Palette Bistro

2834 N Southport Ave
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 477-2565

You broke my streak!

Due to a healthy mix of alchemy, ESP and computer algorithms, I am the go-to guy amongst my friends when it comes to selecting restaurants. Usually, I get oohs and ahhs. This time I got, "What chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" and plentiful side-eyes.

I suppose this experience can best be summed up as a HOT MESS.

Hot: the place was stifling! There was no a/c in the restaurant and we suffered for it. The windows and doors were open, but tropical breeze, there was not. For being in the Windy City, this was one stagnant night. I saw my friend's hair go from full to limp. My underwear stuck to me in places that...well, I should not discuss them in public forums. My buddy - a man of great patience - continuously wiped his brow and fought back annoyance of sweating into his food. Just getting through the meal was exhausting. Sweltering is only fun in saunas, steamrooms and beaches - and those all involve some aspect of nudity. Here, no nudity. Just heat. Not fun.

Mess: everything else. I knew the evening was starting on a bad note, when I could barely make out the menu. This place is DARK. Romantic lighting is low. Horror movie lighting is pitch. This was closer to the latter. And the music...no. I think we heard the entirety of The Light's™ morning rotation. "Daniel" doesn't make me want to get my groove on. Depending on my emotional state, it makes me weepy or contemplative. NOT.Romantic. Ever.

Okay, so bad lighting and music. What about the food? Heh. This. We asked our waiter about the deal of the evening. Soup/Salad, Entree & Dessert for $25. Sounds good. He rolled his eyes at us like we were cheap skates. "Do you, at least, want some appetizers?" he quipped. Translation: how cheap are you? Really? It's YOUR restaurant's deal!! Incidentally, this was the last meaningful interaction we had with this guy. Foolishly, we obliged him and ordered the antipasti and portabella mushroom apps. The antipasti tasted like Water air with a side of Paper. Nothing. It.tasted.like.nothing. I shouldn't have complained about that. "Nothing" tastes better than nasty. The other app? Nasty. The mushroom tasted like burnt garbage. I felt myself developing heartburn with every nibble.

But wait. There's more! The entree. I ordered the pork belly. I received pork jell-o. It weebled, wobbled and made me gag. It was brown fat. Typically, bacon (amazing, yummy, delicious bacon) is made from pork belly. The only thing that could have been made from this pork belly was tears. Horrible. Laughingly, I anticipated dessert. I ordered the chocolate molten cake. There was nothing molten about it, but it was edible - so that's a plus. My friends who ordered the passion fruit torte were disappointed. Imagine that!

We made it through the meal. We had dilated pupils, easy listening ear bugs, sweaty crevices, simultaneous indigestion & empty stomachs and headaches. But we made it. Then we got the bill. Turns out the reason for our non-existent service was the automatic gratuity. At Palette, groups of FIVE or more are hit with the automatic gratuity.

Insult added to injury, all I could do was laugh. All my friends could do was strip me of my restaurant-choosing privileges. Do you hear that, Palette? Baby was put in the corner because of you!!

Hot.Mess.