Counsel’s Table: Sixteen - Everything’s special but the food

By Russell B. Selman
Katten Muchin Rosenman • Restaurant Critic

It all seemed very easy at Sixteen, but Frito’s artificiality was ripping up his very real passion, that is, himself.

You may recall that, when last seen, my friend Frito, a former Chicago bankruptcy lawyer, had accepted offers to become the Midwestern Viagra representative. Now, Frito spends languid afternoons in local mall food courts and introduces himself to teenagers by announcing ”S’ready.” Luckily, Frito’s Latin inflection saves him from being comprehended.

What happened is that Frito engaged in conversation with the couple at the next table. No, more accurately, by talking to me so loudly about them that they thought he was actually talking to them, a conversation feverishly began. So, it turned out, the lady was being feted by her husband for her birthday. Mistaking Frito’s interest in hearing himself talk for romantic interest in her, she asked Frito how old he thought her to be.

Before Frito answered, I began gurgling in delight. Here we were in Sixteen, home of the great-comb-over financier himself, Mr. ”You’re Fired.” Everything is glitzy, fabulous, and new, and even the chandelier looks like it’s constructed of fresh tears collected from debutantes newly introduced to society.

So, getting on with it, and answering with brutality only seen in the Midwest when watching American Idol’s Simon, Frito says ”Pfitty.” She said, ”Pfitty” in confusion (”What’s confetti?”) and Frito, with his mouth broadening into the wolfish grin he uses to inspect his attractiveness in bathroom mirrors, clarified and said, ”Feefty.”

Boy, was that the wrong thing to say! The three-story windows overlooking the Wrigley Building (very nice, by the way!) shook as she echoed, ”Feefty! Feefty! Feefty!”

Frito gave her his best prepubescent, dewy-eyed look and said, without words, that not everyone wins the genetic lottery. (Just then, the waiter showed up with the Donald’s own $12 frizzy water, and Frito, like Ponce de Leon before him, took a swig). When the birthday girl (only 40, you see) vainly tried to get a mulligan out of Frito by saying that he looked like a 25-year-old polo player, Frito opaquely acknowledged that that was true. The dejected birthday girl looked like a scalded cat her celebratory shindig had become an AARP sewing circle.

To no surprise, Frito was maddeningly excited by Sixteen. On a quiet Monday evening, the guests are very South Beach, with thought-free faces. The very personable ladies by the bar have six-inch heels contrasted by Army-mufti slacks, sort of like a sexy movie farce starring Grace Jones commanding the ‘’surge” in Iraq (maybe that’s just my fantasy). The views are great and the outside Chicago skyline is spectacular.

Unlike everything else discussed so far, Sixteen’s food is a bit clunky a sort of not-badness that torpedoes the glamour and strut of the room.

A line-by-line recitation of each course is that all is imaginatively and visually attractive, and none of the food is an embarrassment to the high prices charged. The beef shank is surprisingly wrapped into a cigar-like tube, the ”lasagna” with truffles is creamy, but both lack the zest (and strength) of beautiful cooking. Scallops were cooked just right (as was the red snapper), but the point of my soliloquy is that the memory of the meal just vanished as soon as I finished (and maybe a bit before).

So, the highlight of Sixteen is the breathtaking views and the big deal, ”It’s Prom Night!” furnishings and atmosphere. The food is not lamentable, it’s just not as special as the place. And, if you want to celebrate something, it’s a good place to go, but remember that it’s no shame to ask to be reseated if you find yourself next to Frito in a too-tight T-shirt.

Pleadings:
Sixteen
Trump International Hotel & Tower
401 N. Wabash Ave., 312-588-8000

Court costs:
Appetizers $16 - $28; Entrees $35+

Verdict:
Two Gavels