Eno
505 North Michigan Avenue
The Intercontinental
Chicago
Date of Last Visit: Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Victim: Me
The Damage: About $35
The Background: Another Saturday, another day of Retail Therapy. I have missed shopping in America.
Making my way down Michigan Ave in search of lunch, I debated my options. The Purple Pig was where I really wanted to go, but I did not want to wait or be strangled by too many Chicagoans in Michelin Man coats in too small of a space. So while I was debating The Purple Pig–and the protest in front of the Egyptian Consulate–I turned around and there it was. Eno, the wine bar in the Intercontinental.
The Entrance: The space has potential and probably looked great when it opened. Now it looks a bit dated and tired, and there are a few too many knick knacks on display in the center of the bar. Someone needs to come in and tidy this place up.
I take a seat at a high long table and proceed to wait. And wait some more. And wait. Until finally, a nice man–but very softly spoken–brings me a wine list and a food menu. You know I’m much more the sort to put myself in the hands of a knowledgeable server, so I wait for him to return so we can discuss the menu.
And I wait. And I wait some more. And even some more. And I notice that the ladies by the window have been waiting even longer than me. WTF is this guy doing? I watch him pick a few bottles up and smell them. I watch him walk into the back room and take a drink from something sitting on a shelf. I watch him walk around the bar area. I watch him avoid eye contact with pretty much everyone sitting in Eno. (Not many at this point. Me, the two ladies by the window, and a man by the other window.) We are all waiting.
Finally, he comes to take my order and I take all of his suggestions. I think you can see where this is going.
EONS later, and my food arrives. It’s very prettily arranged and for that I am grateful. I have to make him repeat the names of the two small dishes on the left side of the plate like 20 times because he is so soft spoken. I finally figure out that he is saying “moutarde” over and over again. “Ah, MUSTARD,” I announce. He looks at me funny. He is not French, as far as I can tell. Nor, I hope it is obvious, am I.
The cheese on my plate is Ocooch Mountain, and its nuttiness reminds me of my beloved Borough Cheese Company. (Although the Ocooch is a sheep’s cheese and the comte from Borough is a cow’s cheese.) I enjoyed this.
I did take notes somewhere about the meats but I seem to have misplaced them so I honestly I have no idea what they were. I can tell you I liked the little gherkins and the baguette was very competent. The olives were a nice touch too.
This was all washed down by a lovely sweet but spicy glass of Pinot Meunier from Domaine Chandon.
The Verdict: So I’m a sucker for an empty place with decent food. I hate crowds. So in that sense, there’s something nice about Eno. But the glacially slow service really bothered me, and the decor needs some fine-tuning. So in THAT sense, I can understand why they’re not packing them in. But I’d go back if I needed a break from Michigan Avenue. Great wine list, nice charcuterie. And sometimes, that’s all I need.
