A Whale of a Meal

“Jonah was jes walkin down the street one day, n’a whale snap him up. He gone! Jes like dat!” The subway-theologian snapped his fingers for emphasis as he tried to save a disinterested lost soul below the rainy streets of Chicago. It seemed, in fact, as though we were in the belly of a whale, being jostled through the railed intestines of the city. Unlike Jonah, however, we were willingly headed toward Nineveh. Our mission was not to preach repentance, but to taste a bit of heaven.

The whale disgorged us into the rain, and we splatted forward, huddled beneath a small umbrella, trying to aim our feet for the shallower puddles. We were headed for Rick Bayless’ Frontera Grill, a world-renowned Mexican restaurant. When you’ve been in the belly of a whale, nothing is wanted so much as dry land, and the Frontera Grill did not disappoint. As we stood at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, we could see yards of dry pavement beneath Frontera’s half-block-long awning.

We dashed across, beneath and in, shaking feet, umbrella and coats, waiting at the bar for our table, ordering, sipping and savoring Margarita Golds, the house’s salt-rimmed specialty. As we dried, we perused the menu, hungry as whales, imagining which delights would become our Jonahs that night.

Frontera Grill is painted in festive Mexican yellows and oranges, and the walls are hung with bright-toned art that aptly reflected the festive mood of the diners if not the somewhat somber, black-uniformed waitstaff. We were summoned and seated, and, having been alerted by a local restaurant blogger, we asked our hostess for a dessert menu along with the dinner choices. If dessert seemed seductive enough, we’d have to pace ourselves. Indeed, we resolved to feast on a couple of appetizers and split an entrée so as to leave room in the belly for postre.

The appetizers were simple to decide. The Trio, Trio, Trio was a set of small Margarita glasses, served on a tortilla covered rectangular plate. In the first glass was a Dungeness crab, calamari, shrimp and mango seviche marinated in lime. In the center was a shrimp cocktail that was so not your mother’s shrimp cocktail. The shrimp was plentiful, small and delicate, swimming in a creamy, light and spicy tomato-based sauce. The climax “Trio” was a delicate Alaskan halibut seviche, marinated in a citrus and sun-dried tomatoes.

The second appetizer was a small plate of four sopes — fried cornbread molds stuffed with various delectable fillings that paired wonderfully with our second round of Margaritas.

The main plate was more difficult to choose and not made any easier by the waitress’ description of our top two contenders. The “all-time favorite” of past patrons was Maple Creek Farm pork roasted overnight in its own juices in banana leaves. The platillo del día, which was our ultimate choice, was braised short ribs, covered in a dried-apricot-and-cherry-based mole. The fork-tender rib meat almost jumped off the bone and seemed to want to slather itself in the Mexican sauce before willingly leaping onto our tongues. And it must have leaped with much enthusiasm because it certainly did not linger on the plate. Even the accompanying watercress garnish was completely consumed.

Finally, onto dessert. Though we had tried to keep ourselves pure for the final moment of glory, we could manage only one choice to share. The confection was a rice-pudding plied with tequila-soaked dried cherries. It had a Crème-Brule-like crust on top that added a nice crunch to the creamy pudding.

Barely able to push ourselves back from the table, we steeled ourselves with hot, black coffee before heading, back into the rain, back into the street, to be suddenly snapped up again by the underground whale and gone from our heavenly banquet in Nineveh. Just like that.