I could go on a long rant about how—despite the insistence of a lot of Chicagoans—Urban Belly isn’t anything like New York’s Momofuku Noodle Bar. I could remind them that Urban Belly has no pork buns, and that they don’t serve Owl beer—or, for that matter, any beer at all. More to the point, I could talk about the Chicago-versus-New York argument, and why it’s a pointless conversation to start in the first place.
But I won’t. Instead, I’d rather ramble on about chef Bill Kim’s lamb-and-brandy dumplings, which burst with a flood of salty, gamey broth. And about his duck dumplings, whose light, crispy shells act as a foil to their robust filling. Chefs like Kim—that is, chefs who come down from fine dining establishments to cook for the masses—don’t always get it right. But these dumplings are perfect examples of white-tablecloth dining in street-food form.
Dumplings are supposed to be nothing more than the opening act here, a precursor to the noodles. But for my money, filling up on those dumplings is the best bet. That’s not to say that the noodles are bad—the Urbanbelly ramen is a fine dish, with lots of sumptuous pork belly floating in the bowl. But the only noodles that matched the flavor of the dumplings were the ones in the enormous bowl of weird, round, chewy little rice noodles. By weird, I mean that those noodles were intriguing. And by intriguing I mean addictive. Or maybe it wasn’t the noodles themselves, but the fiery broth they were in that was so addictive? Or maybe it was the crunchy fried chicken breast that floated on top of it all?
Who knows? I could dissect those noodles all day. That would be one argument about Urban Belly that I’d be perfectly happy to have—and I’d win.
Urban Belly 3053 N. California Ave., Chicago (773-583-0500; urbanbellychicago.com)
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