). Otherwise, I don’t really understand the constant flip-flopping from sweet to savory.

Arriving next, the “Uni Infladita” has to rank as one of the most creative imaginings of sea urchin I have encountered (at least going back to the funnel cake that was served back at pre-pandemic Smyth). Here, the central form is a puffed, fried corn tortilla that has been filled with a mixture of tiger prawn, radish, and morita chili. The uni, glazed with maple, is attractively piled on top.

Though the infladita seems so enticing as a delivery method for this bite, the tortilla itself proves surprisingly brittle—almost seeming stale—rather than displaying a clean crispness. Still, the chunks of shellfish and radish inside help to hold everything together, and the uni (delicately sweetened) further moistens the assembled ingredients while offering some noticeable deep-sea character. I actually like how the toasty notes of the corn and smoky, fruity undertones of the chili work with the sea urchin too. With a little more textural refinement, this could be a winning dish.

Relative to many novel preparations tonight, the “Matsutake Custard” is rather familiar (having appeared in my review of Oriole “2.0” back in 2022). The dish never stood among my favorites (indeed, it was one whose quality clearly faded with repeat exposure); however, I could appreciate what it represented: an exploration of deeper, earthier notes that are largely absent from the rest of the meal.

The custard, as it has been in the past, comes loaded with foie gras, truffle, tarragon, and thin slices of the titular, prized fungus. A ginger-shoyu broth, poured tableside, is meant to provide the spark—and, I am happy to report, it does. Crowned by the subtle snap of the matsutakes, this recipe is characterized by a swirl of wet, oily, and creamy mouthfeels. On paper, this does not sound like the most appetizing sensation, yet it is matched by enough intensity of flavor. Namely, I note the umami of the shoyu, the musk of the truffle, the woodsy mushrooms, and a lightning bolt of spice and anise that comes through on the finish. Years later, this remains one of the kitchen’s most intellectual creations (and one, given the sweetness shown throughout this menu, that does well to steer my palate in a different direction).

The “Turbot” that arrives next is entirely new. Nonetheless, it looks to play a familiar role: substituting for the “Sablefish” preparations—paired with a croquette, Japanese milk bread, or even caviar—that proved so delicious since the early days of “2.0.” Is it wrong to draw this comparison solely on a kindred richness between the two ingredients? The substance of the resulting dish—as well as the pleasure it yields—more than proves my point.

Here, the turbot is formed into a roulade to help enrich and homogenize its texture. Cooked in butter, the resulting portion is served with butternut squash, groundcherries, and a two-part sauce comprising a broken amazake beurre blanc that is then laced with chive oil. Bits of pumpkin seed and buckwheat hide at the bottom of the bowl while, over the top, one finds a few nasturtium leaves added for visual effect.

Texturally, the fish is executed to perfection: delivering an appealing firmness and weight but also matching it with succulent, moist flesh. Though the groundcherries (technically related to tomatoes) cut through this course’s decadence with a note of citrus fruit, the other elements show little restraint. The pumpkin seed, buckwheat, and koji-inflected beurre blanc charge the turbot with a nutty, toasty concentration of umami—one that the squash steers effortlessly toward a deep (yet still understated) sweetness. The chive oil seems to freshen things up, yet its allium character actually harmonizes with (and further enhances) the other components.

The result is a preparation of turbot—already so satisfying in its mouthfeel—that achieves untold flavor. This recipe is every bit the equal of the kitchen’s earlier work with sablefish: a caliber that not only makes for one of the best dishes of the meal but stands alongside the best cooked seafood I have tasted anywhere. I only wish an accompanying “Pumpkin, Turbot, and Squash Doughnut”—being crisp but otherwise muted—did more to match the quality of the main plate. However, short of dragging the bite through the same sauce, I’m not sure how any sidecar could reach the same standard. Maybe it’s time to bring back the milk bread so that guests can soak up every drop?

The ”Risotto,” in a manner similar to the ”Sablefish”/”Turbot” evolution, looks to reimagine the most signature of all Oriole dishes. Indeed, the “Capellini” has featured on and off since the restaurant’s renovation—its absence representing a noble attempt to venture beyond its reliable pleasure, its return representing an equally noble decision to give patrons what they want. Adapting the same recipe to a different kind of form seems like a clever way to split the difference.

Here, a risotto made from one-year-aged rice is dressed with yeasted butter, caraway, and puffed wheat berries in a way that directly references the old recipe. A bit of grated parmesan and some tableside shavings of Australian black truffle help to extend the effect. However, a molten quail egg center and a sprinkling of genmai (roasted brown rice) offer a couple newer touches that look to exploit this particular form’s unique possibilities.

Upon reaching the palate, the rice proves warm and soothing—only to be pleasantly punctuated, every now and then, by the crisp crunch of the wheat berry or genmai. The quail egg, once its yolk is incorporated, caresses the grains with an additional, delineating layer of richness. It’s only the truffles, sadly, that detract from the equation: being sliced too thickly and faintly snapping (rather than wilting) when they meet one’s teeth. Still, the resulting flavor here is sublime: spanning all the funky, earthy, nutty notes I have come to love from the “Capellini.” Yes, putting aside the texture of the truffle, this remains an archetypal expression of that totemic luxury ingredient. It’s also a lovely risotto by any measure, ranking among the meal’s most memorable, enjoyable servings.

Closing out the savory portion of the menu, an “A5 Miyazaki Wagyu Ribeye” also looks to engage familiar pleasure in a new way. Oriole has long embraced this prized Japanese beef as a way to headline the night (though I have certainly enjoyed occasional experimentation with cuts of Ibérico pork). Frankly, it’s been used as a crutch by so many restaurants—so widely distributed and reduced to a sort of trope—that I must resist the urge to roll my eyes whenever it appears. My thinking goes: most chefs treat this kind of steak in such a hands-off manner that, beyond providing the expected melty fat, they express little of their personal style or creativity. This cut from that restaurant tastes like that cut from this restaurant, and what’s meant to be the most special course of a luxurious meal feels boring.

By opting for a healthy cut of ribeye rather than the wimpier striploin one typically sees, the kitchen gets off to a good start. Further, rather than pairing the wagyu with one solitary, delicate sauce, Sandoval goes the “choose your own adventure” route: staging the beef (itself coated in a mustard seed-studded jus) with surrounding servings of horseradish cream, spinalis (or ribeye cap) dressed with togarashi, eggplant, pickled radish, stewed mustard greens, and oxalis. Rather than feeling like too much, these condiments—opposite the glistening slab of beef—actually build excitement for each successive bite.

On the palate, the steak lives up to its A5 status while also transcending it. This, I think, has to do with the choice of cut: with the ribeye providing more structure (and satisfying chew) that frames the tight network of bursting fat found throughout the interior. The result is rich and melting but not, for once, entirely fleeting.

Foundationally, the resulting flavor is shaped by the beefy intensity of the jus and a tinge of sweetness provided by the mustard seeds. Of the accompaniments, I find that the spinalis (which should be a highlight in its own right) is just okay. The horseradish cream is good (though not as pungent as I’d like). The pickled radish and oxalis are both interesting (serving as a means of cleansing one’s tongue). The stewed mustard greens are beautifully spicy. And the eggplant is just phenomenal—driving the wagyu to an extreme of umami, sweetness, and balancing acidic that I find absolutely superlative. Yes, on the back of this nightshade (as well as the recipe’s overall interactive element), this closing savory course is a great success.

The turn toward dessert—and the work of executive pastry chef Jacquelyn Paternico—starts on a bright, refreshing note. “Hibiscus and Coconut” combines a granita and pearls (made from the former ingredient) with a creamy sorbet (made from the latter). Flavors of lime leaf and some finger lime pearls complete the preparation, which leads with a brittle consistency and an electric tartness but quickly transitions to soothing, mouth-coating tropical tones. A dish like this rarely gets much of a reaction out of me, but the sorbet is so beautifully rendered—and the recipe so astutely balanced—that, tonight, it ranks among the evening’s best.

The second (and last) of the plated desserts was, as I understand it, dreamt up by Sandoval himself. This “Carrot Cake” centers on a nutty tuile that has been dotted with gels made from alternating flavors of tonka bean, crème fraîche, ginger, and—yes—carrot. Flavors of blueberry and Calvados wait at the bottom of the bowl while, over the top, one finds cacao nibs, black walnut, and carrot greens (for good measure) as a finishing touch.

Texturally, the combination of the brittle tuile and the various gels replicates the best, nut-and-frosting coated bite of an actual carrot cake. Though, of course, the dish is missing the richness of any actual crumb, the layers of crunch, tang, and sweetness deliver considerable satisfaction. Overall, this makes for clever, refined, highly nostalgic dish. However, I do wonder if it wouldn’t work better as a second-to-last dessert rather than totally anchoring the menu’s indulgence.

The meal ends with a selection of five petit fours, the best of which is a “Dark Chocolate and Truffle Bon Bon” that blends a crisp exterior with a perfect application of salt. An “Okinawa Caramel and Cherry Macaron” (marked by a subtle chew and tartness), “Guajillo + Apricot Pâte de Fruit” (captivatingly sweet and smoky), and “Black Sesame Profiterole” (combining nutty length with jammy blackcurrant) also show well.

The “Pain Perdu” (flavored with candy cap mushroom, Délice de Bourgogne, and quince jam) is the most interesting of the bunch: winking at the restaurant’s legendary soufflé. I love the idea but find that the bite, built on a dense cylinder of bread, tastes earthy and funky without much accompanying sweetness. That being said, the recipe is well worth pursuing further.

In the blink of an eye, dessert has come and gone. The whole experience, tightly choreographed from the elevator door to the last tableside pour, reaches its conclusion. With the tasting menu (and, possibly, one’s pairing) prepaid through Tock, there’s hardly a chance for any sticker shock. A “service charge” of 20% is also applied at the time of purchase, precluding any need to calculate gratuity. In fact, given the caliber of hospitality on display (as well as the normalization of fees well above that amount), I think most diners will leave feeling like they have gotten some sort of deal.

Armed with printed, personalized menus (featuring a new, more unique visual design), guests are led back into the kitchen (where many pose for pictures), through the lounge, down the hallway, and beyond the elevator door that waits—open—to transport them back into reality. Staff may even follow you all the way outside, bidding farewell from the restaurant’s steps, in a gesture that poignantly injects Oriole’s overflowing warmth into the sparseness of the alley.

Walking that half-block of Walnut Street once more, one feels their memories of the meal—the spaces, the faces (to say nothing of the tastes)—swirl. These thoughts color the faded brick, the detritus, and illuminate them. Tucked within this sliver of old Chicago, something timeless survives: labor of a different character, yes, but practiced with the same earnest commitment to craft.

Reflecting on this second visit to Oriole in the year 2025, I think it is best to dive right into ranking the evening’s dishes:

I would place the “Turbot” in the highest category: a superlative item that stands among the best things I will be served in any restaurant this year.

The “Hudson Valley Foie Gras,” “Risotto,” “A5 Miyazaki Wagyu Ribeye,” and “Hibiscus and Coconut” land in the next stratum: great recipes that achieved a truly memorable degree of pleasure. I would love to encounter any of these again.

Next come the “Golden Kaluga Caviar,” “Badger Flame Beets,” “Matsutake Custard,” and “Carrot Cake”—good—even very good—preparations I would always be happy to sample again (but that just failed to elicit an extra degree of emotion).

Finally, there’s the “Razor Clam,” “Bluefin Tuna,” “Kampachi,” “Uni Infladita,” and “Pumpkin, Turbot, and Squash Doughnut” merely good (or maybe just average) items that fell short when it came to texture and/or flavor. That said, the underlying ideas shaping these dishes were sound, and they could easily be improved with a little more fine-tuning.

Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of somewhere between 75% and 91%. The latter, higher figure comes from judging the opening trio of seafood dishes (despite their sweetness) as an overall success, which is also how I decided to treat the petit fours. One could also include the doughnut as part of the overall “Turbot” course, which (despite the blandness of its sidecar) absolutely blew me away.

I don’t think it’s wrong to say that the “Uni Infladita” was the only dedicated course that really fell short. If one chose to fault only the weakest member of the opening seafood sequence (i.e., the “Razor Clam”) the resulting hit-rate of 85% feels fair.

Ultimately, this is a great score for a concept trying to cook creatively and reinvent itself while satisfying the expectations that two Michelin stars carry. Indeed, while the “Hudson Valley Foie Gras” and “Matsutake Custard” succeeded in a way that was wholly familiar, the remainder of the dishes (nearly 40% of them landing in that “would love to have again” category) were new to me.

When one considers the ironclad quality of Oriole’s service and beverage program, as well as the aesthetic/spatial advantage it holds over its competitors, the restaurant’s place at the pinnacle of Chicago dining seems secure. (Choosing a “best” among those at the top is a fool’s errand. Each diner must be guided in accordance with their past dining experiences and particular desires—whether that’s for immersion, experimentation, hedonism, or the pleasures of the vine.)

However, to return to the question I asked at the beginning of this piece, it may be worth dwelling on what it might take for the concept to reach that next level. I write this from the perspective of a repeat patron who, satisfied as I am by this meal in isolation, know how diminishing returns can plague any menu (not to mention the high standard that the team here, historically, is capable of).

Structurally, I’ve already complained plenty about the sweetness of certain dishes. In some respect, it’s not even a bad thing to see ingredients like melon, tomato, or peach change how one appreciates (otherwise savory) seafood or vegetables. It feels like a fresh voice—whether that’s coming from a specific collaborator or just represents a way of thinking within the kitchen.

It is not really any particular recipe that’s the problem. Rather, it’s serving the sweet-tasting “Razor Clam,” “Bluefin Tuna,” “Kampachi,” and “Hudson Valley Foie Gras” all in a row that becomes grating. Moving into the savory “Golden Kaluga Caviar” then back toward the even sweeter “Badger Flame Beets” felt totally disjointed. It’s okay to shift the balance of a dish here or a dish there toward sugary excess. Truly, I can understand that this is a flavor profile that proves pretty broadly appealing. But I think there should be greater diversity—a more robust counterbalancing—between courses that seek this effect. Otherwise, the menu starts to feel one-note and the most superlative items (like the “Hudson Valley Foie Gras”) may fall somewhat flat for lack of contrast.

Structurally, I also already mentioned my desire to see the Japanese milk bread return: a signature serving that shrunk in size then totally disappeared without any kind of substitution. I won’t even mention the “Ham Sandwich” (a labor-intensive post-meal offering that savvily recast the lounge as a final stop). But baked goods of all stripes are offered at this level, and, between the “Turbot” and the “Risotto” (and maybe even lasting all the way to the jus served with the steak), there’s a clear opportunity to enjoy that kind of bite (maybe even an entirely new form) alongside the meal’s best sauces.

Bread would also serve to extend guests’ perception of the meal, which I will concede suffers a bit from the fact that the first couple courses are staged away from the actual table. However, somewhere between the “Matsutake Custard” and the “A5 Miyazaki Wagyu Ribeye” I do feel like there’s room—dare I say a need—for something else that’s savory. Whether this should take the form of a separate dish entirely (poultry?) or of sidecars that further flesh out existing courses I cannot say.

Nonetheless, I think there’s an even more dire need for an additional dessert served after the “Hibiscus and Coconut” and “Carrot Cake” preparations. Enjoyable as these recipes were, neither embraced the kind of showstopping decadence (elements like cake, cookie, custard, ganache, praline, richer ice cream, and so on) one comes to expect at this level. Instead, it felt like the petit fours arrived in the blink of an eye, and I know of no restaurant where these bites can make up for a lack of substance in the headlining sweets.

Finally, on a stylistic note: while I enjoyed the “Risotto” and “A5 Miyazaki Wagyu Ribeye” quite a bit, the kitchen is still working in the realm of expectation. These are ingredients and techniques (I’ll even include the “Matsutake Custard,” if we think of it as a chawanmushi, in this argument) that worldly diners have encountered countless times.

Certainly, it means something to serve a portion of Japanese beef that is so sizable, so perfectly cooked, so flavorful without charging a supplement. But, if this steak and the foie gras are going to be the anchor points that ensure a broad audience leaves Oriole happy, the team needs to push the remaining recipes in an entirely new direction. (Truffle risotto, even with the trappings of the capellini, is about as classic as it gets. Why invite a comparison with countless other examples served near and far when a totally different pasta, or a move beyond the pasta form altogether, could provide more distinction?)

Honestly, the “Uni Infladita” showed the right kind of thinking. It didn’t deliver, but I prize its appearance all the same for showing the avenues—playful yet technical—the kitchen might continue to pursue.

As long as they remain committed to a process of self-discovery and perpetual refinement, the new signatures will come. In fact, they’ve already started to appear, and it seems Oriole is finding its way: balancing the hospitality it has so mastered with the kind of vision, attuned its longstanding penchant for delivering pleasure, that might invigorate its cuisine at the end of this first decade. I can think of no better way, for new and old customers alike, to ring in that next chapter.