My previous meal at Maxwells Trading was a rousing success, yet it also represented a very particular perception of a place I had already grown to know and love. More specifically, it comprised a majority of dishes that I knew (at least if they were prepared to the same standard) would deliver.
On this occasion (about a month later), there are a few entirely new offerings to contend with. However, primarily, I will look to cast all my favorite, most reliable recipes aside and focus primarily on what I didn’t (or, generally, wouldn’t) order. This is an important test, for it not only allows me to get a sense of this esteemed restaurant’s depth. Rather, it enables me to take aim at the menu’s fundamental structure: one in which items like the “Suzuki Tartare,” “Prosciutto & Gnocco Fritto,” “Japanese Sweet Potato,” “Clay Pot Rice,” and four different dunks work to guarantee pleasure while only a smaller subset of listings actually change.
At core, there’s nothing wrong about sticking with classic preparations—especially when guests have to jostle just to get a reservation in the first place. Certainly, when I was dining at Maxwells Trading on a monthly basis, I did eventually tire of some of them. But, after an extended break (recall, my last piece was written after a six-month absence), the dishes struck with a renewed force. Smaller changes (perhaps most notably seen in the “Basque Butter Cake”) ensure that several of the menu’s pillars balance nostalgia and novelty in a positively explosive manner.
Still, I have to ask: what if someone stumbles into this concept and, by chance or compulsion, manages to avoid all the hits? What would their meal be like, and would this restaurant’s shining status lose a bit of its luster?
The idea is not to try and find weaknesses for the sake of disparagement so much as it is to subvert my own usual tendencies when ordering. Yes, given how much this place is enlivened by the chef’s vinyl collection, it might be best to think of this experience as the “B-side” of Maxwells Trading.
Let us begin.
It’s another sunny Saturday in the Kinzie Park Industrial Corridor, and, with my reservation (scooped up on short notice) set right at opening, I get to observe the flow of patrons looking to nab their own last-minute spots.
The patio has yet to host any parties, but the staff—armed with ice buckets and bottles of water—stands ready. A few minutes short of 4:30 PM, the bodies that crowd the sidewalk begin making their way inside. I follow them up a step, through the vestibule, and into the familiar, expansive space.
There’s a moment of awkwardness as successive waves of diners try to situate themselves around the host stand. But the greeting is warm (the staff could have easily, as some venues do, warned that the restaurant is not quite open yet), and each group is whisked away after only a brief delay.
Back in June, I was seated closer to the windows at a table whose brightness and centrality (situated at the border of those dining outside with a prime view of everybody inside) befit the energy of the season. Tonight, I find myself closer to the kitchen—just about as close as possible in fact. Looking at tile at stainless steel and the slightly more shadowy bowels of the restaurant certainly makes for a different mood. And, yet again, there’s no sign of partners Josh Tilden or Erling Wu-Bower (the latter of which, doubling as chef-patron and sommelier, weaves evenings here with that extra touch of magic).
That being said, I appreciate the unique perspective I am granted tonight (one quite fitting for a “B-side”). This vantage point allows me to observe Chris Jung, the executive chef, as he leads from the pass with a perfect sense of calm and precision. I witness how he strategizes with the bussers (who also double as food runners): workhorses of this concept who also, despite the lack of formality in the dining room, display a unique degree of ownership over the guest experience. It still surprises me to hear them explain not only the intricacies of a given dish but, further, how to best tackle it mechanically. Yet, seeing the respect they are granted, it is easy to understand why this front-line staff soars.
Looking beyond the pass, I marvel at how a mere handful of cooks—ever-moving—executes a menu of considerable complexity for such a large crowd. I am further struck by how much fun they seem to be having: chatting with each other, laughing, even singing (and I cannot say, across all my meals, that pacing has ever suffered as a consequence). This attitude speaks to the sense of spirit the back of house shares, and I see how it permeates the captains’ interactions with each other as well. Again, this is not a question of losing focus. Rather, in the quiet moments between tasks, these exchanges affirm how much the team actually enjoys working here. In turn, that feeling is channeled by the front of house toward their guests (and, indeed, the level of hospitality on display tonight maintains its high standard).
Looking at the crowd tonight, I note a fairly broad demographic: not only the fashionable 30- and 40-year-olds that adorn every trendy concept, but kids and teenagers (with their parents), young adults (in same-sex groupings), and an older, respectable cadre whose finery stands out among the space’s minimalist décor (but, likewise, whose presence is not made to feel out-of-place). It’s Lollapalooza weekend, and there are definitely some wristbands to be found among the diners. Otherwise, while the patronage does remain predominantly white and Asian (fairly standard at most places I visit), it also cuts fully across racial lines in a way (even if minor) that is rarer among the city’s hottest spots.
Having gone into this meal with a clear idea of what food to order, I only really need to untangle what I’d like to drink.
In June, I sampled a “Piña Colada” ($15) from the “Interpreted Classics” section of the cocktail menu that—being salty (not sweet) and spirit-forward—I found underwhelming. Given the reliable pleasure provided by the “Martinis” category, I chose not to judge that creation too harshly. It would make sense, this time, to opt for “The Regular” ($17) or a “Gibson” ($17) and formalize my praise.
Nonetheless, I am for some reason drawn back toward the “Interpreted Classics” and a play on the “Americano” ($14). While the recipe is traditionally rendered with Campari, sweet red vermouth, a splash of soda, and a finishing touch of citrus, Maxwells Trading draws on an unnamed “Italian bitter,” Carpano “Antica Formula” vermouth, lemon, soda, and—most interestingly—salted Mick Klüg Farms strawberries. The result is a tipple that is tart and cleansing on entry with a great depth of sweetness (countered by the perfect amount of bitterness) through the finish. In sum, the “Americano” is a great testament to what this bar program can achieve using locally-sourced (often homegrown) ingredients.
When it comes to wine (which I covered extensively during my last visit), there’s not much new to report. On the surface, I continue to admire how the selection balances (and communicates) more “natural” selections with those catering to mainstream tastes. I also appreciate that many of the chosen bottles aren’t widely represented on other lists around town.
That being said, when it comes time to actually pick something out, I struggle. I’m faced with paying $195 for a familiar Champagne from Bérèche (that I know I can get for, say, $165 at a Michelin-starred restaurant in River North), choosing a too-young Riesling from Weiser-Künstler at $120 (which is rare enough to offer some value), or paying a premium (closer to $200) for white Burgundies from producers of merely good (but not great) quality.
I try to avoid some of the bottles I typically resort to: a Brij Wines Grenache Rosé ($90), Lady of the Sunshine “Stolpman Vineyards” Sauvignon Blanc ($91), or Marcel Lapierre Morgon ($105) that show enough character and accessibility to overcome their markups. But, especially when it comes to white wine, I don’t really find the right choice. I eventually settle on a 2020 Brendan Stater-West Saumur Blanc “Les Chapaudaises” ($123) that is nice enough but hardly memorable.
I expect the list here to grow more with time. However, I think the premiums being charged on top of retail price (a mean of 149% and median/mode of 150% based on the sample from my prior piece) need to align more with producers who are legitimately at the forefront of their respective regions. This holds especially true when considering the new wave of estates from Champagne, Burgundy, the Loire, the Jura, and the Savoie (so well represented at places like Cellar Door Provisions, Elske, and Obélix), where bottles—even at high markups—still offer outsized value.
Short of this, Maxwells Trading should just explicitly offer a $40 or $50 corkage and allow wine lovers to sidestep the confines of the selection altogether.
Moving on to the food, tonight’s dinner kicks off with a “Tomato & Peach Salad” ($20) that has joined the menu in the time since my visit in late June. I have always found the restaurant’s “Chicory Caesar” (another one of its longstanding items) to be impressive, so expectations here—working with prized seasonal ingredients rather than an infamous (if beloved) form—are high.
The salad combines larger and smaller pieces of the titular tomato with thick slices of peach. The resulting gradient of red, orange, and yellow tones can make discerning which is which a challenge. But it’s a good one, for much of the real intrigue is found atop the produce: a dressing of basil yogurt, hearty leaves of the same herb, shreds of red onion, sprigs of dill, and a scattering of bubu arare (or crispy rice pearls). The presentation is undoubtedly one of the kitchen’s most attractive, and the recipe matches it in quality.
Yes, on the palate, both tomato and peach feel soft and juicy. They impart a moderate sweetness that, along with a leading note of tang from the yogurt, quickly yields to the crunching toppings and a building herbaceousness. However, it’s the one-two punch of ginger and lemongrass, interspersed among the leaves, that proves decisive. Their lingering pungency, once one goes back for another forkful, enlivens the tomatoes. Perceived ripeness peaks as acidity mellows, and the salad grows in satisfaction with each bite all the way through the finish. Overall, this is very nicely done: demonstrating the chefs’ ability to coax complexity and excitement out of otherwise simple combinations.
Wu-Bower and Jung’s work with seasonal produce persists with a preparation titled “Plum Panzanella” ($24), and this dish, which arrives next, is actually found (alongside what one might consider entrées) under the “Substance” part of the menu. As a vegetarian-friendly closer amid fish and meat, I can kind of see the point. However, relegating the recipe to that status would be a mistake.
This item represents the latest in a series of collaborations with Loaf Lounge—more particularly, with the bakery’s marbled rye. Here, the bread is lightly toasted and serves as a vessel for stracciatella, the titular stone fruit, some bits of banana pepper, and a dressing of shiitake tsuyu (typically a dashi-, soy-, and mirin-based dipping sauce). When it reaches the tongue, this “Panzanella”almost seems to replicate its namesake salad. The bread retains some structure but is delightfully yielding: allowing the oozing cheese and moist segments of plum to all cohere. The resulting flavor here is expectedly sweet. But it is the traces of heat, tang, and umami, playing against the earthy quality of the rye, that really make this dish sing. This construction, so pleasurable, just feels effortless. It ranks as one of the surprise highlights of the night.
In the “Starch” section of the menu, appearing next to the “Japanese Sweet Potato” and “Clay Pot Mushroom Rice” that performed so well last time, I find two new pastas. First to hit the table is the “Zucchini Stuffed Pappardelle” ($24), a new iteration of a familiar construction that has made use of ingredients like leek and crawfish in the past. The present version, instead, pairs the titular gourd with corn, pistachio, and a rapini pesto.
Structurally, it might be easiest to think of this particular pasta as a long, interrupted segment of ravioli (crimped edges and all). The resulting noodles, which one cuts apart to reveal (but not spill) the filling, display a delicate mouthfeel with a touch of al dente presence on the tongue but an otherwise melty consistency. However, while the zucchini itself lends the preparation some earthy, sweet, and nutty undertones, I find that the pesto (even topped with a sprinkle of cheese) falls flat. Likewise, it’s easy to see where the corn and pistachio (two of my favorite flavors) might fit in, but it is hard to pick them out as well. The result is a dish that is vaguely pleasing without quite being convincing in its satisfaction. Ultimately, more salt might be the solution (though one that comes down to individual taste). Nonetheless, as it stands, this was a strangely muted offering that, despite textural appeal, underwhelmed relative to the kitchen’s usual high standard.
Thankfully, a preparation of “Soup Dumpling Tortellini” fares better. This is a dish that come on and off the menu since Maxwells Trading’s opening—and understandably so, for it epitomizes the thoughtful merging of genres that Wu-Bower and Jung manage so well. Tonight, the recipe remains the same as always: “little pies” of pasta stuffed with pork shoulder then topped with chives and strands of maitake mushroom. The pieces (eight to an order) sit in a shallow pool of concentrated broth.
Taken with a spoon, the pasta impresses with its plump, break-apart wrapper and inner cavity of succulent shredded pork. There are hints of tang and umami (almost like black vinegar) to be found in the filling, ones that are matched by the soup’s own marriage of bright and deeply meaty tones. The presence of the allium and crisp, earthy mushrooms help to round out the flavors, and, indeed, I like this preparation a lot. I am only left wanting an extra degree of savory power, flowing from (and further highlighting) the pork shoulder itself, to make this pasta shine. For, at the end of the day, this is a technically accomplished dish but not one that leaves me desperate for another bite.
The turn back toward the “Substance” section of the menu is heralded by a “Turbot” ($49) that has also appeared, in this very form, back in 2024. The recipe centers on a sizable fillet of the fish that has been dressed in a kombu beurre blanc and joined by Swiss chard and fingerling potatoes in its bowl. Over the top of the flesh, some strands of kombu—that same kelp—serve to offer a bit of visual and textural contrast.
Under normal circumstances, I would almost never order this dish (though I recall Wu-Bower hand selling it to me once when it first appeared). Yet, pushing myself to give it a try, I’m impressed with the turbot’s texture: firm on entry but beautifully tender with traces of complicating density drawn from the kombu. The beurre blanc, beyond amplifying the fish’s lusciousness on the tongue, ensures every bite is carried by ample underlying umami. At the same time, the sauce possesses enough acid to counteract the richness and ensure everything tastes fresh. When one incorporates the Swiss chard (its leaves weighted with the liquid) or soft nubs of potato, a lovely tinge of sweetness enters the equation. The end result feels full and satisfying in a way that cooked fish preparations, competing with pork and beef on the same menu, rarely achieve. Well done.
The ”Redfish” ($39), by comparison, stands as another entirely new recipe this evening. It’s also one that I am particularly excited for—given that the accompanying “bouillabaisse-style sauce” leans into a kind of French influence one (apart from the “French Onion Dip” and certain Cajun inflections) rarely sees represented at Maxwells Trading. Here, the fish (widely caught in Louisiana) is served skin-on and accompanied by a handful of Sungold tomatoes and endive leaves dressed in a fennel vinaigrette. A dash of Pastis also adds to the fun.
On the palate, I find the exterior of the redfish to be attractively brittle. However, the fillet’s interior feels dense and a touch dry rather than offering more of the flakiness and moisture I’d expect. The texture here is not totally irredeemable (I ask myself if it’s supposed to be this way), but it does detract from the quality of the sauce: charged with a concentration of tomato, saffron, seafood stock, and anise that is matched—its power so nicely enhanced—by the Sungolds and tangy notes of fennel. Oh, how I wish for something to drag through this bowl (even a griddle bread)! Overall, there’s real potential here, and I think a more precise cook on the fish would place this preparation right alongside the “Turbot” in terms of quality.
Turning toward meat, I first encounter a “Half Chicken a la Brasa” ($32) that has appeared, in one form or another, since the restaurant’s very beginning. Traditionally, the grilled segments of bird have been dressed with a ginger-scallion salsa verde and paired with different legumes like lima beans or black-eyed peas. Tonight, that holds true (with navy beans taking on the latter role). However, the introduction of andouille sourced from Wayne Jacob’s Smokehouse (in LaPlace, Louisiana) is a newer flourish, and it represents an exciting embrace of Wu-Bower’s Cajun heritage (as well as his capacity to source products from within the culture).
Being so excited by the addition of the sausage, I go straight for one of the thick, charred pucks. Texturally, the andouille is not exceedingly juicy or delectably porky but displays a robust mouthfeel with hints of smoke and heat on the finish. The chicken, in turn, offers an attractive layer of lightly crisped skin that frames fairly juicy (but not superlatively so) flesh. While the beans add a bit of weight and richness to the recipe, the salsa verde—cold and pasty in its consistency—works to counteract the effect. I can understand the intention here: both the temperature contrast and the concentration of sweet, zesty supporting notes (which do more than any other component to complement the bird). However, given the muted character of the other ingredients, the sauce feels clunky and abrasive.
In sum, while I think the chicken itself is prepared well, the cook is not quite enough to carry the dish (whose accompanying elements feel disjointed and, even when taken alone, somewhat flat). Still, I like the use of the andouille in theory and hope it finds the right part to play on the menu.
An 18-ounce “Bone in Strip” ($88) also follows in a long line of steak preparations at Maxwells Trading: ones that have typically centered on a “lettuce wrap” form paired with eclectic toppings like ssamjang, date mostarda, miso bagna cauda, ramp kimchi, and/or tangerine nuoc cham. The present iteration goes in a more conventional direction, serving the beef with a play on the familiar, nostalgic creamed spinach and a topping of sesame breadcrumbs. A charred lemon and some flaky salt form the finishing touches.
I have long felt that many of Chicago’s greatest steaks can be found in this kind of setting: a restaurant (totally unrelated to the wider “steakhouse” genre) choosing to put forth a solitary cut with the kind of singular sides or seasonings that wouldn’t make sense anywhere else. The relative expense of the item (in this case, costing more than twice as much as the majority of the other entrées) carries certain expectations but also assures a certain degree of quality. The kitchen, after all, isn’t grilling steak after steak throughout the entirety of service. Rather, with so many other, more popular dishes being ordered, there’s something a bit special about sending one of these out.
At the time of ordering, I requested the steak be cooked medium rare, yet what arrives looks more like medium. I can stomach that, for the strip balances a sense of chew on entry with an otherwise juicy mouthfeel that is distinguished by a careful (perhaps too careful) application of salt and some uplifting citrus. This is good, but is it $88 good? Answering that question comes down to the “creamed spinach,” the distinguishing element of the dish that, in fact, is actually made from water spinach. Here, the vegetable’s leaves are thoroughly soaked and softened. However, the shoots retain their crunch, which joins with the sesame topping to offer a double dose of nuttiness. That being said, any creaminess is fairly fleeting, and I’m not sure the spinach really possesses the kind of concentration that can penetrate and positively influence the flavor of the steak.
Ultimately, I think the portion here could suitably please larger parties who—faced with the menu’s more adventurous fare—really find themselves craving meat. However, when compared to the two or three or four winning recipes one can sample for the same price, this preparation is an easy skip. For, while I can appreciate the underlying thought and cleverness here, this is just a merely good steak wrapped up with a weird, wet side. For my money, the lettuce wrap versions were far more creative and satisfying.
On the back of a couple disappointing proteins, I know I can at least rely on dessert. The “Basque Butter Cake” ($19) was a hit last time (as, indeed, it has always been since the concept’s opening). Nonetheless, the recipe’s toppings have already evolved, with notes of strawberry, Thai basil, and Green Key liqueur making way for corn, blueberry, and thyme.
At core, the cake retains its remarkable moistness and concentration of sweet, nutty flavor. However, on this occasion, the crumb works to reveal an expression of corn that is pure, deep, and surprisingly savory (with only the minimum amount of the kernels’ sweetness coming through on the finish). This base forms a beautiful, seasonal foundation on which the tart, jammy berries and thyme (which matches the sauce’s roasted character only to drive it toward a warmer, satisfying finish) really shine. In sum, this remains a dish of unfaltering quality across its many permutations. It has earned its place among Chicago’s very best desserts.
The ”Forbidden Rice Pudding” ($15) also has a long history at Maxwells Trading yet, relative to the “Basque Butter Cake,” has remained consistent in its preparation. The dish centers on the titular black grains, which have been joined in a coconut milk custard and topped by bits of “rice crispy.” A mango espuma, flecked with lime zest, cascades over the top, yielding bites that are frothy and tangy on entry, crunchy on the midpalate, then warm and rich on the finish.
The resulting flavor is highlighted by ripe tones of fruit and a soothing tropical sweetness. However, I find certain spoonfuls of the forbidden rice (once their surrounding custard coating has faded) to be gummy and ultimately bland. Yes, while these grains do form the centerpiece, they must be better seasoned to ensure their mouthfeel doesn’t outlast—and detract from—the pleasure of the other elements. I think further concentrating the pudding element could form an easy solution.
With that—and the arrival of the check (toting a 20% “suggested gratuity…to ensure equitable pay”)—the meal reaches its conclusion. Between my hang-ups with the wine list and a couple lackluster entrées, I admittedly feel the sting of the bill more than usual. Just the same, I cannot fault service or pacing tonight.
Rather, I must admit that sampling this “B-side” had its intended effect. Tonight, I ordered in a way that stripped my experience of those safeguards that typically ensure I go home feeling satisfied. Ultimately, I am left unsure any meal at Maxwells Trading can actually succeed without them.
But is that a bad thing?
There’s a reason the restaurant has awarded so many recipes (with or without small seasonal tweaks) permanent status on its menu. So long as they continue to hit (while drawing on techniques and combinations of flavors that cannot easily be found elsewhere in the city), why shouldn’t these dishes form a fleet of “sure things” ready to reward newcomers and repeat diners alike?
In some sense, it’s up to the captains and conscientious diners to shape a proper order. If one avoids items like the “Suzuki Tartare,” “Prosciutto & Gnocco Fritto,” “Chicory Caesar,” “Whipped Ricotta,” “Japanese Eggplant,” “French Onion Dip,” “Japanese Sweet Potato,” “Clay Pot Mushroom Rice,” and “Basque Butter Cake,” are they not missing the point of Maxwells Trading in the first place?
Admittedly, I’ve grown tired of some of these recipes in the past (during a period of frequent dining at the restaurant that could be called abnormal). But, as much as I appreciate the new ideas I got to engage with tonight, the appearance of even one or two of these familiar preparations would have dramatically improved my perception of this evening’s meal. After all, balance—both within and especially between dishes that make up a given dinner—is essential.
Really, what I’m trying to say is that: while this experience at Maxwells Trading was undoubtedly weaker, it does not necessarily denote a weaker restaurant. Rather, despite taking the concept’s strongest players off the field, I still found a lot to like—as well as a few items, if slightly flawed, that are at least driving creativity in a direction that might, one day, yield the next classic construction.
Reflexively, even if there are criticisms to make, I have to respect and admire a process that is forging ahead (however uncertainly) despite the restaurant’s sizzling popularity and well-earned right to play things safe. Maxwells Trading is not Cellar Door Provisions. It is not operating on the same scale with the same stakes. Yet it is also willing to try and fail in ways that are interesting instead of iterating in ways that, though they may more or less guarantee success, no longer challenge the audience.
In ranking the evening’s dishes:
I would place the “Basque Butter Cake” in the highest category: a superlative item (so moist, so sweet, so incredible in its length) that stands among the best things I will be served in any restaurant this year.
The “Plum Panzanella” would follow, representing a great dish—boldly blending textures while offering a memorable concentration of flavor—that lands among the best preparations I will eat this month. I would love to encounter this again.
The “Tomato & Peach Salad,” “Soup Dumpling Tortellini,” “Zucchini Stuffed Pappardelle,” and “Turbot” come in one step lower: good—even very good—recipes that delivered ample enjoyment (as well as a bit more substance) without quite rising to the level of being memorable.
Finally, the “Redfish,” “Half Chicken a la Brasa,” “Bone in Strip,” and “Forbidden Rice Pudding” come in last: dishes that were merely good or average (some suffering from minor textural flaws or muted flavors) and, thus, disappointing given the standard set by everything else. By no means are these recipes irredeemable. Yes, given that the core ideas are sound, they could easily be fixed.
Overall, this makes for a hit-rate of 60%—a harsh number, certainly, but one that must be contextualized in accordance with all that I have said above. Indeed, how many restaurants would fare much better if judged on their “weakest” efforts? How many are taking the same risks or forging some kind of singular, personal cookery in which a fair comparison can even be made?
In the final analysis, Maxwells Trading delivered some sizable peaks of pleasure tonight. The kitchen made some missteps too. It’s up to me, during future visits, to untangle errors of execution from those of design. I must also pay attention to how some of these recipes may continue to change, as well as how they land when organized within the structure of a more balanced, varied meal.
Tilden, Wu-Bower, Jung, and the rest of the team have undoubtedly earned that kind of trust and understanding based on all they have achieved in the short time that the concept has been open. It’s actually somewhat of compliment to say that, on the other side of all the awards and attention, the cuisine here (when one looks past the obvious hits) still begs for constructive engagement.
It does so because the chefs continue to seek and define (whether they intend to or not) a new frontier of “contemporary American” cooking in Chicago. Any resulting growing pains—now almost two years in—only testify to how seriously the kitchen continues to take its work. And, though I leave the restaurant feeling a tad disappointed tonight, I know that redemption, whenever it comes, will taste even sweeter on account of my sacrifice.