Anisha "Chubs999" A.'s Profile

Nothing quite makes you feel worse about yourself then being chided by a bartender extraordinaire for drinking too much too quickly. Well, maybe being escorted out of a national bridal convention for attempting to pilfer a tacky tiara that you have no intention of wearing or selling. I digress. And so Ada Street and I got off on the wrong foot. But another lovely rye beverage and  stellar service were more than enough for me to start feeling good about myself and Ada again.

The delicious devil is in the details here- the tabasco mash that injects a nasal cleansing heat to the octopus and the bacon two ways that crisply amplifies the salmon tartare. The fried quail in gravy and duck confit further eclipse the surplus of small plates around town.

The best part is that for now Ada Street still feels like a true hidden jewel. Tragically, as this previously neglected street draws the inevitable influx of traffic, I'll have to find another roadway to dispose of human heads and murdered cats.

Last night's gluttony is still triggering violent heart palpitations, as the foie and egg grease coating my arteries is enough to clog a Roomba. Regardless, I'm in lust with Au Cheval.

Finally a place that caters to functioning alchys, leading its cocktail menu with a blunt list of "strong drinks." This includes an Old Fashioned stiffie that implores you to make bad decisions like ordering the aforementioned foie and scrambled eggs, the tastiest one way ticket to heart disease.

The chopped chicken liver salad, topped with a dollop of salted butter, is somehow the menu's healthiest option. While it looks like it may be served in Roseanne's loose meat sandwich joint, it's much more divine. And that burger...it's classic, damn delicious and the culprit for why you'll soon find me shopping at Lane Bryant. And because I"ll be bitter about that, it's also the only irrational reason this place gets jipped out of 5 stars.

Bar Ombra is a rustically cool homage to Verona, somewhere in between a Shakespeare and Baz Luhrmann rendition. The recycled décor noticeably transports you outside of Chicago like few spots do.

Beware of the spell of the waiters who are beguiling Italian-French hybrids, Isabelle Huppert and Antonio Sabato Jr test tube babies. They say things like "is a ball of meat, how you say, meatball but minus ball shape, longer ball shape, much tastier" when recommending the pork polpettone. And they are somehow exactly right.

They are too alluring, and likely cheated their way through rigorous charm school and promptly revert into raging hillbillies when they clock out with a patron on their arm. And Marty, the non Euro owner, is their expert rangler. He fills in the gaps with samples and reads your mind with wine recommendations.

The open cicchetti displays encourage extended eye fucking and force you to forget how long some of it may be sitting. Tuna replaces veal in the eggs tonnato sauce, a tasty surprise. The mussels cartoccio (cooked in parchment) and calamari salad are the other snacks not to miss. The paninis, bruschettas, tuna carpacci and tiramisu further enforce Ombra as a regular vacation spot.

I'd have no qualms about submerging my face in Macku's glorious broths and taking my final breaths. But the concavity of the soup dishes are grossly inconsistent with a human head. And there's nothing more shameful then a failed suicide in the sight line of credible sushi chefs and glorious floral arrangements.

The udon swims in a zippy amalgam that rivals any noodle spot. The sweet potato, carrot and white asparagus are also richly gratifying  purées. Get a flight of nigiris to sample divisive toppings including banana wasabi and cow cheese. The arugula salad is nuanced brilliance. Unexpectedly, the mains and makis are the only minor letdowns.

You will keep ordering, you will pay a lot and you may leave hungry. Macku somehow makes you at peace with it all.

Matt is evil. After most sessions, I wake up sore in the oddest areas and curse him. But I still go back for more. So either I'm a masochist, he's brilliant, or both.

My original intention was to train with him for a couple months to counteract my gluttonous eating habits, learn his secrets and dump him. Unfortunately, he has me hooked. But the ongoing mental and physical health benefits trump the hit on my wallet, so I'm at peace with it.

Matt's dedication to customizing each session to best challenge and motivate is starkly absent from other fitness classes, trainers and gyms. Each time is refreshing and somehow painfully fun. He applies an arsenal of methods including spin kicks, cross-uppercut combos and kettle bells, while also deconstructing intimidating machines to their most effective applications for me. All of this tones the trickiest of areas while building balance, flexibility, lean muscle mass as well as self defense skills.

He's also dangerously knowledgeable and eager to provide valuable expertise around everything else related to living a healthy lifestyle. If only I listened.

Mastro's guffaws at subtlety, starting with a wine pour capable of filling an inflatable pool. Like Liberace, its excess is lovably bold and equally shameful.

The experience continues with a bread bowl and sliced slab of butter that could either serve as your meal or lubricate Stegosaurus (if that's what you're into).  We managed to order as conservatively as possible, splitting a petite filet, blackened sea bass and side of the crab black truffle gnocchi. It's all yummy richness served on a piping hot plate that transports your upper body into a sauna state.  

The lounge singer channels Elton John, Gaga, Pink- queens as flamboyant as the meal. And the service is just as over the top. Birthdays are given the star treatment complete with a brick of cake, calligraphy style writing (where they instinctively know the proper spelling of your name) and tub of whipped cream. The only lapse is the fleeting look of judgment you get when requesting to take the Cool Whip to go.

Telegraph is by no means a sausage fest. It somehow gets crushed by The Admiral and Shenanigans when it comes to a favorable guy-to-girl ratio. Tis the arduous reality of quality wine bars.  Alas, such superficialities are forgiven as Telegraph leaves you with imprints of enduring food and wine.

The pork loin tartine is substantially light, with a whipped feta that floats and saunters, moonwalking around your mouth. The shitake mushrooms with barley, sturgeon and tagliolini collectively serve as an edible Snuggie- a lasting respite as the thermometer plummets.  

Empower the staff to pair your wines and go to town.

Upon entering the stale Al Dente, you feel like you'd rather eat in the funeral home across the street. Because those are your only two dining options in life. But it's challenging to pull off the bandit move with dignity when you're the first ones there and are greeted with an affability that makes you put up with the blah-ness. So you embrace the fact that it's BYO, stick it out and are handsomely rewarded.

Al Dente re-imagines calamari with a Beyoncé zeal that hijacks your attention, while the mussels and mushrooms please with an understated tone. Both the salmon and escolar compile a laundry list of potentially disastrous ingredients into a striking symphony with exotic crescendos.

Yes, the food has flair, making you do an Irish jig in your head for opting not to eat amidst the caskets.

The sinister slab leading to El is a runway fit for execution style killings or bumpy hopscotch. We mentally prepared for the former because if you have to go, dying en route to fine dining trumps death by escalator or hit and run by a motorized wheelchair.

We survived and what awaited was a sanctuary of extraordinary food, meticulous service and unparalleled interaction courtesy of Chefs Foss, Brochu and their minimal staff. The space accommodates around 10 seats giving way to the open kitchen where the Chefs invite you to hangout during the meal to chat, watch and participate as the 12ish courses materialize. This is heaven for those who value such things. For the few that don't, it at least reaffirms that the impending ocean froth is exactly that versus a manly secretion.

The elements, plating, intricacies and flavors are incomparable. It's all augmented by the mystery ingredient- an alluring undertone of danger- courtesy of the rebelliously pleasant aire embodied by the Chefs and neighborhood.

Every course is a highlight, though certain standouts from the standouts will be seared in your memory. The acquerello propels risotto to an unmatched state.  The smoked oyster channels a heartwarming campground. The lobster and foie gras croquettes are masterful, substantial bliss.

And what more fitting way for this meal to end then Foss's signature chocolate salty balls served on a sword, which may be the most glorious death of them all.

The Black Sheep self-proclaims itself to be an edgy badass, it may as well sport a Prince Albert, leg sleeve and guyliner. But in trying so hard to be an outcast it manages to follow most progressive food and cocktail conventions to fit right in.

The cocktail menu is a shiny treat that serves as an apparatus to effectively bop someone. It also contains subtle pleasantries, namely the Chartreuse-Hendricks combo (the ultimate hyphenated name for a girl destined to the pole and beyond) and the Titos with bitters which is an unbeatable stiffie after a long day (or every day).

You'll definitely appreciate and want to love the snails and eel, but end up only sort of liking them. Amidst all the chaos, the true flavors are subdued versus augmented. Splurge on the cod with pork rillettes with chicken egg and opt for the chocolate ganache- both of which have flashes of brilliance.