By expressly rotating its menu each week (and even explicitly noting the shift from experimentation to refinement during each five-day period it is open), Cellar Door Provisions seems particularly well-suited to bite-sized, follow-up pieces.
Yet whereas writing about—say—Kyōten naturally serves the public interest (how does that pricey omakase, inaccessible to most of the city, actually perform on a routine basis), I am less sure about a casual, à la carte concept. Having already expressed how much I admire the Cellar Door team’s work, what’s the point of wading back in to evaluate dishes that might very well be gone by the time of publication?
Ideally, I’d visit the restaurant on a Tuesday and opine on the bill of fare before the arrival of the weekend. More practically, I’d be there on the weekend and then desperately try to get something out in time for the following week’s service (where, I have come to find, several of the same ideas may carry over). On this occasion, I’m discussing an experience that occurred two menus ago: one whose seasonal recipes (save for two or three) have already disappeared, leaving behind nothing more than traces of the same ingredients.
Reviewing dishes that readers won’t really be able to taste alongside an “experience” (sit down, order a glass of natural wine, order the food) that holds few secrets strikes me as silly. However, I also think Cellar Door more than deserves a formal rating, and subsequent pieces—even if they are short on actual utility—will act as the time capsules that help me better understand (as well as faithfully judge) the work chef-owner Ethan Pikas, chef de cuisine Alex Cochran, and the rest of the team are doing.
One day—perhaps when I’ve whittled down the number of restaurants I patronize even further—I dream of writing those early “Tuesday” reviews of a week in progress. Imagine going a step further and pairing such an article (a view from the crucible) with its own follow-up written on the same Saturday (a view of the same recipes at relative maturity).
It might seem crazy to devote so much attention to the same restaurant from week to week or even within the same week. But such is the intoxicating effect of dynamism. A kitchen pushing so hard, so perpetually demands (and deserves) an audience prepared to perceive and troubleshoot its ever-evolving cuisine.
Building off of my last visit, I might not be able to talk about consistency tonight. Nonetheless, I can begin to speak to a larger sense of identity: to persistent techniques, favored ingredients, definitions of “balance,” and how—within such an adventurous framework—the team looks to safeguard a fundamental sense of pleasure.
If Cellar Door surprises and delights me as it did back in April, I can only affirm that the concept is doing something really special.
Let us begin.
It’s a Saturday, and the tribulation of traffic that so spoiled my mood when trekking here a couple months ago causes no problem today. The Cellar Door Provisions / Diversey Wine outpost on the mid-block corner of this otherwise quiet street has now become familiar—maybe too familiar. It’s a hot day, and I wonder if the small restaurant, framed by myriad windows and the open kitchen, will be able to keep patrons cool.
On entry, the dining room feels about as mild as any (barring corporate concepts with industrial equipment) could hope to be. I’m greeted by a familiar face from back at Feld—they having moved here to build more natural wine knowledge—which immediately brightens my mood.
I see no sign of Pikas tonight, and I recall that the chef-owner has only finally begun taking evenings off thanks to Cochran’s arrival. On this occasion (the first instance across my visits), it is solely the latter’s show: a consequential test for any restaurant (but especially for one working so experimentally). With a couple cooks and a few people in the front of house to count on, Cochran feeds a full house: predominantly white couples in their 20s and 30s but also an Asian family and a sprinkling of older diners. Within a half hour of my arrival, only a couple bar seats remain.
To the chef’s credit, my meal proceeds at a blistering (but entirely comfortable pace). I order almost everything on the menu and am out the door in a little more than 90 minutes.
However, before I start eating, I have to grapple with the wine list: one that flummoxed me during my first visit yet, on subsequent occasions, has seemed to balance its “natural” iconoclasm by increasingly offering the right grapes from the right producers. I do not mean to say that the program has compromised on its philosophy at all. Rather, it has demonstrated an ability to prize both extreme (marked by volatile acidity, oxidation, maceration) and restrained (centering more on ample fruit, low tannin, brightness) examples of the form, providing a doorway for traditional oenophiles to find pleasure.
This was chiefly the work of Sara McCall, who served as both wine director and front-of-house manager at Cellar Door before departing in early May. This left big shoes to fill—and, indeed, the restaurant’s wine list remains unsigned to this day.
Nonetheless, it continues to evolve in the best of ways. Tonight, I pick out a bottle of Chavost “Blanc d’Assemblage” ($95 on the list, $54 at national retail) said by our server to be the first Champagne ever offered here. Though made without sulfur or dosage, this non-vintage sparkler (complete with a cute illustrated label) leads with mouth-puckering acidity yet proves surprisingly generous in its expression of fruit. The bottle goes down easily, and I struggle to think of many other Champagnes (landing on a list under $100) that could match—let alone beat—it.
I also order the 2022 Barbacàn Rosato ($67 on the list, $42 at national retail): a spontaneously fermented, unsulfured rosé made from Nebbiolo and a range of other indigenous varieties grown at high elevation near the Alps. I must admit that I adore this producer and was unsure if any of their bottles made it to Chicago at all. Their Rosato, filled with bright notes of berries and citrus, retains enough structure to pair with Cellar Door’s heavier fish and meat dishes. Indeed, given how the kitchen likes to showcase these more substantial ingredients (with plenty of uplifting acid, sweetness, and pungency), I think rosés do an especially good job of getting out of the way while helping the weight and richness of the proteins further shine.
Considering that the markups on both of these offerings amount to only 60% or 75% on top of retail (and that the bottles are scarcely seen around town in general), I could not be happier with what I’ve found. Yes, despite provoking some early skepticism, Cellar Door’s wine program has cemented itself as one of the most exciting—one of few I really look forward to encountering time and time again—in all of the city.
The meal begins with a familiar creation: the “Polenta Porridge Country Bread with House Butter” ($10) that I sampled back in April. However, when delivering the dish to the table, Cochran notes that the team just started culturing the dairy using kefir grains (naturally occurring colonies of microorganisms typically used to make a fermented milk drink of the same name).
On the palate, the bread leads with its soft, spongey texture rather than any dramatic, crunching crust. While this seems like a missed opportunity (why not build more of a dichotomy?), the crumb delivers a beautiful depth of flavor—subtly sweet, nutty, and even earthy—that accords with a long, lasting mouthfeel. Though I expect the butter to provide some pronounced tang, it tastes more straightforwardly rich and milky. Maybe the influence of the kefir will become more obvious with time; however, I cannot fault how well the spread enhances the pleasing notes of the polenta without doing anything to obscure them. Overall, this remains an excellent bread: one whose complexity (if not crispness) is unequaled.
Arriving next, the “Gigante, Alubia Blanca, & Borlotti Bean Salad” ($17) comes crowned with a halo of fried kale. These leaves deliver all the crunch I am after (along with a nice punch of salt). Meanwhile, the legumes themselves are dressed in a salsat toum (a Levantine “garlic sauce”) made from the elephant variety of the plant, which is more akin to a leek, in combination with lemon and olive oil.
When they reach one’s tongue, the trio of beans strikes with a common smoothness and tenderness while (due to their variation in size) engaging the palate distinctly. The fried kale, perfectly executed, works to contrast (and thus further accentuate) this creamy mouthfeel. The leaves’ pronounced seasoning is welcome, yet it only serves to put an exclamation point on a dressing that tastes attractively sharp, zesty, and herbaceous in its own right. Really, this salsat toum—so intense in character and immense in length—is a revelation, drawing delectably nutty undertones forth from the beans. Though an errant rosemary stem threatens to spoil the wonderful textures on display, it is easily avoided. It cannot detract from what I consider, firmly, to be one of the best salads in the city.
A medley of “Green Chicory & Red Leaf Lettuce” ($17), which one might also term a salad, follows in the footsteps of the “Endive Salad” that proved so polarizing in April. While the latter dish (flavored with a mandarin orange vinaigrette) veered strongly toward bitterness, the present example savvily combines celery vinegar, spring herbs, and aged parmigiano.
Yes, while the leaves here are large and soft and kind of a mess to handle, the overall composition delivers a classic sense of satisfaction. Amply moistened, both the chicory and lettuce retain a trace of crunch via their stems. The former green delivers its telltale bitterness (and I begin to worry), yet this quality is perfectly countered by the brightness (almost sweetness) of the celery vinegar. Plenty of ground pepper, along with some healthy shards of the aged cheese, serve to heighten the effect: tangy, sharp, powerfully savory, and—relative to last time—beautifully balanced. I think it is fair to say that this recipe is more straightlaced than the “Endive Salad,” yet it remains distinctive from a structural perspective and totally winning when it comes to flavor. I welcome its addition to the menu.
The “Nisqually Sweet Oysters” ($24) can also be thought of as a successor to a dish from April: those “Roasted Tatsu Oysters” that were flavored (somewhat delicately) with rice wine, white peppercorn, and white asparagus.
Here, the bivalves are left in their raw state: displaying a plump, buttery, almost creamy mouthfeel I can only described as the quintessence of this particular shellfish. True to its name, this cultivated variety of oyster impresses with its sweetness and subtle brine. An accompanying sauce of preserved horseradish, meanwhile, is surprisingly mild. It imparts a subtle tang but strikes me more with its creaminess—the way it further accentuates the texture of the seafood and allows its sweet, pristine nature to shine. Yet again, the “Nisqually Sweet Oysters” are more straightforward than the “Roasted Tatsu Oysters” that preceded them. However, I cannot argue with the greater enjoyment, so elegantly composed, this new iteration delivers. It stands as another clear improvement.
This evening’s most diminutive dish is undoubtedly the “Cold-Smoked Fjord Trout Belly” ($22). Nonetheless, in this small package, the kitchen exhibits some clever techniques. First there’s the fish itself, which has been sliced into a roughly triangular shape then reconstructed (traces of its silvery skin facing upward). The trout comes surrounded by Earliglow strawberries (an adaptive variety known for its textbook sweetness) and moistened by a combination of olive oil and rhubarb tosazu (an umami-laden vinegar made, in this case, with rhubarb).
On the palate, the belly cut of trout feels soft and succulent—more than worthy of the sushi I am accustomed to eating. Any influence from the smoke, in turn, has been carefully managed. I mostly sense a slight sweetness in the fish: one that peaks upon striking the strawberry (a sliver of the fruit matched to each bite) yet is grounded by the driving acid and savory depth of the tosazu. While I like this dish a lot, I think it should be served with a spoon in order to more amply coat the trout with the umami from the sauce. If I could do it again, I would also probably order my own portion too, for the recipe really starts to sing by the second or third mouthful. That being said, this recipe could easily slot into just about any tasting menu in town. It represents a really nice effort.
Arriving next, the “Stracciatella Toast” ($20) roughly follows in the footsteps of the “Shaved Lamb Heart” from April. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the titles, but these are Cellar Door’s plays on a weightier, open-faced bread form. While the preceding dish combined its thinly-sliced offal with horseradish cream and blistered peppers (on koji porridge toast), the present example pairs its titular cheese with marinated strawberries and shaved lardo (on a piece of Danish seeded loaf).
Though the combination of stracciatella and fruit commands one’s attention, this recipe is really about the toast as much as it is anything else. In terms of texture, the Danish seeded bread feels fluffy—with a particularly loose crumb structure—but robustly flavored. It cushions the other ingredients as much as it (very subtly) crunches against them, allowing the slick cheese, plump strawberries, and melting lardo to strike cleanly in succession and then cohere. With earthiness (from the toast) as a base, the toppings tend toward the sweet and tangy side (thanks to the inclusion of a couple pieces of preserved fruit) but finish on a note of buttery richness. I could use just a touch more salt to help the toppings strike with greater force. However, this dish is smartly conceived and composed even if it falls a bit short of being truly memorable.
A ”Ricotta Ravioli” ($23) suffers no such problem. It stands as one of the runaway hits of the night: not only serving to redeem April’s pasta course (an overly intellectual “Fazzoletti”) but ranking as one of the best examples of the form you’ll find anywhere in the city.
Cellar Door’s pockets of dough come six to an order in an attractive, crimped circular shape. Stuffed with the titular cheese, the ravioli are joined by English peas, black pepper, basil, and elderflower on the plate—along with the faintest trace of liquid (a cooking broth?) that acts as a quasi-sauce. Sliced in half and deposited on one’s tongue, the pasta displays a supreme delicacy—with just a hint of weight—that yields to the rich, well-seasoned ricotta filling. The peas, so beautifully sweet, build further on the cheese’s character while further enhancing the dish’s mouthfeel with their own sensuous pop. Meanwhile, the blend of herbs, flowers, and black pepper (beyond looking pretty) does well to add some sharper, fresher notes to the mix: undertones that are easy to miss yet further intensify the core pleasure of the recipe. Ultimately, this dish is hard to fault. It’s a real testament to the deliciousness the kitchen can achieve with pasta while still honoring the Cellar Door style.
The ”Grilled Sweetbreads” ($26) provide me with a chance at seeing what this restaurant—so bold, so experimental—can do with what must be my very favorite ingredient. Grilling the thymus (rather than frying it, however delectable that may prove) is a good first step. Pairing it with garlic scapes (the shoots that grow off of the bulb) and a sauce cidre blanc (what amounts to a broken beurre blanc tinged with cider) shows how serious the kitchen is about letting the offal, itself, shine.
On the palate, the sweetbreads combine a touch of charring, some streaks of rendered fat, and subtly chewy (yet tender) flesh in a manner—so satisfying—that reminds me of steak. Really, I do not think the offal could possibly be prepared any better, and the crunching, sweet allium notes of the scapes only add to what is an archetypal, carnivorous kind of pleasure. The accompanying sauce, though supposedly marked by cider, tastes somewhat muted but adds to an overall sense of richness. As with the “Cold-Smoked Fjord Trout Belly,” I am left really wanting a spoon so that I can better incorporate and concentrate this element. That being said, the preparation more than impresses without its influence. This recipe ranks (though it might be due to my partiality for the ingredient) as the strongest of the night.
Cellar Door’s “Roasted Black Sea Bass” really impressed me back in April, so I ordered tonight’s cooked fish entrée with some degree of expectation. The “Fig Oil-Poached Fjord Trout” ($40) centers on a familiar ingredient (its belly having been served earlier in the meal). It also incorporates a familiar fruit: strawberries (rendered now in their green, preserved state). But a trout nage (a flavored broth typically used for poaching), some hakurei turnips, and a healthy garnish of anise hyssop leaves (removed in an effort to better showcase the fillet) promise an entirely distinct experience.
Texturally, the trout displays a flawlessly smooth, gently flaky consistency matched (thanks to the cooking method) by a faintly floral, almost tropically sweet flavor that supports the rich, buttery flesh. While the nage helps to bolster the recipe’s underlying umami, I’m again left wanting a spoon to diffuse it more thoroughly throughout the fillet. Tang and sweetness—drawn principally from the strawberry but backed by the turnip—does more to define the dish, but I wish the serving of these ingredients was more generous (allowing me to pair one or the other with each bite of fish). Instead, I am left with plenty of the anise hyssop, whose licorice tones actually do well to match the fig oil (but whose leafy character, in turn, saps the preparation of some decadence). I also must note that one bite of the trout was spoiled by a small bone that one of the cooks failed to remove. For all these complaints, I do still like the dish—principally on the basis of the starring ingredient’s mouthfeel. The supporting elements just need some tweaking.
Having enjoyed such a nice “New York Strip Steak” at Cellar Door last time, this evening’s final dish—a “Standing Rib Roast of Pork Loin” ($44)—promises even greater pleasure. Being lacquered with rosehip koshō (a play on the yuzu-inflected fermented chili paste) then paired with more of those English peas and a coriander béarnaise, the preparation sounds more complete—more naturally buoyed by porcine sweetness—than the beef.
On the palate, the blushing medallions of loin display a hearty degree chew that, nonetheless, remains satisfying. The roast’s fat cap, to its credit, is really nicely rendered (essentially so given its proportion). While I cannot say the influence of the rosehip koshō (which I would expect to be tart, tangy, and/or a sharp) is really apparent, the combination of peas and sauce provides some sweet, savory backing. Overall, this makes for a good—not great—preparation that does well enough to anchor the menu but falls short of the shocking tenderness or depth of flavor that I really wanted.
Tonight, dessert comes in two forms. First, there’s Cellar Door’s classic “Panna Cotta” ($12): distinguished, on this occasion, by bay oil but otherwise marked by the usual vanilla bean and olive oil. Here, the relatively runny texture of the cream (just barely held together by gelatin) strikes with an intensity—semisweet, delicately spiced, with a touch of fruit and burn on the back of one’s throat—that tastes worlds apart from what I encountered last time. Really, this is a phenomenal showing, and it’s now easy to see why the recipe is such a fixture.
Lastly, there’s the “Chocolate Mousse” ($10), a dish Cochran delivers to the table with palpable excitement. Paired with the first Michigan cherries of the season, some bits of amaranth, a touch of sea salt, and a drizzle of chamomile oil, the dessert is thick and creamy on entry. The plump fruit and fine seeds contrast the texture of the mousse while their tart, nutty notes—in the same manner—help to unlock the sweet and bitter depth of the chocolate. Though the chamomile, ever so slightly fruity, is hard to pin down, the salt her is beautifully judged. While I slightly prefer the panna cotta tonight, this is an excellent recipe in its own right.
Coming into this meal (two months after an impressive, though often more intellectual experience), I dreaded having to untangle how this set of ideas might compare to that one—having to try and judge certain creative, provocative work as more or less valuable than what came before. Who am I to say what risks are worth taking and what boundaries are worth pushing? The capacity and desire to consistently experiment mean so much more. But, then, how to form a meaningful critique?
In practice, I did not find a mere reshuffling of the deck on this follow-up visit. The ingredients and resulting constructions were, indeed, different. However, certain persistent forms (including a couple of the most polarizing from April) like salad, oysters, pasta, and panna cotta were much improved tonight. Likewise, many of my favorite forms from last time—the bread, the toast, the cooked fish—more or less maintained their quality.
When discussing Cellar Door’s work, it seems prudent to warn readers that there will be good weeks and great weeks and occasional missteps along the way. Certainly, I should reiterate that this dinner had a couple flaws: the rosemary stem that appeared in one dish, the fish bone that appeared in another, an order of “Steak Tartare” that was listed on the bill but never reached the table.
Nonetheless, it is also possible that the restaurant, while working within this experimental paradigm, is also getting stronger: that Pikas and Cochran and the rest of the team are honing their techniques and style and consistency of execution in a way that boosts the menu’s overall success rate even as the smaller details change from week to week.
Maybe Cellar Door should not be thought of as being at the mercy of its philosophy: victimized, in a way, by its resolution to reinvent almost everything that works. The concept—as it has existed post-pandemic and in the wake of its new culinary partnership—must be viewed as possibly maturing. Dynamism, translated with the right mindset and restraint, might actually now accord with routine excellence.
In ranking the evening’s dishes:
I would place the “Polenta Porridge Country Bread,” “Gigante, Alubia Blanca, & Borlotti Bean Salad,” “Grilled Sweetbreads,” “Ricotta Ravioli,” “Panna Cotta,” and “Chocolate Mousse” in the highest category: preparations—some simple, others boldly blending textures and flavors—that achieved a truly memorable degree of pleasure. I would love to encounter any of these again.
In the next stratum, I would put the “Green Chicory & Red Leaf Lettuce,” “Cold-Smoked Fjord Trout Belly,” “Nisqually Sweet Oysters,” “Stracciatella Toast,” and “Fig Oil-Poached Fjord Trout.” Again, a couple of these recipes were as simple as can be—yet unerringly executed. Others were more complex and layered. However, they all delivered ample enjoyment (the kind I would like to order again) while, without any clear flaws, just falling short of that extra emotional dimension.
Finally, I would place the “Standing Rib Roast of Pork Loin” at the bottom of the pile. I can’t say there was anything clearly wrong with this dish. I would most certainly even order it again (all the more if it undergoes some evolution). This closing entrée just didn’t live up to the level of satisfaction or bold experimentation I expect from the restaurant, and that meant it felt a bit forgettable in what was otherwise a really strong meal.
Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of 92%—a stunning degree of success when considering how fleeting most of these recipes are.
Cellar Door Provisions, in the final analysis, is continuing to put out cuisine at a Michelin-starred level. Based on this experience, the kitchen is achieving that standard—of deliciousness, intellectual appeal, ethical sourcing, and respect for seasonality—more faithfully than ever.
All the while, the restaurant maintains a friendly à la carte format that belies the staggering depth and complexity of its work. When I consider the thoughtfulness of the wine and the warmth of the hospitality also on offer, I almost have to shake my head in disbelief.
Pikas and Cochran have grown and shaped a concept that stands as a model for all of Chicago. Cellar Door is the neighborhood place, totally at peace with itself, that challenges and rewards the full breadth of our dining public with a steady, reliable hand. It’s hard to term this place a “discovery,” but it’s one I already feel a strong connection to—a real intimacy with—just three visits in.