Aigre Doux

The mussels were dried out and fishy. The wine was overpriced. The chunks of focaccia we got with our meal were too thick, and about as tasty as bricks. Our server (whom we recognized as a veteran of great Chicago restaurants), was aloof, slow and loath to make eye contact with anything other than the wall space above our heads. The truffle chicken, the tuna pizza, the room itself: one snoozefest after another.

And that, essentially, was how our first meal at Aigre Doux went.

Oh, there were some high points: White asparagus was paired with a poached egg and, more unexpectedly, a rich chunk of banon goat cheese, and the result was dreamy. Artichoke soup hid plump bay scallops, a simple but enticing start to any meal. Slow-poached salmon had a silky texture, and the braised endive on the plate had just enough bitterness to keep the parsnip puree from coating our tongues with sweetness. Still, considering the résumé of Mohammad Islam and Malika Ameen—a résumé that includes stints at L.A.’s Chateau Marmont Hotel and New York’s Mercer Kitchen—the food was not meeting expectations. Even the general manager knew something was off that night: As we were finishing our meal we noticed him hopping from table to table, giving unsolicited apologies for the lackluster food and announcing it was, by far, their “worst night ever.” When he reached our table, he went even further.

“Criticize us,” he pleaded, though of course not realizing a critic was at the table. “Tell me everything that was bad about the meal.”

Naturally, we were reluctant to do so. We started with praise, glowing about the warm, sugary, sticky toffee pudding and the bright and refreshing pomegranate granité that was still on the table. But as he persisted my friends gave in, railing about the mussels and scowling at the half-eaten chocolate cake (an overly simple cake that, for the record, was nevertheless moist and sweet enough to polish off later). When the manager dragged the chef over to our table to hear our complaints, it was more than a little awkward, but it was also liberating—not unlike talking back to your parents for the first time.

It appears they listened to the feedback they got that night, because when we returned the next week there was some serious deliciousness going on. This time we ignored the wine list (we couldn’t bear seeing an $11 bottle of Tres Picos granacha being sold for $40 again). And our server this round was Richard, an attentive and knowledgeable guide who steered us toward the oxtail ravioli, al dente bombs of house-made pasta exploding with rich, juicy meat and plated with an addictive roasted-tomato vinaigrette. We braved another pizza—this one Greek—and were pleasantly surprised with its distinctive flavor of smoked eggplant. Perfectly juicy rack of lamb was plated with rustic grits doused with truffle oil, and even better than the seared turbot were the buttery “melted” baby leeks with which it’s plated. Even the two desserts we tried, the ice-cream trio and the cookie plate—the red-headed stepchild of any dessert menu—were sparkling successes. The butter-pecan ice cream alone threatened to send us into a coma, brought on by the ice-cream headaches we got from eating too much of the stuff too fast. Needless to say, it was a far better ending to our meal than an apology—mostly because it didn’t need one.—David Tamarkin

230 W Kinzie St between Wells and Franklin Sts (312-329-9400). El: Brown, Purple (rush hrs) to Merchandise Mart. Bus: 37, 65, 125. Lunch (Mon–Sat), dinner (closed Sun). Average main course: $28.