Before writing a review, I like to have a postprandial phone conversation with chefs to check their bios, get a better sense of their culinary perspective, and maybe coax out a good quote that speaks to character. Was your mom an improviser in the kitchen? What is it you love about Cool Ranch Doritos? What was the first meal that blew your mind? Only then do I feel comfortable levying criticisms. Every once in a while, though, what I really want is a recipe.
At Oliver’s, Alex Carnovale makes some of the best roast chicken I’ve ever eaten. Yes, it’s juicy, crisp-skinned, and from an Indiana natural farming cooperative. All great, but there’s a flavor level to its sauce that I, as a home cook, need to unlock. First things first, though: Who is Carnovale and why did his team turn the old Acadia space into — what do they call it? — a “1930s Los Angeles supper club”?
“Well, I’m from L.A.,” Carnovale explains, “and it makes me think of that mix of vintage and classic touches, like you’re having dinner at a friend’s really nice home. It’s about dishes that are thoughtful and creative but also familiar.” OK, a little tenuous, but I see how the menu trades in plainspoken American luxury — strip loin, oysters, Key lime pie — to strike a modern-day Continental note. Etched art deco mirrors and velvet booths decorate the moody, high-ceilinged space. It swanks up, and some live jazz (apparently in the works) would seal the deal. Yet I want to know: Where did this chicken magician Angeleno acquire his cooking chops?
All over, it turns out, as ambitious cooks do — working in world-famous restaurants from Stockholm (Frantzén) to Charleston (McCrady’s) and, notably, for three and a half years, at the French Laundry in Napa. He arrived in Chicago to join Entrée, a meal delivery service that operated from this same space. Tech entrepreneurs Jon Bell and Jason Weingarten (the latter of whom recently bought Nick Kokonas’s share of the Alinea Group) founded the project, venture capital poured in, and it fizzled after a year. So they pivoted. They had the space. All they needed was a clientele.
That wasn’t hard. The South Loop and Bronzeville, with all their new premium housing, need options for folks who want to treat dinner as a night on the town. On any given evening there’s a diverse gathering — older couples on dates, professional groups in town for a meeting, girlfriends catching up at the bar. Carnovale, a fresh talent with a distinctive voice, gives this crowd what it wants: dishes that are familiar but with a glow-up. Over three visits, several plates made me revel in the yum. Others suffered from execution flaws, particularly when the kitchen had to handle large groups. All were expensive enough to make me gulp when the check arrived.
My advice: Go for the plainest-sounding choices because they will surprise you the most. Here, green salad is no penance for last week’s overindulgence but rather a destination dish. Each leaf in this cartoonishly high pile seems to have been individually veneered with mustard vinaigrette, crunchy breadcrumbs, and Midnight Moon goat cheese. As you dig in, fried chickpeas roll out. Or try the bread and butter, which the menu calls “toast royale.” Thick slices of sourdough fried in beef fat arrive with caramelized shallot butter. It’s so over the top you’ll need a top-shelf cocktail.
Oliver’s is more of a cocktail place than a wine destination. Bar guy Luke DeYoung (Scofflaw) has created a menu imbibers will want to explore, complete with ‘reserve’ offerings for $24. We tried one of those: the Creole, a Manhattan-like classic with Bénédictine and a delicate replica of Amer Picon. There were also revelations among the other drinks (still expensive, at $18 each), like a barrel-aged gin crusta (sweet up front, sneaky on the finish).
When the kitchen hits its mark, I can give the prices a pass. I don’t want to remember that the five fat slices of dry-aged strip loin cost $79. That’s because they made me swoon, particularly when swiped through a sauce that’s like an A.1. bordelaise. Nor do I care to dwell on the $46 price tag for that plump half chicken with a scattering of herbs and a cold green sauce that … Hello! What’s going on here? Dill, cultured cream, and a high note of onion without any sharpness? Carnovale’s trick: He soaks raw shallots in cold water to remove their sulfuric compounds, then blends them in.
If only the kitchen were more consistent. After a friend told me the cheeseburger here was her favorite in town, I stopped by the bar for dinner. “It’s amazing,” said the barkeep, who gave me a spiel about how the chef recommends medium rare. Though delicious, it came out well done and oozing grease. Another time, the tomato risotto was mushy and the fluke tartare was room temperature. Even that green salad, so brilliant one visit, came drenched in dressing the next.
Service clunkers also break the spell. One server enthused that the toast was “baked daily,” though it was (I confirmed with the chef) from Publican Quality Bread. When I tried to order a glass of wine with my steak, another server brought a generous sample of a red blend he recommended. Screaming with American oak, it wasn’t my jam. By the time I got a better glass, the steak was half eaten and half cold. When I was dining solo and fielded the “Still or sparkling?” query, I had no idea sparkling would mean a bottle of Saratoga priced at $10. Another quibble: The desserts — crème caramel pie in a stodgy amaretti cookie crust, chocolate budino in a too-hard housemade “Magic Shell” — lack finesse.
Oliver’s needs more time to train its staff and figure out the rhythms of service. There’s so much talent here and such a need in the neighborhood for destination dining. I’ll be watching it grow to its potential and, in the meantime, soaking shallots like crazy.