Understanding SMYTH: 2023-2024

After enduring a mixed bag of new openings this year, you now return to an old favorite: the favorite of favorites that you formally reviewed once (in early 2021) and previously published a retrospective piece on (at the end of 2022). In truth, your relationship with this restaurant dates back to 2017—not quite the very beginning, which holds true for Oriole, but still close enough that you can speak to the passage of eras and to major points of evolution with a certainty you would not claim when it comes to stalwarts like Alinea or Schwa.

Here, it is worth mentioning, you are not speaking of a place defined by neat and tidy seasonal changes occurring at set times throughout the year. Certainly, ingredients come and go in sequence, but the act of creation at this establishment never ceases. Each meal is novel—maybe not in a Feldian “throw the baby out with the bathwater” sense, but in its meaningful exploration of familiar themes by substitution, transformation, or simple refinement. Thus, each visit you make provides a sharper impression of the kitchen’s thinking: how they wish to express nature’s bounty at this moment, using a range of favored techniques and an arsenal of preservations speaking to moments gone by.

The more you go, the more you come to sense that the team is forever aiming at a moving target: an idealized version of any given dish that can only exist tonight and whose “perfection” must always be thought of as a relative, elusive concept. This restaurant remains committed to process first and foremost. It masters entropy by challenging itself to change—and grow—in parallel to the natural world. It cooks with a voice that is always maturing, that nakedly cracks and stutters in its efforts to express something new, but that orders the disorder of seasonality by the faithfulness of its dialect.

Here, as you have said before, pleasure remains a mere byproduct rather than the goal. Sheer hedonism competes with ruminative, surprising, and totally singular sensations for attention—vexingly so. A proportion of first-time and experienced diners alike think that the several hundred dollars you spend for the pleasure of this meal should secure a greater sense of satisfaction. The most outspoken take aim at what they perceive to be an absentee chef, an obsession with esoteric ingredients, a tendency toward “baby food” textures, and a cuisine so stripped of substance that the evening feels like one long, perverse sort of tease.

This kind of polarization in matters of taste is to be prized so long as it represents a good-faith disagreement between diverse palates encountering food made with the requisite care and intention. That is to say: yes, the emperor is wearing clothes—they are just tailored and colored in an extreme manner that is not to everyone’s liking. Indeed, the restaurant you speak of represents the victory of distinction over the temptation to deliver lowest-common-denominator mass appeal. Just the same, it is not a pyrrhic victory that punishes the most inexperienced portion of the public for the sake of celebrating the cynical preferences of privileged gastronomes.

Smyth simply possesses an identity, a grammar, a style, and a feeling of its own. The restaurant will do just about anything to please anyone who comes through its doors, yet it will always stop short of diluting its creative expression for the sake of those—mainstream or absolutely rarefied in their taste—for whom it does not resonate. Anything less would undermine the sureness and authenticity that feel so intoxicating to those who find in the cuisine and in the larger creative journey a perfect fit. The train of thought seems to go: it is better to please a particular demographic in an unforgettable, unmatchable way than bend to the whims of everyone and spoil that more intimate, wholehearted connection.

Writing about Smyth, for this reason, is so rewarding. It allows you, as a “true believer,” to celebrate and uncover the startling depth of the restaurant’s cuisine over the course of countless visits. At the same time, as a critic and supporter of the kitchen’s vision in the truest sense (i.e., active interpretation rather than passive consumption), these retrospectives allow you to track the improvement and actualization of certain ideas over time. Doing so, you can also pay respect to palates that were, for one reason or another, disappointed by their experience. You can contextualize the “good” and the “bad” in a way that makes room for mutual understanding: namely, that Smyth’s food may please some diners and displease others without there being anything deceptive or dysfunctional afoot.

This, ultimately, is the end game of connoisseurship: matching your most personal, profound conception of taste to a “product” (in this case an experience) that most precisely looks to satisfy it. Sure, there may be fewer $300 or $400 tasting menus to choose from than there are equivalently priced bottles of wine, but the logic remains the same. Discovery, affirmation, and subversion of these preferences all work to help triangulate an individual’s ideal value proposition(s). In Smyth, you continue to find Chicago’s finest benchmark for orientating what one really wants out of luxury dining across its full range of dimensions.

More specifically, discussing the 2023-2024 era means taking aim at a period in which the restaurant has the reached the mountaintop (or, at least, a mountaintop) of its craft. Smyth has completed the rare journey from one to two to three Michelin stars (a feat, domestically, that only Addison, Coi, Quince, and Saison have also accomplished). It has done so without any major renovation or expansion of its offerings. Pricing, certainly, has increased in line with the times. But, cosmetically and mechanically, the meal continues to flow in more or less the same manner that you first encountered back in 2017.

What has changed, predominantly, is the menu: the favored constructions, combinations, and contrasts that translate seasonal (as well as more enduring) products. The Smyth “voice” has remained recognizable, but the kitchen’s ceaseless creative process has brought it to particular frontiers—particular obsessions—that Bibendum has now judged to be superlative.

Many (but not all) of the faces in the front- and back-of-house have changed too, shaping the articulation of Smyth’s culinary, hospitality, and vinous arts even if John Shields, Karen Urie Shields, and Christopher Gerber remain foundational influences. These captains, cooks, sommeliers, and servers form the tip of the spear when it comes to transmuting “voice” and vision into a comprehensive, immersive experience that seasons every dish and enlivens every customer interaction with steady hands and unfailing good humor. Is it not right to assume, given the weight Michelin’s highest award carries, that this is the best team to ever work the stoves and walk the floors?

As tempting as it is to view that third star as the essential milestone—the moment “worth a detour” became “worth a special journey”—the truth is more complicated. There is, from your vantage point, no trick to achieving what Bibendum considers greatness. There was no turning point—no “aha moment”—when it seemed like Smyth, a restaurant you loved at first bite, had finally made it to the three-star pantheon.

Rather, the concept’s culture continued to build as successive generations of staff stood on the shoulders of preceding ones until—at last—a critical mass was achieved. Michelin’s inspectors and their accompanying honchos (brought in whenever the company is prepared to bestow its highest honor) were unanimously convinced. Smyth had not transformed. No, its efforts and its process—same as always—had simply yielded the right results during the chosen moments of evaluation. When you consider that some diners still pine for the dishes of yesteryear (your shima aji ribs, beef fat brioche donuts, and licorice eggs), it might be that the restaurant finally developed a style that would seem more distinct to an international audience (even if it meant sacrificing easy pleasure). Or, maybe, Smyth was just rewarded for years of boundary-pushing at a time when Bibendum, who has had little exciting to say about Chicago as of late, figured a splashy announcement would be good for his brand.

Honestly, though you prize Smyth to such a high degree, Michelin’s decision left you shocked. Cynically, you figured that theatrics and world-building would take precedence whenever the tire company decided to elevate one of the city’s two-star properties. After all, fine dining has now been democratized, and the Guide’s broadening base of readership is more easily united in appreciation for an overall aesthetic experience than they are for subtleties of food and service alone. Yet, Bibendum chose to reward the restaurant offering—at a glance—the most classically conceived kind of meal. He dared diners to look past shock and awe and any other distractions to appreciate a level of quality expressed solely at the table, in the glass, and on the plate. You applaud Michelin for that and for anchoring quality to a cuisine that is challenging but rewarding.

All of these qualifications are not meant to take away from what is an immense accomplishment. Plus, Smyth’s ranking at #90 on William Reed’s “The World’s 50 Best Restaurants” list only confirms that the restaurant has earned a place (as far as those panelists are confirmed) among the global elite.

Instead, you simply note that Smyth was taking risks—occasionally stumbling—but doing incomparable work before being awarded its third star, and it continues to forge ahead today. It may be surprising to hear you say how little the restaurant has really changed in the wake of such a monumental announcement, but only because the team has been evolving on its own terms for so long.

Thus, you will look to tell the story of an era made up of equal parts ordinary and extraordinary. You will try to capture a set of years displaying a clear continuity with what you have described before but, inevitably, that were shaped by larger motions of fame and attention. You hope to highlight old and new challenges alongside old and new victories alike. For Smyth, as before and more than before, embodies the beauty of dining with all its contradictions. The restaurant continues to be thoroughly alive—to represent the full transcendence of hospitality even as it tangles with the newfound expectations of the global dining public.

You have visited Smyth a total of 39 times during the 2023-2024 era. As before, you will generally pay less attention to collaboration dinners during this period (i.e., Lorea on August 19th, 2023; June on October 11th, 2023; and Amisfield on May 30th, 2024). Certainly, these occasions are incredibly special and, as far as you are concerned, totally singular in Chicago. To that point, there is little point in discussing the work of visiting chefs whose cuisine will have little lasting impact on the local dining scene. Just the same, Smyth is unique in that its kitchen pushes itself even harder than usual during these collaborations, serving dishes that have been meaningfully altered—often improved upon—and sometimes even gilded with an extra dose of luxury.

(Compare that to one prominent Chicago chef who admitted they do not change the menu when working with visiting chefs as a safeguard against potential disappointment. Playing it safe, in this fashion, was meant to ensure customers got their money’s worth if the collaborator’s cuisine fell flat—something that struck you as a convenient excuse when considering how much harder it is to create new, successful dishes than maintain old ones. You suppose it depends on what proportion of diners at these events is already familiar with the food served by the host restaurant.)

Nonetheless, you will only engage with these collaboration menus in a limited way: singling out particular dishes that represent clear evolutions of what has come before or previews of what would come later.

These 39 visits have yielded copious pictures, some 29 printed menus, and a very limited number of written notes. For this reason, you will speak of broader movements and sensations—presenting Smyth’s persistent culinary forms and tracking their changes—without digging as deeply into discrete evaluations of “quality” (whether in terms of flavor or texture). That is not to say you won’t distinguish weaker ideas from stronger ones. Rather, the many iterations of a given dish will frame a more comprehensive (if less minutely detailed) discussion of what the kitchen was trying to express.

With that in mind, your analysis of the food will proceed in a hybrid fashion. The meals will be approached chronologically, but you will follow each particular dish to its terminus (i.e., the last or latest example) while also exploring its subsequent replacements at that particular point in the dinner. This operation, if you were to visualize it, is a bit like placing all of the menus side-by-side then working your way down, and across, before proceeding deeper into the meal.

Convoluted as this format may seem, it empowers you to track the full growth of each idea within a self-contained set of passages rather than dividing that description across myriad individual entries each describing a particular night’s menu. It also allows you to evaluate the many ways Smyth chose to start its meals, approach its savory “entrées,” or end the evening in sequence without, again, splitting the discussion up into endless pieces.

This will all, you think, make sense as you go about it. Really, it is the only manner in which such a daunting retrospective piece can be reasonably done. However, you intend that drawing these connections as they occur will yield deeper insight: uncovering the defining harmonies and refrains of this era.

Otherwise, as usual, you will condense the sum of your experiences during these years into one cohesive narrative, stopping at various points (i.e., when describing dimensions like atmosphere, beverage, and service) to provide a more overarching account of what has changed or stayed the same. Here, the goal is to maintain a digestible order and rhythm in your analysis while (as with the food) jumping back and forth in time to paint the clearest picture of this dynamic period.

With that said, let us begin this third study of Smyth, a restaurant whose glory has, in large part, inspired the work that you do.

Ada Street, located just off of Randolph Restaurant Row in West Loop, remains as cramped as ever. You have not witnessed any close calls as of late—two vehicles, squeezed by parked cars on either side, inching forward as to not scratch each other’s’ doors—but it’s an intimate block. Three apartment buildings (one accessed from Smyth’s own lobby) feed the street with gym-goers and dogs galore. The Loyalist’s patio, when in season, punctuates daily life with a degree of revelry. But, as much as the surrounding area has crept toward full development, the home of Chicago’s newest three-Michelin-star restaurant is still subdued.

To the north, you find Bottom Lounge, a Small Cheval (a challenger on the Dirty Burg’s own doorstep?), Tribe Supper Club, and Macello. Venture further, to Fulton Street, and Ever’s darkened doorway (situated at the base of a gleaming office building) waits to welcome you into its own distinctive world of hospitality. (It is one, years later, that you still struggle to appreciate—judging by a meal you sampled in the summer of 2024. However, you certainly respect the marketing savvy, itself a product of the concept’s stunning interior design, that has placed Ever, in fictionalized form, at the center of fine dining’s zeitgeist.) Most recently, Maxwells Trading pulls tempts diners to travel still further north and west toward the neighborhood’s frontier.

To the south, you find Elske: a restaurant that expresses itself more modestly than Smyth but that can really rival it in terms of quality and value. Not that there’s any competition between the establishments (in fact, you often see the latter’s chefs patronizing the Poseys’ spot). Rather, the short distance covered by these two kitchens forms, for your money, the most fertile ground for bold—but satisfying—gastronomy in Chicago.

Elsewhere on Randolph, not much has changed: City Winery, Lou Malnati’s, Alhambra Palace, Gyu-Kaku, Kaiser Tiger, and Bonhomme’s outpost at the Parq Fulton (Bambola, Expat, and Kashmir) fills the surroundings along with that aforementioned gym and the imposing Plumbers Hall. Slowly, a surge of office, restaurant, and retail openings to the east promises to pull foot traffic further west. Certainly, passing Hamburger University, the route to Ada Street feels less sparse than before. Still, Restaurant Row—from Halsted to Ogden—falls just a bit short of total cohesiveness.

For that reason, visiting Smyth retains some sense of making a “journey.” It means stepping off of the main promenade and stepping away from the crowd: not just people, but the concentration of bars and eateries (some excellent) suiting everyday tastes. It means being led to the block with the intention—and corresponding expectations—of finding the city’s best burger or best tasting menu: two tall orders, given stiff competition from peers, inviting controversial takes and declarations that one or the other is “not worth the hype.”

Unless you live on this section of Ada Street, few other reasons would ever lead you here, and that allows your imagination to run wild. Will this be a three-star property of the imposing, palatial type or one of those secluded, chef’s counter spots? Will the suited valet greet you by name or must you make a part-nervous, part-excited trek through a door, down a hallway, to a coolly staffed host stand? Luckily, there’s no intimidation here.

The building marked 177 is rendered with brick, stone, and rampant ivy—an invasion of green (going so far as to cover the “Smyth | The Loyalist” signage itself) that highlights the resilience of nature in this urban landscape. Planters set with trees frame the façade, heightening this effect. Others, along with growing beds set against the edifice, contain a small herb garden that is drawn upon by the kitchen (just try not to look when one of the local dogs looks to relieve itself there).

If you look up through the windows, you may, depending on the hour, catch a decent view of the dining room: well-dressed couples, wine glasses, wooden accents, and the gliding movements of the front of house all cast by warm lighting. You may get a peek at the cooks, their pass, and their hearth if the sightlines are clear. The food, of course, is impossible to distinguish. The mystery of that evening’s cuisine remains. But Smyth feels bounded and knowable from the first moment of encounter (you may even catch a wave if any of the staff notice you looking in). The restaurant is not a sanctum, sequestered from the outside world, but a stage: comfortably embedded in its block and ready to welcome its audience.

Stepping through the front door, you veer to the right to avoid the flow of customers descending or ascending from The Loyalist. (Earlier reservations will note just how rabid the burger’s following remains, with the line that stretches outside threatening to flummox fine diners wondering if they, too, shall be made to wait.) No worry, you climb the stairs and are met by a new metal sign—rusted and rustic—into which has been engraved the name “SMYTH” and, beneath it, those three coveted asterisks. It hangs next to the restaurant’s weighty door, the other side of which is home to a small window made of safety glass. Normally, it offers a fairly innocuous view of the restaurant’s “backstage.” Yet now, on display, you find a plate bearing six miniature Bibendums clutching tires in various poses.

The figures form a cute easter egg—the kind of conceit that only seems appropriate after clinching the third star—and may, for most customers, go unnoticed. That’s because the restaurant’s door has a preternatural way of swinging open as you approach it. Smyth’s dining room, first spied from the street, now completely engages you. There’s no hallway, no host stand, no moment of suspense, or even any real transition from the time of arrival to the action of the evening’s meal. You are greeted, relieved of any belongings, and quickly led down the length of the pass before turning and taking your seat at the chosen table. One or more of the chefs, managers, cooks, or captains may offer their welcome along the way, but countless others are carefully toiling away.

The restaurant is humming along. If you arrive later in the evening, it may very well be roaring at full power. Yet, no matter the hour, Smyth amounts to one solitary space stewarded by one wholly observable team putting on an uninterrupted performance. There’s an open kitchen, yes, and there are also sightlines—a degree of intimacy—that feel more akin to a chef’s counter experience rendered on a larger scale. At any moment, you can hone in on an individual piece of the tapestry: a craftsperson putting forth some expression of service or cuisine. Or you can simply zoom out, zone out, and sense the totality of the operation: a self-contained world like a finely-tuned watch.

You used the term “backstage” earlier, but, in truth, it doesn’t really exist here (save for a traffic door, beyond the bathrooms, leading to the dish pit and a staircase). Smyth is unique, relative to its peers at the two- and three-star level, in that it contains no upstairs, no passageways, no unseen corners, or even any basic delineation between lounge, open kitchen, and dining room (you think of Oriole). The restaurant does not draw on the seclusion of guests—peaceful, luxurious hospitality in a private space—in order to punctuate the arrival of its food.

Smyth is, as it appears from the outside, naked. The concept is wholehearted, complete, and ready to be grasped at first glance. All the team members, whether focused on you or (somewhere in the background) on the work that will soon reach your table, stand ready to arrest you, embrace you, and induct you into their rhythm. This all happens so fast that it totally pulverizes the solemn, scripted tone that can characterize fine dining in its grandest expressions.

Nonetheless, as you travel through the space and acclimate to your designated spot on the “stage,” certain details catch your eye. These include the antique Bibendum statuette positioned at the end of the pass closest to the front door: an affirmation, like his half-dozen little brothers peeking through the outer window, that Michelin’s highest honor has arrived. Adjacent to the mascot sprouts an arrangement of branches, flowers, leaves, and reeds that overflows from a polished, earth-toned vase. The resulting thicket dwarfs Bibendum, and its free-flowing components almost seem to be ensnaring him. You are reminded of the ivy that climbs the restaurant’s façade, as well as countless tableaux (sometimes using seasonal produce) that have greeted guests over the years. On this occasion, the scene seems to assert that Smyth’s third star (i.e., permanence, a position in the pantheon, represented by the statuette) cannot stand in the way of a resilient nature (that is, the seasonality and dynamism that has long defined the restaurant).

Above the pass, hanging hams symbolize the kitchen’s investment in the future—in the flavors and textures that can only come with time (and that have long been expressed through tools of preservation). Behind the pass, observable only to the cooks (and those customers returning from the bathrooms), you find the official Michelin plaque. With bold white text on a shining red background, the sign is screwed into the far wooden beam that separates savory from pastry. Perhaps more than any other piece of décor, this is the element guests (so many now drawn to the restaurant on the basis of this award) want to see and photograph. However, Shields has complicated this process.

Rather than wrapping his kitchen in the glory that plaque connotes, giving it pride of place so that it frames every photo of their work, the chef has transformed the honor into something more meaningful. Facing the team, these three stars serve as a reminder of the high standard they must achieve in their own work, for their own sake, as a promise to all those who have devoted themselves to Smyth, and not for the purpose of earning plaudits. This is not to discount Shields’s pride in winning such an award. Instead, it represents the resolution—so obvious in the cuisine he and his compatriots have put out since then—to pursue the restaurant’s philosophy even more doggedly: finding intrinsic motivation from a milestone that could easily derail their wanton experimentation.

Otherwise, the scene looks much the same: wooden tables (sans any coverings) and chairs, beams running across the ceiling, exposed bulbs, surrounding brick, and worn metal give the space a distinctly industrial feel. But an array of glassware—twinkling wine stems, decanters, and a couple prominent lamps—and the kitchen equipment (stainless steel set against a backdrop of white tile) balance the mood with a sense of refinement and precision. Whimsical touches—like those bathroom wallpapers, the keepsake menus from the world’s greatest restaurants, and the record player (which sadly remains inoperable)—also remain: glimpses of personality and nostalgia that humanize the design.

Smyth’s plateware, predominantly made by studio potter Lilith Rockett, demonstrates the artist’s favored minimalism “in both form and surface” alongside “a delight in the quiet imperfections that characterize the handmade.” Here, her pieces tend to make use of earth tones that do not scream for attention relative to the overall décor. At the same time, the bowls and plates (often combined in stacks of two or three) reward further inspection. You note dimples, scratches, gradients, contrasting rims, bleeding tones, splotches, and a range of other techniques (for you are no ceramicist) you struggle to describe. Rockett’s work is quietly captivating in how well it captures the composition of a singular stone or shell taken from nature. Should you grasp them (for example, in pursuit of a given sauce’s last few drops), the vessels become even more rewarding: displaying an engaging weight and coarseness that, transcending mere visual appeal, strikes you viscerally.

Handblown glassware by Robert DuGrenier heightens the effect. These are daintier, somewhat more dramatic pieces done in many of the same subdued brown and green tones. Their uneven shapes and intricate patterns harmonize with Rockett’s work, emphasizing a kindred handcrafted quality. However, the glass also refracts light: making the vessels’ contents feel particularly prized.

To that point, it is really Smyth’s cuisine that sets all of the venue’s set dressing ablaze: the kind of contrast that you also see elaborated in more starkly contemporary, monochromatic concepts like Alinea and Ever. Here, coatings of almond milk, butter, caramel, chocolate, consommé, cream, custard, dashi, jus, liver, marmite, mushroom, paste, porridge, seaweed, seed oil, soup, toffee, and vinegar often cover core ingredients, creating earth-toned compositions that seem to fade into their respective vessels (and, thus, the wider background). These dishes challenge your best attempts at visual perception, demanding that you dive into the unknown—with a bite—and study what unfolds without obvious cues.

Other presentations feature elements like avocado, banana, crab, egg yolk, lobster, geoduck, mamey sapote, pistachio, quail egg, redcurrant, rhubarb, sea urchin, spot prawn, strawberry, surf clam, sweet corn, tomato, tuna, and white asparagus—along with countless flowers, herbs, and lettuces—more prominently. On these occasions, the brighter tones of white, beige, yellow, orange, red, and green shine relative to their surroundings. These are the ingredients that the restaurant ensures you recognize (and are primed for) before they reach your tongue. Chances are, they will express themselves in a totally unique fashion. Nonetheless, these dishes emphasize sourcing (highlighting pristine produce or seafood) and play with expectations in a manner that feels rewarding.

You might also mention the wines, exhibiting tones of gold, amber, ruby, and garnet with varying degrees of translucency, as adding to the aesthetic experience. Even the staff (whether suited, in chef’s whites, or in blue shirt and vest) and the customers (observable wearing everything from shorts to jeans to streetwear to gowns) seem to paint the canvas.

This is the genius of Smyth’s interior design. It is so subdued, so grounded, and so free of excess ornamentation that it almost feels conventional. You mean that it matches the qualities of the building (with exposed ceiling and walls) and the block without introducing a sense of separation (or intimidation) that marks fine dining concepts looking to construct transportive, self-contained worlds. Doing so, the restaurant turns the expectations of “three-Michelin-star gastronomy” on its head.

You receive a warm embrace upon entry, perceiving the entirety of the dining room and the kitchen with a glance, before being led to a chair or banquette perched before a solid wooden table. Comfort and intimacy—rather than ostentation—are privileged. You might note small details (a candle, a flower), but they contain little mystery. There’s no commissioned artwork, abstract sculpture, hanging ingredient, or custom sound dampening at hand. Nothing at the visual level screams “this is luxurious!” or “this is special!” Rather, the setting is thoroughly neutral.

Suddenly: a formal greeting, an introduction, a pour of water, a chat with the sommelier, the fizz of Champagne, the synchronized arrival of the first bites, the perception of color (vivid!), then texture (crisp!), then flavor (bright!), now the plates are cleared, a bit of friendly banter, the next wine is described, another set of dishes arrives, the tingle of the coarse ceramic, the lasting pleasure of a sticky sauce. You drink it up and drink in the surroundings, which seem to have completely transformed in these two short courses.

It is not Smyth’s style, but’s its substance that commands your attention: the ceaseless motion of the cooks, the canniness of the captains, the empowerment of the back waiters (who are no bystanders), the complexity of a given recipe’s spiel, the electricity of what arrives on your palate, the challenge of parsing the dish’s depth, a satisfaction that is both indulgent and intellectual, and, last of all, a smile—shared at your table and at others throughout the room—that signifies the communion of human with human and human with nature.

As much as you might be romanticizing this process, the effect is persistent. Smyth disarms you into thinking it cannot compete with the spectacle offered by its peers only to wash over you with superlative technique—the nuts and bolts of service and cookery married with the emotional resonance of enlightened hospitality. Moment after moment builds, and, before long, you have plunged fully into the experience. All that is not alive—everything save for the team, your fellow diners, the hearth, the wine, and the food—recedes into the background, and you come to understand why it matters not that the restaurant’s stage is so bare.

As with many great performances, ornamentation only inhibits the pure appreciation of craft, smothering the space in which one’s singular imagination can roam. Smyth continues to privilege the internal processes by which dining is properly appreciated, a brave statement in an era where conspicuous consumption and the legibility of “eat with your eyes” creations on social media provide a clear marketing advantage. However, with Bibendum’s blessing, the restaurant can now ask that guests meet it on these terms and try to uncover what the fuss is all about. Not all will get it, and that’s part of the charm: understated excellence (from a bygone era) being used to frame cuisine of total distinction.

By the time you reach your table, the fuse has already been lit. There are only two choices to make before the serenity of the dining room, as first observed, gives way to the runaway rhythm of the tasting menu. But really, the first of these is one you have already made: what to eat.

For most of 2023, Smyth maintained the pricing from the 2021-2022 era. The core menu (titled “Smyth”) held steady at $285 per person while the “Chef’s Table” (“a one-table-a-night experience where the chefs serve and explain each course”) offered an extended, more interactive meal for $345 per person.

The restaurant also, to your delight, brought back the “Classic” menu during 2023. This “truncated” experience, priced now at $175 per person, was a staple of the pre-pandemic period (costing as little as $95 in 2019). Though not the screaming deal it once was, this “Classic” option is one you always felt offered Smyth a competitive advantage. Coming in around the price of most one-Michelin-star concepts but falling short of the most expensive (i.e., Esmé, Kasama), the menu offered consumers a taste of two-Michelin-star quality without the corresponding financial commitment.

Another train of thought might assert that fine dining is fundamentally about luxury and that offering an experience that is obviously “less than” the core offering could make diners fixate more on what they might be missing than what they are getting. However, in your experience, the “Classic” menu does not simply excise dishes from the “Smyth” selection but actually increases portion sizes when it comes to the principal servings of protein and favors more conventional cuts (like, say, ribeye instead of tongue). When you combine this adaptive cuisine with the restaurant’s same beverage offerings, caliber of service, and environment (which, as much as you might downplay the design, still ranks favorably compared to other local venues), the truncated meal can seem like a deal. That is to say, it forms a gentler introduction to a level of dining and to a concept, in particular, that can be polarizing. Just the same, the irregularity with which the “Classic” menu was offered likely means it was deployed when other reservations were lagging.

Yes, the great consequence of the third Michelin star has been helping to fill the books on those Tuesday and Wednesday evenings that do not benefit from a natural flow of date night or weekend traveler patronage. Compared to Alinea (open seven days a week), Ever, and Oriole (the latter two also closed on Sunday/Monday), Smyth has long been a tougher sell. Certainly, when it comes to chefs like Grant Achatz and Curtis Duffy, a degree of celebrity (both through longstanding documentary content and continuing appearances in media) helps to drive reservations: consumers want to live the experience they have been primed for by their favorite program. Oriole cannot claim the same benefit, but it does have that renovation—that sense of “new and improved”—to go along with a high degree of mainstream appeal (as evidenced by Google and Yelp averages that surpass its peers).

Smyth was the “ugly duckling” without any obvious selling point (no matter how some found the food and hospitality to be), but Bibendum, when he decided to award his highest honor, changed that. The resulting frenzy of local, national, and international diners looking to visit the world’s newest three-star property tightened the books. Reservations—especially the “Chef’s Table”—became precious, and Smyth capitalized.

By mid-November of 2023 (just a couple weeks after Michelin’s announcement), the “Classic” menu (offered as recently as late September) was gone. The “Smyth” menu changed from $285 to $325, and the “Chef’s Table” menu changed from $345 to $425. These increases of 14% and 23% respectively were weighted, appropriately, toward the latter, more premium experience. It’s hard not to view the restaurant as being a bit opportunistic, but you suspect the move had been a long time coming.

After all, Ever—at the very beginning of 2023—had already bumped its tasting menu price from $285 to $325. Oriole, by comparison, would wait until the summer of 2024 to make its move: with reservations in the dining room increasing from $295 to $325 and the “Kitchen Table” (one of two booths that does not, mind you, come with any additional courses) increasing from $335 to $375. Meanwhile, Moody Tongue would maintain its $285 figure throughout the period—forming a clever value play at the two-star level that may also benefit from the dining concept’s “crown jewel” status within the larger brewery.

Alinea, of course, sets the standard for Chicago. There, “The Salon” has gone from $305-$375 to $325-$395; “The Gallery” has gone from $415-$475 to $435-$495; and “The Alinea Kitchen Table” has gone from $485 to $495 from the beginning of 2023 to the present day. Maintaining these prices and filling the restaurant seven days a week is a real testament to Achatz and co.’s enduring appeal.

In this context, Smyth’s new core pricing of $325 felt fair: being equivalent to the entry-level tickets at Ever and Oriole while also matching the cheapest possible seatings (i.e., late timeslots on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday) offered by Alinea. The “Chef’s Table,” at $425, also seemed appropriate. Offering additional food and interaction, the experience is superior to the Oriole “Kitchen Table” priced beneath it but falls short of the immersive environmental effects that distinguish Alinea’s “The Gallery” at $10-$70 more.

Smyth wasn’t the first to levy its increases (if you are to accept that restaurants of a similar aspiration will typically follow suit once consumers start to acclimate). Actually, it was the only one to charge a higher premium in accordance with a real gain in status: the third Michelin star. Yet, if you are being charitable, the cost of ingredients and labor has led all of these concepts to seek more while avoiding sticker shock as best as possible. Smyth’s pricing, truth be told, continued to situate it within a two-star peer group during this era—compared to where Alinea still is. (At the start of 2025, the price of “Smyth” menu would rise to $420 and that of the “Chef’s Menu,” now renamed, to $550. How else might you interpret this other than as an affirmation that the restaurant, indeed, views itself as the nec plus ultra of Chicago dining—and is comfortable charging for it?)

Nonetheless (at least as far as 2023-2024 goes), the money has, by your observation, clearly gone toward shoring up the number of staff on the floor and in the kitchen on any given night. A sense of value, if you look past ambiance or theatrics, is structurally there. The restaurant only (sadly) continues to suffer from a controversial bit of dialogue delivered at the end of the meal.

You referenced this issue in your last piece, and it remains—via discussion on sites like Reddit and Yelp—a sticking point. As many restaurants (fine dining or otherwise) do, Smyth appends a 20% service charge to all checks. It notes that the sum “is applied towards operating costs (service-ware, fixed costs, food costs, wages, etc.) to ensure the highest level of excellence in our quality of service as well as to provide fair and equitable wages to our front and back of house employees and for their insurance.” It also states that “additional gratuity paid on the evening of your reservation is at the discretion of each guest,” with “100% of any additional gratuity is paid to non-salaried, front of house employees who are directly in service of customers in strict accordance with the Fair Labor Standards Act.”

In practice, customers report that Smyth’s captains have emphasized how the service charge is not a gratuity, leading them to feel pressured into leaving another 20% on top of the full amount. This is further complicated by the fact that the restaurant’s receipts retain a line stating “tip” rather than “additional tip” (as is seen elsewhere in town).

On its face, the need to pay a 40% premium on the menu price is ridiculous. By (in their Tock FAQ) terming additional gratuity “discretionary,” you do not think Smyth intends to squeeze 20% more from a total that already includes a 20% surcharge. Rather, the restaurant is trying very carefully to uphold the legal distinction between a service charge (providing “fair and equitable wages to our front and back of house employees”) and a tip “paid to non-salaried, front of house employees who are directly in service of customers.”

At the same time, confusion arises because Smyth still wants to provide its guests with the ability to reward superlative service. It wants patrons, thoroughly delighted by the experience they have enjoyed, to maybe put an extra 5%-10% directly in the captains’ and back waiters’ pockets. This retains some of the traditional incentive that guided hospitality before the era of service charges, and you generally think it’s good form to offer $50 or $100 more (think of palming a bill in someone’s hand) to bring the total added expenditure (excluding) closer to 25%—what some now believe to be the conventional gratuity for excellent work.

This is how you have come to manage the situation without feeling either like a scrooge or a spendthrift. However, it should be mentioned that, as a regular of the restaurant, you are not really subject to the spiel (given upon presentation of the check) that has upset so many other guests. You also know for certain that you will be coming back, a reality that makes you more likely to reward the staff (in the interest of maintaining a positive long-term relationship) but has not compelled you to lavish them with a full 20% more.

You do not know where Smyth goes wrong in explaining the service charge and the expectations surrounding the tip line to first-time guests, but it is clear (via the peak-end rule) that any confusion here is utterly poisonous. That’s because while sticker shock (i.e., spending more than expected) at these venues is acceptable, a conversation prompting feelings of uncertainty, insecurity, and downright emotional blackmail threatens to overshadow anything positive about the evening. It all but assures the perceived victim (even if they are goaded into tipping extravagantly) will never return, and the scathing testimonials these maligned diners deliver to the wider public have shown surprising traction. They paint the restaurant as greedy and manipulative when, in your experience, that could not be further from the truth.

You are not sure that changing the “tip” line to “additional tip” would form the right solution if Smyth insists on following the letter of the law. But even Ever, through the inclusion of an insert, quickly found a way to explain its 20% service charge while also noting additional gratuity is “not necessary.” Instead, the line is there “because guests sometimes want to leave something extra for the captains and servers.”

This is the thought—“extra,” “not necessary,” “unexpected”—Smyth’s captains need to hammer home when presenting the check. Ambiguity, intentional or otherwise, might work to secure some added lucre, but this is a self-defeating strategy that undermines the heart and soul of the restaurant’s hospitality: a feeling built on mutual understanding, trust, anticipation of pain points, and a sincere sense of comfort constructed moment to moment across all interactions.

(You are happy to report that, with the dawn of 2025, Smyth has done away with its service charge altogether. Though this change is concurrent with an increase in the base menu price, it effectively reduces the amount of guest expenditure that is subject to tax while also providing diners with the degree of total control they are used to. Given the amount of pain the 20% fee has, at times, caused, this reversal in policy should be applauded. The restaurant has put all its cards on the table, finding an alternate means of adequately supporting its staff while totally dispelling any tension at the tail end of the meal.)

With this in mind (and during this era), the “Smyth” experience comes out to $435.83 per person and the “Chef’s Table” experience comes out to $569.93 per person when all (i.e., service charge and sales tax) is said and done. These are the figures that prospective guests should be oriented toward (before the inclusion of any beverages), and any choice to reward the front-of-house team with something more should be rooted solely in the surpassing of expectations.

Now, is it worth paying $134.10 more for the “Chef’s Table”? You have already stated that the seating, positioned at the very front of the dining room closest to the pass, compares favorably to the two Oriole kitchen tables. The degree of intimacy is higher and the dialogue with the members of the back of house feels more assured. You also get more food: for example, a 15-course menu from July expanded to 19 courses with the addition of “Corn Macaron & Buttermilk,” “Sourdough Waffle & Enoki Mushrooms,” “Lamb Tongue & Pleasant Ridge Reserve,” and “New Potato” preparations.

Of these, the latter two dishes also came served with their own pours of wine (i.e., a 2018 Ghislaine Barthod Chambolle-Musigny “Les Charmes” Premier Cru and a sweet, oxidative red from Anders Frederik Steen) without any corresponding increase in the price charge for the pairing.

When you take this all into consideration—the best table, a greater connection with the staff, the four extra courses (two really being bites), and two additional, thoughtful pours of wine—the sum of $134.10 (or even $174.33) feels fair. (You must also consider that there’s an emotional satisfaction to having the most superlative experience at a renowned restaurant on a given night.) If you’re being critical, diners may not feel quite as tucked away as they do at Alinea’s kitchen table—an exclusive perch (separated by glass) from which to witness the cooks’ technical mastery and gawk at the other customers as they are taken on their tours. Diners also get none of the environmental effects or performative panache that characterize “The Gallery” (really an entirely different kind of evening compared to the pure expression of food and service that reigns here).

Still, the Smyth team is engrossing in its own way—working not only with liquid nitrogen and tweezers but with open fire, in an entirely open space, too. The “Chef’s Table” offers customers the chance to be absorbed into the full human expression of the restaurant: a kitchen (like the front of house) characterized by precision but not so coldly focused as to preclude laughter or the occasional prank. In turn, you’ll taste the dishes that form the frontier of the cooks’ creative expression—recipes that, using the restaurant’s favorite ingredients and embracing its signature style, push flavor and texture to the extreme. This experimentation often results in the kind of dramatically tangy, umami, or savory-sweet sensations that rank among the most singular, memorable morsels of the meal. Yes (and perhaps this is the most ringing endorsement you can make), the extended menu will likely secure you (and only you!) some of the evening’s best food.

Yet, given how difficult nabbing the solitary “Chef’s Table” reservation has become (demanding two or even three months’ foresight for Friday and Saturday bookings), those enjoying the “Smyth” experience should not feel shortchanged. The core menu should undoubtedly be considered a complete expression of the restaurant’s cuisine and naturally features the kitchen’s most successful, broadly-appealing creations (albeit ones that are still always being tweaked). Those additional, experimental dishes, by representing the cutting edge of the cooks’ practices, may indeed prove to be the most polarizing. Ultimately, it may be wise for all but the most experienced, adventurous diners to dip their toes in the water with the “Smyth” selection before upping the ante (in both time and monetary commitment) with the “Chef’s Table.”

Having chosen (in advance) which of the two dining experiences to indulge in, you are only really left to decide what you would like to drink—a selection that can also be made on Tock or deferred until the night of your reservation.

For most of 2023, Smyth maintained the same pricing for its pairings, which had risen from $90-$145 (for the “Traditional”), $165-$215 (for the “Reserve”), and $255-$355 (for the “Super Mega”) during the 2021-2022 period. However, just as the bestowal of the third Michelin star led to an increase in the core cost of the menus, Bibendum’s honor also affected how the restaurant charged for wine.

By the dawn 2024, the “Reserve” pairing had increased to $255 and the “Super Mega” to $375. The “Traditional” held steady at $145 but, just a few months into the year, was totally excised: going the way of that truncated “Classic” menu. Instead, the restaurant started only offering a “Smyth” pairing (priced at $215) and a “Super Mega” pairing (swelling to $395). Thus, three options became two, with the most affordable choice being almost totally absorbed by the “Reserve” (which, in all fairness, abandoned the $40 increase and returned to its 2023 figure). (Once again, 2025 would see further increases—to $245 for the “Smyth” and $475 for the “Super Mega” pairings.)

You have long admired how the restaurant labelled these pairings, for it subverted the kind of manipulation practiced by Alinea. There, the cheapest option is called “Standard” (i.e., ordinary, regular, common, everyday) and the most expensive is titled “The Alinea Pairing” (i.e., worthy of being associated with the concept’s own name). Given the difficulty of making reservations and the once-in-a-lifetime status a meal at Achatz’s sanctum often carries, you always felt these monikers pressured consumers to choose the latter, expensive selection or regret not making the most of their experience. “An Alinea meal deserves an Alinea pairing” (or something like that) while the “Standard” flight would detract from how special the evening could or should be.

By terming its cheaper pairing “Traditional,” Smyth emphasized a sense of what’s customary or familiar rather than what’s basic (at the level of quality). The restaurant, in offering more expensive options, did not lean on its own name. Rather, “Reserve” was special (in the sense of being held back or collected) and “Super Mega” was fanciful and over-the-top: a clear, almost tongue-in-cheek splurge that the average customer would never feel bad about skipping.

Though the new pairing structure certainly means that consumers will pay more, from the start, to get any caliber of pours, the same friendly labelling philosophy remains. The “Smyth” selection, at $215 (presently $245), now forms the entry-level—an affordable (relatively speaking) choice that is every bit worthy of the restaurant’s name. The “Super Mega,” at $395 (presently $475), remains exceptional and unnecessary for all but the most committed winos.

Thus, even if guests must pay more for a turnkey solution than they did before, they are also totally assured that the lesser option is worthy of the evening’s experience. They are also, via Tock, easily free to skip pairings all together (whereas Alinea demands you check a box labelled “Select on Site” to complete the booking). Many a diner has enjoyed their Smyth meal with a couple cocktails or a bottle of beer (to say nothing of an individual selection from the wine list). And the consolidation of pairing options, it must be stressed, is not indicative of a cash grab so much as it is of a legitimate evolution of beverage service under the command of a new director.

Yes, this era in Smyth’s history has undoubtedly been marked by the new perspective brought to the restaurant’s wine program. Kevin Goldsmith, who stewarded the list through the difficult pandemic era and brought it to the very precipice of that third Michelin star, departed in June of 2023 to take the role of hospitality manager at the excellent Evening Land Vineyards in Salem, Oregon. His nearly three years of service—joined on the floor, in time, both by his future wife and, later, his brother—left an indelible mark on the dining room: one that married the advanced sommelier’s expertise with an overflowing warmth that fit perfectly with the ethos the Shieldses and Christopher Gerber had built.

Goldsmith’s work during this period (as well as the later evolution of the program) is best appreciated by considering some of the “Super Mega” pairings he put together during the first half of 2023. They include:

April 2023

  • 2007 Schäfer-Fröhlich “Bockenauer Felseneck” Riesling Spätlese
  • 2019 Domaine Didier Dagueneau Pouilly-Fumé “Silex”
  • 2019 Catena Zapata “White Bones – Adrianna Vineyard” Chardonnay
  • 2017 Domaine Tempier Bandol Rosé
  • 2019 Patrick Javillier Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru
  • 2016 Le Macchiole “Scrio” Syrah
  • 2015 Ornellaia “Ornus”
  • 2010 Ruinart “Dom Ruinart” Blanc de Blancs Champagne

May 2023

  • 2006 Fritz Haag “Brauneberger Juffer-Sonnenuhr” Riesling Spätlese
  • 2021 Prager “Achleiten Stockkultur” Grüner Veltliner Smaragd
  • 2020 Vincent Dauvissat Chablis Premier Cru “Vaillons”
  • 2020 Yves Boyer-Martenot Puligny-Montrachet Premier Cru “Le Cailleret”
  • 2018 Château d’Yquem “Y” Bordeaux Blanc
  • 2016 Paul Jaboulet Aîné Hermitage “La Chapelle”
  • 2004 Dal Forno Romano “Vigna Seré” Passito
  • 2013 Marcel Deiss Altenberg de Bergheim Grand Cru

June 2023

  • 2007 Fritz Haag “Brauneberger Juffer-Sonnenuhr” Riesling Spätlese
  • 2019 Domaine Didier Dagueneau Pouilly-Fumé “Silex”
  • 2020 Vincent Dauvissat Chablis Premier Cru “Vaillons”
  • 2018 Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey Saint-Aubin Premier Cru “En Remilly”
  • 2018 Château d’Yquem “Y” Bordeaux Blanc
  • 2020 Hubert Lignier Gevrey-Chambertin “Les Seuvrées”
  • 2018 Le Macchiole “Scrio” Syrah
  • 2013 Marcel Deiss Altenberg de Bergheim Grand Cru
  • 2007 Charles Heidsieck “Blanc des Millénaires” Champagne

These selections certainly skew toward the classic side: popular grapes (Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc), beloved regions (Champagne, Burgundy, the Mosel, Tuscany), esteemed producers (Dagueneau, Dauvissat, Tempier, d’Yquem) with a little intrigue courtesy of Grüner Veltliner, an Alsatian field blend, or an Italian dessert wine (not to mention serving aged sparkling with dessert!). Certainly, there are some repeats (along with relatively young vintages) to make note of. But these pairings savvily appealed to drinkers at all levels of experience, empowering the restaurant to consistently put pours with real star power into guests’ glasses.

When the summer of 2023 came around, stepping into Goldsmith’s shoes presented a tough task. Smyth had no in-house candidate to promote—no clear handoff between colleagues that lend the program a sense of continuity. The new wine director would come from the outside, and, while they would benefit from the structure and curation of the previous regime, there were plenty of open questions: how would a new sommelier acclimate to the restaurant’s culture? How would they interpret its cuisine? Would they build on the same categories and exploit the same channels of sourcing (maintaining an approachable, traditional bent)? Or would they look to put their own stamp on the program with a new range of products and all the risk a stylistic shift entails?

The stakes at any fine dining concept undergoing this kind of transition would be high enough. Yet, stepping into the role at one of only four two-Michelin-star properties in Chicago meant claiming one of the city’s major stages. When Smyth got its third star just a few months after Goldsmith’s departure, it meant being thrown directly into the fire—suddenly contending with the expectations of an enthusiastic public and a demanding population of the globe-trotting gastronomes.

Luckily, with Louis Fabbrini, the restaurant struck gold. Smyth’s new wine director had actually come to Chicago to work with Daniel Rose at Le Select (so you must now painfully admit that the beleaguered BRG concept did, indeed, do some good for the city’s dining scene). But Fabbrini’s experience is comprehensive: beginning at age 18 in the kitchens of New York City then moving to the front of house in the Bay Area’s fine dining scene. At Locanda, he caught the “bug” for wine—particularly for “winemakers committed to organic and biodynamic farming with minimal intervention in the cellar” and bottles “from lesser-known regions.”

Highlights from Fabbrini’s 15 years in restaurants include stints as wine director of Carbone in Hong Kong, general manager of Toklas in London, wine director of Estela and Altro Paradiso in NYC, and beverage director of LULU in Los Angeles. Importantly, he has described himself as a “long time admirer” of the Shieldses, “beginning with their work at Town House in Virginia.” Describing them as “two of the most progressive chefs in the industry,” the new wine director has endeavored to build a program that “encapsulate[s] a spirit of discovery,” marrying “established vintners from classic appellations” with “the innovative work of emerging winemakers in lesser known regions.”

Stylistically, Fabbrini favors “low-intervention winemaking” and a “commitment to ecological sustainability” with his selections, looking to weave “a narrative of global viticulture that is diverse and environmentally conscious.” To that end, fostering “a sense of exploration and stewardship” through wine is a clear goal. However, harmonizing with Smyth’s “culinary ethos” remains the program’s foundation—working “alongside Chef John as new ingredients arrive daily at the restaurant,” “playing around with what could be and what will be,” while engaging in “an intense series of refinement” that looks to make what lands in the glass “as rich and nuanced as the flavors on… [the] plate.”

This is big talk, surely, but it’s a philosophy whose fruits were immediately apparent when you began sampling Fabbrini’s “Super Mega” pairings starting in the fall of 2023. The following are representative selections from that time through the present day:

September 30th, 2023

  • 2017 Roses de Jeanne “Val de Vilaine” Blanc de Noirs Champagne
  • 2021 Peter Lauer “Kupp N°18” Riesling GG
  • 2021 Martin Muthenthaler “Ried Schön” Grüner Veltliner
  • 2013 Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey Meursault “Les Narvaux”
  • 2017 Sine Qua Non “Tectumque”
  • 2022 Gut Oggau “Winifred”
  • 1990 Roberto Voerzio Barolo “Brunate”
  • 2016 Antonelli Montefalco Sagrantino Passito

October 28th, 2023

  • NV Jacques Selosse “Initial” Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs Champagne (dg: 2019)
  • 2017 Hofgut Falkenstein “Krettnacher Euchariusberg” Riesling Kabinett Alte Reben
  • 2022 Jolie-Laide “Fanucchi-Wood Road Vineyard” Trousseau Gris
  • 1999 Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage Blanc
  • 2005 Vincent Dauvissat Chablis Grand Cru “Les Preuses”
  • 2018 Domaine de la Charmoise “Provignage” Romorantin
  • 2021 Envínate “La Santa de Úrsula” Tinto
  • 2020 SRC Etna Rosso “Alberello”
  • 2018 François Rousset-Martin “Magnifique Goutte d’Eau”
  • Barros 40 Years Old Tawny Port

December 2nd, 2023

  • 2018 Anders Frederik Steen “Parfois je monte a l`etage et je me sens un peu perdu”
  • 2019 Jakob Tennstedt “Perlmutt” Riesling
  • 2019 Aurélien & Charlotte Houillon Tourmaline Rosé
  • 2010 Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey Meursault Premier Cru “Les Perrières”
  • 2022 Jolie-Laide “Fanucchi-Wood Road Vineyard” Trousseau Gris
  • 2013 Egly-Ouriet “Millésime” Grand Cru Champagne
  • 2022 Occteau “Isabelle” Rosé
  • 2022 Keller Westhofen Sylvaner
  • 2022 Hiyu Wine Farm “Tzum – Solais Spring Ephermeral”
  • 2004 Marco de Bartoli Marsala Superiore Riserva Oro
  • 2020 Egly-Ouriet Ambonnay Rouge “Cuvée des Grands Côtés” Vieilles Vignes Grand Cru
  • 2010 Peter Lauer “Rau” Riesling Beerenauslese

December 16th, 2023

  • NV Chavost Blanc de Chardonnay Champagne
  • 2019 Hofgut Falkenstein “Krettnacher Euchariusberg Gisela #8” Riesling Kabinett Alte Reben
  • 2012 Domaine Roulot Meursault Premier Cru “Clos des Bouchères”
  • 2020 Maria & Sepp Muster “Erde”
  • 2016 Guiberteau Saumur “Brézé – Clos des Carmes”
  • 2020 Alexandre d’Almeida “Buçaco” Rosado Reservado
  • 2022 Florèz Wines “Kind of Orange” Viognier
  • 2022 Envínate “Albahra – Chingao”
  • 2016 Stella di Campalto Brunello di Montalcino “VCLC”
  • 2020 Saxum “Willow Creek District – Hexe”
  • 1997 Quinta do Noval “Nacional” Port

December 30th, 2023

  • 2018 Georges Laval Cumières Premier Cru “Les Chênes” Champagne
  • 2022 Dorsal Wines “Krill”
  • 2012 Marcassin “Marcassin Vineyard” Chardonnay
  • 2021 Floral Terranes “Harbor Hill Moraine” Cider
  • 2017 Miani “Pettarin” Ribolla Gialla Colli Orientali del Friuli
  • 2020 Vincent Laval Cumières Premier Cru Rosé Champagne
  • 2018 Keller “Frauenberg” Spätburgunder GG
  • 2018 E. Guigal Ermitage “Ex-Voto” Blanc
  • 2022 Collecapretta “Lautizio” Ciliegiolo
  • 2004 Giuseppe Rinaldi Barolo “Brunate – Le Coste”
  • Osborne Palo Cortado “P∆P”

February 3rd, 2024

  • 2014 Roses de Jeanne “La Bolorée” Blanc de Blancs Champagne
  • 2022 Egon Müller/Le Gallais “Wiltinger Braune Kupp” Riesling Kabinett
  • 2020 Stefan Vetter “GK” Sylvaner
  • 2022 Domaine Romaneaux-Destezet (Hervé Souhaut) Blanc
  • 2018 Didier Dagueneau “Pur Sang”
  • 2022 Florèz Wines “Shangra-li Mendo Savvy-B”
  • 2022 Gut Oggau “Cecilia”
  • 2014 Château Ausone Staint-Émilion Grand Cru
  • 2001 Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage
  • NV Les Vignerons de Maury “Maury 1928 Solera”

March 1st, 2024

  • 2020 Weiser-Künstler “Enkircher Zeppwingert” Riesling Sekt
  • 2018 Ulysse Collin “Les Maillons” Rosé de Saignée Champagne
  • 2018 Emrich-Schönleber “Monzinger Frühlingsplätzchen” Riesling GG
  • 2022 Llewelyn “Will You Miss Me When I Burn”
  • 2020 Le Grappin Beaune Premier Cru “Les Grèves”
  • 2016 Henri Boillot Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru
  • 2022 Occteau “Esmé”
  • Hiyu Wine Farm “Germinal Cider I”
  • 2018 Nicolas Joly “Clos de la Coulée de Serrant”
  • 2009 Clos Rougeard Saumur-Champigny “Les Poyeux”
  • 2015 Bartolo Mascarello Barolo
  • 1982 Blandy’s Verdelho Madeira

April 6th, 2024

  • 2018 La Closerie (Jérôme Prévost) “Les Beguines” Champagne
  • 2020 Dr. Bürklin-Wolf “Forster Pechstein” GC Riesling
  • 2021 Le Coste Rosato
  • 2013 Guiberteau Saumur “Brézé – Clos des Carmes”
  • 2022 R. O’Neill Latta “Pasi” Cider
  • 2009 Jean-François Ganevat “Cuvée Prestige”
  • 2022 Envínate “La Santa de Úrsula” Tinto
  • 2010 Pierre Gonon Saint-Joseph
  • Dow’s 40 Year Old Tawny Port

April 20th, 2024

  • 1999 Vincent Couche “Sensation” Champagne
  • 2020 Wechsler “Westhofener Morstein” Riesling
  • 2012 R. López de Heredia “Viña Tondonia” Rioja Rosado
  • 2002 Pierre Péters “Cuvée Speciale – Les Chetillons” Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs Champagne
  • 2019 Tement “Zieregg” Sauvignon Blanc
  • 2012 Xogorka “Entrèves” Garnacha
  • 2001 Ciacci Piccolomini Brunello di Montalcino “Pianrosso”
  • 2014 Armand Rousseau Gevrey-Chambertin
  • 2015 Domaine de la Grand’Cour Fleurie “Le Clos” Vieilles Vignes
  • 2018 Huët Vouvray “Cuvée Constance”

May 11th, 2024

  • 2018 Ultramarine “Heintz Vineyard” Rosé
  • 2010 Roses de Jeanne “La Bolorée” Blanc de Blancs Champagne
  • 2019 Emmanuel Rouget Bourgogne-Aligoté
  • 2022 Domaine des Ardoisières “Quartz” Vin des Allobroges
  • 2013 Franz Hirtzberger “Singerriedel” Riesling Smaragd
  • 2019 Cantalapiedra “Majuelo La Otea”
  • 2018 Coche-Dury Meursault Rouge
  • 2006 Montevertine “Le Pergole Torte”
  • 2004 Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage
  • NV Michel Gahier Macvin du Jura

June 29, 2024

  • 2000 Pierre Péters “Oenothèque – Les Chétillons” Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs Champagne
  • 2020 The Glories “no.05”
  • 2021 3 Fonteinen “Schaarbeekse Kriek”
  • 2018 Château de Bonnezeaux “Vieille Vigne du Fief Prévost” Chenin Blanc
  • 2022 Christian Tschida “AEIOU”
  • 2021 Antica Terra “Antikythera”
  • 2020 Dorsal Wines “Sap” Merlot
  • 2006 Casanova di Neri Brunello di Montalcino “Cerretalto”
  • 2012 Vollenweider “Wolfer Goldgrube” Riesling Auslese

July 13th, 2024

  • 2015 Bérêche & Fils Aÿ Grand Cru Champagne
  • 2021 Antica Terra “Aequorin” Chardonnay
  • 2022 Llewelyn “Cuvée Hildy” Carignane
  • 2020 La Grange 476 “L’Angevré” Jura
  • 2020 Jakob Tennstedt “Waldportier” Riesling
  • 2022 Floral Terranes Cabernet Franc
  • 2022 Envínate “Lousas – Doad”
  • 2018 Ghislaine Barthod Chambolle-Musigny Premier Cru “Les Charmes”
  • 2011 Cappellano “Otin Fiorin – Piè Franco” Barolo
  • 2019 Anders Frederik Steen “C’est dans les yeux qu’on le voit”
  • 1996 François Pinon Vouvray 1er Trie

August 24th, 2024

  • 2012 Egly-Ouriet “Millésime” Grand Cru Champagne
  • 2018 Domaine de Chevalier Pessac-Léognan Blanc
  • 2023 Guiberteau Saumur Rosé
  • 2009 Marcassin “Marcassin Vineyard” Chardonnay
  • 2017 Schäfer-Fröhlich “Bockenauer Felseneck” Riesling GG
  • 2015 Mugneret-Gibourg Nuits-Saint-Georges Premier Cru “Les Vignes Rondes”
  • 2020 Girolamo Russo “Piano delle Colombe”
  • 2000 Giuseppe Quintarelli Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
  • 2023 Peter Lauer “Kupp – No. 10” Riesling Auslese
  • NV Chavost Ratafia Champenois

September 1st, 2024

  • NV Chavost “Eurêka!” Champagne
  • 2022 Château le Puy “Marie-Cécile”
  • 2022 La Fleca “Fals”
  • 2021 Le Grappin Beaune Premier Cru “Les Grèves”
  • 2012 Egon Müller “Scharzhofberger” Riesling Spätlese
  • 2001 Comte Georges de Vogüé Musigny Grand Cru
  • 2023 Hiyu “Spring Ephemeral – Columba”
  • 2020 L’Opera des Vins (Jean-Pierre Robinot) “Concerto di Venezia”
  • 1998 Bruno Giacosa “Santo Stefano di Neive” Barbaresco Riserva
  • 2017 Hofgut Falkenstein “Krettnacher Euchariusberg #5” Riesling Auslese
  • 2010 Didier Dagueaneau “Les Jardins de Babylone” Moelleux

October 12th, 2024

  • 2016 Roses de Jeanne “La Presle” Blanc de Noirs Champagne
  • 2005 Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage Blanc
  • 2015 Egon Müller “Scharzhofberger” Riesling Kabinett
  • 2022 Christian Tschida “Himmel auf Erden – Grand Cuvée”
  • 2020 Ramonet Chassagne-Montrachet Premier Cru “Morgeot”
  • 2022 Nanclares y Prieto “Porta Franca”
  • 2005 Dujac Morey-Saint-Denis Premier Cru
  • 2023 Hiyu “Spring Ephemeral – Solais”
  • 2005 Roagna Barbaresco “Montefico”
  • NV Raphaël Bartucci Bugey Cerdon
  • 1989 Wittmann “Westhofener Steingrube” Albalonga Beerenauslese

Without question, Fabbrini’s influence on the program was immediate and dramatic. You do not say that with any disrespect intended toward Goldsmith’s work. Rather, it is best to think of the former wine director as privileging a sense of familiarity and consistency—amounting to a point of stability during a period of flux—through his work. The latter wine director, certainly, would quickly become emboldened by Bibendum’s highest honor. However, it is evident from Fabbrini’s first pairing (poured before the announcement of the third star) that he always intended to subvert the style that existed before him.

You would characterize the transition thusly: under Goldsmith, Smyth’s challenging but rewarding (and sometimes downright hedonistic) cuisine was anchored by bottles from esteemed producers in classic regions that yielded a more conventional, legible kind of pleasure. Certainly, there was room for experimentation (again you might mention the Champagne served with dessert or, earlier, the sherry used to accentuate the “Hot & Cold Caviar”), but guests, especially those bringing some measure of wine knowledge to the table, were kept in their comfort zone. They were not surprised or polarized by what they drank at a time when the kitchen, for many customers, still had to prove itself relative to its two-star peers. This was the subtle, savvy approach that got Smyth over the finish line, and it yielded plenty of exceptional selections (while also working with a lower budget) over the years.

Fabbrini, true to his stated intentions (quoted earlier), has matched Smyth’s challenging but rewarding (and sometimes downright hedonistic) cuisine with wines that are every bit the match.

On the challenging side, you have obscure (but often historic) or altogether up-and-coming producers like Domaine des Ardoisières, Château de Bonnezeaux, Chavost, Le Coste, Floral Terranes, Florèz Wines, Jolie-Laide, La Grange 476, Le Grappin, R. O’Neill Latta, and Weiser-Künstler. These names may be utilizing familiar grapes from familiar regions (e.g., Chardonnay in Burgundy, Chenin Blanc in the Anjou, Riesling in the Mosel) but farming and vinifying them in a more “natural” fashion. They may be working with unfamiliar grapes from familiar regions (e.g., Trousseau Gris in Sonoma County, Viognier in Santa Cruz) or unfamiliar grapes from unfamiliar regions (e.g., Cabernet Franc from Long Island, Jacquère from the Savoie) in the same manner. They may even be making an apple and passionfruit cider!

Fabbrini’s expert curation ensures these bold wines avoid the stereotypical rough edges of funkiness and volatility that have spoiled this category for mainstream drinkers. Instead, the wine director describes each bottle’s unique qualities and frames them in the context of a given course. Doing so, he puts forth the logic the pairing and readies guests’ palates for something that is unexpected but, nonetheless, within their capacity to parse and appreciate. Of course, these still make for many of the evening’s riskier pours, and diners are going to dislike what they dislike. However, they make up a reasonable proportion of the overall selection—a provocative, often enjoyable, fringe that does not overshadow the rest of the program.

On the rewarding side, you find more prominent, forward-thinking producers like Antica Terra, Stella di Campalto, Envínate, Hofgut Falkenstein, Jean-François Ganevat, Gut Oggau, Hiyu, Nicolas Joly, Peter Lauer, Georges Laval, Maria & Sepp Muster, Jean-Pierre Robinot, François Rousset-Martin, Anders Frederik Steen, Christian Tschida, Ultramarine, and Stefan Vetter. These figures, by comparison, have fully made their reputations through “natural” farming and thoughtful winemaking over a longer period. Some (you think of Hiyu and Steen) make wines that can still be pretty challenging. However, most can be considered the godparents of the current vanguard—definitive producers in Austria, California, the Canary Islands, Champagne, the Jura, the Loire, the Mosel, Oregon, the Saar, and Tuscany that deliver the kind of striking wines that appeal to classic and contemporary palates alike.

Here, again, Fabbrini is adept at filtering out examples from certain producers that may be unclean or too oxidative. Doing so, he allows these names to put their best feet forward, and, given the increased ageworthiness of many wines in this category, also shows discernment in selecting (and sourcing) older vintages. On other occasions, a current release actually does work best—and the wine director, as before, carefully contextualizes what he likes about a chosen bottle and how he perceives it to interact with the food. For your palate, the introduction of these selections has been hugely exciting and successful, forming the kind of crash course in “natural” winemaking (forever a misunderstood term) that the city’s fine dining population has desperately needed.

Finally, on the downright hedonistic side, you find a pantheon of names like Château Ausone, Bérêche, Cappellano, Cédric Bouchard, Clos Rougeard, Jean-Louis Chave, Coche-Dury, Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey, Ulysse Collin, Vincent Dauvissat, Egly-Ouriet, Bruno Giacosa, Guiberteau, E. Guigal, Keller, Bartolo Mascarello, Marcassin, Miani, Montevertine, Mugneret-Gibourg, Egon Müller, Pierre Péters, Quintarelli, Giuseppe Rinaldi, Emmanuel Rouget, Roulot, Schäfer-Fröhlich, Jacques Selosse, Roberto Voerzio, and de Vogüé. These are the kind of hallowed producers (from famed regions like Bordeaux, Burgundy, Champagne, the Mosel, the Nahe, Piedmont, and the Rhône) that get oenophiles’ hearts racing—with some estates earning that status over a period of centuries and others, like shooting stars, reaching the mountaintop mere decades ago. (Ironically, most of these producers are committed to practices that could be termed “natural” winemaking; however, as historic properties, they generally exist outside of that paradigm.)

You are always happy to find these wines in your glass, and, to be honest, would almost never expect many of them to appear on a pairing. Fabbrini, more than any other category, shows his aptitude for selecting the right vintages when working with these ageworthy estates. The wine director’s reverence for these bottles is obvious, yet he does not rely on the famous labels to sell themselves. No, he puts forth the same precise descriptions and rationales (vis-à-vis pairing with the cuisine) used to frame the more adventurous selections (perhaps allowing himself only a small hint of giddiness). Every producer, thus, is left to prove itself on equal footing, and consumers are left to decide where on the spectrum of “natural” versus “conventional” wine (a false dichotomy but one that remains instructive) they fall.

This final category, filled with the most recognizable and rarefied wines, comes closest to the kind of selections Goldsmith was working with. However, whereas this traditional style was once spread more thinly across the full range of each pairing, Fabbrini has found a way of ensuring these bottles really punctuate the evening.

His secret? The wines in that “challenging” category are not just esoteric—they are relatively cheap. Yes, their newness and weirdness and potential for polarization help to insulate these bottles from the forever rising prices of the more traditional, collectible part of the market. To be clear, the wines are still made with care. They’re just characterful, and they need to be wielded by someone with a clear vision of how to utilize their unique qualities. The same logic applies to the “rewarding” category (albeit to a lesser extent). Some of these wines, by shining so brightly in their respective regions, have become prized and expensive in their own right. But many remain sharp values even as their reputations have soared, and even the most coveted names in this group cost far less than blue-chip examples from Bordeaux, Burgundy, Champagne, Napa, Piedmont, and Tuscany.

Using this strategy, Fabbrini can build a pairing that features pours of Florèz Wines and Gut Oggau alongside Bouchard’s “La Bolorée,” a 2004 Ausone, and a 2001 Chave Hermitage. He can build another that balances a Floral Terranes Cider and an Umbrian Ciliegiolo with 2012 Marcassin Chardonnay and a 2004 Giuseppe Rinaldi Barolo. He can even, somehow, use Chavost, Falkenstein, a Garnatxa Negra, and Hiyu to offset glasses of 2012 Egon Müller Spätlese, 2001 de Vogüé Musigny, and 1998 Giacosa Riserva.

These are, quite simply, superlative bottles that honor Smyth’s cuisine by matching it with some of the finest expressions drawn from wine’s greatest regions. Fabbrini makes effective use of a Coravin in order to extend the lifespan of the choicest selections (potential spoilage really being the only enemy of an ambitious program). However, when visiting the restaurant two or three weeks later, you find that he has already moved on to the next vintage from another hallowed producer.

Fabbrini is not only delightfully geeky—exploring the hidden corners of grape (and beer, and cider) production then sharing his discoveries—but fiercely motivated to put the best juice in guests’ glasses on each and every night. His pairings’ perpetually moving pieces (you count no repeats) speak to a certain degree of obsession. It is one rooted in the acceptance and embrace of nature’s flux, of the maddening dynamism that has guided Shields and his team from the very beginning. Fabbrini is a kindred spirit, and for that reason he has sacrificed the security that a program based on bulk buying and consistent, dependable selections might offer.

Instead, he has committed himself to finding small parcels (often single bottles) of wine over and over again. Some of them, surely, demand cellaring. However, faced with each new menu, the wine director uses all the tools at his disposal to surprise and delight diners. He aims at the always-moving target and goes straight for the bullseye. The next night, he does it again: always growing, refining, but perfectly at peace about never mastering what cannot be mastered. Instead, like Shields, Fabbrini simply invites you to come along for the journey and celebrate this singular moment in time.

With that said, perhaps the cleverest facet of his approach to pairing is only really apparent once you take a look at the bottle list. Representative selections from the wine director’s tenure include:

  • 2022 Etteilla “TIBBAR” Pinot Noir ($58)
  • 2021 Occteau “Auguste” Roussanne ($60)
  • 2022 Marcel Lapierre Morgon “N” ($78)
  • 2021 Domaine de la Pinte Chardonnay ($78)
  • 2021 Domaine de l’Octavin “Cariboom!” ($84)
  • 2020 Domaine de la Pinte “La Capitaine” ($85)
  • 2020 Mee Godard Morgon “Grand Cras” ($90)
  • 2021 Maria & Sepp Muster “vom Opok” Sauvignon Blanc ($95)
  • 2022 Keller “Von der Fels” Riesling ($98)
  • 2021 Domaine de l’Octavin “Hip Hip J(ura)” ($98)
  • 2022 Domaine de la Pinte Trousseau ($105)
  • 2015 Jean Macle “Sous Voile” Chardonnay ($135)
  • 2019 Anders Frederik Steen & Anne Bruun Blauert “Small Town” [500mL] ($145)
  • 2021 Moreau-Naudet Chablis Premier Cru “Les Forêts” ($145)
  • 2018 Luigi Pira Barolo “Vignaronda” ($185)
  • NV Ruppert-Leroy “Martin Fontaine” Blanc de Blancs Champagne ($185)
  • 2021 Pierre-Vincent Girardin Meursault “Les Meix Chavaux” ($265)
  • 2015 Emilien Feneuil “Totum” Premier Cru Champagne ($270)
  • 2018 Domaine de l’Ange Vin “Camille Robinot” Pineau d’Aunis ($275)
  • NV Ulysse Collin “Les Pierrières” Blanc de Blancs Champagne ($285)
  • 2018 Hiyu Wine Farm “Noctua – Perennial” ($295)
  • 2020 Jean-Michel Stephan Côte Rôtie “Côteaux de Bassenon” ($355)
  • NV Ulysse Collin “Les Roises” Blanc de Blancs Champagne ($395)
  • 2019 Domaine Roulot Meursault ($435)
  • NV Jacques Selosse “Initial” Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs Champagne ($495)
  • 2021 Pierre-Vincent Girardin Meursault Premier Cru “Les Perrières” ($665)
  • 2016 Soldera “Case Base” Sangiovese ($1,035)

Immediately, you notice several of the same names that appeared on Fabbrini’s pairings: Collin, Hiyu, Muster, Occteau, Robinot, Selosse, and Steen. However, save for the “Initial,” the cuvées being offered by the bottle are entirely different.

Added to these, you find a range of producers like Etteilla, Emilien Feneuil, Pierre-Vincent Girardin, Mee Godard, Jean Macle, Moreau-Naudet, l’Octavin, Domaine de la Pinte, Ruppert-Leroy, and Jean-Michel Stephan that are new to Smyth’s list. Though not featuring on the pairings, these names are at the forefront of regions like Beaujolais, Burgundy, Champagne, the Jura, the Rhône, and Sonoma—making expressive, accessible wines that are well suited to the realities of a restaurant program (where the demands of price and taste lead many customers to open bottles that are painfully young).

Still, these selections do not signal a permanent stylistic shift so much as they reflect the fact that the list has taken on a new dimension: one in which a cadre of modern domains complement old favorites like Billecart-Salmon, Bollinger, Conterno, Corison, Dujac, Jacquesson, Lafon, Leflaive, Rayas, Vacheron, Vega Sicilia, Williams Selyem, Wittmann, and Zind-Humbrecht.

And, while many of the most affordable wines belong to the bolder, more “natural” category (the unsulfured Etteilla “TIBBAR” Pinot Noir, at $58, might be the most modestly priced bottles in the restaurant’s history), markups on the most esteemed producers remain reasonable. For example, compare the 2022 Keller “Von der Fels” ($98) to a local retail price of $46.99, the 2019 Roulot Meursault ($495) to a local retail price of $299, or the 2016 Soldera ($1,035) to a lowest national retail price of $799. As before, Smyth continues to charge only a roughly 100% premium on the most widely available products, and, by refusing to exploit its rarest allocations, the restaurant’s markups go as low as 66% and even 30% in the examples you cited.

Nonetheless, returning to your first point, the real secret of the bottle list has to do with what is not on it. Yes, diners seeking to savor just one or two styles of wine during the full course of the menu will be nicely rewarded by the breadth and value of options on offer. But Fabbrini is incredibly clever about reserving the best of the best for his pairings.

Those eye-popping, aged, one-off selections are not put on the list for the sake of spoiling just one lucky party. Instead, they are shared with the full range of diners willing to put themselves in the wine director’s hands on any given evening. Thus, while $395 (the cost of the “Super Mega” pairing) goes a long way on the bottle list, it will never quite secure you the most coveted pours. Indeed, you must sign on to the full journey—“challenging,” “rewarding,” and “hedonistic”—to experience the program’s best.

As the sort of customer that always prefers choosing your own bottles, Fabbrini has totally convinced you to put yourself in his hands time and time again. Doing so, you get to sample at least three pours of something extraordinary that cannot be found on the list (wines that would be priced higher than $395 if they were). More importantly, you get to engage with the sommelier’s pairing philosophy as you sample each one of the chef’s courses—an extra level of interaction and intellectual engagement that dramatically enriches the meal.

Once you discovered just how much every piece of these pairings’ changes over time, the effect was intoxicating. Fabbrini does not craft turnkey, cost-effective solutions meant to simplify things for the staff. The wine director is actually constructing singular creative expressions that truly match the work of the kitchen. He is transforming wine into a true peer—not just a companion—of the cuisine, one that (through contrast and conversation) pushes it toward ever-higher peaks of flavor and texture. He does so, all the while, in a way that balances adventurousness with indulgence and aspiration with value. His work, with these pairings and with the program overall, ranks among the very best you have witnessed anywhere in the world.

That being said, a relatively limited range of non-alcoholic options remains a real blind spot. At present, the selection comprises five mocktails that join a half-dozen cocktails listed toward the front of the full wine list. The drinks are all designed by Smyth + The Loyalist’s lead bartender Chris Martin, and they include:

Cocktails

  • Mancino Royale (Ki No Bi Gin, Yellow Chartreuse, cherry blossom vermouth, yuzu) ($25)
  • Six Peat Under (Peat Monster Scotch, Cognac, Green Chartreuse, Benedictine) ($22)
  • House of 1,000 Carrots (rum, cachaça, pecan, carrot, ginger, tropical spices, cream cheese) ($18)
  • Smyth Side Car (Sazerac de Forge, Ferrand Dry Curaçao Yuzu, sage honey, lemon) ($25)
  • Smyth Old Fashioned (Woodford Reserve Double Oaked, amaro, maple, orange) ($22)
  • Smyth Boulevardier (Hibiki Harmony, green tea Campari vermouth) ($25)

Alcohol-Free Cocktails

  • Bright & Refreshing (Seedlip Garden, chamomile, lemon, parsley, alcohol-free “Prosecco”) ($12)
  • Herbal & Citrus (Seedlip Garden, basil, yuzu, ginger) ($12)
  • Italian Spritz (Lyre’s Orange, alcohol-free “Prosecco”) ($12)
  • Juicy (Seedlip agave, pineapple, smoked morita pepper, lime) ($12)
  • Velvety & Smooth (Lyre’s Amaretti, almond orgeat, lemon, lime, egg white) ($12)

The cocktails touch on some of the same irreverent, nostalgic notes Martin plays with downstairs (a drink that tastes like carrot cake for example) but tend to center on premium spirits, custom infusions, and an uplifting citrus character (a natural match for the cuisine).

The mocktails, like many you see around town, rely on popular products from Seedlip and Lyre’s. These get the job done, providing the kind of richness and weight that replicate real spirits. They also make room for interesting accompaniments: parsley, morita chiles (a dried, smoked jalapeño), and plenty more citrus. These creations are serviceable and varied enough to allow for somewhat of a progression during the course of the meal. However, the mocktails also feel conventional—checking a box, offering something familiar, something dependable, but not aspiring to anything bold or distinctive.

In short, this facet of the program is a far cry from what is being done to accompany tasting menus at other restaurants in Chicago and around the country: full non-alcoholic flights served with the same pomp and passion used to present the wine. Ever and Oriole excel at crafting these spirit-free pairings, so you can understand Smyth’s hesitation in going toe-to-toe with these properties now that expectations have climbed even higher. Nonetheless, there was a short period, years ago, when the kitchen took the lead in creating matching drinks using many of the same ingredients that go into the menu.

You never sampled any of the resulting drinks, but this is the degree of effort teetotaling guests (especially those familiar with the amenities typical of three-Michelin-star concepts) would surely expect. Clearly, such an initiative would demand even more from chefs and cooks that are already tangling with constant changes to the cuisine—the bread and butter of experience—at a key point in the restaurant’s history. Alternatively, it would mean leaning more on the talent of Martin, who already builds his cocktails in accordance with whatever produce is currently in season but isn’t, just yet, working minutely with the motions of the tasting menu upstairs.

With the amount of risk-taking and potential for polarization found elsewhere in the gustatory experience, you can understand the tendency to play things safe. Smyth is primarily a wine restaurant, and it’s one that has pursued a greater dimension of depth and excitement that can be found anywhere else. Smyth asks that you open yourself to what wine has to say in conjunction with its food and tries to please (though maybe not totally impress) those unable to do so. But, eventually, a non-alcoholic pairing that harmonizes with the fruits and vegetables being used on the plate would make for a stronger substitute. It remains one clear area where the restaurant can hope to expand and improve its offerings.

At the level of wine service, the program is managed with confidence. Should you order a bottle from the list, Fabbrini displays a sense of certainty and foresight in how it might show its best. This is echoed by the pairings, many of which (typically the younger, more imposing selections) have been treated with varying levels of decanting: anywhere from 30 minutes to six hours depending on the desired effect. All the other core tasks of chilling, opening (especially those oldest vintages), and pouring (especially when more than a half-dozen glasses line the table) bottles are also handled with aplomb.

Tableside manner and the presentation of the pairings, as exemplified by the entire wine team, are executed at a good level. Of course, there can be some degree of drop-off when Fabbrini, who personally selected the pours, is substituted by one of the other sommeliers (who also double as captains). However, they, too, possess an appreciable level of experience and hit the basic marks of pronunciation and description with precision.

You really only notice any lapse when it comes to some of the deeper storytelling that can distinguish certain selections: the quirks of a given producer, vineyard, or winemaking philosophy that often (even for the uninitiated) prove most salient. For the biggest oenophiles, even a mere knowing smile—some slight, shared excitement of how special a particular vintage is—may be enough to lend the moment of encounter some added gravity. Sprinkling these details into the showcase of each bottle helps to blend pairings into the overall narrative of the meal. Leaving guests with little more than a description of grape, place, and tasting notes can, in turn, make pouring these libations (ones that can command a price that is roughly equivalent to the menu itself) feel like nothing more than a box to tick.

As much as you’d like to believe that guests will find the quality and value of the wines on offer to be apparent, a proportion of diners will always demand more finesse. This was recently exemplified by a post on the /r/finedining subreddit that not only denounced Smyth’s food (an inevitable consequence of the polarizing, experimental, umami-forward style) but, more concerningly, found interaction with both the front of house and back of house (the latter as part of the “Chef’s Table” experience) to be lacking.

More specifically, the sommelier’s reaction to the party ordering an expensive Champagne (the kind that often gets wine professionals “a little chatty”) did not meet expectations. An attempt to get them talking about the restaurant’s stemware floundered as well—resulting in “a quick exchange” after which they “couldn’t wait to dash off.” Finally, the completion of the Champagne, “the perfect opportunity to tempt us with something else,” also failed to elicit any further interaction.

From the pronouns used in the post, you can rule out that Fabbrini himself was waiting on the disappointed party. Might the wine director have had more to say about the glassware? Possibly, but it long predates him, and he’s probably not the one to talk about its virtues relative to the competition. As for the Selosse that was ordered, what more can be said than “great choice”? What more can be done than to serve the wine in bowls rather than flutes? Selecting such a Champagne signals that the diners know and appreciate the producer’s oxidative solera style, and to probe further—even if the party is desperate to brag about all the other examples they have sampled—almost seems patronizing: whether it’s a wary “do you know what you’re getting into?” or an effusive “oh, you have such taste.”

Letting the customer’s glass go empty without offering to bring them the wine list or (better yet) recommending something else is a clear error. But, at Smyth (as is also the case at Alinea, Ever, and Oriole in your experience), it should be expected that ordering a pairing is the key to facilitating more interaction with the staff while ordering bottles, especially if one does not solicit any help, communicates that you know what you are doing.

Regrettably, you feel that a bit more consideration—a casual check in during the meal (how are you enjoying the Champagne?) or a complimentary pour of red wine with the meat course (given the choice of bottle and “Chef’s Table” premium already being paid)—could have helped to disarm a table that was having a bad time.

Instead, this account reveals the reality that the wine team can be stretched quite thin during service. Simply keeping up with all the pairings and learning (for the more junior sommeliers) the bare bones of a perpetually changing, often rather obscure set of bottles is already a tall order. You can argue that, at this level of dining, everyone should simply work harder to punctuate each presentation with a bit more flair. But, save for concepts where the wine director is almost always the one actually pouring the wine (you think of Valhalla), Smyth’s peers in Chicago must all make the same compromise: either script the supporting staff so heavily that they risk seeming artificial or allow them more room to maneuver. The latter choice, despite what you might lose in terms of sheer detail, should allow for a more reflexive, personalized kind of interaction.

It sounds like, when it comes to that one party from the Reddit post, neither strategy paid off. There was no geeky appreciation of the Selosse or glassware, and there was no personal connection to make that lack of shared appreciation more palatable. The diners felt unseen and unappreciated despite the high sum they were spending. Their enjoyment of the food was assumed—it would have been easy to think of the guests as being totally engrossed in the evening—and there was no need to second guess the quality of the experience being offered.

You think back to Goldsmith’s era, when the advanced sommelier’s extensive training amounted to a compendium of information on the floor. This was mirrored by the supporting staff, who were also pursuing or, at least, benefitting from this embodiment of wine education. During that period, the pairings might have skewed more toward the “traditional” side, but so did the service. Each bottle could effortlessly be situated within an intricate web of knowledge that only those pursuing a higher rank with the Court tend to build. Service, for those obsessed to this degree, naturally feels something like a professor speaking to a student. Dialing back the geekiness and avoiding any trace of snobbery form the greatest challenges (ones Goldsmith always aptly overcame), for these sommeliers can dazzle diners with a dizzying depth of knowledge. They do not only build trust; rather, merely talking with them makes you, too, feel like an expert. These professionals represent wine’s symbolic grandeur and satisfy the expectations of connoisseurs and wannabes with grace and good humor. You’ll find this archetype gliding across many of the world’s finest dining rooms where, pin or not, their polished demeanor eventually becomes quite easy to spot.

Fabbrini, clearly, is a different breed. As far as you know, he has not pursued any Court certifications (or, at least, doesn’t brand himself in accordance with any of those titles). Instead, he is all practice: shaped wholly by experience working in restaurants and traveling the world. He became captivated by “winemakers committed to organic and biodynamic farming with minimal intervention in the cellar” before his head was filled with all the orthodoxy—benchmark producers from classic regions that he has still come to know quite well. But Fabbrini operates at the fringes of the wine (and beer, and cider) world where the Court is too slow or unwilling to go. He works, like the kitchen, with what hasn’t widely been tasted and what, certainly, hasn’t been neatly packaged and described for consumers.

On the floor, Fabbrini—who you think might also qualify for the “tallest sommelier in Chicago title”—is charming but not slick. The wine director does not look to dazzle with labels whose status is self-evident. He does not play to the glamour or smug satisfaction that surrounds his craft and that the audience, wanting to make the most of their evening, is happy to indulge in (whether they know any better or not). Fabbrini is sure in what he has to tell you about each pour but retains a soft, almost speculative tone to his delivery. He invites you to take a sip and check his work, to make room for your own perceptions and judge the resulting interaction with the food. He embodies what the pairings, on paper, also express: a feeling that this experience is a bit uncertain, that it will both challenge and reward you, that it looks to subvert expectations by operating outside of them, and that this journey is best undertaken with a bit of humility. Doing so, the guest may come to share Fabbrini’s sense of wonder—one he conveys on wines both “small” and “large.”

This philosophy, again, is a mirror of how Smyth has come to approach its ingredients and form its resulting cuisine. It is a thought process that can prove polarizing for those who expect the restaurant to consciously, conventionally please rather pursue its singular vision. And, though Fabbrini is joined by an advanced sommelier (among others) on the floor, the mood remains consistent. The wine team, like the kitchen, is most interested in the technical, iterative process they are all jointly engaged in. They want you to be a part of (and contribute to) that process, but the consequence of such dynamism and authenticity is that it can be hard to go back into the world of appearances. Thus, the kind of rehearsed spiels that might appeal to the lowest common denominator—and safeguard against perfunctory, rushed presentations when someone falls behind—are sacrificed. The restaurant expects you to forgive a lack of formality for the sake of creative honesty, and it hopes lightning strikes on the tongue even if discrete interactions fall flat.

It may sound like you are making excuses for the wine team in response to one lousy review, but you have noticed a similar sentiment (regarding “perfunctory” presentations of the pours) pop up here and there. Certainly, the restaurant’s burgeoning business in the wake of the third star, the consolidation of the pairing options from three to two, and a degree of turnover that’s inherent in the industry have meant that more sommeliers are necessary to serve a greater proportion (overall and relatively) of drinking guests. This helps explain—but does not excuse—the lapses in hospitality some diners have felt: ones that are not indicative of a team that has given up but, rather, that has had to rise to the occasion and might, at its most harried, simply privilege filling another party’s glasses in a timely manner more than going the extra mile.

At Smyth, the sommeliers cannot be relieved of their duties by the managers, chefs, non-wine-trained captains, cooks, or back waiters in the same way the people in those roles can by each other. Yes, while the wine team is equipped to describe a given course as well as anybody else, they are also keepers of an exclusive knowledge: the rotating bottles that fit with the rotating cuisine that, in itself, already makes for a tall order to memorize. This is why the sommeliers must scurry about, and, when you add in some of the Coravining or decanting duties, it is not clear that training all of the captains to deputize would be practical.

Instead, accepting that the wine team sometimes has its hands full (and, otherwise, impresses with the quality and value of its selections), the rest of the front of house is better positioned to make your evening enchanting. At a technical level, their job is a bit more varied: filling water, hanging purses on the edge of the table, escorting guests to the bathroom, holding chairs whenever they return, providing pashminas for those that get cold, taking pictures when requested, and handling that thorny “service charge” disclosure as best as possible. They are also tasked with describing the food: a moving target comprising one or two recognizable components alongside a litany of herbs, flowers, oils, and fermentations that can, for the newcomer, almost be impossible to follow.

You rarely witness them stumble in this latter duty—how many guests would ever guess something is missing? And, without a doubt, they stand ready to answer any lingering questions about what this or that word signifies (even you still need help from time to time). However, these spiels—combined with the rather impenetrable visual properties of the compositions—often yield quiet amazement. They feel like the wine presentations in a way: a set of ingredients (instead of grape, place, and key descriptors) in search of a binding story. Here, the story so often goes “we like working with this piece of produce or seafood sourced from here” or “we made this sauce from this or that” without any real narrative thread.

Cohesion is not constructed from without—effects, plateware, clever wordplay, a compelling performance—but solely within. As with the setting, nothing screams “look at how special this food is.” Rather, like the plateware, such a statement (one you agree with in principle but find hard to convey through a screen) can only be felt. Smyth is a slow burn of a restaurant. The staff is attentive, amenable, and familiar, but—importantly—they don’t try too hard. Their quiet confidence, part of the culture long before Bibendum granted his highest honor, almost lulls you into a false sense of insecurity.

How will the food, so unceremoniously served in what amounts to a conventional dining room, measure up to the highest pricing and expectations? A bit more seriousness, a sense of isolation, and some greater tension would go a long way. The theatre of intimidation: the feeling that you might not be worthy of this kind of luxury—a feeling so familiar in these strata of consumption that its absence becomes both conspicuous and suspicious. Do they really know what they’re doing?

But wine and food, presented in this manner—without undue pomp or urging to cower before its excellence—makes the most room for honest interpretation. Enjoyment? Yes, when it’s merited, yet not in the empty-minded “that was so good” refrain favored by those too shy to admit they didn’t get it, didn’t like it, thought it was the most objectionable thing they had ever tasted (it’s better to save those impressions for the online mob rather than share them with the people whose livelihood is on the line every night).

By presenting the cuisine, that laundry list of ingredients so long as to almost (sometimes) seem like parody, so offhandedly, the captains actually make the most room for the process of discovery that the restaurant, relative to its peers, privileges to such a high degree. For, this cuisine is not about making the recognizable unrecognizable or the decadent even more hedonistic. It layers an ingredient you know (e.g., avocado, caviar, crab, lobster, lamb) with many that you don’t, looking to fashion flavors and textures that challenge and reward your palate. It aspires to a careful, considered kind of appreciation more likely to result in conversation, revelation, and a transformative aesthetic experience.

If the guest rises to the occasion, they can join Smyth in its journey: offering their own impressions of each dish and wine and providing the team with essential data points furthering the perfection of their craft. Passive, ponderous enjoyment is just fine too, enabling diners to appreciate the surrounding company and pursue deeper human connection in the context of an engaging—but never distracting—meal.

When the back of house enters the equation to apply finishing sauces, shave truffles, or simply present courses on their own terms, the manner of interaction matches those working the front. After all, the open kitchen ensures that the one room is guided by one mood and that the chef’s or cooks’ entrance into the dining space feels totally natural.

John Shields has always set the tone for how the kitchen engages its guests: relaxed, almost sheepish in style but totally absorbed in their work. They, like the captains, list exotic ingredients and esoteric techniques with fluency. However, the cooks almost leave you with a feeling of understatement—a sense that these words, this tableside presentation, cannot do justice to their obsession. All the experimentation, iteration, and resulting fine-tuning is rendered with a wry, expectant smile. Yes, there’s a sense of pride, yet you, the diner, must confirm that they are on the right track—that all the time and effort was worth it.

Those expecting more spectacle may, as with the wine presentations, feel somewhat let down. Those paying a premium for the “Chef’s Table” may, indeed, desire more pleasantries or insight. But, true to the restaurant’s style, the higher sum has more to do with securing the newest, boldest creations, absorbing oneself in the action of the kitchen, and putting a face (or faces) to their efforts. As with the wine team, interaction with the chefs and cooks can feel curt only due to demand that they get back to their station and maintain the rhythm of the bustling restaurant.

Again, you are not making excuses, only noting that some members of the team sacrifice more by lingering at a table and, for that reason (along with the fact that the entirety of the operation is always on view), it may seem like they need to scurry off.

It is the captains and back waiters—supported by the managers—that command your attention and, if everything goes right, make room for the rest of the staff to go about their essential duties. The technical foundations of their jobs (described earlier), including the presentation of the food, really only form the surface of your interaction. They form the basis of an intimacy through which Smyth’s resilient spirit, wounded by each departure and refreshed with each arrival, resonates.

Compared to their colleagues, this segment of the front of house is all presence. Unconstrained by the same demands, they approach the table with confidence and total ease. There’s a loose script, a “welcome to Smyth,” but only the barest minimum of boilerplate to ensure that, if a party did nothing but nod in response, the show can get on the road.

The real work done by the captains has to do with observing, listening, and sensing. After all, Smyth is a blank canvas. There’s no preordained tension and relief—no movement from lounge to counter to dining room or from dining room to kitchen tour to lean on. There’s no edible balloon or table dessert destined (rightfully so) to make the meal memorable even if all else is bland. Instead, the captains must use the simple tools of anticipation, sincerity, and wit to color the evening for each guest.

That might mean providing a heartfelt compliment about a diner’s fashion sense, fraternizing over a shared favorite artist, offering travel tips for a particular city or country, deploying foreign language skills, or interjecting with a bit of humor: a pun, an anecdote, some good-natured ribbing, or a practical joke. The key, always, is to avoid being heavy-handed. Each captain works the table, goes about their standard duties, demonstrates a high standard of professionalism, and then—just when the guests think they are dealing with some kind of automaton—they break the “fourth wall.”

Surely, mere familiarity and warmth are not as subversive as they once were, when fine dining settings centered on deference and class distinction between “server” and “served.” But what’s striking is how well the Smyth team straddles the line: remaining faceless and precise the whole night for those who desire it while, at the same time, searching for the first occasion to make their dialogue with amenable parties feel singular and profound. When the right moment strikes, it feels like a proclamation: that the captain was engaged and was listening the entire time. They weren’t sizing you up or thinking how to shake you down for a better tip—just pinpointing how and when to truly break the nice, surprise you, and form a connection that transcends the demands of the business relationship.

Of course, parties that are raucous from the moment they sit down will find their energy effortlessly met. However, like so much about the restaurant, the depth of hospitality being practiced only reveals itself with time.

At a certain point (if all goes right), the unassuming setting, esoteric wine, unfamiliar cuisine, and synchronized staff—so unconcerned, at first glance, with satisfying expectations—all come alive. Suddenly, they intoxicate you. You no longer see the disparate pieces of the puzzle (as confusing as they can be insolation) but rather one team, one vision, whose heart and soul are offered up to you predominantly by the captains. They form the beachhead through which you can fully appreciate the work of the cooks and sommeliers—harried, at times, yet wholly devoted to delivering the best of their experimentation on each and every visit.

The back waiters, to their credit, are every bit the equal of the captains. In fact, you can count meals where these vested figures, typically thought of as background players, described as many as five or six of the courses. This did not make your party feel shortchanged—as if the captains were too busy handling other tables to bother presenting your menu. Rather, the back waiters demonstrated (and continue to demonstrate) just how deep the Smyth culture runs.

Entrusted to execute the most menial (but essential) tasks, these back waiters have taken a major step in their hospitality careers: maybe not the very first job, but the foothold from which they can reach the mountaintop of fine dining. On paper, their role should allow for only the most meager expression of personality. In practice, the restaurant recruited them because it sensed their potential—the kind that goes beyond simple awareness and mechanical aptitude.

Compared to the captains, whose confidence and polish are evident as a result of habitual performance, the back waiters speak with a bit more hesitance. They know the food they are describing and even go about executing some of the more demanding tableside touches (like spooning heaps of caviar into guests’ waiting bowls). But these most junior members of the team strike you with their innocence, their sensitivity, how eager they are to grow, and what it means to take the next step toward greater ownership of the dining experience.

If the back waiters feel any pressure when asked to step up in this fashion, they do not let it show. Smyth has built an environment where they know they are supported and nurtured as they master the finer points of the profession. The senior members of the team, in privileging authenticity and sincerity of self-expression so thoroughly, allows the support staff to step into the spotlight and find their voice. Their formative experiences happen here and now, during service, with the highest of stakes. And your conversations with the back waiters (who, maybe even to a greater degree than the captains, are always around waiting for just the right moment to interject) often end up being the most rewarding.

For these dialogues are the most unexpected but every bit as insightful, irreverent, and charming as those conducted with the rest of the staff. They prove that even the most overlooked people on the floor stand ready to meaningfully connect with you, and, doing so, they demonstrate that the restaurant is fueled by the fullest, most pervasive sense of presence that can punctuate any given moment and make your evening special. In this manner, no detail is overlooked and no person—more importantly—is kept from forging a meaningful connection with guests when the chance presents itself.

If the captains form the foundation of the hospitality being offered and the back waiters, in turn, support them (while transcending that role and even matching them for warmth), then the managers at Smyth must be thought of as a special, superlative force. They float above the normal flow of service, attending to both pressing matters (like the total meltdown of the restaurant’s credit card processing capability) and more everyday duties: greetings, goodbyes, the odd presentation of a dish, and the most dramatic pulling out of chairs for returning guests (ensuring, if everyone else on the floor happens to be indisposed, that no diner—ever—deign do it themself). They form the last line of defense, safeguarding the rest of the team from any dire oversights, and the dreamweavers, equipped and inspired to go the extra mile, alike.

In Christopher Gerber, now formally the director of operations and a partner in the restaurant, you continue to find the personification of Smyth hospitality. Snappily dressed, exceedingly deferential, and flowing in his movements, this front-of-house high-flyer symbolizes the luxuriousness of the dining experience. Across cultures and languages, he is instantly recognizable as a master of his craft: the kind of pro that never says “no,” that makes the impossible happen, that marshals three Michelin stars worth of firepower with a snap of his fingers. Gerber is the natural successor to the hallowed maître d’s of yore, a walking, talking reminder of just how eternal that feeling he leaves you with—one of being thoroughly taken care of—really is.

What always enchants you is how free from intimidation, judgment, or any kind of opaque process of consideration or discernment his manner of hosting guests is. If you’ve booked a ticket and made it to the door, you are immediately welcomed liked family. There’s no consideration (even subconsciously) of dress code, no mask that comes on or off depending on the expertise or spending habits of a given party. Quite the opposite: all interactions proceed from a place of sensitivity and shared understanding—leavened, every so often, with a dash of sly humor. By bringing the same passion to each table and leading, through example, in the solving of problems larger and small, Gerber really embodies the heart and humility of Smyth. He sets a tone that, in this time of ever-higher expectations, is all the more crucial: not “customer is always right” but, rather, “dealing with customers is a delight.” Doing so, the man that has been here from the beginning rejuvenates the restaurant’s culture and makes room for those moments of emotional resonance that prove unforgettable.

In what must rank as one of Smyth’s most consequential hirings in its history, Cara Sandoval has joined Gerber on the floor as the restaurant’s new general manager during the 2023-2024 era. You were already a great admirer of her work as co-owner of Oriole, where she led and, by your measure, totally defined one of the city’s finest hospitality programs. It was impossible to pass through that restaurant without feeling the attentiveness, enthusiasm, and overflowing warmth Sandoval brought to the dining room firsthand. Stylistically, her tableside manner felt a bit more cerebral and deliberate than Gerber’s (perhaps owing to the fact that the renovated Oriole “2.0” had so many new moving pieces to keep track of). But, in practice, the two struck you as peers: top professionals delivering a degree of excellence, night after night, that was otherwise unmatched in Chicago.

Now channeling their combined expertise toward the same dining room, Gerber and Sandoval form what you can only describe as a dream team. Though the presence of the latter has enabled the former to actually step off the floor (to go keep closer tabs on The Loyalist or, dare you say, even take a night off), they do often share the stage. On those occasions, the captains and back waiters—who, at their best, already captivate the audience—are supported by two perceptive sets of eyes, two nimble pairs of hands, and two decisive, battle-tested voices ready to intervene when needed. If all goes to plan, the managers can simply make the rounds, exchange some pleasantries, provide a couple flourishes, and the gild the lily of what is already a stellar hospitality experience.

Otherwise, when Gerber is away, Sandoval’s presence ensures continuity of service at the highest level of quality. How many other restaurants at this level, even when they have cultivated a strong chain of command, can truly say as much? Her hiring, in an era when Smyth has increased its pricing, signals just how serious the restaurant is about maintaining—or even surpassing—its high standards. It’s the kind of unforeseen addition that, like Fabbrini (who, as it happens, worked with Sandoval at Le Select), has immediately elevated what was already a best-in-class concept.

Lastly, before you take a look at the evolution of Smyth’s cuisine during the 2023-2024 era, it is also worth highlighting a consequential change in the kitchen. Your previous piece largely centered on the arrival of Luke Feltz from minibar, joining just before the pandemic, and his growth from head chef to full-on executive chef of the concept. Yes, though John and Karen Urie Shields have always retained their respective executive chef and executive pastry chef titles (while being intimately—if not always visibly—involved in shaping the cuisine), 2021-2022 was defined by the pursuit of new ideas and the development of a novel style drawn from Feltz’s fresh perspective.

The departure of longtime collaborators (like executive sous chef Tyler Gore) during this timeframe solidified the new regime (one you could have probably termed a Smyth “2.0” despite any obvious visual cues). Feltz, with the Shieldses’ support and a new group of sous chefs, would jettison the restaurant’s most beloved dishes and forge ahead. He would embrace the nut oils, seaweeds, custards, koji, and fruit—often applied to fish or shellfish—that, in short order, defined the restaurant. In Jenna Pegg, the pastry chef that came aboard in 2021, he would find a kindred spirit: one willing to give ingredients like barley, mushroom, potato, and ice their due in boundary-pushing desserts.

2023-2024 was an era in which Feltz’s ideas firmly took hold, became almost unapologetic, certainly polarized some members of the audience, but never ceased iterating. Week after week, the chef would look to push flavor and texture to some further degree of depth or nuance. Yet, always incredibly conscientious and receptive to feedback, Feltz never strayed from a core philosophy and certain fundamentals that ensured his menus, always intellectually stimulating, remained enjoyable even as they bucked the restaurant’s former, more hedonistic style.

The fruits of Feltz’s efforts are now well known: a third Michelin star and a spot (#90) on the extended World’s 50 Best Restaurants list (two of three goals, he would later reveal, that were set when he was hired by the Shieldses). In short, the chef transformed a concept that was adored at a local level and respected at a national level into one worthy of international attention. He did so without having a “destination” ambiance, special effects, any particularly “viral” presentations, or even all that much of a defined, differentiated genre of cooking to lean on. Feltz put everything on the plate and inspired an attitude, among his team, that you have frequently noted: crafting cuisine as a form of inquiry, a means of exploration, a process of self-expression, and a journey that never—no matter how “perfect” a preparation may today seem—ends.

Certainly, this is the same philosophy that guided the Shieldses at Town House and that they have always brought to Smyth as chef-patrons. Yet, entrusting Feltz with that shared title of executive chef—a peership little noted by the organizations handing out those major awards—represented the most powerful kind of validation. It marked a point in which all the restaurant was (and it was excellent) would merge fully with this outside perspective. Feltz and Smyth (always stewarded by the Shieldses) would each be changed by the process. Of course, they synergized. It’s hard to express how well the chef fit into the existing hospitality culture: embodying its sense of warmth and presence while also, more than ever before, inviting guest feedback regarding the kitchen’s experimentation. But, based on this union and a genuine granting of trust, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts: a supercharged Smyth, recognizable but reinvigorated, serving a cuisine that was altogether singular in a global sense. You know of no other restaurant in Chicago where this spirit of mentorship and sincere collaboration—without any trace of ego—has shined as brightly.

Thus, Feltz’s departure from Smyth at the midpoint of 2024 was about as consequential as if the Shieldses themselves had left the concept. To be fair, in becoming the research and development chef of noma, he is taking on one of the most coveted jobs in world gastronomy: confirming, for those who might have found it jarring, just how forward-thinking his work here was. (Really, it is hard to think of any other professional from this city that has left to embrace such a major role.)

However, the beauty of having John and Karen Urie Shields as foundations is that the entire process can start anew. The kitchen has now been entrusted to head chef Brian Barker, a six-year veteran of the restaurant who worked as a sous chef through the entirety of Feltz’s time there (but, importantly, preceded his arrival). The North Carolina native’s credits also include time spent at Blackbird and Grace. He even worked with the Shieldses back at Riverstead (the successor to Town House) and pioneered Smyth’s “Johnny Good Times’ Smoked Meats” pop-up during the pandemic.

Barker’s ascendance represents a promotion from within—a show of faith in his work and potential, a signal to everyone else in the brigade that loyalty and hard work are rewarded—rather than one from without, and this choice clearly inverts the logic that guided Feltz’s arrival: the hiring of a young chef de cuisine, from a different two-star restaurant in a different city, to enter the chain of command and provide a fresh perspective.

Feltz’s influx of outside talent was rather unique for Chicago, where other top kitchens also tend to promote from within (or, at least, find candidates working at other restaurants in the city). You think of Alinea (which has cultivated successive generations of chefs in-house), Ever (which opened with a chef de cuisine, himself an Alinea vet, who worked at Atelier Crenn before later promoting their pastry chef into the role), and Oriole (which brought The Bristol’s chef aboard as chef de cuisine after his restaurant closed at the end of 2022).

All of these concepts have senior executive chefs—some you might even term “celebrity chefs”—present, in varying degrees, to provide continuity. It makes sense that they would maintain insular cultures, training staff to their exacting specifications and motivating individuals to rise up the ranks (or, when the opportunity presents itself, nab a “free agent” whose skill they are already familiar with). The idea, as a chef-owner, has got to be that the “Alinea,” “Ever,” or “Oriole” brands must remain recognizable and reliably excellent even as talented employees inevitably come and go.

But dynamism—even more than consistency—has become the Smyth credo, and it was telling that the Shieldses did not only make Feltz head chef but, eventually, executive chef. They fully ceded (co-)creative control to an outsider and invigorated Chicago’s dining scene with a different train of thought from out east. Barker’s selection, on its face, promises to be a bit more conservative—consistent with how the restaurant’s peers have operated and the newfound pressure of maintain that “three-star” standard. But who is anyone to say that the head chef will not also blossom into that executive chef role and put a firm stamp on the program? It’s a path—perhaps the most unique among the city’s fine dining concepts—that has already been forged.

Stepping into this leadership position, Barker is well-acclimated to Chicagoans’ palates and to the Shieldses’ way of doing things. He’s worked his way up through the kitchen at Smyth, cognizant of the cuisine it was putting out during those halcyon days from 2018-2019 but fully present during the period of rebuilding that followed the pandemic. The new head chef witnessed the creative dialogue between Feltz and Shields, contributing his own ideas while working to execute—and iterate—their cuisine with the rest of his team. Now, Barker gets to be the engine of growth, a more decisive voice, and a fuller kind of collaborator. He has the chance to stand on the shoulders of those who have manned the stoves before him and, at this crucial moment in the restaurant’s history, decide which direction to go in.

It has only been a half-dozen months since the start of the new head chef’s tenure (and, to be clear most of this piece will center on the work done by Feltz). To date, Barker has not transformed the menu completely, for he continues to favor (but also continues to reimagine) several of the core recipes from the previous era: quail eggs, custards, heaping bowls of caviar, avocados, and malted milk breads. These dishes have become signatures and, while they are hardly static, you can understand the compulsion to give traveling diners some taste of the food that earned Smyth its third star.

However, Barker has—indeed—debuted plenty of novel creations. Some (like pairings of shellfish with fruit, tomatoes with aguachile, and trout with kelp) expand on the same philosophy: distinguishing chosen ingredients lightness and brightness or deeper umami depending on the occasion. Nonetheless, what you have really noted is a revival of certain nostalgic forms (e.g., donuts, waffles) that featured at Smyth in the past. You have also sensed a more generous, soothing quality in some of the dishes (courtesy of elements like porridge, cheese sauce, and seed-studded salsa) that, in combination with hearty portions of lobster, quail, or lamb, reliably deliver a sense of decadence.

You must warn that this shift lines up with the menu’s natural progression through the summer and into the fall (a time when heartier textures and flavors are bound to feature). Yet, hesitantly, you do think that Barker’s approach bridges some of the gap that separates Feltz’s work from what came before him. Namely, the new head chef retains much of the same style and sense of experimentation while rounding it out with some of the playful, comforting qualities from those earlier days. The end result does not make Smyth less dynamic (for dishes continue to come and go and change at the same rate), but, rather, it orients the experience just a bit more toward conventional satisfaction than before.

To you, this is a welcome shift. It represents a minor rebalancing of the menu’s composition—building, within any particular meal, two or three clearer peaks of pleasure—that helps to contrast and accentuate the more provocative bites and accompanying wine pairings. As something of a hybrid (whether consciously conceived or just an expression of personal taste), Barker’s style combines the best qualities of the restaurant’s cuisine as seen throughout its entire lifespan. You think it might help to moderate the polarization that can characterize diners’ perception of the food: anchoring the more challenging fare with satisfying, tentpole items that fulfill conventional expectations of “fine dining.” It’s a strategy that makes more room for risk-taking by installing guardrails against disappointment and, thus, bringing more customers along for the ride.

As much as you have tried to speculate based on your early impressions, Barker’s tenure cannot really be defined until the eventual writing of a “Smyth: 2025-2026” piece. For now, his work—along with the continued work of pastry chef Jenna Pegg—is best viewed as a coda: an extension of what came before that, nonetheless, looks to conclude the previous train of thought and pave the way for something new. That “something new” may, as you’ve sensed, reference the Smyth style of yesteryear, but it could also, just the same, develop into something totally singular. The best approach, at this point in the process, is simply to describe the work of this new regime alongside that of Feltz, planting seeds of interpretation that may correspond to the growth of an obvious style somewhere down the line.

With that covered, you now begin your analysis of Smyth’s cuisine during the 2023-2024 era.

First impressions, at this level of dining (and corresponding expenditure), are important. Once the captains and sommeliers have shown their stuff, the arrival of the menu’s inaugural bites really sets the tone for the gustatory experience at hand. At Oriole, the kitchen’s opening salvo conveys the degree of decadence on offer (and, in your opinion, rivals anything served later in the meal). At Alinea, elaborate centerpieces introduce the restaurant’s manner of environmental manipulation (while accompanying morsels, in turn, reveal the team’s penchant for visual flair).

Smyth, true to its singular, understated style, typically starts the meal with a tiny but mighty set of bites that looks to showcase the kitchen’s favorite ingredients at the moment. These include seasonal fruits and vegetables, favored totems (like seaweed), and fresh seafood often combined with decadent touches (like truffle or caviar) and wrapped in playful, nostalgic forms.

During this period, Barker, Feltz, and Shields have all favored one small, speckled delicacy the most: an item, somewhat uncommon but not totally unfamiliar to a mainstream audience, that has been perfected by nature (and that speaks, immediately, to the restaurant’s unique sensibility). Yes, quail eggs feature on 22 of the 27 menus you have surveyed for this article. Typically, they appear as one of the evening’s first three bites (often the first] in a preparation titled “Smoked Quail Egg” (14 appearances) or “Quail Egg” (five appearances).

This diminutive orb of white and yolk is, in effect, a microcosm of Smyth’s entire culinary expression. The quail egg—smoked and marinated in black walnut miso—typically comes tucked into a brittle “shell” of pastry (a wrapper that the kitchen refers to as a “croustade” or crust). Its glistening white exterior remains visible beneath a thin sheen of yeast toffee (or, on other occasions, is obscured by a darker caramel). Sometimes (three appearances under the title “Quail Egg Tart”), the egg has arrived—surrounded by a thicket of kelp—at the center of a seaweed-infused tart shell or, later, come totally ensconced within a candied seaweed coating (a true replacement “shell”). However, invariably, the ingredient acts as a canvas for the flowers, microgreens, and bits of roasted kombu being used at the moment. Dollops of caviar and shavings of truffle may also, when appropriate, provide a hint of refinement.

At core, the “Smoked Quail Egg” and “Quail Egg” lay the groundwork for the textures and flavors to come while reflecting the menu’s dynamism. Upon reaching your tongue, the bite is crisp, sticky, plump, (luke)warm, soft, and oozing in sequence. It offers some trace of familiarity (your everyday soft-boiled variety) but strikes with a surprising intricacy and resulting richness. The quail egg combines nuttiness, caramelized sweetness, and lasting umami in the prototypical Smyth fashion. For newcomers, this forms a gentle introduction; for returning customers, it forms an anchor. Meanwhile, alternating hints of smoke, earth, brine, florality, and herbaceous lift (depending on the exact iteration) provide definition. These supporting elements prepare the palate for what will appear, with greater force, down the road. Sheer pleasure, in this manner, is not privileged so much as a provocative, intellectual kind of appeal. The “Quail Egg,” in its many guises, signals that this meal will look to challenge you as much as it might reward.

To accompany this bite, Barker, Feltz, and Shields have often (you count 15 examples across 27 menus) drawn on a playful, nostalgic construction that has come topped with a range of seasonal ingredients. This vessel, typically associated with breakfast, forms a tongue-in-cheek pairing with the adjoining egg (you do not recall the staff ever drawing this connection, but it seems obvious now). The morsel signals, from the start, that the kitchen possesses some sense of humor—and that, despite the pursuit of what’s novel, it still privileges some doses of charm and comfort.

You speak, of course, of the waffle: crisp, gridded, and appearing in myriad forms. You have sampled the “White Asparagus Waffle,” the “Barbecued White Asparagus [Waffle],” the “Barbecued Unagi Waffle,” the “Truffle Waffle,” and the “Sweet Corn & Maine Uni Waffle.” Later, during Barker’s tenure, you would encounter the “Sourdough Waffle & Enoki Mushrooms” as well as the “Sourdough Waffle & Truffle.”

The early versions of this dish, pioneered by Feltz, were characterized by a loose, grainy batter that really pushed the limits of the form. Rather than being firm and crisp throughout, the waffle was only barely held together by its caramelization. In fact, the restaurant would even sometimes term the vessel a “taco” due to its malleability and the care required when transporting it toward your mouth. However, this was intentional—the result of introducing seaweed into the batter and consciously compromising its integrity.

As a result, these waffles displayed a certain softness that allowed their accompanying ingredients—slivers of white asparagus, a rich fillet of eel, shavings of truffle, creamy lobes of uni—to shine. These delicate components would have inevitably competed with a more traditional, rigid take on the recipe. Instead, the yielding and latent umami qualities of the seaweed combined with layers of nut oil, citrus syrup, and fruit/vegetable purée to accentuate the toppings. This resulted in a building sweet, savory, and earthy sensation as the waffle’s constituents spread across your palate. As with the “Quail Egg,” you would not necessarily characterize these bites as offering easy pleasure. Nonetheless, they anchored guests (in a similar manner) with the kinds of flavors and textures that would be elaborated elsewhere on the menu.

The later versions of the dish, stewarded by Barker, have taken a relatively conventional route. The “Sourdough Waffle,” as it is called, boasts more visual appeal: being wafer-thin but delightfully golden-brown in satisfaction of what guests would tend to expect from the title. This presentation is helped by the fact that the chef actually utilizes two layers of the vessel to form a kind of sandwich within which a filling made of the other ingredients sits. (The most recent of these renditions, titled “Sourdough Waffle & Truffle,” would use milk skin and a crisp, flower-shaped tuile to achieve a similar effect with more of an otherworldly design.)

On the palate, this version of the waffle is appreciably crisp and crunchy. In fact, the vessel’s thinness is pushed to such an extreme that interior slices of truffle can still be perceived. However, even if the bite’s texture is more approachable, the chef does not shy away from delivering boldness of flavor. The “Sourdough Waffle & Enoki Mushrooms” transforms the titular fungus into a concentrated paste that, along with the truffle, explores a dark, deep side of earthiness. The later rendition, featuring the milk skin, has remained a bit lighter and sweeter but still showcases some of the same musky notes. Though the caramelization and tang of the waffle help to moderate these flavors, the bites—under the new regime—remain challenging. They use nostalgia as a doorway to discovery rather than opting for ordinary indulgence—which is to say, they introduce Smyth’s philosophy perfectly.

Other opening bites during the 2023-2024 era have showcased oyster, a bivalve whose mere presence—seen on countless tasting menus across a range of genres—seems to signal the start of a gastronomic experience. Here, things are not so simple. Barker, Feltz, and Shields almost always extricate the oyster from its shell and use it as a jumping-off point for an expression of fruit or vegetable. You count 11 examples in the 27 menus you reviewed: preparations like “Oyster & Strawberry,” “Oyster & Strawberry Aguachile,” “Oyster & Wasabi,” “Oyster & Salsify,” “Oyster & Lemon Leaf,” “Oyster and Makrut Lime,” and “Oyster & Apple.”

The earliest of these (i.e., “Strawberry,” “Strawberry Aguachile,” and “Wasabi”) place the bivalve (the Beausoleil variety to be exact) at the center of a small ceramic bowl. There, it is generously dressed in juice drawn from the fruit (either transformed into a dashi, tinged with chili heat, or spiked with wasabi vinaigrette depending on the exact version of the dish) and crowned with flowers. The resulting shooter is cool and slick on entry with some perceivable meatiness and brine from the oyster but, moreso, an encompassing umami-sweet sensation. Notes of bitterness and pungency act as accents in a bite that trades outright brightness for nuance and depth.

The transition to “Oyster & Salsify” (the most longstanding iteration) during Feltz’s tenure applied a kindred philosophy to a different set of ingredients. The titular bivalve, again, arrives tucked somewhere within the center of the presentation—in this case, an eye-catching mushroom-shaped piece of glassware by the aforementioned Robert DuGrenier. Owing to this recipe’s appearance during the winter season, the dressing of fruit has been substituted for one made of salsify (itself nicknamed the “oyster plant”). The root vegetable is cooked in miso and processed into a kind of custard that is layered with an oyster emulsion and a dollop of Siberian sturgeon caviar to create what has alternatively been titled a “parfait.”

On the palate, the “Oyster & Salsify” is a real success. The dish effortlessly combines its smooth and jellied textures, ensuring the most desirable constituents (the meat of the bivalve and accompanying orbs of roe) take precedence. In terms of flavor, earth and umami—as Smyth tends to do—are present to a surprising degree. These notes, in combination with the parfait’s cooler temperature, can be polarizing for some members of the audience. However, in the salsify, you find a subtle sweetness and nutty quality that works well with the caviar and rounds out the flavor of the oyster. Spoonful by spoonful, the elements come together in a way that leaves you both satisfied and intrigued.

Finally, under Barker’s tenure, “Oyster & Lemon Leaf,” “Oyster and Makrut Lime,” and “Oyster & Apple” have looked to challenge how the restaurant approaches the texture of the bivalve. In the first of these, the ingredient—for once—arrives perched in its shell, atop the titular leaf, with a light, creamy dressing and a couple pieces of kelp draped over its surface. Diners are instructed to slurp up the meat without swallowing the lemon leaf—a process that, nonetheless, releases zesty aromatics and a hint of sweet, citric flavor.

The makrut lime, by comparison, arrives hollowed out and garlanded with herbs. Extricating the oyster from its clutches invariably means bringing your nose close to the fruit, where a similar aromatic effect takes hold. That being said, the bivalve’s texture is most nakedly presented here, combining with the lime’s bold tartness and tang to make for a classically bright, sweet preparation (augmented by the surrounding florality).

The “Oyster & Apple” is the most inventive of the bunch, for it tucks the shellfish in a pouch made out of fruit leather and dresses it in a jellied sauce made from the same titular fruit. The sum effect, down to the same ceramic vessel, almost comes full circle back to the early “Strawberry” iterations. Nonetheless, this take is more textural, with the slight chew of the leather and concentration of sweet apple flavor touching on a nostalgic Fruit Roll-Up / apple sauce lunchtime sensation. By your measure, the oyster (both in texture and flavor) gets a bit lost here. Still, there’s nothing abrasive about the combination and, in fact, it represents one of the more crowd-pleasing examples of the bivalve you have yet seen.

Oyster would also feature, here and there, as part of another series of nostalgic bites that featured prominently during Feltz’s tenure and, later, would be reimagined by Barker. The inspiration, in this case, would come from the world of pastry (and, perhaps, wink at the Italian-American bakeries that have served the city).

The “Sunchoke Cannoli,” “Salsify Cannoli,” “Salsify Cannoli & Cured Oyster,” and “Almond Cannoli” have all drawn on that familiar tubular form. Rather than being made of pastry dough, the shell, in this case, is actually fashioned from a potato and leek tuile. It’s an impossibly thin wrapper, but one whose subtle bubbles (speckled across its surface) are, indeed, reminiscent of the Sicilian pastry. The tuile boasts a surprising degree of structural integrity, too, allowing the chef to dress both the interior and exterior with a range of toppings.

These have included roasted sunchoke or salsify custard, pink lemon segments, fermented truffle paste, slivers of green almond (a fun twist on the traditional pistachio), lobes of uni, and the titular shio koji-cured oyster. Later renditions would transform the custard element into more of thick cream, one that properly filled the shell from end to end while obscuring its contents.

Texturally, each version has combined a light, flaky crispness with the thicker (yet altogether smooth) mouthfeel of the custard, paste, and seafood elements. While ingredients like the green almond—or, say, fragments of fried sunchoke skin—help provide further definition, the “Cannoli” imparts a rich, soothing sensation. Yes, the crunch of the shell quickly gives way to earthy, sweet, and nutty tones the kitchen so loves to play with. The uni and/or oyster, when present, amplify the umami and lend the combination a kiss of iron or brine. Overall, this makes for one of Smyth’s most intricately designed bites—a playful, diminutive morsel that expresses some of the same ideas as the waffle and standalone oyster preparations but does so with greater clarity and concentration.

More recently, Barker has revived this same technique in the form of a “Dungeness Crab Cannoli” that appears, a bit later in the meal, in sequence with a more substantial serving of the shellfish. The head chef’s take on the creation retains all the same delicacy of the surrounding tuile. However, he approaches the dressing of the bite more simply: combining an exterior layer of custard and flower petals with an interior of crab meat and oil. The resulting combination is fairly straightlaced (avoiding the darker earthy notes that characterized some of the other versions) but beautifully decadent. As a sidecar, rather than an opening bite, this “Cannoli” makes for a wonderful treat.

One of the more conventional items used to start the meal has centered on caviar—the totemic luxury ingredient par excellence that has already been drawn on to top certain iterations of the “Quail Egg” and “Oyster &…” preparations. Here, as part of compositions titled “Fermented Melon & Osetra Caviar” and “Osetra Caviar & Pumpkin Seed,” the roe takes center stage. Both dishes, appearing sequentially (two times and four times respectively) during Feltz’s tenure in 2024, take their cue from the “Oyster & Salsify” presentation. However, by moderating the influence bivalve and upgrading the caviar (from Siberian to Osetra), the recipes aim more squarely at decadence in a way that immediately rewards guests.

In the glass vessel, you find some of the same oyster emulsion as before. Nonetheless, the earthier notes of the salsify custard are substituted for the rounder, riper flavor of the melon gelée and augmented by layers of sunflower oil and pumpkin seed oil. Texturally, this version of the “parfait” is as smooth and jellied as its predecessor. Yet, here, the caviar strikes your palate with a unique degree of purity: its nutty, creamy tones being accentuated by the fruit’s tangy-sweet quality and driven to an incredible intensity by the accompanying oils. A bit of freshly-grated horseradish, hidden within the bowl, acts as a pungent reprieve—helping the dish, which undoubtedly swings for the fences, stay in balance. Overall, this makes for a bold and satisfying expression of caviar that refines some of the kitchen’s earlier ideas without sacrificing the parfait’s singular character.

On the potable side of the “opening bite” equation, you have found—beginning at the tail end of Feltz’s tenure and continuing through Barker’s time as head chef (appearing 10 times in total)—a selection of amazake: a non-alcoholic (or sometimes low-alcohol) drink made from fermented rice. The process used here is akin to sake production, where kōji (a kind of mold) causes the carbohydrates in cooked rice to break down into sugars. However, these resulting sugars are not—in this case—fermented into alcohol, leaving a finished product of perceptible sweetness.

At Smyth, pours of “Sapote Amazake,” “Melon Amazake,” and “Pawpaw Amazake & Hibiscus” (all made in-house) have quickly formed a ritualized start to the meal. As a welcoming gesture, one of the back waiters arrives at the table with a ceramic decanter and two matching cups containing glistening spheres of ice. An accompanying bowl displays the fermented rice (congealed into striking clumps) and the titular fruit being used—often unfamiliar ones like sapote (a kind of persimmon native to Mexico) and pawpaw (a member of the custard apple family native to the eastern United States).

A short spiel introduces the ingredients and the technique used to produce the amazake, immediately grounding diners in the themes of seasonality and craft that will characterize the forthcoming menu. The milky, sometimes violet-hued (when the hibiscus is utilized) liquid is poured into the glasses, and the table is left to toast. On the palate, the amazake feels cool and crisp. It is free of any rice particles but, with further time in your mouth, displays a perceivable weight. Going down, the drink is mildly sweet and refreshing. On the finish, rich tropical fruit tones (sometimes tending toward flavors of squash) combine with creaminess in a way that is totally transfixing. You have never tasted anything quite like this, but you want more. The cup empties all too quickly, leaving you licking your lips in anticipation of what else is to come. All in all, these amazakes have quickly become a favorite flourish—a simple (but unerringly satisfying) way to ignite the spirit of the meal.

Returning to the nostalgic, playful end of the spectrum, you have—since the start of Barker’s tenure in June of 2024—encountered a range of donuts that have complemented the kitchen’s waffles. Within Smyth history, this is undoubtedly a beloved form—one that harkens back to the totemic “Beef Fat Brioche Doughnut” served alongside the main course during the tasting menu’s early years. Some diners, you are sure, would even maintain that the restaurant has rarely achieved the same level of pleasure since excising this morsel (one, to be fair, you can only dream of eating by the dozen). The new head chef has decided to tip his toque toward the old recipe, presenting his own creation—instead—toward the start of the meal.

The “Sweetbread Donut,” “Sweet Corn Donut,” “Maine Uni Donut,” and “Guanciale Donut” have all centered on the same basic construction (one you count appearing eight times in total). A round, browned ball of dough (think of an oversized Munchkin) is stuffed with its respective titular flavoring. For the “Sweetbread” and “Sweet Corn” variants, its surface is glazed and then topped with a scattering of herbs, leaves, and flowers that wraps the bite in a striking naturalistic sheen. The “Maine Uni” and “Guanciale” iterations, in turn, are relatively naked. The surface of their dough is left unadorned, but it is topped with greater intention: glistening lobes of the sea urchin or a tangle of mushroom and truffle slices respectively.

Reaching your palate, the bite is warm and soft (and, sometimes, a bit sticky) on entry. With a couple chews, the crumb breaks apart and unleashes its filling: yielding offal, corn cream, smooth sea urchin, or fatty pork jowl. As the interior and exterior layers combine in your, flavor begins to build. Though nominally pastries, these donuts are often more balance (as the “Beef Fat Brioche” always was). In fact, the sweetbread and guanciale renditions seem surprisingly sweet while the corn and uni ones display an unexpected savory character. The goal, as always, is to pique the diner’s interest (especially via supporting floral, oceanic, or earthy notes) rather than deliver sheer decadence. For that reason, these donuts do not quite replace what came before; however, they still represent welcome additions to the lineup that marry complexity and charm.

Other odds and ends you have not yet covered in this section include a “Buckwheat & Quince Tea” served once during the winter of 2024 as a kind of predecessor to the later amazake fixture. The brew, presented tableside in the same manner, anchored your palate for the fruity, nutty tones of the “Fermented Melon & Osetra Caviar” preparation that followed.

A “Sea Lettuce Tart” served at the very end of Feltz’s tenure played a similar role. This delicate morsel (its shell made from the titular seaweed) was coated in caramel and filled with a tuft of herbs. The one-off bite, more akin to what the restaurant serves as part of dessert, offered a brittle but sticky texture with harmonizing layers of umami and sweetness cut by the freshness of the greens. The tart worked well with a particularly rich, candied iteration of the “Quail Egg” that followed.

Finally, as a sidecar to the “Sweetbread Donut” and “Sourdough Waffle & Enoki Mushrooms,” you once encountered the “Corn Macaron & Buttermilk”—another kind of bite you’d typically see toward the end of the meal. Here, the thin meringue teased your tongue with sour-sweet notes that would be contrasted by the concentrated meaty, savory flavors of the subsequent items. Served together with the donut and waffle, the macaron made for a particularly whimsical opening sequence.

With that, you come to the end of Smyth’s introductory bites and now turn your attention to the second, third, and fourth courses that have defined the 2023-2024 era. Building on the exploratory, sometimes challenging combinations the kitchen likes to lead off with, these preparations work to clarify the restaurant’s culinary style: narrowing the focus on a smaller range of ingredients (often presented in flights) and translating them using a common grammar.

As a transitional course, the kitchen has occasionally favored items like the “Summer Corn Ice” or “Chilled Apple Soup”: cold, bright, refreshing bowls that cleanse your palate and provide just enough sweetness to engage you for what’s to come. In colder weather, you have also seen a warm soup (made from crab) play this role. However, these examples never lasted very long. Instead, the restaurant came to treat its quail eggs, waffles, oysters, cannoli, and donuts as bites—often a combination of bites—leading to an even grander assortment of morsels.

The idea, expanding on the usage of oyster and uni you have already outlined, is something like a “shellfish tower”: an expansion of the centerpieces that had already become totemic at Smyth during the 2021-2022 era. Then, mussels were particularly favored alongside servings of lobster, razor clam, and scallop—each piece of seafood being flavored with a rotating range of seasonal ingredients.

During the 2023-2024 era, you have encountered the “Scallop & Marigold,” “Pink Scallop & Coconut,” “Bay Scallop & Makrut Lime,” and “PenBay Scallop & Melon” (for a total of 9 preparation across 27 menus). These glistening mollusks come served on the half shell—or, on one occasion, totally enclosed (allowing guests to indulge in a tantalizing reveal). The meat may be crowned with a kiss of charring or, otherwise, left in its naked, milky white splendor. Invariably, it comes dressed with a liquid—tinted deep yellow (in the case of the marigold) or more of a translucent brownish tone (in the case of the fruit).

Upon reaching your palate, the scallop is soft and succulent. It displays just enough resistance to assert its presence before yielding a plump, buttery sensation through the finish. As the mollusk coats your tongue, its flavor takes hold: sweet, with a distinguishing touch of brine, and harmonizing tones of citrus (from the marigold and lime), musk/honey (from the melon), or nuttiness (from the coconut). It is hard to pick a favorite from the four examples, but you probably favor the tropical fruit iterations for their round, pleasing qualities. Still, each version has offered plenty of enjoyment: augmenting the familiar mollusk in ways that are novel but still totally approachable.

You have also sampled the “Maine Uni & Wasabi,” “Maine Uni & Horseradish,” “Maine Uni & Preserved Summer Corn,” “Maine Uni & Eggfruit,” “Maine Uni & Papaya,” “Maine Uni & Mamey Sapote,” “Santa Barbara Uni & Mamey Sapote,” and, finally, the simple “Maine Uni”—a total of 11 preparations across 29 meals). The preparations have rescued the sea urchin from its role as an accessory to the waffles, cannoli, and donuts, allowing it to take center stage. Namely, rather than using the coveted lobes to gild the lily, these recipes use a range of other flavors and textures—mostly drawn from fruit—to accentuate the star ingredient’s elusive character.

Often served in its own shell (though, on one occasion, you have seen the shell simply used as a cover for a traditional bowl), the sea urchin—typically a serving of three individual lobes—is adhered, in intervals, along the side. This imitates how the roe is found when the echinoderm is cracked open and, with what remains of the spindles, prompts a more reflective appreciation of a luxury ingredient, now so fashionable, that has almost been totally alienated from its origin. Rather cleverly, each of the chosen fruits seems to imitate the uni’s color (being just a tinge more reddish in the case of the mamey sapote) and, more importantly, its texture. Generally, clumps of the flesh (which seem loosely puréed) are placed along the shell in alternating sequence with the actual roe. Otherwise, the fruit may be transformed into more of a custard: anchoring the dish while forming a base for the dollop of wasabi or horseradish cream that complete the presentation.

Texturally, Smyth’s preparations of “Maine Uni” look to surround the lobes with smooth, rich sensations that emphasize its own natural creaminess. There might be an occasional pop of trout roe or some leafy crispness of seaweed to provide definition, but, here, the restaurant clearly (relative to when the uni tops other bites) aims at concentration rather than contrast. The same goes for how these preparations approach flavor.

Sea urchin, as any lover of the stuff will come to learn, can vary greatly from tray to tray irrespective of cosmetic quality. Principally, the ingredient can take on a great intensity of “irony” notes that, like brett in wine, can add intrigue but, in larger amounts, overshadow the sweet, umami character that is more prized.

The beauty of Smyth’s compositions is that the chosen fruits are so deeply and richly sweet in flavor. They possess no sourness or bitterness and, as a consequence, counteract the uni’s irony tones (when they appear) without introducing too much “noise.” Instead, the eggfruit, papaya, mamey sapote, and even the corn all work to augment the sea urchin’s own indescribable sweetness while retaining a total sense of purity. The wasabi and horseradish elements, when present, lend the dish a cleansing, pungent note (that, in its own right, helps to obscure any trace of iron). But these “Maine Uni” creations really succeed in celebrating the ingredient’s essence—serving it up in a decadent fashion that guests, whether familiar or unfamiliar with the orange lobes, can jointly appreciate.

Moving beyond these more longstanding forms, you have also encountered one-offs, like the “Geoduck Ceviche” and “Spot Prawn & Guava,” as part of the restaurant’s “shellfish tower” constructions. The first of these comprises thin slices of the titular bivalve—a very large, very prized clam—that have been dressed with coconut, sudachi, and the clam’s own juices. A “broken” geoduck belly emulsion completes the presentation, which delivers—despite the thinness of the starring ingredient’s flesh—real presence on the palate along with powerful, briny-sweet flavor.

The “Spot Prawn & Guava,” by comparison, comprises a raw segment of the crustacean’s tail that has been stuffed back into its head and comes topped with a mixture of its roe and a purée of the titular tropical fruit. The morsel is served on ice, and, plucking it out of its cranial holder, the raw flesh offers a fleeting resistance before expanding across your palate with a succulent, almost jellied mouthfeel. The prawn’s resulting flavor is mild and subtly sweet, yet it is supercharged by the more pronounced sweetness of the guava and the rich, briny essence of the roe. Overall, this makes for a streamlined—yet totally successful—bite that highlights the essence of the crustacean using bold, pleasing accompaniments.

There have also been spin-offs: like a preparation of “Bluefin Tuna & Hibiscus” that would initially appear somewhere within the flow of seafood servings before forming its own evolving course later in the meal. In its first iteration, the dish comprised ruby-red slices of the titular fish (essentially the akami cut) that were marinated in a strawberry dashi and dressed with wasabi vinaigrette. A curl of hibiscus flower, roughly matching the tone and veining of the tuna, formed the finishing touch.

On the palate, the fish’s flesh displays the combination of savory weight and soft, melting texture that makes it so prized. The notes of dashi and wasabi are, of course, familiar, but the presence of fruit sweetness and pronounced acid (moderated, just a bit, by the earthy note of the hibiscus) transcends any traditional sense of Japanese subtlety. Rather, this is a decidedly high-toned take on tuna sashimi that uses its umami as a foundation for powerful, vibrant flavors.

Over time, the kitchen would begin to favor the ōtoro cut (a supremely fatty portion of the belly) from the tuna, curing it in miso and pairing it with ingredients like redcurrant, cured oyster, and grated radish (over the course of five iterations). It would also serve this version of the “Bluefin Tuna & Hibiscus” with a sidecar: a bite of “Tuna Belly Tempura” topped generously with caviar. The use of ōtoro, understandably, shifts the fish’s texture from one of firmness (yielding to softness) to one of total lusciousness. A bit of charring along its skin or a crisp tempura shell helps to provide definition, yet the ultimate effect is a noticeable boost of richness that drives the dish’s interplay of umami, sweetness, and acid to an even higher peak.

Ultimately, the recipe would be retitled “Bluefin Tuna & Preserved Strawberry” for its final three appearances, combining the flavoring elements of the earliest rendition with the texture of the ōtoro you had so come to prize. Suffice it to say, this final form delivers a lot of everything—fatty, savory character balanced by brightness and a tinge of earth—bringing the idea behind the recipe to its apotheosis.

In a similar manner, preparations titled “Surf Clam & Preserved Strawberry” and “Surf Clam Kakigōri” would also, later, inspire a dedicated course. The first of these can be thought of as a dead ringer for the tuna dish you just discussed. However, in this case, the luxurious mouthfeel of the fish’s belly is substituted for the chewier, meatier consistency of the bivalve. This effect more or less shifts the textural balance of the recipe in the polar opposite direction, but it is pleasing in its own way. Moreover, the clam offers notes of sweetness and brine that play well with the fruit, acid, and earth. This all makes for a fun “cameo,” but the ingredient would really find its voice through further experimentation.

“Surf Clam Kakigōri” (appearing three times in total) is a good example. It represents a savory take on the titular Japanese shaved ice dessert, one in which chunks of the bivalve are dispersed within a slurry of finer frozen particles and topped with larger frozen sheets. Rather than tasting like water, the dish benefits from a concentrated dashi that supercharges the sweetness and brine of the clam to such an extent that you actually need a cleansing, neutral note to balance it out.

Juxtaposing the chew of the bivalve with the crunching, shattering consistency of the ice is a clever—if unconventional—choice. When the recipe first appeared, the sheets threatened to overpower and dilute the other ingredients. Nonetheless, the kitchen subsequently scaled back the frozen elements to create a dish of striking appearance, surprising textural appeal, and deep, pleasing flavor. In fact, rather than offering blandness, the ice actually works to extend and enhance the plate’s more enjoyable elements, surpassing how they might express themselves alone. You are not sure any ingredient other than clam could make the construction work!

In its second iteration, the “Surf Clam Kakigōri” would form a full sequence with two other items: a presentation of “Surf Clam & Rhubarb” and a bite of “Barbecued Surf Clam.” The first of these carries on in the style of the “Bluefin Tuna” preparations, combining charred strips of the bivalve with a dashi made using the stalky vegetable and a scattering of magnolia petals. Here, the chew of the clam is milder, and its texture is more perceivable without the surrounding layers of ice. The star ingredient’s sweetness, too, is amplified by the blend of tartness and umami provided by the rhubarb. It harmonizes with the magnolia (which, in turn, is slightly sweet in its own right), delivering an expression of clam that is uniquely fruity and floral.

The “Barbecued Surf Clam,” which arrives perched on a skewer, goes in the opposite direction. It represents a heartily charred, carnal delight that taps into the deepest, most quintessential kind of enjoyment. Here, some of the bivalve’s chew remains (being moderated by the layer of crust), but, relative to the colder preparations, the ingredient displays a unique succulence—sweetness and brine lacquered with its own juices—on this occasion. Relative to the other parts of the sequence, the “Barbecued Surf Clam” is, indeed, more straightforward. However, it rewards guests who have already sampled the more intellectual constructions with something purely hedonistic.

In its third iteration, the the “Surf Clam Kakigōri” would be joined by two variants of these same dishes. Of these, the “Surf Clam & Magnolia” is really just a refinement of the “Surf Clam & Rhubarb,” one that trades sour fruit tones for a more buttery, nutty set of accompaniments that help the titular flower’s flavor shine. A bit of lobster meat, deposited on one side of the bowl, and a dollop of hazelnut fudge butter also help to build a greater sense of richness. When you consider how refreshing the kakigōri preparation is, you think this is a welcome change: immediately switching to an indulgent expression of clam before delivering the knockout blow.

That comes courtesy of the “Surf Clam & Smyth Ham,” a rhyming presentation that taps into those hallowed haunches hanging over the pass. Here, the porcine flesh is processed into chunks that are just about the thickness of the bivalve. It is placed, in alternating fashion, alongside the shellfish on the same wooden skewer. The whole thing is given a slight degree of charring and served, delivering all the same plumpness and pleasure as the original “Barbecued Surf Clam” but benefitting from pork’s supercharge of salt, sweetness, and depth of flavor. Quite simply, this bite is a stunner—and an all-too-fleeting showcase of one of the restaurant’s most prized ingredients in an unexpected place.

Moving deeper into Smyth’s seafood assortment during the 2023-2024 era, you come to what must undoubtedly by labelled a fixture: a trio of lobster preparations, appearing in sequence, that have each appeared at least 10 times across the 27 menus you are surveying.

The first of these is a familiar preparation from 2021-2022 period. The “Lobster Coral Custard” (alternatively titled a “Lobster Coral Mousseline” on a couple occasions) represents, if one is inclined to be uncharitable, everything the “baby food” critics dislike about Smyth’s culinary philosophy. You have a prized crustacean that has been processed into an anonymous, homogenous substance that subverts any of the pleasure its texture typically promises. You then see the ingredient topped with all the nut oils and fermented fruit and seaweed flavors that already polarize some members of the audience in their own right. The resulting construction can feel like a stereotypical expression of “fine dining” gone too far: a denial of what makes a given ingredient great for the sake of celebrating it at its strangest.

In practice, having experienced the “Custard” on so many occasions, you think it has rightfully become one of the restaurant’s most totemic dishes. Its capacity to polarize is not a product of intention but, rather, its ability (like so many of the kitchen’s longstanding dishes) to act as a canvas for every one of their latest obsessions.

You have seen the dish topped with sea urchin, with a chunk of preserved raspberry, with jackfruit, with dulse (a kind of seaweed), and with the essence of lavender, rose, or hazelnut depending on the exact iteration. You have even seen the custard made out of king crab, Dungeness crab, or matsutake mushroom in later examples (more on those later). But lobster—and particularly its coral (the reddish, pinkish roe of female specimens that has long been used to enrich soups and sauces)—remains the perennial favorite.

On the palate, the custard feels warm and runny with a lightly congealed consistency. Nonetheless, its structure remains robust enough to capture and transport the pool of oil that lines the top of its vessel. As each spoonful melts on your tongue, a salty, crustaceous sensation builds. The lobster’s sweetness, teased out by tangy notes of fruit, may come to the fore. There is also often a vein of florality—woodsy and uplifting—hiding somewhere in the background. However, it is a nutty, savory character that carries the preparation, leading diners down toward depths of umami that the star ingredient, rendered as tail or claw, hardly ever achieves. The other elements (even that luscious lobe of uni) only really form window dressing in what is a rotating, yes, but consistently rich and concentrated expression of lobster that readies guests for the following bite.

You of speak of the “Lobster Claw & Raspberry,” another familiar morsel from 2021-2022 that has continued to define Smyth’s work during this key era. Of course, on the back of the diminutive serving of custard, what’s not to like about a comparably generous serving of the crustacean’s actual meat? The flesh, in this case, takes the form of a half section of the claw that has been perfectly removed from its shell to yield a generous, red-freckled puck. It sits atop a curved wooden implement that arrives as a sidecar to the preceding dish. The presence of chopsticks, in conjunction with the fine dining setting, may lead you to want to pluck the morsel from its holder and place it on your palate. Yet, the shape of the implement roughly mirrors that of a mouth, and you think it is best to hold the wood right up to your mouth, letting lips and tongue retrieve the crustacean directly.

In contrast with the custard, the claw is served a bit cooler (though not entirely cold). Its meat is seared in caramelized barley butter and seasoned with preserved raspberry, looking to expand on the flavor expression of the partnering bite while, at the same time, tweaking the balance. Here, nutty and fruity and savory shellfish notes remain the foundation, but there’s no intensity of the coral to draw on. Rather, the soft flesh of the lobster possesses a moist, refreshing quality that, despite the satisfying mouthfeel, leads to a brighter, sweeter finish. The deep umami tones you encountered in the custard are, on this occasion, more like background noise. They echo and reverberate as you sink your teeth into the claw, but it is a cleaner, familiar sensation—spiked with fruity tang—that takes hold. Ultimately, the “Lobster Claw & Raspberry” is more of a textural thrill than anything. But, in that sense, the bite rewards diners with the conventional pleasure they’d expect from the crustacean, enriching the overall sequence.

Nonetheless, the final piece of the puzzle has only fallen into place during the 2023-2024 era. The duo (i.e., custard and claw) is now a trio, and their crustaceous flavors have reached a climax with the arrival of the “Lobster & Seaweed Soup.” This bowl arrives by itself after the other two presentations are cleared, overflowing with the brownish, purplish tendrils of the titular aquatic vegetation. A back waiter pours the broth tableside, listing notes of barley butter, sudachi, and pink lemon while identifying the seaweeds (dulse and ogo) and warning guests to resist the temptation of consuming them. Instead, you are instructed to use the accompanying wooden to push the thicket down and retrieve the liquid hiding toward the base (a process that amounts to a quick infusion). Alternatively, you have taken to using the utensil to hold the seaweed back while you tilt the bowl and take its contents directly into your mouth.

On the palate, the soup arrives at an amply hot temperature that immediately distinguishes it from the warm custard and cooler accompanying claw. Its flavor strikes at the very moment those strands of seaweed, drawn toward your face, start to tickle your nose and envelop you in their musk. Immediately, your tongue is awash in a concentration of caramelized lobster—sweet and briny—rounded out with the rich, nutty notes of barley butter. The seaweed, so central to this preparation, imbues the liquid with a startling depth of umami with considerable length. Meanwhile, the presence of the citrus, while minor, moderates all the savory intensity via an uplifting vein of tang. Compared to the custard (the tiny but mighty primer for this trio), the soup feels broader and more comforting in its flavor. It touches on the same ideas (also expressed by the claw) for a third time but does so even more generously. In sum, the broth wraps the sequence up in a bow: driving this portion of the meal to a final peak of pleasure that, in reflection, helps each of the kindred, preceding elements shine even brighter.

In time, the lobster sequence has yielded to a similar study centered on crab. First, that would take the form of a “King Crab Custard” paired with a “King Crab Soup & Seaweeds”—this later version of the broth being made with lobster bodies, crab shells, mussels, leeks, halibut stock, lobster-miso consommé, Cognac, and Hermitage blanc. The potent liquid (sometimes referred to as a “bisque”) is poured tableside into a bowl containing the same seaweeds and citrus as before, yet enoki mushrooms also now join the party. The result is a soup of such profound savory, oceanic character that you struggle to find the right superlatives for it. Only a tinge of iron, which can occasionally appear, prevents the dish—kaleidoscopic in its flavors—from attaining total perfection.

These novel versions of the custard and soup would at first be paired with a preparation of “King Crab & Almond” and, subsequently, a revival of the decadent “King Crab in Beeswax” dish from 2021-2022. But a new, more permanent sequence would eventually take shape. The “Crab Kani Custard” and “Crab Soup” (as these items came to be called after the substitution, in whole or part, of the exact variety used) would find their home alongside the “Dungeness Crab & Almond”—a recipe that had formed its own course on more than a dozen menus before being brought into the fold.

In fact, “King Crab & Almond” only represented a one-off variant of this dish, which has appeared 17 times in total across your 27 menus from the 2023-2024 period. Whether served by itself or incorporated into a larger sequence (with the custard and soup), “Dungeness Crab & Almond” has always taken the same form—one that can be considered a clear successor to the “Dungeness Crab, Almond Milk & Newly Pressed Walnut Oil” preparation that appeared during 2021-2022.

The dish comprises two servings of the titular crustacean: a small pile of raw shreds and a larger pile, of similar consistency, that has been marinated with slivers of green almond. These portions of the crab are positioned on the side of their bowl, being joined (in between) by a dab of hazelnut fudge butter. At the bottom of the vessel, forming a pattern that can range from attractively dimpled to lava lamp-like to mysteriously cloudy (depending on the occasion), you find a pool of walnut oil that has been inlaid with a drizzle of almond milk. Guests are instructed to mix and match the various elements before combining them all into a cohesive bite.

This process yields bites that showcase the delicate flavor of the Dungeness’s raw meat with increasing degrees of nuttiness (drawn from the inclusion of the fudge butter and the walnut oil) and sweetness (drawn from the almond milk). As seen in many of the shellfish preparations you have already discussed, this dichotomy reflects restaurant’s tendency to drive the concentration of savory notes ever higher. In that task, the green almond is the outlier, cutting through the decadence with tones that are decidedly bright and grassy. This provides the crab with greater definition, allowing you to sense when its own subtlety sweet and nutty qualities (the ones that make the ingredient so prized) are enhanced and expanded upon by the chef’s potent accompaniments.

After appearing consistently over the course of some 16 months, the “Dungeness Crab & Almond” would see its core ingredient and core idea go separate ways. The latter would find its home in a preparation titled “Caviar & Almond,” which, itself, represents an evolution of the (comparably wordy) “Hot & Cold Kaluga Caviar, Almond Milk & Newly Pressed Walnut Oil” composition from the 2021-2022 era.

Appearing nine times in total—through the present day—“Caviar & Almond” streamlines the “Hot & Cold” construction while adapting some of the best elements from the Dungeness crab staple. The roe—Golden Osetra in this case—arrives over ice as part of a neat little tray. One of the back waiters carefully portions out a clump of the orbs and deposits them, like the preceding shreds of crustacean, along the side of an awaiting bowl. The caviar is joined there by the familiar fudge butter (this time flavored with rose) and preserved green almonds (slivered then packed together). It sits atop the same psychedelic blend of walnut oil and almond milk. However, there’s now a closing tableside flourish: a drizzle of sticky housemade nocino (made from green walnuts soaked in grain alcohol that is spiced, strained, sweetened, and blended with red wine).

Here, since the caviar possesses richer, nuttier tones than the Dungeness crab meat did, it benefits from a more robust flavoring. The walnut oil and almond milk deliver their expected effect, yet the floral quality of the fudge butter and more naked grassy notes of the green almond open the door for the nocino’s potency to take hold. This sticky drizzle, largely applied to the roe itself, further amplifies the sensations of nuttiness and sweetness while providing a careful dose of spice. The ultimate effect is a supercharged expression of the caviar bolstered by an array of bright, fragrant seasonings that emphasize its oceanic character without detracting from a sense of decadence. Given the generous portion of Golden Osetra that guests are granted, the balance here is impeccable. The dish allows you to revel in the luxury ingredient—enjoying it with a spoonful of this or a spoonful of that—while, at the same time, showcasing a side of it that is totally novel. 

Opposite the “Caviar & Almond,” the Dungeness crab itself has inspired a range of totally novel recipes: ones like “Dungeness Crab & Jackfruit,” “Dungeness Crab & Foie Gras,” “Foie Gras & Jackfruit,” and “Dungeness Crab & Parsnip” that persist through the present day.

The first of these, appearing five times in total, can be thought of as a salad: shreds of the crustacean that are tossed with matching segments of the yellow fruit, coated in a broken nut oil/nut milk dressing, and topped with a couple dulse chips that provide some contrasting crunching. The resulting preparation is not unlike the “Dungeness Crab & Almond”—in that, the starring shellfish sees its latent sweet and nutty notes bolstered by the accompanying ingredients. However, the portion here is totally centralized and cohesive. Each bite overflows with tender meat, and the jackfruit—in its own right—supports the crustacean with a substantial mouthfeel and soothing tropical tones. Overall, this composition does a better job of delivering the pure satisfaction of crab than the “& Almond” set, which, when paired with the caviar, also makes more sense as a dainty, interactive dish.

By comparison, the “Dungeness Crab & Foie Gras” and “Foie Gras & Jackfruit” can be thought of as successors to the “King Crab Custard,” “Crab Kani Custard,” and “Dungeness Crab Custard” constructions. In fact, they are even served in the same squared ceramic vessel! The idea—itself a throwback to one of Smyth’s earliest (circa 2017) creations—is to pair the delicate flesh of the Dungeness with the soft, rich mouthfeel of duck liver. Foie gras, in this fashion, more or less replicates the texture and umami of the custards while imbuing the crab with a similar sweet-savory depth. The combination, now executed in a more diminutive size, delivers on this promise (with the liver being noticeably gooier and less homogenous). However, the later substitution of the crab for jackfruit reveals just how dominant the foie gras element really is. This variant displays more pronounced sweetness and less of an oceanic quality (still present courtesy of the dulse chips) but feels more or less the same. In the end, you appreciate this experimentation in the wider context of the Dungeness crab dishes but think the ingredients are better utilized elsewhere.

Such a statement is easy to make when you consider the quality of what has come next. The “Dungeness Crab & Parsnip,” served toward the end of 2024, marks a new era of indulgence for the longstanding ingredient. Here, you on longer encounter the smaller shreds of meat that defined the previous preparations. Rather, a hearty nugget from the widest part of the leg (something closer to what you’d expect from king crab) sits slumped along the side of a bowl. At the bottom, you find the familiar pool of nut oil that is spiked, in this case, with a reduction of parsnip. Shavings of white truffle then form the finishing touch.

Just as the “Dungeness Crab & Jackfruit,” in its cohesiveness, put forth a more satisfying expression of the shellfish, the “Dungeness Crab & Parsnip” ups the ante. You’re talking of a glorious, flaky chunk of meat glistening with the accompanying juices and offset by the slightest whisper of the truffle. The flavors here flow in the familiar direction: nutty and sweet with a uniquely caramelized, earthy quality drawn from the root vegetable. The parsnip also serves to bring in the musky, savory character of the white truffle—a cherry on top of a dish that brings Dungeness crab to an absolute peak of deliciousness.

Just as Smyth’s use of crab has become more substantial, the custard/foie gras idea (previously applied to the shellfish) would shift toward featuring fungus. This has taken the form of a series of preparations—served through the present day—titled “Matsutake Custard,” “Matsutake,” and “Matsutake Chawanmushi” respectively. The dish’s form, in each case, has remained more or less the same: thin slices of the prized mushroom arrive layered over a loose, creamy base. A drizzle of oil (the identity of which escapes you) and trace of herbs complete the presentation.

However, this dish is unapologetic about giving the matsutake primacy. The shavings, which have progressed in form from a blanket to more of a jagged pile, break cleanly on your palate but make their presence known. Incorporating them into the custard helps to moderate this faint fibrousness, the kind of texture that can only be expressed by raw mushroom, but the flavor remains straightforward. In its raw state, the matsutake is predominantly clean and woodsy. The accompanying custard helps to provide a touch of umami, but it mostly emphasizes the same notes. At the very bottom of the bowl, you find a bit more richness and sweetness (perhaps hinting at the fact that the preparation needs to be vigorously mixed). But this is ultimately a dish of purity—an uncompromising, rather Japanese approach to matsutake that celebrates its subtlety without any guardrails of easy pleasure. In its near total intellectual (rather than hedonistic) appeal, this composition stands apart from much of the restaurant’s other work.

Moving beyond seafood (at least in part, for it always has a way of appearing as a secondary or tertiary element in the restaurant’s cuisine), Smyth has also used this early stage of the meal to put forth preparations that do more to celebrate produce.

During the first half of 2023, that took the form of dishes like “Asparagus & Pea Shoots,”“Oyster & Pea Shoots,” “Sweet Peas & Lemon Leaf,”and “Sweet Peas, Lemon Leaf & Garden Curry Oil.” Despite their change in titling, these recipes (each appearing once across sequential visits) center on and represent a refinement of the same idea. You can think of it as the closest thing to a “salad” that the kitchen serves—a lighter, brighter showcase of seasonal vegetables (namely asparagus and peas) set to appear as part of more decadent fare later on the menu.

“Asparagus & Pea Shoots” and “Oyster & Pea Shoots” comprise a shallow glass bowl that is set over ice and filled with cured pieces of the bivalve, a dashi gelée, asparagus tips, small leaves from the top of the pea shoots, and larger leaves of stinging nettle. The whole thing looks like a patch of foliage, yet, plunging in with your spoon, the resulting bite feels cool and slick, then crunchy, then varied and crisp in sequence. With the savory qualities of the oyster and dashi forming a foundation, the sweet character of both the asparagus and peas takes hold. The nettle, in turn, is surprisingly peppery. It, along with the cold serving temperature, imbues the dish with an uplifting, cleansing property that, in the wake of the lobster custard/claw/soup bites, helps to reinvigorate your palate.

With the arrival of the “Sweet Peas & Lemon Leaf”and “Sweet Peas, Lemon Leaf & Garden Curry Oil” variants of the dish, the oyster would be excised but some of the other elements (i.e., the dashi gelée and asparagus tips) would remain. The weight and texture offered by the bivalve would be replaced by the fresh sweet peas themselves: soft and succulent but with enough presence (and served in enough of a number) to feel somewhat substantial. Otherwise, the inclusion of okahijiki (an edible succulent also known as land seaweed or Japanese saltwort) defines much of the dish’s texture. It crunches along with the asparagus, adding definition to the more delicate peas and charging the vegetables’ sweetness with saltier, nuttier tones that also echo the dashi’s umami. At the same time, the zesty quality of the lemon leaf and kaleidoscopic curry oil (made from the full range of herbs the restaurant grows) work to provide the same fresh, rejuvenating quality that the nettles and lower serving temperature lent to the previous version. Ultimately, this feels like a more streamlined—but also more complex—construction that outperforms its predecessors.

Once of the most recent—and relatively longstanding—produce preparations, served during the early stages of the meal, has centered on the Sungold tomato. Fruity, sweet, and immediately recognizable (due to that namesake orange color), this prized variety needs little help to shine. That being said, Smyth’s team could never be satisfied by treating such a delicious ingredient with a soft touch. With their “Sungold Tomato Aguachile,” the kitchen looks to deepen and lengthen the flavor expression of the titular produce by way of a complex, layered dressing. The “chile water” (connoting a dish of raw seafood cured in the same liquid) is made from oysters, Korean melon, Tropea onion, citrus, charred Roulette peppers, and housemade pineapple tepache (a fermented drink made from the fruit’s peel and rind) sweetened with unrefined cane sugar and spiked with tōgarashi.

The resulting aguachile is poured into a shallow bowl and joined by a half-dozen slices of the tomato. Three are glazed with a combination of Roulette pepper and dulse then torched. Three are left raw. Sea buckthorn juice, some pieces of seaweed, and a mist of oyster juice complete the presentation, which captures the essence of the Sungold’s glow while calling a halved segment of fruit or sea urchin to mind. On the palate, the tomatoes display a plump, juicy character that tends toward a softer, richer mouthfeel for those that have been torched. Tangy-sweet on entry, the Sungolds also possess a subtle tropical fruit quality that is amplified by the notes of Roulette pepper (likened to a heatless habanero), melon, pineapple, and sea buckthorn present in the dressing. Meanwhile, a vein of umami (drawn from the oyster and seaweed) works with the more vegetal sweetness of the onion and the sharpness of the tōgarashi to keep the abundance of fruit flavors in check.

Ultimately, as with so many of the restaurant’s preparations, Barker has isolated the Sungold’s most desirable qualities—ripeness and sweetness uplifted by acidity—and found a way to coax out even more concentration. Importantly, the varied fruit character he utilizes to do so does not overshadow these humble slices of tomato. Rather, a careful application of savory, briny, smoky, and earthy notes keep the dish from feeling candied. Sugar is not the star so much as a fleshy, tropical sensation that is typically fleeting and, thus, challenging to perceive. This explains why a later variant of the recipe— “Sungold Tomato & Uni Aguachile”—works so well. The sea urchin, being every bit as ephemeral in its expression of umami and sweetness, slots right in alongside the Sungolds. There, the overarching combination of tropical fruits and oyster conjures the same effect: greater intensity without any loss of delicacy. This is all a testament to the aguachile’s expert balance, and it represents one of Smyth’s most powerful, adaptable “sauces” to date.

Moving a bit further into the flow of the meal, you come to the totemic dish of the restaurant’s post-pandemic era. You speak of a preparation that had already become a signature when you wrote about the 2021-2022 era. During the 2023-2024 period, it has appeared on 26 out of the 27 menus being sampled for this article, comprising five distinct iterations through the present day.

The star ingredient in question is the avocado: a superfood, the bit of everyday luxury that forms a tempting supplement, offered at those quotidian fast casual establishments, many consumers just cannot resist. This pitted fruit has become a symbol of 21st century American foodways (fueled, in part, by the lifting of import restrictions on Mexico in 2007), and, ever since Smyth ventured beyond The Farm to embrace a more continental conception of “seasonality,” it only makes sense that the kitchen would want to put its stamp on a piece of produce its audience enjoys (but maybe never quite conceived as something more than an accessory).

The ”Avocado & Habanada Slushie,” “Avocado & Garden Curry,” “Avocado & Fig Leaf,” “Avocado & Eucalyptus [Ice],” and “Avocado & Pistachio” all display the same construction. Really, apart from some minor changes to the finishing garnish, you’d be forgiven for thinking the five iterations are totally identical. However, as with many of the preparations you have already discussed, they simply take a winning form—in this case, a pristine half of avocado placed atop of a mound of flavored ice—and tweak the finer details to yield flavor combinations that feel somewhat familiar but always seek some surprising new nuance or greater refinement.

Typically, the starring ingredient (sourced from California) is glazed in pistachio (later called a pistachio “praline”) and flecked with flaky salt. A rotating selection of herbs and flowers (e.g., sage, parsley, or Vietnamese coriander) provides the final topping, which lends the fruit’s impeccably smooth surface a sense of texture and depth. The ice that sits underneath has been made of Habanada pepper, preserved tomato, Mutsu apple, or eucalyptus depending on the exact occasion. Nonetheless, a combination of peanut milk and fig leaf oil—blended in the same flowing, psychedelic style you saw done with the walnut oil/almond milk—invariably forms the principal dressing.

Visually, the central cap of green surrounded by green oil and the green trim of the chosen bowl makes for an enriching visual harmony. Later, the use of a vessel with a speckled finish would emphasize the ice and peanut milk components more—a welcome twist that highlights the produce by means of contrast. Diving in, you find the avocado to be soft and buttery when it meets your spoon. This allows you to plunge beyond it, into the accompanying slush and dressing, to retrieve a complete bite. Upon reaching your palate, the avocado’s rich consistency coats your tongue and works to buffer the temperature of the ice. As the latter element melts, the overall sensation tends toward creaminess (amplified by the peanut milk), which lasts through the finish.

This texture—avocado at its freshest and softest blanketed by a refreshing slurry—forms the foundation for a series of flavors. First, there’s the fruit itself: subtly nutty, a little sweet, and helped along by the coating of pistachio and salt. As you chew more, any herbs or flowers that are present come to the fore an emphasize the avocado’s fresher, grassier tones. Then, suddenly, the ice hits. It may double down on a sense of florality and cleansing fruit (when Habanada or eucalyptus is used) or offer a tangier, sweeter sensation (courtesy of the preserved tomato or Mutsu apple). Undoubtedly, you tend to enjoy the latter variations more for their straightforward decadence. However, the final hit of fig leaf oil (being tropical and nutty) and peanut milk (even more richly nutty and a little sweet) ensures that every iteration closes on a note of indulgence.

Ultimately, these recipes do a good job of showcasing the depth of the avocado’s fruity, nutty, and earthy qualities while celebrating its prized texture. Importantly, they do so without recourse to any of the seafood elements so often used to develop further complexity. The dish has also provided Fabbrini with fertile ground to try out a wide range of pairings: dry Riesling, sweet Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc, Chenin Blanc, rice wine, and even cider. Adaptability is always the name of the game for any idea that survives this long at Smyth, and, here, the kitchen has found one of its most unique canvases: a piece of produce that can survive seemingly anything thrown at it.

While ingredients like the avocado have carved out a consistent place on the restaurant’s menu, others are quite fleeting—and the kitchen does its best to explore a given item’s varied dimensions in quick succession. During the spring, asparagus tends to inspire this sort of treatment, and you already noted its usage in the “White Asparagus Waffle” and “Barbecued White Asparagus” opening bites. There was also the “Asparagus & Pea Shoots” (which, to be fair, became more about sweet peas as time went on).

The stalky vegetable would only really take the stage a bit later on, heading toward the midpoint of the menu, as part of a trio of preparations served in sequence. First, there’s the “Green Asparagus & Mustard,” a kind of variant of the pea shoot/garden curry oil idea that seeks a more streamlined, pungent flavor profile. Here, pieces of the starring produce (more particularly its tops) are dressed with a “broken mayonnaise” of egg yolk and mustard seed oil that is tinged with makrut lime. A preserved oyster gelée coats the bottom of the shallow bowl, imbuing the recipe with a baseline of brine and umami. These notes help to enhance the interplay between the sweet asparagus, spicy mustard seed, and tangy lime by joining with the egg yolk to lend the dish a more rounded, savory feel. The end result is an expression of the vegetable that is bright and fresh but still satisfying, preparing your palate for an even richer expression to come.

That takes the form of the “Trout & White Asparagus” (later substituted for the “Akamutsu & White Asparagus” on one occasion). Here, the produce component is better thought of as an accompaniment. It is transformed into a foamy nage—a stock in which the headlining fish “swim”—rather than exhibiting any real texture. Nonetheless, this liquid’s resulting flavor forms a thrilling follow-up to what you tasted in the preceding dish. Whereas, there, savory notes were only used to balance a bright, pungent character, the use of white asparagus here aims at total decadence.

Approached with your spoon, both species of fish display a beautiful tenderness—the trout being a tad flakier and the akamutsu (also known as the blackthroat seaperch) being more smooth and rich. On the palate, the former fillet displays a delicately sweet, nutty quality while the latter offers the same notes with an extra dimension of mouth-coating fat and umami. Both preparations are totally pristine. They could be paired with almost anything. But, in the white asparagus nage, you find a concentration of sweet, nutty, and subtly bitter notes that forms a perfect match for each fish while still offering a recognizable expression of the vegetable. In this manner, the liquid works to amplify the seafood’s succulence while also expanding on the savory notes from the first part of the sequence. The third part, in turn, looks to drive guests’ appreciation of the ingredient home via comparable nakedness.

“Warm Asparagus & Sea Lettuce,” as the preparation is titled, is simply conceived: three pieces of the vegetable’s stalk topped by three pieces of the vegetable’s tip (forming a pyramidal shape) soaked in oil made from the titular green. With this round, texture is finally the star. The asparagus snaps and crunches against your teeth in a manner that was partially overshadowed in the first course and totally obscured in the second. Here, it feels smooth and satisfying. It fulfills expectations, and the sea lettuce—loaded with salty, bitter, and umami tones—backs the green asparagus’s own earthy, more mildly sweet character. Though this dish does not offer the same straightforward pleasure as the trout or akamutsu recipes did, it delivers a deeper, more unapologetic expression of the star ingredient that fits this closing stage in the sequence. In sum, you are left feeling like you’ve seen the full potential of the ingredient, with each facet enhancing—by contrast—the distinctiveness of the others.

Other morsels—served a handful of times during the first half of the menu—include preparations of “Mackerel & Cherrywood” and “Enoki Mushroom & Buckwheat.” The first of these can be thought of as a continuation of the larger seafood sequence that marked the start of the meal. However, it is also one that distinguishes itself from the daintier servings of shellfish through a sense of fullness both in texture and flavor.

The fish, wild-caught and Japanese, is aged and cured on kombu (a kind of dried kelp). The resulting fillet is sliced into a couple of generous chunks that are glazed in a reduction of cherrywood and black garlic. Its skin is then sprinkled with purplish microflowers, and the portions are positioned along the side of a bowl whose base holds a pool of the same glazing liquid. Taken with your chopsticks, each piece of mackerel delivers a plump, tender, and unabashedly meaty mouthfeel when it reaches the palate. The fish’s texture—offset only by a brittle layer of skin and the subtle touch of the flowers—is impeccably clean. There’s no trace of slime or sinew, just a gushing quality (the kind that would make many local sushi chefs jealous) invigorated by layers of fruit and umami. The cherrywood, as interesting its inclusion in the recipe sounds, does a nice job of echoing the mackerel’s latent sweetness while also imbuing a smokehouse quality that eases the transition from raw fare to cooked.

The “Enoki Mushroom & Buckwheat,” by comparison, dives headlong into earthy flavors while also seeming to presage the “Matsutake Chawanmushi” preparations that would appear on the menu more than a year later. This dish centers on the tiny caps of the otherwise long, spindly fungus (referred to in China as the “gold needle”). They sit, scattered, atop a thin layer of buckwheat custard alongside a couple pieces of velvet horn seaweed. A hearty scoop of caviar forms the finishing touch, steering the innocuous-sounding dish toward a surprising degree of decadence.

With the roe in mind, the recipe makes total sense. You have the smooth, mouthcoating custard (replete with the toasty, earthy notes of the buckwheat) and the tender caps of enoki (marrying sweetness with their own sense of earth). The velvet horn, something of an oddball, provides a bit of chew along with concentrated tones of brine and umami. This opens the door for the caviar—its orbs rolling across your tongue and mingling with the other ingredients—to showcase its own nutty flavor, tinged with sweetness and oceanic complexity, with a sense of clarity. All in all, this makes for one of Smyth’s more straightforward expressions of the coveted roe; however, you appreciate the subtlety and cohesion on display.

Caviar would also play a central part in a range of preparations like “Squash & Caviar,” “Summer Squash & Caviar,” and “Butternut Squash & Osetra” (before the gourd would take on a life of its own via recipes like “Caramelized Butternut Squash & Sikil Pak,” “Barbecued Butternut Squash & Sikil Pak,” and “Honeynut Squash & Jackfruit”).

These first three dishes share the same basic structure: a purée of the titular fruit is interlaced with its roasted seeds, drizzled with a matching reduction, and topped with a small portion of the sturgeon roe. The idea here is, in truth, a lot like the “Enoki Mushroom & Buckwheat.” The bottom layer of squash, like the preceding custard, forms a smooth, mouth-coating foundation. It delivers the first flush of sweetness and nuttiness that marks these gourds, when prepared well, as a particularly decadent kind of produce. The seeds, rather than offering a pronounced crunch and textural contrast, are all slickness and subtlety. They roll across your tongue and offer only a fleeting crispness. Nonetheless, the seeds double down on the preparation’s nutty character while allowing the osetra—its delicate pop, its own refined balance of nut and ocean tones—to assert itself fully. Here, again, the caviar is treated fairly conventionally (compared to recipes—like the “Hot and Cold” construction—that proudly challenge expectations), but you appreciate this dish’s simplicity and finesse. It’s a late-summer, early-fall indulgence that’s easy to like.

Perhaps realizing that this combination of gourd and roe did not quite push boundaries as much as Smyth’s cuisine tends to do, the kitchen would eventually excise the caviar and steer its accompanying ingredient toward a fuller expression of flavor and texture. The “Caramelized Butternut Squash & Sikil Pak,” “Barbecued Butternut Squash & Sikil Pak,” and “Honeynut Squash & Jackfruit” each represent the fulfilment of that idea: a heartier serving of the fruit’s flesh that, being seasoned with breadth and depth, is treated more like a star than a booster for unrelated luxury.

On this occasion, the squash is braised in apple juice and either caramelized in butter or cooked over fire to yield—on just one side—a golden-brown (often tending toward black), craggy crust. This darkened section of the gourd is set facing the guest while the rest of serving is obscured by a frothy layer of white asparagus nage (made from vegetables that have been fermented for a year). A scattering of pumpkin seeds, puffed rice, or orange zest may join the squash above the surface. However, it is what lies below that really defines the dish: miso, mushroom vinaigrette, and the titular sikil pak (a traditional Yucatán salsa made from ground pumpkin seeds, tomatoes, garlic, chiles, and citrus).

Approaching the dish, you aim straight at the serving of gourd, whose brittle crust and accompanying bits of pumpkin seed or puffed rice form a pleasing contrast with its rich, silky interior. The resulting bite feels satisfying, and the nage, whose bubbles flow to fill the crevices, lends the flesh a creamy finish. Flavor, at this point, centers on the interplay of sweet and nutty notes that—as it pertains to this ingredient and Smyth’s culinary style in general—tends to take precedence. Nonetheless, thanks to the caramelization, charring, and fermented elements at hand, you find supporting butteriness, bitterness, and tang that help provide definition. All that said, the moment you strike upon the reservoir of miso, mushroom, and sikil pak hidden beneath the foam, the preparation really takes off. This concentration of umami, complicated by earth, acid, and a touch of heat, sends the squash’s push-pull of sweetness and nuttiness into the stratosphere. Doing so, the gourd achieves a level of hedonism—without the help of any caviar—that is both singular and remarkable.

The “Honeynut Squash & Jackfruit,” served many months after the “Sikil Pak” preparation, aims at a similar sensation but does so with a softer touch. The gourd, in this case, is every bit as silky but features no contrasting caramelization or char. Pumpkin seeds and the white asparagus nage are present, providing a comparable baseline of sweet, nutty, and tangy notes. Yet, with the substitution of jackfruit, this version of the dish settles for rounder, tropical tones rather than ratcheting umami up to a dizzying degree. The result is a dish of enjoyment and elegance—if not the same raw power.

Following some full-flavored expressions of fresh produce, the menu now turns toward its headlining preparations of seafood: dishes that feature many of the favorite ingredients that, in a daintier form, heralded the start of the meal but now have a chance to demonstrate their full power. The first set of these features a familiar crustacean, one that totally defined the kitchen’s work during 2023 by appearing, time after time, in custard and claw form. However, with the “Lobster Tail & Hoja Santa” and “Lobster Tail & Salsa Macha” recipes, the shellfish reaches its apogee: a prime portion of flesh seasoned in pursuit of pure deliciousness.

Both servings center on the same core element: plump segments of the tail that have been poached in raspberry butter (a callback, you might remember, to the manner in which the “Lobster Claw & Raspberry” was flavored). The hoja santa, when present, takes the form of a large, crisped chip that is joined in the bowl by some smaller leaves of the herb, a couple flowers, and a piece of shallot. The salsa macha, in its own right, is also reinterpreted—with the sauce’s nutty, earthy, and smoky notes being rendered via the find of nage (or foam) you have already seen used as a means to transform white asparagus.

After sampling the crustacean in its earlier forms, you are immediately satisfied by what you find here. Each piece of tail feels firm on entry but turns tender and succulent with just a couple chews. Its butter coating, too, amplifies the sense of luxury. In the case of the “Hoja Santa,” preparation, the herb’s crisp, crunchy texture and notes of pepper and anise served to contrast (and complement) the soft, sweet, and somewhat tangy lobster. The “Salsa Macha,” in turn, is a bit more straightlaced. There, the foam forms a natural extension of the butter coating and imbues the crustacean with nutty, smoky depth. Both recipes ultimately serve to provide the lobster/raspberry combination with more savory backing, and they delectably do so without detracting from the simple pleasure butter-coated seafood can provide.

Later, from June of 2024 until about the midpoint of fall, Barker would revive these preparations and put his own stamp on them. By this point, the custard and claw items had long been absent from the start of the meal (being replaced, you might remember, by servings of crab). So, with his “Maine Lobster & Guava” and “Maine Lobster & Sikil Pak” compositions, the chef could really go all out—putting forth a generous serving of the crustacean, even more boldly seasoned, that could serve as a sole, showstopping testament to its potential in Smyth’s hands.

In this iteration, the lobster takes the form of a longer, solitary segment of tail with a portion of the pincer placed at its top. The meat is poached in raspberry butter as before but joined now by a dab of sikil pak (placed at the very bottom of the bowl) and a surrounding garnish of marigold petals. These flowers may sometimes be haphazardly strewn but, on other occasions, they flow out from the sides and top of the shellfish in such a way as to mimic the rest of its anatomy. The finishing touch, a frothy jus of lobster butter and guava, is applied tableside, releasing the aromatic properties of this clever presentation.

As you approach the dish, the larger size of the tail and claw portions here allows you form your own bites and increase the lobster’s presence on the palate. It is firm—then tender—as before with all the extra weight and extravagance that comes from gobbling it down (should you so choose) in just a few mouthfuls. The crustacean’s accompanying flavors certainly tempt you to do so, as the meat’s sweetness and subtle tang join with the bright, peppery, and faintly crisp marigolds (which form the closest thing to textural contrast). Upon this foundation, the absolute intensity of the lobster butter-guava jus (all the savory character of the shellfish spiked with luscious tropical fruit tones) and sikil pak (superbly nutty with tomato and allium undertones) flex their muscles. If the hoja santa and salsa macha complemented the shellfish before, these elements utterly glorify it. Without overloading your tongue with salt or umami, they coat the lobster with a layered, lip-smacking sensation that augments and extends its natural character. The resulting finish (when you have licked the bowl clean) lasts more than a minute, and you have a hard time remembering any seafood preparation at Smyth that has so reliably delivered this degree of pleasure. Bravo!

Another piece of seafood that reaches its peak at this point in the meal is something of an unlikely star. Slippery and snakelike, eels do not quite get guests’ juices flowing within the context of American gastronomy (despite a long history of consumption on the continent). But Chicago’s omakase boom has helped reveal just how delicious the fish can be, and Smyth takes particular pride in sustainably sourcing it (the freshwater variety) from American Unagi in Maine. The eel arrives fresh every Wednesday before being skinned, scored, layered with tomato- and pepper-infused seaweed, rolled, steamed to set its shape, and then grilled. The resulting serving forms the centerpiece for two distinct preparations.

The first of these, “Maine Unagi, Lima Beans, & Ham,” only appeared on one occasion and sought, perhaps sensing it could be a tough sell for some diners, to envelop the star ingredient in a decadent sauce. Yes, while a few of the titular lima beans are served whole, the recipe centers on a broth made from the legume (in concert with leeks, peppers, and the hocks of the very same hams dangling above the pass). The same liquid is also thickened into a kind of BBQ glaze that is brushed over the fish, referencing one of its most longstanding methods of seasoning.

On the palate, the freshwater is firm—and wonderfully meaty—on entry but proves soft and rich with further chewing. This matches the smooth, creamy consistency of the accompanying lima beans, whose nutty-sweet tones match the same latent character in the unagi. Nonetheless, it is the double whammy of broth and glaze that makes these flavors profound: concentrating sweetness and umami in a manner that makes the eel feel as satisfying as bonafide animal flesh. It is hard to get enough of the ingredient in this form, one in which its texture also really shines.

The second preparation, “Maine Unagi & Blade Kelp,” would appear a total of four times across your menus. Here, the grilled eel is treated more adventurously: being rolled in leaves of the titular seaweed (that, itself, has formed a controversial pillar of the restaurant’s culinary style). The resulting portion is placed atop a Carolina rice porridge with a bit of rice kōji (grains inoculated with mold for use in fermentation) for seasoning. Whereas the previous dish combined a fairly straightlaced texture with superlative flavor, the present one offers the inverse. The eel retains its meaty yet soft mouthfeel while displaying greater nuance opposite the slick segments of blade kelp and soothing porridge. Enoki mushroom caps and even shavings of white truffle, when occasionally utilized, maintain the effect—one of a fleeting, slippery sensation surrounding the succulent fish.

On this occasion, the eel’s natural sweet and savory notes remain less explosive, being amplified by the salty, umami quality of the kōji and given greater length by the kelp. The earthy, aromatic quality of the truffle actually blends in quite well too (when present), but this dish offers a decidedly delicate expression of unagi that remains unabashedly true to Smyth’s house style. That is to say, it sacrifices some degree of easy appeal for the sake of a singular texture/flavor sensation—one that challenges the audience while, by your measure, still feeling enjoyable.

Later (during the first half of 2024), the eel would be extricated from these dedicated recipes and transformed into a sidecar for preparations looking to express the same kind of idea with a different kind of seafood. The first of these, titled “BBQ King Crab & Rice Koji,” arrived during a particularly crustaceous meal that also featured custard, soup, and “almond” preparations utilizing the shellfish. However, it is impossible to understand this dish’s full depth without going back one month further, to December of 2023, and surveying a fleeting series of bites flavored with the same grain.

The ”Sea Scallop & Wild Rice Hollandaise” (appearing twice on menus during that month) and “King Crab & Wild Rice Hollandaise” (appearing once right before the new year), can be thought of as an extension of the myriad shelled morsels Smyth has used to mark the start of dinner. Nonetheless, while those expressions tend to surprise and tantalize, these—served at the very midpoint of the menu—pursue a different purpose. Yes, the recipes are rather simple: seafood, served in their natural state, with one or two sauces. But they embrace pure pleasure in a manner that is somewhat uncharacteristic for the kitchen, as if someone asked the chef to dress the ingredients with only his own enjoyment (as opposed to the demands of discovery or experimentation) in mind.

Of course, the result is still hardly what you’d call conventional. In the first instance, the scallop is carefully scored and grilled in such a way as to elongated and further tenderize its soft flesh. An accompanying pool of brown butter forms a familiar pairing—its nutty tones enhancing the mollusk’s own sweetness—yet the hollandaise, popular partner to asparagus and poached eggs, helps the preparation attain an even higher decadence. The sauce’s effect is twofold. First, its thick, oozing consistency serves to surround the scallop and imbue each bite with an extra dimension of smoothness and richness that enhances the bivalve’s mouthfeel. Second, the earthy and nutty notes of the wild rice component—in concert with the hollandaise’s classic butteriness and subtle tang—drive the dish’s interplay of sweet and savory flavors to an absolute extreme. This results in a modest serving of shellfish that delivers lip-smacking satisfaction, a subversion of the colder, brighter, and more intellectually appealing compositions that start off the evening.

By comparison, the “King Crab & Wild Rice Hollandaise” approaches the same idea with an even greater sense of refinement. Therein, a portion of the crustacean’s leg arrives grilled and set in its shell. The accompanying sauce is applied tableside, spreading seductively across the surface of the meat. Morsel by morsel, you work your way across the length of segment as the subtle chew and eggy richness—the crabby sweetness tinged with nut and tang—continue to build. The sum effect is not unlike the mayonnaise-based condiments used to dress cold platters of the shellfish. However, here, the crustacean benefits from a transfixing earthy-caramelized quality that, along with the attractive presentation, delivers ample enjoyment.

Returning to the “BBQ King Crab & Rice Koji,” you find a synthesis of the Carolina rice porridge (spiked with rice kōji) from the “Maine Unagi & Blade Kelp” dish with the same wild rice hollandaise used in the recipes just described. Here, the former element serves to cushion a serving of the grilled crustacean while the latter, as usual, is spooned on top. A leaf of blade kelp forms the finishing touch, serving to obscure the meat while inviting diners to take their spoon and dive within.

When you do so, the range of textures on display is dizzying. You find the smooth, creamy porridge, the charred but tender crab, the slick and almost meaty kelp, and, at last, the rich hollandaise. Rather than jostling for attention, these elements quickly converge to form a relatively soothing sensation punctuated by hints of rice grain and the shellfish’s subtle chew. The resulting flavors display plenty of umami with a double dose of rice character (part earthy, part fermented) providing intrigue. The sweetness of the crab still comes through—just not with quite the same degree of power or clarity. Instead, the prized ingredient serves more as a vehicle for the savory notes of the kelp, kōji, and wild rice to interact. Ultimately, the dish’s mouthfeel, in all its complexity, remains pleasant, yet it is easy to see why the king crab was only utilized in this manner once. It risks being overshadowed and only makes sense given this same menu’s other, simpler means of showcasing the crustacean.

Served as a sidecar to the “BBQ King Crab & Rice Koji,” the “Eel Doughnut” would, nonetheless, prove more long-lived. The bite, very much akin to the early expressions of the pastry you have already covered, combines a faintly crisp fried exterior with a warm, fluffy interior. Perched atop the doughnut, you find the meaty flesh of the unagi with accompanying garnishes of lardo and shaved egg yolk or velvet horn and eel toffee. Taken together, this sidecar contrasts the intricacy of its accompanying dish by delivering a more straightforwardly decadent mouthfeel charged with fat, sweetness, and caramelization. At the same time, an encompassing bready, savory quality prevents this from feeling like dessert. Overall, this makes for an interesting evolution of the form that remains delicious (if not transcendent) and helps to ground one of the kitchen’s bolder courses.

Just a few weeks later, the king crab saw itself excised and a serving of fish would take its place as part of a kindred preparation (one still accompanied by the “Eel Doughnut”). “Rainbow Trout & Koji Rice,” as the resulting dish would be called, looks to simplify things a bit. Blade kelp, that favorite seaweed, remains (serving to top the fillet), but the hollandaise is now missing. Instead, the Carolina rice porridge and its inflection of kōji are processed into something more of a sauce: creamy, with a dimension of weight (though not the same eggy richness) and no real sense of the grains.

Texturally, this modification ensures that the headlining fish (unlike the crab) runs no risk of getting lost in the shuffle. The rainbow trout’s flesh is soft and smooth in a manner that matches its crowning layer kelp (slick yet easily sliced) perfectly. These two components meld and slide across your tongue, being blanketed by the creamy kōji sauce and lending each bite a sense of luxury. Like its predecessors, the dish’s flavors land in the sweet, nutty, and umami wheelhouse (with a tinge of fermented tang). However, this iteration shines on account of the fish’s milder, more delicate character and the sneaky length of the accompanying dressing. Rather than struggling to pinpoint what’s going on in the bowl, you can slowly savor how the rice and kelp work to enhance the best qualities of the seafood.

A month later, “Rainbow Trout & Koji Rice” would become “Rainbow Trout & Blade Kelp.” Nevertheless, this was no mere renaming but, rather, a further refinement of the same idea that would appear a total of four times across your menus. In this construction, the fish has no room to hide: its silvery scales stretch across the roughly-shapen plate, guarding a delicate portion of flesh that has been poached in roasted kombu butter. The fillet is brushed with sea lettuce butter, and a scoop of the Carolina rice porridge is tucked along its side. The kelp itself is braised in turnip juice and charred before being placed alongside the trout as a kind of matching piece. The finishing touch comes by way of a mushroom, chervil, and blackened shallot jus that is drizzled over the top, infusing the bright green tones of the sea lettuce with more of a darkened hue.

On the palate, this preparation of trout is remarkably smooth—almost like a custard—and easily sliced (skin and all) using the edge of a spoon. The blade kelp, despite a tendency toward stickiness, also separates with ease. Combined with the porridge, this element gives definition to the fish: soft grains and crisp (yet ultimately buttery) seaweed serving to break up its impressive unctuousness. In terms of flavor, those nutty, sweet, and umami notes continue to reign. However, the absence of any kōji yields a cleaner character. The gap left by the fungus is filled by roasted, mushroom, and (burnt) allium qualities that shift the dish in a darkly savory direction. Nonetheless, the chervil provides uplifting tinges of citrus and anise that keep the recipe in balance, yielding a sophisticated course of surprising decadence.

Joining the “Rainbow Trout & Blade Kelp,” you find an updated version of the “Eel Doughnut” that is titled “Smoked Unagi Doughnut.” In truth, the bite is not all that different. It streamlines the fish’s topping, favoring the eel toffee and velvet horn elements seen before. Otherwise, the contrast between succulent unagi and fluffy fried brioche offers familiar pleasure, with the smoking process serving mostly to enhance the glaze’s caramelized character via its subtler sweet and savory tones. Enjoyed alongside the trout, the doughnut confirms the peak of pleasure this particular course (its core idea being first explored nearly half a year earlier) has now attained.

By the time Barker stepped into the head chef position, Smyth had already begun to tinker with this recipe, which seemed (at the time) perfected but could not escape the kitchen’s penchant for evolution. At first, the process proceeded rather simply: “Rainbow Trout & Blade Kelp” was replaced by “Steamed Brook Trout,” a dish that more or less maintained the same construction (while ditching the accompanying doughnut). However, the two species of fish actually belong to different genera, with the latter being categorized alongside char. That being said, the brook trout—steamed instead of poached in butter—delivers equal pleasure. Its flesh is darker than the preceding rainbow variety, but the fillet is also oilier: a characteristic that ensures a sense of softness remains. The meat melts on your palate in the familiar fashion and offers enough latent sweetness to play off of the savory qualities of the kelp and jus. Really, it’s hard to notice much of a difference (something of an achievement when considering the diminished decadence of the fish’s new manner of preparation). 

Quickly, this new species carved out a place on the menu, forming (perhaps due to sourcing more than anything) a natural continuation of what had been done with the rainbow trout. Still, there was more room for the ingredient to grow—to become even more particular and unique in its expression. After a couple months, the kitchen came out with “Brook Trout & Truffle Porridge,” the next phase of the recipe’s development that looked, as the title suggests, to tip the balance of flavor toward a greater sense of luxury. When you considered the substitution of the roasted kombu butter poaching method for steaming, a bit of added extravagance makes sense. The black truffle, its aromatic properties activated by the warm grains of rice, amplifies the darker, richer notes of the fish. Elements of sweetness, umami, and burnt allium depth remain, but, here, the earthy, nutty character of the coveted fungus forms the exclamation point. The truffle drives the brook trout toward a degree of savory intensity that the rainbow variety rarely achieved. It frames the course, served during this late stage of the meal, as a fitting gateway toward the substantial servings of animal protein that are set to come.

Of course, Smyth is never afraid to pivot, and the black truffle would eventually be excised in favor of a new variant of the recipe that sets out in a completely opposite direction. The basic blade kelp, rice porridge, sea lettuce butter, and jus components all remain, yet the “Brook Trout & Horseradish” aims to counter and cleanse their savory character rather than further enhancing it. Here, the pungent root vegetable is transformed into a foam that surrounds the fish fillet. Texturally, the flesh and its surrounding elements continue to deliver a rich, soothing mouthfeel. Sweetness, nuttiness, and a deep-sea umami quality define the forefront of the dish; however, rather than shifting into high gear, these flavors are counteracted by the horseradish. The foam form ensures that the piquancy isn’t overpowering, yet it imbues the preparation with a sense of brightness that balances the darker notes and restores a sense of delicacy to what has sometimes been rather unabashedly savory. The chervil, still present as part of the jus, comes through particularly well in this instance, lending a citrusy, anisey depth that enhances the horseradish’s sharpness.

In its final form (served through the present day), “Brook Trout & Blade Kelp” has demonstrated an even greater degree of evolution. The dish’s name does not necessarily suggest that to be the case (for hasn’t the titular seaweed featured in every iteration of this recipe). Nonetheless, you now find the fish rendered in the form of a large, more rectangular fillet. Its skin has been removed, and the blade kelp, rather than sitting beside it as a parallel piece, is transformed into circular “scales” layered on one end of the flesh. Beneath the brook trout, the rice porridge remains, but, atop it, saucing takes the form of sea lettuce butter and a kōji cream (not unlike what appeared in the “Rainbow Trout & Koji Rice” version). In short, the restaurant has streamlined the preparation: abandoning the visual dimension that defined the dish for so long in favor of greater satisfaction. As always, the fish’s mouthfeel is buttery soft and blanketed by the smooth porridge and slick (though altogether more manageable) pieces of kelp. Yet, bite by bite, you simply get to enjoy more of the trout—revel more in its natural sweetness—with the sauces’ concentrated umami and fermented, salty-sweet tones providing delectable backing. Yes, after nearly a year of experimentation, the kitchen has finally chosen to concentrate—and celebrate—the qualities that make this core idea so alluring. Pleasure, more than ever, seems to be the goal.

At long last, having exhausted every expression of seafood Smyth had to throw at you during the 2023-2024 era, you reach the meat of the matter: one, two, or sometimes three carnivorous courses intended to anchor the savory portion of the menu and ensure a sense of satisfaction. Critics of the restaurant have often found this to be a precarious portion of the meal, one that only further confuses diners rather than rewarding them for their embrace of the kitchen’s more provocative work in the lead up to this star attraction. Any serving of meat, they reason, should be a home run at this level of cookery. Yet restraint—playing it safe—is not in Shields’s, Feltz’s, or Barker’s vocabulary. The chefs’ shared philosophy would hardly be worth pursuing if they were going to let off the gas when faced with many of the same animal proteins that other fine establishments make use of. However, this is not to say to say that they totally overlook enjoyment.

At the very start of 2023, the kitchen favored a familiar bird at this late stage in the meal. The “Stuffed Quail & Its Liver” can be thought of as Smyth’s ultimate finger food: an engaging serving of game that readies your palate for the fork-and-knife presentation of beef that follows. Here, the poultry is rendered as a solitary, plump piece of its leg—attractively boned down toward the foot and beautifully golden-brown (almost reddish in hue) across its skin. The quail, as the title suggests, is stuffed with its offal. The resulting morsel is situated along the side of a shallow bowl with only its tip touching a shimmering, almost milky pool of liver sauce.

As intended, you clutch the bird’s bony appendage and maneuver the leg round and round the bottom of the bowl, coating it thoroughly. On the palate, the meat feels tender and juicy—homogenous to a degree that is reminiscent of sausage—and is offset by a subtle crispness drawn from the lacquered layer of skin. In terms of flavor, the quail’s flesh already possesses a darker, more savory character than domesticated poultry. However, the offal stuffing pushes this quality to the extreme. The organs are not irony or unpleasant in any way, yet they amplify your perception of the bird’s meatiness. The accompanying liver sauce, too, adds to this sense of richness while possessing enough acidity and salt to keep the dish’s decadent components in balance. Ultimately, the serving of leg comes across as totally clean yet surprisingly long and concentrated despite its size. This makes for a peak expression of the game bird fit to convince those skeptical of its “wild” nature. It also makes for a dream pairing with red Burgundy—one the sommelier is certain to indulge in.

In its earliest iteration, the “Stuffed Quail & Its Liver” would be followed by a preparation titled “Maitake Mushroom & Deckle,” which (though it might not be obvious) acts as the equivalent of a steak course. However, on paper, the fungus seems to take precedence: that “hen-of-the-woods” variety whose polypore structure allows for an intricate textural experience. Here, the top of the mushroom (where its many tendrils combine to form a craggy layer) is heartily charred while its base is merely cooked until tender. The deckle—a particularly prized cut also known as the ribeye cap or spinalis—is also aggressively seared but retains a blushing, reddish center. A piece of blade kelp, that favorite trope, comes draped across the surface of the meat while a roasted kombu reduction forms the finishing touch.

Diving in, it becomes immediately clear that the kitchen has pulled no punches. Though not identified as “wagyu” (domestic or Japanese), the deckle is absolutely buttery with only a hint of framing crispness drawn from its seared crust. Opposite the steak, the maitake is more unabashedly crunchy on entry but smooth and succulent as you work your way down to its base. Meanwhile, the blade kelp (as usual) provides something more of a slick, fleeting presence that, nonetheless, aids in delineating the starring elements. As the steak melts on your tongue, its latent “beefiness” comes to the fore. Yet it is the notes of bitterness (from charring), earth (from mushroom), and concentrated umami (from the kelp and kombu) that really make the meat sing. They provide savory backing for deckle that, when combined with the sauce’s roasted notes, lends the cut a length and richness of flavor that is simply extraordinary. Yes, while other fine dining restaurants look to juxtapose their beef with exotic accompaniments, Smyth deserves credit for aiming straight at hedonism. The use of seaweed, like it or not as a persistent presence, really shines here.

Though the “Maitake Mushroom & Deckle” would leave the menu after this one appearance, its sidecar would come to have a lasting role alongside Smyth’s entrées. The “Truffle & Bone Marrow Doughnut,” as the bite is called, follows in a long tradition of savory pastries featuring sweetbreads, sweet corn, uni, guanciale, eel, and (to go back to the restaurant’s glory days) beef fat. Here, the fried ball of brioche is both stuffed and glazed in a thick icing made from the titular fatty and fungal components. The only other seasoning comes from a sprinkling of flaky salt. Nonetheless, the doughnut feels warm and fluffy when it reaches your mouth, unleashing a double dose (from above and from within) of sticky, beefy, surprisingly nutty-sweet, and hauntingly earthy sensations drawn from the concentration of truffle and marrow. Though you might contend that the pastry does not offer the same sheer enjoyment as the old “beef fat brioche” variety once did, this is still an impressive evolution. Here, the use of glaze is not only nostalgic, but its accompanying flavor captures the same transfixing sweet-savory balance that this bite—served at this late stage in the meal—is known for.

Once the deckle departed from the menu (perhaps due to the challenge of consistently securing such a small and coveted cut), Smyth quickly pivoted. The kitchen replaced the ribeye cap with a more conventional ribeye steak while more explicitly emphasizing sourcing. “Lone Mountain Wagyu,” as the dish was titled across seven appearances during 2023, references New Mexico’s Lone Mountain Ranch, a family farm raising DNA-certified Tajima, Shimane, and Fujiyoshi cattle without any of the usual crossbreeding (with Angus for example) that characterizes wagyu production outside of Japan. The beef can be purchased locally or enjoyed at restaurants like Asador Bastian, so you’re not talking about the most exotic or exclusive product. But it’s sharply priced, allowing for a generous serving without any supplemental charge, and Shields, Feltz, and Barker have certainly made it their own.

To do so, the chefs have resorted to their usual bag of tricks: triple searing the steak to develop ample caramelization before pairing it with blade kelp (that perennial favorite) and a sauce made from roasted kombu and miso paste. The maitake—crisp and meaty—is now missing, yet bits of pearl onion and green onion have occasionally taken its place. In one variation, enoki mushrooms (also known as “golden needles”) have acted as a topping, with the tangle of tiny caps being used to transport an egg yolk-marmite sauce. Nonetheless, overall, the textural experience here is more streamlined: the ribeye combines juiciness with subtle dimensions of chew and crispness. Its tenderness is not quite as extreme as the deckle, nor does its marbling come across as particularly fatty. Rather, the cut retains a hearty quality that accords with its placement as an anchor to the menu. Compared to the ephemeral servings of wagyu that appear at many fine dining concepts, this steak can be meditated upon: allowing the accompanying waves of umami to strike and build toward a wholly satisfying finish. Here, the flavors of seaweed that echo throughout the entire meal reach their crescendo.

Given the relative simplicity of the “Lone Mountain Wagyu” preparation, the “Truffle & Bone Marrow Doughnut” subsequently does more work as the sole contrasting element (delivering harmonizing notes of sweetness and earth). However, on several occasions, the kitchen has decided to pair the steak with a metal skewer bearing grilled pieces of the same animal’s heart. The organ meat is more pronouncedly chewy than the ribeye yet remains clean and fairly approachable considering some guests’ potential squeamishness regarding the form. It also offers a robust beefy character—tinged with iron—that drives the course’s savory expression to an even higher peak. For you, this serving of heart forms the perfect, bold counterpoint to the more straightlaced cut it accompanies. In combination with the doughnut, it ensures Smyth’s approach to the steak, while certainly prizing enjoyment, never risks being labelled “safe.”

The dawn of 2024 would see Feltz revisit the “Lone Mountain Wagyu” dish after an intermission, yielding recipes like “Lone Mountain Wagyu & Sour Cherries” and “Lone Mountain Wagyu & Black Truffle.” Barker would do the same toward the very end of the year, creating “Lone Mountain Wagyu & Cypress.” Based off of the titles, it’s not hard to imagine what the chefs were up to: taking a familiar ingredient, reliably tender and bursting with umami, but now shifting its balance of flavor toward something more distinct—something more intellectual—despite the earlier tendency toward outright decadence. 

For Feltz’s preparations, one of the most notable changes is the substitution of that blade kelp (so persistent throughout 2023) for a piece of radicchio. Texturally, the leaf plays much of the same role, stretching across the surface of the meat and providing it with a faintly crisp, contrasting layer. Nonetheless, the substitution of the seaweed’s savory character for the spice and bitterness of the chicory marks a clear shift. Rather than doubling down on the concentrated umami of the steak’s accompanying sauce (which remains in that roasted kombu, caramelized miso, marmite wheelhouse), the radicchio cuts cleanly through it. Doing so, the green rejuvenates your palate and sets the stage for a renewed encounter with the ribeye when you take the next bite. Intensity, in this manner, is traded for finesse, and flourishes like the sour cherry and black truffle round out each respective dish.

By pairing tangy fruit or musky earth tones with cleansing bitterness, these reimagined “Lone Mountain Wagyu” preparations better integrate the umami for which the recipe was known. This heightened complexity would prove quite enjoyable when paired with fine wine (like a Bartolo Mascarello Barolo or Beaucastel “Hommage à Jacques Perrin”), but it also represents a clear stylistic shift from a steak course that offers easy pleasure to one, like almost everything else Smyth does, that both challenges and rewards. In other words, the restaurant, through these changes, removed much of the “safety net” that the ribeye might offer more skeptical guests. You count yourself among those who favor hedonism at this stage of the meal, but you also appreciate (considering how totemic wagyu is at this level) a firm commitment to do something more with it.

Indeed, the kitchen’s most valuable work during the 2023-2024 period (as it relates to closing savory courses) would feature different proteins. However, it is worth noting that Barker’s “Lone Mountain Wagyu & Cypress,” revived at the tail end of this era, looks to restore the same degree of satisfaction that the original “Lone Mountain Wagyu” once offered. Here, the chef has restored the blade kelp element and paired the beef with its traditional savory sauce. Yet the cypress, rather than being incorporated into the dish, is placed atop it. The branch and its needles provide a fresh, woodsy aromatic effect before being whisked away, priming diners to perceive greater depth of flavor from the ribeye without actually diluting what’s on the plate. When you consider that this steak concludes a series of courses that includes both quail and lamb, the need for some kind of contrast becomes clear. And, in this fashion, Barker engages the nose while ensuring that what reaches the palate is totally convincing—the most succulent, most umami part of a superlative, carnivorous sequence that should disarm even the most critical diners.

Moving beyond beef, Smyth has—from the fall of 2023 through the winter of 2024—done some meaningful work with duck. In fact, the bird would eventually form the first replacement for the wagyu and, later, even evolved into its own sequence of courses. Its initial appearance came as a precursor to the steak and was titled “Duck & Calendula.” On that occasion, it was also accompanied by a “Duck Liver Waffle.”

The dish centers on two hearty slices of the bird’s breast that boast pinkish interiors, a melty layer of white fat, and a crowning strip of crispy, golden-brown skin. Flaky salt and an accompanying duck jus help to draw out the natural flavor of the meat. However, the distinguishing touches come by way of peeled gooseberries and the titular calendula—a sweet and slightly bitter flower rendered here as small strands. On the palate, each slice of breast combines ample juiciness with oozing fat and a bit of brittle crust. The duck retains a sense of presence, allowing the savory backing of the salt and saucing to take hold, but proves beautifully tender. The combination of gooseberry and calendula is more like an accent—an alleviating burst of tartness and sweetness with enough bitterness to last through the meat’s finish.

This ensures the “Duck Liver Waffle,” topped with the first white truffles of the season, does not see its delicacy overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of richness. Instead, the bite builds on the savory quality of the breast while also offering exotic, musky notes of considerable length. Overall, this makes for a powerful duo—one that can every bit measure up to the steak/doughnut combination that succeeds it.

Nonetheless, by your next visit, the “Lone Mountain Wagyu” would be excised and duck would form the cornerstone of its own three-part sequence. By way of introduction, you find the “Smoked Quail Egg”­—quite familiar as an opening bite by this point, but one, tactically inserted later in the menu’s progression, that now looks to provide more of a harmonizing effect. Here, the morsel takes the croustade form, sitting within a delicate pastry shell that has been lined with yeast toffee. The egg is served warm, and its plump exterior yields to the gentle oozing of yolk once it meets your palate. Punctuated by crisp and sticky textures, the resulting sensation combines richness with a careful balance of sweet, caramelized tones and a smoky-umami quality. Though toppings of caviar and seaweed often tilt the quail egg toward more oceanic flavors (matching the treasure trove of shellfish that defines the early part of the menu), white truffle is used in this case. The cherished fungus echoes the earthy, savory, and even caramelized notes offered by the other ingredients, focusing the bite and attuning its balance with the next dish to arrive.

That would take the form of a “Duck Liver & Chestnut Custard”—served on only two of your menus but extending the bird’s sequence in a manner that has never, since, been replicated. Served in a small bowl, the preparation can be thought of as an elaboration of what the quail egg looked to express. Smoked duck liver is whipped into a chestnut custard and topped with bits of braised dulse, some quince, a shucked black walnut (Smyth’s original totem), and a paste made from porcini mushroom. On the palate, each spoonful delivers a smooth, rich mouthfeel replete with the concentrated savory flavor of the bird’s organ and the more subtle sweetness of the nut. Importantly, the liver here is remarkably clean—that is, free from jarring notes of iron or bitterness. This ensures the more delicate notes of the seaweed (umami), quince (citrus), black walnut (bittersweetness), and porcini (nutty) can assert themselves. This all makes for a diminutive custard of shocking length and intensity, one that mirrors many of the notes from the preceding quail egg but achieves even greater depth.

The sequence reaches its climax with dishes like “Aged Duck & Quince,” “Aged Duck & Pines,” and, last of all, “Aged & Lacquered Duck.” Despite the changing nomenclature (across a total of five appearances), the recipes share a common structure: a generous portion of the bird’s breast—its crowning layer of skin driven to a glistening, crackly extreme—and an accompanying foie gras sausage. The real differences have to do with saucing: the bright and rounded sweetness of the quince, the more herbal and aromatic (though also sweet) pine, and, for the last recipe, the kind of concentrated umami you saw paired with the wagyu. In the later preparations, you also saw the return of the radicchio, with its faint mouthfeel and underlying bitter tones.

Nonetheless, as with the original “Duck & Calendula,” these aged expressions of the bird hinge on their juiciness (all the more since two smaller pieces have been substituted for one larger one), the rendering of the fat beneath the skin, and the unerring shatter texture that the same skin provides. Smyth, in these facets, treats the protein adeptly, yielding bite after bite that melds a pleasing hint of chew (with all the palate presence and satisfaction that entails) with overarching tenderness. The foie gras sausage, in turn, is totally homogenous—not quite melty but perfectly plump—and builds on the concentrated savory notes derived from the aging process by offering supporting notes of sweetness and earth. From this baseline, so enjoyable in its outright meatiness, the fruitier and herbier sauces provide a relieving contrast while darker, more umami dressing is offset by the bitter character of the chicory. Given their own underlying sweetness, these ingredients add to your perceived pleasure even as they safeguard balance. The goal, following the quail egg and custard dishes, is to deliver a knockout serving of duck, and the kitchen, as they did with the ribeye, succeeds in doing so.

As you saw with the “Lone Mountain Wagyu,” these closing servings of duck, though satisfying in their own right, are enriched by sidecars. And once more, these accompanying bites operate in the savory pastry category that has formed a key part of Smyth’s identity from the very beginning.

Served alongside the “Aged Duck & Quince” and early “Aged Duck & Pines” preparations, the “Koji Cheese & Foie Gras Doughnut” reimagines the truffle and bone marrow rendition (accompanying the steak) for its new partner. Looking rather nondescript—with nothing more than a shimmering glaze and some flaky salt applied to its exterior—the fried ball of brioche absolutely bursts in the mouth. The duck liver, though already appearing as part of the sausage on the main plate, takes a particularly creamy, luscious form here. It suffuses the doughnut’s soft crumb, emphasizing its latent sweetness while backing it with darker, meatier tones. This sets the stage for the koji cheese—more molten and weightier than the foie gras—to assert itself, offering tang and fermented funk that further accentuates the pastry’s sugar content without teetering into the realm of dessert. When consumed in concert with the principal duck dish, this doughnut strikes all the same cords. It echoes the bird’s most delectably sweet, earthy, and savory notes, packaging them into one final flourish.

Once the radicchio found its way into the “Aged Duck & Pines” preparation, the koji cheese saw itself excised from the pastry. A simplified “Foie Gras Doughnut” would now act as a sidecar for the dish, offering a more straightforward balance of rich, savory depth with the brioche’s own sweetness. Given the bitterness brought into the main plate (via the chicory), you understand the tendency not to overcomplicate things. Here, the radicchio forms the main contrasting element of the entire set, and the pastry is allowed to punctuate the duck’s more pleasurable notes rather than obscure them with yet another layer of flavor.

That being said, it is with the switch to the “Aged & Lacquered Duck” dish that the sidecar really got interesting. On that occasion, the bird would be paired not with a doughnut, but a “Sweet Corn & Foie Gras Waffle.” The latest in a long line of creations utilizing this form (ones that often land toward the beginning of the meal), this bite can be thought of as a successor to the “Duck Liver Waffle” served alongside the original “Duck & Calendula” course. However, it’s easy to see the evolution of the kitchen’s technique from then until now (a period of four or five months).

The waffle, once more of a muted brown, is now more compact, thoroughly crisped, and deeply golden. The foie gras, previously rendered in brushstrokes of mousse, now looks more like a patty. And the truffles, once white and loosely layered, are now black and sliced into stars—alternating with matching pieces cut from melon—to form an eye-catching crown. On the palate, this “Sweet Corn & Foie Gras Waffle” offers more than its predecessor: more crunch, more meaty intensity from the liver, more earth from the truffle, and more sweetness both from the vessel’s corn base and the fruit’s rounded tones. Again, placed opposite a serving of the breast meat that is tinged with bitter radicchio, this bite looks to enhance the entrée’s most enjoyable qualities rather than add to the contrast. In that task, it succeeds (while also looking uniquely beautiful).

Smyth’s transition away from the duck would begin slowly. First, the “Duck Liver & Chestnut Custard” would be excised from the menu, and the serving of breast would see itself succeeded (and, later, preceded) by a new course of “Texas Venison & Black Walnut.” It may seem strange to situate deer meat, that most robust kind of game, ahead of a comparably puny piece of poultry. However, while the constituents of this preparation would remain the same across its two appearances, the serving size would vary greatly and, thus, influence the item’s placement.

In its first form (that is, served after the duck), the venison would comprise a heaping portion of the deer meat—a section of the tenderloin that is noticeably larger than the cuts of wagyu ribeye the restaurant served—topped with pieces of black walnut and velvet horn then coated in a jus made from the same animal. Seared to a dark brown, almost black tone, the flesh nonetheless possesses a glistening red interior. The meat cuts easily and, on the palate, displays a shockingly smooth, soft (but not mushy!) consistency with only a trace of chew remaining. Following the duck, the deer feels fuller and more luxurious. Its flavor, too, delivers a greater concentration of those earthy, herbal, and “wild” notes diners might associate with game. Nonetheless, with the bittersweet notes of the black walnut, the umami of the velvet horn, and the refined meatiness of the accompanying jus to draw on, the venison comes across as complexly savory yet entirely clean. It substitutes (and maybe even exceeds) the satisfaction provided by the beef while allowing Fabbrini to pair powerful, peppery Rhône wines at this late stage in the meal.

The dish’s second iteration (served before the duck) would take the same idea and shrink it into a more diminutive, more finessed form. Here, the tenderloin is rendered as a tangle of thin strips that is interlaced with the pieces of black walnut and velvet horn. Given the flesh has already been sliced, its innermost section has no problem soaking up the pool of jus. As a consequence, the plate is more user friendly: you need only pluck a piece of venison with your fork and place it on your tongue. There, the heartier mouthfeel of the larger serving is substitute for a more delicate sensation. With just a couple chews, the meat’s tenderness takes over and leaves only a fleeting impression of its earthier, gamier notes. Thus, on this occasion, the supporting notes of the black walnut, velvet horn, and jus have not influence. They tilt the course’s balance away from carnivorous pleasure and toward a more moderate, bittersweet character that leaves you wanting for a greater sense of richness (that will, in fact, be delivered by the preparation of bird to come). Rather than Rhône, Fabbrini drew on a bright, cherry-driven Ciliegiolo (a somewhat obscure Umbrian grape) to pair with this lighter expression of the deer.

A couple meals later, both duck and venison would leave the menu for the rest of the 2023-2024 period. Heading into winter, Smyth returned to a long-term study (one that began at opening and continues, on and off, through the present day) of another piece of game: lamb. The meat, sourced from the esteemed Elysian Fields Farm (a favorite of Thomas Keller and several of Chicago’s other fine dining establishments), would even go on to inspire its own three-part sequence. But “Elysian Fields Lamb & Its Tongue,” as the inaugural course in 2024 was titled, would form the cornerstone.

The preparation centers on a generous cut taken from the animal’s saddle. To one side, a cap of fat has been seared to a beautiful crisp. Across the top, maitake mushroom (poached in mushroom reduction) and an array of flower petals offset the flesh with a combination of color and texture. Along the bottom, acting as a kind of a pedestal, sits the serving of tongue—rendered as something more a patty that helps to defuse any customer misgivings regarding this particular offal. An accompanying sauce, made from lamb in combination with ingredients like licorice or plum, is drizzled over the meat and forms a thin layer at the bottom of the bowl.

Over time, saddle would see itself replaced by a prime portion of chop. The tongue, too, would be served in the kind of sliver that did less—far less—to obscure its identity. Toppings would grow to include barbecued eggplant, blade kelp, creamed corn, cucumber, enokis, morels, peas, salsa macha, and spring onions (depending on the exact point in the season). Saucing would also come to include a “lamb toffee” when an extra degree of decadence was needed. Nonetheless, the core dichotomy of the dish has remained consistent. Your bites of the lamb’s saddle (and, later, the chop) display a fullness, tenderness, and juiciness on the palate that is offset, when it comes to the former, by the crunching, brittle cap. The meat’s resulting flavor is luxurious, balancing sweetness and earth to yield a richly savory sensation. Umami drawn from the various accompanying mushrooms (as well as the kelp or salsa macha), along with the sweeter tones of allium, corn, eggplant, licorice, pea, or plum, naturally complement these notes. (The cucumber, when present, can be thought of as a crisp, watery reprieve from all the intensity.)

However, just as the duck was paired with a foie gras sausage in order to further amplify its latent character, the lamb’s tongue puts the most distinctive stamp on the dish. The offal’s leanness lends itself to a certain sense of chew, and, while this quality is well managed by the slicing and packaging of the organ, it outlasts the more tender and prototypically meaty mouthfeels on display. From this sense of textural length, the tongue’s supercharge of complex, gamey character takes hold. There’s nothing unpleasant about the resulting taste, which simply takes the darker, earthier qualities of the accompanying cut and dials them up further. Rather, layered atop the balance this dish achieves through the blending of fruit, fungus, vegetable, and jus, the offal delivers a peak of savory power: one that strikes, stuns, and (due to the modest serving size) eventually recedes. In this manner, the tongue takes a somewhat conventional preparation of lamb saddle or chop and weaves a bit of Smyth magic—shifting the meat’s fundamental satisfaction into the realm of the truly memorable.

Joining the “Elysian Fields Lamb & Its Tongue” recipe both before and throughout its expansion into a bonafide sequence, you find the latest and greatest of the kitchen’s savory pastry creations. Of course, the “Malted Milk Bread” (alternatively titled “Milk Bread Glazed in Black Walnut”) comes closer to a dinner roll than the doughnuts and waffles that have defined this category. It also treads ground that Oriole has long claimed for itself: serving a traditional take on the recipe with a side of koji butter as a sidecar to richer preparations of seafood. Yet, while Sandoval’s version is subtle and adaptable (best rationed out so that it can be dipped in each of the menu’s subsequent sauces), the kind favored by Shields, Feltz, and Barker is completely attuned to the lamb. In fact, the course would eventually be titled “Elysian Fields Lamb & Malted Milk Bread.”

At Smyth, the dough (tinged with dark malt enzymes) is baked in a circular form with five distinct dimples situated around a central point. The milk bread is then finished by the hearth, where it is glazed in a combination of veal and black malt that slowly thickens into a shining mahogany hue. In its earliest iterations, the baked good was served without any further accompaniment—just some studs of roasted barley for decoration. However, over time, the kitchen would begin to include a small ramekin of sheep’s butter flavored with the lamb’s heart. In truth, you could be forgiven for ignoring the partnering spread altogether, for the milk bread is a fluffy, sticky delight that seems to make a beeline for your mouth the moment you take hold of it.

Though the interior of each individual bun is more or less unseasoned, the veal and black malt glaze possesses more than enough concentration to carry the bite. This delectable coating, steeled by the open fire, delivers pleasurable notes of fruit and sweet meat anchored by complicating tones of earth and bitterness. Together, these flavors draw out the milky-sweet, faintly caramelized character of the bread’s crumb and, in combination with its warmth and softness, leave you feeling as if you have one foot in the savory section of the menu and one foot in dessert. To that point, the recipe really succeeds in amplifying the brighter tones of the lamb entrée (like those licorice, plum, or toffee accents). Nonetheless, the darker side of the malt ensures that it builds on—rather than contrasts—the degree of savory intensity that the serving of tongue, for example, attains. And, should you smear some of that lamb heart butter on the milk bread, you’ll find that the sweetness you so enjoy now takes a backseat to a profound meatiness drawn from the offal. In this manner, the baked good offers a kind of flexibility that the doughnuts and waffles never did. Diners may treat the milk bread as a decadent complement to the main course or, slathering on the butter, a further intensifier of rampant umami that practically leaves your palate aching. When all is said and done, you wipe your hands with the designated towel and sit back, thoroughly satiated by a balance of flavors attuned to your deepest desires.

Having created these two core dishes (“Elysian Fields Lamb & Its Tongue” and the accompanying “Malted Milk Bread”), the kitchen would quickly go about expanding its expression of the chosen animal in the same way you witnessed with the duck that preceded it. The team would accomplish this by embracing even more offal—a high-risk, high-reward strategy that you think has paid off handsomely.

Arriving as a separate course before the main serving of chop or saddle, thymus would quickly become a shining part of the sequence. “Lamb Sweetbreads & Sunflower,” as the inaugural dish was called, joined the menu during what was only the second appearance of its principal protein. Preparations titled “Sweetbreads,” “Lamb Sweetbreads & Lima Beans,” and “Lamb Sweetbreads” would later follow, delivering consistent, transfixing pleasure in one of two forms.

The first, as exemplified by the “Sunflower” and “Lima Beans” iterations, treats the thymus with a lighter touch. A generous lobe of the sweetbreads, looking plump and rounded (like something of a misshapen sausage), is seared until golden brown, dressed with lamb jus, and joined by the fleeting mouthfeel of petals or the slightly more substantial texture of the beans. In either case, the offal is defined by a soft, creamy texture that stands in contrast to the more substantial cuts of meat to come. Its flavor, likewise, is surprisingly mild, displaying subtle sweet and nutty notes that are enriched by the savory jus and the characteristics of the sunflower (bittersweet, nutty) and lima beans (buttery, earthy) respectively. Overall, this preparation shows remarkable finesse and a long, sneaky meaty quality that gently primes your palate for the robust servings of lamb that lie ahead.

The thymus’s second form, as seen in the more anonymous-sounding “Sweetbreads” and “Lamb Sweetbreads” preparations, has seen the ingredient tempura fried. Whether served by itself on a skewer or covered with puffed rice and juxtaposed by a slice of lamb sausage as part of a composed plate, this crispy take on the offal aims even more squarely at pleasure. By wrapping the sweetbread in a crunchy coating, its superlative creaminess is further emphasized. In the case of the skewer, a touch of seasoning makes for a lip-smacking, savory experience—the “nugget” of your dreams. Paired with the puffed rice and lamb sausage (itself mixed with foie gras), the tempura wrapper takes on a double shatter effect while the meatiness of the offal is further amplified. Both recipes, relative to their “naked” predecessors, are more user-friendly. They package the thymus in a manner that goes down easily, delivering a hint of nostalgia (as all fried foods offer) and the same harmonizing effect with the lamb course to come.

Eventually, Smyth would round out the lamb sequence with a third and final serving of offal that, served after the sweetbreads (but alongside the saddle/chop, tongue, and milk bread), represented the deepest exploration of any single animal the restaurant has ever undertaken. The dish in question is titled “Lamb Heart & Green Garlic Salad,” and it embraces one of the most challenging organs while presenting it in a manner than is fairly unforgiving. The bowl, meant to offer a reprieve from the substantial serving of meat it partners, features a curling segment of the ventricle that has been roasted (yet served only gently warmed) and placed atop a layer of lettuces and flowers. Slices of the green garlic, whose sprigs are not unlike those of spring onion, hide within while a thin, milky dressing waits to be incorporated.

Slice by slice, the lamb heart displays a dense—but surprisingly clean and ultimately tender—consistency with a powerfully meaty, somewhat irony flavor that surpasses both the prime cuts and the impressive tongue. The idea of using this offal as the basis for a salad seems counterintuitive, for how does any sense of refreshment compete with this kind of concentration? Yet, while the saddle, chop, and tongue are enriched by ingredients like kelp, mushroom, and the accompanying jus, the heart plays host to an invigorating contrast: an overriding sharpness, tang, and subtle bitterness (supported by lactic weight) that ensures the preparation leaves your palate feeling cleansed. Rather than representing overkill, this polarizing organ supercharges the larger sequence with another peak of pleasure—only to reign it back in, via superb balance, and renew diners for an encounter with the other cuts. This strategy, though only fleeting in its fullest expression, makes for a true celebration of the animal that challenges, surprises, and delights in a manner that represents the very best of the kitchen’s philosophy.

Toward the end of 2024 (and deeper into Barker’s tenure), these longer thematic sequences would be sacrificed in favor of a broader approach to the meal’s savory conclusion that marries courses of both lamb and wagyu in pursuit of a pleasure (and satiation) that some of the most critical guests have found missing from the menu. In truth, this shift was preceded by the arrival of a third and final protein that, after being mastered as a standalone offering, would form the tip of this new trident—the most convincing carnivorous movement in the restaurant’s history.

The resulting dishes—titled “Whole Roasted Quail & Chestnuts,” “Quail,” “Vermont Quail & Malted Milk Bread,” and “Vermont Quail & Boudin Noir”—manage to distinguish themselves from all the other meats served during this period (while representing a much fuller expression of the ingredient than the “Stuffed Quail & Its Liver” served early on in 2023). This rings particularly true when comparing the game bird to those preparations of duck you discussed earlier. Whereas the latter, with its crispy skin, sumptuous flesh, rich saucing, and bold accompaniments (like foie gras or radicchio), was destined for a headlining role, the former, though once served as a lone entrée, has really hit its stride opposite other animals. Yes, as much as a treat it is to enjoy both lamb and beef in sequence, the jump from trout to those meats leaves a gap well worth exploring: an elegant onramp toward the final savory presentation that allows for more nuance, more enjoyment, and a greater diversity of red wines along the way.

Quail fits the bill, being richer than your everyday poultry but more delicate and tender than the duck. Given the paltry size of the bird’s breast, Smyth fills the skin with a layer of sausage that significantly augments the portion. The resulting serving feels plump and generous—especially considering the other courses to come. Though roasting renders the bird’s skin golden brown, you only sense the most subtle crispness when approaching the flesh with your knife. Instead, the breast strikes you with its homogeneity: the clean chunks you are able to cut and their juicy, satisfying impression on the palate. Thanks to the sausage stuffing, the quail’s latent nutty and earth notes come through with greater concentration. Still, the meat is all about refinement, offering all the lightness of a most perfectly cooked chicken with a delectable depth of flavor that never polarizes.

With this in mind, the kitchen’s chosen accompaniments for the bird display a soft touch. They include a simple quail jus, rice porridge, crispy rice pieces, and a purée of cranberries—conventional sources of savory, sweet, and satisfying flavors. The inclusion of the “Malted Milk Bread” on one occasion (a sidecar usually reserved for the lamb preparation) would steer the balance of the dish toward a darker, more roasted, and meatier character. Though perhaps it is best to think of the baked good, in this case, not as a means of altering the quail so much as building a bridge toward the more robust cuts that follow. The same can be said for the boudin noir (introduced in December of 2024). With the milk bread restored to its place alongside the lamb, this blood sausage—smoothly textured but unapologetic in its earthy richness—also primes the palate for the menu’s more substantial proteins while simultaneously emphasizing the bird’s darker, savory notes (forming a beautiful pairing with Fabbrini’s chosen 2007 Burlotto “Monvigliero”).

When you consider the last piece of the puzzle (also recently introduced)—a serving of tempura-fried quail leg with a creamy dipping sauce—is it not right to think of this singular course, situated before the lamb and the wagyu, as its own mini-sequence? Whereas the boudin noir acts as a meaty extreme and the breast, plump and mild with only a faint layer of crisp skin, forms a kind of middle ground, the battered appendage can be thought of as representing a textural extreme. Yes, while there’s not a lot of flesh on the bird’s leg (you count about two good bites), applying the tempura shell (just as stuffing the skin did in that earlier preparation) extends its presence. The resulting finger food, one that diners are invited to indulge in at any point during the course, is best approached early. For it crunches and tantalizes but (lacking the liver sauce from before) only delivers traces of the savory flavor that builds as you sample the other two elements. In that respect, the quail leg can be thought of as the introduction of the sequence: the most fun and the most nostalgic (even though the team resists the urge to term it a “wing”) but also the most gentle. This bite helps to construct a holistic, multifaceted expression of the game through this single course. It also (speaking at the very tail end of 2024) forms the humble starting point for a larger series of animal dishes that achieves, relative to all other fine dining restaurants in Chicago, the kind of comprehensive satisfaction that often seems unattainable through the tasting menu form.

With beef, duck, venison, lamb, and quail behind you (to say nothing of liver, thymus, blood, doughnuts, waffles, and milk breads), the meal takes a sharp turn from the work of Shields, Feltz, and Barker toward that of pastry chef Jenna Pegg, who has provided both continuity and steadfast creativity during the course of the 2023-2024 era. Of course, the sweeter side of the menu remains a collaborative effort (just as certain savory preparations also demand a crossover of kitchen talent). Each of the four chefs just named has been known to get their hands dirty shaping and serving Smyth’s desserts. And Karen Urie Shields, though not seen during service, also exerts her influence and expertise: steering the program by providing a sounding board and source of inspiration that has helped the team fulfill its three-Michelin-star standard. Together, these efforts ensure Pegg’s work with pastry is not tangential but, rather, deeply integrated with the motions of the larger menu and the restaurant’s singular history. For good or bad (depending on how a given consumer responds to Smyth’s “challenging but rewarding” ethos), it expands and enriches the story being told.

In that task, a subtle transition is sometimes favored. You speak of brews like a “Black Walnut & Sunchoke Tea” or “Buckwheat Tea & Quince” that were favored during the cooler months of 2023. Though this kind of beverage would eventually be situated at the start of the meal, its combination of roasted and nutty notes with uplifting citrus acted as a perfect foil for the servings of wagyu, duck, or venison that might precede it. These teas take each meat course’s lasting, savory finish and draw it to a gentle close: echoing certain common elements (like black walnut or quince) while ending with a cleansing sense of tang. With this in mind, Pegg need not serve a frozen or fruity dish with the express purpose of revitalizing guests’ palates. The pastry chef can get straight to the good stuff: dessert courses that stand entirely on their own.

From the beginning of 2023 through (on and off) the early part of 2024, one of her favored forms has been the humble parfait—a kind of frozen custard (in France) that would inspire the layered dessert (e.g., fruit, nuts, yogurt, whipped cream) seen in America. The latter idea would find its expression in the oyster, sturgeon roe, and gelée composition colloquially referred to as a “caviar parfait.” Here, Pegg focuses more on the former: fashioning an airy, meringue-like frozen dessert titled “Beeswax & Bergamot Parfait,” “Beeswax & Acacia Flower Parfait,” “Lemon Leaf & Chamomile Parfait,” and “Lemon Leaf & Beeswax Parfait” across a total of seven appearances. The end result, served in a matching yellow bowl, looks something like a segment of actual honeycomb—with the parfait’s intricate, grooved pattern being offset by its segmentation into neat bricks. A dressing (made from bee pollen) and a hidden reservoir of sherbet (flavored with citrus and the various herbal or floral elements) form the finishing touches.

On the palate, the beeswax- and bee pollen-based parfait immediately strikes you with its smooth, melting quality. Your spoon glides through the structure with ease, and the dessert, while frozen, is defined more by weight and richness than brittle, fleeting coldness (you think of the frozen meringue served as part of Alinea’s “Table Dessert”). Subtly sweet and nutty, the parfait coats your tongue and readies it for the trailing mouthful of sherbet. This latter element, scooped from below, is more conventionally icy and vibrantly sweet. However, its character is also complicated by a puckering dose of citrus blended with an uplifting aromatic quality and some mild bitterness. Though fairly punchy when tasted alone, the sherbet is rounded out by the waxy mouthfeel of the parfait. As both components combine and melt in concert, a delectable, honeyed quality comes to the fore. In this manner, the parfait not only offers a textural thrill. It shocks (through cleansing acidity) and soothes (via generous sweetness) in equal measure, welcoming diners into this new domaine.

For quite a long stretch (from the midpoint of 2023 to the beginning of 2024), the “Beeswax Parfait” preparations would often be replaced or, otherwise, appear alongside an alternate frozen form. Roughly according with the transition from spring to summer (and lasting through the entirety of fall), this recipe trades the bright, aromatic, and honeyed qualities of its predecessor for something notably darker. At the same time (and at a thematic level), it shifts the emphasis from buzzing bees and their flowers to what’s going on underground: the first flush of tubers that, in full form, will come to crown tables at the conclusion of the season. Dessert is hardly the place you’d expect to see such an ingredient previewed. However, with the “New Potato & Pecan Ice Cream,” Pegg has created one of the signature sweets of this era.

The dish centers on an ice cream made from the titular combination of new potato and nut served alongside a reduction of the tuber’s caramelized skins with koji raspberry butter. Both elements (the latter, sticky sauce followed by the frozen material) are layered into an oval-shaped wooden bowl (itself reminiscent of a halved potato) and perfectly leveled. Ground pecan is then dusted over the top, providing a splotchy finish that helps to heighten the visual effect. On some occasions, a dollop of caviar may even join the party—not quite the kind of garnish you’d expect, but one that offers an intriguing dimension of decadence at this late stage in the meal.

Taken with your spoon, the ice cream feels soft and luscious. It spreads across your palate without any trace of water crystals and allows the brittle texture of the microscopic nut granules (as well as the caressing “pop” of any accompanying roe) to come through clearly. The resulting flavor expression—sweet and buttery with subtle undercurrents of earth and brine—is attractive, but the real magic strikes when you plunge further below. There, the oozing reduction suffuses the other elements and coats them in a rich, melted caramel kind of mouthfeel. The sauce strikes you with its immensity of sweetness and more notable concentration of earth drawn from the potato’s skins. Nonetheless, this character is balanced by a funky, tangy, and surprisingly umami quality derived from the koji raspberry butter.

Taken together, the reduction displays all the same flavor found in the ice cream and drives it into the stratosphere. Yet, the sauce stops short of sickly excess, allowing each lick of that same ice cream to reset your papillae and prepare them for another go-around. With each subsequent encounter, you come to learn just a little more about the sweet-savory depth that lies at the heart of the humble tuber. The dish is not only utterly delicious—scratching an itch that any lover of caramel or nut confections will wholly appreciate—it transforms your understanding of potatoes, via the use of new potato, and of fresh produce more broadly for use in these kinds of desserts.

While these parfait and new potato dishes represent two takes (with two respective textures) on a frozen start to dessert, some of Pegg’s most memorable work has centered not on ice cream—but actual ice. This idea would first take shape during the fall of 2023, and it would make use of a tool that, upon its introduction into the pastry kitchen, has now become rather hard to miss. The manual ice block shaver, a towering, gleaming metal contraption, uses a vice, a crank, and a set of blades to process whole cubes into flaky grains. The nostalgic association with kakigōri, its Hawaiian counterpart, or even the humble snow cone is clear. Yet, seeing the machine operated by hand before your eyes imbues the novelty with a deeper sense of craft. Pegg not only flavors the raw material (negating the reliance on syrup); she assembles the dish’s layers with pinpoint precision, crowning the bowl with an even more dramatic expression of ice.

The ”Hojicha & Marquis Grapes,” as the first application of this idea would be titled, centers on a mound of shaved ice flavored with the titular fruit: a white, seedless variety that produces large, thick-skinned, and juicy clusters typically used for the production of table wine. Atop the frozen crystals, you find a quenelle of ice cream flavored with the titular tea (a roasted green variety with unabashedly woodsy, nutty qualities). Although a grating of sudachi (a citrus fruit related to yuzu) zest provides hints of color and intrigue, the preparation’s distinguishing element is practically invisible. Gently set into the ice cream, you find a long, thin sheet of flavorless ice. Like something of a slanted roof, it shields the other ingredients while waiting, temptingly, to be pulverized by your spoon.

When it meets your utensil, the sheet of ice emits a satisfying crack. Its shards are dispersed across the mound of shavings, and, plunging your spoon into the debris, you can now retrieve a complete bite. On the palate, the contrast between the finer, crunching crystals and more brittle, shattering segments from the sheet comes to the fore. Of course, few diners find the sensation of chewing on ice to be enjoyable, so the soft, encompassing mouthfeel of the ice cream forms an essential component. Texturally, it acts as both a contrast and a buffer: the canvas on which these dual examples of frozen water can dance. However, when it comes to flavor, the ice cream displays tremendous power. The hōjicha is toasty and earthy almost to the point of being savory while the Marquis grape, from whose juice the shavings are made, offers deep sweetness (think Concord) with only a trace of tartness (amplified by the traces of sudachi). Head-to-head, these dueling notes are nearly overwhelming in their intensity. Therein lies the beauty of the crowning ice sheet, unconventional in its paucity of flavor but, here, applying a perfect degree of dilution.

The ice serves to soften the roasted notes of the hōjicha, emphasizing a more caramelized and baking spiced character. It does the same with the fruity Marquis, helping to delineate its robust sweetness and uncover more of the grape’s acid. Though you must admit that the earliest versions of this dish came off (due to the size of the sheet and flavoring of the other components) as a bit too bland, the combination has quickly come into its own. At its best, the “Hojicha & Marquis Grapes” marries a supremely refreshing textural sensation with contrasting concentrations of sweetness (toasted and fruity) that resonate far beyond what you’d expect from a dish focused so much on ice. In sum, this is a recipe of polarizing construction but truly profound, novel satisfaction.

Pegg’s first foray into altering this icy dish would proceed rather simply. The pastry chef identified a textural opening in the original composition and set about filling it, yielding (along with a more cohesive mouthfeel) yet another layer of flavor. “Hojicha Ice Cream & Soba Kombucha,” as the resulting preparation would be titled, commandeers the fizzy drink once served (as a kind of predecessor to the current amazakes) to begin the meal and pours it, rather simply, over the familiar ice shavings. However, by flavoring the liquid with that titular buckwheat (though soba also commonly refers to the noodle produced from it), the kitchen forms a natural synergy with the toasty character of the roasted green tea. When you factor in the kombucha’s dilutive effect—softening the crunch of the smaller crystals while preserving the more pronounced shatter of the crowning sheet—its addition seems particularly clever. This version of the recipe simplifies its mouthfeel while preserving its essence: a cleansing imprint of ice that works to reveal the deeper nuances of the grape and hōjicha elements that, in turn, are now bolstered by the added sweetness and nuttiness of the kombucha itself. Though perhaps not as extreme or challenging as the original, the dish, in this form, secures both greater enjoyment and broader appeal.

Following an intermission of three or four months, this same core idea (ice shavings topped with an ice sheet) would reach its apotheosis in June of 2024. Appearing a total of six times across your menus, the “Mango & Garden Licorice” and succeeding “Melon & Garden Licorice” have taken the lessons learned from the two “Hojicha” recipes to heart. While centering on the same textural interplay, these dishes juxtapose their two expressions of ice with even greater finesse.

To start, Pegg places piece of candied melon, candied mango, and preserved pinecone at the bottom of a shallow bowl. She pipes in a little “fruit gel,” sprinkles some garden herbs (like anise hyssop), and tops this base layer with a scoop of yogurt sorbet made from buttermilk whey. At this point, the familiar ice shavings (flavored with lemon verbena in this case) arrive, burying the bowl’s contents. Crowning that, you find the delicate ice sheet, which sandwiches a final garnish of the garden herbs and whose translucency is emphasized by a tableside drizzle of spruce oil. Taken together, the presentation is reminiscent of a snowy scene: the petrification of nature after a sudden storm. However, this dish would actually be served in late summer and early fall, forming a refreshing counterpoint to the season rather than mirroring what was actually going on outside.

When it comes to flavor, this moment in time is most effectively captured by the melon and mango pieces that lie at the heart of the preparation. After all, there’s a reason these dishes are named for their fruit components despite hiding them so well. Upon breaking through the ice sheet, your initial spoonfuls contain a proportion of the lemony shavings in combination with the tangy-sweet yogurt sorbet (that itself lands somewhere between creaminess and slushiness). Both elements are flavorful enough to counter any threat of blandness from the introduction of the resulting shards. However, it is the introduction of the candied melon and mango pieces—in combination with the thickened fruit gel—that really makes the recipe sing. By striking your tongue with such a concentration of sweet, tropical tones (amplified by a certain chewiness), the fruit actually demands the kind of dilution provided by the ice sheet. The shards serve to round out the flavors at the bottom of the bowl, forming a gradient that goes from musky and ripe, to milky, to citric, to piney, and finally to a delectable anisey finish.

Such a full spectrum of sensations would be hard to convey through any kind of richer dessert form. In fact, by streamlining the way the ice components (sheet, sorbet, shavings) work together and ditching the old roasted, toasted notes (for something more straightforwardly fruity and floral), Pegg has actually built greater complexity than the first wave of dishes ever achieved. Doing so, she has convincingly demonstrated how this particular idea and associated technique can be used to deliver a special sense of refreshment and pleasure to kick off dessert.

Moving beyond these composed plates and deeper into the sweeter side of the menu, Smyth has often served finger food as a follow-up to its ice creams, sherbets, and parfaits. These delicate bites, the kind you might expect to form an introduction to dessert, run the risk of being overshadowed by the last traces of the meal’s savory fare (to say nothing of any accompanying red wine). Thus, by situating them after the substantial palate cleansers you just discussed, the kitchen ensures these creations make a full impression while also effectively expanding your perception of the overall sequence. Yes, in an age when some fine dining concepts serve you two or three closing courses, some petit fours, and show you the door, Pegg assures diners that things are just getting started.

During the first few months of 2023, the pastry chef continued to favor an item that had become something of a signature during the 2021-2022 era. The “Preserved Egg Yolk Tartlet,” filled with layers of subtly chewy yolk fudge, salted egg custard, and marigold curd then topped with fluffy shavings of the titular preserved yolk, maintains its high standard of quality. Framed by a crisp pastry shell, the bite’s contents combine a concentration of eggy sweetness with an uplifting citrus/floral quality and a rich, salty finish. The density of flavor here—without any sense of heaviness—is really quite impressive.

When the “Tartlet” is followed by the “Egg Yolk Licorice” (that original, legendary Karen Urie Shields creation), the restaurant’s absolute mastery of this humble ingredient becomes clear. Though the latter dish is typically only trotted out for those guests enjoying the “Chef’s Table” experience (an interesting inversion of that menu’s traditional focus on the most experimental recipes), it harmonizes beautifully with the former bite. Here, the same interplay of chewiness and creaminess with tang, salt, and lasting sweetness (in this case tinged with anise) strikes with even greater force. Yet, between the two preparations, you can ascertain a common center—a purity of custardy yolk offset by the marigold and black licorice respectively—that ensures your experience of each enriches the other. Few recipes, year in and year out, retain such power. In fact, when you consider that your enjoyment of the “Egg Yolk Licorice” continues to grow with each rare encounter, the dish really deserves special praise (even when compared to other totemic morsels like Oriole’s “Foie Gras Toast” or Alinea’s “Black Truffle Explosion” and “Hot Potato Cold Potato”).  

From December of 2023 through April of 2024, all diners would be treated to a synthesis of the two forms. Both the “Preserved Egg Yolk Tartlet” and the “Egg Yolk Licorice” had been excised from the menu (standard or extended) for quite some time. Yet, served among the meal’s closing bites an “Egg Licorice & Frozen Yogurt Macaron” would confirm the genius of Urie Shields’s work while also affirming Pegg’s ability to reimagine Smyth’s heritage. The resulting bite—an “open-faced” macaron on which the cured yolk has been perfectly fit—simplifies your textural experience of the recipe while delivering all the same concentration. Here, the delicate pastry’s crispness leads immediately to the chewy, then creamy egg. Notes of tangy yogurt (drawn from a thin layer spread atop the shell) and a sprinkle of flaky salt serve to offset the richly savory-sweet tones you have come to know and love. A note of anise, as always, lasts through the finish, countering any sense of excess in what is a beautiful adaptation of this beloved idea.

Returning to the earlier portion of the dessert sequence, the “Preserved Egg Yolk Tartlet” would be more immediately replaced by a “Rhubarb & Mushroom Tart.” This rather short-lived idea, appearing toward the midpoint of 2023, combines a candied seaweed shell with a base layer of gel (made from the fungus) and a foamy filling (made from the stalky vegetable). An additional shard of seaweed is placed over the top of the tart, creating a double textural effect that is brittle and crunchy but also a bit sticky. That latter quality ensures the shell’s combination of sweetness and umami possesses some staying power. It settles on the tongue, moderating the earthiness of the mushroom and the sharp, sour character of the rhubarb alike. Neither note seems jagged or out of place. In fact, they mesh surprisingly well. But this bite is best understood—on an occasion in which neither the “Beeswax Parfait” nor “Hojicha Ice Cream” were served—as that rare piece of finger food meant to bridge savory and sweet. To wit, the umami of the seaweed and mushroom builds on your enjoyment of the preceding entrée only for the rhubarb to clear the decks and prepare your palate for a new sensation.

That would be delivered, in equally fleeting form, by a set of dishes titled “Strawberry & Nasturtium” and “Peach & Nasturtium.” Each appearing only once (across sequential menus), these recipes can be thought of as successors to the “Beeswax Parfait” that, rather than kicking off dessert, build on the rhubarb note you just discussed. Both preparations center on a serving of nasturtium flower custard that is coated in a layer of beeswax flavored with fermented banana skin. The fruit element (whether strawberry or peach) takes the form of a liquid dressing that has been infused with pineapple weed. A kaleidoscopic assortment of flower petals, along with a singular bulb, completes a presentation that must stand as one of the restaurant’s most boldly naturalistic.

However, in practice, the dish eats rather simply. Texturally, the beeswax coating imbues the custard with a particularly luscious mouthfeel. This helps to soften the impact from that abundance of flower petals: an ingredient that is not always appealing in this naked form (the stems providing a subtle crispness), but one, here, that benefits from the moistness provided by the fruit. When the components come together, creaminess yields to a bright, bittersweet, and somewhat sharp flavor that is balanced by the exuberant sweetness of the fruit dressing and the tropical, herbaceous tones provided by the pineapple weed. Despite looking a bit like a bowl of potpourri, this preparation is actually built upon a fairly conventional sort of pleasure. The strawberry (or peach) notes, following that bite of rhubarb, steer diners from sour to sweet while ushering in a whole host of floral complexity. Doing so, they forge a path from mere refreshment toward a sense of depth and intellectual appeal.

Returning to those opening finger foods, tarts and tartlets would sometimes make way for confections of a decidedly classic bent. The “Buddha’s Hand Pâte de Fruit” of which you speak centers on the dense, chewy form you usually find appended to a broader selection of petit fours. With purity and textural perfection often being the goal, such bites can often seem a bit boring—an ugly duckling among more creative efforts using chocolate, nuts, or pastry. Smyth doesn’t quite reinvent the wheel with its approach to the treat. Rather, the restaurant breathes life into the pâte de fruit by involving it in a bit of visual trickery.

The titular Buddha’s hand (also known as the fingered citron) arrives at the table looking true to its evocative name. The fruit’s many tendrils are splayed out and pointed toward the sky. However, hidden within this thicket of greenish-yellow peel, you find pâte de fruit pieces curling and stretching in imitation of their surroundings. The confection, though slightly darker in hue, even replicates the uneven dimpling of the citrus’s surface. On the palate, the gummy displays a pleasing degree of density but ultimately makes for a soft chew. In terms of flavor, the Buddha’s hand displays a mild sweetness with some lemony aromatics that stop short of souring your perception of the fruit. Overall, this pâte de fruit is fairly straightforward and easy to like. It marks a playful entry point into the dessert section that follows in a longer line of “hidden bites” served over the years.

Returning one last time to the realm of tarts, you come to one—the one—that has defined Smyth’s work during 2024. In that role, the bite is something of a shapeshifter: appearing at the beginning of the dessert section, then popping up at the end, eventually inspiring a full plated dish, and then morphing back into its original form. In sum, this same idea would appear a dozen times across your menus, clearly establishing it as one of the new totems of the three-Michelin-star era.

The story starts in March of 2024 with the appearance of the “Fermented Banana Tart.” Arriving, in that instance, ahead of the “Potato Ice Cream,” the morsel almost seems like a throwaway item—a bit of experimentation utilizing one of many rotating ingredients being preserved back in the kitchen. Here, an admirably thin tart shell holds a dollop of banana custard (flavored with fermented banana skin oil). It is then topped with a disc of bitter chocolate and, in the traditional Smyth manner, a few strands of braised kombu. On the palate, crispness, then creaminess, then a dense, melting quality arrive in sequence. The banana character, drawn from the skin, is surprisingly earthy and a tad bitter despite its sweetness. This marries nicely with the chocolate and the umami character of the kombu, creating a bite of considerable power that can measure up to a preceding serving of wagyu and black truffle.

Though you would encounter this tart a handful of other times across your meals, its core idea would take a completely different form the following month. “Aged Banana,” as the resulting dish would be titled, expands upon many of the same components while also further complicating the flavors and textures you found in its predecessor. Here, the banana custard (made from that same fermented banana skin oil) is rendered in a larger fashion. Its size, along with some faint impressions made along its surface, roughly replicates the actual fruit while the braised kombu, on this occasion, is positioned in such a way that it acts as a kind of “peel.” A couple of pine flowers (the term used for immature cones) and pieces of black walnut soaked in housemade nocino (the same one that features in the aforementioned caviar preparation) further distinguish the plate. Drops of pinecone syrup, burnt chocolate oil, and banana vinegar help provide flavoring—with a tableside drizzle of caramel forming the finishing touch.

On the palate, the “Aged Banana” trades the immediate crispness of the tart for a slower confluence of mouthfeels. To start, you have the serving of custard—extra-large but impeccably smooth—and the kombu “peel,” which offers a bit of stickiness and density but otherwise breaks apart cleanly. Added to this, the caramel (a rather viscous variety) helps to bridge the gap with a combination of weight and smoothness. Meanwhile, the pine flowers and black walnuts, when you get to them, punctuate those particular bites with some contrasting crunch. As you work your way through these various elements, the earthy and umami notes that characterized the tart are marked by a new depth. On one side, you discover brighter notes of bitterness and greenness lurking within the banana skin—ones that are accentuated by the supporting flavors of the burnt chocolate, vinegar, and pine. On the other, with the chocolate notes shifted into the background, a more caramelized, intensely nutty character comes to the fore. Taken together, this dish captures all the intensity and nostalgia of the best banana bread while, simultaneously, using that reference point to build a broad, almost boundless exploration of the fruit’s subtlest qualities. Here, visual trickery is beautifully balanced with a truly singular flavor experience.

Other fruit-focused desserts, served somewhere between the beginning and the midpoint of this sweeter side to the meal, include a preparation of “Pineapple & Spruce” (later to be titled “Pineapple & Goat’s Milk Yogurt”). Both iterations center on a jelly made from the titular fruit. Buried within, you find a generous scoop of the yogurt while, over the top, a sprinkling of spruce tips provides the dish’s distinguishing texture. On the palate, the interplay between the creamier, thicker dairy product and the softer, gooier pineapple jelly is unexpected but enjoyable. These two layers coat and moisten your tongue, helping to emphasize the faint crispness and chewiness that characterizes the spruce. When it comes to flavor, the dish marries milky richness and tang with plenty of bright, tropical sweetness and an herbaceous, resinous (but also citric) quality drawn from the tips. If this all seems to scream “palate cleanser,” it may be good to know this recipe was situated after servings of lamb. However, when it comes to both portion sizing and overall depth, the pineapple/spruce/yogurt combination transcends such a category. It forms a bold, convincing transition.

One of Pegg’s most recent creations (served toward the end of 2024) has paired “Raspberry & Coconut.” It has also seen the revival of the “ice sheet” idea that had made such a big impression during 2023. Here, the shards are far less hidden—being liberally coated in a powder made from the titular berry. But they shatter all the same, providing a crunch that punctuates an airy coconut mousse while also contrasting the rich frozen custard that lies below. As with the preceding dish, the interplay of these cold and variably creamy (or brittle) elements is rather nuanced. They, too, clearly aim at a sense of refreshment as a follow-up to servings of quail or lamb. Without a component like the spruce tips to add intrigue, a composition of ice on ice on ice doesn’t seem terribly appealing. Nonetheless, the pastry chef charges the raspberry powder and coconut mousse with so much concentration of flavor that some sense of dilution (the effect on which this idea hinges) is welcome. Together, the bold notes of tart berry and milky, nutty coconut feel undeniably soothing. The frozen custard, meanwhile, lends a sense of richness and weight—a safeguard against blandness that ensures the ice shards show their best.

As a counterpoint to these more technique-driven dishes, you sometimes encounter the kind of minimalist ingredient showcases that hark back to Smyth’s time working with The Farm. Of course, the restaurant’s sourcing remains totally different—being broader and more varied (if less narratively satisfying)—but an excitement and appreciation for purity persists. A “Tropical Fruit Salad,” served following the “New Potato & Pecan Ice Cream” at the start of 2024, celebrates the equatorial bounty at a time when Chicagoans’ perception of nature can be quite bleak. The selection of mango, passion fruit, persimmon, plantain, and rambutan (all lightly dressed with citrus) is characterized by perfect ripeness. The flesh of the various fruits melts upon meeting your teeth (save for certain crunchier seeds), unleashing a wave of juices that are bright, tart, and floral or more jammy, rich, and even caramelized in turn. While the medley is kaleidoscopic, a sense of succulence reigns. The kitchen may not frequently favor this kind of form, but you take solace knowing it is happy to recognize—and glorify—the raw potential of its products.

The last of the composed, fruit-driven desserts you have encountered during this period would arrive right around the peak of the “New Potato & Pecan Ice Cream” idea. At this point, Smyth had served the latter dish on eight sequential menus, continually tweaking it along the way but clearly (despite its success) beginning to look toward what could replace it. In pursuing that task, the team would retain the same basic form: the slender, oval-shaped vessels into which the “New Potato” components had been layered (sometimes even seeming to replicate an actual cross section of the tuber). Nonetheless, they would look to build the same effect—both visual and in terms of sheer pleasure—using an entirely new range of ingredients.

The resulting preparation would be titled “Cacao & Soursop in the Pod” and, later, simply “Cacao Fruit.” Ultimately, this recipe centers on a piece of produce whose seeds are used to create chocolate—an ingredient whose reputation is so dwarfed by this surrounding industry that you may even forget it has any flesh to offer. The soursop (also known as guanábana) may be equally obscure to many diners. Native to the Americas (like cacao itself), the fruit is related to pawpaw and the wider family of custard apples. Often torn apart by hand, it displays a thick, creamy flesh that mixes sour notes of citrus with rounder tropical tones.

With two fairly exotic ingredients at hand, Shields and Pegg go about situating them within a context their guests will find legible (even if not immediately so). They layer the wooden receptacle with burnt chocolate oil toffee, yogurt, roasted barley mousse, and a cap made from roasted salsify butter. A few so-called “cocoa beans” coated in a soursop gel serve to complete the presentation along with a final sprinkle of fresh cocoa nibs. For an added bit of flair, the dish is placed (atop an additional scattering of nibs) at the center of a halved piece of cacao fruit. From this perspective, you may note how the glossy globules of soursop gel, spread across the whitish butter, seem to replicate the actual ingredient’s puffy, uneven flesh. This bit of visual trickery, favored so often by the kitchen, seems to confirm the chefs’ intention: recreating the essence of cacao using kindred ingredients while juxtaposing it with hints of actual chocolate.

On the palate, you immediately appreciate the misdirection. While the cacao’s pulp is fleshy and sticky, the layers of toffee, yogurt, mousse, butter, and gel are all rather smooth. Their varying richness and viscosity make for some intrigue, as do the crunching pieces of “cocoa bean” (actually a lookalike confection) and finer crispness of the nibs. But the real thrust of the dish has to do with its gradient of flavor: fresh, tangy, and fruity (both citrus and tropical) on one end but caramelized, earthy, nutty, and bitter on the other. Each component, taken in series, shifts your tongue from one side of this dichotomy to the other. Each successive contrast, too, heightens the overall effect. When, at last, you get to the soursop and cocoa nib, the combination takes flight. There, the concentrated sweetness and sourness of the foundational fruit join with the dark depth of what will eventually become chocolate. In this manner, you taste the essence of cacao from beginning to end (as deconstructed and reconstructed using these particular ingredients), being left, via all the nuance provided by this flavor gradient, with a greater understanding of an otherwise overlooked crop.

After only two appearances, this idea would morph and form a combination with the tuber it originally replaced. “Potato & Cacao Fruit Ice Cream,” as the resulting dish would be titled, can be thought of as a swan song for both the recipes. This particular construction, served in the familiar vessel, combines the new potato ice cream, potato skin reduction, chocolate oil toffee, and malted macaron you have come to know and love with a sprinkling of fresh cacao fruit that has been braised in soursop. Here, thus, rather than looking to replicate the flavors of the titular produce using other ingredients (as before), the chefs fully embrace its actual character. Though the cacao’s flesh only forms the faintest dusting atop the dish, it charges the potato’s earthy and caramelized notes with an uplifting tangy sweetness that beautifully accentuates the recipe’s undercurrent of chocolate. Served twice in its own right, this preparation would synthesize the best qualities of its dual influences and emphasize just how well the kitchen had been able to master these unconventional sources of pleasure.

(You also cannot neglect a one-off serving of “New Potato” in July of 2024 that pushed the dish’s sense of visual trickery to the extreme. Transforming the ice cream and its reduction into an actual bite—one hidden among a handful of the actual tubers—the kitchen offered its most playful, surprising take on the longstanding flavor combination. You can only hope this particular presentation, so streamlined and effective, returns when the season allows it.)

The very last of the composed desserts you have sampled during this period, being served from September through December of 2024, can claim as many different titles as it has appearances on the menu. Alternately termed “Farro & Black Truffle Ice Cream,” “Farro, Truffle & Chestnut,” “Farro, Chestnut, Truffle” and “Truffle, Farro & Chestnut,” the dish is described as “an homage to Charlie Trotter: among the first to boldly incorporate truffle into dessert—something rarely seen at the time.” Synchronous with the tribute menu being staged at Next Restaurant (not to mention Dylan Trotter’s larger announcement that the concept would reopen in 2025), this creation represents a timely tribute from two of the late chef’s favorite pupils (with John and Karen Urie Shields, you might remember, turning down the opportunity to lead Restaurant Charlie in Las Vegas in favor of opening Town House in Chilhowie, Virginia).

The preparation, under its many guises, consistently centers on a base of fresh Oregon hazelnuts, candied chestnuts, candied makrut lime, and candied mandarinquat (a cross, you might discern, between a mandarin and a kumquat). Atop that, you find a hearty scoop of ice cream flavored with the titular roasted farro and black truffle. Freshly shaven truffles then blanket the peak of the frozen treat, followed by a crowning cap of tuiles (made from barley and apple juice) meant to mimic oak leaves. A sauce flavored with porcini, hazelnut, chestnut, and truffle and a drizzle of mandarin caramel then serve to complete the presentation, which Shields would call “an echo chamber of familiar flavors, each in a different form.” Over time, what began as a rather conventional-looking bowl of ice cream (with truffle!) would transform into a neat package served on a plate with a surrounding tuft of actual foraged oak leaves.

In terms of both texture and flavor, this homage to Trotter represents one of the rare occasions in which Smyth channels its usual bag of tricks toward something close to sheer enjoyment. Of course, the interplay between citrus, nuts, and truffle is not totally conventional (even if the way has been paved). But, on the palate, the crunching layer of hazelnut and chestnut, the creamy ice cream, the brittle tuiles, and the trace of caramel feel just like a classic sundae. The toasty, earthy qualities of the barley, farro, and truffle are also well managed. Namely, while the nut components help nudge these darker notes toward a more savory-sweet complexion, the citrus (both candied and caramelized) helps them sing. Rather than being too tart, the treatment of the makrut lime, mandarin, and mandarinquat moderates their brightness. Instead, the fruit charges the dish with a bold, only slightly tangy sweetness that unlocks the nutty character at the heart of the truffle and builds toward a flavor that, overall, is reminiscent of praline. With each exhale, the musky aromas swirl and intensify, lending this powerfully decadent dessert a haunting, endlessly intriguing finish. Ultimately, this makes for a memorable dessert of real hedonistic powder—a fitting homage.

Barker would serve his own interpretation of a citrus, nut, and truffle dessert at the very conclusion of 2024. His “Truffle & Citrus Blossom,” as the resulting dish would be titled, combines a custard flavored with the titular flower that is dressed with licorice caramel and studded with chunks of black truffle and grilled hazelnut. Though undeniably simpler in its form, this construction delivers a soothing, somewhat sticky mouthfeel punctuated by a subtle crunch. The blend of sour and, in this case, vanillin notes with the earthy, toasted, and nutty flavors is enjoyable as before. However, the tinge of anise present in the caramel really forms the distinguishing factor. Building off of its base’s concentrated sweetness, the licorice adds an uplifting, spicy quality that is hard to put your finger on yet yields a beautiful, lip-smacking finish. The ingredient’s introduction, beyond being delicious, also forms a rewarding connection between the Trotter tribute and Urie Shields’s own famous cured egg.  

Turning now toward the meal’s closing bites, you find a combination of small spoon-based servings, finger foods, and even the occasional beverage. These items, served in flights of two to four pieces, represent the final flush of the kitchen’s creativity—a bookend to those savory morsels used to start the meal that look to end the night with the very same degree of boldness. Doing so, they confirm one final time that Smyth’s work with pastry is meant to equal (and not just make up for) its boundary-pushing efforts on the savory side. Such a strategy, when compared to the pleasure guaranteed by donuts, soufflés, or table desserts, surely complicates the restaurant’s ability to satisfy the “peak–end rule.” But, at this late stage in the game, how could the team be expected to sacrifice even one crumb of its vision?

At the very start of 2023, Smyth would continue to serve one of its totemic desserts from the preceding era. In fact, few creations attest to the pastry department’s primacy like the “Barley Mousse & Caviar.” Seeing the coveted sturgeon roe appear during this late stage in the meal is always a treat—perhaps even moreso than the aforementioned black truffle (totemic, yes, but a bit more impenetrable in its pleasure). Shields and Pegg are not the first to commandeer caviar for use in a sweeter preparation; however, they distinguish themselves by aiming for a synergistic and intensifying rather than contrasting (like, say, crème fraîche ice cream) effect. The resulting ramekin is filled with a base of roasted barley and yogurt mousse then topped with flakes of black malt and a drizzle of toasted dark chocolate oil. A dollop of Kaluga caviar completes the presentation, with the subtle pop of the roe playing off the layers of crispness and creaminess while lending nutty, salty complexity to the toasty, tangy, and bittersweet notes that predominate. Importantly, the dish does not rely on the mere presence of its luxury ingredient to please. Instead, the caviar actually plays a key part in balancing the recipe’s darker flavors, steering them toward a caramelized, chocolatey finish.

The “Mussel Caramel,” another carryover from the 2021-2022 period, still represents one of the restaurant’s most effective examples of visual trickery. The bivalve, its shell (dimpled texture and all) reconstructed from braised blade kelp then filled with a caramel made with mussel reduction and green tea custard, was meant to bookend servings of the same shellfish that often started the meal. From 2023-2024, mussels would be favored far less in that role; however, the bite still effectively translates one of the chefs’ favorite ingredients (seaweed) while more broadly referencing the other seafood served during the early section of the menu. On the palate, the faux shell cracks and crackles while demonstrating sticky, chewy staying power that joins with the inner coating of caramel. With time, notes of licorice and citrus come to the fore, delineating the bite’s latent umami character and emphasizing a surprising sweetness that lies at the heart of the bivalve.

When it comes to tarts, that favorite form, Smyth would start this era by playing around with the “Rhubarb & Mushroom Tart” idea that previously appeared earlier in the dessert sequence. Serving as counterpoints to the “Preserved Egg Yolk Tartlet,” the “Strawberry & Mushroom Tart” and “Gooseberry & Mushroom Tart” would, respectively, tinker with the same balance of flavor. Each comprises a seaweed shell that is coated with a gel made from the fungus then filled with a foam made from the particular fruit. A crowning layer of seaweed serves as a cap, creating a doubly crisp, chewy sensation whose umami, in this case (relative to the “Mussel Caramel”), is cut by tarter, tangier flavors. Though you appreciate the dynamic quality of this bite (allowing for different fillings over time), it is ultimately less captivating than the other uses of seaweed (again, the “Mussel Caramel”) and more conventional tarts that the restaurant has offered.

On that latter point, you would come to prefer a “Sunflower & Marigold Tartlet” that was first offered during July of 2023 and would eventually inspire the “Sunflower Tart” served a total of seven times from spring through fall of 2024. The basic construction, across both titles, remains the same: a traditional pastry shell (no seaweed here) is filled with salted milk chocolate custard and a malted sunflower seed ganache. The finishing touch comes by way of a marigold, citrus-scented and situated flush with the top of the tart. This effect is effortless and eye-catching in its natural burst of color. Later presentations would keep the same basic form but substitute the marigold for a sunflower or even a bouquet of four microflowers jutting well beyond the rim of the shell. But the beauty of the bite has always hinged on the same essential interplay.

Upon reaching your tongue, the tart shatters crisply and transforms into a fine crumble. The resulting particles combine with the gooey chocolate before both become absorbed by the stickier, chewier ganache. The resulting mouthfeel—dense, lasting, but creamy with time—does a good job of absorbing the texture of the crowning flowers, whose petals and pistils are not always naturally appealing. Thanks to the construction of the bite, this flourish provides a contrasting crispness of its own along with a zesty, bittersweet quality that cuts the roasted, nutty tones of the fillings and amplifies their resulting pleasure. In sum, this is one of the restaurant’s most successful finger foods of the era (every bit the equal of the “Preserved Egg Yolk Tartlet”) that has just seemed to get more enjoyable with each encounter.

Such high praise certainly leaves some big shoes to fill, but the “Kombu & Dark Chocolate Tartlet” (served on seven occasions during the time separating the “Sunflower & Marigold” and “Sunflower” tarts) would prove up to the task. This item follows in the stereotypical “Smyth” mold of infusing everything with a dose of deep-sea umami, but you think, as far as desserts go, it is more successful than the fruit- and seaweed-based bites you previously discussed. Here, the familiar pastry shell is filled with a kombu caramel and capped with a disc of the titular dark chocolate. This latter element also serves as a canvas on which flakes of salt, kombu, and even dried jasmine (in a one-off variant titled “Jasmine & Kombu Tartlet”) sit. Upon reaching your palate, the crumble of the pastry shell and sticky mouthfeel of the caramel combine in the expected fashion. However, here, it is the chocolate that provides a hint of crispness—followed by a melting quality that ensures its flavor is among the last to hit. Building on the more straightforward sweetness of the tartlet’s filling, the disc’s darker cocoa notes and bitterness, in combination with the salt and dried seaweed, make for a salty, savory sensation. The expression of umami here almost borders on meaty (you think of black mole), but the kombu caramel (and freshly sweet jasmine, when present) bring the bite back toward the side of dessert. Overall, this tartlet makes you think but isn’t shy about rewarding you for the effort.

Other closing finger foods of note would include a “Cajeta & Habanada Doughnut” that subverts the pastry’s traditional role at Smyth—a savory-sweet foil to the meal’s headlining serving of meat—in favor of something a bit more conventional. Of course, the combination of caramelized goat’s milk and heatless (but fruity, floral, and sweet) habanero is hardly one you’ll find gracing the display at your neighborhood bakery. The doughnut combines a glazed, salted, and subtly crisped outer shell with a fluffy inner crumb and an oozing, sticky filling. These attractive textures are backed by concentrated sweet and nutty tones that tend toward a bright, tart finish. Those who have never encountered the habanada before will be shocked by the pleasure this pepper, freed from its capsaicin, can give. Otherwise, this is a straightforwardly enjoyable bite that, save for the uniqueness of its flavoring, represents one of the restaurant’s safer offerings during this era.

An accompanying “Kombucha Rootbeer Float” takes the nostalgia one step further. Though not actually made with ice cream, the fizzy drink combines familiar character of sassafras (along with all the other woods and spices that have come to define the recipe) with a pronounced note of vanilla. Enjoyed opposite the doughnut, the kombucha is less sweet yet acidic and refreshing. It echoes both the caramel flavors of the cajeta and the brighter, fruity/floral qualities imbued by the habanada, lengthening your perception of them and ensuring guests can fully appreciate the complexity that lurks within this otherwise orthodox dessert.

Relative to the doughnut, macarons would have more of an enduring presence on this sweeter side of the menu. You have already covered the “Egg Licorice & Frozen Yogurt” variety, an adaptation of Urie Shields’s hallowed creation. However, bites like the “Corn & Nasturtium Macaron” and “Corn Macaron, Pawpaw, & Parsley” would provide an opportunity for newer, bolder combinations—building on the restaurant’s work with corn macarons, buttermilk coulis, and caviar during 2022.

Both pastries center on a bottom layer of the baked meringue that is relatively unadorned. Its interior is filled with corn caramel and layered with leaves of the nasturtium or parsley. Meanwhile, the top of the macaron is coated in a glaze made also from corn or, later, the pawpaw, which lends the bite a bright yellow cap. A sprinkling of flower petals (or, on occasion, an entire bulb) forms the finishing touch, leaning into the rough, naturalistic design that characterizes so many of the restaurant’s creations. On the palate, the macaron is flawlessly crisp but quickly yields to a stickier, creamier sensation punctuated by the subtle crispness of the floral or herbal elements. Corn—at its richest and sweetest—guides the assembled flavors. Nonetheless, peppery tones and a vein of citrus add depth to a bite that readies your palate for the relative indulgence of the “Kombu & Dark Chocolate Tartlet” served alongside.

The very last morsels of the 2023-2024 period would prove particularly longstanding. These include a “Black Walnut” (alternatively termed a “Black Walnut Truffle”) made from chocolate and cocoa butter and meant to imitate that most foundational and totemic of Smyth ingredients. The resulting visual effect is totally convincing, with the crisp snap of the faux “shell” yielding to a creamy, soothing interior that ensures guests, no matter what else they are served during dessert, get a pure dose of pleasure.

A ”Preserved Chocolate Pine Cone,” served alongside the preceding bite, augments the cocoa’s sensation with some of the tart, resinous, and captivatingly woodsy qualities drawn from the titular strobilus (yet another totemic Smyth ingredient whose appearance—and the realization that such a thing might actually be edible—is always a treat). In this dish’s original form, the young cone would be dwarfed by its larger, mature counterparts.

However, with the creation of the “Pinecone Truffle,” Shields and Pegg would ensconce the bite within a chocolate shell along with a layer of ganache. The resulting creation, served alongside the “Black Walnut” (and every bit as photorealistic in its rendering), doubles the naturalistic effect at the end of the meal while preserving and enhancing the cone’s unique texture and flavor.

Finally, you have the “Quail Egg”—a bookend of bookends that replicates one of the menu’s most persistent opening bites by way of egg yolk caramel, white chocolate, and cocoa butter. The latter ingredient, in particular, is used to hand paint the specks and splotches that make this particular false “shell” so alluring. The resulting morsel is crisp, then sticky, with a richly sweet flavor brightened by the milky white chocolate. Though each of these doppelgängers, in isolation, aim at a fairly straightforward balance of textures and flavors, their combined effect is one of charm and generosity at the end of what is otherwise an adventurous meal.

Having already been offered coffee (or, perhaps, given the chance to order a burger), you receive your seaweed caramels, your printed menus, and the check—whose “service charge,” perplexing as it can be to the uninitiated, causes you no confusion after countless encounters. 5% or 10% sprinkled on top of the 20% already being assessed is a worthy reward for excellent service from a friendly team whom you are destined to see again. Keeping in mind that the purpose of the “service charge” is to “provide fair and equitable wages to… [the] front and back of house” (along with insurance), guests who feel squeezed by the final total can just as easily leave without anyone really losing. Ultimately, gratuity here is really gratuity: voluntary, beyond obligation, a total bonus (that, nonetheless, gets poisoned by the expectations and insecurities that may still infect luxury spaces).

With one final farewell from your captain, you trace a path back through the dining room (its wood tones now set aglow by candlelight) and along the pass (where Shields, Feltz, and now Barker solicit the most honest, coherent feedback you can muster after three hours of indulgence). Approaching the door, you share a few more goodbyes with managers and sommeliers. Then, rather unceremoniously, you find yourself back in the lobby of an apartment building: among dogs and packages and, yes, the comings and goings from further downstairs. If it’s summer, the patio’s revelry might reflect some last trace of the joy you felt during your time at Smyth. Otherwise, Ada Street is cool, dark, congested (with vehicular traffic), yet bare (when it comes to actual passersby). Concrete planters hint at the herbs that graced many of the evening’s plates. The restaurant still feels so close—separated only by a layer of glass and ivy. Its denizens may even wave or smiles if they catch you peering in from the other side of the threshold.

Nonetheless, even in the immediate aftermath of a meal, Smyth, as much as the concept makes itself knowable and approachable and a part of its surroundings, has already renewed its sense of mystery. The restaurant is a snow globe: quaint, idyllic, but always being shaken—always being blanketed by innumerable little details landing, each night, in a singular fashion. Smyth, on any given evening, comes so close to perfection by preserving its cornerstones of service and setting and mood but abandoning itself completely to the flux. Food and wine are wielded boldly, bravely as products of the moment rather than terse planning and repetition. Nature—and this includes human nature—is showcased in its most raw and reflexive form: effort, yes (plenty of that), but also effortlessness, openness, and an acceptance of what cannot be controlled.

For all your talk of “challenging yet rewarding” cuisine, you can only count a couple versions of a couple recipes during the 2023-2024 period that gave you pause. Preparations of the “Matsutake Custard” or “Steamed Brook Trout” or “Hojicha & Marquis Grapes” struggled, in their very earliest forms, to attain total textural or flavor balance. However, they quickly adapted, and the same core ideas eventually blossomed into nuanced expressions of their respective ingredients rendered in a style that remains largely unique at a national (if not international) level.

Certainly, consumers reserve the right to chafe at the use of seaweeds and nut oils and fermentations over and over again. They may not be for everyone, but they form the building blocks of a cuisine that takes a certain satisfying, savory quality for granted. Upon this basic grammar of umami, Shields, Feltz, and Barker have taken fresh produce and animal protein in directions that Chicagoans—and many of the world’s diners—have never seen. The common threads that connect the menu’s constituents with one another work to ensure that contrasts, course to course, are subtler and that shared themes deepen (or warp) rather than being tossed aside wholesale. At the same time, discrete dishes absolutely are ejected and replaced at the drop of a hat in favor of whatever forms a newer, fresher part of the mosaic. In this manner, the menu always evolves—almost unforgivingly—while propagating a kindred identity.

You ultimately speak of a vision: one that has remained consistent, legible, and intoxicating (for those it seduces) at Smyth from opening through the present era. The restaurant has endeavored, even at the very height of its fame, to never waver in its creative process: one that, to some, may recklessly trade away its hits in order to follow new inspirations but, to others (the initiated), perpetually yields that enchanting blend of provocation and pleasure only peak fine dining experiences can offer.

Yes, there comes a time when coloring within the lines is no longer feasible. Some restaurant, in some other market that is privileged by better sourcing (or by patrons willing to pay to fuel it), will always serve finer caviar, uni, tuna, truffle, and wagyu with a lighter touch and an even more superlative depth of flavor and texture. Of course, Chicago restaurants need not try to impress anyone but Chicagoans, but those Chicagoans may eventually travel. They may even just come to try all the renowned restaurants in their own city and realize that totemic luxury ingredients represent an arms’ race that can never be won—one that actually stifles the means of distinction that make dining destinations (whether small or larger in an international context) more robust and irreplicable. Smyth, to be fair, charges enough to utilize each of the ingredients you listed. At the same time, the kitchen wields them in ways that are anything but obvious and that sometimes, instead, form the very most polarizing preparations in a given meal. House style and a certain sense of experimentation always take precedence at a time when other restaurants (not just locally but nationally) hardly dare to push boundaries with their most coveted crutches.

Smyth only hits as many home runs as it does because the kitchen has the stomach—and a supporting structure of hospitality—to hit foul balls. The cooks and the chefs, from top to bottom, have the sensitivity and conscientiousness required to try, then tweak, then try again in accordance with how their audience responds. They have built a restaurant that is based upon conversation, a kind of active participation, and a shared journey through the realm of seasonality and terroir. To that point, the Smyth ethos is anchored in a partnership between customer and craftsperson, one in which both have decided to let their guards down. The former must not be quite so protective of the (rather sizable) amount of money being spent while the latter must reject any ego or bitterness regarding criticism of their work (despite the gap in culinary expertise).  

At face value, it might seem outrageous to expect anything less than mind-blowing perfection, bite after bite, from a $500+ per person tasting menu. Yet that kind of quality is illusory. Those who get closest to it have simply strategized well: determining which dishes, backed by environmental and experiential flourishes, stand a chance of pleasing the widest range of mainstream consumers, time and time again, without turning off whatever portion of its patronage comprises well-traveled or serial diners. Such a balancing act is tricky, and top restaurants have even devised ways to explicitly cater to the latter category (like Atomix, which runs a separate “Bar Tasting” above the chef’s counter for its experimental fare, or Benu, which tracks guests’ visits in order avoid repeat dishes by pulling from a wider, historic repertoire).

Though Smyth’s tiering—the chef’s table/chef’s menu versus the standard menu—would seem like an effective way of hedging the restaurant’s bets, these premium seats are hard to secure. Plus, while they do allow you to indulge in the kitchen’s most experimental creations, the meal is not altered so much as it is reinforced with even more food. Smyth, no matter which menu you sign up for, remains totally faithful to its culinary philosophy. The team resists the tendency to play things safe and put its best dishes on the menu, time and time again, in order to assure those mainstream customers who are hardest to please go home happy. Here, everyone comes along for the ride—the journey that began eight years ago—whether they are up to speed or not. The warmth of service, comfort derived from the setting, and special thrill of rare, well-priced wine act as buffers. But you are expected to sing for your supper: to work and think and talk through the food rather than shrink into that usual role of passive consumption.

Some guests, surely, will hate that. However, what Smyth encourages—connection, reflection, and perfection (as a shared, dynamic process rather than a static one)—is far rarer than the opposite. It represents the purest, most endgame expression of hospitality you have encountered: one that demolishes any sense of pretense, holds out its hand, and humbly invites you to take your privileged place as the perceiver and arbiter of craft. This kind of partnership can be embraced by any diner and any chef at any establishment (though there are not many) able to build this degree of trust. Yet you can speak most concertedly to Smyth: to a cuisine, whatever its missteps, that has continued to deliver the top 10 or 20 creations you taste in any given year and to an ever-probing, ever-growing approach to nature’s bounty that still leaves you shaking your head in disbelief. The assembled work of the Shieldses, Feltz, Pegg, Barker and many more members of the team during this period is profound. All it takes is a shift in perspective—from fine dining’s purpose being to please me to an acknowledgment that pleasure can only be a byproduct, rather than the goal, of any artistic endeavor—to see it.

You maintain that those making a rare trip to Chicago or, otherwise, saving up money for the single fine dining experience they budget each year cannot be faulted. It is normal to want that one expensive meal to deliver the most straight-up deliciousness (or, barring that, the most aesthetic appeal and surrounding “show”) possible for the sum being spent. Taste can only be refined through repeat exposure (the limits of which for each individual, financial or temporal, are altogether clear). And, as with the appreciation of other art forms, one’s path tends to lead from broadly appealing works toward the arcane, esoteric, and highly personal creations that most richly define an individual’s unique way of seeing the world. (Just the same, venturing from the former category to the latter does not necessarily mean rejecting the former. One might very well define themself by plunging deeper and more comprehensively into those “broadly appealing works” than the mass audience would ever dare.)

With this in mind, you wish to end your piece with a final meditation on what the third Michelin star has meant to Smyth. Bibendum’s high honor—with all the international exposure it brings—is something of a poisoned chalice, for it begs comparison to the world’s greatest destination restaurants and to dining sanctums situated in cities that, for all of Chicago’s graces, boast a degree of investment and an accompanying base of consumers that fuel greater competition and a higher baseline of excellence.

Alinea (whatever dispersions one might cast at the quality of individual dishes) still more or less succeeds in putting on a performance that feels unique in a global dining context. Smyth cannot lean on that. It can only hope that guests enjoy its cuisine: finding it outright delicious or, at the very least, singular and thought-provoking. Smyth has also had to grapple with the pressure of being so recently awarded. It has not held its stars for 13 years (a stretch of time during which even the harshest critics will come to see a restaurant as a relic or time capsule that is underperforming but still deserves some respect). Smyth is the latest and greatest golden child, a testament to what Michelin considers the very best cooking in Chicago right now, and it is simultaneously a concept that cares little about satisfying those expectations.

Bibendum, you are comfortable speculating, did not reward Smyth for a set collection of dishes served between 2022 and 2023. Rather, the tire company acknowledged the fruits of a larger process that has taken the restaurant from one to two to three stars. They have put their stamp of quality on Smyth with full knowledge of the highs and the lows (which are really missteps rather than meltdowns) a given menu on a given night can attain, for they are asserting that the chefs’ creativity has finally reached a critical mass in which the hits clearly outweigh the occasional misses. 2024, and the retention of those three stars, would confirm that this was no fluke.

Yet, the intervening period saw a certain strain of commentary develop: international, national, and (most regrettably) local diners not enjoying Smyth’s style of cuisine and gleefully announcing that the restaurant was already past it, that Michelin had made a mistake, and that the star would quickly be taken away (perhaps in favor of a more deserving candidate like Oriole). You would not look to undermine these testimonials or even argue (as much as you might believe it) these customers need to simply pony up more money, go there again, and appreciate the degree of growth and refinement that is always occurring (though imperceptible to the first-time guest). Rather, they encapsulate the downside of the expectations that Michelin’s honor brings: a tendency to cast doubt on the entire process rather than understand a concept on its own terms or, much less, confront the limits of one’s own taste.

You had eaten at every Michelin-starred restaurant in New York and Chicago (many of them several dozen times) before ever stepping foot in Smyth. The food, that first time, was immediately distinctive, but it was the second and third and fourth and every subsequent visit, now well beyond one hundred, that compounded just how special this restaurant is. That was the same feeling you had at Kyōten—and, to a lesser extent, at Valhalla “2.0” and Feld (who may have more growing to do but, at core, are set up in a way that empowers such dynamism).

The chefs continually taking the largest risks—evolving their menus, with little regard for what worked yesterday, pursuant to what you can only term an obsession for their craft—must form the cornerstone of any serious gastronomic city. The tendency to judge a restaurant decisively based on its worst work during its first month or even simply a challenging meal (i.e., not in accordance with your personal taste) during a particular point in the season effectively places the dining scene in the hands of the most uninspired, cynical operators. The advantage that concepts appealing to the lowest common denominator enjoy (a steady wave of positive testimonials) runs counter to the growth that any palate undergoes with serious effort: an appreciation for the novel, the extreme, and the distinct rather than the diminishing returns of conventional “luxury.”

The democratization of fine dining demands the coexistence of a newer, aspirational segment of consumers with the well-heeled hobbyists who defined this sector in its more exclusive (often consciously exclusionary) days. Your idea is not for the latter to lord over the former with an infallible wisdom, undermining the manner in which restaurants have meaningfully evolved to connect with new generations and wider demographics. Rather, if dining is truly to be considered an art (much less embraced as the key part of a person’s identity), it must be acknowledged that many a great establishment grows more and more boring with repeat exposure. Likewise, many a good establishment grows great—and greater—with time. Hell, even a bad establishment, if it is bold and driven in just the right way, can achieve greatness.

The same process occurs with one’s favorite films, books, paintings, and pieces of music: those rare works that, among all the chaff, inspire and reward repeat engagement with new depth and detail. What about those that annoy or perplex or disturb the perceiver on first encounter but somehow manage to worm their way into the mind and, upon reflection, merit a closer look? These works may eventually spur the same kind of enjoyment as those that one labels favorites from the start. Otherwise, even a persistent negative reaction can go a long way toward defining individual taste. It’s only the merely fine—but bland, and altogether forgotten—works that prove worthless in the long run. And the one-and-done pursuit of all a city’s Michelin-starred restaurants tends to frame the majority of concepts in that way.

You are left with clear favorites (those most adept at pleasing the mass audience) and clear losers (kitchens committing clear faults or living solely on past glory). But many fall within the “good enough, but I wouldn’t go again” category, and any question of distinction of dynamism becomes obscured. Completionism, comparison, and immediate pleasure take precedence over sensitivity and self-discovery. The chefs who are best equipped to challenge and transform your palate week after week and month after month are overshadowed by those more adept at casting the widest possible net and satisfying the greatest number of customers consistently over three-to-four-month increments. It’s a long—lifelong—journey from the general to the particular.

However, once you reach the top of the mountain, you may begin to feel that Alinea and Ever, once you strip away the imposing setting and special effects, are serving food that hardly deserves a single star. Oriole, despite being the city’s greatest guarantor of pleasure, shows clear limits to its curiosity and range of techniques. And it is far more appealing to roll the dice at Smyth on any given night and have some chance of being served the greatest thing you’ve never tasted—to, at the very least, be engaged in a process that will one day yield such a bite—than settle for meals that have become rote.

One must traverse a long, expensive road to develop such a perspective, but you think it most effectively expresses what you see in Smyth that others—maybe—do not. You hope that covering the restaurant’s work in such detail may help newcomers join the team on their journey with some degree of context and understanding. Surely, the cost of entry has never been higher—too high for you, in good faith, to recommend taking the plunge without explicit knowledge of a prospective diner’s preferences. But, for those open to its charms, Smyth remains the signature, most singular restaurant of its generation. The third Michelin star only confirms its spot in Chicago’s pantheon.

Three Pineapples: an ultimate expression of hospitality, a peak experience that reminds us why life is worth living, a restaurant as warm and genuine as grandma’s house.