Il Fiasco

Photo: Erica Gannett

Whatever criticisms you may have, whatever compliments you come up with, there is one undeniable fact about Il Fiasco: It is, above everything else, an honest restaurant. It says what it means. Sometimes this candor is to the dish’s advantage. Other times—as when I ordered the “fig with prosciutto, mascarpone and honey” and was faced with a slightly unripe fig, quartered; overly chewy prosciutto; and a few greens topped with the cheese and honey—it is the dish’s downfall.

I ate those figs on a Friday night after we had waited so long at the bar for our reserved table that we almost decided to eat there instead. The feeling in the room was jovial, warm—it seemed as though the entire neighborhood had come out to see the newcomer that had moved in on the corner. It was still early, just days after the place opened, so the slow service we received was forgivable. Besides, even among the chaos of opening week, there was a lot to love about Il Fiasco. The room is classic and welcoming, the type that makes you want to stay well beyond your welcome. And there are $20 bottles of house wine—the white, a sprightly Trebbiano, is simple, perhaps a little sharp, but it’s so casual and effortlessly quaffable that is works.

That night we had a chicken breast so rubbery we decided to hedge our bets and skip dessert. A week or so later, on a sleepy weeknight, things were much different: A housemade pappardelle with a mushroom-marsala cream sauce was as straightforward as that fig salad I ordered, but here the simplicity was delicious—all the meaty flavors coaxed out of the mushrooms, the pasta perfectly rendered. Similarly, the grilled salmon (pictured) sat among thin slivers of beets and juicy orange segments, the sweetness of which took to the fish’s rich flesh and formed layers of flavor that seem reserved for more complicated dishes. The pizza we tried that night was the Fiorenta, a bubbled crust topped with wilted spinach, garlic, ham and an egg baked right in the center. There was a little too much garlic, but spurred by one of the cheap house bottles of wine, I found the leftovers good enough to devour in a cab ride later that night.

On my next visit—another disappointing meal on a Friday night—I tried the Fungi pizza, which illustrates the problem that plagues most of the unsuccessful dishes here: It just isn’t interesting enough. There’s a line between simple and boring, and chef Philip Reed often crosses it. Fried artichokes, light and crispy with a thin crust of golden batter; a tomato gazpacho that’s given cool lightness from cucumber; a sweet panna cotta playing off a tart rhubarb compote—these inhabit a clarity of flavor that would only be mucked up by messing with them more. On the flip side, the pea puree with the lamb chops had just one note, the crème brûlée was sour, and the cavatappi with chicken and sun-dried tomato–cream sauce was altogether too familiar a combination to get excited about.

I had heard that chef Reed arrived at Il Fiasco with surprisingly impressive credentials. I got a much different story when I asked my server where Reed had worked. “Tuscany, up on Clark,” she said, referring to the Italian restaurant near Wrigley Field. In fact, Reed worked in Tuscany, not at it, earning two Michelin stars for a restaurant named Restaurant Analfo. But what’s most unfortunate about Il Fiasco is that, depending on the night, either version of the story is believable.—David Tamarkin

5101 N Clark St at Carmen Ave (773-769-9700). El: Red to Berwyn. Bus: 22 Clark (24hrs), 92 Foster. Dinner. Average main course: $15.