Thanks, Incite, for sparing me the effort of uploading the tasting menu with this post; barring a few beers, the fare was substantially the same as we see in that image.While I hoped to be served an Owen & Engine slider, topped with fois gras and a single slice of black truffle, under a mound edible dirt that I must root through like a sow to find - and really, I'd eat that - the menu's a marked departure from the gastropubbery that the restaurant is famous for. Ignorant of the menu and with no real justification for my prejudices, I half-expected a thoroughly enervating survey of challenging animal preparations, but the cookery was hella classical, and reminiscent of the detail-obsessed bravura Marco Pierre White exhibited when he cooked for his old chefs on BBC. Looking at the menu, I see that White's quoted right at the top, so perhaps that gives the game away. I regret taking very few photographs, but the striking beauty - and occasional fussiness - of Fowler's plates is better served by someone who doesn't keep candy wrappers in the same pocket as one's cell phone.
I ate with three companions on Thursday, and have, alas! waited too long; I'm left with mostly favorable impressions, and it's the few missteps - an accidentally overseasoned crepinette and the weirdly conceptual marrow gelee dish that reminded me of seventies sci-fi in general and
Zardoz in specific - that remain vividly in my mind. The rest just sort of folds into a song half-remembered yet beloved, where some fragments - an accent here, an accident there - create something bigger and more meaningful than the song as a whole, if that makes sense. Which probably isn't very helpful on a forum about dining out in Chicago, so...
The cold smoked oyster, thanks to a lifelong aversion and maybe possibly nascent allergy to the bugs and quivering masses of the sea, was probably the first I'd eaten (I'd had oysters before, but never raw, cold or, ahem, clammy). It wasn't as brackish as I feared it would be. Indeed, as one might laud caviar or high-end sushi for Tasting Like the Sea, this oyster Tasted Like the Lake, and that was a welcome flashback to a childhood spent swimming in quarries and reservoirs until I had to get tubes.
Things just went up from there - a scallop and caviar thing looked like a blackberry parfait and, yes, fine,
Tasted Like the Sea, complementing the surprising astringency of the Allagash Dubbel, and a marvelous rack of frenched (Frenched?) rabbit ribs stood like an aeolian harp over fois gras and truffle-stuffed medallions of rabbit.
It went a little awry with the unexpectedly subtle beef consomme with edible flowers, a tasty crouton and puffed, toasted barley. It wasn't bad, but was so incongruous visually and on the palate, it seemed like it came from some other, overdesigned meal.
That was the only underwhelming part on the menu; everything after that went from strength to strength, from delicately prepared turbot to a wonderfully composed venison tartar offering to an arguable show-stopper: squash and pumpkin gnudi in a butternut puree, its sweetness tempered and accentuated by vividly orange, tart squash blossoms. A week on, and this is the dish I really remember, my mouth puckering even as I recount the meal.
The big finish followed, and Fowler really swung for the benches with it: the gorgeously-presented pheasant and "edible dirt" under a sugar cage that really evoked Marco Pierre White for me:
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7yfiHduSbE#t=8m28s[/youtube]
The pheasant and pudding and mushroom dirt, guys, holy crap, but the crepinette, only one of many components on this meticulously composed plate, was overpoweringly salty. It's rare that I'll criticize my food to my server, but it was so aggressively seasoned in the midst of an otherwise subtle meal, it seemed like a mistake. Our server returned minutes later to say that the crepinette had indeed been seasoned twice in error, but our plates were practically licked clean by then; there was plenty of beer to wash it all down.
Desserts were lovely and had swell pairings, but I'm more of a savory guy. The pairings differed from those in Incite's photo, but were uniformly excellent, selected and presented by a cicerone with an obvious affinity for beer and food. Our server was unfailingly friendly and informative; I really couldn't have asked for a better meal.
[Edit: how could I forget the bread services, especially the second one: a perfect komodo claw of cornmeal, crunchy outside and pillowy within, slathered with my share and then some of schmaltz butter?]
So, some serious eating's going on at Owen and Engine, these days. They've quietly rolled out a refined tasting menu that's among the best meals I've had in recent memory, and it's all the more remarkable that there isn't a class of wine or cocktail in sight (though I'm sure they can accommodate most diners), and I say, bravo to that. I'm totally going back for the tasting menu, and I may not even wait for it to change. I might try asking for that slider under a mound of porcini dirt, too.