I was a little startled to find, on entering Alinea Group’s remake of Roister into the bro-y, all-caps FIRE, that the room felt dark and serene, awash in gray and black like the remains of a fire that burned out hours before. Then again, what was I expecting—licking flames climbing toward the ceiling to match machismo decor with all the subtlety of Guy Fieri?
Even Fire’s hearth, aglow with live flame and framed with suspended leeks and juniper branches, exuded a controlled kind of softness, crackling gently as half a dozen chefs milled around it wielding fans, blowtorches, branches, brushes, stones, misters and cast iron … irons. It’s an important metaphor for how fire is deployed at Grant Achatz’s first new restaurant in eight years—as much precise seasoning as multifaceted and elemental cooking method. A glowing log slowly diffuses its smokiness into an ice cream base, and hot stones and damp branches gently steam shellfish. When it works, it is revelatory.
Take the opening course, which conveyed three miniature expressions of hearth-“seasoned” Spanish prawns atop a charred wood box heavy with stones and seaweed. A tiny shiso leaf “taco” packed an umami bomb of cold-smoked prawn meat seasoned with crunchy garlic and chocolatey barrel-aged soy sauce, like oceanic forcemeat. Grilled prawn shells infused a prescriptively decadent bisque shooter with toasty depth. A technicolor prawn tail, steamed till tacky-soft like crudo, was shellacked with raw honey and garnished with chili threads. Subtle though it was, every element magnified the meat’s sweet, briny umami.
I could say the same of the halibut, quietly sea-salty and almost as delicately textured as just-set egg white. Brackish, gently funky kombu factors at each phase—in a cure with sugar, as a wet jacket for steaming the fish then dried as a hot plate to finish cooking. Alongside, a chawanmushi of buttery mussel broth set with seaweed mirrored the fish’s velvety softness and reinforced the maritime terroir of this nuanced dish. Though my date and I opted out of the wine pairings ($65 a head), I’d highly recommend the lush, mineral Chardonnay suggested alongside.
The boldness ratcheted up quickly over the next few courses, starting with a black garlic-glazed maitake mushroom that a chef theatrically crushed beneath a hot cast iron before our eyes. The supercharged essential oils of flame-blackened curry spices, which were dusted atop cubed cucumber and fermented cabbage, momentarily blitzed my taste buds before I began to unpack the brilliant interplay of fresh, fermented and charred things, and of sweet, sour, umami and salty notes. It was a delicious and beguiling flavor journey.
Course sizes at Fire are generous, particularly for a tasting menu that starts at just $115 per person (with the $30 option to trade up to fig-lacquered, smoked duck with mole). Straightforward if culinary-leaning cocktails and food-loving wines add up quickly here, as is their way, even if you opt out of the pairings. The service is also exceptional; informative when required and comfortably paced such that each course gets to linger in its wow moment and each wine is afforded time to be slowly drained.
I was less wowed by the savory mains, where punchier flavors all but stipulated too much salt. The sacchetti, a chestnut- and black truffle-stuffed pasta purse made from lightly smoked dough, was overwhelmed by truffles and by an over-seasoned sauce of burnt onion and black truffle “tea.” The brown spice-cured and stewed beef cheek, too, sacrificed its nuance to oversalting such that it tasted like a slab of corned beef. Alongside, an airy Tokyo turnip purée infused with toasted sesame oil sported an unpleasantly cloying topnote. I did, however, happily polish off the other turnip-derived sides of singed root and sweet-and-sour braised greens. It was disappointing to hear the server’s poetic descriptions (“The ravioli is scorched on top from embers in the hearth,”) then strain to decipher them—like when someone explains a joke because you didn’t laugh when they told it. You try to get why it’s funny, and feel self-conscious to have missed it—while all along, you were supposed to just enjoy it.
Fortunately, a sleeper smoked pomegranate palate cleanser quickly silenced my scrutiny. Made from the puréed seeds of ember-cooked pomegranates, pomegranate juice, sugar and Aleppo chilies, the little quenelle was finished with toasted pistachio oil and grated jameed, or tart, savory hard goat yogurt. The syrupy, almost meaty pomegranate went stride for stride with the tart funk of the cheese and the smoke. As my date so eloquently put it, “Why shouldn’t the palate cleanser challenge us?”
It was the perfect, funky bridge to the show-stopping sweet potato—a phrase that’s somehow become old hat in Chicago (see the Japanese sweet potato at Maxwells Trading and the coal-roasted sweet potato at Brasero, to name a few). The succulent, par-cooked Garnet red yam was fire-flashed until charred, set atop a smear of smoked apple butter, and encased in creamy Delice de Bourgogne like smoky, comforting autumn in edible form.
It seemed fitting that the finale deployed the brashest use of flame, cheekily presented to look like a mistake: a brownish puddle atop a creamy white scoop of ice cream to mimic a smoldering log dropped in. An ember steeps in the ice cream base for 24 hours to give it campfire smokiness, which is softened by candy sweet banana-infused maple syrup and a smear of hazelnut mole. A little on the nose? Sure, but I blissfully melted into the nostalgia all the same—of pulling sticky burnt marshmallows off a stick while the blazing heat warms my face, of smoke infusing my clothes and my whole being next to the campfire as it crackles down to glowing embers. The place is called FIRE, after all.
The food: Seven sizable courses showcase the multifaceted abilities of fire cooking in one of the city’s best tasting menu deals.
The drink: The bracing, lush, fruity, fleshy wine pairing journey is worth the $65 upcharge. The excellent cold brew martini pairs beautifully with dessert.
The vibe: Charcoal provides the color muse to this sultry, sophisticated remake of Roister. If dining out in a pair, opt for the chef’s counter, where you’ll get a front-row seat to the kitchen’s many uses of fire.