You say Haro, and I say good time

Pity the restaurant that grows up in public. Haro opened at the beginning of the year, a Spanish restaurant on the tiny Heart of Italy strip, which was enough novelty to get it a lot of press and buzz. Unfortunately much of the word about it ranged from scathing to unimpressed. (Monica Eng fell in that category as well, but I can't find the piece on Metromix now.) Having a Spanish jones myself, but having lived near the worst tapas restaurant (now long gone) in town, and recently having endured one "Spanish" fiasco, I was torn-- I wanted to try it, I didn't want to be sorely disappointed again. And so I waited.

And while I waited, apparently, two additional chefs joined owner Javier Haro in the kitchen, smoothing out some of the restaurant's rough edges; and Haro seemed to get discovered by kids at UIC and younger Latinos in the area, providing a steady stream of customers (and thus solving some of the freshness issues mentioned long ago, I suspect). Anyway, that's my theory about what's happened, based on having chatted with one of the chefs and observing the clientele; Haro, which may not have been ready for prime time when it first opened, proved to be extremely pleasing on a summer-turning-to-fall night, its sunny Iberian interior spilling out onto the sidewalks, its food still hewing to the comfy tapas realm defined by Iberico, but taking it up a couple of notches in sophistication and ingredients less familiar to Americans. Whether it would impress people who really know Spain, I don't know, but on the relative scale of Chicago Spanish places, it does.

The first thing about it is, simply, the location. I've driven through Heart of Italy (a block or two of Oakley south of Cermak and just east of Western) in the daytime but never eaten there at night. At night, on a night when it was pleasant to stroll around, it proved to be one of those magical little picturesque pockets of the city which I think Chicago is actually kind of short on-- a strip of restaurants facing a street quiet enough for kids to play stickball on, half a dozen Sinatra-era Italian-American restaurants with glowing green and orange neon, a funeral parlor, a glowering Members Only lounge (so exclusive it seemed to be completely empty, even of bartenders), and so on. You can find all those things in this city, but they tend to be on busy streets like Grand; it's the stage-set like emptiness and quiet of the street that makes it the cozy place it is. All it lacked, apparently, was a restaurant drawing more than 3 people a night, or anybody under the age of 60, which is where Haro comes in.

Here's what we had:

• We asked the waitress for a couple of recommendations, the first was steak skewers, which seemed a boringly safe choice (and one we passed on), but the second time we asked for one off their list of pintxos, a Basque variant on tapas served on bread, and she suggested white asparagus (imported canned) with a romesco sauce (a little like red pepper hummus) on top. Really nice and refreshing, especially in a meal that lacked vegetables overall.

• Shrimp in a pomegranate sauce. Pomegranate seems to not go with more things than it goes with to me, but grilled shrimp surprisingly turned out to be something it went with just fine, tasting like a more tart balsamic vinegar.

• Grilled Catalan sausage with fava beans and little pieces of another, darker and chewier sausage in the port reduction broth around it. Kind of mild and a little characterless for sausage, didn't have that fresh-off-the-grill snap, the thing we both liked best about this was dipping bread in the broth.

• Scallops wrapped in jamon serrano with aioli. After my bacon-wrapped scallop epiphany at Kuma's, I had to order this, the scallops were nicely prepared but I just don't think thin, gamey serrano suits scallops as well as lush, slightly sweet bacon does.

• Braised lamb in a buttery rioja sauce. I think we both agreed that this was the standout of the night, tender as heck and rich with flavor, very good spooned onto the bread (it really ought to come with toast points, I think).

• Mussels. A bad idea for something to order when we were 3/4 full, these seemed okay enough and mostly went to go.

• Huevos Flamenco. Winner of the most stereotypically Spanish name of the evening, ("Now the eggs, she will dance for you!"), this was something else we didn't need when we were 7/8 full, basically a skillet of potatoes, mushrooms, and sausage, topped with two fried eggs-- and, as it turned out, a LOT of vinegar. But though we didn't need it, once we dug into it, it was incredibly scarfable, a Hobo Skillet dialed up with Iberian intensity.

At that point, feeling guilty about the mussels, we passed on dessert, despite the recommendation of the cherry creme brulee in another thread. Instead we wound up chatting with one of the chefs, asking what it's like being on a strip with all these other restaurants (she said "it's a soap opera" and "it's like high school"), pushing the idea of Portuguese food on her, and finding out what she thinks of other Spanish restaurants in town (I shouldn't repeat the negative things she said about a few of them-- let's just say I agreed completely in a couple of cases-- but she said Iberico is improving its menu and trying to step up to new competition a bit, which was good to hear). She also proudly took credit for the lamb dish, and we were happy to congratulate her on it.

Haro is still small and a little rough-edged, the bread remains dull, it's too small inside for even a single flamenco guitarist to be belting out the way she does (from the distance of an outdoor table, however, she was a nice touch) and both the waitress and the chef, asked for wine recommendations from the all-Spanish list, suggested Sangre de Toro, the Gallo of Spain, which made me want to ask if they had that Spanish favorite Watney's Red Barrel. But a little naivete about wine may suit their young-leaning base fine, and the food and overall charm is well worth overlooking a few small gaucheries. Haro is alive and lively, and one only hopes that a few of the somewhat forlorn Italian places on the same strip can take a page from its book, figure out how to make themselves seem more welcoming to the new crowds coming to Haro, and survive Heart of Italy's inevitable transformation from an old Italian to a new Latino/pan-yuppie restaurant strip.

Haro
2436 S. Oakley St.
(773) 847-2400

P.S. It's going to be on Check, Please in October. You've been warned.

Good bread happens to be The Wife’s sine qua non for restaurant acceptability, and it’s unfortunate that Haro served up such a lame rendition because many of their dishes do demand sopping, which is a very back-handed way of complementing their sauces.

Huevos Flamencos, though it did seem like it could be a breakfast special at the Denny’s in Barcelona, was very good. Loved the eggs, simple as they were. Imagine how dull that platter would be without those uovine* eyes looking back at you when you dug in. I should put a fried egg over more foods.

White asparagus I also liked, and if you could locate a little romesco (or make it yourself; it sounded easy), seems like it could be constructed at home, no problem.

Sometimes I wonder if we unintentionally out ourselves at places like this. Food comes, we ask the waitress “What’s that spice?” or “Those favas look great!” rather than “What’s your sign?” or “Those earrings look great on you!” I’m not sure it matters much, but I have noticed, when I think I’m maintaining my anonymity (“Just another customer over here, boss”), that a server or host will come up (much as the charming lady did last night) and query in ways that suggest she’s figured out that we’re, you know, obsessed and monomanical food-o-philes. Maybe that’s a good thing, but I usually like to think that I’m blending in and getting service and food that are no better or worse than any other schmo.

Overall, a fun place to eat, and the only joint on Oakley evincing signs of life (though the guys in front of the funeral home did seem friendly).

After dinner, I walked by Bruna’s and peeked through the bottle-lined windows to witness a bleak scene: one desultory guy at the bar (probably the owner), head on hands, gazing vacantly at the flickering tube in an empty room. Our special tonight: Brain-numbing Ennui, Smothered in Loneliness with a side of Existential Nausea.

Hammond

* Meaning “egg-like.” Not sure if this is a word. I Googled inconclusively. If it is not, I would like to lay claim as its inventor. Hammond: 1. Shakespeare: Lots more.