Amelia’s Bar & Grill
Amelia’s Bar & Grill occupies a lonely industrial corner a few blocks south of the storied stockyards’ gate, and nothing about the facade would indicate that anything more exotic than menudo lies within. But classics like lush quesadillas—made with chewy handmade tortillas, mild Oaxacan cheese and dark, funky huitlacoche—or chef Eusebio Garcia’s signature grilled salmon with green papaya, mango, and avocado creme fraiche share the page with Mediterranean fusion creations like goat cheese ravioli and pappardelle with shrimp, shiitakes, shallots, and Swiss chard in roasted garlic sauce. Lomo de puerco, an entree of grilled pork tenderloin, was terrific—thick medallions of pork painted with a tart, sweet tamarind glaze and seared till crisp. Plated with a handful of sauteed purslane, a smear of roasted quince, and a tangle of grilled onions, it could have come out of a far more pretentious kitchen. A plate of oysters on the half shell topped with ceviche looked fantastic, and if the ceviche was disproportionately heavy on octopus, and the bivalves themselves a little blah, it was all still fresh, and punchy with lime and peppers. Garcia and the tiny, effusive staff do a whole lot with a little. —Martha Bayne
Cecina, the traditional steak of Guerrero, is salt-dried, then rehydrated and grilled, with deliciously toothy and succulent results. Other representative foods from Guerrero here include a guajillo-spiked chicken soup in a bright red broth with fresh squash and carrot. This place is swimming with seafood: fried smelts were especially tasty spritzed with lime, and ceviche was helium light. My dining partner had grilled seafood with gently charred chunks of octopus, shrimp, and, alas, krab in a light sauce. Less routine menu items include quail, game hen, and bull’s testicles. The tortillas at La Cecina are handcrafted, and we enjoyed quesadillas with requeson, Mexico’s answer to ricotta, and fish (minced and fried in the tortilla). No booze is served, but there are healthful beverages including a fresh-squeezed concoction of mixed veggies and fruits and a milk shake of mamey, a starchy, honey-tinged tropical fruit. —David Hammond
Over a decade ago, fresh out of the Culinary Institute of America, south-side native Laurette Vaccaro-Holley returned to her roots, opening this hybrid of bistro and corner tap just a few blocks south of Sox Park. The menu’s a significant step up from standard bar food: New Orleans-style barbecue shrimp were six succulent crustaceans in a spicy beurre blanc, and Vaccaro-Holley makes a mean muffuletta (“Big enough for two,” the menu says, and that’s no lie). There are daily specials and a range of salads and sandwiches, but roughly half the regular menu is devoted to mix-and-match pastas and sauces. My spaghetti alla arrabiata was perfectly al dente and delectably garlicky, and my friend was pleased with his steak Vaccaro, tender slices of rib eye with green peppers and caramelized onions served over penne in a light, savory red sauce. Service can be gruff in the south-side manner, but that just means they think you can take it, right? Cobblestones is open on Sundays when there’s a Sox home game. —Kate Schmidt
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To gain access to Ed’s amazing repertoire of delicious northern Chinese specialties start by asking for the leather-bound Chinese menu with English translations, then ask about the specials hanging on the wall, and if something appeals to you don’t let anyone talk you out of it. You could spend weeks happily exploring: house pot stickers are long cigars of crispy, porky goodness, and the complex lamb, stir-fried with dried chiles, is carried from the kitchen with great regularity. Beef stew with noodle is a massive, very soupy bowl of tender beef chunks with a nice touch of spice. “Fish-fragrant” eggplant has nothing to do with fish—it’s really just a version of eggplant with garlic sauce that renders the fruit light and puffy, with a delicate, crispy outer crust. Don’t overlook the cold appetizers: a bowl of tofu with bits of preserved egg is a nice lesson in subtle textural contrasts, and the sliced pork leg with soy sauce is cut thinly in cross section so you can see the varying textures of the different muscles, rimmed by a layer of caramelized fat. Even cosmetically challenged selections tend to be terrific: lily flowers and bean thread noodle is sort of a grayish lump of noodles studded with wilted yellow flowers, but the pale yellow buds have a satisfying snap, like lightly sauteed mushrooms. —Mike Sula
Han 202, the unusual Bridgeport Asian restaurant from the folks behind Evanston’s late Restaurant Guan (previously Ninefish), offers a prix fixe dinner at $25 for five expertly turned-out courses—one of the best deals in town. Like any self-respecting chef, Guan Chen winces at the term fusion. But his judgment is too sound and his touch too deft for any of the excesses that dated label conjures. Julienned green apple is dressed with extra-virgin olive oil, pine nuts, and two of the most aggressive ingredients you can think of, capers and truffle oil, applied with such restraint that it’s difficult to imagine them not working. For his beef and lemongrass salad Chen simply builds on the apple salad, adding the herb and tender glazed chunks of beef; it’s completely different from the base but no less memorable. And a bowl of romaine laced with wakame seaweed is a harmonious preparation—and head-slappingly simple. To say Chen makes things look easy, though, would ignore his facility with sea creatures, like a special of baby scallops, luscious, perfectly cooked, and served in spicy miso broth, or the just-over-wobbly scallops and shrimp he pairs with firm vegetables in a red seafood curry. Fourth courses move from sea to land with dishes like spicy lamb chops in bonito-plum sauce with sprigs of thyme and Chen’s takes on Chinese-American classics like General Tso’s chicken and orange beef. Light desserts—vanilla ice cream with a sphere of mango-tomato sorbet or an unpitted poached peach enrobed in green apple sorbet and sprinkled with poppy seeds—serve as a proper punctuation mark. —Mike Sula
