An Affogato in a Cup, and the Line That’s Part of the Ritual at Jeni’s Ice Cream
A shift in the weather might be all it takes to reset the city’s collective mindset. Suddenly, ice cream feels less like a treat and more like a necessity. And the line at Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams is all the confirmation I needed that we’re all sharing one same thought.
Even if true ice cream weather hasn’t quite settled in, I’ve already made my way through a few flavors, including Sponge Cake from the shop’s limited-edition Bridgerton-inspired collection. This flavor is layered with honey sponge cake and raspberry rose jam. There’s also an earl grey tea ice cream in the lineup, which is already on my sampling horizon.
But the highlight of my visit was the House Coffee flavor. This is an affogato translated into ice cream: rich, but not overly sweet, with notes of cocoa, toasted nuts, and espresso layered throughout. Bold, balanced, and coffee-forward.
And getting that photo? A journey!
The first time I went, I waited in line for a while, only to find out they were out of cone cups, so no good picture of that. But the ice cream was still worth it.
Bad picture, good ice cream at Jeni’s. So of course… take two. Another line (because there are always lines), and this time I was looking forward to my “affogato in a cup.” I made sure waffle cones were available! Mission accomplished. And yes, it was just as good as I hoped. I should have splurged and gone for four scoops, though.
And as of 3/26, there are also new flavors on deck: Key Lime Pie, Basque Cheesecake with blueberry jam, and Black Tie Tiramisu. I haven’t tried them yet, but they read like a strong argument for getting back in line.
If you’re looking for a location near you, you can find all the Chicagoland shops here. You can also skip the line and find Jeni’s at several local retailers.
I Went to Modena for Food and Came Home With a Balsamic Vinegar Habit
A Modena awakening, a Chicago tasting, and one very unexpected obsession
By: Brenda Storch
Al Gatto Verde in Casa Maria Luigia, Modena We sort of slipped into Casa Maria Luigia like we had wandered behind the velvet rope of someone else’s dream. Massimo Bottura and his wife, Lara Gilmore, have built a place that is half country estate, half art installation and entirely its own universe. After a small trip through winding roads, we were welcomed at the gates and escorted in through a patio. We saw celebrated chef Jessica Rosval cooking. She waved at us! Someone pinch me, please, and tell me I am not watching a cool travel show on Netflix. Then we were inside Al Gatto Verde, standing in a space that manages to feel both curated and lived in.
A view of Casa Maria Luigia from the courtyard We came for the food. Of course we did. I mean, Bottura is Bottura. And we had already been to Osteria Francescana, so the bar was high. But the meals here were something else. We enjoyed this experience so deeply. I have not had a chance to fully download it, partly because when I approach it, the light of the memory is so bright the longing is a little blinding. Food aside, and there is a point to this preamble, I promise, this is where I fell in love with vinegar.
Not the supermarket drizzle-in-a-salad kind. That is heresy. Like the idea of a taco in a hard shell.
I am talking about aceto balsamico tradizionale di Modena, simultaneously a living time capsule, a work of art and a chemical feat. And someone tells you, almost offhand, “These lines? In Modena, they get passed down as heirlooms.”
I learned that in Modena, traditional families start a new battery of barrels when a child is born. The vinegar ages with the child, who in turn becomes the custodian of the line. The practice carries both family memory and local identity.
Maybe it was the realization that people had been tending to these lines for generations. They believed in the slow work, the invisible work, the kind of work that pays off only if you are willing to think beyond your own lifespan. It reminded me of the love and dedication that winemakers pour into wine. I was moved.
The best vinegar is given as gifts and brought out for special celebrations. It’s as if vinegar here is part of the family, it’s not produced, it’s raised.
At Casa Maria Luigia, the barrels in the attic, where they are kept to benefit from the weather shifts, resting in winter and breathing through the summer months, enjoy music and art. They get personal visits from Massimo Bottura as if he is checking in on old friends.
This is not a new obsession. Balsamico has been working its way through history with steady determination. The Romans were already cooking grape must down to syrup and drizzling it on anything that held still. By the Renaissance, it was an elixir, used for childbirth and treasured by the elites. Fast forward a few centuries and what we now call Balsamic Vinegar of Modena PGI is a global phenomenon. It moves through 130 countries and reaches nearly 95 million liters a year. It is a billion-euro heartbeat powered by grapes and time. A gift from Modena to the world.
Behind all of that is the Conzorsio Tutela Aceto Balsamico di Modena, which represents 83 percent of the producers in Modena. They protect the real thing, the PGI bottles with proper grapes, proper rules and a serious certification process. They keep the knockoffs out of your grocery cart and guard a tradition older than half the countries on modern maps.
So when they called, the Consortium, and asked if I wanted to taste balsamic across a handful of dishes, I said yes before they finished the sentence. We met at Avec in River North, landing a spot right next to none other than Cesare Mazzetti, the Consortium’s president, to learn first hand about the organization’s mission and the tests that aceto balsamico di Modena candidates are subjected to in order to acquire their certification seal.
Dish after dish landed perfectly and showcased the beauty and versatility of the product, elevating vegetables, fish, meat, even gelato with a slow, dark ribbon of balsamico. It was proof that this luxurious liquid is not only history in a bottle. It is a shape-shifter. A mood. A way of making ordinary things speak in ways that make you listen and remember.
Photo credit: Conzorsio Tutela Aceto Balsamico di Modena Dishes at Avec, all prepared with aceto balsamico di Modena:
From aperitivi to dessert, the versatility of Aceto Balsamico di Modena truly shone. Sweet peppers and eggplant tapenade Apple salad with aged goat cheese and pine nuts, with balsamico quietly winning Best Supporting Actor. Roasted black cod and endive Pork belly with honey nut squash and a incredible pumpkin seed sauce with lemon and garlic Manchego cheese ice cream with cheese! So yes, Casa Maria Luigia was spectacular. The food at Al Gatto Verde was unreal. The whole place felt like a secret garden that likes contemporary art and listens to vinyl. But in the end, it was all about the vinegar.
And honestly, I can’t wait to go back.
Wondering if your aceto balsamico is the real deal? Check out our guide!
Inside Casa Maria Luigi’s Al Gatto Verde there´s a gallery with fast cars and pop art. A nod to Italy’s Motown’s fast cars and slow food. 5 Steps to Know Your Balsamic Vinegar Is Good – A Quick Field Guide
Not all balsamic vinegar is created equal. Some bottles are history in liquid form, while others are simply salad dressing with a marketing budget. If you want to make sure you are bringing home the real thing, especially when it comes to aceto balsamico di Modena, this quick guide will help you spot quality with ease.
Think of it as a quick reference guide that makes sense of shelves, labels and help flag the occasional imposter.
Credit: Conzorsio Tutela Aceto Balsamico di Modena 1. Check for the PGI Mark
Look for: Aceto Balsamico di Modena IGP (Indicazione Geografica Protetta or IGP)
Confirms it was produced in Modena or Reggio Emilia
Follows strict European rules and certification
Protects the ingredients, methods, and quality
If there is no PGI designation on the label, it is not the authentic product.
2. Inspect the Bottle for Clues
Authentic PGI balsamic can be sold in glass, ceramic, or terracotta. What matters is the label. It must include:
PGI designation
Aging categories
Invecchiato for at least 3 years
Riserva for more than 5 years
These aging terms are legal categories that reflect real time spent in wood barrels.
3. Read the Ingredients Carefully
Here is what belongs on the ingredient list:
cooked or concentrated grape must
wine vinegar, including some aged at least 10 years
optional caramel, under 2 percent
If the label reads like the back of a shampoo bottle, it is not aligned with PGI standards. Put the bottle down and walk away slowly.
4. Swirl It
Tilt the bottle.
Quality balsamic should move with intention
Not watery
Not syrupy
A slow, confident glide that signals proper maturation
5. Taste for Balance
When tasting look for:
mild, pleasant acidity
gentle sweetness
a long, clean finish
subtle notes from woods such as oak, chestnut, or cherry
It should not taste like dessert, and it should not taste like punishment either.
Think balanced, bright, and beautifully integrated.
Find more information at:
www.consorziobalsamico.itMinyoli’s Tribute to Taiwan’s Vanishing Food Traditions
In the middle of Chicago’s ever-changing dining landscape, there’s a corner where memory simmers. Minyoli, a small Taiwanese restaurant in Andersonville, holds on to the stories of the culturally rich juàn cūn, or military dependents’ villages, that once dotted Taiwan and are now slowly disappearing along with their food.
Named after the juàn cūn where chef and owner Rich Wang’s family lived, Minyoli traces its roots to the settlements created after 1949, when Nationalist soldiers left mainland China with their families and whatever pieces of home they could carry with them. Though intended to be temporary, the refugee communities became permanent, growing into worlds of their own. What emerged was a cuisine shaped by resourcefulness, longing and the blending of regional traditions in communal kitchens.
Wang’s own path reflects that combination of old and new. Born in Taipei, he moved to the United States and trained in Chicago kitchens. He cooked at Fat Rice, traveled to Lanzhou to study hand-pulled noodles and earned an official noodle-maker certification, then cooked in Macau before returning to Chicago to open Minyoli. The restaurant is his way of keeping his home’s flavors alive. “Places can be controversial,” he said. “But food always brings people together.”
Minyoli offers a contemporary take on the juàn cūn noodle shops now fading amid rapid redevelopment and gentrification. The menu leans into comfort with hearty broths, handmade noodles, rice dishes and familiar street snacks. There’s also seasonal updates and a brunch menu, with a variety of different dishes.
Ganban noodles at Minyoli. We started with the fried chicken, perfectly crisp and almost addictive thanks to potato starch and a light coating of plum powder. The sesame ganban noodles arrived with a side of house-made chili oil and were so well executed that we are already planning a return trip for the spicy tallow noodles with braised beef shank. Even the vegetables, a celtuce and wood ear mushroom salad, delivered a pleasant surprise with clean, earthy, nutty flavors.
On weekends, the restaurant shifts into a gentler rhythm that nods to Taiwanese mornings. Egg crepes come with fillings like pork, vegetables or shrimp. Shao bing sandwiches are assembled on house-baked sesame bread. The beverages deepen the sense of nostalgia, with drinks like the sweet phoenix bean soy milk with a toasty, almost caramel warmth, and the house-made mi jiang, a thick roasted peanut and rice drink that falls somewhere between a drink and dessert.
Inside, details borrowed from Wang’s grandfather, including small heirlooms and midcentury textures, tie the space to juàn cūn domestic life and the quiet routines that shaped its food.
The drinks take a more playful path while staying connected to the restaurant’s foundation. A cocktail made with 10 yr. Shaoxing wine and shallots is complex and bright in a way that feels refreshing rather than sharp. Named She Sells Shallots by the Seashore the cocktail leans savory in a way that seems unexpected until the first sip reveals its balance. The drinks look ahead, yet they follow the same instincts as the food: curiosity, memory and craft.
In a city full of crossings and influences, Minyoli offers not just a taste of Taiwan’s layered history but an entry point into it. What you eat here is the cuisine of people who were expected to leave and found ways to stay. It is hearty, creative, bold and deeply alive.
Minyoli is open Wednesday and Thursday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. and from 5 to 8:30 p.m.; Friday and Saturday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. and 5 to 9:30 p.m.; and Sunday from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. for brunch and 5 to 8:30 p.m. for dinner. Reservations are available online.
Death is a Party: Día de Muertos
“Mexicans are familiar with death; they joke about it, caress it, sleep with it, and celebrate it. It is one of their favorite playthings and their most steadfast love.”
-Octavio Paz
Photos: Lissette Storch – Puebla, Mexico
Death is a verb and a noun.
In Mexico, we’ve personified death, dressing her up and giving her endearing nicknames—le hablamos de tú*.
Death is a she.
Originally, sugar skulls were crafted as a reminder of death’s ever-present nature in the dimension of the living, lurking around every corner. They’re just one of many expressions of our inevitable encounter with “the lady of many names”: La Catrina (“the rich or elegant one”), La Tía de las Muchachas (“the girls’ aunt”), La Fría (“the cold one”), La Novia Blanca (“the white bride”).
Death roams among us.
Death is life.
Like any Mexican holiday, food takes the spotlight on Día de Muertos. Alongside pan de muerto—”bread of the dead”—and cempasúchil flowers, sugar skulls are staples of the celebration. Everything about Día de Muertos has intention and weight: the bread symbolizes the circle of life and communion with the dead, while the flowers pay homage to the fleeting nature of existence.
In rural Mexico, this ritual blends form and meaning in a way that’s tangible and sacred.
Growing up in the city, I mostly watched from the sidelines. It wasn’t until my grandmother passed and my uncle and mother took on the responsibility of honoring this three-thousand-year-old tradition that I got pulled in, finding myself increasingly fascinated by it.
Year after year, my family embarks on a journey to a small village on the outskirts of Puebla,
where we build an ofrenda in honor of my grandmother, great-grandmother, and other beloved relatives. These cherished souls are remembered with offerings of their favorite dishes. My grandmother, who had a passion for cooking, is honored not only with food but also with her favorite kitchen tools, carefully placed around her photograph.
Candles serve a dual role, symbolizing both hope and faith while lighting the way for the departed as they make their descent. Water, too, is placed to quench their thirst and symbolize purity. Through these ofrendas, we keep their memory close and call upon their spirits.
The celebration continues at the cemetery, where the living and the departed meet to share a meal, listen to music, and enjoy fireworks.
For a few days in November, in Mexico, death is a party.
The cemetery of the little village of San Francisco Acatepec, where my grandmother is buried. * ‘‘Hablar de tú’ means to address someone informally, in contrast to the more respectful ‘usted,’ which is used for strangers or those who haven’t given permission for familiarity.
Día de Muertos: Why the Right Name Matters
Photo: Día de Muertos in Oaxaca, México. Photo provided by: Azucena Suárez As Día de Muertos draws near, the sights of sugar skulls, pan de muerto, cempasúchitl flowers, and towering altars honoring our loved ones, fill homes and restaurants. This tradition has crossed borders, bringing the heart of this Mexican celebration to communities far and wide.
In the past decade, I’ve watched as Día de Muertos has gained real traction in the U.S., becoming stronger each year. Schools, community centers, and even major brands have started hosting their own events. In fact, this year I was delighted to find an entire selection of ofrenda essentials in downtown Chicago.
Yet, some details are slipping through the cracks—like calling it “Día de los Muertos” instead of Día de Muertos. This isn’t just a linguistic slip. When we shift from Día de Muertos to Día de los Muertos, we lose a little of the celebration’s soul. It’s not just a day for honoring “the dead” in some distant, abstract way; it’s about the living honoring our dead side by side. Día de Muertos, in its simplicity, speaks directly to that connection.
Día de Muertos isn’t a spectacle meant to be admired from afar. It’s a day when the dead and the living gather around the same table. Families set out an extra glass of mezcal, get together to prepare plates of their loved ones’ favorite foods, and fill the air with music to host them. It’s also a time to cherish those around us, and to remember that this tradition belongs as much to the living as it does to the spirits we honor.
Interestingly, the influence of U.S. pop culture on Día de Muertos has even circled back to Mexico, shaping the celebration in new ways. In 2015, the James Bond movie “Spectre” inspired a new tradition, and as a result, Mexico City now hosts a parade. And while it’s natural for traditions to evolve, it’s essential to keep them grounded in their roots or at least try to understand them so that we know why they matter.
Perhaps that’s why it’s a little jarring to see big corporations, marketing campaigns, and even well-intentioned small businesses miss the mark with “Día de los Muertos.” Adding a “los” might seem like a harmless translation of “Day of the Dead,” but as it becomes more widespread, this subtle shift keeps the living out of the celebration, gradually stripping away the essence that makes it Día de Muertos in the first place.
If Día de Muertos teaches us anything, it’s that memory, like language, is alive. Getting the name right is about honoring a legacy and preserving a tradition. So let’s call it by its real name—Día de Muertos—and remember that, much like tradition itself, every name carries a story.
Chiles en Nogada: The Dish of a Revolution
Foto: Bertha Herrera para La Vitamina T If you’re lucky enough to be in Mexico in late summer and early fall, you’ll probably catch chiles en nogada on menus everywhere. Literally “peppers in walnut sauce,” this seasonal showstopper hails from Puebla and first appeared in the 19th century as a tribute to Mexico’s independence from Spain.
Part recipe, part prayer, legend has it that Augustinian nuns in Atlixco scrambled to honor Agustín de Iturbide, the caudillo* turned emperor, when he passed through Puebla after sealing the deal on independence in Veracruz. They improvised a dish that, like waved the flag on the plate: green poblano peppers, white walnut sauce, and ruby-red pomegranate seeds.
Bite into one and it’s part warrior, part angel. The poblano is stuffed with a mix of meats and fruits (apples, pears, peaches, maybe even plantains) that somehow works. Then it’s finished with that silky walnut sauce and jeweled with pomegranate seeds, which only show up in Mexican markets through mid-September. Blink, and you’ll miss it.
And like any dish worth fighting over, chiles en nogada comes with its own rivalry: capeados (egg-battered and fried) vs. sin capear (left in their natural roasted state). Purists will die on their hill for one or the other, but both versions will knock you sideways.
This dish is part indigenous, part Spanish, and entirely Mexican: a culinary snapshot of a nation built on contrasts, complexity, and sheer poetry.
If you see it, order it.
You are welcome.
We recommend:
In Mexico City:
In Chicago:
A few years ago I wrote an article for Eater Chicago highlighting a few versions of this dish that are worth trying. Some of them are available year-round. I recently had a great one at Istmo.
*Military leader
Originally published on 8/11/2013. Updated 9/15/2025.
Chasing Mole: chef Geno Bahena and the Love that Loved him Back
Chef Geno Bahena of Manchamanteles in Logan Square debuts a mole rojo pizza, created in collaboration with Grumpy Pies. In the late 80s, when “Mexican food” in the U.S. was still too often reduced to nachos and margaritas, chef Geno Bahena was in the kitchen doing something far more daring. Bahena helped open Frontera Grill and Topolobampo, two restaurants that redefined the conversation and proved Mexican food could be as nuanced, layered, emotional and intellectual as any cuisine in the world.
But this chef’s story begins far earlier, in Guerrero, Mexico. At the age of ten, he stood beside his grandmother as she stirred a pot of mole rojo. Built from 32 ingredients, roasted, toasted, ground, and coaxed together, this regional delicacy was “festive, seductive and impossibly complex.” Mole wasn’t just food; it was memory and ritual, and it became the north star of his life. By twelve, Bahena cooking on his own, bound by strict rules: eat everything you make, and leave the kitchen spotless. His first dish, chilaquiles verdes, was an instant success.
Rebellion had become freedom, and freedom had become passion.
As a teenager, young Geno fell in love. The feeling was real, but the story never unfolded. Heartbreak only sharpened his passion for cooking. When he told his father he wanted to be a professional cook, he found no encouragement. Cooking, his father believed, wasn’t a path worth following. Still, he offered a bittersweet blessing: “Go to the United States. If it doesn’t work, come back. I’ll help you.”
So, Bahena left home trying to outrun heartache and chasing a dream no one else believed in but him.
In Chicago, he tried to apply for college, but admissions were closed. A teacher asked him to cook. He made mole, no recipe, no measurements, just memory. That dish opened doors.
The road was far from easy. Twice he nearly dropped out of school for lack of money. Once, without bus fare, the same mentor who saw his talent and opened a spot in college for him, pressed cash into his hand. When Frontera Grill was about to open, his school sent him to practice there. Expecting an entry-level job, he was offered the sous chef position instead. Afraid he was not ready, he turned it down. According to Bahena, three months later, Rick Bayless offered the position to him again, this time with a salary, a uniform and a place on the team. Bahena said yes.
By 1999, he was ready to build a kitchen of his own. Izcaputzalco began with just 40 seats, then quickly grew to 140 as word spread. The menu celebrated Mexico with regional flavors drawn from all 32 states and a signature rotation of Oaxaca’s seven legendary moles, each paired with unexpected proteins like guinea hen, rabbit, venison, and poussin.
When guests wanted more, Geno answered with Chilpancingo: bold and ambitious in River North. From there, his horizon kept expanding. He lent his hand and vision to 36 restaurants nationwide, from California to Boston to Arkansas. Most recently, he introduced Manchamanteles to Logan Square. Named for Oaxaca’s “tablecloth stainer” mole, both sweet and spicy, it shows Bahena is still finding new ways to express his craft.
That craft carried him beyond restaurants as well, to stages like the White House and the U.S. Capitol, where he cooked for 1,000 guests.Today, Chef Geno Bahena is recognized as one of Chicago’s great voices in Mexican food. Some call him a mole icon, but for him, recognition was never the point. What mattered was honoring ingredients, celebrating tradition, and gathering people at the table: a forty-year history of turning memory into craft and craft into connection. And in that long pursuit, he not only caught his dream; he found in cooking the one love that never left, the love that loved him back.
Eat the Art: Inside LIA Chicago
River North is having a moment. Heavy hitters like Asador Bastian and intriguing transplants such as Matilda (New York) and Hawksmoor (London) among a few others are breathing fresh energy into the neighborhood. Right in the middle of that buzz, LIA has moved into what I remembered most vividly as the old Bohemian House space (later home to Flora and Fauna), confident, creative and approachable.
“Life Imitates Art” isn’t just a clever name, it’s LIA’s guiding principle. You see it in the textured walls, the brushstrokes behind the bar, and the food itself. Each dish on the menu arrives on a different plate that doubles as its own canvas —26 in total. Even “The Bucket,” one of the cocktails, leans into the theme, arriving in a paint bucket with dry ice and garnished with a real piece of art.
LIA offers both a $120 six-course tasting menu and à la carte dishes. We tried both.
The tasting menu draws inspiration from different artists and will change periodically. The one we tried takes its cues from Chicago artist Kb of Laundry Room Studios, whose text-driven art and storytelling extend from the canvas to the plate.
Our meal kicked off with two delicate bites: foie gras mousse accented with cherry gel, then a chilled vichyssoise crowned with caviar and a swirl of dill oil.
The second course builds on that grace with tartare brightened by a house-made pickle, then takes a playful turn — a Thai lemongrass chicken dumpling floating in coconut green curry broth, where you choose your spice level from one to five. I went bold with a four. The dumpling was beautiful, delicious and texturally memorable. Likely my favorite dish on the tasting menu.
Next came Ora King salmon, poached in olive oil and set over vegetables. Then coriander-crusted duck breast arrived with a fragrant tamarind and kaffir lime–orange sauce, paired with masala-spiced couscous.
Dessert was a Nutella tiramisu adorned with a hand-painted chocolate “artwork” — a nod to the chef’s inspiration — as much a visual encore as a sweet one.
Chef and co-owner Justin Vaiciunas, a Detroit-area native, and his business partner Michael Mauro — a sommelier with a knack for art-driven concepts — first teamed up to open The Jackson in Rochester Hills, an homage to American painter Jackson Pollock where the plates were as expressive as the canvases. With LIA, their second act, they bring that same intersection of art and food to River North on a bigger stage. The result is surprisingly human: a space that supports local artists, works staff-created pieces into plating and builds an experience that feels collaborative rather than over-curated. Here, you’re part of art. Enjoying it is part of the show, and you are not just a spectator. Guests can also participate by purchasing works from the featured artist.
The tasting menu walks a careful line between precision and generosity — caviar and duck, yes, but they don’t strut across the table demanding applause and stuffing you to to the point you cannot longer enjoy Instead, they’re quietly confident, creative, playful even.
We couldn’t resist adding a few à la carte plates, most memorably the shrimp Miró — delicate Argentinian prawns slicked in saffron aioli with caper berries, lemon, shallots, garlic and a generous pour of extra-virgin olive oil. If you know Miró, you’ll catch the visual reference; if you know shrimp, you’ll appreciate the unique texture that makes this dish possible.
The drinks deserve equal billing. Mauro’s cocktail program offers creative twists on classics. Even if you’re not committing to the tasting menu, LIA is an easy place to land for an after-work drink. Many of the featured cocktails hover around $12, making them accessible without feeling ordinary.
The room carries the same spirit: inviting and artistic, but never pretentious. A table by the window, weather permitting, lets you feel as though you’re dining al fresco.
In Justin’s hands, the plate becomes a canvas and the meal a kind of living exhibition, art you don’t simply admire from afar, but hold on your fork. At LIA, life doesn’t just imitate art, it tastes like it. And much like life, it’s gone before you know it.
LIA, 11 W. Illinois St. (near N. State St.), Chicago; (312) 550-3425; reservations via OpenTable. Dinner Tuesday through Thursday, 5 to 10 p.m.; Friday and Saturday, 5 to 11 p.m.; Sunday, 5 to 10 p.m.; closed Monday.
Slice of the Suburbs: WG Pizzas Brings their Tavern Style to Lakeview
The suburbs have entered the chat — and Chicago’s pizza scene might just be better for it. WG Pizzas, the city cousin of North Shore’s mainstay Alex’s Washington Gardens, has opened its first Chicago location — bringing its tavern-style pizza to a city that takes its pies seriously.
Tavern-style pizza is known for a thin, cracker-like crust and its signature square-cut slices. Born in neighborhood bars and taverns, this pizza is meant for sharing and it is inherently relaxed: easy to hold with one hand, drink in the other.
Siblings Ben and Jessie Glazer, along with husband-and-wife duo Michael and Franny Kaulentis have taken over a cozy corner in Lakeview, turning what started as a ghost kitchen test run in Avondale, into a full-fledged restaurant.
“The pizza is good enough for the city,” said Ben Glazer. So, they wanted to share. And so far, the response has been better than the siblings expected.
Jessie, who’s most often at the restaurant, says that the neighborhood has received them well, and that she is excited to see the same faces again and again.
And it’s no wonder. This is the kind of slice that is crispy throughout. No soggy center. The ingredients hold up their end, too: high-quality, locally sourced toppings that don’t skimp, and a fresh sauce that leans sweet. We ordered one chopped salad with anything from pepperoni to mozzarella and garbanzo beans — thoughtfully dressed and generous enough for two.
Don’t skip the breadsticks. They are buttery, crispy, warm, and begging to be pulled apart— I had to summon every ounce of self-control not to inhale the whole batch.
These breadsticks are buttery, crispy, warm and impossible to share. The restaurant’s Guest Chef Pizza Series adds an unexpected twist, inviting local culinary voices to collaborate on monthly specials. Past highlights include a black truffle and mushroom pie from Kimski’s chef Won Kim, a bold quesabirria pizza by Frontera Grill’s Jauvaneeka Jacobs, and a Steak + Ale pizza created with Links Tap Room. These specials are also featured at the Highwood location so nobody misses out.
This month, Chef Iván Valdez (Taquizas Valdez) offers a July special: an al pastor pizza layered with pork al pastor, garlic cream sauce, a pineapple-habanero relish, mozzarella, and cilantro. A spicy salsa roja served on the side seals the deal — I’ve already gone back for seconds.
WG’s guest chef series gets wild this month with an al pastor pizza from Chef Iván Valdez. Pineapple on pizza is still taboo for some — it used to be for me, too — until a meal at Crosta in Milan changed my mind. Their version, smoky pork shoulder tangled with sweet pineapple, spicy sauce and fresh cilantro, made the case for breaking the rules. WG’s take may ruffle a few purist feathers, but it’s hard to argue with flavor that good.
There are more than a dozen pizzas on the menu, alongside rotating specials, salads and desserts. And seriously — don’t skip the breadsticks.
Ben’s go-to is the Italian sausage pizza. Jessie’s favorite? The Pizza A La Vodka — a creation from Chef Max Robbins of Lettuce Entertain You, made with vodka sauce, Calabrian chiles, basil, smoked mozzarella and Parmesan.
You can build your own, too.
Lately, there’s been a trend of city chefs bringing their big-city polish to suburban downtowns. WG flips the script — and proves the suburbs can return the favor.
WG Pizzas is BYOB and closed on Tuesdays. Take out is available on popular apps.
⚲ 2819 N Southport Ave, Chicago, IL 60657
That craft carried him beyond restaurants as well, to stages like the White House and the U.S. Capitol, where he cooked for 1,000 guests.
