When visiting Cellar Door Provisions in April, I experienced a meal that seemed to challenge my palate (via dishes like the “Endive Salad,” “Roasted Tatsu Oysters,” and “Fazzoletti”) as much as it pleased (through items like the “White Asparagus Tempura,” “Roasted Black Sea Bass,” and “New York Strip Steak”). Mind you, when the food did please, it went about it in a singular, totally convincing manner.
Dining at the concept in June, I expected to find a menu that was meaningfully different, equally experimental, and, thus, destined to strike me the same way. “That’s just how they are here,” I prepared to tell myself. At this restaurant, one does not get to enjoy the chefs’ best work without going along for the ride with their more polarizing creations. It’s all one process at the end of the day, and fueling creation—the perpetual pioneering of textures and flavors Chicago has not encountered before—is infinitely more valuable that pleasing everybody all the time. After all, that’s what CDP’s burger is for (a conceit that makes this argument, which mirrors the kind I usually deploy in defense of Smyth, even more apropos.)
However, what I tasted in June collapsed this tidy narrative. Some dishes (like the “Gigante, Alubia Blanca, & Borlotti Bean Salad,” “Grilled Sweetbreads,” and “Ricotta Ravioli”) were simply stunning. The rest were good—even very good. Only a “Standing Rib Roast of Pork Loin” fell a little short of the rest of the pack (while remaining perfectly enjoyable). But nothing was weird or abrasive. Nothing demanded sacrifice or intellectual contortion to try and understand.
Cellar Door Provisions was, on that evening, simply an excellent restaurant—one I think could only be faulted (though not by me) for remaining so iconoclastic about the kind of wine it allows diners to pair with its cuisine. More than ten years after the concept originally opened (and following a post-pandemic streamlining of its offerings), it was not hard to comprehend why it suddenly achieved such a standard.
Chef Ethan Pikas’s longstanding commitment to local sourcing and fermentation—bolstered by the thoughtful incorporation of ingredients (like seafood and olive oil) from further afield and his wholehearted collaboration with new chef de cuisine Alex Cochran—had finally borne fruit. Years of doing things in an impossibly hard, almost self-defeating manner had suddenly yielded to a kind of equilibrium. The kitchen, with seeming effortlessness, was now crafting dish after dish at a level of creativity and deliciousness (not to mention accessibility) almost without equal in Chicago.
But that was one meal, and, as tempting as it is to declare that this underdog—this dreamer—has finally come of age and risen to the eminence it so well deserves, I need to know that what I experienced was not a fluke.
Maybe “fluke” is not the right word. Rather, I want to get a sharper sense of where Cellar Door Provisions, from menu to menu, lands on those spectrums of intellectual vs. hedonistic and polarizing vs. satisfying cooking. The idea being not, in any way, to dissuade the chefs from taking risks but, now that I am faced with formally rating the restaurant, to fine-tune my expectations and judge quality (or occasional lapses thereof) in accordance with how challenging the food, on average, is intended to be.
Three visits hardly seem like enough to come to any definitive conclusion, yet they represent a starting point in evaluating a place that is already at the pinnacle (however shakily) of our dining scene.
Let us begin.
It’s Saturday yet again, which means a relatively tranquil drive to this far-flung “neighborhood spot” on Diversey Avenue. It also means the chefs, after debuting this week’s offerings back on Tuesday, have had every chance to troubleshoot and refine their work. (I still contend that visiting CDP on a Tuesday and a Saturday of the same week would make for an insightful piece in the future.)
Approaching the building marked 3025 from the west, as I rarely do, the quiet dignity of this mercurial restaurant (occupying a sort of quasi-corner) comes into focus: the sturdiness of red brick, offset by more modern black window frames, themselves lined with white curtains that hint at the warmth emanating from inside. There’s no signage—save for “Cellar Door Provisions,” in its inimitable font, lightly scrawled on the glass.
And what about the other, more prominent, signage: an advertisement for Louisville, Kentucky’s “Bourbon City” campaign proclaiming “NAPA. BUT NEARER.” with a shot of a crystal coup of whiskey overlooking its skyline. I don’t know if the banner was intended to playfully target CDP (so notable for its beverage program) or Diversey Wine (next door) in particular. But, if so, it is worthy of a chuckle (given that anyone happily drinking at these destinations has veered far off the path from more conventional, stereotypical California wine).
Rain clouds are swirling by the time I finally step through the restaurant’s door. A bright, almost offhanded greeting (commensurate with my now somewhat regular patronage) leads, moments later, to a table right up against the windows. The torrent starts soon thereafter, and I am treated to the sight of other diners (some quite nicely dressed) ducking out of rideshares then using their bags as makeshift umbrellas to help dodge all the water.
CDP is completely empty when I arrive, but the restaurant fills quickly over the next hour as the staff gamely welcomes guests out from the gloom and installs them in this or that corner of the palpably cozy space. Indeed, it’s a perfect night for a meandering meal—paired with an indeterminate number of tipples. The number of walk-ins at the bar (which stands three-quarters full by the same point in time) attests to that.
Tonight, the crowd is widely white and middle-aged (as it has been in the past). But, demographically, I’ve learned to expect a broader range of customers sprinkled throughout in groupings that can include families, double dates, and old friends. Dress, by the same token, may mirror the refinement of the cuisine or fully embrace the more casual atmosphere. On this occasion, a four-top of 20-somethings clad in bohemian chic infuses the dining room with some of the energy you might expect at a “trendy natural wine bar.” Just the same, one never feels that other parties are seated too close. (However, I do like the fact that friendly interaction between tables seems to be the norm—whether that means sharing recommendations from the menu or admiring a neighboring infant.)
The servers, in turn, do their part to set the mood by guiding their charges through the intricacies of the food and wine with patience, a clear passion for the products they work with, and technical precision. Yes, I always love pronouncing the names of producers here (however haphazardly) and finding instant recognition without the need to point. I also found that one member of the front of house, who struck me as a little more introverted (almost cold) earlier during this evening’s meal, totally came alive when given the opportunity to bond over a particular bottle and the quality of several dishes.
Given the kind of reputation that Cellar Door Provisions has long held, it is not surprising that the team here shows such enthusiasm for the concept’s vision. Yet, even in the face of those who hesitate or even chafe against the “what” and the “why” of this restaurant, these figures are paragons of a genuine, effortless, wholly approachable kind of hospitality.
Throw in the occasional tableside visit from one of the chefs (which, despite the demands of such a small kitchen, might spur a minutes-long dialogue on ingredients or technique), and one can find at CDP the kind of intimacy and shared appreciation for craft that characterizes bonafide fine dining concepts. With the same ease, service (remaining attentive as ever) may reflexively recede into the background: allowing guests to enjoy the evening (and their company) with minimal distraction.
As I have stated before, it is by playing in this realm—of depth waiting to be discovered without imposition—that Cellar Door Provisions satisfies the best qualities of a “neighborhood restaurant” while also transcending that status altogether.
Having taken my seat and voiced my preference of water, I am faced with the first—and tougher—of two decisions: what to drink.
In a change of pace, I start with a cocktail. The “Ramp Martini” ($17) combines Matchbook “Land of Muses” gin (made in Long Island) with dry vermouth and a brine made from the titular allium. A pickled ramp hangs enticingly across the rim of the glass, offering a sharp burst of garlic that does well to counter the fruity, alpine notes of the base spirit. It is the brine—sour, yes, yet also displaying a “dirty” kind of savory depth—that helps to bridge the gap between these strong flavors. Ultimately, this makes for a bold take on the recipe that, for my taste, is also rather pleasurable.
That being said, natural wine remains CDP’s specialty, and the program has continued to grow and change (nearly as frequently as the food) even with the departure of wine director Sara McCall.
Back in June, I enjoyed what was said to be the first Champagne to ever appear on the list: a Chavost “Blanc d’Assemblage” ($95). I matched it with a 2022 Barbacàn Rosato ($67)—a crisp, Alpine expression of the Nebbiolo grape—and the bottles offered a seemingly conventional (but otherwise fresh, expressive) drinking experience that ranks among the best I’ve had at the restaurant. For me, this is the sweet spot of natural wine: varieties and styles you know and love being rendered in a way that’s a little lower in tannin, a little higher in acid, maybe a touch oxidative, but otherwise performs better out of the gate.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, these selections are long gone tonight (signaling just how eager a certain segment of the audience here is desperate for something like a sub-$100 Champagne). Nonetheless, I spy whites like the 2022 Jean-Yves Péron “La Petite Robe” ($70 on the list, $46.99 at national retail), 2020 Werlitsch “Ex Vero II” ($84 on the list, $69.99 at national retail), and Maison Valette “Et Pourtant…” en magnum ($280 on the list, $99 at national retail) that I would be happy to order.
Ultimately, I opt for a pair of rosés (a category I feel can keep pace with any given part of the menu by lending richness to lighter dishes while standing back from those that are more robust). A 2023 Anders Frederik Steen “Weightless Fingers” ($70 on the list, $45 at national retail) looks, in truth, more like a white wine: displaying cleansing notes of citrus that enliven the high alcohol and texture drawn from the Grenache (both Blanc and Noir) grapes that make up the cuvée. A 2022 Jean-Yves Péron “Vers la Maison Rouge” ($75 on the list, $56 at national retail) offers an Alpine expression of Mondeuse (what some might actually term a very light red) displaying the bursting fruit flavors of carbon maceration alongside bright acidity, silky tannins, and even a touch of residual sugar.
Though I wasn’t quite sure of the order in which to enjoy the two bottles (does one start with the paler—but richer—Steen or the darker—but more vivacious— Péron?), they did their job beautifully. Factor in the pricing (a premium of 56% and 34% respectively on top of retail price), and I felt quite satisfied with these wines despite never knowing exactly what I will find on the list here.
Overall, I think CDP has done a good job of stewarding the program since McCall’s departure, and there’s also reason to be excited about what else is to come. Now, in September, the menu lists Emily Sher (a longtime partner in the restaurant) as having returned to the position of wine director—a role she also occupies (having curated some of Chicago’s best lists) at Elske and, more recently, Creepies.
While sharing duties across so many venues asks a lot of the servers who will actually be selling and serving the wine, the team here is more than up to the task. Moreover, they (and customers) will get to benefit from the discerning taste of a sommelier who knows how to navigate the extremes of the “natural” category and deliver bottles that, while remaining true to the movement’s ideals, can also please conventional palates.
Even though I still contend that allowing corkage (even at a high fee) would be a boon, I look forward to seeing how CDP’s list grows under Sher’s stewardship (and how her selections might align with or, better yet, depart from what she pairs with the cuisines at her other concepts).
Cocktail and wine in hand, I also need only decide what to eat.
Tonight, it’s an easy decision. There are 11 items on the savory side of the menu (down from 13 in April and 14 in June), and I opt for nine of them: skipping the selection of pickles and the olive escabeche I familiarized myself with back during my first visit.
The meal begins on a familiar note: that passion project Pikas has been pursuing from the very start (and that he rarely, despite the quality being attained, feels completely satisfied with). The chef’s “Whole Wheat Country Bread” ($10) represents a move away from the polenta-infused loaves that featured during my prior meals. However, the “house butter” (cultured with kefir grains typically used to make a fermented milk drink) remains similar to the one I encountered in June.
On the palate, the bread combines a rigid, faintly brittle crust with a notably dense, chewy crumb. Structurally, it’s nice to see the interior of the loaf diverge so strongly from what was achieved with the polenta porridge. That being said, some of the cracked wheat that coats the exterior proves to be too crunchy—jarringly so—when it hits my teeth, and I find the bread, more generally, to lack the same depth of flavor as its predecessors. The butter, too, could also benefit from a sprinkle of salt (as I have yet to really taste the influence of the kefir). Nonetheless, this still remains a good (maybe very good) offering, and I can certainly appreciate the chefs’ efforts to evolve this recipe even if it means they fall short of their earlier work.
The preparation of “Shio Kombu-Cured Heirloom Tomatoes” ($18) that arrives next sounds like an archetypal CDP dish: worshipfully presenting local produce with nods toward worldly techniques and an embrace of esoteric ingredients. Here, the latter includes an oil produced from candy cap mushrooms and a gelée made from marigold (alongside a more conventional tomato consommé).
Visually, the placement of such a large, single slice of yellow tomato atop a pedestal made from smaller chunks of the red variety is striking. It also invites diners to carve the produce up with the kind of intention—and gusto—they might reserve for meat. On the palate, the tomato proves tender and juicy with flesh (astutely but unevenly salted) that frames ripe, sweet, and only slightly tangy flavor whose latent umami has been accentuated. I do bite down on one errant seed that proves unpleasantly brittle. However, backed by the fruity essence of the consommé, the brown sugar notes of the mushrooms, and the bright, peppery undertones of the marigold, this recipe really sings. Yes, the chefs have struck upon a way to celebrate (and sneakily bolster) the character of the starring tomatoes without detracting from their purity. Doing so, they show their command of ingredients one would hardly expect to find outside of a place like Smyth. Well done.
A ”Wild Arugula & Dandelion Greens Salad” ($17) sounds simple—even innocuous. Every menu needs a bit of filler, right? But, building on the quality of the “Green Chicory & Red Leaf Lettuce” I encountered back in June, Pikas and Cochran have put together a salad that stands at the summit of what this form can accomplish.
Dressed with a bottarga vinaigrette and studded with generous shavings of aged parmigiano, the sizable greens—stems extending off the plate—make their presence known with a pronounced crunch. The resulting flavor is proudly bitter and peppery. I am left wondering if I have fallen for another exploration of abrasive, boundary-pushing flavor. But then the bottarga (a kind of dry-cured fish roe) strikes with a wave of brine and umami, and the cheese doubles the effect with its own salty, savory concentration. The tang of the vinaigrette ensures that the meeting of these extremes remains fresh.
Indeed, somehow these powerful notes of bitterness and umami totally counteract each other and come out tasting quite satisfying. The concentration—and corresponding pleasure here—is truly immense. Alongside the “Gigante, Alubia Blanca, & Borlotti Bean Salad” (which I also encountered in June), this ranks as one of the best preparations of its kind I have ever encountered. Bravo!
A preparation of “Salt-Roasted Golden Beets & Cured July Flame Peach” ($17) follows along the same lines as the “Shio Kombu-Cured Heirloom Tomatoes.” This dish may even be more successful, for it trades artful accompaniments for a rather simpler juxtaposition that serves to honor both its starring ingredients.
Texturally, the beets (which retain their skin and some of the root tip) are beautifully moist and meaty even if I find that some segments of those crowning strands are hard to chew. The peaches, in turn, possess a subtle snap that frames ripe flesh. When the flavors of root vegetable and fruit meet, the former’s deeper sweetness (marked by salt) melds nicely with the fresher sweetness and tang of the latter. An accompanying vinaigrette made from fermented Cherry Bomb pepper (sweet and tangy in its own right), though sparingly applied, triples the effect.
As with the heirloom tomatoes, the chefs here have so elegantly blended harmonizing notes in a way that broadens and lengthens their effect. For my palate, the interplay of natural sugars and acid here is even more appealing than that found in the tomato (which, if I am being critical, could have pushed the umami character even further). Bite after bite, one really starts to question if it is a beet or a peach they have just swallowed, and it is in that surprising liminal space between these two ingredients that this recipe wildly succeeds.
The ”Little Skookum Oyster Conserva” ($25) that follows represents the next entry in a long line of open-faced preparations (like the “Stracciatella Toast” and “Shaved Lamb Heart” from meals past). These dishes routinely rank among CDP’s best, and tonight’s example might just form the pinnacle.
Here, the bivalves (a meaty variety sourced from Puget Sound) are dressed with rendered fish marrow then placed atop a piece of toasted Danish seeded bread that has been slathered with a smoked pepper mash. A sprinkle of fennel pollen and some slices of red onion form the finishing touches, yielding a bite that leads with crunch then veers toward a plump, creamy, profoundly satisfying mouthfeel. The resulting flavor is sweet and briny at first. A first flush of heat follows along with an uplifting burst of anise. Then, on the finish, an even greater, sharper bite of the smoked pepper takes hold. But the rich, nutty bread does a nice job of cushioning it all: driving the luscious, marrow-coated oysters toward an unexpectedly vivid, multifaceted expression that stands among the evening’s highlights.
Somewhat unexpectedly (given the pasta and fish dishes that have yet to land), the “Burger” ($20) makes its way to the table next. I liked—but did not love—this standby (what may be considered the restaurant’s one conceit toward more skeptical diners) upon first sampling it back in April. However, the recipe (despite largely comprising the same constituent parts) displays that extra degree of quality tonight.
The burger, as before, is dressed with aioli and caramelized onions. A handful of lettuces, sourced from Werp Farms and moistened with vinaigrette, still stand—off to the side—ready to be incorporated. But a handful of bread and butter pickles (formerly offered as an optional topping) have been replaced by pickled Fresno chiles (placed right under the bun), and that bun, too, is now distinguished by many more poppy seeds coating its surface.
The result is a burger, cushioned by impeccably fluffy bread, that offers all the same juiciness and deep meatiness as before (owing to the steadfast quality of the beef being used). Yet, on this occasion, that foundation is matched by undertones of fruity sweetness, smoke, mild heat, nuttiness, and contrasting bitterness that combine with the usual onions and dressed lettuce to amplify the dish’s savory flavor. On this occasion, the burger feels particularly rich and satisfying. It makes its case for inclusion among Chicago’s best examples.
When the “Coal-Roasted Coppa” ($44) appears at the table, I grow even more confused about how exactly the pasta and fish will follow. Nonetheless, I am eager to see how this headlining preparation of meat compares to the “Standing Rib Roast of Pork Loin” that left me a bit wanting back in June. This fatty cut from the pig’s collar (the same used for the salame of the same name) is rendered, sliced, much like a chop. It comes set atop a dollop of Sugar Rush Peach pepper matbucha (a slow-cooked, tomatoey North African condiment) and dressed with a miso made from blackened fava beans. A handful of marinated wax beans are then layered over the plate as a finishing touch.
On the palate, the coppa feels remarkably tender and is further enhanced by the cut’s pockets of rendered fat. Taken in isolation, it ranks among the best proteins I have yet encountered at the restaurant. While the crunch of the wax beans offers a pronounced counterpoint to the juicy pork, I am not sure the effects of the marination are obvious. The matbucha, when incorporated, lends the dish a certain concentration of heat and tang. It does well to cut through—and brighten—the richness of the flesh. Yet the miso, which I would expect to be loaded with harmonizing sweet, nutty, and smoky notes, tastes subdued. It does not seem to bolster the latent umami of the coppa, and, while I like this dish a lot, I feel the accompanying elements fall short of really enhancing the sublime texture of the meat. This makes for a missed opportunity but one, in turn, that could easily be remedied.
The ”Spaghetti alla Chitarra” ($26) makes its long-awaited arrival next, and I do not exactly mind eating something more starchy and substantial following two servings of meat. Pasta at Cellar Door Provisions has either struck me as confusing (April’s “Fazzoletti”) or sublime (June’s “Ricotta Ravioli”). On this occasion, I am happy to report that the preparation lands closer (if not entirely on) the latter side.
Texturally, these “guitar string” noodles display an appropriate degree of chew that is pleasingly enriched by a coating of lacto-fermented, porcini-infused burro fuso (literally “melted butter”). This sauce lends the spaghetti subtle notes of tang, earth, and nuttiness that find a deeper expression once one incorporates the tender, umami-tinged pieces of enoki mushroom interspersed throughout. Flowering thyme—bright, almost peppery in its own right—adds contrast and complexity. Ultimately, I like this dish a lot. It’s almost like a particularly classy version of buttered noodles. But I do think the recipe, so driven by softer layers of flavor rather than explosive concentration, suffers a bit when served after the more savory burger and pork.
The final savory dish of the night, a preparation of “Pan Roasted Fjord Trout” ($41), would seem to risk suffering the same fate. Nonetheless, following the lighter flavors of the pasta, this fish has an opportunity to shine. The recipe centers on two sizable fillets boasting reddish-orangish flesh and craggy layer of crisp, golden-brown skin. The slabs of trout sit atop a pil pil sauce (traditionally an emulsification of fish gelatin with olive oil that is seasoned with garlic and chili), and the whole plate is capped off with charred Sweet Garleek (a hybrid of garlic and leek developed by allium breeder Hans Bongers and popularized by Dan Barber’s Row 7 Seed Company).
On the palate, the trout impresses with its juxtaposition of smooth, moist flesh and dramatically shattering skin. The Garleek, in turn, plays in the middle ground: offering a satisfying crunch that adds to a sense of sustenance. When it comes to flavor, subtlety once more leads the way. The trout is fairly mild—with some latent sweetness—but that allows the sweet character of the Garleek to shine (along with some smokier, more savory notes that speak to the garlic). Though the pil pil predominantly adds a sense of richness to the equation (its creamy mouthfeel being quite nice when combined with either fish or vegetable), some trace of the chili does come through on the end. The resulting heat ensures that this dish strikes with a force I found missing in the spaghetti (even if, at the end of the day, the trout really shouldn’t have been tasked with seeing out the meal).
Moving to dessert, I find three items on offer tonight. I decide to sample them all.
Of these, the “Panna Cotta” ($12) is the most familiar—it’s a staple of the restaurant after all. I merely liked the dish back in April. I absolutely loved it in June. Tonight, it performs even better: displaying the same concentration of custardy, vanilla-tinged flavor I so enjoyed last time with the added richness of an olive oil that is seemingly free of any bitterness. The result is simply astounding—and, indeed, it is quite amazing how much the identity of the oil (often unstated) can influence the perception of this evergreen recipe.
A ”Honey-Roasted July Flame Peach Sorbet” ($10) is totally new, drawing on the same variety of fruit that appeared as part of the earlier golden beet dish. The resulting frozen dessert is totally smooth (that is, free of any noticeable ice crystals) and distinguished by a tangy attack and a long, richly fruity finish. There’s almost even a creamy, milky quality to the mouthfeel—what I think is just the influence, again, of olive oil (here being fruity in its own right with hints of almond). Ultimately, this is quite a good expression of sorbet: one that only suffers due to the decadence of its surrounding preparations.
The ”Chocolate Cake” ($12) that closes out the evening builds on the quality of the “Chocolate Mousse” I so enjoyed back in June. In fact, I think the dish carves out a place among Chicago’s very best desserts. The chefs are wise not to overcomplicate things. The menu says chocolate cake, and what shows up accords with the recipe’s idealized form: no subversion, just moist crumb brimming with the soothing flavor of cocoa. The addition of a sunflower sabayon is where things get interesting—but only on paper. This sauce coats the cake with notes of caramel and nuts that drive the chocolate, with nostalgic flourish, toward an even higher peak of pleasure. Yes, while there’s some creativity at hand here, this dessert is all about pinpoint execution and unabashed decadence. It leaves me wondering why so many pastry programs, even those touting stars, overcomplicate things in a way that snuffs out this kind of profound emotional response.
Just under two hours later, this expansive tour of CDP’s menu reaches its conclusion. With the rain having cleared, the restaurant hums with the energy of a Saturday night that remains there for the taking.
The bar remains busy, and several tables have already turned (their patrons, having committed to a more truncated selection of dishes, making way for the next eager party). Thoroughly satiated, I feel no pressure from the staff to leave as I see about draining my second bottle of wine. Just the same, I’ve taken in almost everything that Cellar Door Provisions has to offer, and I feel (even accounting for the 3% “service charge”) I’ve gotten a screaming deal while doing so.
Back on Diversey, I dream not of Napa or Louisville but of when I might return to this concept, which seems—perpetually—to bring the best of seasonal produce, the bravest selection of natural wine, and the boldest of creativity to the table. Like so many of the city, the country, and the world’s most memorable restaurants, what CDP regularly achieves makes it seem as though the rest of dining scene is standing still.
I approached this meal with the goal of squaring my two prior experiences: the hit-or-miss, experimental approach I perceived in April and the more consistent, enjoyable menu I encountered in June.
It seems obvious that the latter would be preferred. However, if a kitchen is reliably and thoughtfully pushing boundaries, I really do not might trying recipes that provoke or confuse me when other preparations so effectively (and uniquely) deliver pleasure.
My task tonight was not so much to determine quality (for, once a concept puts out a few dishes of the caliber seen in April, I will continue to chase that high through thick and thin). Rather, it centered more on benchmarking: is Cellar Door Provisions a “Smyth-like” enterprise whose commitment to process challenges as much as it rewards, or does there exist a certain restraint—a sort of bulwark (stylistically)—that safeguards pleasure even if one or two elements in certain parts of the menu veer off course.
A set of three visits is not nearly enough to define a restaurant. However, the two-month gaps between each of my meals have helped to highlight a larger trend: one of increasing refinement and growing pleasure without any clear inhibition of risk-taking.
Yes, it seems like the jarring bitterness that spoiled a few of April’s recipes has been tamed—and balanced. While this does not mean that everything CDP serves is a home run, there are also no clear rough edges. Some preparations smack you with pleasure; others seduce (or maybe even fall a bit short). But fine-tuned textures and sound compositions lead the way. Ingredients, however strange, obey a kind of logic, and it’s easy to see what the chefs are going for even when they fail to hit the bullseye. That being said, the spread between the best and the “worst” dishes has unquestionably tightened.
In ranking the evening’s dishes:
I would place the “Wild Arugula & Dandelion Greens Salad,” “Little Skookum Oyster Conserva,” “Panna Cotta,” and “Chocolate Cake” in the highest category: superlative items that stand among the best things I will be served in any restaurant this year.
The “Salt-Roasted Golden Beets & Cured July Flame Peach,” “Burger,” and “Spaghetti alla Chitarra” land in the next stratum: very good preparations—simple in construction yet so refined in their textures and flavors—that achieved a truly memorable degree of pleasure. I would love to encounter any of these again.
Lastly, one finds the “Whole Wheat Country Bread,” “Shio Kombu-Cured Heirloom Tomatoes,” “Coal-Roasted Coppa,” “Pan Roasted Fjord Trout,” and “Honey-Roasted July Flame Peach Sorbet”—all good recipes (some even being very good) that delivered a notable degree of pleasure but fell a bit short in flavor, did not live up to past examples of their form, or, perhaps, were served at the wrong point in the meal. Tonight, these items did not prove memorable, but I also would not hesitate to order any of them again.
Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of 100%.
Yes, even if I might suggest how a couple of the latter dishes could be improved, they undoubtedly cleared the bar of enjoyment for me. In fact, given the creativity that these lowest-ranked preparations still demonstrated, I do not think it is unfair to say that most restaurants would be lucky to serve even one plate at their level of quality.
Ultimately, this is a massive score for a “neighborhood restaurant” operating à la carte and offering such a strong sense of value. However, it also quantifies the kind of growth that’s been realized week to week and month to month since the dawn of Pikas and Cochran’s partnership.
To that point, it is somewhat bittersweet that I never witnessed the first decade of Cellar Door Provisions—that I am missing a fuller sense of how iconoclastic, how polarizing, how stretched thin this enterprise really was before skyrocketing in this post-pandemic era. For Pikas, Sher, and a certain segment of longtime regulars, the journey must be immensely rewarding to ponder.
But maybe it is enough for me to know how close the restaurant came to permanently closing—and how it drew upon a foundation of bread, a burger, and panna cotta (all of which stand among the strongest items on any menu) to forge a new path.
In the short period from September of 2024 (my very first visit) to August of 2025, I’ve seen the team pursue textures, flavors, and styles of wine that have little point of comparison in Chicago. I’ve tasted the fruits this labor and found, time after time, levels of pleasure that rank among the best bites at the best concepts I will encounter in any given year.
Maybe it’s not right to say that the kitchen has learned restraint, for that sounds a little too much like selling out, going mainstream, sacrificing one’s ironclad philosophy for the sake of success (or, more accurately, survival).
The real “restraint,” I contend, was spending so many years doing things the hard way: a crucible of local ingredients (and nothing else) being pushed as far as they will go. What one finds at CDP today is more like catharsis: the release that a broader palette of foodstuffs (e.g., seafood, olive oil) and a fresh collaboration (with Cochran) bring to Pikas’s treasury of hard-won recipes and techniques.
The resulting menus have done more to meet the Chicago audience where they stand. At the same time, have the city’s diners (myself included) not also warmed up to what CDP is doing? Long an industry darling, the restaurant seems particularly well positioned in an era where the scene’s most lauded fine dining destinations go too far, or not far enough, or seemingly forget flavor altogether in pursuit of spectacle.
Cellar Door Provisions, in 2025, operates with a rare self-assurance. It excels outside the bondage—and expectation—of tasting menus. It swings for the fences and often reaches them (or, at least, whiffs in a way that still demonstrates intention, thoughtfulness, even a certain degree of charm). Then, on Tuesday, the process starts anew: maybe not from scratch, but with a wholehearted embrace of the rhythms of nature and of the lessons learned the week prior. Wait a month, and one finds dishes they might somewhat recognize—now speaking firmly to the kitchen’s mastery—and a few they’ve never seen before: the next frontier to be conquered.
I know few other chefs who are trusted and empowered by their audience the way Pikas and Cochran are today—few who get to devote themselves purely to craft with the same abandon. The names I can come up with also happen to be owner-operators (or those working closely alongside them) with Michelin stars on the wall (or, at least, comparable ticket prices).
And that is the sweet spot that I have come to learn Cellar Door Provisions occupies: an embodiment of the cuisine one actually craves once they’ve had their fill of three-star indulgence, a place where anyone can casually eat or drink at the bleeding edge of gastronomy and oenology.
I can say without hesitation that my past three meals here (and particularly the past two) stand among the finest experiences I have had anywhere this year—ones in which the fundamentals of value, intellectual engagement, and hedonistic thrill more than match the size, scope, and frills offered by more well-heeled competitors.
To this day, there are few places I look forward to eating at—and rediscovering with each visit—like Cellar Door Provisions. The restaurant (slowly, at first, and then all of a sudden) has carved out a place among the city’s elite. It shines as the finest model of what a “neighborhood spot” can hope to achieve.
I am only left feeling grateful (and maybe a little wary) that the concept remains so easy to book. 11 years later, now at the peak of its power, the place is somehow still underrated. In the final analysis, perhaps this is the posture—self-belief in the face of misunderstanding, a passion that need only be shared by those on the inside—from which all the magic flows.
More and more, everyone else can feel it.
