Taqueria Chingón’s closure in November of 2024—a strategic move meant to enable some retooling and an eventual reopening in another location (just revealed to be a prime storefront in Fulton Market)—marked one of the year’s most bitter developments. The restaurant represented a pandemic success story and, despite operating within a such a beloved genre, managed to balance a traditional approach to the form with degrees of refinement and playful fusion that felt totally singular. The loss was lamented by the community, and I felt particularly disappointed: regretting that I had only started to appreciate the concept toward the end of its life (once Oliver Poilevey’s work at Obélix really started to catch my attention).
Just the same, I felt especially grateful to have tried Chingón’s “TACOMAKASE” ($135) in January of 2024. The chefs originally debuted this idea (“13-15 courses of mostly tacos but all based around masa”) at the end of 2022, staging the meals on Mondays and often (though not always) during Chicago’s colder months. The eight seats, offered at two timeslots throughout this infrequent schedule, had a habit of selling out quickly. After all, the experience was novel to the city (if not totally unheard of in the context of Mexican gastronomy): an intimate, elaborated expression of a favorite food, interpreted by some of the scene’s most creative practitioners, set at the very counter where they were slinging them, à la carte, day and night.
I did not take any detailed notes on my “TACOMAKASE” but undoubtedly enjoyed the experience: one that blended “fancy” and “humble” ingredients along with a range of classic and innovative techniques, that framed its creations with storytelling and a respect for sourcing, but never lost sight of the kind of fundamental deliciousness diners expect from this form. I would have loved to write about it—as one of Chicago’s most secret, thought-provoking chef-driven menus—but the timing (both in terms of making Chingón my primary subject and securing the irregular reservations) just didn’t work out.
Instead, the “TACOMAKASE” received a passing reference in my piece on Cariño, whose own late-night “Taco Omakase” ($125) provided the now Michelin-starred tasting menu spot with a delectable extra dimension. I did not sense a clear winner between the two concepts: each pursuing the same idea in deliciously distinctive ways when it came to the actual combinations of ingredients and styles of seasoning being employed. Certainly, there was an overlap of tools and techniques, but there is no question that countless Japanese omakases (each blending rice, vinegar, and a kindred rotation of fish) can coexist in the same market. So, too, can diverse visions of a formalized masa/taco tasting. Even Topolobampo, with its “Mexico City: Taco Capital of the World” menu, would eventually get in on the fun.
Chingón’s closure struck me as the premature end of this exciting chapter: one that would live on at Cariño but reached the peak of its charm—a superlative expression of craft staged not in a fine dining setting but at a humble taqueria—under Poilevey and his chef-partner Marcos Ascencio. With Antonio Incandela (former pastry chef at Spiaggia, Le Bouchon, and Obélix as well as creator of desserts for the original “TACOMAKASE” menus), they would open Mariscos San Pedro in June of 2024. However, true to this new restaurant’s stated genre, tacos (though they might still serve as an occasional vessel) would take a back seat to seafood in all its shapes and sizes.
I visited Mariscos San Pedro during its opening weekend and admired how it combined a certain accessibility and scale with the same bursts of creativity and refinement that had characterized the chefs’ work at Chingón. The concept would be warmly received as a replacement for the once Michelin-starred Dusek’s (the only restaurant in Pilsen to ever earn that honor), and Ascencio, more particularly, was named a semifinalist for the “Best Chef: Great Lakes (IL, IN, MI, OH)” title at the 2025 James Beard Awards.
Despite enjoying my first visit to the restaurant, it proved difficult to get back there for another dinner. Doing so meant making room for more seafood within a diet (my diet) that was already heavy on sushi. Alternatively, it meant conscripting enough friends to take down some of San Pedro’s whole fish or platters (catering to larger parties being an area in which the concept really shines). Reservations, to that point, were not always easy to come by on short notice, and there was also the question of overall convenience: this was a place attached to a music venue (Thalia Hall) I don’t often visit in a neighborhood (Pilsen) I rarely find myself in. I already had an excellent showcase of Poilevey’s work in my own neck of the woods, so why travel? San Pedro had made a positive impression, but any future visits would have to be aligned with some particular craving or aspect of convenience that could help the restaurant break into my regular rotation.
In a manner eerily reminiscent of my time at Obélix, brunch would prove to be the solution, and Incandela, uncannily, was again the man to blame. The pastry chef’s “Pistachio Croissant” (among other examples of the form) had really impressed upon me that the Poileveys’ River North spot was something special: opening the door to a greater appreciation of all the concept’s cuisine. When San Pedro launched its own brunch in November of 2024, the effect was immediate: Incandela’s “Pan de Elote,” “Cinnamon Roll,” and “Donut” displayed the same startling blend of textural refinement and unapologetic decadence. These sweets hooked me, and the restaurant became a fixture at this timeslot (one where Chicago generally lacks exciting options).
Offering brunch ensured Mariscos San Pedro need not compete with every possible dinner option I might be considering on a given evening. The thoughtfulness and novelty of the dishes offered there confirmed the caliber of work the chefs were doing (including a range of savory preparations brought over from the nighttime menu). And there was little sense of inconvenience in traveling to Pilsen when the value proposition, relative to other restaurants operating during the morning, seemed so particularly strong.
At this quiet hour (worlds apart from the raucous fun that can characterize service at night), I came to know the concept over a series of visits and eventually think of it as a standby. The long-awaited return for dinner has not yet materialized (the “Pan de Elote” is a brunch exclusive, and I am not sure I could weather the trip without it waiting as a reward). But San Pedro had found a perfect niche, and it was the revival of the “TACOMAKASE”—now stylized “Taco Omakase”—here in late February of this year that finally prompted me to go back during primetime.
Now priced at $150 (at 7 PM on Thursdays) and $175 (at 6 PM and 8:30 PM on Fridays and Saturdays), the tasting menu (said to celebrate Ascencio’s “love for Mexican cuisine”) costs $15-$40 more than Chingón’s iteration while comprising the same 14-15 courses. However, all but a few signature creations have been totally transformed. The three chef-owners (assisted by one sous chef) now work a counter that seats as many as 12 guests at a time. They command a wood-fired oven (original to Dusek’s), which now informs the omakase’s cooking, and juxtapose the tacos with a $75 beverage pairing poured by a dedicated sommelier.
Mariscos San Pedro’s “Taco Omakase” is not just a relocation of what Chingón did before, but an expansion and evolution of the same idea: a crown jewel offering within a bustling restaurant that, indeed, may be looking to win Bibendum’s favor once more. Rather quietly, it represents one of the most exciting debuts of the year—a destination tasting menu, tailored to its neighborhood (at a time when S.K.Y. is now departing) yet also (as this collective of chefs has always sought) transcending the suffocating effects of convention or “authenticity.”
Yes, this team has fought against those tempted (however unfounded) to label them interlopers and made space for their totally singular approach to this cuisine. Doing so, they honor their chosen craft and help empower a wider range of expressions (traditional or innovative) from a broader spectrum of operators to also shine. To be clear, taco crawls and à la carte ordering need not make way for this formalized “omakase” approach. However, I think there exists plenty of potential for other chefs, each with their own perspectives, to embrace this format (especially in the pop-up fashion practiced at Chingón) and package their distinct visions as an all-inclusive, easily marketable experience. Ultimately, this could prove an enriching, enticing avenue for a new generation of Mexican (or Mexican-inspired) chefs.
I was happy to sample the “Taco Omakase” during its opening weekend, and, while it is far too early to judge this tasting menu definitively, I found a lot to like. Thus, I will look to describe what prospective guests might expect and help situate this value proposition relative to peers in the same genre and beyond.
Let us begin.
Mariscos San Pedro is primely positioned on West 18th Street: Pilsen’s “Main Street” since the late 1890s. It follows that Thalia Hall (which houses the restaurant) and St. Procopius (the Catholic church located across the street) were built at the end of the same century: pillars of the community that remain even as its composition has changed in the decades since. Their stonework and brickwork (respectively) shine as expressions of permanence on an otherwise unpretentious, welcoming block. Yet any temptation to view Thalia Hall as staid or imposing is immediately undone when one notices the tour bus parked outside and the anthropomorphic fish affixed to the windows.
Ascencio, Incandela, and Poilevey have built a concept that is brimming with color and playfulness—an establishment that trades the moodier, more classic feeling of Dusek’s for something more outward-facing and disarming. As S.K.Y. (with its own sleek, monochromatic look) says goodbye after eight years, is it not right to speak of a different kind of destination restaurant in Pilsen? Stephen Gillanders drew diners here with a worldly, often Asian-inspired range of dishes, and Thai Dang’s HaiSous Vietnamese Kitchen remains down the street (even as the chef sets his sights on a River North collaboration with Lettuce Entertain You). But now Mariscos San Pedro has all the buzz, and the story is less about something different being done in the neighborhood (a concept that transcends “place”) so much as a restaurant that flows from its own fountainhead of culture
Lying in wait to welcome those coming to Thalia Hall to take in a show, San Pedro speaks to local foodways while (like Chingón or even Obélix itself) infusing just enough far-flung inspiration to attract the broader dining public too. The result is a destination restaurant not as a hermetically sealed concept, capable of being dropped anywhere on the map, but one that necessarily acknowledges how the neighborhood—itself—forms the destination (a wider tapestry in which this eatery only plays a supporting part).
Yes, I get that sense when seeing San Pedro’s fanciful signage, its friendly fish mascot, and the sweeping front bar (observable from the street) with plenty of seating for locals. When one steps inside the restaurant, the space confirms its chefs’ pedigree through countless details: careful lighting, a beautifully illustrated chalkboard (this time with photorealistic seafood), a plethora of potted plants, mosaic backdrops, a proud lineup of bottles, and a pop of graphic design (posters, modeled after the menus, featuring more anthropomorphic critter set on backgrounds of bright orange, pink, and turquoise). There are plush booths and banquettes and a certain cohesiveness that tend toward a feeling of refinement. Just the same, wonky floor tiling (making for a three-dimensional effect), rearrangeable tables (for larger parties), hardy surfaces of wood, and accents of exposed brick (one wall being painted with the concept’s title) ensure San Pedro feels open, approachable, ready to host all comers even on the back of its positive press.
This is all to say: the restaurant has curb appeal, an attractive aesthetic, and a coveted address but does not look to overshadow its neighbors. Instead, San Pedro feels right at home alongside the vintage clothing stores, record shops, tattoo parlors, grocers, and salons that line its street. I also must mention the food: Mexican bakeries, birria, carnitas, chicken and rice, churros, other mariscos spots, paletas, tamales, and tacos galore—but also bánh mì, barbecue, burgers, hot dogs, and pizza alongside Chinese, Korean, and Thai fare. There’s even sushi—not just hand rolls but a distinctly Mexican approach to omakase (the Japanese kind)—to be found. In short, while Pilsen has not always enthusiastically greeted outside chefs, the community actually sustains quite a variety of options across a freewheeling, walkable area. San Pedro (and by extension the “Taco Omakase”) adds a unique interpretation of a couple familiar forms to this mix while, in turn, leading a traveling audience closer to an appreciation of the neighborhood’s longstanding practitioners. As long as locals are brought it on the fun and the cuisine is approached with respect (which every indication suggests), I only see the restaurant forming an effective anchor for the continued growth of this cultural hub.
Upon checking in, the party is led from the bustling front dining room (charged with the energy of the bar) into a rear space—every bit as busy but distinguished by the presence of a centerpiece counter. Typically, these seats were used for overflow: a kind of high-top option where single diners or groups of two could order and enjoy while some cooks happened to be working away on the other side. Now, with the launch of the “Taco Omakase,” this counter is granted the respect it deserves. Place settings (just six on this particular night) are centered around a hearth that features dual wood-burning ovens surrounded by black brick, framed by tile, and headlined by a statue of a tuna that hangs down from the ceiling. One could be forgiven for thinking the scene looks something like a shrine (the incense, candles, flowers, and other statuettes that neatly line a pair of shelves certainly help). But the ceaseless movement of the sous chef, focused on tending the flames, confirms this is an active kitchen.
Indeed, apart from some occasional shuffling back to the main kitchen (where refrigeration, rather importantly, can be found), the chefs make incredible use of this stage. Guests might not feel the heat of the ovens (probably a good thing now that the weather is warming), but they are treated to an intimate view of all the frying, slicing, saucing, and other construction that makes up each course. They hear the sizzle and smell the smoke: being treated to a four-man show that, even in the context of “chef’s tables” and “chef’s counters,” is striking in its intimate confines, the harmonizing of skilled hands, and the directness with which each distinct idea comes to fruition in just a short time. Compared to Chingón (where the design of the space meant that some amount of the cooking was being done a bit further from diners), the counter at San Pedro really delivers on the expectations of an omakase: that is to say, a degree of engagement and cooking as performance that structures each bite.
Of course, this all comes down to the chefs (who have taken to their expanded stage like fish to water). At this point, I know Poilevey pretty well from his other restaurants but Ascencio and Incandela less so. (The other diners at the counter tonight, for what it’s worth, have no established relationship with the proprietors at all.) Still the manner of interaction is effortlessly warm: flowing naturally from their shared passion for this particular project, their enthusiasm for the chosen cooking techniques, and a camaraderie (expressed in the form of lighthearted banter) that affirms why these men decided to open San Pedro together in the first place.
It can be said that Ascencio somewhat takes the lead: giving guests some grounding in the Mexican foodways that chiefly inspire this menu. Yet Poilevey is highly engaged: speaking to his own French perspective as well as hints of Japanese and even Ashkenazi influence that have crept into certain dishes. Incandela, appropriately, speaks more to the desserts. Nonetheless, the chefs’ three distinct voices fluidly combine within an overall theme they title a “journey of corn”—one that references the masa/tortilla program they are so clearly proud of as well as the pastry work that concludes the meal. Even the sous chef, bringing his own Caribbean touch to part of the menu, gets in on the fun: leading the description of one of the later courses.
Overall, the diverse cultural underpinnings of the “Taco Omakase” make for a thought-provoking, story-driven meal without ever seeming contrived. Rather, they reflect the realities and personalities and expertise of this estimable triumvirate of chefs. Beyond that, it is right to say that Ascencio, Incandela, and Poilevey generally approach hospitality with a sense of good humor (made evident when a couple patrons, on this early date, no-showed). At a time when many sushi chefs working in the omakase format still cannot escape a fundamental awkwardness, every bit of this experience feels comfortable and fun. Add in the efforts of the sommelier (eagle-eyed from his position behind the assembled guests), and service never falters in its fundamentals even as the headliners (on the other side of the counter) dominate proceedings. Considering that a 20% gratuity (as well as a 2% “service charge” also termed a “processing fee”) is assessed when purchasing tickets, I think the resulting degree of care shown here is more than commensurate.
Speaking of the sommelier, the only real choice one has to make when enjoying this menu is what to drink. The “Beverage Pairing” ($75) offers a turnkey solution, and that’s what I chose tonight. Though Poilevey noted he has considered adding cocktails to the selection, the chosen flight consists entirely of wine—predominantly bottles from Mexico matched, on occasion (as a side by side), with French examples.
Though I did not capture everything that was poured, these represent a few of the choices:
- NV El Bajio “Brut de Bernal” Traditional Method ($56 on the list, $27.99 at local retail)
- 2016 Jo Landron “Le Fief du Breil” Muscadet Sèvre-et-Maine ($68 on the list, $38.99 at national retail)
- 2020 Vinaltura Chenin Blanc ($60 on the list, $35.29 at national retail)
- 2022 Tres Raíces Nebbiolo Sangiovese ($95 on the list, $36.99 at national retail)
Overall, I think these selections check many of the right boxes (a Champagne-style sparkler, a crisp white, a more aromatic white, and a structured—though still approachable—red) while coming in at a fair price point. I’m missing a couple wines, so you’re talking something like six pours (generously refilled when necessary) for close to the same price ($75) it would cost to purchase one of these options from the list. There, markups are minor (close to just 100% over retail pricing), and, indeed, I am always one to recommend putting the same sum toward one or two bottles that align most closely with an individual’s taste.
However, situationally, the “Beverage Pairing” does a nice job of introducing Mexican wine to San Pedro’s audience while also placing it in a global context. The sommelier here is not just friendly. Rather, he describes the aromas and flavors one can expect from the pours and even delves into the specifics of how these notes might interact with particular courses. In truth, the wines harmonize (forming pleasant companions) rather than really bringing the cuisine to another level of enjoyment—as the vast majority of pairings tend to do. But this is no easy task when dealing with the acid, heat, and spice that can characterize some of the omakase’s dishes, and my comment takes nothing away from an offering that allows for both an effortless and educational dining experience.
Otherwise, beer, cocktails (including a couple non-alcoholic options), and wines by the glass (none of which intersect with those offered on the bottle list or pairing—a real triumph!) await diners looking to take things drink by drink. When considering the degrees of depth and intensity the chefs are known to bring to the taco form, I do not think there is a wrong choice. Refreshing the palate remains the goal, and many of the cocktails (sour, salty, hot, or spiced in their own right) do so while echoing the flavor of the food. Corkage, if it were offered, could be a trickier proposition (though sparkling and off-dry wines will almost always work). Thus, playing within the options presented (including a bottle list with a few exciting “natural” selections) helps to avoid any flabby or tannic variety that might actually impede the pleasure to be had from the actual menu.
On that note, the “Taco Omakase” begins.
To ready diners’ palates for all that’s to come, the chefs opt for an opening serving of soup: a clarified fish consommé made from the roasted bones Mariscos San Pedro has such prime access to. That being said, this is no simple broth. The “Tuna Morcilla” (as the dish is actually titled) that headlines the bowl is something like a blood sausage in meatball form that is made from the titular fish’s bloodline (a dark strip of meat sourced near the spine). This ingredient can tend toward bitterness but, here, it displays a powerfully savory character that plays well off of the fish tones of the consommé.
Though the broth is well salted, I do wish it arrived a bit hotter. Still, the bowl’s other constituents ensure the soup acts more as a vehicle than the main event. These include a chochoyote (or masa dumpling, also likened to a matzo ball) flavored with hoja santa and a small portion of black cod prepared “Nobu-style” with the addition of some guajillo chile. The former bite is soft and slightly chewy with a pleasing corn character that is tinged with the accompanying herb’s signature “root beer” notes. The latter is impeccably tender almost to the point of seeming too light. Yes, I miss the depth of umami that the Nobu inspiration promises and do not quite taste the sweetness or smoke the guajillo might offer. However, overall, this consommé is brimming with personality—delivering plenty of engagement and an enjoyable (if not totally transformative) start to the menu.
The ”Sardine Agua Chile” that arrives next immediately contrasts the soup’s more soothing nature. True to style, the fish is dressed with passionfruit, citrus, and mint to provide it with some lift and tang. An avocado mousse, likewise, lends the dish a sense of weight and richness. Yet it is the torching of the sardine’s skin in combination with a dressing of salsa macha and chipotle aioli that really makes the ingredient shine.
With the help of these smoky, nutty, and moderately hot notes, the diminutive fish’s umami character—not “fishy” at all on this occasion—is supercharged. Thus, the fruit (rather than coloring the preparation with sweetness and acid) acts more as a balancing force: yielding a combination of undeniable intensity that slowly unwinds throughout a lip-smacking finish. Here, the texture of the sardine also deserves special credit: it is rich and oily but entirely clean—more akin to what I’d find at Kyōten than what this fish’s humble name usually connotes.
A ”Hokkaido Scallop” continues the opening salvo of seafood while further embracing the Japanese influence that was hinted at by the black cod. Here, the headlining mollusk is cured and paired with its own aguachile made from green apple and serrano chile. Twirls of cucumber, some yuzu koshō, a sprinkle of miso flakes, and a few bubu arare (crispy rice pearls) complete the presentation, which centers on the scallop’s tender, succulent mouthfeel but quickly takes a left turn.
Indeed, while the bright, zesty, and salty accompaniments to the shellfish help to construct a conventional sense of pleasure, the aguachile subverts expectations. Heat from the serrano takes the lead (more than any sweetness derived from the apple), punctuating (but not overpowering) the tangier notes and defining the dish’s long, tingly finish. Despite the presence of those miso flakes, I’d like a bit more backing umami here. Nonetheless, this recipe effectively blends Japanese elegance with a bold burst of fire that speaks to this menu’s globe-trotting style.
Acting as a transition from the seafood segment of the meal toward an increasingly meaty series of tacos, the “Tostada Campechano” provides guests with the first chance to get their hands dirty. This “mixed” assortment of octopus and tuna is dressed with salsa macha and set (along with onion and jalapeño) upon a crispy squid ink tortilla. An achiote-inflected hollandaise sauce oozes over the top, being hit with the torch before receiving a finishing touch of salmon roe.
On the palate, the tostada itself possesses a beautiful structure that holds its shape with each crisp, clean crunch. When they hit, the octopus and tuna both prove tender and feel particularly rich when coated in the thick sauce. The seafood, too, shows ample acidity, yet their savory character (even with the briny burst of roe or use of squid ink) remains rather subtle. The salsa macha and jalapeños offer some mild heat (lasting through the finish), but any pleasing nuttiness or allium sweetness seems missing. I think the hollandaise, despite forming such a distinguishing element, is so mouthcoating and mild that it works to mute the other ingredients. This dish is by no means bad—in fact, it’s perfectly enjoyable—but it fails to deliver the degree of decadence I would expect from the chosen ingredients.
The “Maitake Taco” marks the first appearance of the omakase’s namesake item. Served on a porcini-infused tortilla, the titular fungus is confited in a combination of beef fat, duck fat, and brown butter before receiving a finishing glaze of tare (a thickened soy sauce). Sikil pak (a pumpkin seed salsa), some crispy sunchoke, a touch of habanero, and shavings of cured egg yolk form the mushroom’s supporting elements.
However, the quality of the taco rests on the interplay of the lightly crisped, satisfyingly meaty maitake with its soft, fluffy wrapper. This combination—doubly earthy thanks to the porcini base—reveals its savory, nutty depth once the sikil pak and sunchoke take hold. I’d love for more of the sweetness of the tare to come through, but the cured egg yolk offers a rich and salty sensation that helps boost the flavors at hand. The habanero also certainly does its part, infusing all the nuttiness with a measured heat that lasts once the mushrooms’ impression fades. All in all, this makes for a nice opening taco: one that confirms the level of creativity and complexity the chefs are looking to offer even if it does not achieve a memorable degree of hedonism.
The ”Lengua Taco” that arrives next looks to provide the kind of unabashed decadence I’ve been seeking (and who can blame the chefs for slowly building toward this point?). Here, the pursuit of pleasure is fairly straightforward: a blue corn tortilla, coated in avocado crema, slapped with a piece of wagyu beef tongue (roasted for 12 hours), and topped with a blend of cabbage shreds, crispy potato, and mustard seed. This combination is not quite simple. Rather, it centers on fundamentals that have been subject to a certain refinement.
On the palate, the lengua itself displays crispy edges, a tender interior, and a pronounced beef flavor that shines alongside the subtle sweetness of the blue corn and the rich, buttery avocado. While the strips of cabbage and crispy potato help to provide textural definition (contrasting and thus extending one’s perception of the meat), the mustard seed really bolsters the tongue’s flavor. Its sharp, pungent quality shoots through the wagyu’s fat and drives the lengua’s savory notes to an even higher extreme. For my palate, this taco only needs a touch of acid to be perfect. Still, it ranks as one of the real highlights of the night—just the kind of bite that justifies the menu’s ticket price.
An “Iberico Taco” is introduced with the admission that it features the most expensive ingredient of the night: pork loin sourced from those famous acorn-eating oinkers, treated like carne asada (i.e., grilled), and served closer to medium rare (typical when dealing with product of this quality). In this case, the meat is served on a guajillo-infused tortilla with nothing more than a long slice of avocado and some chimichurri for company.
On the palate, the ibérico displays a juicy, satisfying mouthfeel commensurate with its marbling and doneness. Rather than being powerfully porky in flavor, the loin is more delicate and subtly nutty. It joins with the bright, herby chimichurri and mouthcoating avocado to leave an impression that is straightforwardly meaty and free of the measured heat that characterizes most of the menu. In that respect, I do think the sweet and smoky notes of the guajillo could be more pronounced. However, this remains a pleasing taco of real purity—one that does its premium ingredient justice.
The ”Pig Head Carnitas Taco” marks the last example of the form served tonight, and it also represents the only savory holdover from the old Chingón iteration of this menu. Here, this equally prized cut of pork (a fixture on the menu at Obélix) is confited and rendered in a “pressed” style that yields a neat rectangle of crispy meat. The carnitas sit atop a yellow corn tortilla and come paired with a salsa de molcajete (made from a blend of ingredients crushed tableside by Ascencio), some white onion, cilantro, and a squeeze of lime.
This otherwise conventional combination works to highlight the crunching—yet tender—brick of pig head and its accompanying chipotle-inflected (almost chocolatey on the finish) sauce. There’s plenty of citrus at hand to ensure the taco remains light and bright. Meanwhile, the yellow corn lends an undercurrent of sweetness and nuttiness that further enhances one’s perception of the meat. Though classically conceived, this dish demonstrates a precision in its execution and an overall sense of power this is admirable. It ranks among the best examples tonight.
A ”Caribbean Oxtail Tamale” ends the savory portion of the meal, nodding toward the sous chef’s own heritage and allowing him to stand in the spotlight after assisting his bosses throughout the night. The recipe comprises a pouch of masa made with plantains that is filled with the titular cut of beef (cooked with Caribbean spices, arbol chile, and coconut) then steamed in a banana leaf. The resulting dish arrives unveiled: topped with yellow mole and some pickled red onions.
Though the inclusion of this tamale really pushes the limits of what guests might expect from the “Taco Omakase,” the course actually forms my favorite of the evening. Texturally, the masa feels so soft and seamless in combination with the mole and tender meat. The oxtail, in turn, tastes powerfully savory and rich but is joined by layers of spice, tropical sweetness, and tang that seem to go on forever. Ultimately, the balance here is just impeccable. Each bite feels complete, and the dish really rises to the point of being memorable. Well done.
With the arrival of the first dessert, Incandela finally gets his chance to shine. I’ve long considered him to be one of the best pastry chefs in the city, and his “Dragonfruit” immediately reminds me why. At first glance, the dish seems like a hands-off palate cleanser meant to celebrate the chefs’ sourcing. However, a section of this yellow dragon fruit’s flesh has been removed and replaced with a so-called “mango soup” spiked with Tajín. These latter elements add a luscious mouthfeel and ripe, sweet (but also salty-spicy) sensation to the mix, accentuating the dragon fruit’s fleshy (yet tender) and more mild, floral character.
When enjoyed together, the ingredients are absolutely explosive: layered and lip-smacking beyond any expectation. Yes, this dish not only boasts a clever presentation but demonstrates an understanding of how to conjure real decadence out of an otherwise simple juxtaposition. It ranks as one of the great successes of the menu.
A ”Truffle Churro” that arrives next is described as something of a “cheese course.” It also represents another holdover from the Chingón days (and how could the chefs resist?). Here, the pastry is made from a choux dough and topped with a layer of whipped Boursin cheese. Some truffle honey provides sweetness while freshly shaved (microplaned to be exact) Périgords provide the finishing touch.
Though this dish arrives on the back of the excellent “Dragonfruit,” I really appreciate its subtlety. The churro is perfectly crisp on the palate but more milky and earthy than it is sweet. Indeed, the honey does just enough to prevent the pastry from seeming savory. However, this bite provides a warm, rich, aromatic experience meant to be savored rather than drowned in sickly excess. To be clear, I’d probably still enjoy that, but I have even more respect for how thoughtfully the chefs have utilized the truffle here.
The ”Chocotaco” that brings the menu to a close is a nostalgic form that Incandela has played around with, in myriad flavors, for years. The present iteration, given the broad cultural context of the omakase, looks to celebrate the pastry chef’s Italian heritage. Inspired by spumoni, it comprises a pizzelle (waffle cookie) shell filled with vanilla and strawberry gelato then topped with crispy cornflakes, dark chocolate cream, and pistachios. On the palate, the resulting taco is dense and rich and maybe just a little too frozen (in a tooth-aching manner). However, the blend of fruit, cocoa, and nut flavors on a vanilla base is timeless, and this dessert delivers all the pleasure one wants at the end of the meal.
Nonetheless, as a parting gesture (invoking both Poilevey’s French flair and the omakase’s larger theme of corn), Incandela also tempts guests with a quartet of “Mignardise[s].” Moving counterclockwise, they include a “Pineapple Pâte de Fruit” (sweet and tangy and spiked, like the dragon fruit, with Tajín), a “Masaron” (delicately blending savory blue corn with a subtle chocolate note), a “Roasted Corn Chocolate Truffle” (my favorite: pronouncedly salty with an intense dark chocolate tone), and a “Jamoncillo” (chewy Mexican milk fudge, shaped like a moon cake, with backing tang drawn from lime and plum). Each bite is distinct and tasty—not to mention inventive and aesthetically pleasing—again surpassing what one might expect from a tasting menu ostensibly focused on tacos.
With that, the chefs express their gratitude for everyone’s attendance and ask around about any favorite dishes (it is opening night after all!). As the check arrives (only applicable if one orders à la carte beverages), they retire back to the main kitchen and ready themselves for performance number two. The counter, now, is empty, yet the fire still roars. As I retrace my steps through the dining room, Mariscos San Pedro, too, roars—table after table joyously sharing in its cuisine.
They may not yet know the “Taco Omakase” exists. They may not see the point of it when the regular menu is so good and the wider neighborhood—a Pilsen in which San Pedro has looked to find its place—is already equipped to satisfy such cravings. But, by merely existing, this project ingrains the restaurant and its chefs further in the community: establishing a destination within a destination, a stage for these proprietors to serve diners directly, and to drive a conversation about Mexican foodways—its roots and its potential for evolution—that cultivates more open-minded consumption and might just shape a next generation of restaurants here.
To be clear, there’s no need to frame what Ascencio, Incandela, and Poilevey are doing—with this $150-$175 menu in a part of the city that has largely resisted such extravagance—in purely symbolic terms. Based on my experience, the chefs are sincere and totally unpretentious in what they are pursuing. They do not channel outside influences as a crutch when approaching this cuisine but, with good humor and respect for its foundations, as a means to express something of themselves—something singular—rather than going toe to toe with peers who have earned a reputation executing the classics. To that point, they look to offer something more (pairings of French and Mexican wine, Japanese-inflected seafood, desserts of real technical virtuosity) while always balancing novelty with deliciousness. For my palate, they have succeeded, yet I am more interested in tracking how the “Taco Omakase” grows than I am, at this moment, desperate to rush back.
Yes, in the final analysis:
I would rank the “Lengua Taco,” “Caribbean Oxtail Tamale,” “Dragonfruit,” and “Truffle Churro” as the biggest hits of the night: great dishes (marrying sharp execution, surprising depth, and ample pleasure) I’d be delighted to eat again. At the same time, while these bites shine within the context of the meal and the wider genre, they are not quite at a level of excellence that sparks emotion (i.e., I’m dying to eat this again). That being said, the “Tamale” and “Dragonfruit” come close.
Next, I’d place the “Sardine Agua Chile,” “Hokkaido Scallop,” “Iberico Taco,” “Pig Head Carnitas Taco,” and “Chocotaco” in a category of good to very good courses with no real discernable flaws (though, as I noted, the latter dessert was a bit too frozen). The ideas underlying these recipes were sound, and the resulting preparations largely achieved the degrees of complexity and satisfaction that were sought. However, I generally felt these dishes were missing an extra degree of intensity—an additional distinguishing factor or some ultimate burst of sweet/savory flavor—to really be memorable.
Finally, I’d put the “Tuna Morcilla,” “Tostada Campechano,” “Maitake Taco,” and “Mignardise[s]” at the level of above average to good. They’re courses, again, with some clever techniques and good ideas supporting them. Nonetheless, some small issues of temperature, certain muted flavors, or a mere lack of excitement held the dishes back from making much of an impression. To be clear, these bites were all still enjoyable—just not totally convincing or inspiring given the price point.
Again, it should be considered that I am passing judgment on the team’s very earliest effort working this counter, with the new wood-fired format, and without the natural refinement and tinkering that time will bring. The quality of the menu at this early stage is worthy of praise, and the consistent engagement of these chefs, working freely and intimately together, can only lead to great things.
At the same time, the overall value proposition must be weighed relative not just to what is offered, à la carte, in Pilsen but what Cariño is doing. Even if Chingón was the first to debut the “taco omakase” idea in Chicago, Norman Fenton has made it his own and transformed it into one of the hottest tickets in town. His price of $125 for eight courses (inclusive of beverage but exclusive of 25% service charge) would seem kind of unattractive when compared to the 15 courses that $150 or $175 (exclusive of beverage and 20% service charge) gets you at San Pedro.
Yet Cariño has the Michelin star and the selling point that its “Taco Omakase” is the most affordable, comfort-driven menu offered at the otherwise rarefied concept (rather than representing a premium experience at a more conventional spot). Fenton also serves three tacos, a tostada, and a quesadilla as part of his menu (if we’re talking handheld forms), which actually matches the four tacos and one tostada that made up San Pedro’s 13 courses (not 15) on this occasion.
Certainly, the opening seafood preparations are attuned to Ascencio, Incandela, and Poilevey’s wider concept. They’re creative and enjoyable, but none ranked among the best items of the night, and I think it might help to transform these ingredients into tacos or sacrifice them altogether in order to add more tacos (or tortilla-based handhelds) to the menu. Perhaps there is a question of customer fullness to contend with? That could be the case, but then where would the two additional courses (if the menu expands to the 15 being advertised) come in? I would not as easily sacrifice any of the pastry chef’s work, which is totally distinctive and easily surpasses Cariño’s dessert, to make room for more of the main event.
As it stands, San Pedro must go taco to taco against a lineup of Cariño creations that have been perfected over the course of a year and are being offered at a lower price. Sure, the former might offer a more comprehensive culinary experience (whose value, then, must be judged relative to a full tasting menu at Cariño or Topolobampo). But tacos should represent the majority of offerings in anything titled a “Taco Omakase.” I am not arguing for quantity over quality as much as I am a total fulfilment and blowing away of expectations (which I know these chefs are capable of). The influence of the custom masa blends and the way these starring ingredients are seasoned and expressed must go beyond “tasty” and become grippingly, hauntingly delicious.
Indeed, with weeks of time and tweaking since my visit, the four tacos I sampled may already be at a level of quality that can anchor a menu filled with other dishes. (The menu is a “journey of corn” and a study of varied expressions of masa as much as it is a “taco omakase” at the end of the day.) Still, why not deliver that fifth or sixth or seventh punch and really push the form beyond what anyone else is doing? (Topolobampo’s limited-time menu comprised six examples—though nothing else—just for the record.) If these tacos achieve the level of quality this team can deliver at its best, they’ll have built a destination that may even transcend the Chicago market.
For now, San Pedro’s move to a single 6:30 PM seating on Fridays and Saturdays in April suggests that the omakase’s momentum has been slow to build. But these chefs possess some of the most finely honed creative muscles in the city, and time will be their friend. The work they are doing is worthy of their reputations, and this tasting menu—in this form—ranks as a welcome addition to the dining scene even as I await its further development.