Sam's Place

Tucked into a quiet stretch of Highland Park, Sam’s Place operates with the kind of laid-back assurance that immediately puts you at ease. The space channels a 1970s basement rec room in the best possible way—wood-paneled walls, flannel curtains, flickering candlelight, and a soundtrack spinning from actual cassette tapes. It sounds like it could veer into overly precious territory, but somehow everything comes together with genuine warmth rather than affectation.

The food here punches well above its weight for a neighborhood wine bar. Start with the rosette plate, where the revelation is a vinegary cornichon butter that makes you wonder why this isn’t served everywhere. The Japanese sweet potato arrives beautifully charred with a kick of heat, while the herb salad proves that some restaurant dishes simply can’t be replicated at home—credit the tart vinaigrette and addictive sesame-hazelnut crunch. Then there’s the bar steak: a ten-ounce bavette for thirty-two dollars that arrives perfectly rare, bathed in red wine jus with fresh watercress on the side.

The wine selection is small and natural, with nothing over a hundred dollars, and the bartender is happy to guide you toward something you’ll love. There’s no website, no Instagram, and the candlelit darkness makes it nearly impossible to snap photos—which feels entirely intentional. This is a place built for actually being present, for lingering over a bottle and letting the evening unfold.

Sam’s Place works beautifully for date nights when you want somewhere low-key but memorable, or for casual dinners where the conversation matters more than the scene. Once you find it, you’ll understand why regulars keep coming back—it has a way of feeling like your own secret spot.