The “energetically American, French-influenced” Henri is more than an elegant follow-up to its boisterous neighboring sibling, the Gage. It’s a smart kick in the dangling prairie oysters of gastropubbery: chandeliers, Laguiole knives, velvet walls (with faux gator skin in the bathroom), salt and pepper shakers, ballotines, bouillabaisse, and escargots de Bourgogne? I’m pretty sure owner Billy Lawless wheels in the gray Gold Coast nobility that occasionally collects here on nights when the elevator ride up to Everest would inflame the gout.
The sometimes overpresent, earnest staff has been drilled to effortlessly compliment nearly every choice a diner makes. I made the tone-deaf mistake of interpreting “I don’t sell enough of that” as an endorsement for a painfully salty rabbit consommé.
It’s important to remember that even in Japan, izakaya vary as widely as barstaurants here do. Still, Chizakaya feels less like a comfortable, friendly bar than a small-plates restaurant with a remarkable sake list (curated by former L2O sommelier Chantelle Pabros)—its conviviality is in some ways hobbled by fine-dining touches.
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But other plates aren’t quite as effortlessly eaten. Three crispy chunks of pork belly are suspended on a skewer over a deep little glazed bowl containing a gorgeous slow-poached egg, with no clear instructions how on the two components are meant to be integrated. Raw beef liver isn’t an uncommon item in izakaya, but I’m not sure Chicago’s ready for beef liver “sashimi,” so quoted because it’s cold-smoked, a process that renders it raw-like but unappealingly pasty. A deconstructed congee with fresh corn to one side and blue crab requires just enough attention to make you forget you came to drink, and the braised pork ramen is so packed with noodles, in relatively little broth, that it requires Hoover-level strength to slurp up.
In the last decade the capitalism that’s spread through Vietnam like a zombie virus has spawned large, comfortable, urban restaurants with carefully diverse menus—particularly in hotels, mostly catering to tourists. But for the most part even casual family spots with exhaustive variations on soup and a dozen different rice plates (like you’ll find on Argyle Street here) are in the minority. And places that capitalize on nostalgia for the French-colonial past (looking at you, Le Colonial)? Well, Uncle Ho is still kind of a big deal there, even if he’s rolling in his granite mausoleum.
Even when the menu stretches, it doesn’t reach deep. The turmeric-seasoned freshwater fish dish cha ca is a Hanoi specialty I’ve never seen on any menu in town. Usually it’s fried in oil at the table and eaten family style, but here it’s plated ignominiously, without the requisite funky shrimp paste or the wild bouquet of uncommon but not unavailable Asian shrubbery.
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Henri 18 S. Michigan 312-578-0763henrichicago.com
Chizakaya 3056 N. Lincoln 773-697-4725 chizakaya.com
Sawtooth 1350 W. Randolph 312-526-3320 sawtoothrestaurant.com
