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Perennial

I approached my meal at Perennial with a degree of dissonance. On the one hand, the eatery is the latest addition to a restaurant group that includes two of my longtime Lincoln Park faves, BOKA and Landmark. As I’m a firm believer in the rule of threes (what, it’s science), it seems only fitting that Perennial would woo me, too.

On the other hand, I really love Landmark. Like, a potentially unhealthy amount. I consider much of the staff friends, I’ve consumed more Cab (/champagne/semifreddo…) there than I care to admit, and on any given weekend night, I can likely be found dancing up and down its catwalk for the masses in the bar below (I dig the spectacle). True, I happen to live next door (stalkers, take note), but this isn’t an infatuation built on geographic proximity. Landmark is my special sanctuary, my semi-second home, my BOKA Restaurant Group sweetheart, and for that I would travel far and wide. My love for that catwalk knows no bounds. I think my name should be inscribed on it.

It is unsurprising, then, that I came to Perennial conflicted; stepping into the beautiful, somewhat Cirque-du-Soleil-reminiscent space, my internal monologue’s like yeah, but can it compete with the glory that is my local haunt? As if to respond, I turn to the host stand to see Corey, the resto manager who used to be at – quel surprise – Landmark. So it knows I love Corey. I reflect. Duly noted. We hug it out, he seats our party, and two glasses of Prosecco appear. OK, it knows I love all things sparkling, too. (Never mind that the rest of the restaurant was getting them as well. Semantics.) Not two sips of said aperitif in and our server approaches, an exquisitely eccentric redhead named Matt. Wait, but I adore flamboyant and endearingly snarky waitstaff!

Alright, Perennial, I see what you’re doing. And I like it.

And then comes the food. The menu is best described as globally influenced American, which is sometimes used as a euphemism for genre-amorphous clusterf—(well, you know), but here actually means a seamless synthesis of fare from around the world. If there’s a term to classify chef de cuisine Ryan Poli’s work, it’s hyperseasonal.

And if there’s a theme, it’s that the delights are in the details.

Case in point, the chilled pea soup. A vibrant and creamy broth punctuated by juicy peas and mini-dollops of Greek yogurt, the starter hit its high point when I delved into the accompanying warm English pea custard. The soup suddenly became a play on hot and cold, on texture, innovation…and those mounds of custard plenty addictive to forget that the dish could have used a little more yogurt. The custard was the soup’s defining detail. It was, in essence, the essence.

The arugula salad (with avocado puree, grapefruit slices and lemon vinaigrette) is much the same, a citrusy mélange fine on its own but so much better once paired with the adorning tuile. Made of orange, egg white and pepper, the crunchy accoutrement cut the salad’s acidity with its sweetness, kicking another flavor profile into play. As though it’s but a trifle, the tuile isn’t even listed on the menu, but I’d argue it’s the centerpiece of the dish. I’d also recommend you use your wiles to garner a few extra pieces – some sweet-talk in the name of tuile is so totally worth it.

When it comes to risotto, though, I’m the one in need of persuading, as I find it generally both inoffensive and yawn-inducingly one-note. But because Matt swore on his life that I would feel differently about Perennial’s rendition, I ordered the Arborio, just challenging it to prove me wrong. It did. Served slightly al dente, it wasn’t the typical mealy mess, but a textured version further refined by the subtle presence of Meyer lemon. I didn’t think the words light and risotto could exist in the same statement, yet here I am. I never thought I’d admit risotto-aversion defeat, either; we finished every last grain.

In the gnocchi, it’s the hedgehog mushroom puree; in the trademark scallops, it’s the bordelaise; and in the salmon, it’s the stupid-simple and sumptuous medley of beets, fiddlehead ferns and pickled ramps – the singular elements that elevate a Perennial number from so-so to something unique. When I found that essence absent, the piece was a flop; my hamachi, served over a bed of bland vegetables with a Thai broth, was pedestrian at best. But where that integral detail was present, it proved the dish’s pièce de résistance.

And by the meal’s end, all introductory apprehension was forgotten – the restaurant, as I should have anticipated, has a charm entirely its own. Perennial is more flourish than grand spectacle, and that’s a good thing.

There’s a place I know that does spectacle rather well.

-S. Brahney