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Cipollina1543 N. Damen | 773-227-6300
As we dithered over half-finished plates in the packed dining room of Hub 51, the restaurant debut of Rich Melman spawn R.J. and Jerrod, my pal and I challenged ourselves to think of one nice thing we could say about it before we’d allow ourselves to escape. And we continued to sit, until our server blinked past the headlights in her eyes and began to twitch. Maybe I shouldn’t blame her. It’s not a place to puzzle over the unimaginative menu, or even expect a serious recommendation for what’s particularly tasty (hummus? really?), but rather a place to direct your eyes around the room and try to spot a celebrity among the conventioneers. But should you actually be here to eat you might have trouble zeroing in on the tiresome and dissipated selection of sushi rolls, soft tacos, burgers, salads, and platters. There’s a lot of fish on the menu, and if the serviceable ahi tuna poke—the only plate we had the strength to finish—is any indication, that might be the way to go. Otherwise you’re taking your chances with bulked-up bar food like a heaping plate of pulled chicken nachos smothered in cold roasted-tomato salsa and half-melted, half-congealed cheese or an open-faced BLT, an overdressed disaster salad of frisee, bacon cut two ways, tomatoes, and blue cheese atop a thick piece of toast. Meatier plates feature usual suspects like braised short ribs, Chilean sea bass, and pork tenderloin, but grasping for something special, we were defeated by “The Dude,” a $35 18-ounce model of stringy, supermarket-quality rib eye. The ramekin of Parmesan-crusted mashed potatoes it arrived with was …ummm…nice. Check, please. —Mike Sula
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$$Vegetarian/Healthy, Global/Fusion/Eclectic | Lunch, dinner: seven days | Open late: Friday & Saturday till 11 | Reservations not accepted
Perennial1800 N. Lincoln | 312-981-7070
Ex Coco Pazzo chef Tony Priolo and vino pro Ciro Longobardo’s Piccolo Sogno, or “little dream” as the name translates, looks great on paper and in person with a range of touchstone though not tired pan-Italian dishes; a thoughtful, affordable regional wine list that spans the Boot; one of the most idyllic outdoor dining areas in the city—and on most evenings, a parking lot packed with Beemers and Lexuses. Good for them, but I’d caution any paying customer to keep dreaming if they expect to be transported to some mythical Italian Eden where the flavors in the margherita pop just as brightly as those in the risotto. Priolo certainly hasn’t inherited the Italian talent for moderate portion control, either—his admittedly affordable main courses tip an Olympic scale. And working through flat-flavored but ample meaty dishes like thick slabs of Roman-style porchetta or wine-braised beef brasato takes effort, especially in the aftermath of overpowering earlier courses such as greasy fried fontina-stuffed zucchini flowers, a sprawling plate of drying prosciutto, or a carpaccio with cremini mushroom whose natural earthiness is suffocated with a cruel dousing of truffle oil that hits you halfway from the kitchen. Aquatic creatures are treated little more delicately: a Sicilian-style piece of tuna with vegetables, raisins, and almonds was dangerously overdone, as were the poor pieces of monkfish fish in a cioppino (aka “sapore di mare”). Someone knows what they’re doing with pastas though, particularly the house-made green-and-white fettuccine with veal ragu, boiled not a minute too long and sauced with restraint—though a half portion ought to do ya. But if you subscribe to the notion that real Italian food is simple and dependent on superior ingredients for its magic, it’s hard to reconcile the meticulous sourcing the restaurant touts on its Web site with what turn up on the plate. Service was well-informed, apologetic, and practically heroic in reaction to a kitchen that was clearly in the weeds. Maybe there’s hope Priolo’s dishes will sing if his crew learns to keep up with the crowds. But not if the throngs lose patience first. —Mike Sula
