Abiquiu Cafe
A restaurant dedicated to the highly specialized southwestern variant of New Mexican food—most commonly identified by dishes blanketed in red or green roasted chile sauce—is a noble venture. This Lakeview spot unfortunately executes it with uneven results, though the house-roasted red and green New Mexican chiles that form the foundation of the cuisine offer a good start. That’s particularly true of the almost soupy green chile (available vegetarian or porky), which has a nice depth of flavor, and the brick-red variety carries admirable heat, particularly as it drenches a cheesy plate of chicken enchiladas or small order of pan-seared corn cakes. Nearly every entree and appetizer is meant to be smothered with these sauces, which will rapidly decrease the life span of the fat chile rellenos deep-fried in an eggy batter but lend themselves well to sturdier Oaxacan tamales. My greatest disappointment was a very appealing-sounding chile-topped cheeseburger that arrived overcharred and overcooked—mea culpa for not giving firm cooking instructions, but there’s no excuse for the supermarket cottonball it comes on. Meals begin with a small basket of freshly deep-fried puff pastry triangles (sopaipillas) meant to be dipped in honey. These also can be ordered as an appetizer or entree, stuffed with picadillo or chicken and potatoes. Many dishes evidence a preponderance of cumin, and some should simply be avoided at all cost, such as an $18, laughably tiny scrap of overcooked skirt steak. —Mike Sula
I had big hopes for Big Stuff, the new DePaul-area neighborhood where the conceit—that’d be BIG STUFF—is refreshingly unambitious. The quick service and immodest portions suggest a good antidote to a night of collegiate drinking, but the less-inebriated will discover that beyond its tacky motto—”Bigger is always better”—Big Stuff is pretty, well, superlative. The flavor of slow-cooked pork cut cleanly through other elements—a not-too-sweet barbecue sauce and a smear of cole slaw—on the Jody Odie sandwich, served on a pretzel roll alongside a small (small!) ramekin of potato salad. Other sandwiches looked at least as good; we had a crunchy, nicely balanced BLT on toasted ciabatta. With its formidable pile of protein (beans, cheese, meat, avocado) atop spring mix, the Big Stuff Salad, heaped in a metal mixing bowl, would’ve satisfied a football player. The “big slice” of pepperoni pizza, a steal at $3, could’ve fed a family; a “bigger slice” is available for $5, but who knows what you’d do with it. Unfortunately the special pizzas aren’t available by the slice, so in the interest of research we ordered an entire You Say Potato, a lovely melange of sliced tubers, pesto, and roasted garlic atop a thin, chewy crust. There were only two of us dining, and we asked for an embarrassing amount of food—a fact that didn’t pass unobserved by anybody working that night—but we were pretty happy toting home what felt like 15 pounds of leftovers. They fed us through the weekend. —Sam Worley
Run under the name Lefko Castro (somewhat unfortunately, “White Castle”) for 25 years, Broken Plate Bar and Grill may boast freshly sponged burgundy walls and flat-screen TVs, but it still makes room for the relics: the lowered faces of the half dozen or so Greek men playing cards in the back, smelling faintly of cigarettes. The previous owner’s nephew is now general manager, offering up staple specials like spanakopita and dolmades as well as sandwiches, salads, meats, and seafood via a menu that depicts flying (unbroken) plates of food alongside completely agreeable $4 glasses of Macedonikos wine. “American” specials stick out like sore thumbs: there’s simply no need for buffalo wings or a burger. The real goodness is in the more authentic details: a pristinely white, fresh block of feta doused in olive oil and served with a couple of olives; juicy, cuminy homemade sausage sauteed in wine; a perky romaine starter salad. Dinners—a duo of toughish pork souvlaki and a well-spiced but also resilient pair of bifteki—need a bit more effort. Still, there were tasty length-cut roasted lemon potatoes with rice, fresh warm pita, and delightful homemade molamakarones cookies dusted with ground walnuts. —Izidora Angel
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
In true Argentine fashion, Caminito Argentinian Grill is no place for vegetarians—even the salads are off limits for non-meat eaters (yes, all of them). The sole meat- and seafood-free offerings are one type of empanada, a mixed vegetable appetizer, and two pizzas, plus the desserts—but then, the entire menu is relatively brief. In addition to the pizzas and appetizers there are a few house-made pastas, plus several fish, beef, and chicken dishes. Surprisingly few regular steaks are available—milanesas, or thin, breaded steaks, seem more popular here—and you’ll have to order a full parrilla for two to get sweetbreads, chorizo, or blood sausage. It wouldn’t surprise me if that parrilla could feed four or more; our chewy, flavorful flank steak, cooked perfectly medium rare, was easily big enough for three people. Not that we had much room for it after an assortment of crispy, light empanadas and an entree-size spinach salad with pancetta, Gorgonzola, tomatoes, and walnuts. The sole disappointment was mushy, fishy-tasting seafood gnocchi. But chef Mario Lobos, a young Argentine, noticed we hadn’t touched it and came out to ask if he could make us another one; when we declined, he took the dish off our bill. Our server couldn’t have been friendlier or more helpful, and the brightly colored subterranean room is cozy and welcoming. —Julia Thiel
Scott Harris’s quest for world domination proceeds apace with this snug wine bar in the basement below Francesca’s on Clark. The menu of small bites, bruschetta, cheese, and charcuterie owes a great deal to Harris’s Taylor Street hit Davanti Enoteca—so much so that one wonders if he’s deliberately trying to dilute their brands. He’s certainly not trying to reinvent the wheel with the minimally prepared plates, winningly with truffle egg toast—essentially Toad in Hole with a very slight truffle accent, and a supercreamy jar of ricotta you’re meant to mix with a dollop of honeycomb. The charcuterie—at least the soppressata—is nothing special, but gets the job done. In any case it’s not a bad little spot—dark with a vaulted brick ceilings—to work your way down the extensive wine list, with a few perfectly acceptable little bites. —Mike Sula
