I was so impressed by my first meal at Enemy (what Warlord titles its “live fire multicourse dining experience” with “wildcraft pairings”) that I knew I had to rush back.
Doing so (while also writing about it in this format), allows me to showcase—and deconstruct—the thought processes that guide me when formally rating a restaurant. Warlord, after all, was totally new to me back in April. And though the third (minimum) encounter with a concept is decisive, it might be the second visit that proves most consequential.
The question is not just one of consistency: are food, drink, and service being rendered at the same level of quality as before? It is not even one of dynamism: the kind of consistent evolution and experimentation—from week to week or month to month—that I particularly prize. Rather, the second visit is all about the death of novelty. It’s about stripping away the superficial (but often quite salient) appeal that branding, staging, presentation, and even particular combinations of ingredients or techniques can have at first blush. It’s about killing the magic and looking beyond the spectacle to see what proves resilient—and meaningful—when emotion is taken out of the equation.
This is the province of the critic, and it’s more or less anathema to the first-time, one-time, everyman (or woman) diner who wants these rare fine dining meals, costing many hundreds of dollars, to strike with as much force as possible. This is also the domain of the true hobbyists and snobs and fellow industry professionals who have seen and tasted it all and cannot help comparing this expression of gastronomy to the city’s, country’s, or world’s best.
This is the place where hedonistic appeal begins to falter: caviar, truffle, or wagyu that tastes superlative to one guest (relatively new to these delights) seems cheap, bland, or altogether hackneyed to another (who knows them as totems and has maybe even gorged on them at the source). Instead, intellectual appeal begins to take precedence: a given restaurant may not be able to compete directly with what’s being done in Paris or Tokyo, but it can forge a singular identity and style that shines nonetheless.
I have never seen the point in judging Chicago’s restaurants according to the standard set by any other chef in any other city. It is unfair to locals, who—at the end of the day—must choose wisely from the options presented rather than being told to hop on a plane. It’s also unfair to the dining scene itself, which should be given every opportunity to grow on its own terms, in accordance with unique tastes, rather than aspiring to be a carbon copy of any other metropolis.
Yet one’s palate, shaped by dining experiences throughout the world, cannot lie. A given tongue may know that a particular ingredient is capable of so much more on the basis of what it has encountered in some far-flung place. Subconsciously, native chefs will be held to a global standard even if that is not anyone’s intention.
The best a critic can do is to immerse themself—perpetually—in a city’s benchmarks and develop a kind of internal logic, based on comparative value, that may guide consumers within the confines of this one location. To capture and steward as many perspectives as possible, they must believe in the magic and write from the position of novelty then, in the same breath, strip all the window dressing away. They must evaluate the food both in terms of the underlying idea and its execution, viewing each dish as a self-contained, highly technical construction while also conveying the varying degrees of emotion some—but not other—recipes (based on one’s unique expertise) spur.
The second visit to a restaurant forms the occasion in which these tensions appear and, in most cases, resolve. Subjectivity yields to subjectivities, and some kind of objectivity, on the basis of multiple experiences viewed through myriad lenses, begins to emerge.
Most places—to be perfectly honest—shrink upon being sampled again. Yet there are few greater thrills than confirming that what you sensed the first time was no fluke—that there is truly a deep, enduring quality to such-and-such a place.
Tonight, what will it be?
Let us begin.
As I approach Warlord on this Friday evening in May, the aesthetic experience is immediately more satisfying. The previous month, it was rainy, and the sun had long set by the time this eight o’clock reservation had come around. Though the dining room was full, the restaurant’s lobby was empty. No sign of the concept’s persistent popularity—just a quiet, almost eerie, hum of energy that came ablaze once chef-partners Emily Kraszyk, John Lupton, and Trevor Fleming went to work.
For a place that had weathered (or, it might be said, laughed off) some controversy only to launch its most ambitious, expensive culinary expression to date, the mood seemed fitting. It played to my doubts right until the very last moment: when bite after bite slowly—then all of sudden—convinced me I was sampling one of Chicago’s best tasting menus.
On this occasion, whether it’s due to the temperature, the sunlight, or some new sense of expectation, Warlord feels like I always imagined it to be. It helps to see a half-dozen bodies crowding the lobby, waiting their turn as parties flow to and fro the inner sanctum. After all, so much of the thrill when booking Enemy ($205 in April, now priced at $225 in May) is the thought of skipping the line and settling into a superlative experience at a place that has built its reputation (more or less) on making prospective patrons wait. But tonight, the joke’s on me.
When I check in, the hostess warns that they are running a little behind. A server brings by some glasses of Riesling Sekt (as was done last time). The subsequent toast—and some conversation—helps to whittle away the time.
Yet, peering around the corner into the dining room, I see that all the seats at the counter are full. It then occurs to me that the other people in the lobby—somewhat agitated, stealing their own glances at the kitchen—are my fellow diners. At one point, I hear one of them murmur something like “this is ridiculous.”
The tasting menu already has a late start time, so they may have a point. The problem here is not another Enemy seating that has run long, but eight separate parties of two that are dining à la carte. Warlord opens at six, so it’s hard to know how early or late these patrons were accommodated (a piece of information that would help inform whether I, personally, would blame the restaurant or the lingerers more).
By 8:20 PM, six of the eight people at the counter have paid and left. The remaining two stay ten minutes longer (the gawking from those forced to wait now getting more obvious) before a server suggests they enjoy their dessert up at the bar. This is the kind of solution one would have hoped to see fifteen minutes ago (though would it have been feasible with eight diners to deal with?). Certainly, even if the restaurant chose to seat these parties at seven, it wouldn’t be unfair of to say they’d have to accept a one-hour limit.
In truth, the other Enemy guests seem more bothered than I am. It’s not a great first impression (for a luxury experience no less), but I know enough now to trust that the food will be worth it. Plus, even if it took time, the staff did step in and take action. A refill of the welcome drink could, perhaps, have helped further smooth things over and convey some sense of apology.
Taking my seat, I note all the same features as before: the candlelight, the dripping wax, the bustle of a real working kitchen (though no fries are being fried on this occasion), and the glow of the dry-aging cabinets—now predominantly stocked with fish. Music throughout the meal remains eclectic and pronounced. Some songs are certainly louder than others, but these are buffered by the din and balanced by other selections that are surprisingly minimalist and relaxed.
(Toward the end of the night, it strikes me that certain tracks, being repeated, are timed to particular moments during the tasting menu. Given that the experience is so strongly defined by music, this extra degree of scripting—looking to provoke a deliberate emotional effect—forms a welcome flourish.)
The crowd tonight is predominantly comprised of whites and Asians in their 30s and 40s, many seemingly on dates. However, I also spy a child with his parents and a more boisterous, broey group among the customers. Save for those of us who were waiting impatiently to sit, the prevailing mood in the room is warm and unpretentious.
The front-of-house team carries the same attitude: marrying attentiveness with an easy deference and an overall casual, comfortable manner of interaction. On the line, I count six (including the chef-partners) cooking tonight. Some of the instruction given from the senior to junior members of the staff can, during the heat of service, feel firm or almost annoyed in tone. However, the dialogue remains respectful, and the collaboration—a ballet of hands and bodies in this slender, smoky space—flows smoothly throughout the evening.
As before, Fleming takes the lead when introducing and stewarding the Enemy experience. In this role, he continues to match Warlord’s wider identity by letting the work—never mind the crazy fermentation or conflagration at hand—speak for itself. That being said, the chef-partner does display a notable sincerity, even humility in the way he asks guests their impressions of the food and graciously thanks those (even diners not doing the tasting menu) he sees heading toward the door.
Later, being seated closest to the dry-aging cabinets, I am even treated to a view of Fleming adeptly breaking down a tuna carcass: a task that, practically, had to be done (in order to fulfill à la carte orders) but, symbolically, seems to confirm the bonafides of this dark, carnal concept.
The included beverage pairings from Stephan Jurgovan continue to be a real highlight, as the emphasis of foraged ingredients and preservation ensure that both the alcoholic and non-alcoholic options alike possess real personality.
While a couple of the creations from last time remain, the majority have been subject to a few tweaks, with notes of green apple, rhubarb, and plum now substituting for peach or raspberry and meaningfully changing the flavor expressions of the respective drinks. The peach, it should be mentioned, was transferred over to the burnt milk brew (one of the theatrical peaks of the evening). In combination with coconut, it was absolutely stunning—diverging from the previous version (which was pleasantly reminiscent of French onion soup) by way of acidity and sweet, tropical tones.
A yellow Chartreuse ice that I quite enjoyed last time also only seemed to get better, as Sauternes was substituted for the added of complexity Pineau des Charentes. The consistency of the cocktail—the ice being incorporated with a mouthfeel more like a snow cone—also improved, further adding to the pleasure.
Jurgovan’s work is more than enough to anchor the sippable side of the Enemy experience; however, building off of my previous visit, I endeavored to take a look at the wine list on this occasion.
Here is a representative sample of what I found:
- 2022 Gober & Freinbichler “VP 004” Blaufränkisch ($51 on the list, $18.99 at local retail)
- NV Hild Elbling Sekt ($51 on the list, $17.99 at local retail)
- 2020 Left Foot Charley Skin-Fermented Pinot Gris [$51 on the list, $26.96 at national retail)
- 2023 Pielhueso “Los Sauces” ($56 on the list, $21.96 at national retail)
- 2020 Scheurmann Riesling ($60 on the list, $20 at national retail)
- 2023 Leipold’s Silvaner Kabinett Trocken ($61 on the list, $24 at national retail)
- 2022 Duoma “Pét/Nat Blanco” ($75 on the list, $29.69 at national retail)
- 2023 Bow & Arrow Sauvignon Blanc ($80 on the list, $31.99 at local retail)
- 2023 Mina Penélope “Amber” ($85 on the list, $34.99 at local retail)
- 2017 Westrey Pinot Noir ($85 on the list, $35 at local retail)
- 2022 Viñas del Tigre “Zopilote” ($85 on the list, $47.99 at national retail)
- 2022 Gilbert Picq Chablis ($100 on the list, $33.99 at national retail)
- 2017 Caraccioli Cellars “Brut Cuvée” ($120 on the list, $54.99 at national retail)
- 2019 Schiavenza Barolo ($120 on the list, $44.99 at national retail)
- NV Barnaut Champagne “Grande Reserve” Grand Cru Brut ($130 on the list, $64.99 at national retail)
At first glance, what I saw here kind of scared me. The producers, save for Gilbert Picq, Hild, Leipold’s, and Left Foot Charley, weren’t ones I immediately recognized. Value was the name of the game here, and the restaurant had settled on this range of names without showcasing any of the bottles—locally available—I consider paragons of that so-called quality-to-price ratio.
Looking at old lists online, I knew that Warlord once stocked Riesling from Stein (an estate I certainly do think punches way above its weight). I knew I definitely wanted something to sip on alongside the pairing (and to test the restaurant’s wine service of course). I trusted I could take a leap: after all, it’s better not to recognize the producers than to know them and associate them with all the lazy, mass-market programs around town.
Being more familiar with the Chablis, I opted for the unknown Champagne (whose sourcing from grand cru plots reassured me). The resulting bottle, Pinot Noir-dominant (that is, attuned for early drinking) and offered for a mere 100% markup over retail was perfectly pleasant. The staff also did well to chill and pour the wine throughout the meal.
Now studying the list from afar, its preference for naturally-made products from more offbeat places like Austria, Germany, Mexico, and Michigan is clear. Skin-contact styles, along with obscure grapes like Blaufränkisch, Elbling, Moscatel, Silvaner, and Verdicchio, are given room to shine. But domestic Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay (that same bottle of Chablis), aged Oregon Pinot Noir, an accessible young Barolo, and even Cabernet Sauvignon (courtesy of an Argentinian Malbec blend) also feature.
Markups, overall, range from 77% to 200% on top of retail price (with a mean of 146% and a median of 152%). The bottles, thus, do not represent screaming deals but can be had for a friendly enough sum. It is also worth mentioning that 13 out of 22 options are also offered by the glass (for $16 to $21), a proportion that ensures diners need only to commit to exactly the number of pours they want.
Ultimately, while this might not be the kind of list that gets my heart racing, I think it forms a unique example of a value-focused program: one whose natural wines are vibrant enough to match the bold flavors of the food without descending fully into iconoclastic territory. Personally, it’s a part of the experience I am comfortable skipping in the future (given the existence of the pairing), but one I will also keep an eye on given the possibility that something I cannot resist may someday appear.
My real dream remains being able to enjoy corkage with some of the items on the tasting menu, but that’s not a question I typically broach so early in my relationship with a restaurant.
At 8:47 PM, the meal—at last—begins.
First, there’s a familiar preparation of “Oyster” that arrives, over embers, on a metal plate. Once more, the bivalves have been sourced from Maine: more particularly, an independent farm called Long Reach Oysters. Their shells, as before, also run the risk of scalding one’s fingers—that sense of “danger” I found thematically satisfying in April. One only needs to slightly reposition the cups to ensure a painless bite, which still comes dressed with kohlrabi butter but, on this occasion, is no longer spiked with Chartreuse.
The result is an oyster that feels smooth and rich on entry yet displays more straightforward brine and meatiness as it dissolves on the palate. Some faint sweetness—courtesy of the kohlrabi and some of the bivalve’s own finish—is not missing. However, omitting the herbal liqueur certainly softens the effect: one, overall, that remains firmly on the savory, bracing side and pairs well with an accompanying apple and sherry cocktail. As much as I enjoy Chartreuse, both versions of this recipe work nicely.
The next dish that arrives is completely new, and it comes presented tableside by Kraszyk. She introduces the “Ebi” (a term broadly referring to shrimp or prawns) as being sourced from Hawaii. Shining segments of the crustacean’s meat are served raw, tucked within an abalone shell, with nothing more than a saffron-inflected, gelatinous sauce. Off to the side sits a chaser: a couple slices of lemon-cured apple.
Structurally, this preparation looks to take the place of the “Scallop” served last time: a rendition of the mollusk (also accompanied by preserved apple), served on a sizzling plate, that married hot and cold temperatures in the mouth. With this serving of prawn, the chefs stay wholly on the cooler side of the equation—but it works. The ebi hits the tongue with a plump, yielding, and almost creamy consistency that can only be captured raw. Though the shellfish shows an impressive, pristine sweetness in its own right, the concentrated umami of the accompanying sauce (in which saffron only provides a haunting floral note) establishes a fundamental contrast and depth. The bright tang of the apple, when introduced, adds one more dimension (akin to a squeeze of citrus) that further delineates the prawn’s sweet character.
This is the push-pull that transforms the starring ingredient—so simply and worshipfully expressed—into an actual composition. I do think the “Scallop,” with its added presentational flair, is hard to replace. Nonetheless, the “Ebi” affirms the kitchen’s ability to work skillfully and thoughtfully with the most delicate of textures and flavors. In that respect, it diverges from most of Warlord’s work (being relatively extreme as a rule) and demonstrates a welcome degree of range.
A small cup of mushroom tea (as was also served alongside last meal’s “Scallop”) again serves to bridge the gap between courses. Considering the cold, entirely raw nature of the “Ebi,” it actually works better in this instance: delivering balanced earth and brown butter notes that leave me smacking my lips in anticipation of the warmer fare to come.
The “Daikon” that follows is another familiar recipe from April’s meal. Here, as before, the radish is poached in milk then dressed with a bubbly shio koji cream (that salty condiment made from the kind of inoculated rice used in sake production). Chocolate vinegar also reprises its role (though I note that its relative proportion is much larger on this occasion).
On the palate, the root vegetable feels less creamy than it did in the previous iteration—sensibly so, for April’s dish make use of a smaller, whole bulb and the present version centers on a segment off of a larger, mature piece. However, in practice, the bit of crunch is engaging, and the daikon remains smooth and tender throughout its interior. When it comes to flavor, sweetness—drawn from the shio koji and chocolate (yet also echoed by the latent sugar of the radish)—takes the lead. This is balanced by a tinge of tang provided by the vinegar; however, compared to last time, the daikon seems to be missing just a touch of salt. This robs the recipe of the savory finish I found appealing but, otherwise, does not stand in the way of enjoyment. A small lapse—yes—but still a creative and successful dish.
Of everything I sampled back in April, the “Bluefin Belly” was undoubtedly the standout hit. Tonight sees the preparation take the exact same form, and, as excited as I am to encounter it again, I also wonder to what degree my prior experience (and the corresponding loss of novelty) might serve to inhibit the pleasure felt. To be clear, the cut of tuna does seem a tad different: comprising something like five, thicker slices as opposed to the seven, slightly thinner pieces that made up the dish before. Otherwise, the recipe continues to center on the interplay between the aged fish—gently warmed in cultured butter—and an accompanying “root XO” (a sauce traditionally made from dried seafood rendered, here, using root vegetables).
Upon colliding with my tongue, the bluefin belly displays the same silky, melting mouthfeel I loved when first encountering it—only here, courtesy of the larger slices, the effect grows even more staggering. Really, with just the slightest pressure, each piece of the tuna explodes in a torrent of oozing fat. Then, immediately, the XO’s potent umami comes to the fore. It matches the utter richness of the fish: not overwhelming it but, rather, unlocking deeper savory tones with harmonizing hints of earth and sweetness drawn from the vegetable base. The finish here—an eye-rolling, head-shaking grappling with unadulterated power (whose expression, nonetheless, morphs over time)—is simply immense. This encounter with the “Bluefin Belly” does not only live up to my memory, it actually surpasses it. Few things I will eat this year (or any given year) will reach this level.
I neglected to take a photo of the “Liquid Cleanse” last time because, to be honest, I interpreted it more as a throwaway pour—a courtesy—rather than an actual course. One can question why such a fleeting sip would be listed on the tasting menu (though, to be fair, Enemy is not advertised as boasting a certain number of plates). However, in truth, this drink plays a crucial role.
The carbonated apple and celery juice (which guests are instructed to take in “one gulp”) strikes the palate with a hint of ripeness. But it is the prickliness and grassy freshness that really stand out. The “Liquid Cleanse,” true to its name, helps diners reset after the high of the “Bluefin Belly.” Moreover, it allows the kitchen to dive immediately into another savory course that ranks, alongside the tuna, as one of the highlights of the meal.
The ”Black Maitake” retains its tableside flair: being served on a flaming log by Fleming, who gently guides guests in skewering the fungus off (I haven’t seen a piece fall onto the table yet). The resulting chunk of mushroom (its wavy clusters said to “dance”) has, as before, been glazed with smoked soy sauce and paired with a kōji (a mold used in miso, sake, and soy sauce production) cream.
Somewhat like the “Daikon,” the maitake does not feel quite as soft as it did last time. Instead, the mushroom is market by a more aggressive crunch and sense of char in this instance (which, given the manner of presentation, feels like an improvement). The interior of the fungus remains tender and meaty once I reach, and its resulting flavor—earthy, smoky, savory—is satisfying. Combined with the koji cream (sweet, somewhat tangy, and possessing plenty of umami in its own right), the maitake sings. This dish does not aim at or achieve the same kind of intensity as the “Bluefin Belly.” Nonetheless, it forms a rounded, rather enjoyable follow-up that continues to build on the meal’s satisfaction without blowing out one’s palate. This preparation would be a headliner on many other tasting menus.
Closing out the evening’s savory offerings, I again find the “Ribeye.” This hunk of meat—aged for 35 days—continues to star in what I think is the signature moment of the Enemy experience. The steak lies at the heart of a pile of kindling (featuring plenty of rosemary), which each party is invited to ignite using a burning branch. The flame that follows climbs high before eventually petering out. The chefs clean the beef of any resulting ash before serving it with a coating of bone jus and an accompanying roasted onion heart (itself paired with a dab of Japanese miso).
I will admit that I liked—but did not love—the “Ribeye” back in April. The dish was well-executed but did not rise to the level of the preceding tuna or maitake preparations, which one would think is easy when working with actual steak. Tonight, nonetheless, the course seems to have that extra gear. Yes, the meat retains an engaging degree of chew but feels more moist and tender—more decidedly beefy (courtesy of the jus)—than last time.
The onion, too, displays a greater seamlessness of texture and refinement of its deep, sweet allium flavor. Add these two elements together (with a bit of the miso paste for good measure), and one is left with a steak course that rivals the best of Chicago’s Michelin-starred wagyu sets: the quintessence of what makes this form so great with the help of little more than fire. On this occasion, the “Ribeye” ensures Enemy’s closing savory sequence, rather than tailing off, only goes from strength to strength.
The turn toward dessert proceeds in the same fashion as before: black furs are draped over the counter, the burnt milk drink (now that excellent peach and coconut version) is prepared, and it is followed—shortly after—by that reimagined Chartreuse shaved ice.
A preparation of “Foie Gras” that appears at this point, as something of a transitional course, represented a rare lowlight last time. Yes, the pairing of seared duck liver with poached rhubarb and wine sauce was technically proficient but felt like too much of a good thing. Tonight, for whatever reason, the same combination proves explosive. I’d go so far as to say the dish ranks among the best of the menu!
Texturally, the smoothness of the liver is, to be honest, interrupted by a small touch of stringiness. But the combination of rhubarb and wine sauce, landing more decidedly on the tangy, salty side before, brims with sappy sweetness now. Such concentration—still cut with enough acid—does well to match the encompassing fattiness of the foie gras. The starring ingredient still feels rich but avoids dominating the dish’s flavor like a savory, bland blanket. Instead, it forms more of a canvas for a perfectly cohesive, absolutely lip-smacking degree of decadence that lands convincingly as a dessert rather than an unnecessary shoehorning of offal.
Recalling that, at the end of my experience in April, the server invited us to order additional food à la carte, I decided to try the “Dry Aged Burger” ($24) as part of this meal. Kindly, the kitchen slipped the dish into the flow of the tasting (prior to the final dessert) rather than making me wait for the set menu’s conclusion.
Topped with charred onion and joined by a dollop of mayonnaise, the burger is defined by a dripping, juicy patty framed by fluffy brioche. The resulting flavor expression is straightforwardly beefy, but there remains an appreciable funky depth that, combined with an overall soft, melty mouthfeel, makes for a memorable take on the recipe. I’d characterize this burger as one of relative purity that, for corresponding palates, would certainly rank toward the top of the city’s examples.
Closing out the tasting menu, I find a variant of the “White Chocolate” preparation that featured on the previous menu: one that trades its brown butter crumble for a mere drizzle of olive oil. It’s hard to imagine such a substitution leading to anything but an inferior dish.
However, the basic texture and flavor of the titular ganache, so rich and creamy and milky-sweet, retains more than enough satisfaction. This allows both the olive oil and a hidden layer of preserved plum below to act as foils: bitter, tart, and fruity notes that drive the expression of white chocolate to a higher peak of pleasure via contrast rather than clear harmony. In sum, the changeover is skillfully handled in a way that preserves—and maybe even improves upon—every bit of the recipe’s prior appeal.
An ice milk flavored with amazake (a kind of fermented rice drink) yet again forms a companion to the “White Chocolate.” It is frothy, subtly sweet, and refreshing (courtesy of a reservoir of snow that hides at the bottom). However, the glass also arrives a couple minutes after the dessert, and it should really be savored alongside the intense sweetness of the ganache (to help deepen its expression) rather than in its wake.
Looking back on this second Enemy experience, I certainly had my apprehensions.
To start, the late seating definitely stacked the deck against the restaurant: hospitality and food need to be more than convincing—not just “good enough”—when guests reach their seats feeling neglected.
The wine list, which I was excited to take a first look at, did not really impress me. Ultimately, I settled on an option that I found satisfying (and, upon closer inspection after the fact, I did uncover a philosophy to the program I could get behind). However, in the moment, I would say I found that surprising, delightful bottle that might put an exclamation point on the meal.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the realization that so much of the menu seemed to be the same (along with all the accompanying tricks) prepared me for the worst. Even if execution was perfect, would Warlord be able to conjure the same magic—to serve food and drink that would strike with the same force—again?
Small tweaks to some of the cocktails and courses assured me that, even if the team wasn’t prepared to transform Enemy completely from month to month, this concept was always looking to evolve and refine its existing offerings. Indeed, while there were a couple small lapses to note (the texture of the “Daikon” and the “Foie Gras”), all returning dishes achieved—at a minimum—the same level of quality. The one completely new recipe (the “Ebi”) did a good job of living up to its predecessor (the “Scallop”) while moving in a new direction. And, quite spectacularly, several of the weakest and strongest items from April reached incredible new highs.
In ranking the evening’s menu:
I would put the “Bluefin Tuna,” “Black Maitake,” “Ribeye,” and “Foie Gras” in my highest category: preparations that stand among the best things I have eaten this (or any) year. These recipes each combined beautifully refined textures with a degree of concentrated umami (and supporting depth of flavor) that was unforgettable. The fact that they arrived, one by one, in sequence made the experience even more gripping, more profound. I dream about tasting them again.
The “Oyster,” “Ebi,” “Daikon,” and “White Chocolate” all occupy the next stratum: very good—even great—dishes I would be happy to encounter on any menu. These recipes offered pleasing textures with bold, satisfying flavors whose basic composition is hard to fault. Being repeated from the previous meal, some of these preparations displayed small variations in texture or seasoning that sometimes helped (or otherwise slightly dulled) the impression they made the second time. Yet they still provided plenty of enjoyment and would likely remain memorable for a first-time audience.
Finally, the “Liquid Cleanse” lands in the last category: a merely “good” offering I wouldn’t mind encountering again. This drink (which I only include here due to its convention of being listed on the tasting menu) doesn’t quite reach the level of being memorable. Nonetheless, it plays a key role in balancing the flow of the menu, enabling Enemy’s very best dishes to shine their brightest.
In tallying up these results, I do not think the question is one of hit-rate. Warlord scored close to 100% in that department last time, and I do not think it means much to say that a menu—made up almost entirely of the same dishes—maintained the same standard. Sure, it says something about consistency. But the real story is to be found more granularly.
First, it is worth reiterating that the “Ebi” was entirely new, and this recipe—blending the delicacy of raw prawn with a spiced, umami dressing and bite of fruit—landed toward the middle of the pack (the “very good” to “great” stratum). That’s a success by my measure, and I appreciated how this creation elegantly subverted the “fire” theme (even if, by doing so, it could not lean on the hearth’s associated theatrics).
Second, I must again celebrate the absolute turnaround I witnessed from the “Foie Gras.” This dish, which was just unctuous and overwhelming last time, totally came alive tonight. Nothing, on paper, really changed. Indeed, I revealed that the texture of the liver (one bite being a bit stringy) was arguably a bit worse. Yet the combination of poached rhubarb and wine sauce tasted supercharged, delivering the kind of sour-sweet foil that allows foie gras to really strut itself. One could call this recipe textbook, but it now forms a convincing reminder of why this ingredient is so prized.
Lastly, I must highlight how the “Ribeye” (already a “very good” to “great” dish) made the leap to being one of the best. Likewise, the “Black Maitake” (already one of the best) maintained and even improved upon (courtesy of greater textural contrast) its appeal. And the “Bluefin Belly,” the best dish of all, somehow felt and tasted even better on this occasion.
In the final analysis, even if some of the evening’s repeat items (i.e., the “Oyster,” “Daikon,” and “White Chocolate”) lost a bit of their luster—as to be expected once novelty begins to fade—this second experience at Enemy struck me with its enduring quality. Successfully introducing a new dish is one thing. Reinvigorating one of the weakest is another. But affirming that two or three of your recipes are truly superlative—that they are all but guaranteed to stun one’s palate time and time again—is the stuff of excellence.
Tonight, four out of nine dishes (44% of offerings) reached the pinnacle of deliciousness: that “best of the year” / “best of any year” caliber. I’m talking Kyōten or Smyth (on a good night) numbers, and, while Kraszyk, Lupton, and Fleming aren’t quite pursuing the same degree of wanton experimentation, the chefs are certainly cooking in a singularly bold fashion and wildly succeeding in doing so.
Enemy continues to impress me (even at this slightly higher price point). And I will testify that even the fine dining newbies I brought to share in this experience (people who have had single encounters with Chicago’s two- and three-Michelin-star establishments) contended this menu was their favorite.
If I could make one suggestion (other than the aforementioned permittance of corkage), it would be to serve bread. There must be a way to do so while drawing on the hearth, for so many of the creams and sauces served as part of this tasting menu are truly of that want-to-lick-the-plate quality.
At the end of the day, these are but trifles. I look forward to observing Enemy’s continued growth—and was told that I can expected even more changes with the arrival of summer.