Twenty-three-year-old Chuy Valencia is only the latest—and possibly the youngest—graduate of the School of Bayless to come out of the Frontera/Topolobampo kitchens and stake his own claim. After a pit stop as chef de cuisine at Adobo Grill, in late August he opened Chilam Balam, a cramped but not claustrophobic subterranean spot offering a small-plates menu along with a list of monthly seasonal specials—mostly more antojitos plus a few larger plates. It was a dish from this changing list that would crush my heart: a plate of roasted scallops in sweet corn chilatole, garnished with the year’s last cherry tomatoes and wax beans. It disappeared the day after I ate it, as did a salad of the freshest, most vibrant tomatoes of the summer—with queso fresco, sunflower greens, and a chile-avocado dressing—and a mulatto chile-and-chocolate mole, so multidimensional with its shifting notes of bitter and sweet that I barely noticed the slices of lamb leg it was meant to accent.
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Happily, not all the good stuff is so ephemeral. The braised mushroom-and-cheese empanadas remain, pockets so light and flaky I’m at a loss to explain how they can contain the earthy fungus, braised with pipian verde and epazote. Even something as mundane as a grilled hanger steak transcends itself, plated on a lava field of guajillo sauce. Solid but not quite so mind-blowing efforts include a cross-stacked plate of pasilla-glazed pork ribs accented with radish and queso fresco and a chocolate mousse with a tangy goat cheese core. But I’m scratching my head over the dessert empanadas stuffed with peanut butter and figs, as tough and leaden as the savory ones were miraculous. And it’s hard to figure how a tiny scoop of guacamole, no matter how good, merits a $7.95 price tag. Still, in a fall restaurant season crowded with upscale-Mexican, small-plate, and farm-to-table menus, Valencia’s managed to distinguish himself combining all three. —Mike Sula
Then again, the arroz a la tumbada, a mushy, odoriferous seafood paella with a sharp chile bite, was summarily rejected by everyone who tasted it. And a crabmeat salad had a fresh-from-the-can flavor that obviated its interesting potato, carrot, and queso fresco components, leading me to wonder whether sea creatures should simply be avoided here.
Fruit showed up in our charcuterie choice, smoked duck breast, which turned out to be six crostini topped with mascarpone, melon, frisee, and smoky, rosy poultry. A spinach salad skewer skewed the salade Lyonnaise deliciously, with more baby spinach than frisee, a featherlight chicharron replacing lardons, an egg “molten” instead of raw, and crema for even more richness. The octopus pastrami with mustard greens and rye consomme was less successful—it didn’t conjure up the classic deli sandwich at all, despite the pastrami spice rub on the handful of tender tentacles. We liked the cracker-flat pizza with diced roasted beets, fennel, and ricotta salata, but too much salt marred both a snack of fried dough blobs with an oddly tart pesto and a “plate” of dainty pieces of halibut fillet with meaty chanterelles and shriveled mussels in a bacon-studded broth.
Chilam Balam3023 N. Broadway, 773-296-6901, chilambalamchicago.com
Rustico Grill2515 N. California, 773-235-0002, rusticogrill.com
Elate111 W. Huron, 312-202-9900, hotelfelix.com
