An earlier incarnation of the brand-new SWK was decimated by a fire in July after just a year in business, but the hulking mahogany bar inside was salvaged, along with some of the letters from the previous enterprise’s name (it had been called Swank).
Even without the A and the N, the place still seems to be shooting for private men’s club style, with shimmery gun-metal gray walls, a stainless-steel fireplace, cannonball-sized candles hanging from the ceiling, lots of exposed brick and timbers and that bowling-alley-length antique mahogany bar–which dominates the otherwise sleek space like a neon Budweiser sign in a post-makeover “Queer Eye” bachelor pad. All you really need to know, though, is that at SWK’s opening, a truck with glass walls encasing live models seated at a dining table was parked out front.
As if that’s not enough swank for you, the restaurant’s Web site (which features a picture of a woman with her mouth open wide, being fed a strawberry by a disembodied arm) and its press release variously describe the food as “a perfect blend of old world European sophistication and edgy new world American undertones,” as well as “a fresh take on eclectic Midwest American cuisine with French and Italian accents”; after 11 p.m. the restaurant “transforms into a stylish, sensual nightspot, reminiscent of the late night culture in Montreal,” which is apparently more thrilling than the late-night culture in Chicago, and a “sexy assortment of premium spirits and exotic signature cocktails is served.”
My friend Amy and I didn’t hang around long enough to catch this transformation, and I can’t say that either of us felt any edgier or sexier than we usually do, but the place is perfectly lovely and, strangely, we did get plenty of male attention, even though it was only 5:30 or so and the place was nearly empty. In fact, there were enough black-clad male waiters working the floor (16 at one point) to create the chorus for a full-blown staging of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” had either of us felt like singing. But, again, we weren’t in that kind of mood. We really just wanted to eat.
So we tried quite a lot of food, and the young waiter, who was very knowledgeable and pleasant but didn’t try to feed us strawberries, didn’t bat an eye when we both ordered two appetizers and an entree apiece. The food seemed a little prissier than the steroidal fare I expected: The organic carrot bisque was garnished with “carrot hay”; the cheese plate contained Roquefort foam with baby pears, whipped brie with strawberries and a medjoul date coulis, and fontina drizzled with lavender honey; ostrich satay was an option; the soup of the day was referred to as the “soup inspiration”; and the poussin was lacquered with lavender honey.
We avoided all of those things and instead started with calamari, foie gras, ceviche and fried oysters–“seasonal fare with an edgy, yet casual, appeal.” The only thing that appealed to me was the calamari (with lemon “gastrique” and basil oil), which looked like those white sausages from Louisiana, boudin blanc, because it was stuffed with crabmeat. But the Foie Gras B.L.T. I do not wish to discuss. And both the Tres Ceviches (a piece of ahi tuna, a couple of scallops and shrimp in kiwi-habanero salsa) and the fried oysters were chewy in the wrong way.
I did, however, enjoy my surf and turf (three nicely cooked Australian lamb chops with mint accompanied by a salmon roulade stuffed with spinach and poached crab), and Amy was happy with the cod, which came poached in olive oil, with wilted rainbow chard and butternut squash puree. We had a perfectly pleasant experience, with friendly service, and, for that matter, a friendly chef, Joel Cooper, who looks like he is about 17 (he’s actually 29) and who stopped by our table to ask if we enjoyed the food. (One atmospheric downside, though, was the loud music, which consisted mostly of pop songs rather than instrumentals: “Not even Phil Collins wants to listen to Phil Collins sing while he’s eating dinner,” said Amy.)
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Since chef Cooper, the restaurant, and the night were all so young, I’m not sure if we got the right impression of the place, and I for one am willing to go back at a later date and also later in the evening, perhaps to try the osso bucco or the braised beef short rib and to witness the promised transformation of the bar, after 11 p.m., into a stylish, sensual nightspot reminiscent of the late-night culture in Montreal. I’ve never been to Montreal.
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SWK is at 710 N. Wells St.; 312-274-9500. Open daily for dinner. Entrees $13-$28.