The world is on the tip of my tongue. I can taste it.

While being pulled indulgently towards the experiential hedonistic pleasure of a fine tasting menu, I simultaneously feel the need to question chefs about best practices in the elite culinary scene. I seek to dissect the umbrella topic of how they understand their art in a high end industry that holds a slice of the fate of our society through food.

Top chefs today are food activists. Massimo Bottura, Ferran Adria, Jose Andres, all understanding the implications of where our food comes from, but not necessarily expressing through their work.

I challenge to find a fine chef turned food activist, not explicitly for political pull, but for humanity.

I challenge to find restaurants that have something to say, not only for the sake of art and expression through cuisine, but for society.

To find the spaces that allow the food and experience to speak for itself.

Let the hunt begin.

Turned down a job with a World’s 50 Best, three Michelin Star reputation..

“Do you want to continue?”, the manager asked after the initial meeting. Without hesitation, I agreed. We prepped for the working interview, termed “stage” in the industry, by doing drills consisting of repeating the performative moves associated with proper table side service: body positioning in the dining room, plate placement as varied throughout each of the nine courses (a short menu, considering the next menu will consist of over 20), and the rules regarding who is served first at the table and how. Most importantly, we discussed the proper timing as a team of runners, captains, and somms would dance around the dining room servicing two turns of ~50 guests, each spending two hours and between $300-500 a head for their experience.

Service begins and the back of house swirls with a high-stress show of controlled chaos. Ten tweezer holding, extremely skilled chefs stand at attention at their respective stations, ready for action. At the head of this operation is the expediter, who oversees that all dietary restrictions and further accommodations be met. Chef calls the tickets, occasionally terming them soigné to designate tables of importance- typically high spenders or food industry insiders that may be reviewing the restaurant. The kitchen, always responding with, “yes, chef!”, begin course one. A team preps seven small plates filled with bite-sized delicacies to be rolled table side on a cart and presented to the first seating of guests.. 

The sensation in the back of house is curated by the reputation and expectations of the head chefs; that all courses must leave the kitchen perfectly executed and represent the military precision that reflect well on the restaurant brand.

I look around the room during the stage and can’t help but want to know more about the stories of the people around me. This level of fine-dining training attracts a certain kind of person, both willing to accept abuse and work to the bone for little pay in the pursuit of perfection. The hardness, poise, and high levels of scrutiny bring forth in my imagination visions of what combat training would entail. Like military training, everyone accepts abuse as part of the process and hardens themselves to work tirelessly for a greater purpose. When stakes are as high as the bill at the end of dinner and the namesake of a chef seeking to maintain the elevated status of one of the World’s 50 Best, this sense of comradeship runs the current of energy propelling the staff through the evening…

I hated every second of it.

Why?

The energy created through pursuit of perfection (in this particular restaurant!!) left the experience devoid of humanity. While certainly elevated, the experience, cold.

The aesthetic appeal of the restaurant, sterile. The table side service, mechanical. The whole operation, a machine of precision.

I never thought I’d say no to the World’s 50 Best. I was never more happy to return home to Evanston that evening.

Consciously allowing a bit of well earned hedonism after landing a full time internship while also working a part time weekend gig…

Why not direct this loosening of my pocketbook towards experiential pleasure instead of a new car? The ROI in both cases is not attractive, but at least I won’t have to pay monthly insurance for a fun night out.

Anyway, my dreams have come true. I officially work a 9-5 on Michigan Ave, and my desk overlooks Lake Michigan in the background and the saturation of art and culture of Grant Park and the Institute in the foreground. Part of my excitement for this new chapter, as you may have guessed, comes from the evening opportunities just steps away.

Two friends from Madison drove down Thursday night to celebrate a birthday and potential move. We began at The Purple Pig, a restaurant that I had always heard of, but assumed it to be such a Michigan Ave tourist trap that I never considered stepping inside.

We were packed like sardines into this tiny spot, with waiters and waitresses politely bumping into us as they hurry past to get orders from tables. The atmosphere, like a Spanish, tapas-style bar, is nonchalant in an upscale casual way.  Fittingly, we order a bottle of a Priorat blend, which is accompanied by olives.

To follow, an inventively delicious meal:

To finish, glasses of Sauternes and Passionfruit ice cream. At this point, we want to continue the evening, and the acclaimed bar The Avairy comes up.

We dash out of the restaurant and towards the West Loop.

Upon arrival, we check in with the host, who informs us of an hour and a half wait time. I give my name, which immediately comes up in the computer. I ask, “why is my name in the computer, I haven’t dined with you before”. Quickly, I remember that just a month before, I staged at the Alinea Group restaurant, Next. I mention this to the host, and he welcomes me back and asks casually asks why I didn’t take the job….

We leave the restaurant and head across the street, but before we reach the Hoxton, a text appears saying that there’s availability at the even more exclusive speakeasy bar just down the stairs from The Aviary, called The Office.

The space is a speakeasy-influenced cocktail bar with small plate offerings. Decidedly, we each begin with one of their classic cocktails. Sunflower seed-infused Manhattans put us in an impulsive state of delirium, which ends in an order of the “truffle explosion”. As we sip and get friendly with the bartenders, we try to guess if the man across the bar is Pete Buttigieg..

All in all, The Office is underwhelming if you don’t buy into the Alinea Group cult following.  Although the cocktails are impressive and well-executed, at $20 a pop I’d rather go somewhere with real Chicago character.

To quench the thirst for said character, we head north to Uptown.

Ahhhhhh… The Green Mill. Chicago’s O.G. speakeasy- frequented by Al Capone and other conspiring cats during the prohibition era- that still lights up Broadway all hours of the day.

Thursday nights are especially fun; a live swing big band electrifies the room, and people of all backgrounds grace the dance floor with a hop and a step.

The three of us finish with one more round of cocktails: 9$ sazeracs in this cash-only, dimly lit, kinda grungy establishment…

…a nice night-cap to the evening.