Argh. (The Charlie Brown kind).
Lovely room, very pleasant service, quite full on a Friday night but everything was running like clockwork. Suspiciously so.
Starters were the arugula salad (nice, lots of tarragon and lemon), and a grilled Caesar salad. Not a grilled chicken or shrimp Caesar, but an actual grilled Caesar, a la Steven Raichlen. Thick, greasy, crisscrossed grill marks across a ginormous (Merriam-Webster, 2007) wedge of romaine, served with a dull butterknife and a slight smear of dressing that had melted across only the very top layer of lettuce. The grill-imparted scent was more like 9:30 PM Panda Express burnt-wok fried rice crust than good hardwood fire. The portion size was excellent, though.
No, that's not me. It's Steven in an existential moment asking why everything must be grilled.
We shared the grilled octopus appetizer, which was pretty but completely flavorless, and was brought to the table luke-warm. There were some nice grilled shallots on the plate and the aforementioned pleasant vinaigrette, but the greens and knot* had been given too much of an opportunity to sit and mingle.
In a curmudgeonly Mike G. moment, I chortled audibly when the "wild mushroom" flatbread (preciously called "The Funguy" on the menu) arrived, since it was spread with uniformly pre-sliced Pennsylvania white button mushrooms. It was not bad; butter had been liberally used to brush the crust and the smoked mozzarella added some complexity, but there was no sauce of any kind. My main issue with the pizza is that it, and the others we saw on every table in the place, was a Giotto-perfect circle, with evenly spaced dimples on the bottom. They're either using Boboli pre-formed shells, or are making, trimming, and ventilating the crusts in advance. The net effect is like your aunt's crescent roll appetizer pizza: butter-rich and tasty, but pro forma, lacking the artisanal variability that really makes for good food (cf CoalFire, where every pie is a handcrafted masterpiece).
Dessert was fine; a competent flourless chocolate cake topped with dried cherries and a pistachio creme-anglaise (which tasted more like a New Rebozo raw mole, adding probably unintentional interest). The wine list was good and I liked the several varieties of Morettis and Three Floyds alongside Fat Tire among the beer offerings.
I was deeply underwhelmed but by no means pissed; the "argh" is more for the fact that the status quo continues to reign in Oak Park (did we really need another Italian place?) Our server was great and the courses came out with commendable celerity, but I'd have been happy to wait another 5-10 minutes per course for something really handcrafted. We did not try the pastas since we've been eating Bucatini the past few days with some lovely guanciale from Panozzo's.
Looking forward to other new openings in town. For 225, any revisits will likely be on street fair days, as I've seen them pitch a tent out front on several occasions serving good rosemary lemonade and white-bean bruschetta, both offering more interest than our dinner tonight.
*murder of crows, ____ of octopi