I’m scrolling through my phone looking at close-up pictures of food and experiencing the symptoms of tasting menu amnesia. What morsel was hiding under pink flower petals on the side of a bowl? What about those two white orbs peeking out from a dish of live wheatgrass? Think, man, think.

This is an affliction that bedevils those of us who go out for elaborate multi-course meals. We listen to lengthy spiels about tomalley fudge, koji-curing, and wagyu tallow when the food is presented, but then promptly forget everything. We eat, react, and anticipate the next course. Two weeks later we look at the dutiful snapshots of every bite on our phones and think, “Oh yes. That thing was squishy, but good squishy.” 

I should do better, though, because it’s my job, and also these pics are from one of Chicago’s most famous and expensive restaurants, Smyth. In November 2023, Smyth earned its third Michelin star, making it one of two in Chicago (along with Alinea), one of 16 in the country, and one of 157 in the world to hold that distinction. 

This was my first meal since joining that rarefied circle. I had appreciated previous meals but always had the same three notes:

1. The service suffered from too many unforced errors, like wine not arriving in time for hot food.
2. The flavor combinations didn’t always make sense to me. Think: a mushroom and chocolate dessert.
3. Every previous meal had featured a centerpiece course of beef with a savory beef fat doughnut that I found too heavy and dulling. 

After Smyth scored its third star it became the hardest reservation in the city. As diners from all over the world flew into town to try John Shields’s hyper-local, hyper-seasonal, hyper-labor-intensive cooking, the price for a single meal before tax, tip, and beverage climbed to a surreal $420. 

When I returned two weeks ago, Smyth seemed a subtly different restaurant. I’ve been to a handful of three-star restaurants in my life, and you can always feel it — the intentionality in every detail and sense of import. The restaurant is defining excellence on its own terms. That doesn’t necessarily mean you will have a great meal, but this meal at Smyth was indeed great. Half the dishes vie for the best bites I had this year. But what were they? What were the pictures telling me?

I suppose I could call up Shields and ask him to walk me through the ingredients and preparations, and I could dutifully re-report these details to you. Instead, let’s start with what I remember, which is the consistent mood these dishes evoked. They largely tasted familiar at first and then swooped gracefully into something else, something more savory and unexpected. Natural flavors — there all along — were framed in such a way that my brain couldn’t elide over them. Corn cream mirrored the sweetness of the king crab it draped over, but the little pops of snipped herbs shot throughout were so fresh, wild, and grassy they seemed more like raw vegetables. They weren’t garnish, they were the point. 

I remember that fresh-pressed black walnut oil made a few appearances, subtle at first taste and then kind of ballsy. Is that what was under a chunk of cold-smoked lobster? The taste is coming back. There was some lobster brain and raspberry set in a bit of gel on the side, their similar textures inviting your palate to look for that same sense of mirrored sweetness. The courses talked to each other. 

The meals do, too, though thankfully the beef course has been retired. Still, by the time a bittersweet chocolate and wild mushroom tart arrived at the table — this time a pretty little thing to pick up and eat in one bite — I was ready for the combination. Those savory, earthy notes in the chocolate and the mushroom were so in sync you couldn’t look away. 

Speaking of being in sync, the entire kitchen staff calls out each order with such booming, coordinated precision, you half expect to hear them finish with a thwack of self-flagellation boards. “Fire quail!” *Whomp* This is your soundtrack throughout the evening, along with the inoffensive pop rock that keeps the mood light in this modern, open space set with naked wooden tables. Our service was pretty three-star level as well. After my dining companion used a napkin to wipe his glasses, a server appeared with a chamois lens cleaner. 

Such service is one marker of a truly exceptional meal. Another is the way it returns in memory. You may not recall every dish, but you do remember exactly how it made you feel.