Reviews: Davanti Enoteca and Henri
MAGIC AND MYSTERY: Exploring the fine line between a winning restaurant and a disappointing one: a culinary conundrum
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A weird alchemy charges the air at some restaurants, an indefinable something that makes them more exciting and better than the sum of their parts. Davanti Enoteca, the latest Italian opening from the prolific Scott Harris, is one of those places, and I can’t stop talking it up. “Are you as into this place as I am?” I kept asking my guests on my visits, but no one answered. They were too busy eating and taking advantage of the fact that I was not.
As good as Harris’s Mia Francesca outposts may be, they’re never great, which led me to believe that any establishment run by the Mokena native had a ceiling on potential. But after 18 years and nearly 30 restaurants, the man finally has his masterpiece in Davanti. The Purple Pig on the Mag Mile gave us a glimpse into just how good a Harris restaurant could be with the right people (in this case, Tony Mantuano and Jimmy Bannos, Junior and Senior) and the right concept (small, meat-heavy Mediterranean plates).
I prefer Davanti Enoteca to The Purple Pig for three reasons. One: Its retail wine license sidesteps the usual outrageous wine list markups and essentially makes Davanti Chicago’s most fun wine shop. In this context, the $7 corkage fee is less a slap in the face than a peck on the cheek. Two: What feels slick on Michigan Avenue oozes warmth on Taylor Street. Davanti’s rustic décor, with its communal tables of reclaimed wood and lights made from glass wine-storage jugs, looks as though it had been waiting to be carved out of the space for years. And three: Harris joined forces with Luigi Negroni, a veteran of Carlucci in Rosemont, to produce a rich and challenging small-plate menu. Then he got Jonathan Beatty, a former sous-chef at The Purple Pig, to ensure every dish is on target, night after night.
I’d probably be happy hanging out at the bar with a friend, a bottle of ripe 2007 Aia Vecchia Lagone ($28), and a gorgeous wood-fired pizza with foraged mushrooms, braised leeks, Taleggio, and truffle oil. But anyone could pick a couple of dishes at random from Davanti’s offerings and do just as well. The endless categories contain at least half a dozen instant classics—no small feat when it comes to Italian food, which we all think we know inside and out. (We don’t.) “Luigi promised me stuff that you’ve never seen in Chicago,” says Harris, and the Bologna native delivered. The thin, flaky Ligurian-style focaccia, baked and stuffed with creamy melted crescenza cheese, is an obscure dish from an obscure town on the Riviera; with or without the fresh honeycomb spread on top, it’s wonderful. The linguine with sea urchin and crab is like a quick dip in the Mediterranean: bracing and unforgettable. Even salads, which risk fading into the background on this grabby menu, are standouts, like the lightly roasted corn salad with candied walnuts, aged goat cheese, and wild mushrooms. You can go crazy mixing and matching the nine cheeses and five salumi or just listen to your professional yet playful server, who will direct you to a nutty grana padano and top-notch prosciutto di parma with a ramekin of strawberry preserves.
How does Harris, who inherited an obsession with satisfying customers from his carpenter father, cram his philosophy of largess into a fussy small-plate concept? Easy: He makes sure the food is richer than Silvio Berlusconi. A terrific buttery mascarpone polenta, ladled onto a wooden board along with pork cheek ragù, is intense enough to qualify as a meal on its own. Even more decadent is the showstopping truffle egg toast. Envision a thick square of perfectly baked brioche cooked with Fontina cheese and a hollowed-out middle into which the diner whips two raw egg yolks; they soak into the bread but don’t ruin the crisp bed of raw asparagus. Stunning.
I don’t mean to imply that Davanti is perfect. It doesn’t take reservations, the music plays too loud (Tom Petty? really?), and, apart from the thick budino di faro pudding with dates drenched in red wine, desserts disappoint. While I’m bitching, Davanti should ditch the ridiculous oversize wine bottles used as wine lists; servers are obviously embarrassed by them, and they’re too big for the crowded tables. But if it’s truly chemistry that explains the appeal of this narrow space, then I hope Harris and his crew don’t tinker too much with the formula.
Photograph: Anna Knott