I almost passed on Sociale. Why? It has no website. It has a Facebook page on which a barely readable photo of its menu was posted a full month after the restaurant opened. It has that ubiquitous vaguely urban upscale-sexy-nighttime-barstaurant vibe that really does it for the ladies of the SLoop. And for their dudes? Flat-screens, of course. There’s that ridiculous lisping name in a wispy font typically reserved strictly for nail salons. It’s got that something-for-everyone approach—coffee shop, bakery, cafe, tapas bar, brunch spot, with smoothies, craft cocktails, and a wood-fired oven—that indicates it’s probably not good at any one of them. Cosmetically, it’s as if it doesn’t want to be noticed.
More elaborate small plates like a chicken thigh in chorizo-and-white-bean stew and a soupy duck-confit cassoulet with sweet balsamic fennel (that bears little relation to a traditional cassoulet) almost make meals unto themselves.
But the very last thing I ate at Sociale was the bougatsa: soft, sweet semolina custard wrapped in a crispy phyllo pocket dressed with orange-blossom honey in a large puddle of frothy sabayon infused with the herbal liqueur genepi. It’s the kind of dessert that won’t allow you to forget a very good restaurant that, at least outwardly, seems to want to be forgotten. v
800 S. Clark 312-588-1100facebook.com/socialechicago
