The Publican

Photo: Matt Taplinger

After my third visit, I left the warm glow of the Publican in a daze. Having obsessively anticipated the “pork-and-beer” project from restaurateurs Donnie Madia, Terry Alexander and Eduard Seitan and chefs Paul Kahan and Brian Huston, it felt almost surreal to have fallen so quickly into the restaurant’s grasp. I was sucked in by the effortless elegance; the beerhall-like communal tables; the old-world flatware; the gingham platters; the bulbous lights; and, of course, the food. The Publican follows a simple logic: (1) find the highest-quality oysters, fish and pork and (2) stay out of the ingredients’ way.

That third meal, a comforting Sunday-only, family-style supper had a lot going for it: The season’s first snow was falling, and the restaurant was unusually mellow. It was the food, though, that left me swooning. Succulent, whole, pan-seared loup-de-mer flaked easily off the bone to reveal a stuffing of mildly bitter turnip greens, pine nuts and sweet golden raisins and sprinkled with stray pea shoots. Four cuts of lamb were perfectly tender (collapse-at-the-mere-sight-of-a-fork–tender ribs and ground-kidney–stuffed loin among them), each bite brightened with tiny chiffonades of mint. The restaurant’s ambiance might be European and its flavor profile Mediterranean, but when the Publican hits all the right notes, as it did that night, its heart feels unmistakably Midwestern. During an economic shitstorm when luxury can’t help but feel tacky, there’s not a garish or overdone note to the place.

Perhaps this most recent gilded age is making way for a different, simpler era: that of the house-cured meat. In summer came Mado, in fall came the Bristol and in the early days of winter comes the Publican. It would be missing the point entirely to come here and not order the impeccable board of charcuterie, with its headcheese terrine (capable of swaying even the staunchest skeptic), its delicate pieces of salty speck and its wisp of lardo—white, oily hog lard. When eating pork is the objective, the mild boudin noir (gently spiced blood sausage) or a paper cone of vinegary, salt-intensive, crispy pork rinds also do the trick. Venture outside a certain beloved hooved animal and the odds are just as good, whether in the fish or lamb from that Sunday supper or in the lightly charred half-chicken paired with thick rounds of summer sausage. (Tip: If it’s french fries you’re after, order the half-chicken. The à la carte frites pale in comparison to their chicken-juice-and-spice–splattered brethren.)

Only during my fourth visit did a certain disappointment start to set in: Even if this is a restaurant that serves beer, rather than a bar that serves good food, tacking an additional two bucks onto, say, Hopleaf’s beer prices still feels unjustified. Granted, the beer-geek–ready list offers a number of bottles you can’t get elsewhere, which is all the more reason many people would appreciate even the most basic descriptions—or at the very least a waiter who could offer some assistance. Otherwise, the distinctions get lost, similar to the couple of dishes that blurred the line between simple and underwhelming: The distinctiveness of sweetbreads disappears in their schnitzled incarnation; how much you’ll enjoy wood-oven-roasted sardines or a typical crab boil will depend on whether you revel in the laborious process of eating a proficiently cooked version. And then there’s the puzzle that is dessert, which came off as scarcely more than an afterthought.

But these moments of doubt quickly pass, and when the food and beer (and the combination of the two) are this good, it’s easy to forget about quibbles and bask in the glow of the Publican—whether it’s coming from the dangling orbs of light or the realization you’re experiencing a promising new genre of Chicago dining.

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