Day 93: Brasserie Bonanza

Perhaps subconsciously with the blog in mind, I have been eating out quite a bit lately. Last Saturday, The Husband and I went on a couple date -- that is, a date with another couple. We agreed on OLD TOWN BRASSERIE, a new French restaurant in Old Town, which is the neighborhood in Chicago just north of the commercial area of the city (Gold Coast, Rush Street, Michigan Avenue) and home to Second City, a bunch of random local businesses, and many high-rise residential towers. I completely spaced and forgot to take pictures so you'll have to imagine the clubby, upholstered decor; the brass trimmings; the fiftysomething clientele; and the strangely un-nouvelle French food, including beef Wellington (is this a brasserie dish?), a limpid but somewhat bitter duck consomme, an unremarkable escargots appetizer, rack of lamb served with two gray lobes of Kobe beef, and a rotisserie chicken dish that was beige incarnate. It wasn't exactly YUCKY but I wouldn't call it yummy either. In general, the food wasn't rough and rustic enough for me and certainly not my idea of a brasserie menu, which, perhaps wrongly, I think of as steaks, frites, brandade, stuff like that. Maybe that's bistro fare. It might have been the formal atmosphere, which, while not hushed, had a starchy quality. When I think of a brasserie, I picture food falling out of the mouths of rosy-cheeked patrons who are tipping back in their chairs, waving their forks in the air, and having a gay ole time. Perhaps I'm confusing dinner with a Toulouse Lautrec painting of a whorehouse.

Here's the rather not helpful Wikipedia definition of brasserie versus bistro:
In France, a brasserie is a café doubling as a restaurant with a relaxed setting, which serves single dishes and other meals. It can be expected to have professional service and printed menus (unlike a bistro which may have neither), but more informal eating hours than a full-fledged restaurant. Typically, a brasserie is open every day of the week and the same menu is served all day. The word 'brasserie' is also French for brewery and, by extension, "the brewing business."

During the week, I and a couple of workmates trundled over to BRASSERIE RUHLMANN, a spanking new restaurant conceived in and imported from New York City in partnership with the people who own Japonais, a local high-end sushi experience. [PERTINENT UPDATE, 12/3/07: The executive chef is Christian Delouvrier, the ex-chef de cuisine of the Alain Ducasse restaurant in the Essex Hotel; the scuttlebutt is that Alain Ducasse, the original multi-venue globe-trotting chef, fired Delouvrier when the New York restaurant lost a star (or perhaps half a star; who can remember?) from the NY Times dining critic. The chef of the New York original -- at least I think the original is the Rockefeller Center location -- is Laurent Tourondel, another celebrity Frenchy. The name of the Chicago outpost is actually Brasserie Ruhlmann SteakHouse; do notice the dorky intercapping. The name Ruhlmann, according to Metromix, is a reference to Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann, who, according to Wikipedia, was an early 20th century interior decorator.] Housed in a huge glass-and-steel building near the river, the restaurant space is lavishly large -- soaring high ceilings, wide expanses of banquettes, acres of tiled floor -- and the level of staffing is so maximal it's almost comic. This menu is fun! Lots of Frenchy entrees to choose from, yummy steakhouse sides (mac and cheese, creamed spinach, fries), steak and tuna tartares, raw bar selections including west and east coast oysters, and specialty martinis! The menu put me in such a good mood I ordered a white-chocolate martini, which, it must be said, is an abomination. YUCKY, for sure; it tastes like the dregs of a spiked party punch that used to have a sherbet floater. Anyway, the food:

Paige ordered the skate wing, beating Shane to it (old friends, they have a rule between them of no redundant ordering). Shane groaned in agony, then settled on the navarin of lamb (a rich and dark stew), which turned out to be the table's best entree. The skate, with butter and capers, was YUMMY if a hair salty and presentation-wise I am admittedly a sucker for the balanced palette, here brown, bright-green, and red. I ordered the "Cowboy Steak," a honkin' bone-in rib eye cut of Angus beef, which the man sitting at the table next to me said was not prime beef. "Angus is never prime," said the man, named Lee, who told me he worked in the restaurant industry in Arizona. I did not know that! He estimated my entree cost the restaurant $14 or $15; it cost me $42. For one lousy steak! Not including any sides! It was pretty good: fatty as one would expect and reasonably well crusted. Nothing to write home about.

Frites! And, off to the side in the picture, something called "Potatoes Ruhlmann," described by our big-and-tall waiter as "cooked in duck confit." He probably meant duck fat. We thought it was going to be a fancy, extra-super-special potato invention but it was just deep-fried, though not in duck confit. Both were YUMMY but the fries could have been more crisp and, really, I'd eat just about any kind of fried potato.

Oysters at the raw bar. We did not order any raw items but the long and ice-packed display is sure fun to look at. We did catch a whiff of the raw bar as we entered the restaurant. It faintly smelled like the underside of a pier.

This was Shane's dessert: a chocolate tart with a scoop of milk-chocolate ice cream on a chocolate tuile. The crust detached from the bottom of the tart, and I couldn't detect any chocolate flavor in the ice cream. YUCKY. On the other hand, my apple tart was fantastic.


Brasserie Ruhlmann, 500 W. Superior St.; 312-494-1900. WIGB? No. Too expensive, too big, disorganized service, and a concept so assiduously rendered that it feels mass produced. No quirks and thus zero personality.

Old Town Brasserie, 1209 N. Wells St.; 312-943-3000. WIGB? No. Probably not a bad restaurant but I'm not the right audience for it.