All these questions ultimately funnel into a larger one, which, having just spent three luscious hours in one of Chicago’s last surviving upscale restaurants, I feel compelled to address: After 30 years of uninterrupted excellence, does Everest—and old-school establishments like it—still have a place in this world?
By “upscale,” I don’t mean prices. There are now plenty of restaurants—some you’ve probably never heard of—that charge more than Everest. I’m talking about the act of dining out as it once was, a starched and formal ritual where voices remain hushed, elbows stay off the table, the carpet is clean, and the language cleaner. About places where the chef got his start washing dishes at some brasserie in Lyon at the age of eight. Where the wine director doesn’t fake his way through bottles he barely knows, and the waiter doesn’t have a neck beard or a Hüsker Dü tattoo on his forearm. Where the experience is orchestrated by adults for adults.
It's a fun read and the gist of the article is that as Chicago's culinary world has evolved, Everest's role has been consistent for many many years.