Day 88: Weekend Report, Part 1

The weekend started on Friday afternoon when a coworker used a Jedi mind trick to lure me, zombie-like, out of the building for lunch. Actually, she suggested La Madia, a nearby fancy-pizza restaurant on Grand Street that just opened a few weeks ago, and I, dedicated blogger and ravenous omnivore, could not resist. La Madia, whose website is here, is one of several so-called Neapolitan-style pizzerias to open in Chicago recently, most within the last year or so. (Others include Spacca Napoli, Sapore di Napoli, Coalfire, Pizzeria Via Stato, and A Mano, all in the city.) The gist is spare toppings on an ultra-thin yeasted crust, blistered around the edges and lightly charred on the bottom. This is my kind of pizza and La Madia, so I had heard, was a contender for top honors.

Billed as "fondue," this starter is basically a big loaf of piping-hot bread with a side of tomato sauce with some cheese melted in there. It was YUMMY but kind of lunkheadedly so, i.e. yummy in the way that, like, a grilled cheese sandwich or a bowl of cereal is.

What I really wanted was a basic all-arugula salad with shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano on top but when I said that to our waiter he looked back at me in such a non-comprehending way that I decided not to risk it. This salad -- arugula, apples, and candied walnuts -- is on the menu and so I figured, OK, let's taste something that they have concocted for our gustatory pleasure. It was YUCKY: the vinaigrette was oily, the arugula had no bite, and I hate the way they put it on the plate, all messy and random. This salad made me sad. The owner of the restaurant stopped by to ask us how we liked the food. Cassie, my coworker, told him the fondue was misnamed and the sauce tasted like Ragu; I remarked that the vinaigrette was underseasoned. He asked!

And, finally, the pizza! We ordered one pizza to share with fennel sausage ("housemade" in restaurant parlance), sweet peppers, and Vidalia onions (which are not in season, but whatev). It looked pretty but ultimately didn't have any guts. It was bland and not that textural, and desperately needed some red sauce to bring a little acidity. So, YUCKY, even though I enjoyed it when dipped into the fondue.

So, would I go back (henceforth abbreviated WIGB)? Probably yes, even though the decor is cold and corporate-ish, the food did not make me slap my forehead in amazement, and the prices are pretty high for what it is. What can I say?


A FEW HOURS LATER . . .

That night, I got together for dinner with six friends from college (around the table from my left it was Mark, Carol, Mark, Maria, Scott, and Tom -- they wanted me to use pseudonyms borrowed from Peanuts characters but I refuse, mainly because everyone agreed that I was Marcy). Maria, visiting from Baltimore, picked Bin 36, a local wine bar and restaurant (look here). It was jam packed and positively bustling. Bin 36 is a great idea: the restaurant serves a staggering selection of flights of wine, creatively put together and narrated on the menu in brilliantly user-friendly language. For example, the sparkling wine flight is called "Bubbles" and the flight of big, bold red wines (Shirazes and Zinfandels) is called "Sexy Reds" (the slutty wines, as sommelier Belinda Chang is fond of saying). All I'm going to say about the food is that it's crazily overseasoned and altogether cudgeled into submission, flavor-wise. I ordered the oven roasted lamb tenderloin with hen-of-the-woods mushrooms and leeks, red mustard greens, and a pinot noir reduction ($26); the dish was paired with a 2005 pinot noir from a winery called Picket Fence in the Russian River Valley in California (the wine was YUMMY). The tenderloin was basically well cooked but served under this strange tangle of mushrooms and leeks, which reminded me alternately of hair and seaweed -- not a good association. There was a lot of dark jus on the plate and all the elements tasted the same to me: no distinct flavors, no brilliant high notes, no earthy undertones, just salty and YUCKY. Everyone else seemed to enjoy their food so perhaps I'm just being petulant (not!).

The dessert I ordered was another disappointment -- an apple financier with oatmeal stout ice-cream. Sounds good in theory but was dry and flavorless in practice, and the ice cream was weird (at first I thought it was oatmeal ice cream, which was appealing; then the waiter pointed out that it's a beer ice cream, which changes everything, in this case not for the better). We did get a fun gift from the kitchen, though. This pink ball is a white chocolate truffle with pop rocks inside. YUCKY but amusing and nostalgic. (SIDENOTE FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHER: This restaurant is extreme low-light dining. Everyone looks ravishing but you can't take good pictures of your food!)



Bin 36, WIGB? Sure, if I were in a pinch and wanted to meet someone for a fun glass of wine; but not for the food, which struck me as soulless high-volume corporate gourmet cuisine.