Radius 2.0

We walked into Radius 2.0 expecting that familiar neighborhood-bar warmth—the kind of place that makes you loosen your shoulders, talk a little louder, and order something you don’t need because the room convinces you it’s a good idea.

Instead, we found a place decorated like a neighborhood bar where no one knows your name… and the bigger sin: it feels like no one’s trying to. Not hostile. Not rude. Just that hollow, manufactured “hangout” energy—like the set dressing showed up before the soul did.

We started with the spicy/sweet cauliflower, and honestly, there’s not much to unpack. It’s the same breaded cauliflower dish you can get everywhere in NWI. Same concept, same execution, same forgettable arc: a little heat, a little sticky sweetness, a little crunch, and then it disappears from memory the minute the plate is cleared. Not bad. Just… there.

Then the kitchen finally did something that made us stop talking and pay attention.

The lemon rice soup came out the way it’s supposed to—light, with that clean spark of lemon and the right amount of rice. Not the thick, overworked Greek-diner version that eats like a dare. This was balanced. Alive. The kind of bowl that tells you somebody in the back knows what they’re doing and doesn’t need to hide behind excess. Top notch. If we went back tomorrow, we’d order it again without hesitation.

The drinks, though, didn’t have that same respect for the craft.

We ordered the Point Break Old Fashioned, and it felt like it came from the cheapest bourbon available—poured into a glass with some ice and sent out with a shrug. An Old Fashioned is supposed to feel deliberate: good spirit, proper dilution, a little aromatic punch, a sense that somebody built it on purpose. This one tasted like “close enough.”

And then came the real letdown: The Chefs of Steel Burger.

On paper, it reads like a statement—bacon jam, big flavors, a burger that’s supposed to throw elbows and make you nod after the first bite. What we got was a tasteless burger on what seemed like a dry pretzel bun, not even toasted. That’s not a “chef” problem. That’s a basics problem. And the bacon jam—the star ingredient, the thing that should’ve been loud and sticky and unforgettable—was basically missing in action. We kept thinking the same thing with every bite:

Where did this amazing bacon jam go?

Because it sure didn’t show up in our burger.

The best part of the night wasn’t the cocktail or the signature burger. It was the service.

Our server was incredible—attentive, present, and genuinely on top of everything in a way that made us feel taken care of even when the food and drink weren’t delivering. That kind of front-of-house competence can save a meal. It buys you patience. It makes you willing to believe the kitchen can catch up.

So where does that leave Radius 2.0?

Right now, it’s a place that wants to be our neighborhood spot, but it still has to earn it—starting with the unsexy fundamentals: season the burger like it matters, toast the bun like you’ve done this before, and make an Old Fashioned like you respect the person ordering it. The lemon rice soup proves there’s real potential here. The rest of our order proved that on this night, the execution didn’t match the ambition.

If we had to give one clean recommendation: go for the soup—and keep your expectations for the rest on a short leash.

116 N Main St, Crown Point, IN 46307