This may be self-indulgent, but as I was pulling together restaurant listings focusing on seasonal menus just now, I came across a write-up of mine from when I really *was* there when at Schwa, and for auld lang syne I thought I'd post it. We all know how difficult it is to make a reservation there; imagine what it's like to try to fact-check! At any rate, I was asked by Chow magazine (then still extant) to scout some Chicago restaurants and suggested Schwa (then still new and relatively under the radar) as one of the most promising; hence the old-news description of the setting. Still, this remains one of the best meals I've ever had, even wineless (I was working, after all).This tiny storefront (it seats just 28) is on an unlikely stretch of Ashland across from a tire store fronted by neon palm trees. Its facade is understated--the drawn shades in the two recessed windows give it something of the look of a speakeasy from outside. Inside it's cozy, with muted green walls and a semiexposed kitchen that lets you see the two chefs intently working the stove.
The food is sophisticated American contemporary with European influences--think French Laundry without the pretentiousness. I had a salad called simply White Anchovy: celery, celery root, and perfectly mandolined slices of tart apple with delicious anchovies and Manchego cheese and the nice touch of a few surprise cellophane noodles on top. Then I had the infamous brioche-crusted soft-boiled egg served with caviar, creme fraiche, and a couple smears of potato puree--a daring dish, beautifully presented. My notes said just "food of the gods."
I spoke too soon: the egg was outdone by an amuse bouche of a single quail egg ravioli in brown butter sauce and dressed with a bit of truffle. It's served as an entree, but I had one and that was enough--amazing, rich and ethereal at the same time.
Inspired by a friend of mine who never says no to cured meats, I ordered braised pork belly in a red-wine reduction with golden raisins and sauerkraut. It was served with slices of tenderloin that make you realize, for a change, why it's called tender (they're cooked sous vide) and topped with superthin slices of crisped bacon. The notion of meat sided with meat garnished with meat might conjure up images of Francis Bacon paintings, but believe me, this dish was extraordinary.
A palate cleanser of honeydew melon sorbet followed. It was served on a chilled glass pedestal that you're to lick it off--a little disconcerting--and I fear I offended the earnest-faced young man who served me by saying "What, are you going all Moto on me?" I was glad I had dessert though: a chocolate brownie outshone by homemade pumpkin ice cream and garnished with lightly salted house-made pumpkin seeds and a smear of pumpkin oil. This was accompanied by excellent coffee served in a cute little cup with a handle that doubles as spoon holder.
My only regret was that I hadn't brought a bottle of wine--that pork belly deserved a big red.
The other diners were a mix of couples on dates and small groups of four. Most were in their late 20s and 30s, but it was a well-to-do-looking group in their 50s that provided my amusement for the evening. Sample snatches of their conversation: "How is Jane?" "Terrible!" (said with relish) and my favorite, "Now we have to investigate the whole family."