Understanding VALHALLA “2.0”

Valhalla, when you evaluated it in January of 2023, distinguished itself as one of the city’s finest new openings: a stage on which chef Stephen Gillanders, who had endeared himself to Chicagoans since his time at Intro in 2016, could craft the most refined cuisine of his career to date. The prodigy—national winner of San Pellegrino’s “Almost Famous Chef” culinary student competition in 2004—cut his teeth as corporate executive chef of the Jean-Georges Management Corporation. Over the course of 10 years, he opened restaurants around the world (including The Pump Room in 2011) and managed New York City’s crown jewel properties for the group.

However, his path to ownership (and to the pricey, imaginative tasting menu fare young chefs often rush to put out) was a careful one. Gillanders’s three-month residency at Intro, the “most financially viable” the concept had hosted, eventually led to a permanent position. He stewarded the restaurant through its remaining collaborative menus and, in 2017 (with Rich Melman’s “full blessing”), finally struck out on his own with S.K.Y.

The Pilsen establishment was (and remains) a hit: first defining Gillanders’s globe-trotting style (he prefers not to use the word “fusion”) that effectively marries comforting flavors and faultless technique at a price point that feels decidedly friendly compared to its peers. 2020 saw the chef spread his wings to Somerset, inside the Viceroy Hotel, tailoring an all-day menu for the property’s lodgers and the surrounding Gold Coast crowd. 2021 then saw him take aim at South Loop, another nascent dining neighborhood (as Pilsen was), with the opening of Apolonia. The concept, which holds a Bib Gourmand, caters to a mix of locals and convention goers with a Mediterranean-inspired menu (slightly more focused than S.K.Y.’s eclectic range of dishes) demonstrating the same blend of decadence, cleverness, and accessibility.

With three restaurants—a small empire—under Gillanders’s belt, partnering with Time Out Market on Valhalla offered the chef a chance to divest from his existing work and hone in, yet again, on the fundamentals of the craft. He had the right teams in place to keep the other properties going both operationally and creatively. And, with longtime collaborators like wine director Jelena Prodan and pastry chef Tatum Sinclair in tow, Gillanders could set about creating a “no holds barred” menu of the “best food” he could “make right now as an evolution of my career up to this point.”

The food hall setting was cleverly contorted into a virtue: likened to some of the world’s greatest restaurants that happen to be found in unorthodox locations (but, as you correctly pointed out, ones that still offer totally sealed, carefully controlled experiences). However (and especially with Sammy Faze’s addition to the project in 2023), Valhalla provided a stage for one of Chicago’s greatest culinary and beverage teams to flex their creative muscles with minimal overhead and risk. At the same time, they approached the makeshift location with total seriousness, maximizing the level of execution and value guests received while embracing a mood that felt more casual and approachable than one might typically associate with “fine dining.”

Over the course of four visits across four months, Valhalla’s food and drink—comprising a $188 tasting menu and à la carte options alongside wine pairings, bottles, and cocktails—delighted and surprised you. Nonetheless, some creations remained works in progress (or simply misguided) through the end. Likewise, the service, while sharp and personable, could not totally overcome the setting. The notion of enjoying a tasting menu at Time Out Market held a certain degree of charm, but the food hall’s noise, its wandering patrons, and certain practical considerations (like public bathrooms situated within sight of your table) combatted any real sense of luxury. They cast the restaurant more as a novelty than a transcendent experience, one that left you wondering when Gillanders would take all those great ideas to a more permanent home.

Still, Valhalla was a success, and Chicago seemed to agree. John Kessler, writing for Chicago magazine in February of 2023, awarded the concept three stars (“excellent”) out of four, noting ingredients that “taste intensely of themselves,” food that “can also be just plain fun,” “balanced” pairings, a “genius” dessert, a “genuine esprit de corps among the staff,” and extolling that “the future of fine dining…will look a lot like Valhalla.” The Chicago Tribune, reviewing the restaurant in March of 2023, did one better. Awarding three-and-a-half stars (“between excellent and outstanding”) out of four, it praised “mercurial ingredient combinations [that] hit the hardest and surprise the most” alongside Sinclair’s “essential” pastry creations, Prodan’s “lean but fascinating wine program,” and a meal “so captivating that it eventually makes the roar of the crowd below fade into the background.”

In May of 2023, Condé Nast Traveler featured Valhalla and praised its “expertly fashioned courses”; “thoughtful, global wine list”; “whimsical,” “smart” sweets; “welcoming,” “knowledgable” staff; and a “low key vibes meet high-caliber dining” experience overall. Even Michelin, releasing its 2023 Guide in November of that year, had good things to say—though neglecting to award the concept the star you think it was really angling for. Bibendum declared that the ”counter located on the second floor of bustling Time Out Market” was “absolutely” worth the fuss, with “thoughtful and sophisticated” food and “quirky but sophisticated” desserts he also termed “mandatory.”

Before leaving Time Out Market at the very end of the year, Valhalla conducted pop-ups at the food hall’s branches in Lisbon and Dubai as part of a “Chefs on Tour” series, adapting its recipes using local ingredients (e.g., “seasonal fish instead of fluke,” “aged Portuguese heritage beef” instead of wagyu). A unique dessert developed for the limited engagements—”black truffle and maple panna cotta with roasted white chocolate, honeycomb and sunflower seeds”—was, in turn, offered as a “special off-menu item” back in Chicago.

The restaurant also captured the popular imagination with an offering, forming part of its tasting menu, called “∞ Dessert.” The “unlimited,” “all you can eat” course comprised an alternating assortment of “roughly 20 different dessert templates,” described as “an ever changing lineup of confections, pastries, crumbles, etc.,” each “consisting of anywhere from three to ten customizable components.” Sinclair prepped, made, and plated each of these items “entirely by herself” and served “as many desserts as you’d like, so long as you finish what’s in front of you.” The pastry chef’s idea was “to never say no,” even accommodating “super specific” requests like “horseradish ice cream.”

A food influencer “misled its viewers” by representing the number of options as totaling 40, resulting in “at least one bad review.” (“That’s just not true. I don’t have forty. I’ve never had that,” said Sinclair.) However, the “∞ Dessert” still tipped the restaurant’s business from “a 50/50 split—in terms of tasting menu and a la carte” to “80 percent tasting menu” in its last months of service.

Valhalla ended its run at the food hall with a respectable 4.7 rating (24 reviews) on Yelp—the two lowest ratings (every other review coming in at four stars or higher) reacting negatively to the “∞ Dessert” and to errant expectations drawn from inaccurate social media information. For what it’s worth, a fifth visit you made to the restaurant in October of 2023 also fell below the high standard set when writing your original review: Gillanders was not present in the kitchen that night, resulting in some faltering execution of the savory fare, but the evening was rescued by Faze and Prodan.

Announcing its closure on New Year’s Eve of 2023, Valhalla could not yet disclose its new location but anticipated “moving to Wicker Park” and opening its “new space in early February.” Nonetheless, a liquor license application would spill the beans: Gillanders was taking over the former Mirai Sushi space at 2020 West Division Street, and, thanking patrons for the “support that has provided…the inspiration and motivation to make this decision,” the chef noted that the concept “was always meant to be different and go through evolutions.” In turn, Time Out Market would admit that, while it was “sad that our time together is coming to an end,” the food hall was “proud to have helped Valhalla enter the world as its first home.” The restaurant, likewise, would “always” be a part of their “hall of fame.”

When January of 2024 came around, it was reported that Gillanders actually have five openings in the works for that year. This not only included Valhalla 2.0, but a sports bar titled Signature and Haven, a “dessert only restaurant with a curated pastry gallery in the morning and an intimate chefs counter dessert tasting menu at night” in partnership with Tatum Sinclair. The fourth concept was only known thanks to another liquor license application: this time for the space on the first floor of The Belden-Stratford that once housed Ambria, L2O, and Intro. (Gillanders would announce a week ago that he’s moving S.K.Y. here after seven years of operation in Pilsen.) The fifth project has remained a total mystery.

As it happens, Signature would be the first out of the gate. Located at 1312 S Wabash Avenue (that is, about 10 blocks north of Apolonia), the restaurant is a collaboration with former Chicago Bears defensive end Israel Idonije and, appropriately, sits just west of Soldier Field. The concept, in the athlete’s own words, would aim “to be a place where people can come watch a game, have a cocktail and eat a meal that’s more ‘put together’ than the average sports bar.” This includes items like “short ribs, caviar, [and] a raw bar” alongside “gametime favorites” like “nachos, fries, wings and the restaurant’s signature burger.” Gillanders himself would term the cuisine “high-level but approachable,” looking to attract current players while also drawing a crowd during non-game periods and continuing to build the dining scene in South Loop.

The restaurant launched on January 19th with “an exclusive party attended by more than 300 guests.” Signature’s space, realized by Kehoe Designs, represented “all nine Chicago sports teams, evident in symbols throughout the venue” that included “decanters above the bar sporting all the teams’ logos.” Hammering the theme home, there were also “black and white photos of iconic moments in sports history” leading to a forthcoming “Trophy Room” event space with replica cups, chandeliers, and a fireplace. As to food and drink, the fête featured spicy salmon on crispy rice (a form you recall from Gillanders’s time at Somerset), lobster rolls, short rib nachos, and soppressata flatbread alongside a Nebuchadnezzar of Champagne. There, Idonije also announced “a portion of the proceeds from Signature will go toward the Impact Fund, a nonprofit focused on solving food and housing insecurity and bridging the education gap.”

At present Signature, can count a 4.4 average rating on Google (91 reviews) and a 4.0 rating (51 reviews) on Yelp. Negative reviews cite “terribly slow” service, inexperienced servers, a wine list that “need[s] an upgrade,” “silly surcharges” (with the restaurant responding that a presumed “ice charge” was actually for an extra ounce of liquor), and food that was “not good,” “overpriced,” and consisted of “very small” portions. Positive reviews, on the other hand, praise a ”fantastic vibe,” “charismatic” and “attentive” servers, “bomb” cocktails, and “top notch” food that includes “some of THEE best oysters…in Chicago,” “some of the best” brussels sprouts, and “probably the best burger in the south loop.” A proportion of patrons, too, come back as frequently as once a week for what is called a “marvelous experience.”

Gillanders, making a cameo in the Google reviews (while rating the property five out of five across the board), shares that he is “so happy and appreciative for all of the love and support” the restaurant has received. No doubt, Signature is the most polarizing of his properties to date, but reviews tend to be trending upwards. The concept, likewise, is decidedly more mainstream than anything the chef has done, needing to please a sports bar crowd that carries different expectations than those expressly seeking a gourmet meal.

Though Valhalla 2.0 was originally scheduled to follow Signature’s mid-January debut with a mid-February opening, the revitalized concept would encounter the kind of delay that has become all too common. Nonetheless, on March 1st, Gillanders would post a picture of his Wicker Park location and muse on what the new restaurant represents.

The chef cast Valhalla’s “journey” as “an overwhelming one,” starting from “the notion to do things differently…at the highest possible level” and—thanks to “a roster of true all-stars”—reaching “heights we never could have imagined.” Benefiting from “guests [who] understood our vision,” the restaurant “very quickly evolved into something larger” and necessitated the relocation. However, traversing this transformation (presumably a clear improvement on the previous setting) was tricky. The food hall concept was “a bold statement that displayed our originality,” and the brick-and-mortar actually “makes it more challenging to showcase that boldness.”

To combat that, the team would “continue to question everything” and avoid trends “at all costs.” Any idea that “doesn’t truly have a positive impact on guest experience” would be “tossed,” including “things that were done at past restaurants we’ve worked at, dining experiences we’ve had, things that other chefs and restaurateurs have done/are doing.” Doing so meant that “the egos surrounding what we prefer have fallen to the wayside,” and Gillanders could already reveal that “we won’t have a proper sign, we won’t have a ceramicist custom making anything, we won’t have a traditional service style, [and] we won’t drop silverware with several courses.”

Valhalla 2.0 had “been stripped down to the pure essentials.” It would “be different, because it must be different”—because “this wonderful dining landscape deserves newness and bravery, and we’re up to the challenge.” Just the same, “while the concept may be thought provoking, that is not our main goal.” Rather, providing an experience that “exceeds expectations” would take precedence, being balanced by an urge to provide “creative inspiration within the industry we are so grateful to be a part of.”

These rousing remarks would be followed, on April 1st, by a round of hiring. On April 24th, the restaurant’s liquor license was granted. Then, over the following week, Gillanders began teasing the menu’s research and development. Finally, on April 26th, Valhalla began accepting reservations ahead of its opening during the first weekend in May.

At launch, the restaurant’s ticket price of $198 represents an increase from the $185 being charged back at Time Out Market. Likewise, the sum is being applied to a relatively streamlined concept that has totally done away with the à la carte options offered at the food hall. However, this difference must also be considered in the context of the new, dedicated space and all its accompanying overhead. With that in mind, you think the (admittedly modest) premium feels fair when there exists every temptation to demand 10%-20% more for an experience that could be construed as “new and improved.”

Just the same, keeping the price below $200 (though this fails to consider tax and service charge) has an emotional effect. It situates Valhalla’s tasting menu among restaurants like Elske ($125), INDIENNE ($125), Jeong ($145), Kumiko ($150), The Coach House ($165-$190), Topolobampo ($165-$185), Schwa ($165-$215), Next ($165-$245), Atelier ($170-$190), Boka ($175), EL Ideas ($185), Feld ($195), and Cariño ($190-$210) while falling short of the upper stratum occupied by places like Bon Yeon ($255), Esmé ($265-$295), Kasama ($275), Moody Tongue ($285), Ever ($325), Oriole ($325-$375), Smyth ($325-$425), and Alinea ($325-$495).

No doubt, this is esteemed company: a collection of “special occasion” venues selling experiences more than they are mere food. That distinguishing feature of Valhalla “1.0”—allowing customers to simply walk in and get a taste of Gillanders’s gastronomy for $20-$50 a plate—is now gone. You must sign onto the full vision to get through the door. Yet $198, clocking in among the most expensive entry-level options but still representing only a half or two-thirds of the sums charged by the real heavy hitters, feels like a sweet spot. The price positions expectations high enough to raise interest from experienced fine diners while, at the same time, not going so far beyond what a newcomer would spend on concert tickets or a particularly indulgent steakhouse meal. In this manner, the chef casts a wide net while avoiding both “death in the middle” (i.e., being neither a value or premium option in his genre) and the kind of “once in a lifetime” status that precludes repeat patronage.

Valhalla “2.0” also, it must be said, benefits from its new surroundings. You do not simply mean the concept’s extraction from the former food hall setting, but from the saturation of West Loop altogether. There, Gillanders was battling with restaurants like Next, Mako, Ever, Smyth, and Elske for diners’ attention. More casual—but esteemed—properties also surrounded the tasting counter for blocks on end. Consumers, though some small percentage may have stumbled upon the chef’s work, were faced with endless choices from established hospitality players in their own wholly branded spaces. Valhalla did, indeed, find a way to distinguish itself from this crowd, but you doubt Gillanders would have ever chosen this neighborhood without Time Out Market’s support.

Instead, as demonstrated by S.K.Y., Apolonia, and Signature, the chef prefers to enter emerging areas and offer cuisine of surprising quality and value—the kind that can attract customers in the immediate area while also luring patrons from further afield. On Division Street, at the southern end of Wicker Park and centrally located within West Town, Valhalla finds itself among a burgeoning array of options. You find Le Midi, Lilac Tiger, and Tortello on the same stretch with barbecue, bakery, pizza, and taco options at hand for good measure. Venture a bit further, and you come across places like All Together Now, Amaru, Big Star, Boeufhaus, Brasero, Chengdu Impression, Flour Power, Heritage, Kai Zan, Mindy’s, and Mott St alongside Thai food and ramen of note.

Despite this stellar assortment (and an accompanying base of consumers), fine dining remains underrepresented. Yes, the neighborhood has recently gotten its own $195 omakase (the lackluster Shoji) and counted Michelin-starred Porto (a disappointment in its own right) and Temporis within its boundaries. However, at present, only The Coach House, Kasama, and Jeong (all great in their own right) carry the banner for tasting menu fare. Each operates within a rather particular genre too, leaving the door open for Gillanders to push boundaries with a more esoteric contemporary menu. (Only Temporis, perhaps, really treaded the same ground.) Thus, even if the chef is entering a more established market than he’s used to, Valhalla shines as an exceptional offering in its context. The concept—a total standalone compared to the more casual food served by The Coach House (via Lilac Tiger) and Kasama (during the day)—challenges its native audience (at a reasonable price) while tipping the block, bit by bit, more toward destination dining. Feld seems certain to play a part in such a shift as well.

Finally, before diving into your appraisal of Valhalla’s new and improved experience, it is worth dwelling on just what that “2.0” designation means. This shorthand, sometimes embraced by the restaurants themselves or merely applied from without as a means of tracking eras of development, connotes a transformation—often spatial but sometimes more strictly stylistic—within the designated property. Seasons and menus and staffing may change, but progressing to a new “version” means something more (the introduction of a new executive chef, as sometimes happens at an established property, could possibly merit this demarcation). It signals an evolution in the concept’s operation and maybe even its basic philosophy. It goes beyond the rhythms of creative progress a regular customer may be accustomed to and declares a clean break.

In the past, you have made reference to Alinea “2.0” (the concept’s post-renovation era) and evaluated Alinea “3.0” (its post-pandemic reorientation toward new forms and a different grammar of cuisine). You have reviewed Oriole “2.0” (the restaurant’s total expansion across spatial, service, and gastronomic dimensions) and also appraised Kyōten “2.0” (the sushi counter’s cosmetic update in line with a culinary evolution that occurred during the pandemic). You also tackled Daisies “2.0,” the only one of these examples that (like Valhalla) physically changed locations as it hired a new pastry chef and dramatically expanded its offerings.

It is telling that each of these transformations occurred during or as a consequence of the pandemic. Barring a milestone anniversary (the sort that prompted the Alinea “2.0” renovation) or something equally catastrophic (like a fire), it is hard to imagine any chef willingly pausing their work when most creative improvements can be accomplished via smaller upgrades to kitchen technology. Yet, in forced shutdowns, some saw a chance to dream. Others, with the mere loss of inertia, could simply question everything they had been doing and reimagine their work for a new world. Even Daisies “2.0,” though announced in 2022 and realized in 2023, was inspired by the restaurant’s adaptation during the pandemic. A new location would allow the old one to continue as the kind of market concept that had proven so popular with locals.

The transition from “1.0” to “2.0” (or “2.0” to “3.0”) has typically been well received. Serving the same food in a new and improved space, new and improved food in the same space, or a double improvement combined with a whole new kind of experience all, understandably, take something good and make it better. Barring an increase in price (and corresponding decrease in overall value) or an actual lapse in quality, it is hard to think of this equation not working.

However, Daisies “2.0” proved to be the case. On the surface, Joe Frillman had built a concept that was bigger and more ambitious than “1.0.” The press was happy to embrace the restaurant’s superficial improvements and declare it a resounding success. Nonetheless, your more careful analysis revealed a restaurant that was struggling to cope with its increased scale and delivering food and hospitality that was often subpar (if not, in the case of the former, downright disgusting). This case reveals the temptation, particularly for those brokering public taste, to take a “2.0” transformation at face value and, naturally, award the resulting experience the same or higher marks than the original. Such a sin is especially easy to commit when a given “critic” only visits their subject for dinner once and supplements that with a measly appearance at lunch.

Approaching Valhalla “2.0,” you will try to keep this lesson in mind. Situating “1.0” on the second floor of Time Out Market, Gillanders must have always known that he’d be eventually taking the concept to a more permanent home. Likewise, given that your principal criticism of the original location had to do with the intrusive surrounding environment and associated surrender of total control over the guest experience, it seems destined that a new and improved Valhalla in its own dedicated space would score just as well (if not better) than before.

The chef, to his credit, has chosen to raise expectations beyond where they once were. Serving “1.0’s” food in a “2.0” space will not cut it, and, as you have also mentioned, excising the à la carte dishes only puts more pressure on the tasting menu to deliver. Service, sound, beverage, bathrooms, and the like must be judged as idealized expressions of what the restaurant hopes to provide. There’s no longer any novelty factor from the food hall setting to help round out the rough edges. Valhalla “2.0” must deliver across every dimension, reflecting the lessons learned and dreams dreamt during the prior iteration. Sure, in isolation, a first-time customer may be rightfully blown away by what they do not know was done before. But it is not worth celebrating a restaurant for doing the same old thing with a new coat of paint. You do not think Gillanders, if this restaurant is really to represent the culmination of his career to date, would ever settle for something so safe.

For what it’s worth, the concept’s early reviews have been overwhelmingly positive. Valhalla “2.0” enjoys a 4.8 average on Google (17 ratings—though you’ll discount the one from Prodan), with users praising the “beautifully renovated, calming space,” the “impeccable” service, the “spot on” wine pairing, the “exceptional” non-alcoholic pairing, the kitchen’s accommodation of dietary restrictions, and “a ton of food” with dishes that “came out like a piece of art” and tasted “absolutely stellar.” Customers who had dined at the Time Out Market location found the new experience mind-blowing, and more than a few explicitly predicted the awarding of “at least one Michelin star.” (The one negative review found the food “tremendous” but had to fault a piece of glass that made its way into one cocktail—an “inexcusable” error, seemingly handled well by the team, but one you hope won’t ever occur again.)

Yelp, in turn, only features two reviews from the restaurant’s new location (having merged it with “1.0’s” record): a pair of five-star scores that, likewise, praise “amazing food paired with impeccable service in an intimate setting” and “exceptional” cocktails all buoyed by “love and thoughtfulness.”

The Infatuation, as of July 10th, has even awarded “2.0” an impressive 9.0 rating (out of 10). Terming the restaurant “one of the most all-around inventive additions to Chicago’s crowded fine dining scene” (on the basis of one visit), the review praises “complex dishes with a range of influences” that are “never overbearing” and “experiential elements” that are “similarly tasteful, not gimmicky.”

With all of this in mind, it is time to dive in: embracing a restaurant that feels familiar—that you very much liked—and that is now trying to fulfill its latent potential. You have visited Valhalla “2.0” a total of three times, spanning a period from early May to early July of 2024. This timeframe does not only enable you to track the establishment’s growth in the usual fashion, but, more particularly, to track the kitchen’s transition from its opening “greatest hits” menu into its first full creative expression in the new venue. This work, you think, shines a brighter light on where Gillanders and his team hope to take the concept.

Now, let us begin.

Valhalla “2.0,” as you have already mentioned, sits on a strand of Division Street that forms the very southern boundary of Wicker Park and a more central conduit for the larger West Town area. The restaurant has found its home on the bottom floor of the three-story building that housed Mirai Sushi—the trailblazer that spawned Japonais and a generation of local omakase luminaries—for 24 years.

The old awning and cubic signage are long gone, but the brown tiling remains: coating the façade and contrasting the faded tan brick—offset by some nice stone inlays—that forms the rest of the edifice. The windows here also have also been left untouched, yet any view inside is totally obscured by curtains. Only the slender door, positioned at an angle, offers a peek inside. Only a small bit of text, situated in the corner of the closest pane of glass, confirms you have found the right place: Valhalla.

Looking around, it sure doesn’t seem like it.

Of course, you had little praise for the Time Out Market setting, but, perched on the second floor of a wannabe gourmet food hall that could count some of Chicago’s finest restaurants as neighbors, Valhalla “1.0” made sense. The counter was tucked away—a heavenly space set apart from all the action—but entirely appropriate in its wider context. It represented just one more chef joining the gastronomic orgy that is Fulton Market.

Valhalla “2.0’s” section of Division, while benefitting from the action further east and north (along Milwaukee), still feels quotidian. You’ve mentioned that Le Midi can be found nearby, but the restaurant’s more immediate neighbors include a taquería, a Turkish restaurant, a couple of coffee shops, a couple of sports bars, a handful of taverns, a breakfast place, and a health food restaurant. Interspersed among these eateries you find a smoke shop, a liquor store, a bank, an antique furniture store, a metalsmith, a pet shop, a preschool, a pair of dentists, a couple salons, a realtor, a cleaner, and a yoga studio. Rising two or three or four stories above these businesses (a few of which actually form their own strip mall), balconied apartments look upon all the action.

Here on this block, you do not encounter the slick, sealed lifestyle of West Loop’s residential towers. Rather, as you venture just off of this main drag, the schools and rows of brownstones confirm the neighborhood’s cozy, family feel. This is not the kind of place that’s begging for fine dining, but they appreciate and have supported good food—often of a more casual, approachable bent that (using Kasama as an exceptional example) fuels a more luxurious, reservation-only menu later at night. Gillanders seemingly has no plans to pull the same maneuver. Valhalla offers one pricey evening experience with no capacity (as far as you know) to accept walk-ins. But parents need a night out from time to time too (all the better if it’s close to home), and the chef’s established reputation is sure to lure diners here from across the city.

With this in mind, you understand why the restaurant hides behind the old Mirai Sushi façade and cloaks its goings-on behind curtains. Compared to what you have seen elsewhere in the neighborhood, this design reveals less than Temporis, whose covered windows were transparent enough to entice passersby (leading them to slow down and gawk), and just about as little as Kasama, whose dining room remains totally impenetrable from the street.

The latter strategy establishes Valhalla “2.0” as someplace understated and mysterious. It ensures the concept’s treasures are guarded until the moment of arrival, and it asserts that Gillanders and his team have now built a truly separate, exclusive world for their work. This represents a clear break from the “1.0” food hall setting that, at is worst, left your dining experience at the mercy of outside forces. And it replaces that permeability with a total sense of focus: the kind of close control and confidence that invariably screams luxury (yet priced in such a way that mere mortals, too, may find themselves on the other side of the threshold).

Stepping through that offset door, you find yourself awash in neutral tones—whites, grays, browns, and beiges—with only the flicker of candlelight and, toward the kitchen, a set of track lighting to lead the way. Whereas S.K.Y., Gillanders’s first property, remains defined by the industrial chic of exposed brick and splotchy cement, Valhalla “2.0” follows more in Apolonia’s footsteps. The space is crisp and clean almost to the point of polarizing blandness. But there’s none of the latter environment’s enlivening sunlight, none of the same floor-to-ceiling windows that immerse Apolonia within its busy corner. There’s also no bustling bar or mass of patrons adding color and noise and depth to the proceedings.

Instead, Valhalla “2.0” feels like a concentration and refinement of that familiar aesthetic. It represents the seclusion and channeling of that stark style toward a singular (rather than a collective) guest experience. It takes Apolonia’s “blank canvas” effect and rids it, even more comprehensively, of any possible distractions.

Of course, this is not to say the restaurant runs short on pleasing details. To your left, amidst all the flickering wicks, you find an intimate lounge featuring a pair of low tables accompanied by matching end tables each surrounded by a trio of armchairs. Curtains, arranged in an L shape, serve to loosely separate this space from the action of the counter. Here, you find contrasting tones of darker wood: a credenza, five shelves holding glassware, and a rear door. The most eye-catching element is centrally located: two rows of spirits, illuminated from behind, set into subtle double archways that have been carved into the wall.

To your right, you find the counter: two seats facing forward, another eight looking inward toward the kitchen, and four more facing forward at the end (in what roughly amounts to a Z shape). This surface is also rendered in dark wood, but the matching armchairs are covered with an interesting woven cushion done in a lighter tone. The track lighting, beyond tracing the flow of the seating, ensures that each guest can see (and photograph) every dish with total clarity. The only other illumination, beyond that which comes from the actual kitchen equipment, is cast against the ribbed wall that runs along the east side of the building. The resulting parabolic shapes, formed from bulbs on the floor, call spotlights to mind. They reinforce the idea that Valhalla “2.0” is a stage for craft, and, as it happens, you often find the chefs—Gillanders and Sinclair—operating against this background.

If seated further down the counter, you might find yourself closer to the stovetops and the other cooks. If placed all the way at the end, you’ll be treated to prime views of Faze and Prodan plying their respective trades. Yet, no matter which seat you ultimately find yourself in, the staff’s movements are incredibly fluid. Each member of the team may have a set station with certain equipment at hand, but presentations are directed to individual patrons. Cocktails, wine, savory food, and sweets are all delivered and described by their corresponding specialist.

In truth, with a twist of your head, little of the action at any end of the 14-seat counter would escape you. But this is not one of those illusory “chef’s counters” or “chef’s tables” that demand you squint and probe to get a sense of what’s going on. The headlining craftspeople do not toil ever so slightly out of reach, forming symbols of an artisanship the consumer only comes to know through their underlings or, at most, a passing interaction. Rather, everything about Valhalla “2.0” has been structured to facilitate a connection with those conducting the meal. This was also the intention at “1.0,” yet the longer counter and other interruptions worked to stymie the effect. Here, intimacy is preserved and enhanced. Every guest gets to feel the glow of the restaurant’s considerable creative firepower firsthand. 

Thus, while the restaurant’s design borders on plain—Apolonia without the energy of the crowd—its sparseness works to center the experience. Key details (architectural and textural) remind you that this blankness is not derived from a lack of investment or imagination but intentional. When you enter Valhalla “2.0,” you are quieted, disarmed, and immediately engrossed. There is no imposing institution waiting on the other side of those doors—none of the stiffness of an aspiring Michelin-starred “establishment”—just a collection of individuals adding movement and form to a bare environment. It almost reminds you of omakase in a way: a distillation of dining down to its essential elements (the same ones Gillanders promised to interrogate with this new opening) .

Nonetheless, despite every temptation (given the nature of the space), there is no glorification of silent, stoic workmanship here—no expectation that you sit, mesmerized, and worshipfully watch what unfolds. Instead, the hostess receives you expectantly and greets the party with polished forethought. Truth be told, she has already contacted you hours earlier—personally (that is, not through an automated Tock message)—to express her excitement at welcoming you, to confirm the reservation’s details, to note the change of address, and to offer tips on finding parking.

Warmly, the hostess guides diners down the slender corridor that separates the counter from the curtained lounge. There, the rest of the team (you count two chefs, two cooks, a sommelier, a bartender, and a captain) is hard at work, but they, in turn, offer welcomes as well. The spirit of hospitality here, you are assured, is collective. No matter how important cooking of this caliber may sometimes seem, there is not, in fact, an invisible barrier separating the toques from their guests.

This audience, across your three visits, has predominantly been composed of 30-something white couples (finely attired, enthusiastic, effusive, and familiar with Gillanders’s other projects) and a slightly older cadre (50s and 60s) dressed more comfortably and a bit more restrained in their interaction. Might this reflect the surrounding area? You imagine the former category could comprise young parents enjoying a night out. However, your sample size is small, and, considering Valhalla “2.0’s” fairly quiet debut, the present crowd may simply reflect cosmopolitan diners with the means and interest to follow the chef from neighborhood to neighborhood as he opens new properties.

By the time you reach your seat, Valhalla “2.0’s” cool interior has come alive with the faces and familiarity of Gillanders and his crew. When you find a piece of wax-sealed parchment waiting at your place setting, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was a love note. Such is the earnestness of the approach to service taken by the staff. In fact, the seal—which you are invited to break open with an accompanying blade—reveals the restaurant’s menu. As at “1.0,” the backside of the document is adorned with your hosts’ signatures.

It also formally introduces the concept by way of “Our Story”:

Therein, the Valhalla team “proudly presents the culmination of tireless passion and boundaryless ideation.” They restate their goal “to redefine the very essence of dining, by providing you a truly unique and pure experience, where each meticulously crafted course combines to embody the spirit of an eternal feast.” They describe the space as being “curated to be a heavenly reprieve for those seeking uniqueness and a sense of adventure, a place where the boundaries of taste and presentations are pushed to new heights—through the lens of simplicity.” They commit to offering you “far more than a meal, through a transformative encounter showcasing the abundant possibilities of cuisine, hospitality, and beverage” while utilizing “the highest quality ingredients.” They state a belief “in fostering connections, enjoying life, and creating cherished memories” grounded in a restaurant “where the enjoyment of dining is celebrated not restricted, and every moment is a testament to the beauty of gastronomy.”

Even in this edited form, you are tempted to call the passage overwrought (the irony is not lost on you). However, it really represents an extension of Gillanders’s rousing Instagram post, and you think it should be thought of more charitably. This is not a marketing spiel appended to Valhalla’s website of Tock page, promising the world in order to get consumers to make their nonrefundable deposit. Rather, the waterfall of flowery language flows right when guests take their seats, at the very top of the rollercoaster, waiting for the meal to begin. Sure, the wordsmithing might induce someone to order an extra cocktail or more expensive pairing. But, principally, it sets mood for what is to come: emotionally and intellectually priming diners for what the team, viscerally, hopes to deliver.

Typically, you’d say the old admonishment to “show, don’t tell” applies here. Yet, taken in the context of the restaurant’s sparse environment, the verbal fireworks burst brightly. The chef is not gilding the lily by slathering a bunch of buzzwords on top of a contrived luxury setting. Instead, he is playing with extremes: sensory denial (at a spatial level) and sensory reward (at social and gustatory levels) leavened by a bit of scripting. “Our Story,” in the end, allows Valhalla “2.0” to explicitly reinforce its intentions and, confidently, position guest expectations as high as they will go. It explains away the lack of any obvious cosmetic conceits by extolling that you need only wait and watch what unfolds at the humble counter.

Returning to the interior of the menu, you find a bottom section listing the food: 13 titled courses paired with one to three descriptors and arranged randomly (another trick carried over from “1.0” that complicates your ability to predict which dish will come next). The top section confronts you with the real choice you’ll have to make this evening: choosing from a selection of five “House Cocktails” or opting for one of five “Beverage Pairings.”

The former category is Faze’s domain, and the talented bartender has debuted two new creations to accompany three that have been carried over from “1.0.” The latter category includes “The Frozen Martini” (whose price has fallen from $35 to $29), the “Black Forest Gimlet” ($22), and the “Sakura Old Fashioned” (down from $25 to $22).

Of these, you have sampled “The Frozen Martini,” which arrives with a caviar-stuffed olive perched across its rim and a central reservoir of flavored slush. A tableside grating of pressed caviar, termed “caviar bottarga” by the bartender, completes the presentation. This is all consistent with how the drink was made back at Time Out Market (where an early iteration that preceded Faze’s arrival failed to make much of an impression). However, in its present form, this martini ranks as one of Chicago’s finest (though, at this price, it had better be). Discounting any frills, the drink centers on the pleasingly savory character of olive-distilled vodka, tinged with vermouth, and chilled to the point that its concentration is sneakily subsumed by an overarching freshness. Yes, you do not sense the slightest bit of alcoholic “heat” here. Rather, when those shreds of dried caviar do touch your tongue, the mixture is further magnified via the salty, nutty notes. The caviar-stuffed olive, by comparison, offers a fleeting thrill. Yet, overall, this is an excellent recipe available for $5 less than the drink once cost. It’s the kind of martini that could even convince imbibers who would otherwise never go near this kind of conic glass. Bravo!

The “Sakura Old Fashioned” is a bit more straightlaced in its composition but also impresses as a great example of the form. Visually, the main frill comes by way of Faze’s hand-carved ice: a shimmering obelisk that sits at the center of your tumbler. Mars Shinshu’s “Iwai 45” forms the base of the cocktail, which is wonderfully rounded out by the earthy-sweet Okinawan brown sugar and a tinge of florality. Personally, you like to take a couple sips and then allow for a little additional dilution to take hold. However, this is a class “Old Fashioned” that, like the martini, is now being offered as a relative deal.

The restaurant’s two new cocktails comprise the “Honey Bee” ($19)—a blend of Żubrówka Bison Grass Vodka, basil, and yuzu olive oil—and the “Apricot Blanc” ($21)—a combination of Rakija (a kind of fruit brandy), white grape, elderflower, and lychee. Of these, you tried the latter, which arrived well-chilled and offered pleasing weight and potency balanced by concentrated fruit flavors with a hint of floral depth. Most importantly, the drink is bracing and invites you to take another sip, forming an attractive aperitif. You may suggest reordering the list of cocktails so that these more refreshing options are presented before the spirit-forward martini and old fashioned. However, this all makes for short, sweet program of imagination and quality.

It is also worth keeping in mind that, upon request, Faze can execute classic cocktails—like a margarita—with aplomb. This makes clear that you are not dealing with a beverage program that pigeonholes you into choosing solely from five impossibly clever creations. Instead, you are really being lent the expertise of a craftsperson who has the time and resources to cater to your particular tastes. That is the whole point of putting together such a team and having them work the floor every evening. It is the kind of luxury that only a rare few restaurants can offer.

This same idea extends to Valhalla “2.0’s” wine program, where Prodan—who has curated some of Chicago’s most forward-thinking lists over the years at S.K.Y. and Apolonia—is empowered to share her vinous passion in a more intimate, personal manner. Though the wine director also doubles as the service director for this concept (as she does the chef’s others), the small scale of the restaurant and surfeit of staff mean that she can act as a sommelier for the mere 14 customers stationed along the counter.

Compared to other fine dining venues—even the city’s very best—this ratio of expertise to patronage impressive. The scale of other operations necessitates that servers sometimes must fill in with descriptions of the pairings, which they often do well (the skill with which they do so also forming a great metric to evaluate a given wine director’s capacity for educating the team). However, for experienced winos, it is hard for any deputy to match the depth and breadth of knowledge that comes with the senior sommelier’s formal training. Even for novices, chatting with someone like Prodan means hearing each chosen bottle’s story, its sensory characteristics, and its synergy with a certain dish from the very person who picked it out. Through these interactions, wine transcends being a mere accessory for the food and shines as a real means of collaboration and creative expression in its own right.

For the pairings, Prodan has retained four of the offerings from “1.0”: the “Valhalla Beverage Pairing” ($98), the “Anything But Wine” ($118), the “Premier Wine Pairing” ($198), and the “Champagne Pairing” ($298). Of these, only the “Anything But Wine” has seen an increase in price (from $98 to $118), one that actually occurred not at “2.0’s” launch but about a month after opening. Still, charging $20 more for a medley of “customized cocktails, sake, craft beer & unique spirits” surely opens up more options now that the restaurant has a dedicate space. Plus, the new addition of a “Spirit Free Pairing” ($78), said to be a “culinary driven option that mirrors…the tasting menu dishes…through glassware rather than plateware,” ensures all preferences are catered to.

Structurally, this assortment remains the most creative approach to pairing in town, not only spanning increasing levels of premiumization but specialized categories of products. In terms of value, you like that the entry-level option comes in at about half the price of the tasting menu. And you particularly like that the “Valhalla Beverage Pairing” is used to designate that cheapest option, ensuring that consumers do not feel like they’ve compromised on a superlative or “proper” experience by refusing to pay (you always cite Alinea’s “The Alinea Pairing,” which subtly devalues the “Standard” and “Reserve” flights as being unworthy of the restaurant’s name). By Prodan’s design, there is not a bad choice to be made—a refreshing subversion of the process through which these add-ons often make guests feel squeezed.

Of these choices, you have sampled four.

The first of these, “Anything But Wine,” is expectedly diverse. It comprises pours like Isastegi’s “Sagardo Naturala” (a Basque apple cider), Konteki’s “Tears of Dawn” Daiginjo sake, Eric Bordelet’s “Poiré Authentique” (a pear cider from Normandy), Hitachino Nest’s white ale, and Heiwa Shuzo’s KID “Tsuru-Ume Natsu Mikan” (an orange-infused sake). These are all rather enjoyable, but the pairing is at its strongest when Faze offers cocktails like the “Black Forest Gimlet” and “Apricot Blanc” (available à la carte) or, even better, custom creations like a blend of Mizu Green Tea Shochu, coconut water, and milk or the “Pink Cloud 2.0”: a reimagination of a Valhalla “1.0” cocktail featuring mezcal, honey, grapefruit, and a thick hibiscus foam. Given that a couple of these drinks can simply be ordered and used to supplement a bottle of wine or an alternative pairing, it is not quite necessary for those who are merely curious to commit to this full lineup. However, those who, in truth, wish to avoid wine or explore a different range of accompanying tipples will find a thoughtful, fairly unique flight.

Second, you have sampled the “Spirit Free Pairing”—a range of nonalcoholic options, distinguished by their glassware, that actually returns you to Faze’s domain (though Prodan, in her own right, has been known to design some of these offerings). This selection of seven pours includes a couple standardized products like Proxies “Blanc Slate” and Selbach’s “Funkelwurtz Zero.” However, it really shines when the bartender draws on his technical expertise to craft spirit-free creations that combine ingredients like elderflower and lychee; yuzu and olive oil; kalamansi, ginger, and dill; sake lees vinegar, oolong, and kombu; and cucumber and melon to accompany the chef’s food. You also encounter salted rims, soda siphons, and milky textures that lend depth and complexity to the drinks. Overall, this pairing tends to be bright, refreshing, and crowd-pleasing across the board, aiming to enjoyably accompany rather than really augment the flavors of the tasting menu. If you were to make a critique, it would be that some brews of a drier balance may form a needed contrast. However, the price is right for what you get, and Faze—yet again—demonstrates his talent through refined, layered compositions that totally transcend the clunky, sickly qualities (not to mention repetitiveness) that tarnish other spirit-free flights.

Third, you have ordered the “Premier Wine Pairing,” which represents a step up from the “Valhalla Beverage Pairing” and “focuses on deeper vintages, single vineyards, niche regions & boutique producers” with several bottles being “one of a kind & of limited production/availability.” The selections, on that occasion, included:

  • NV Benoît Déhu “La Rue des Noyers” Brut Nature Champagne ($105 at local retail)
  • 2023 Rodrigo Méndez “Cíes” Ríax Baixas ($43.99 at national retail)
  • 1994 Sybille Kuntz Bernkastel-Kueser Wiesenstein Riesling Auslese Halbtrocken ($105 at national retail)
  • 2021 Jokic Pošip Dalmatia ($16.04 Wine-Searcher average)
  • 2021 Caprera “Le Vasche” Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo ($29.99 at local retail)
  • 2019 Bruno Clair Marsannay “La Charmes aux Pretres” ($69.99 at national retail)
  • 2022 François Cotat Sancerre “Chavignol” Rosé ($55 at national retail)
  • 2001 Jean-Louis Chave Hermitage [$589.95 at national retail)
  • 2016 Chateau Pajzos Tokaji “Esszencia” ($195 at national retail)

Structurally, you like the way this pairing draws on wines that are more modestly priced but, still, somewhat unique to form a more affordable foundation. The Croatian Pošip is not a variety you often see (outside of Rose Mary) and, thus, offers a sense of novelty to go with its refreshing citrus character. Likewise, while you were not familiar with producers like Rodrigo Méndez or Caprera, they operate within appellations (i.e., Ríax Baixas and Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo) that reliably offer both quality and value.

With these selections in place, Prodan has room to fulfill the pairings “premier” price tag with savvy choices like the Benoît Déhu Champagne, 30-year-old Mosel Riesling, Cotat rosé, Bruno Clair Marsannay (decanted an hour in advance), aged Chave Hermitage (a late release from the domaine that was surprisingly youthful), and luscious Esszencia. The wine director does an admirable job of covering all the bases, and you trust that she could swap the red Burgundy for a white or the Rhône for something domestic if the menu or a particular customer’s tastes compelled such a decision.

In terms of overall value, you note an average bottle price of $134.44 for the nine wines, which drops to $77.50 if you omit the Hermitage. In either case, compared to spending $150-$270 for a sole bottle (assuming a somewhat kind 100% markup), $198 allows you to sample a multitude of pours that span the world and come accompanied with engaging presentations. That is to say nothing of any actual harmony with the food (though, again, you would describe the wines as forming pleasant companions to the fare without dramatically altering your perception of it).

Ultimately, for a sommelier who, herself, is not partial to ordering pairings, Prodan has done an excellent job designing a premium offering that, priced at the level of some restaurants’ entry-level options, blows other flights out of the water. She delivers creativity, generosity, and pleasure in a manner that truly celebrates wine while honoring Gillanders’s cuisine.

Lastly, you have tried the “Champagne Pairing,” the restaurant’s most luxurious flight centered on bottles sourced from sparkling wine’s most prestigious region. The selections, on that occasion, included:

  • 2011 Sanger “Triangle Minéral” Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru Brut ($75 at national retail)
  • 2015 Guiborat “De Caures a Mont-Aigu” Blanc de Blancs Extra Brut ($149.94 at national retail)
  • NV Oudiette x Filles “Les Sablonnières” Blanc de Noirs Extra Brut ($81.99 at national retail)
  • NV Ruppert-Leroy “Papillon” Brut Nature [100% Pinot Noir] ($72 at national retail)
  • NV Roses de Jeanne “HL/R19” Blanc de Blancs Brut ($339.95 at national retail)
  • NV Egly-Ouriet “Les Vignes de Vrigny” Premier Cru Brut [100% Pinot Meunier] ($99 at local retail)
  • NV Pascal Doquet “Anthocyanes” Premier Cru Brut Rosé [50% Chardonnay / 50% Pinot Noir] ($69 at local retail)
  • NV Larmandier-Bernier Premier Cru Extra Brut Rosé de Saignée [85% Pinot Noir / 15% Pinot Gris] ($129.99 at national retail)
  • NV Vilmart & Cie Ratafia [100% Chardonnay] ($55.99 at national retail)

From the start, you enjoyed this pairing due to its focus on smaller grower-producers and on some Champagnes that are relatively unseen in Chicago altogether. Prodan shifted from cleansing Blanc de Blancs (the first two wines intended as points of comparison) to richer Blanc de Noirs and from high dosage to low dosage before closing with two legendary producers (Cédric Bouchard and Egly-Ouriet), a pair of rosés, and a sweet Ratafia. Back at “1.0,” the wine director made use of a still red wine from the Coteaux Champenois appellation as part of this flight, and you appreciated her cleverness. However, sticking with sparkling rosé is hardly a compromise (and may very well do more to please lovers of bubbly who opt for this splurge).

In terms of value, the chosen bottles reflect an average price of $119.21 at retail. Removing the Roses de Jeanne (a wine whose secondary market value greatly exceeds what restaurants are able to buy it for) from the calculation this number shrinks to $91.61. However, even at $298, you found the “Champagne Pairing” to be pleasing. Rather than drinking one bottle of ~$150 retail price sparkling (assuming a somewhat kind 100% markup), you get to sample nine pours that follow the movements of the menu. Moreover, those pours are all thoughtful, some are excitingly obscure, and one is totally head-turning. Plus, Prodan guides you personally through the whole experience, which rivals the “reserve” pairings offered elsewhere in Chicago.

Moving beyond the pairings, Valhalla “2.0” has not yet launched a formal by-the-glass or bottle list. In the former case, you do not doubt the restaurant would allow diners to purchase a single pour of one of the pairing wines for an appropriate price (of course, you haven’t tested this). In the latter case, Prodan will pull out a range of options in accordance with your taste. From what you have seen, these examples are true to the wine director’s type: small, artisanal producers (often proponents of biodynamic farming) from classic regions that punch above their weight and are rarely seen on other lists throughout Chicago.

When it comes to bottle pricing, you only have one datapoint to draw on: a Roses de Jeanne “HL/R18” Blanc de Blancs Brut (one vintage younger than the pour included on your “Champagne Pairing”) that was offered for $240. Compared to current retail pricing in the $350-$400 range, this is obviously a steal. However, if you were to imagine what the restaurant actually paid for the bottle, Prodan is likely charging a one-time markup (or even a bit less). This generous approach to pricing is par for the course at Gillanders’s programs, yet it feels particularly enriching at a tasting menu concept where consumers could be treated as more of a captive audience. Of course, a lack of any formal list means that the wine director has more leeway in reserving the most screaming of deals for repeat customers (like yourself) who have already supported the program. Still, you think all patrons can expect that their money will go particularly far when ordering bottles here. (You have not inquired about corkage but would expect it to be fair.)

In sum, Valhalla “2.0’s” beverage program takes everything that was good about “1.0’s” and improves upon it—whether through lowering the pricing of cocktails, adding an affordable “Spirit Free Pairing,” continuing to improve upon the wine options (with minimal markups), and encouraging guest corkage (without having to tangle with any possible restrictions from a food hall setting). Moreover, the new, intimate setting further enriches the drinks’ sense of craft: expressed through Faze’s mixing motions and tableside touches alongside Prodan’s storytelling ability and expertise. These are two professionals at the top of their respective games, and here they work side by side on a rather small stage with the sole purpose of pleasing a mere 14 patrons at a time. You struggle to think of another concept that wields this sort of firepower and applies it so generously. Yes, the beverage program forms one of the restaurant’s undeniable strengths.

With your drink order settled, the meal begins. So, too, does a delicate dance of service that proceeds through the remainder of the evening. The “frontstage” (that is, those posted behind the counter and facing toward you) continues the engagement that began when you first walked to your seat. As Faze and Prodan do with the drinks, Gillanders and Sinclair make a point of presenting the majority of their food personally: not only describing a given dish’s constituents and inspiration but applying finishing sauces and actually sliding the plate before you. In this task, the chefs are assisted by a few cooks who keep after the kitchens more quotidian tasks and allow their superiors to perform more eye-catching actions like frying, slicing, and constructing the various ingredients. Still, these more junior members of the staff will pop up once or twice to lead the description of a particular item. In this task, they are helped by a lone captain—a familiar face whose grace and confidence you last encountered at Temporis—who helps fill in the gaps.

This permeable approach ensures, of course, that the kitchen maintains sharp pacing throughout the evening (with 13 courses being served in a respectable two-and-a-half hours across your experiences). It allows the chefs to be present (in a technical sense) where they are most needed and to introduce the dishes that are most meaningful to them while sharing the load with their team. The resulting cameos from these other figures ensure you really feel like you are being hosted by everyone in the room. The junior staff often take charge of more familiar creations like the “Kombu Cured Fluke” (served since the earliest days of “1.0”) that demand little elaboration. However, their participation reinforces a genuine esprit de corps that underlies all the action, and you never feel shortchanged in the amount of attention given to you by the headlining chefs.

Supporting those working on the “frontstage” (who, despite the open layout, act as the back of house), you find a team of three that manages the “backstage.” This includes the hostess who greets you and a pair of servers who act as invisible hands upon taking your seat. Though front of house in theory, this crew works to ensure the show staged before you goes off without a hitch. During your first visit, that included reaching behind you to move plates from the upper counter to the lower place setting. These movements (necessitating close contact with the customer) felt a bit clunky, and this duty has smarty been shifted frontward. Now, the “backstage” focuses more on clearing empty dishes, replacing utensils, and folding napkins as needed. It’s simple work—but executed with the utmost precision, ensuring that the kitchen’s pacing is always supported from the other side. Further, while this part of the staff may not have the same opportunity to present portions of your meal, they do take the opportunity to ask how you are enjoying everything and go about their work with real positivity.

In this manner, both “frontstage” and “backstage” work in tandem to facilitate the evening and solidify a sense of connection with all those who contribute to Valhalla “2.0.” During the peak of service, the operation proceeds like clockwork, exhibiting all the finesse and precision aspirational diners have come to fetishize. To be exceedingly critical, you can count one exchange during the course of your visits that felt the slightest bit rushed (though you felt there was a common understanding that the employee needed to attend to other guests). Nonetheless, no interaction has ever felt cold or stiff. There has been no sense of the robotic or “uncanny” kind of hospitality that Michelin-starred properties put out when servers’ screws are tightened just a bit too much.

Instead, Valhalla “2.0” hosts its guests with equal parts ease, anticipation, and heart. The impressive guest-to-staff ratio (14 diners relative to 10 team members) ensures that is the case (and, for those who believe Michelin privileges these metrics, surely serves to clinch a star). But Gillanders deserves credit for stripping away any unnecessary frills and favoring the real nuts and bolts of a great dining experience: a group of employees that feels supported and empowered to make the diner’s night special. Here, mechanical excellence forms a baseline through which a more meaningful emotional connection (whether guest-to-guest or guest-to-staff) can form. That is just about the highest compliment you can give.

With the stage set (and so skillfully manned), you now turn your attention to the main event: Valhalla “2.0’s” cuisine.

Gillanders’s opening salvo is titled “Surf,” and it represents an entirely new creation for the transplanted concept. It also, you think, marks the launch of enduring form that the chef will have fun playing with for the foreseeable future: three distinct seafood compositions, served all at once, as a kind of oceanic shock and awe (that reminds you just a bit of how Oriole “2.0” starts guests off).

The first preparation is titled “Ceviche” and comprises chunks of scallop and prawn, orbs of avocado, and clumps of tapioca pearls all dressed with elderflower, citrus, and habanero. This dish is served in a scallop shell trimmed with a rosy-red hue, and the color—set against the off-white tone of the base—really serves to make the liquid and its constituents pop.

Taken with your spoon, the ceviche’s ingredients charm your palate with their contrasting textures. You sense the plump, soft chew of the shellfish chunks then the smooth, mouthfilling avocado and, lastly, the fine, firm tapioca. The leche de tigre, in turn, flows through all the elements and coheres them into an engaging mass. This liquid takes the natural sweetness of the scallop and shrimp and supercharges it through tang and spice. You really feel the latter quality through the finish (though not too much) with a tinge of the elderflower’s fresh, tropical notes providing intrigue. For such a small serving, the “Ceviche” strikes you with its power. It offers an expert rendition of the recipe that might, indeed, rank as the best part of the “Surf” trio. Well done.

The second preparation is titled “Crispy Mussels” (and, in its later iteration, has taken the even simpler name of “Crispy”). The first version features the titular mollusk that, rather than being served (as it so often is) with frites, is tempura fried. This batter is applied in such a way that an overhanging segment forms a kind of chip, serving not only to cushion the bivalve but acting as a canvas for the dab of aioli and sprig of microgreen that distinguish each piece. The pair of mussels is then perched atop a solitary shell containing tomato broth, which you are invited to slurp as you take the two bites.

On the palate, the tempura coating is expectedly crisp but also expertly light and flaky. The “chip” segment yields seamlessly into the subtle bounce of the mussel while, simultaneously, helping to coat the shellfish in the cool, rich aioli. The resulting flavors are mildly sweet and tangy with an overarching savory note. The tomato broth, when it strikes, is fragrant and fruity. This liquid amps up the dish’s concentration and colors the bivalve with the warm, nostalgic notes of fried calamari with marinara. Of course, Gillanders’s creation is quite a bit more elegant, yet it taps into those same key textures (crispy, bouncy) and taste sensations (sweet, tangy) to achieve something downright pleasurable.

The subsequent version of this dish, “Crispy,” actually represents a first for Gillanders. Just as the chef has described serving the “Arroz Caldo” as an “intimidating” embrace of his mother and grandmother’s Filipino heritage (one he had never incorporated into his menus), this item marks his first attempt at serving lumpia (that is, the beloved Filipino “cousin to spring rolls”). Always one to push boundaries, Gillanders’s filling is inspired by negitoro, a combination of tuna scrape and green onion that often features in sushi.

Served upright with a few miniscule slices of avocado and an orb of trout roe sealing its end, the chef’s lumpia is picture perfect. Against your teeth, the fried wrapper emits a clean, textbook crunch. Doing so, it unleashes its melty interior of tuna and green onion (with a trace of that creamy avocado), which, with further chewing, moistens the crisp shards. The resulting flavor here is rather pure, with the pristine tuna only being offset by the subtle bite of the green onion. You might prefer the introduction of some soy sauce or, better yet, an outright sauce that would more comprehensively flavor the wrapper and allow the fish mixture to really sing. That being said, the chef’s lumpia demonstrates faultless frying technique and structure. He’s already mastered the hard part, and honing in on the right balance of filling and seasoning (a simple task) will make this item a star.

The third and final preparation in the “Surf” sequence centers on yet another bivalve: the Manila clam. Here, too, chunks of the mollusk are tucked back into their shell. However, they lie hidden alongside enoki mushrooms within a pool of white curry with myriad dots of reddish-orangish oil forming a striking visual effect. Guests are invited, rather simply, to use their spoons and extricate the bits of clam flesh, fungi, and accompanying sauce.

Doing so, you encounter a milky-sweet sensation that rolls across your tongue and frames the plump, somewhat resistant (but ultimately tender) clam morsels. The mushrooms, in turn, do a good job of matching this mouthfeel while offering their own meaty, umami character. Further bites emphasize the bivalve’s own mildly sweet character along with a tinge of brine that helps to unlock the white curry’s diversity of herbs and spice. By the time you empty its shell, the “Curry” has impressed you with its full, soothing quality and tremendous depth of flavor (that, nonetheless, is free from any abrasive pungency or heat on the finish). This dish confirms Gillanders’s aptitude at working across several genres at once (always filtered through his singular lens of deliciousness), and it marks the “Surf” trio as a truly globe-trotting, engaging start to the meal. Impressive work.

On the back of the novel opening sequence, you come across something new: a preparation of “Kombu Cured Fluke” that formed one of longstanding, totemic courses of Valhalla “2.0.” For his revitalized concept, the chef has changed little. Rather, he serves the dish with total confidence in its consistency and lasting appeal. It comprises slices of the seaweed-cured fish hidden under a shell-shaped thicket of green apple matchsticks that, in turn, is studded with toasted pine nuts. A take on nam pla­—that is, Thai fish sauce—is used to flavor a surrounding vinaigrette. However, the emulsification is broken so that droplets of basil oil, rendered in an endless array of sizes, provide a burst of visual appeal.

Diving in, the main divergence between the “Kombu Cured Fluke” at “1.0” and the version at “2.0” is that the fish, in this latter presentation, has a habit of becoming stuck to the plate. Yes, when trying to construct a complete bite, you find yourself struggling with what feels like a suction effect. The fluke is not frozen to its vessel (though it is quite cold), but refrigeration may have something to do with this phenomenon. Nonetheless, with a bit of elbow grease, you release the fish, drag it (along with its accompaniments) through the sauce, and take it all in one go. The resulting texture is soft, succulent, and punctuated by the crisp and crunching effect of the apple and pine nut. The corresponding flavor is gently umami on entry and charged with the tangy, sweet, nutty, and concentrated savory tones of the other ingredients.

Compared to the preceding “Ceviche” (with its kindred notes of seafood and acid), the “Kombu Cured Fluke” displays a more rounded and substantial personality. It marries brightness with a mouth-filling quality and an elaboration of its varied supporting notes that contrasts the three opening bites and demonstrates what the chef can do with a full plate. Despite encountering this dish more than a half-dozen times, you admittedly do not feel totally bored by it. Just the same, at this point for this kind of concept, its presence also begins to seem a bit like filler. Thus, while the “Kombu Cured Fluke” still offers a worthwhile degree of pleasure, you are not sure it merits this kind of permanent place on the menu. At the very least, Gillanders should retain the familiar form and simply swap sauces/toppings to make the composition more engaging for repeat guests.

Following this more familiar fare, you encounter “2.0’s” next novel creation. The “Ocean Trout Guacamole” sounds like a luxurious dip, but it actually takes the form of a composed chip: a puffed nori chip teetering on a circular pedestal. The surface of the seaweed is coated with a mixture of avocado and the mezcal-cured fish. Meanwhile, a generous serving of smoked trout roe cascades over the top, contrasting the chunky spread with glossy bursts of color. To the side, one of the servers prepares a finger bowl filled with flower petals and slices of lemon. This touch, a familiar one from “1.0,” prepares you for a messy exchange.

However, grasping the chip and taking a bite, you are impressed by its structural integrity. Each portion of the nori and its guacamole topping comes off cleanly, and you make it to the end of the course without so much as an orb of roe plummeting onto the plate. On the palate, the puffed seaweed is airy, brittle, and gets out of the way so the creamy avocado and soft chunks of trout can linger on your tongue. The roe, far from just looking pretty, delivers an expected pop and a dose of brine that emphasizes the sweetness of the fish. Its mezcal cure tickles the roof of your mouth (somewhat pleasantly), yet it is a touch of acid and the interplay between the weighty guacamole and subtle umami of the chip that carries the dish.

Served after the “Kombu Cured Fluke,” this “Ocean Trout Guacamole” almost feels like a return to the opening finger foods. Yet, the latter’s engaging tactile dimension is combined with an increasing sense of richness that provides the meal with a sense of direction even as it playfully alternates forms.

As it happens, Gillanders actually takes this opportunity to pivot back toward something not unlike his opening salvo: a trio of “Turf” bites that, after a couple additional preparations of fish, fittingly bookend the “Surf” sequence.

In its first iteration, “Turf” has comprised three preparations of Midwestern beef. The first of these, “Tartare,” segues nicely from the “Ocean Trout Guacamole” due to its kindred cracker base and crisp seaweed topping. The bite even comes perched on the very same plate! Upon reaching your tongue, the crisp crunch of the tartare’s vessel yields to the soft, melting quality of the meat and the brittle, somewhat sticky nori. Thanks to the mayo coating, you could probably mistake the beef for more creamy trout guacamole. However, the presence of capers provides a jolt of salty, umami flavor that emphasizes the tartare’s bovine origin.

The second preparation, “Carpaccio,” displays the Midwestern beef in all its glory. A rather healthy slice (the sort you might expect from tuna sashimi) is dressed with olive oil so that its marbled flesh glistens and dusted with flaky salt. The meat caresses a potato croquette filled with cheddar fondant that, itself, balances atop a glazed cross section of bone. On the palate, this bite uses crisp, crumbly breading and oozing cheese to contrast the soft, mouth-filling carpaccio. This proves essential, for the beef’s size benefits from the crunching bits of croquette that serve to distinguish the full length of its flesh. The resulting flavor is straightforwardly salty, buttery, and savory with a tinge of sharp fruitiness from the olive oil.

This simplicity is a virtue relative to the menu’s more complex preparations, as it allows this bite’s textures to shine without any inhibition of pleasure. You only wish the cheddar fondant came out a bit hotter and creamier rather forming more of a lukewarm paste (though, admittedly, it is meant to be a fondant). Overall, though the “Carpaccio” was previously served as an amuse-bouche at “1.0,” it seems more precisely rendered here and, moreso, shines when incorporated into a wider array of morsels.

The third preparation is titled “Triple Cooked” and seemingly references the “twice-cooked” method of preparing pork in Sichuan cuisine. While taking this process one step further, the idea remains the same: achieving a high degree of crispness while totally rendering fat and creating a tender, homogenous interior texture. Gillanders serves this nugget of beef, which arrives glazed with a bit of hoisin sauce, on a skewer made of bone. It then sits atop an even larger segment of bone alongside some pickled radish and cucumber.

When it reaches your mouth, the triple-cooked beef offers a crisp outer crunch and—even more impressively—a dense, rich, and totally seamless mouthfeel through the finish. The technique used here does not only make for a flawless texture, but one that is concentrated, complete, and unabashedly meaty: carnal to an extreme that is so rarely reached. Combined with the sweet hoisin sauce and the tang of the pickles, this serving of meat delivers pleasure that goes far beyond steak, far beyond even chicken-fried steak, and truly matches the hedonism of the best pork. The “Triple Cooked” skewer stands as a real high point of the menu and marks this first version of the “Turf” sequence as a real celebration of Midwestern beef in all its guises. Bravo!

In its second iteration, “Turf” has made a broader embrace of the animal kingdom through the inclusion of duck and pork. Of course, there’s still cow flesh on display: rendered, in the first preparation, as a “Raw Beef ‘Nigiri.’” The bite looks a lot like the “Carpaccio” at first glance. It centers on the same healthy slice of meat that, in this case, has seen olive oil and salt substituted for soy sauce and white sesame seeds. The croquette base has also been excised in favor of a crispy rice cake that comes dabbed with Chinese mustard.

On the palate, the beef “nigiri” is soft, melty, and accented by salty-nutty notes. The rice cake provides a pronounced crunch with some perceptible brittleness of the individual grains. It works alright as a vessel, but you desire a bit more of the mustard. More moistness and pungency would help to distinguish both the rice and the beef, which work together in the present form but fall just a bit short of the other “Turf” items.

Nonetheless, the second preparation in this second iteration of the sequence fares better. The “’Croqueta de Jamon’” (like the preceding “nigiri,” it is written in quotations) also looks a bit like the “Carpaccio.” What’s draped over the top—in this case, jamón ibérico—has changed, but its base is formed by that familiar croquette, whose cheddar fondant filling remains. A grating of cured egg yolk completes the presentation, which offers the same crisp crunch and oozing texture as before in combination with the coveted Spanish ham.

Relative to the beef and cheddar combination, the ibérico version provides a greater sense of porcine richness and fat accented by the salt of the egg yolk. It is hard to pick a favorite between the two bites, but you might favor the “Croqueta de Jamon” for its amplified flavor and the warmer temperature of its cheesy filling.

The third preparation in this latter sequence is by far the most impressive—and, considering how daunting it must have been to replace that “Triple Cooked” delight, it needs to be. Titled “’Moo Shu Duck’” (again using scare quotes), the dish is inspired by Northern Chinese moo shu pork and, more particularly, Americanized preparations of the recipe. Substituting pig for bird, Gillanders takes confit duck, seasons it with “six spice” (his amped up version of five-spice), presses it into a rectangular shape, then breads, fries, and glazes the resulting nugget with hoisin. The meat is then placed on a thin pancake made using yogurt and wagyu fat before being joined by julienned cabbage, some chunks of carrot, and chunks of red onion.

Folded up and taken as a whole package, the “’Moo Shu Duck’” is a total triumph. Like its predecessor the “Triple Cooked” beef, the recipe marries crisp, crunchy, and impossibly tender textures together with sweet sauce and, here, the added thrill of a soft pancake wrapper. This is one of those bites (really, a series of three to four bites) that aims right at your pleasure center and leaves you desperately craving more. At the same time, the range of spices utilized, along with subtle notes like the wagyu, prevent your palate from feeling like you have the preparation completely figured out. The dish confirms that the chef can combine diverse influences in service of pleasure—and that sequences like “Surf” and “Turf” at Valhalla “2.0” are meant to reward guests (even repeat guests) time and time again.

Bidding goodbye to this second trio of bites, the menu takes a sharp turn toward full, composed plates through the conclusion of the meal. This approach, however conventional, provides Gillanders’s ideas with more room to please—rather than just tease—and better showcases his technical mastery.

That begins with the “King Mushroom Meunière,” a play on the classic sole meunière (a recipe the chef adores for having inspired Julia Child) that substitutes flatfish for fungus. The dish centers on a perfectly rectangular segment of the shroom’s stem that has been cooked in beef fat, breaded (using a Sriracha-spiked panko), and fried to attain a craggily golden-brown crust. This “fillet” is joined, on one side, by cauliflower mousseline (itself spiked with habanero) and, on the other, by a beurre noir vinaigrette sprinkled with parsley.

All the familiar meunière elements are there, and the king oyster mushroom offers a degree of crunch—thanks to the style of breading—that far outdoes the usual floured and fried fish. The beurre noir, with the help of some lemon juice, provides the expected nuttiness and tanginess along with a clever tinge of earthiness. The cauliflower rounds everything out with a sense of fullness and sweetness. However, you find the mushroom, once you get past its crisp exterior, to be just a bit too waxy and bouncy. The fungus has even, on occasion, been difficult to cut. While you admire the creativity of this dish and think the flavors fit together, its star ingredient needs to be prepared with more care so that it yields a softer, more delicate mouthfeel that does not fight its brilliant crust. With that simple fix, the “King Mushroom Meunière” could be great.

One of Gillanders’s newest creations, the “Imperial Prawn Toast,” is presented as an homage to the elaborate meals hosted by the Chinese emperors, who expanded the number of dishes served to a dizzying degree as a means to display their collections of bone china. The chef finds this alternate fine dining tradition (a gastronomic history that stands alongside the Western forms he has so often worked with) inspiring, and he has come up with an item befitting that kind of royal table. The preparation comprises a base of Japanese milk bread topped with a “tartare” of Crystal prawn (that is actually cooked), and a crowning layer of phyllo. The combination, which forms a neat triangle, is fried and joined by a red rose-chili sauce modeled after harissa.

Approached with fork and knife, the “Imperial Prawn Toast” cleanly, crisply breaks apart, forming a manageable chunk that can be dragged through the accompanying condiment. On the palate, the crunch of the milk bread and phyllo wrapper yields to the smooth layer of prawn. This premium crustacean coats your tongue and offers only the slightest, subtly plump resistance along with a pristine sweetness. The buttery notes of the bread and zing of the sweet, sour, and spicy sauce drive the prawn’s flavor toward even greater decadence. There’s even a hint of florality that helps to round these more pronounced ingredients out. Compared to the “King Mushroom Meunière,” where you felt a bit let down by the star element’s texture, the ”Imperial Prawn Toast” is perfectly executed. The dish aims for outright pleasure and, with a creative package of crisp and succulent textures, delivers a sticky-sweet shrimpy character that is both nostalgic and, here, refined. Great work.

Arriving next, the “Charred Octopus Confit” represents a return to seafood—albeit a cephalopod of a decidedly meatier character. In order to ensure the ingredient’s tenderness, the chef cooks its arms in olive oil for an extended period. Then, taking inspiration from the Mediterranean, he grills the octopus until its suction cups start to blacken and serves the tendril (served whole along with two larger sliced segments on the end) with a side of lemon-garlic paste. The distinguishing touch comes courtesy of what Gillanders calls Calabrian chili crisp—a blend of ginger, garlic, shallots, chili flakes, paprika, almonds, and fennel seeds (among other things) in olive oil.

Upon taking a bite, you cannot deny that the chef has coaxed a commendable texture out of the octopus: bouncy, but tender, and punctuated by the brittle charred suction cups. Even the thickest segments of the arm impress you with their smooth, dense quality, and, lacking the same natural crunch, benefit from the contrast of the chili crisp. These crunching bits provide an added layer of intrigue while imbuing the octopus with nutty, savory, and not-too-hot notes. The lemon-garlic paste, in turn, helps to coat the palate and cool everything down. Ultimately, it’s hard to find a fault in this dish (you might mention that the charred and lemon combination comes across as just a bit too bitter in certain bites). The “Charred Octopus Confit” is a smart, satisfying dish that readies your palate for heartier fare.

True to the Valhalla tradition, that takes the form of rice: the “Arroz Caldo” that featured so prominently at “1.0” and represents Gillanders’s embrace of his grandmother Apolonia’s Filipino cookery. At “2.0,” the recipe has changed little. It comprises a rice and queen crab porridge dressed with calamansi, pritong bawang (crispy garlic), and fermented green chili. As before, the dish arrives hidden under the shell of the crustacean’s head—a tantalizing reveal that invites diners to dig into the menu’s most soothing item.

Given the degree of nostalgia and personal history that underpins this preparation, you never quite felt that the “1.0” version of the “Arroz Caldo” satisfied your expectations. You found it good—not great—and too bright and tangy for where it appeared on the menu. That is to say, you desired a showstopping degree of decadence from the course that did not arrive. And you figured, since the dish was prepared consistently and other people seemed to like it more, this was just the nature of the recipe. Who are you to tell Gillanders to tweak this or that if he’s made an authentic representation of a childhood favorite?

Nonetheless, at “2.0,” you like the “Arroz Caldo” a little more. Texturally, the rice is smooth and creamy while the crab is rendered in larger chunks that make the dish feel full and satisfying. The resulting flavor still centers on citrus, yet you also get a bite of garlic and a bit of a bitter rind note on the finish that adds some complexity. If it were up to you, this preparation would still be more decadent. However, it is nicely executed and emotionally satisfying among the chef’s less personal, more technical creations.

Following the departure of the “Charred Octopus Confit” from the menu, Gillanders has—on one occasion—served a preparation of “Cherry Blossom Pork Collar” at this point in the meal. This recipe takes its inspiration from Jiangsu cuisine and the practice there (where sakura bloom) of scoring and glazing pork in imitation of the cherished flowers. While sugar and food coloring are often used to achieve the desired effect, the chef opts for a habanero agrodolce made with golden raisin and maple syrup. Utilizing a cut of the pig’s collar (instead of its belly as you might see elsewhere) yields a greater sense of density (Gillanders says he doesn’t like to use the word “chew”). Finally, as an accompaniment, he serves a “crushed vegetable” spätzle.

This latter element, a lump of pale green tucked next to the meat, makes for a dramatic color contrast with the orangish meat. You are not sure your mind goes to “cherry blossom” when looking at the dish, but that holds true for the other reference photos you have found. What’s most important is that the pork is utterly delicious: subtly bouncy, but juicy, with a robust porcine flavor and an expert burst of sweet and spice (though not too much of the latter) drawn from the agrodolce. The spätzle, for your taste, could use a touch more seasoning, but it displays a harmonizing springiness and makes for an interesting element. Overall, the “Cherry Blossom Pork Collar” ranks as one of your favorite dishes on the menu. It combines pronounced flavors and textures with total confidence to deliver great satisfaction. You are only left wondering: where did it go?

The ”Wagyu Arrachera,” by comparison, has proven a longstanding favorite since “1.0.” This dish artfully blends Japanese and Mexican influences (the former’s totemic marbled beef and the latter’s combination of citrus and spice acting as cornerstones) in a manner that seems tailormade for the Valhalla concept. At “2.0,” the preparation even gets a dose of Filipino influence—courtesy of the artisan asín tibuók sea salt made by the country’s Boholano population. This hulking “dinosaur egg” is strikingly presented on the counter, and its flakes are used to garnish three hearty slices of charred steak slathered in a chile morita sauce. (The asín tibuók feels a bit less special when, later, you see it being hawked by a fine food purveyor on social media—but it’s still an “endangered heritage food” and a good fit for what Gillanders is doing.) Otherwise, the meat is joined by a tempura elote, a wedge of lime, and a dab of green apple “kosho.”

When it reaches your tongue, the wagyu displays a pleasing contrast between its firm, charred exterior and soft, succulent interior. Still, the steak retains just a hint of chew, which you find essential in framing the melting quality of its fat. In terms of flavor, the beef’s natural character is nicely accentuated by the smoky-sweet notes of the chile morita sauce. The asín tibuók, likewise, lends a bit of sharpness to the equation but acts more as a thematic, stylistic element at the end of the day (it’s still sea salt after all). Instead, you find that the lime and apple kosho, when applied, do the most to make the steak pop via their bursts of acid and balanced heat. The tempura elote, in turn, is crisp and only slightly sweet—a fun reprieve, but one that is not quite at the level of Proxi’s enduring rendition.

All that said, this is a bold embrace of wagyu (an ingredient chef’s are typically too shy to really distinguish) that effectively blends influences and builds a rewarding beef flavor through the marriage of smoke, sweet, char, tang, and spice. If anything, you might wish for just a bit more supporting umami to really leave you licking your lips. However, also factoring in the storytelling and cosmetic appeal of the “dinosaur egg” salt, this is an effective dish across many dimensions and one whose continued presence you can understand. Well done.

Next, another familiar piece of fare: the “’Scotch’ Lamb 5.0.” Just as there was a Valhalla “1.0” and, now, a Valhalla “2.0,” there was a “Lamb Chop 4.0” that preceded this current dish. That prior preparation—itself the product of “several iterations” before launching in 2022—centered on the same core idea. “4.0” wrapped a slow-baked chop in berbere-spiced sausage, breaded it, fried it, and paired it with a tikka masala sauce, a quenelle of ginger purée, a spiced cauliflower fritter, and a tangle of shaved fennel dressed with yuzu vinaigrette. Gillanders said at the time that “there will not be a 5.0,” recognizing that the recipe finally hit the kitchen’s “high mark” of quality and formed the “ideal way to finish out…[its] parade of savory dishes before desserts begin.”

Tongue-in-cheekily recognizing the irony (given his previous declaration), the chef introduced “5.0” by affirming “there will most certainly not be a 6.0, we finally got it.” He admitted that, while “4.0” was “delicious,” the team was still “not 100% satisfied.” They continued their chase of an unattainable “perfection” and, via that process, found a new degree of excellence through which the savory portion of the menu would finish “on the highest note possible.” Principally, “5.0” differs by dry-aging the lamb, refining the breading of the resulting chop, wrapping the end of the bone (to facilitate eating it with one’s hands), excising the ginger purée, sprinkling the meat with cilantro-kombu salt, and lightly pickling the shaved fennel. The sausage wrapping (now identified as housemade merguez) and tikka masala elements remain in a dish that now proudly announces its Scotch egg influence in the title.

On the palate, the “5.0” version of the lamb strikes you with its flakier, less grainy breading that still offers a nice degree of crispness. Underneath that, you find the plump layer of merguez and, in the very interior, a totally tender, juicy slab of the lamb. Though you think the crust here could still be pushed toward an even more dramatic extreme of crunchiness, the meat is excellently rendered and displays a rich, savory character (bolstered by the kombu salt) free of any gamey funk. With this flesh as a canvas, the tikka masala sauce offers pleasing creamy, sweet, and tangy tones offset (as the chef so aptly does throughout the menu) by a careful use of spice. As intended, the pickled fennel plays the part of the excised ginger. The shavings refresh your palate and prepare it for another bite of the brilliant chop. Though you certainly wouldn’t write off the appearance of a “6.0” (for you think the recipe can still be perfected just a bit more), this “’Scotch’ Lamb” feels new and streamlined. This dish is a worthy Valhalla signature and, in combination with the ”Wagyu Arrachera,” a surefire way to please carnivores who typically find themselves left wanting from tasting menus.

Having hit the savory peak of the meal, you are readied for dessert with a tableside “Maitake Infusion.” Neatly presented on a tray, the dancing mushroom brew is spiked with citrus oil and a local (i.e., Wisconsin) cheese, given a stir, and left to sit. An hourglass (somewhat unique in its use of metal shavings rather than grains of sand) keeps time, forming a play on words with the thyme that also features in the blend. Once it’s ready, the infusion is poured into an espresso cup and set within the dimpled oval plate used, earlier in the meal, to suspend the “Ocean Trout Guacamole” and “Tartare.” Here, being paired with its matching piece, the vessel allows the broth to be tilted at various steep angles without spilling.

Relative to its engrossing presentation, the “Maitake Infusion” is fairly simple. The brew displays a boldly herbaceous but not all that umami character distinguished principally by its freshness. This, you think, is the point, and the dish deserves credit for being served at an adequate (i.e., warm but not hot) temperature and avoiding any jarring earthy notes. Just the same, you are not sure you perceive what the cheese element adds to the infusion (whether in milky texture or tang). You would also say that this offering falls short of being memorable, but it does its job with a good bit of flair and leaves you ready for something sweet.

Sinclair, being handed the baton, wastes no time in displaying her talent. “The Whole Lemon,” as the pastry chef’s first dessert is titled, takes its inspiration from two dichotomous sources: Mario’s Italian Lemonade and a famous dish from Paul Pairet’s Mr & Mrs Bund in Shanghai. The dish centers on a meringue shell shaped like a halved lemon. It is filled with a curd, a marmalade, and a sherbet all made from the same citrus. Finally, a candied cross section of lemon is placed over the top to complete the effect.

Layering so many expressions of the same puckering fruit sounds like a recipe for overkill, yet the recipe’s execution is a testament to Sinclair’s expertise. Texturally, shattering the meringue with your spoon and sending its entrails across the plate is as satisfying as it gets. However, the maneuver also presages the shell’s crisp, airy quality when it meets your teeth. Added to that, you encounter the creamy curd, the stickier marmalade, and the frozen (though not at all grainy) sherbet. As these sensations mingle, flavor builds: sour and tangy to the very limit of what you can pleasurably bear but a little bitter, too, and deeply sweet. This preparation hits you with the full depth and breadth of a lemon’s character but never goes overboard. It puts the fruit’s best foot forward with unmistakable power and a perfect degree of restraint that makes for a memorable, hedonistic delight. Beautifully done.

Next, with the arrival of the “Golden Pineapple,” you find the reimagination of an idea the pastry chef first toyed with at “1.0.” There, the “White Dessert” / “Hot & Cold Pineapple” played with seven expressions of the titular fruit (chunks, orbs, powders, creams, and the like) paired with rum gelato and warm caramel. The recipe was a runaway hit, and the version at “2.0”—served in the very same bowl—refines it.

The seven preparations of pineapple (a similar blend of gels, creams, chunks, and crisps) now come hidden under a golden tuile. Fracturing it, you find the ice cream and caramel and compose a complete bite. Much as in “The Whole Lemon,” the fruit’s plurality of textures (along with the hot/cold effect) engage the palate while emphasizing the fullness of its tropical flavor. However, instead of pronounced sourness, you find a balanced tang buttressed by ripe, rich sweetness and nutty tones. If the lemon was a bit more intellectual, this pineapple is even more outright in its pleasure. This dish, though newly streamlined, still ranks as one of your favorite desserts in Chicago.

Stepping into the “Golden Pineapple’s” immense shoes, you have recently sampled the “Triple Cream Cheese Tart.” This dish, in its first iteration, has combined a butter-lardo crust with a filling made from the titular cheese (brie to be exact) and dual toppings of Mick Klüg Farms strawberries and jamón ibérico. A touch of Jean-Marc Montegottero vinegar and a drizzle of Heaven’s Honey complete the presentation, which feels—in sum—like a kind of extra luxurious cheese cake.

However, in practice, you find that the tart crust lacks any defining crispness. The triple cream filling, too, is more dense—being almost chewy—than it is creamy. And the strawberries, while juicy, are rather mild in their flavor. It is the Spanish ham that really defines the dish: not only through its nutty, salty tones but through a chewiness that feels a bit too pronounced. The sweet-sour strawberry vinegar and pure sweetness of the honey certainly help to tie these disparate threads together. Yet, you must admit (even as a passionate cheesecake lover) that this dish does not quite come together. The combination of ingredients is generally sound, and you do get some pleasure from them. They’re just not seamless in their current states.

Thankfully, the change in season has allowed Sinclair to tweak this recipe to great effect. The new “Triple Cream Cheese Tart” substitutes the strawberries for three kinds of Mick Klüg Farms peaches and excises the jamón ibérico altogether. The shortbread crust and cheese filling also remain, yet the vinegar is exchanged for a strawberry coulis and the honey itself is incorporated into a vinaigrette. Encountering this version of the dish, your prayers have been answered. The tart shell is crisp, its brie base is beautifully creamy, and the thin slices of peach are incorporated perfectly without any errant chewiness or distraction from the main event. Instead, the fruit provides a richly sweet character that, combined with the tang of the honey vinaigrette and strawberry coulis, distinguishes the cheese filling and unlocks its milky depth. This is expertly done by the pastry chef and, like the “Golden Pineapple,” a real hit.

As a parting flourish, Sinclair serves a trio of mignardises created with her own Lyneá blend of chocolate, a collaboration with the brand Cacao Barry. The latter company, through a partnership with the Cocoa Horizons Foundation, has set the goal of building “self-sustaining farming communities” and ensuring that, by 2025, all its farmers “will be above the poverty line.” An insert accompanying this course even offers “a special thanks to the Flores Family, the Jaurez Family, and the Alto Sol Family for their contributions” in creating and producing Valhalla’s custom blend.

The ”Lyneá Chocolates” arrive in a series of contemporary nesting dolls that are spray painted and splattered using vivid hues and gradients. They comprise a “Périgord Truffle” that is characterized by its earthy, bittersweet quality; a “100 Proof Cherry” (a familiar bite from “1.0”) that strikes you with intense fruit and a hint of alcoholic heat; and, the best of the bunch, a crisp, creamy “Banana Budino” that ends the assortment with a soothing caramelized note. You may have your clear preference, but you still appreciate the “Lyneá Chocolates” basic form. It makes for a playful end to the menu and carries great potential for changes—here and there—through the flow of seasons.

Concurrent with these final bites, coffee is offered—or, perhaps, a pour from one of those bottles on display in the lounge. Even if you decline, no special effort is made to get you to leave. This spot at the counter—this seat for the show—is undoubtedly yours. When the time is right, the check will arrive. It will be free of any service charge, staff retention fee, healthcare fee, or auto-gratuity. You tip like you used to, with some predefined percentage as a guide, and find that emotion sends that number up a few ticks. This is not another faceless restaurant shaking you down with small print (or even a fine dining peer that figures suited synchronization should merit 20% at a minimum). Valhalla, now more than ever, is confident it—the collection of individuals you all come to know on a given night—has pleased you, and it trusts that consumers will reward that sincerity.

Departing, for that very reason, can feel bittersweet. Even in the thick service, Gillanders already makes a point of coming by for a farewell chat: asking about favorite dishes, divulging when new creations might arrive, and sharing—again with earnestness—heartfelt gratitude for your patronage. Even when you refold the menu and make for the door, there’s really no skulking away. Just as when you entered, Faze, Prodan, and Sinclair along with the cooks, servers, and Gillanders (again) note your departure and call out. Someone even makes sure to run ahead and get the door for you.

In this manner, anything you see or smell or taste at Valhalla is inextricably woven into a human experience that cannot be escaped. Of course, one can fake personability—but you can’t fabricate an emotional connection. The chef, likewise, has not molded his team into an uncanny set of actors running through a clever, lowest-common-denominator script. He has not sought the novel buzzwords and tropes that will make tempting fodder for journalists or distinctive marketing copy. To the contrary, as Gillanders declared, he has stripped every gimmick away. He has rejected branding to the point that his restaurant only makes the most fundamental promise: you are going to have a great experience (a “truly unique and pure experience” to be precise).

Valhalla’s blank canvas of a dining room is dark and moody. It is sleek enough, detailed enough, intentional enough to not seem unfinished. But it leaves plenty unsaid. It leaves plenty of room for the warmth of the staff to take the lead, for Faze and Prodan to present their novel beverage options, and for Gillanders and Sinclair to put forth a cuisine that balances refined technique with total deliciousness.

Importantly, a sense of value underscores this experience: cocktails are generously poured and potent for the price, wine pairings are punctuated by real treasures, bottles are sold without the sting of high markups, and—despite the exclusion of “1.0’s” à la carte offerings—you never leave feeling hungry. Food and drink are further enriched by the intimate setting, responsive service, and natural storytelling that having so many talented artisans on hand allows for. Valhalla now invites guests to entire a world that is entirely its own, one where the assembled team can work its magic without distraction to achieve an even greater emotional resonance.

Setting, when all is said in done, still remains the most salient difference between “1.0” and “2.0.” And setting, at the same time, has been so modestly manipulated to achieve any particular effect. Again, it comprises a pretty minimalist stage. But, here, the restaurant can finally set its own music (a deep house-driven soundtrack that remains energizing and never impedes guest conversation). It can put all its creative firepower on a fitting pedestal and, with the shared ownership that a real brick-and-mortar location offers, let these talented individuals loose. In return, they color the monochromatic space with an authenticity and expertise that cannot be concocted. They shine the bright light of impassioned hospitality in quarters of a closeness that Time Out Market could never hope to provide.

Gillanders, to a certain extent, deserves credit for defining the “Valhalla experience” so well during “1.0” and, as a result, not really having to reinvent the wheel at “2.0.” The headlining members of his team, the bold pairings, some of the cocktails, and a surprising number of the dishes remain. Yes, seeing the “Kombu Cured Fluke,” “Arroz Caldo,” “Wagyu Arrachera,” and “’Scotch’ Lamb” (even in a new version) kind of shocked you. However, upon reflection, the chef has a right to prize his signatures and affirm that, even at the food hall, he was already making the best recipes he could dream up. Gillanders also admits that he’s being keeping some of these more classic compositions on during a period in which he thinks the restaurant is being reviewed. Nonetheless, moving forward, he views the concept more as a place for experimentation and an “incubator” for his newest creations (which may then be adapted for the menus at S.K.Y., Apolonia, or Signature).

Admittedly, the “Kombu Cured Fluke,” “Arroz Caldo,” and “Wagyu Arrachera” have all continued to please even when encountering them for the third time at “2.0.” The “’Scotch’ Lamb 5.0,” likewise, does represent an improvement on the form and (in combination with the beef) the kind of meaty finale that makes believers out of fine dining skeptics.

When you consider how successful the “Surf” sequence, the “Turf” sequence, the “Imperial Prawn Toast,” the “Cherry Blossom Pork Collar,” “The Whole Lemon,” and the “Triple Cream Cheese Tart” are, it becomes particularly hard to begrudge a few repeats. These dishes rank as some of the most pleasurable you have found on any tasting menu in Chicago as of late. They signal that, even if the menu may be slow to completely change, what Gillanders and Sinclair cook up will ultimately be worth it.

Just the same, dishes like the “Ocean Trout Guacamole,” “King Mushroom Meunière,” “Charred Octopus Confit,” “Maitake Infusion,” and “Lynea Chocolates,” while not reaching the same heights, are still plenty enjoyable. They largely offer the same clever presentations, layered textures, and complex flavors as the rest while just missing that extra dimension of hedonism. Only the mushroom, with a bit of waxiness to its consistency, and the infusion, which just feels a tad anonymous, could be said to be flawed. Nevertheless, you would hesitate to call the dishes unsuccessful. They have their merits and are merely in need of some slight tweaking.

Considering, in totality, each of the 28 items you sampled at Valhalla “2.0” (separating “Surf,” “Turf,” and “Lynea Chocolates” into their individual constituents while also counting the first version of the “Triple Cream Cheese Tart”), you would judge 24 of them as successful. This number accounts for your harshest possible evaluation (judging the “King Mushroom Meunière,” “Maitake Infusion,” strawberry-ibérico tart, and “100 Proof Cherry” as the only letdowns), and yields a hit rate of 86%.

This is a monumental score reflecting the work of a mature chef with a clear voice, a vision, and—most importantly—a well-trained team. Jean-Georges, Intro, S.K.Y., Somerset, Apolonia, Valhalla “1.0,” and Signature have all shaped Gillanders and prepared him for this moment. They’ve formed an education in what Chicagoans, drawn from myriad neighborhoods, respond to, and they’ve helped assemble this group of kindred craftspeople who execute at the highest level—who, more than that, truly create—and love doing so.

You said you would resist the temptation to award Valhalla “2.0” higher marks than its predecessor in fulfillment of its “new and improved” status. Yet there is no fancy buildout to speak of, no drastically expanded menu, no premiumization or bells or whistles or baubles to latch onto. There’s no marketing gimmick, no jargon, no carefully delineated genre that makes the concept more digestible for social or print media.

“2.0” is, quite simply, the permanent studio in which Gillanders, Sinclair, Prodan, and Faze—with the support of an estimable group of colleagues—can continue their work with greater concentration and conviction. To that end, the restaurant may feel familiar. It may not (yet) offer the weekly or monthly replayability that marks the city’s most boldly creative kitchens. But Valhalla is reliably excellent and imbued with the kind of depth (at the level of beverage) and emotion that rewards visiting time and again. It is a place, relative to peers already in possession of a Michelin star, that you can recommend without hesitation. It champions what is most fundamental, most life-affirming about fine dining and is poised, in this new home, for perpetual growth.

All the while, Valhalla still feels a bit like a secret: gastronomy in the guise of a neighborhood haunt with a human-centered approach that encourages each diner to make this place their own. Such restraint—the moderation of expectations in a market that increasingly sends them skyrocketing—is a rarity. It adds a layer of mystery to the experience that ensures the magic being woven never becomes stale. It weighs positively for a concept that, while not endeavoring to rival the city’s heaviest hitters, is quietly among the best in its class.

Certainly, you can spend twice the amount being charged here and find less than half of the same satisfaction elsewhere. That is the point you think Gillanders, through “2.0,” intends to prove, and he wildly succeeds in doing so.

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.