The Bad Apple
Craig Fass and Mandy Franklin (Menagerie, Cooper’s) opened their beer and burger bar the Bad Apple a scant half block south of the venerable Jury’s, and while that institution attracts a decidedly different crowd, its burger is formidable and has been justly recognized as such for years. Now, with the Bad Apple shipping in a custom-ground beef mix from New York wholesale butcher Pat La Frieda, it’s difficult not to imagine a gauntlet has been thrown down between the generations gathering on each side of Lincoln Avenue. In various instances Cass and Franklin see fit to bedeck their pedigreed beef with lily-gilding school-of-Kuma’s-type arrangements, offering options like pulled pork and onion rings, ham and eggs, ham and pineapple, etc. But the more minimal preparations (one in fact named for La Frieda) better reveal a slight overmanipulation of the burger, resulting in a tougher, drier chew than the patties probably deserve. And since they cook up a size too small for their buns, I’d say Jury’s has little to worry about in the burger department. A second category of sandwiches, many featuring some appealing beer-manipulated element—ale-brined pork, peanut butter and lambic jam, Witte-roasted chicken—show the kitchen is capable of a little bit more. A Kriek-cured duck confit with melted white cheddar on thick Texas toast is a gooey if salty alternative for those occasions when one can do without a burger piled high with centuries of geological strata. Accessorizing all of these sandwiches are golden brown hand-cut fries available in seven different flavors (truffle, curry, Old Bay, etc), which certainly appear attractive but could stand a much harder fry, particularly if they’re expected to survive a deluge of gravy and cheese curds. As it stands they don’t have the tensile strength to support their own weight at a 90-degree angle, much less the onslaught of the sloppy Montreal poutine, one of two offerings, along with deep-fried cheese curds, with an appeal directly proportional to the level of alcohol-diminished inhibitions. There’s a handful of salads for relief from the onslaught of meat and potatoes, but if my chickpea, olive, and feta salad—laced with canned olives and overdressed in treacly honey-cilantro vinaigrette—is any indication, not much effort goes into them. Where the Bad Apple clearly has the upper hand over Jury’s (and most likely every other place in the neighborhood) is in its extensive and diverse beer selection. —Mike Sula
A French restaurant that wants to be taken seriously is certainly sending the wrong signal by adopting a frog as its mascot, and only compounding the problem by adopting a name as corny as Cafe Touche. But this bustling Edison Park bistro, run by chef Joe Calabrese of the nearby Zia’s Trattoria, otherwise hits all the right notes—it’s an affordable, comfortable neighborhood spot executing simple classics perfectly well, with an equally accessible wine list. In addition to a handful of steaks, served with big tangles of thinly shaved frites, there’s a buttery Alsatian onion tart, two huge slabs of house-made paté (for $6.95), a deep bowl of bouillabaisse that smells like a field of fennel, a crispy roasted half duck, and big bushes of frisee undergirding goat cheese croquettes or delicate poached eggs and lardons. About the only thing that matches the name and the logo are the American-size portions. —Mike Sula
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Despite its newcomer status in a Neopolitan-pizza-crazed town where there’s strong competition even in the neighborhood, Castel Gandolfo, in the Gold Coast, isn’t doing much to ingratiate itself. Though grandiosely named after the pope’s summer residence, it’s housed in an ugly squat stucco corner building that has been the site of several failed restaurants (most recently, Iggy’s). And it’s cash only, with an ATM on-site, yet outrageously expensive. Calzones start at $16-$18, and the 14- and 16-inch pies run $1 per inch, which by itself wouldn’t be so bad if ingredients beyond tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella weren’t $2 to $4 each. The result: a small pizza with prosciutto, roasted red peppers, and olives will set you back $24. Add to that an $8 house salad or $12 antipasto and you have the primary reason this cursed corner is likely to claim another victim. Castel Gandolfo is now offering beer and wine. —Kate Schmidt
Offering a focused menu and a dazzling array of optional condiments, Falafill is a franchise-ready marketing concept poised to spawn multiple locations. Basic idea: select decently prepared falafel in pita ($4.95) or a plastic bowl ($6.95); then challenge gravity by piling on herb-rich salads, spicy veggies, and piquant sauces drawn from a large bar in the center of the store. Add-ons like fava bean puree and hummus, available for a surcharge, are superfluous: each order gives you access to the regularly replenished and formidable condimentarium of cabbage with mint, zhug (jalapeño and cilantro), taratour (tahini with lemon), and dozens of other colorful, generally low-cal options like Armenian salad. Exercise restraint with these condiments, which are best deployed in moderation and can easily overwhelm. White and sweet potato fries can be drizzled with selections from a battery of hot, sweet, and sour sauces. Novel beverages include tongue-blistering ginger beer, but given the generally aggressive flavors of food and fixings, consider palate-calming yogurt drinks. Falafill’s food is fresh and fast, though priced a little on the high side. With migraine-inducing interior lighting, a Denny’s-inspired color scheme, cramped quarters, and limited seating on backless stools that discourage lingering, this Boystown newcomer seems best for grab-and-go dining. —David Hammond
The fussed-up Ukrainian Village brunch spot Jam, which launched stealthily in mid-July in the tight, airless Damen Avenue space where Dodo expired, is a radically different animal from owner Jerry Suqi’s nearby Chickpea. This time it’s not Suqi’s Palestinian mama in the kitchen but Jeffrey Mauro, formerly of Trotter’s and North Pond (he also teamed with Suqi on the ill-fated La Pomme Rouge). Early notices touted Mauro’s sous vide malt custard French toast and eggy plates fashionably loaded with pork cheeks and belly, which gave me the impression that this was going to be the sort of brunching meant for blanketing uneasy stomachs and pounding heads. And indeed Mauro’s egg sandwich, a French roll with slabs of meaty braised pork cheek covered in a lava flow of egg yolk, has a restorative quality, marred only by a cloying sweet-and-sour peach ketchup—a rare case of sugar failing to help the medicine go down. Buckwheat crepes stuffed with braised lamb are plated more successfully, with perfect spheres of Asian pear, but biscuits and gravy with satisfying chunks of rough-cut cotechino sausage are nearly undone by a gray shiitake gravy that looks far less appetizing than it actually is. Some plates, particularly those categorized as lunch, are downright dainty and overcomposed, like the octopus: a few tentacles, a tuft of frisee, and a radial arrangement of pink grapefruit sections alternately dabbed with yellow ginger icing and crenellated with coins of dehydrated chorizo chips. Meals start with imaginative amuses, such as intensely anise-y fennel sugar-lemon custard doughnut holes, which you can wash down with Metropolis coffee or a juice du jour. All slate and mirrors to maximize limited space, the cash-only operation is hot and poorly ventilated—which doesn’t seem to deter the weekend mobs currently helping the restaurant live up to its name. —Mike Sula
