RPM Steak
On a warm spring afternoon, the kind that makes the Chicago River sparkle like a well-poured Negroni, I slip into RPM Steak and feel the city recede. Inside, the hush is deliberate—mahogany polished to mirror sheen, booths upholstered in banker-gray leather, and spotlights that treat every plate like it’s posing for an illicit centerfold. The room smells of wood smoke, dry-aged fat, and the sort of ambition whispered over nondisclosure agreements.
Jennifer appears at the table with the confidence of someone who’s seen every shade of appetite. Before pleasantries can stiffen the moment, she drops a tin of Parker House rolls—glossy, bronzed, still sighing steam. A swipe through cultured French butter and all good intentions dissolve; the soft interior pulls apart in silken strands that beg to be devoured with hands, not decorum.
The grill flares in the distance, and out glides a lone Mediterranean octopus tentacle, charred like it’s survived a shipwreck. It sprawls over a jade smear of jalapeño crema, potatoes lounging beneath, soaking up sea brine and pepper heat. The flesh gives back just enough resistance to remind you it once ruled the deep, and the crema snaps with citrus and spice in equal measure—a plate that proves this kitchen doesn’t stop at cattle.
Then the burger arrives—a Wagyu double-decker, cheddar molten and unruly, pickles fighting a losing battle against decadence. One bite and juice sluices onto the plate, a greasy grin spreading across your face as you wonder whether tying a tie tomorrow will feel like penance.
Jennifer keeps the hits coming. A ten-ounce center-cut filet lands, crosshatched and blushing, sturdy as a gymnast yet tender as a whispered secret. She crowns it tableside with black-truffle Béarnaise—liquid velvet shot through with tarragon and tiny black flecks that perfume the air. The meat and sauce meld into a single, luxurious hush; conversation stutters, then surrenders.
To drink, there’s a 2018 Maysara “Suo Jure” Pinot Noir, poured with quiet ceremony. It smells of wild strawberries trampled into forest soil, tastes of bright red fruit and cracked pepper, and leaves a savory echo that dances with both truffle and char. The bottle drains far too quickly, as good bottles do.
Just when restraint might stage a comeback, Jennifer returns, announcing the Coffee Crème Brûlée—“compliments of the kitchen.” The sugar lid cracks like thin ice, revealing espresso-laced custard, a scoop of fior-di-latte gelato slowly surrendering, and candied macadamias that pop like sweet shrapnel. Gratitude demands action: a brisk stroll to Levain Bakery around the corner, the return trip laden with cookies the size of softballs. Jennifer accepts them with a conspiratorial grin, tucking a business card into your hand. “Next time,” she says, “text me first.”
Only one quirk mars the choreography: the restrooms lurk deep in the back, down a corridor long enough to question your resolve. Consider it a pilgrimage that redeems a fraction of the butter you’ve just inhaled.
When the doors swing shut behind you and the city noise rushes back in, you still taste truffle and smoke. Jennifer’s card burns a promise in your pocket, and the afternoon feels suddenly brighter—proof that some meals aren’t just eaten, they’re lived, one roll-torn, steak-smeared, custard-slick chapter at a time.
Address: 66 W Kinzie St, Chicago, IL 60654
Phone: (312) 284-4990