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Counting on Big Bull

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       I remembered liking RPM from my Chicago eating rounds in 2012. It has that easy Chicago air, black-and-white cool, good-looking people of all ages, service friendly, but not too. I also like the something-for-everyone menu with so many categories you order more than you mean to. I'd forgotten how annoying it is to pay for bread. But brother Jim doesn't blink if it's $6 for garlic bread.

      I'm not tempted tonight by the category of cichetti. Never mind, the chef sends out sausage -- wrapped fried olives stuffed with mozzarella and Provolone-filled red peppers anyway. I'm not working tonight, just eating, so I plan to focus, sharing the shellfish fritto misto and just tasting a bit of Mary's burrata with sweet and sour spring onion jelly.

      Clearly the chef knows we're here because crackling quarters of soft-shell crab dominate the fritto. Our waiter delivers Mary's carbonara -- breaking the egg on top and blending it for her. I share my own potato gnocchi with sausage, broccoli rabe and a kicky afterburn. For $31, Alaskan halibut naked on its plate, is a tad small. Even Jim, who is less fussy than I, finds it overcooked, but tonight, the asparagus tastes market fresh. Alas raspberry sorbetto is not sorbetto at all, but sherbet. In fact, if I close my eyes I might think I was eating raspberry ice cream. Why aren't desserts more seasonal? At home even my market is full of stone fruit you can actually smell. 52 W. Illinois Street between Dearborn and Illinois Streets. 312 222 1888.

      I came across the April issue of Chicago in the guests' bathroom reading basket. (Mary is the consummate hostess.) That's where I found a guide to local burger excess. "Hyperbolic Burgers" -- the biggest, the messiest, the wildest, the fanciest and the porkiest. I asked Mary if we could cover three or four in an afternoon. But then it came to a choice between burger research or one burger and a movie. I craved Tom Cruise too. She chose the fanciest burger because it was just a shortwalk from the theater.

      At Chef's Burger Bistro we went along with Chicago, choosing the Paris burger with onion jam, mushrooms, brie, candied tomato and a frisée frill. It was splendid but I liked the Iberico -- with a ranch egg, Serrano ham and garlic aioli -- even more. The fries  were quite commendable, and I'm grateful that Mary's daughter Colleen ordered the fried pickles, so much superior to the buttermilk onion rings. Cruise had a lot of snap too. 164 Grand Avenue between N. Lower Michigan and N. St. Clair. 312 374 3092.


      It wasn't easy getting a table at the last minute at Blackbird where chef Paul Kahan is a Beard Foundation "Best Chef in America" winner. Desperate, I gave my name but clearly it meant nothing to the reservationist. Shameless, I tried filling her in. Apparently she asked someone of advanced age because we got our table, next to the window, quieter than most. A fast glance at the menu suggested Blackbird had gone new Age. I was wary.

      My brother had reverted to his usual discipline and decided to skip a starter. But it didn't matter since the kitchen was determined that we should taste everything we were too uptight to order. Spring pea panisse - a little cake with green garlic aioli and pea tendris -- was an innocent amuse. Then came four bowls with small clumps on the edge that scarcely moved when fennel gazpacho was poured on top. Anatomy of the clump: Mussels, sourdough crouton, cherries and mahlab (of course I hadn't a clue. I just looked it up. St. Lucie cherry pit powder. How did we ever live without it?). Many murmurs all around.
 
      My tempura soft-shell crab came quartered, arranged on one side of a large white plate with chanterelle mushrooms and sooty bits of charred  orange. Punctuation I would never think of trying, but that I had to admit added oomph. Of course, I snorted at the pretension of presentation, but then I tasted and wept a silent tear at having to share.

      Our quartet had discussed and rejected the schmaltz-poached chicken. But now we had no choice, four portions arrived. Massed under a giant mushroom thin with green garbanzos and pistachios, the bird was a miracle of juiciness and flavor. Even the white meat. We discussed cancelling our entrée order but that did seem a little shabby after so many freebies. None of us expected to eat anything more. I'll just have one, I  thought, snagging a fermented black bean agnolotti, then discovering a tasty morel and the odd texture of enchanted peas. Green is so good for me, I thought, finishing the hedge of pea tendrils on my pasta dish.

      My companions shared kombucha-glazed pork ribs with chewy beets, beet greens, feta and peanuts and the grilled strip loin with blistered favas, walnut gnocchi and grated horseradish. I tasted everything. Then  having been converted from disdain to amazement, I thought we should have at least one dessert. I picked the bittersweet chocolate pudding as the least offensive.

      It arrived in a chocolate and white sand pile. But a spoonful of grit turned out to meld mascarpone cream, espresso crunch and hickory nut bits -- like a candy bar. And the other ridiculous slabs of debris were surprisingly edible too. I love when my narrow-minded expectations are wrestled to the floor. My family had no such preconceived notions. They loved the dinner and plan to come back. 619 West Randolph Street at Jefferson. 312 715 0708.

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