At my favorite restaurant, they don’t cook a lot of food. There’s only a handful of housemade dishes on the menu, and they’re very good, but select, focused. The rest of the menu is a collection of carefully curated cheese and charcuterie. To my way of thinking, there are no finer foods than milk and meat that have gone through a process of controlled decay, letting nature make them more delicious.
A major strength of this place is their broad selection of wines, many by the glass. They offer beer and cocktails, if you must (and at many restaurant-bars, I usually do), but for cheese and charcuterie, wine is best. The acidity slices through lushness, cleansing the palate for more flavors, again and again. The servers know a lot; you can ask them what goes with what, assured you’ll get informed guidance.
This is not an easy place to find. It’s on the lowest level of a sturdy old building on the outskirts of the Randolph Street restaurant row. It’s underground, so if you’re at street level scanning for bright lights and tables filled with people, the hair salon on the first floor might at first throw you off. Signage outside—an old-timey glass rectangle—announces “wine bar” in light red lettering, looking faded with time, which it can’t be because the place has been open for only a few months. The legal name, though stenciled in frosted glass on the front door, is not obvious. No problem, though, because most of the people filling the room are from the neighborhood—over fifty percent of the room is local, said general manager George Saldez—and they know where they’re going. As chef Jeff Williams explains, this is “a neighborhood bar in the West Loop,” which is an anomaly.
It was snowy, slushy and shitty the first time we dropped by. Pools of dirty water created impassable moats at every corner. The snow was stained with godknowswhat dank gunk, and the sidewalks impassable, blocked by snow that had not been shoveled and heavy construction equipment, building materials spilling from behind wire fencing. The weather and clutter can make this hard-to-find place even harder to find, which might generate frustration in the seeker. All that makes finally finding the place all the more satisfying and comforting.
Down the stairs, into the basement, you can see snow caking up against windows, set maybe eight feet above the floor. Religions began in caves for a reason, and in this below-street-level spot, you’re in a cloistered space, a cozy, friendly place where you’re welcome even if you’ve never been there before. On cushioned seating along the wall and a few long tables, everyone seems to be sharing a good time. Sure, the wine helps, and there’s an overall feeling of being cocooned in a subterranean, homey pleasure dome, without a hint of gaudiness or pretension, blanketed in a vague sense of secrecy. You feel almost privileged to sit down.
You think to yourself, “Who do I love? I want to bring them here.”
I go on and on here:
https://resto.newcity.com/2018/04/15/my ... estaurant/
"Don't you ever underestimate the power of a female." Bootsy Collins