Smyth – Chicago, IL

Nobody can convince me that Chicago is not the greatest of the five biggest cities in the country.

New York is certainly the country's economic and cultural hub, has the best food scene by a mile, and has more interesting stuff packed into a single neighborhood than some entire states. But it's achingly and increasingly unaffordable and the weather is total ass for eleven out of twelve months per year.

As a former resident, I'll always have a soft spot for Los Angeles, with its quirky west coast culture, fantastic Asian food scene, and near-perfect weather. But the urban sprawl, traffic, and empty, exclusionary glitz make the broader city too often ring hollow.

Houston is an underrated, affordable big city with a ton of diversity and excellent food in a fascist hellscape of a state and with some of the most unbearable humidity and worst public transit in the country.

And Dallas?

It's Chicago that captures me every time I visit. It has fabulous diversity, robust culture, wonderful restaurants and bars, and a neighborhood feel nearly everywhere, all with a beautiful dusting of Midwest hospitality. Not only that, but it's the rare large city that has managed to blunt the force of the affordability crisis that has gripped much of the country's urban areas (though, sadly, that seems to be changing). No city is perfect, but in terms of the biggest American cities, Chicago, to my mind, is the cream of the crop.

In the summer in particular, Chicago can be next to perfect. Such was the case on the blue-sky, 75-degree day on which I arrived this time around, armed with a magnum of 2015 Caraccioli Brut Rosé and ready to tackle a fabulous rooftop evening with my sweet Mama, who ventured from Iowa to see me, and Olivia, a Chicago native and one of my very best Judies from college.

It was the reservation I had on the following night, however, that really brought me to the city. Smyth is now one of two restaurants in the third-largest metropolis in the States to achieve the distinction of holding three Michelin stars, a distinction the Michelin guide calls "worthy of a special journey." Many were surprised by the promotion, figuring stalwart Oriole or, possibly, Ever, next in line. I was excited to test their skepticism.

Originally planning to visit after the family's belated Mother's Day outing back in May, I opted instead to travel back with Mama and sister to Iowa to see my aging pup, and the fine folks at Smyth were kind enough to move my pre-paid reservation, but only if I picked a day. The beginning of July seemed just as good a time as any, so United Airlines accepted more of my money and the plans were set.

Smyth is one of two restaurants stacked atop each other on the periphery of the West Loop helmed by John and Karen Urie Shields, and Smyth been called "an ode to American bounty." Though named after Smyth County, Virginia, a locale where the Shields owned a restaurant for four years in a town of just 1800 people, the food here can possibly be described best as a broad portrait of the best purveyors in America, from sea to shining sea.

Your meal might include seaweed from Monterey, lobster from Maine, fruit from Florida, quail from Vermont, or corn from farms around Chicago. But the overall focus is on the finest ingredients in the country, and more importantly the relationships the Shields' have built with their purveyors.

Simplicity guides it all, but simplicity for the team at Smyth is boundary-pushing. As Chef Johnny said in a recent interview: "Everything we do has a reason, a purpose, that starts with the produce. It’s gentle cooking, allowing things to be themselves. It’s very honest. We don’t overwork things. Our food can be the opposite of that—it’s not going to blow your head off."

It's this simplicity that led them to choose Smyth as their name, the very same simple but beautiful county in rural Virginia they once called home, and sourced magnificent, simple produce from, for four years. And as with many of the finest dining establishments in the country, Japanese foodways, in all their elegant simplicity, are as important an input as any to the style here.

I spent much of the day on my feet wandering about the summer beauty of Gold Coast and Lincoln Park, taking advantage of the free admission to visit the first zoo I've seen in over a decade (made particularly fantastic with a few generous hits off the "Penjamin"). Under the daze generously provided by Mr. Penjamin, and immersed among the stunning native prairie gardens outside the zoo, I found myself enravished by my surroundings, the pregnant, humid summer Midwestern air framing the skyline behind the tranquil, lush park.

I made my way to the West Loop and, feeling a bit sleepy, chugged a cortado before checking in at Smyth. The Loyalist, the casual, pub-like joint from the Shields', is downstairs, and the immensely spacious Smyth dining room upstairs teems with gentle organicism, earth tones, and a profound sense of tranquility only disturbed by the slightly unsettling ritual chanting of the staff calling back orders in the open kitchen.

The staff welcoming me could not have been more warm, congenial, and entirely unpretentious, and I would find this to be true of everyone I interacted with that night––utter professionals, through and through, who occupied their roles with joy and grace. My delightful server, with an adorable mushroom earring dangling from his left ear, greeted me and surprised me by announcing an upgrade to Smyth's "Chef's Menu," a more comprehensive experience, which was unexpected and most kind.

I was welcomed by the sommelier who swiftly took, to decant and chill, my bottle of Weingut Rings Saumagen GG Riesling, a selection I adore and thought would be fantastic with what I knew of the food at Smyth. After nerding out together for a bit, he poured me a splash of A. Bergère Origine Champagne. A lovely touch.

It wasn't long before a little welcome beverage made its way to my table to begin the tasting slate. Amazake is a sweet Japanese beverage made with fermented rice, and the Smyth people make a loose version made from pawpaw, a South American fruit with a texture resembling an avocado, fermented with koji, the same fungus which would inoculate rice in traditional amazake production.

The pawpaw is inoculated with koji, pressed in cider press, and the resulting "amazake" spiked with sake and served garnished with a "fuzzy" lemon leaf. It's all very academically interesting and vaguely tasty, but ultimately the fruiting body of all that intellectualizing was a bit lost on even the most eager diner.

Quail egg was next, the first of three quail preparations on the menu. The cured egg was pickled with black walnut and crusted in miso wax and placed inside a delicate croustade with porcini and pinecone. Incredibly creative and unique to Smyth, though I will say that if subtlety was the goal, subtlety, to the point of just whispers of each flavor, could have better been supplanted with a bit more muscle––but this would be the only time I had such a complaint. Layers of Monterey Bay seaweed and black truffle garnished the croustade, which added a pleasant and complex umami.

The sommelier poured a splash of the GG (the German version of grand cru) Riesling that I had brought, and while still chilling, its lush fruit-forward quality danced with the brilliant acidity you can expect from German Riesling, and was, as he suspected, a fantastic companion to the next course.

On a dish shaped like a donut was a donut hole filled with foie gras mousse, atop which was perched smoked unagi adhered to the donut hole with smoked date jam. The eel was dressed with citrus and kombucha, a bewitching combination that, merged with the smoke, granted the flaky flesh a subtle but remarkable complexity. I'm always happy to see foie gras when I leave California, too, since it's not legal to serve in my home state.*

The next dish was a portrait of late spring in (mostly) the midwest, with English peas atop a gelée made from the pea shells dressed with alliums and dill, with pumpkin seeds. Incorporated were "peas" made from white miso for umami, but the most surprising and exciting component was slices of kiwi. 

Indeed, Chef John––a native of Tampa––often plays in unexpected and exciting ways with fruit, paying homage both to his Florida upbringing and also incorporating an element of "American bounty" often ignored by other restaurants in this tier.

Case in point––lobster custard was the base of the next tiny ramekin, gelled in a raspberry reduction. Garnishing were separate small dollops of the lobster’s tomalley, the impossibly rich digestive organ; a gochujang, or Korean fermented chili condiment, made with strawberries; and mamey sapote, a Mexican fruit with flavor resembling a cross of stone fruit and sweet potato.

This was the first truly transcendental course of the night––the rich, sweet custard spiked with raspberry spoke in entirely different ways depending on which of the three microscopic helpings of condiment you selected for each bite. The strawberry gochujang was a particular favorite. It took me a good twenty minutes to finish this dish, savoring each tiny bite between sips of the Riesling, which was opening up magnificently in the decanter. This is a three Michelin–star course, full-stop. Outrageously delicious and even mind-bending.

If the previous course was an exercise in showy flavors, the next explored nuance, precision, and subtlety. Dungeness crab from Virginia, which made me chuckle a bit as a Californian, was perched on the side of a bowl and combined with green almond and crispy kombu. In the bottom of the bowl was almond milk and walnut oil, and a smudge of hazelnut fudge butter. I was instructed to refrain from mixing the components together, and instead implored to "build layers." In terms of the dishes I would call unequivocally in the three-star tier, this was two in a row.

And the hits would not stop soon. Smyth has had the same caviar course for years before a recent collaboration with New York City's Atomix, probably the most important Korean fine dining restaurant in the world.

The new caviar set was presented by one of the chefs tableside––four tiny pockets of blade kelp from Monterey Bay (the same seaweed we source at Aubergine) enclosed either the same hazelnut fudge butter from the previous course or concentrated gelée of tomato water, like little ravioli. In the center was spooned Kaluga caviar, around which was spooned a salted cream reduced with umeboshi (pickled Japanese plums) and citrus flower.

This was the dish of the night, and completed a hat trick of dishes unquestionably worthy of their three-star provenance. Without doubt the most impressive caviar course I have ever enjoyed, and I don't think it's close.

I could have consumed hundreds more savory bites after the success of the previous three, but a sober reminder from the staff that the menu was halfway done accompanied the next dish, which despite the oppressive march of time was a lovely palate cleanser.

Avocado was brushed with Sicilian pistachio praline. Atop were herbaceous Spanish marigold fronds, and beneath was a cake of savory cucumber ice flavored with little pops of finger lime. Peanut milk garnished the plate, complementing the creaminess of the avocado and balancing beautifully with the bright cucumber and bursts of finger lime.

The sommelier recommended I switch to red wine for the next several courses, and after perusing the list, one name stood out to me––Luca Roagna, one of the most thoughtful producers of nebbiolo in the Piedmont of northwestern Italy.

Nebbiolo is a grape that demands patience, and classically that patience was allocated to the consumer, with the expectation that they would hold on to the bottles for years or even decades to allow the wine to come into its own. Luca takes that patience into his own hands, aging the wine in the cellar for years longer than required by regional wine law to soften the tannins and produce a nebbiolo of exceptional depth, but also approachability. At Aubergine, we pour Roagna on our reserve pairing, and I was thrilled to enjoy, on my own, a bottle of his Faset Barbaresco from a killer vintage.

Three main courses were to follow. The first is a classic ingredient at Smyth––rainbow trout from Virginia was charred and paired with beurre blanc, and garnished with a combination of pickled onion, trout roe, tomatoes, mamey sepote, nasturtium flower, lily pistils, and green almond puree. While still delicious, given the rather sublime courses that preceded, this was a slight miss for me––the combination of components read as muddled rather than precise, a sharp contrast to the triumvirate of dishes that preceded the palate cleanser, which provided a very clear way to explore the distinction that each component contributed to the main ingredient.

The tyranny of high expectations, I suppose. One of the most interesting things about this dish, though, were the way each bottle of wine I had open paired with it. The Riesling was high in acidity and cleansed the palate of some of the richness of the dish while emphasizing brighter elements like the tomato and sepote, while the Roagna allowed some of the char and fat of the fish to come to the fore of the palate and also complemented the salinity of the roe.

As an unrepentant fat kid, I am always happy to see bread offered as part of a tasting menu, and this milk bread was particularly slutty, coated in a sticky veal jus and dotted with thyme leaves. It would accompany the two main courses to follow.

Completing the menu's holistic takes on quail, the next course, and its prelude, evolved from the quail egg of the first course to the full bird. The precursor to the course was the tempura-fried leg of the quail dusted with orange-dominant citrus and alliums. The crispy leg was perfect and had the glorious, but subtle aromatics of ripe oranges, but the sauce was divine. A custard of wild rice spiked with mousse from the quail liver rivaled the excellence of the caviar course, and I couldn't get enough of it.

The breast of the quail formed the basis of the primary dish. Stuffed with guinea hen farce, the quail breast was served alongside a boudin, a New Orleans–style sausage, made with beets and foie gras, as well as sprouted midwestern amaranth. Poured atop was a sauce made from fermented corn and beets. Sublime.

Elysian Fields Farms lamb from Vermont was next, and incidentally was the only savory course for which I failed to take notes. Lamb sweetbreads were alongside, and the rack was garnished with a thin slice of maitake mushroom. This was the only real miss of the night––while I am always happy to gobble down very fatty cuts of meat, this particular cut of lamb encroached into far-too-fatty territory, and while the components were otherwise very tasty together, it took some bread to balance out some of the fat on my palate.

It's always sad for me to see savory courses end; I swear I could just sit and eat for five or six hours at tasting menu spots. And given the torrential midwestern summer thunderstorm that had started to rage outside, I was in no hurry to leave. Fortunately, I'd read in another review of Smyth somewhere that there was a hack to keep the savory courses going––order The Loyalist's burger.

Downstairs, the Shields' pub and sister restaurant to Smyth makes what some have called the best burger in the country. I sheepishly asked if I might punctuate my savory courses with one, and just ten minutes later, I hear "ask and ye shall receive" from my server as a burger was placed at my table. A classic cheeseburger with caramelized onions, cooked to perfection, and washed down with the last glass of Roagna. Super fun.

I could only delay the end of the savory courses for so long––a vibrant palate cleanser was next made with lemon verbena and goat milk gelato. The coolest element, however, was the sheet of verbena-scented ice over the top.

The sommelier was kind enough to splash a bit of Macvin du Jura in my glass. From one of my favorite producers in the Jura, Tissot, Macvin blends wine from savagnin and a bit of chardonnay with a grape-based spirit, Marc de Jura, which is aged oxidatively for at least a year.

"We have some more caviar for you, if you don't mind," a food runner announced as the final dessert came to my table. I didn't mind; indeed, I've been obsessed with sweet-savory combinations in desserts for ages, but have only recently discovered how well caviar can fill the role of a salty element in a dessert. Apparently it is a staple in desserts at Smyth––aged banana custard, cheekily molded into the shape of a banana, was accompanied by a generous dollop of roe and topped with crispy and candied kombu. A total knockout dessert.

Mignardises closed the meal. Harkening back to the quail egg which started dinner, a "Cadbury" egg crusted in chocolate, alongside two tarts, one made with preserved kiwi and one with strawberry and oregano flower, and a little chocolate bar made with licorice.

The rain still pelted the streets outside, but the rain in Chicago falls mainly outside the Smyth dining room, and noticing that others were still finishing their meal, I took the liberty of adding a Smyth Manhattan to close my meal and await the passing of the storm.

I rarely pay attention to the chatter surrounding which restaurants "deserve" the recognition they receive, whether that's the Michelin Guide, the 50 Best List, local critics, or otherwise. I'd much prefer to experience and pass judgment on the food myself, even if critical scrutiny determines where I might choose to dine in the first place.

I can't think of a reason Smyth isn't deserving of their third Michelin star. Indeed, three of the dishes midway through the meal were some of the most successful in recent memory. Not everything was a knockout, but there was some exceptional work that was truly singular, particularly the way that the kitchen deploys fruit in their preparations. I also appreciated that the focus was not just on local ingredients, which is an ethos that is certainly important, but hardly original these days (and, frankly, one that in our increasingly globalized world probably gets a bit more play than it's worth) but instead on the broader picture of American bounty.

The result is unexpected, exciting, and truly unique flavor combinations met in the heartland. The bill is steep even by three-star standards, but the experience is worth the journey. Folks visiting Chicago with very fine dining on their mind––give Smyth a go!

*If you have your hackles up about foie gras, I encourage you to read my previous disclaimer on the ingredient: https://www.maestroeats.com/post/quarantine-cuisine-jo%C3%ABl-robuchon-s-quail