Category — Dining Out

I have enjoyed a family connection to New England ever since my brother graduated college in the early eighties and moved to Massachusetts for his first real-world job, where he has remained ever since.  So, throughout the remainder of my teen years, through high school, college, and law school, and continuing today into my married life, I’ve been trekking up through the highways and country roads of New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut to visit him for inexpensive vacations featuring good times, free lodging, and great local cuisine.  At first, I went alone.  Then, I went with my wife.  On this most recent excursion up north, I went with my wife and my daughter.  Life goes on.

On one of those early trips, probably fifteen years ago, if not more, we found ourselves at the Atlantic Seafood Company, a restaurant in downtown Boston.  I had ordered a basket of fried clams, having been raised on those frozen orange boxes of Howard Johnson clam strips, which, despite having the texture of rubber bands, were actually quite tasty to my inner-city palate.  When the order came, I was dismayed to find, nestled among the traditional strips of fried clam, bulbous bits that came across as foreign, alien, and decidedly un-clamstrip-like.  I eyed my meal with growing suspicion.

Sensing my hesitation, my brother explained that these were belly clams that were local to the area.  Having not even suspected that clams had bellies, the concept was intriguing.  I fished a particularly large specimen out of the basket and popped it into my mouth, and,in doing so, triggered the start of a lifelong quest for the perfect fried belly clam.

It was unlike any other fried clam that I had tasted before.  Instead of having an antagonistic chew, the meat was tender and delicate.  The belly itself gushed when I bit into it, releasing a wave of clam juice and brine that was more evocative of the sea than any fried clam that I’d ever had before.  Instead of a thick wall of breading, these clams were lightly floured and fried quickly to retain their lightness.  I was hooked from the first bite, but also destined to be disappointed for years to come.

Ever since that fateful night, I have purposefully sought out fried belly clams, reviewing menus in seafood establishments and interrogating servers as to exactly how much “belly” was on the clams.  In nearly every instance, my order should have been accompanied by the tuba-sound of disappointment, as I was presented with plate after plate of sturdy clam strips, accompanied here and there by “bellies” that more closely resembled bubble wrap that’s already been popped than what I had eaten in Boston.  Belly clams may be native to the region, but finding true examples of them was largely hit-or-miss.

On our recent trip, then, to see my brother in Massachusetts and to introduce the baby to more family in Maine, I had fried belly clams on the brain.  I had done some research, which led me to this wonderful New York Times article on the subject.  To my surprise and delight, punching in the address of the Clam Box in Ipswich revealed that it was only a mere 2 hours from my brother’s house, in the direction that we were already headed on our way to Maine.

It was on.

At noon, we packed up the car and headed northeast, bound for Portland.  I programmed the address for the Clam Box into our GPS, and by the time our breakfast began to wear off, we were leaving Interstate 95 and cruising through narrow coastal roads on the way to Ipswich, catching fleeting glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean between the houses as we sped along.  As the road curved ahead of us, I spied a small, single story building shaped like a massive takeout box – a takeout box full of clams, to be precise.

Pulling into the sunbaked, gravel-covered parking lot, I trotted to the main entrance to find a short line of customers waiting to get inside.  The queue was not unlike the scene at Pat’s Steaks in Philadelphia, and it moved just as quickly and efficiently.  While we were standing in line, I craned my neck to review the menu, which was posted above the order windows, and which only yielded more questions than answers – what, for example, was the difference between a “plate”, a “mini-meal”, and a “box”? Chatting with the woman behind me, who happened to be a 29-year veteran devotee of the Clam Box, I determined that the difference lay in the number of sides.

We soon reached the window and placed our orders.  On a small whiteboard that was posted next to the main menu, a thick blue marker had been used to post the note “BIG BELLIES ON REQUEST”.   I asked the woman for the mini-meal of big belly clams, and my wife ordered a plate of native clams.  We shuffled into the dark, nautically-themed dining room and waited for our number to be called on the PA system.  The kitchen is fast, no doubt because they only serve a few items, all fried.

When our order was ready, my wife returned from the pickup window with a plastic tray that overflowed with huge plates of fried seafood.  As it turns out, ordering “big belly clams” by name actually did make a difference, as the clams in my order were a bit larger, belly-wise, than those that occupied my wife’s plate.  There was little distinction, though, to the taste – both the native clams and the belly clams featured a bright flavor that would be a revelation to anyone who’s ever been limited to frozen fried seafood.  These clams were the absolute ideal representation of what a proper fried belly clam should be – plump, light, full of clammy flavor, accompanied by a nice dish of cole slaw, with fries and onion rings on the side.  A paper cup of tartar sauce, spiked with fragments of sharp pickle, paired perfectly with every bite.

Traditions are good things, and perhaps there is nothing better than realizing that you have taken your first step in creating a new one.  This was a meal that was definitely worth repeating, and will undoubtedly become a regular occurrence on our subsequent trips to New England.  Our stop at the Clam Box served to bring me back to one of my fondest memories of the past, while making me yearn for that day in the future where I get to introduce my daughter to the taste of a real fried clam.

With a reservations policy that requires prospective diners to reserve the 12-seat farmhouse table exactly one year in advance, Talula’s Table continues to be one of the toughest reservations in the country – one that requires patience, diligence, and either a quick dialing finger or a willingness to camp outside of the store in the predawn chill.  Scoring one reservation, under any circumstances, would qualify us as extremely lucky – but having had the opportunity to eat at Talula’s Table twice in the span of seven months, once in November and again in June, is nothing short of miraculous.

But three times?  That would be pushing our luck.  This was our thirteenth wedding anniversary, and the last before the birth of our child, and by all rights we should have been planning an extravagant blowout celebration at a swanky downtown Philadelphia restaurant – Morimoto, Barclay Prime, maybe even Lacroix at the Rittenhouse.  But, in a moment of shared telepathy that only long-term married couples achieve, we had each separately come to the same wish – if at all possible, we wanted to have our anniversary dinner at Talula’s Table.  And, since an anniversary dinner isn’t an experience that is typically shared with ten other companions, we wanted more than anything to eat at the kitchen table, a private seating for two to six people that takes place in the middle of the action.

As luck would have it, our wish was granted.

Our evening started much like our other outings to Talula’s Table.  Having come in from the rain, we sat at a long table set up in the front of the store and dried ourselves while sipping drinks and partaking of  hors d’oeuvres.  From our vantage point, we were witness to an all-too-familiar scene, of that night’s dinner party greeting each other, mingling, and chatting excitedly as their sense of anticipation heightened.  Having been seated at the front of the store, with a generous cushion of space between us and the farmhouse table, I was quite sure that our presence never interfered with their experience.  In fact, if you were to ask me if I had ever taken notice of any kitchen table diners in either of our two previous visits, I can honestly say that I haven’t.

Once we had finished our starters, and the dinner service was ready to begin,  we were quietly ushered through the store, behind the cheese counter, beyond the threshold of the swinging door and into the brightly lit kitchen at Talula’s Table.

The first thing that struck me about the inner sanctum of chef Bryan Sikora’s kitchen is the quiet serenity of the entire scene.  You frequently hear stories of red-faced, manic chefs, barking orders at the harried cooks while the patrons in the dining room consume their dishes in blissful ignorance of the tumult.  The kitchen at Talula’s Table is nothing like this – it is calm, it is orderly, and it is organized.

As we walked through the kitchen, each member of the staff greeted us warmly.  Settling onto our chairs at one end of the wooden table, we immediately knew that we were in for a treat – having a front row seat to everything that was going on was a special, special feeling.  Sikora chatted with us amiably as he prepped the ingredients for the courses to come, and it was thrilling being able to ask him questions about the food as we watched and ate.  Want to know what’s in the sauce?  Ask the chef.  Right over there.

And that’s how our meal began.  We watched the sous chefs as they kept a close eye on an array of ingredients that were simmering on the stove, or baking in the oven, while Sikora tended to a cutting board of ripe summer tomatoes and ears of fresh corn.

I briefly recalled how hectic the kitchen at Django used to be, with Sikora and company spinning out dinner service for 38 patrons at a time, nonstop, from 5pm to 10pm and beyond, all in a kitchen no bigger than a small bedroom.  Now, Sikora reigns over a kitchen that is considerably roomier, where he and his sous chefs can concentrate on delivering an incredible multi-course feast to twelve people over four hours.

While the kitchen table experience is considerably different from that of the farmhouse table – for one thing, the kitchen is brightly lit, while the farmhouse table makes the best use of intimate shadows cast by the soft glow of an overhead chandelier, the service remains unparalleled in either environment.  As the dishes were presented to us, the server explained the construction of each preparation just as professionally here, with just the two of us, as if we were part of the larger group just outside the door.

Our first course was a Red Snapper Crudo, Cauliflower Puree, Nectarine, and Topeko Roe.  The cauliflower, piped into a circular base, provided an earthy well for the snapper, which was so delicate in its raw state, I can almost describe it as fragile.  The sweetness of the nectarine formed a perfect union with the marine saltiness of the golden roe – taken in a single unified bite, the components of this course melded well and were quite capable of waking up the palate to prepare it for the dishes to come.

Do you remember those tomatoes?  Those same heirloom gems, prepped by Sikora only moments before, made their grand entrance in the second course, an Heirloom Tomato Salad, Petite Sweet Corn Tart, Old Bay Butter Sauce, and Arugula Salad.  The actual dish deviated somewhat from the menu description, but its impact was in no way lessened by the variations – there was no Old Bay spice to be found in the butter sauce, and the corn tart was brought to a new level by chunks of goat cheese throughout.  The tomatoes, as fresh as one could get in August, were an appealing explosion of red, green, and gold.  Coupled with the crunch of fresh corn kernels in the tart, the entire dish was summer on a plate.

If you’re like me, for certain foods that you love, you will always remember the first time you had the opportunity to really taste them, and how much of an epiphany it was to have your palate expanded by this great new dish or ingredient.  For me, that food this night was the fava bean, and the third course is what introduced me to them.  The Hand Rolled Rigatoni, Maine Lobster, and Fava Bean Coulis was a relatively simple dish – a firm tube of pasta enclosed around some of the sweetest, most tender lobster meat I’ve had, all set on top of a forest-green puree of fava beans.  As a fan of broccoli rabe, I appreciate any vegetable that has a slightly bitter edge, and the fava beans delivered on this count, along with a velvety texture and a taste that evoked hints of grass.  I had tasted fava beans before, but only as an adornment – I had never had the opportunity to enjoy their flavor in such a pure, isolated format as this.

Following the Talula’s Table tradition of lighter courses that gradually escalate to heavier, more robust flavors, the fourth course was a Ballottine of Rabbit, Braised Cabbage, Spaetzle and Black Truffle.  The ballottine, comprised of boneless rabbit which had been stuffed and rolled into a bundle, had been braised and served with a rich rabbit jus.  The rabbit meat had a smooth consistency, not quite like a terrine, and a bed of spaetzle was put to good use, both to elevate the ballottine as well as to swirl around in the wonderful jus.  Earthy notes came from a hit of truffle butter and a topping of crunchy fried green olive slivers.

The last time we ate at Talula’s Table, I wrote about the amazing salmon course that was prepared sous vide.  At that time, I had images of a complex setup of precise heating units and immersion circulators dancing in my head, all perfectly calibrated to bring the vacuum-sealed fish to an exact temperature.  Having witnessed the preparation of the fifth course, a Wild Sockeye Salmon, Grain Mustard, Molasses, and Saskatchewan Chanterelles dish, I now realize that I have been overthinking sous vide all along.  At Talula’s Table, the sous vide process consists of little more than the highest quality ingredients, a pot of water, and a probe thermometer.  Yet, this simple configuration yields salmon with a velvety texture that melts on the tongue.  Paired with an aggressive mustard component that’s been tempered by the sweetness of molasses, the salmon was a standout presentation.  A delicately stewed cipollini onion, along with a smashed potato cake, crisp on the exterior yet soft as cotton on the inside, provided a nice contrast to the fish.

The sixth course was a celebration of beef entitled Caramelized Strip Steak, Smoked Short Rib, and Roasted Garden Pepper Terrine.  The strip steak was a straightforward preparation, seasoned simply with cracked black pepper, seared to medium-rare, with just the slightest hint of smokiness.  More creativity was devoted to the terrine, a block of shredded short rib meat encased in peppery Swiss chard, layered with slices of green and red peppers.

The cheese course was, as it always has been under the direction of Aimee Olexy, a perfect ensemble of ripened specimens covering the spectrum from mild to overtly adventurous.  There was a trio of goat cheeses, all local to Pennsylvania.  One was studded with cranberries,  another salty like feta, and still a third, tangy and covered in ash.  A Camembert followed, and an outstanding sheep’s milk cheese from the Old Chatham Sheepherding Company in New York.  A raw cow’s milk cheese from Chester Springs led to the last, and most forward entry, Birchrun Blue.  The accompaniments – a sliver of housemade chorizo, a smear of honey, some toasted nuts – presented hard pairing choices with each of the cheeses.

The dessert course, a Frozen White Peach Parfait, Lavender-Almond Cake, Acacia Honey Granita, and Champagne Foam, was a perfectly balanced ending to such a lavish meal.  The cake was a spongy disk that served well to soak up the runoff from the melting custard-like parfait, and the granita provided a nice crunch to offset the smooth textures prevalent throughout the rest of the dish.

So, is the kitchen table a better experience than the farmhouse table?  It’s hard to say, because so much of the dining experience at Talula’s Table hinges on the synergy that emerges from a table of really well-paired dining companions.  With a farmhouse table filled with close friends old and new, the experience approaches perfection, achieving a harmony of food and wine and comradery that is unparalleled in any other establishment.  But with just the two of us, sitting there at the kitchen table, the feeling is the same, but more intimate, more personal – it’s the quiet thrill of sharing the best food with the best partner that you could ever ask for, celebrating the end of one of life’s chapters and the beginning of the next.

At the time that I posted my review of Maia, in June of 2008, the sprawling addition to Villanova’s dining scene was on the upswing.  While I had some issues with the confusing layout of the takeout space on the first floor, the food was well-prepared, the bar and cold case had an admirable selection of craft beer, and I was looking forward to experiencing the upstairs dining room, where the considerable talents of the Feury brothers yielded, as early reviews recounted, some pretty incredible seafood dishes.

Alas, a second dinner for us at Maia was not to be.  By April of this year, two weeks shy of its first anniversary, Maia closed its doors.  There were certainly some telling signals along the way to the restaurant’s demise – a month earlier, Maia had closed its upstairs dining room and shortened its operating hours for dinner to only three nights a week.  Patrick Feury left to work full time at Nectar.  Terence Feury defected to Fork, in Old City, taking eight cooks with him.  Management declared that they were “reconceptualizing” the upstairs dining room and would reopen in the summer with a new chef and menu, which never happened.  A renovation budget of $8 million dollars, it seems, could not guarantee Maia’s success in this economy.

Maia’s loss, though, turned out to be Azie’s gain.  In July, Win Signature Restaurants, which oversees an empire of Asian restaurants throughout the area, including Teikoku and Azie in Media, unveiled its second Azie location, Azie on Main, where Maia once held court, taking advantage of the former tenant’s improvements to the space.  We had the opportunity to sample the menu prior to Azie’s opening during one of its Friends and Family events.

With the first floor space presently unused, getting into Azie involves parking in the lot at the back of the building and entering the space through an entrance that leads directly to the upstairs dining room.  The layout of the restaurant remains largely unchanged from when it housed Maia, even down to the long table that dominates the center of the room, paralleling the bar.  What Azie has done, though, is implemented its own stylish Asian design aesthetic throughout the space – subtle, yet quietly impressive.

We started with one hot appetizer, the Sauteed Foie Gras with Fuji Apple Confit and Honey Balsamic, and one cold selection, the Sushi and Sashimi Sampler.

There is something about the decadence of foie gras that is unmatched, and Azie does well by pairing the richness of this main component with the apple confit, which held a sweetness that countered the fattiness of the foie gras, and the occasional crunch of fruit that contrasted nicely with its velvety texture.  The balsamic contributed a welcome note of sweet and sour.

The sushi and sashimi sampler was a collection of tuna, salmon, and whitefish sashimi, accompanied by toro, yellowtail, and eel nigirizushi.  Each piece was some of the purest, freshest seafood that I’ve ever had, and it definitely made me want to book a reservation to come back and sit at the sushi bar, just to watch the sushi chefs work their magic.

We also decided to sample one of the signature sushi creations, the Azie Roll.  This was a concoction of spicy tuna, scallion, and avocado, topped with eel sauce, which was then topped off with some crunchy fried tempura flakes.  The flavor combination was incredible, with the spicy notes of the layer of tuna offset by the cool creaminess of the avocado and the crunch of the tempura.

For our entrees, we chose the 14oz New York Strip Steak, along with the Pan Roasted Halibut accompanied by the Lobster and Cheese Risotto, and Miso Beurre Blanc.

The steak arrived crusted with a nice char, perfectly cooked to order.  We had requested the House Steak Sauce, and while we’re normally not impressed with steak sauces, Azie has managed to create a sauce that complements the beef while representing the restaurant beautifully.  A combination of teriyaki sauce, soy, garlic, and mirin, the sauce lent just the right amount of Asian flavor without sacrificing the dish’s ability to showcase the quality of the meat.

Don’t let your eyes fool you.  Those are not fries on top of the halibut, they’re tempura-fried enoki mushrooms, and they were light and crisp.  I find it hard to ever write about a great piece of fish, because when done right, the quality of the seafood shines best when it is prepared with respect and not subject to overly fussy techniques and preparations.  The brick of perfectly prepared halibut was perched on a thick bed of risotto, with the flavor of the fish accented by a light beurre blanc with hits of earthy miso throughout.  Between the steak or the halibut, I envision myself returning to try each of the seafood selections, just to see what other wonders await me.

I have high hopes for Azie’s continued success.  Unlike Maia, which started out of the gate under pressure of an multimillion dollar investment, Azie enters the game with far fewer burdens, and with the benefit of inheriting all of the improvements that Maia instituted.  Plus, Win Signature Restaurants has already proven its ability to maintain five other restaurant properties – with the addition of Azie on Main, Win Somboonsong may very well be the Stephen Starr of the Main Line.

Last month, I had the opportunity to attend the Best of the Main Line party, which celebrated the winners of the Best of the Main Line Awards that were featured in Main Line Today magazine.  The event serves to showcase the winners of each of the categories, and although the awards cover the hottest finds in shopping, dining, and lifestyle, I was there intent on seeing the faces and places behind what Main Line Today deemed to be the best food to be found on the Main Line.

Upon entering Drexelbrook, the immense 25,000 square foot corporate event center that hosted the party, I was inundated with an explosion of sight and sound.  To my left, a Moroccan-inspired seating area featured pork tenderloin served over Jamaican-style spicy rice.  In the opposite corner, shot glasses were filled with a pillowy  rendition of key lime pie.  On the other side of the hall, a chuckwagon served as the cooking and display area for a wide pan of chili, served with all of the appropriate accompaniments.  So many options to pick from, and I had yet to enter entered the main event space.

With the elevated stage and dance floor as centerpieces, the band rocked out over the proceedings, while the throngs of attendees milled up and down the aisles consuming samples and chatting with the winners.  One of the first vendors we encountered was Margaret Kuo’s of Wayne, winner of the Readers’ Choice for Ethnic Cuisine.  It usually takes a lot of skill to carve a Peking Duck tableside and serve it in the traditional accompaniments of pancake, scallion, and hoisin sauce, but these guys made it look easy, even in the confines of a small vendor space.  A little further down the row, chefs from the Blue Pear Bistro were spinning out plates of their award-winning braised short rib with a sweet potato puree.  The short rib was so artfully prepared, I didn’t even mind sampling what would otherwise be a winter dish at the height of summer.

Over the course of the evening, I had the pleasure of trying no less than three different crabcakes.  One, from Patty Mac’s Cafe in Berwyn, was the traditional interpretation – a ball of crab and breadcrumbs, deep fried to a crispy brown crunch.  This contrasted with the other two crabcakes, from Brodeur’s and D’Ignazio’s Towne House, both in Media, which leaned towards more of a pure-crab composition, held loosely together with minimal filler.  For pure decadence, however, the lobster roll on brioche, presented by the Desmond Hotel, was one of the best samples on offer at the party.

Main Line Today did a fine job of recognizing new establishments.  The accolade for New Thai Restaurant went to Jazmine Authentic Thai Cuisine of West Chester, which represented itself well with samples of Pad Thai and a refreshingly cool rice paper roll spiked with a nice hit of fresh cilantro.  Alison Barshak was on the receiving end of best Brand Extension for her second restaurant, the aptly named Alison two in Fort Washington.

For those with a sweet tooth, The Best of the Main Line party offered a treasure trove of finds.  Georges’, having taken the prize for Best Brunch, made a wise decision to forgo on-site omelet prep in favor of  an extensive assortment of its freshly baked tarts, breads, and other goods.  The Sweet Potato Cafe and Bakery, located in Media, had the longest presentation – nearly thirty feet of table space, every square inch weighed down with pies, pastries, and cakes of all sorts.  A request for a sample of cake resulted in a hand-sized slab of creamy, layered goodness that rendered one unable to pick up anything else until you were done with it.  Craving chocolate?  The Painted Truffle offered samples of its handmade chocolate truffles, in such surprising and astounding flavors as Midnight in the Garden of Chocolate (70% single origin dark infused with vanilla) and The Holy Grail (caramel and vanilla, touched with sea salt).

Finally, the worlds of beer, wine, and cocktails were well represented at the party.  Victory Brewing Company was on hand, offering samples of their four top brews, while Iron Hill Brewery enjoyed its own corner of the exhibit hall, offering beer, pulled pork sandwiches, and samples of bisque.  Ron’s Bar and Grille, winner of the Best Beer Selection, lived up to its title by offering at least a half dozen samples of beer, from Stone Levitation Ale to Southern Tier Creme Brulee Imperial Milk Stout.  But perhaps the most enlightening, refreshing cocktail sampler came from James Kennedy, Teikoku barman and the holder of the title of Best Bartender.  His Strawberry Sake Mojito will cool you off and have you seeing stars in no time flat.

The scene was the same, but nearly everything else was subtly different this time around at Talula’s Table.

We were a group of writers, artists, musicians, and artisans, united for one evening around the heavy wooden table that serves as the centerpiece for this gourmet grocery-turned-private bistro.  The first and last time we were able to reserve this table was in November – given very short notice due to an unexpected cancellation, we were able to cobble together a patchwork of friends, coworkers, and internet acquaintances that cold autumn night, and an extraordinary time was had by all.

If that meal, then, was our unofficial “first” dinner at Talula’s Table, then this one was our “official” debut.  A mere 365 days prior, my wife had placed a telephone call at exactly 7am to place a reservation, and was fortunate enough to be met not with the expected drone of a busy tone, but a live voice, greeting her a good morning and graciously granting her request for the table.  This time around, we were able to give our invitees much more notice, giving our prospective guests more time to consider, to plan, and to anticipate.

Different, too, was the weather.  In November, the cold was unforgiving, and we had to hustle our way through the darkened streets of a mostly-closed downtown Kennett Square to reach our destination.  Today, in the first week of June, we found ourselves strolling along, our spirits buoyed by a near-perfect summer day and the anticipation of experiencing Bryan Sikora’s seasonal menu for the second time in seven months.  We were lucky to be lucky.

This time around, we had a chance to mingle before the start of the meal.  Since our first outing, Talula’s Table has introduced a course consisting of passed hors d’oeuvres, which only improves on an already perfect service experience.  The first was a chilled green pea soup, served in shot glasses, the verdant color perfectly matched to the time of year – it was, for lack of better words, utter freshness in glass.  Next, we were presented with small bits of steak tartare mounded onto crostini, which were so good, I shuffled over and popped a second one into my mouth when the plate was set down.

7:30 came and we found our seats.  How entirely appropriate that, on that day, the sun set at 7:35?  And so it had, and the brightness of the light that was streaming into Talula’s Table slowly gave way to shades of ochre, then deep lavender, then darkness, as if Mother Nature herself were lowering the house lights and readying the stage for Act I, Scene I.

There was, of course, plenty of wine to go around, with each party contributing one, two, and sometimes three bottles to the communal mix.  Only this time, we were all in for a treat, as the wine was not the only libation – our friends Ray and Melissa, of Bathtub Brewery, were kind enough to bring four varieties of their homebrewed beer to share at the table.  Melissa had even spent some time studying the menu in order to craft the most appropriate pairings, and did a fantastic job of coordinating the harmony of flavors.  I will list the beer that was paired with each course, with descriptions provided directly by the brewers themselves.

Our first course was Foie Gras Parfait, Rhubarb Glaze, and Crunchy Nut Granola.  Kudos to the kitchen on the presentation of this dish, which was a cylinder of rhubarb gelee, through which ran a core of creamy foie gras, the meaty, salty aspects of which offset the sweetness of the rhubarb perfectly.  The savory and creamy aspects of the foie gras-rhubarb pipe were offset by the sweet crunch of the bed of housemade pecan granola that lay underneath.

The second course, Crayfish Bisque “a la Sazerac”, Anson Mills Polenta Pudding, and Fava Beans, was an explosion of bold flavors contained in a dish that was meant to recall the flavors of a Sazerac cocktail.  The pudding served as the foundation of the dish, a delicate disk of summery corn flavor surrounded by crayfish tails and fava beans, in a broth finished with Pernot and bourbon.  A slice of the housemade spicy andouille sausage jutted from the ensemble like an tiny Excalibur of pork.  The spicy undertones of the bisque paired beautifully with the sweet and assertive components of the Bee Sting Ale: “The Bee Sting is a hybrid ale built off a pale ale recipe-base, with the focus on honey and spice. Chinook hops,known for their grapefruit flavor, and Amarillo hops, known for their orange flavor, were used to complement the 2 pounds of orange blossom honey. These ingredients represent the “bee” while the “sting” is taken care of with seeds of paradise, also known as alligator pepper. The result is a very clear, pale yellow beer that is both refreshing and complex.”

All Things Asparagus, the third course, presented three interpretations of this harbinger of spring.  Where the roasted asparagus spears presented the vegetable with all of its flavor condensed and concentrated by intense heat, the asparagus flan demonstrated its light, airy, and springlike potential as a souffle.  Tempura-fried spears preserved the freshness of the asparagus in a light, brittle coating of batter that dissolved on the tongue.

As soon as the Wild King Salmon, Smokey New Potato Sauce, and Red Trout Caviar was presented to me, I immediately suspected that Talula’s Table had started to venture into the use of sous vide as a cooking method.  The color of the salmon, uniformly crimson throughout the slice, could only be achieved by cooking over a long period of time at a set temperature.  Until now, I had only read about sous vide cooking, and I was very excited for the opportunity to try it.  In fact, I was so excited, I forgot to take a picture, so it is my sincere hope that my words do justice to this description.

The sous vide preparation exceeded all of my expectations.  The salmon was easily my favorite course of the evening, with a rich, unadulterated wild salmon flavor and an incredibly delicate silkiness that melted away on my palate.  The pure seafood flavor was only further amplified by the oceanic saline explosion supplied by the caviar, and the smokiness of the thin potato puree added an extra layer of depth to the entire preparation, while a cucumber mignonette lent the dish some lightness.  This course was paired with Dry Humour Dry Irish Stout, which was as near-perfect a combination as any that I could imagine: “Think Guinness, but immensely better. A low ABV makes this an excellent session beer, but it’s nothing to sneeze at – this beer is full of roasty, chocolate, coffee flavor. The beer pours black with an excellent black-brown head, and uses a blend of malts such as roasted barley, black patent, English Brown and crystal malts along with British Kent Golding hops.”

It’s funny how I read the menu, saw Natural Chester County Veal Cannelloni, Chanterelle Blanquette, and Ricotta Stuffed Squash Blossoms, and was immediately overcome by waves of anticipation not for the main component, but rather for the squash blossoms.  Squash blossoms are such a fleeting indicator of summer, it’s always a joy to find them on a menu whenever you can.  They’re so delicate, they cannot be shipped to supermarkets, so you either have to grow your own or find a kitchen that works closely with local farms.  Don’t get me wrong, the cannelloni were excellent, full of deep, earthy, meaty flavor, and the chanterelle mushrooms were a lively reminder that we were in the Mushroom Capital of the World.  But the combination of those delicate blossoms, piped full of fresh ricotta and flash-fried, will haunt my memory for some time to come.  This course was paired with Sweetheart Kölsch, “a traditional top-fermenting German ale brewed simply with wheat and pilsen extract and 2 hop additions of Vanguard and Sterling. It’s a very balanced beer with some caramel and fruit sweetness mixed with citrusy hop bitterness, as well as a bit of toastiness.”

The next dish, Crispy Fried Hudson Valley Moulard, Baked Beans, and Molasses, was an interpretation of classic summer picnic fare, and probably my least favorite of the courses because the components of the dish can rarely be made better than their standard counterparts, no matter how talented the kitchen.  Small mounds of coleslaw and baked beans accompanied a slice of roasted duck and a small pile of duck confit.  Both interpretations of the duck were very well prepared, with the richness of the meat playing well against the sweetness of the beans.

The trademark presentation of the cheese course did not disappoint.  In our Collection of Italian Cheeses, we were presented with a soft-ripened goats’ milk Robiola, Foja de Noce, Tallegio, Sottocenere, and a goats’ milk Gorgonzola.  As with every cheese plate devised by Aimee Olexy, each selection was outstanding in its own right, and taken as a whole, with the intensity of each cheese increasing as I made my way down the row, all of the flavors came together as a symphony, especially when paired with the last remnants of the red wine.

Our meal ended with a Summer Napoleon of Strawberry Gelee, Strawberry Rhubarb Mousse and Wine Roasted Berries, which was a straightforward interpretation of classic summer dessert fare and a wonderful contrast in textures.  I was grateful to see a berry-based dessert served, instead of a heavier concoction which would most certainly have interfered with my enjoyment of the peanut butter brownie that Talula’s presents as a parting gift.  Appropriately, the Napoleon was paired with Bathtub Brewery’s Hefe the ORC, which was “brewed with Hefeweizen yeast, which is known for its banana and clove flavors, but take the style of Hefeweizen for a bit of a stretch. The beer pours a nice golden color and is a wonderful mix of flavors.  Amarillo and Chinook hops provide citrus notes that work with the orange blossom honey. After the initial brew day we racked the beer on top of raisins and dried cranberries, followed by a second racking on top of orange peel and coriander. (ORC stands for Orange, Raisin, Cranberry). The end result is a wonderful strong Belgian meets Hefeweizen beer.”

We finished our wine and our beer as the bill was presented.  The end of a meal at Talula’s Table often resembles a high stakes poker game, with each party contributing their share to a growing mound of cash in the center of the table.  After counting it up, someone had the idea to bind it all together with a hairband, and the take, a short and thick plug of cash, looked like it should have been hidden in a mobster’s shoe.  Intoxicated as much with the company and food as with alcohol, we thanked each other for the lovely times and poured ourselves out onto the sidewalk to enjoy the cool summer evening, happy to be fed, once again, in the company of good friends old and new.

On a temperate summer day in New York City, the wind turned blustery, the blue sky transformed into a menacing shade of gray, and within moments, the heavens opened up.  The rain was intense, and the streets and sidewalks were mottled for only an instant before they became completely saturated, the gutters failing to keep pace with the rushing waters.  Pedestrians caught unprepared huddled together under the nearest available awning or bus stop shelter, forced to invade each others’ respective personal spaces by an Act of God.

All of this meteorological chaos was perfectly fine by me, because while it was happening, I was sitting in Katz’s Delicatessen, shoving an enormous pastrami sandwich into my gaping maw and tipping back a bottle of Brooklyn Lager.  We did not take an umbrella with us, but if there’s a place to hole up as you wait for a summer rainstorm to pass, you couldn’t ask for better.

In the weeks leading up to our trip to New York City for the 55th Summer Fancy Food Show, we had firmly decided that we wanted to make a return to this classic deli on the Lower East Side.  With our memories of our first experience quite fuzzy (in our defense, it was 2:30am and we had just emerged from a nearby nightclub), we knew that we wanted to experience Katz’s Delicatessen during the daylight hours.

The scene could not have been more different. At 2:30am, we were one of only a handful of occupied tables in the vast wood-paneled dining hall, which is decorated with framed pictures of famous people who’ve eaten there.  I remember reviewing the selection of items that is displayed on the wall above and behind the cutters’ stations, walking up to the lone cutter on duty, ordering our sandwiches, and making small talk as he assembled our meal.  This time, I stood at the end of a substantial line of people that snaked through to the front of the restaurant.  Here’s a helpful hint: each cutter has his own line, but most folks go to the line that is nearest to the entrance – move further into the hall to shorten your wait at a shorter line.  Almost every table was occupied, and when we managed to squeeze ourselves into an empty space, the back of my chair butted up against a neighboring table.  When I reached the counter, I had to raise my voice to call out my order.  I honestly think that it was the same cutter as from our first trip.

I made it through ordering the corned beef and pastrami sandwiches without incident.  I knew that I had a fifty percent chance of getting the next thing right.  “I’ll take one corned beef, one pastrami, and…a…knish.”  I had pronounced it “nish”, in the sincere hope that the ‘k’ served just as useful a function as it does in the word ‘knight’.

“You mean a “KA-nish?” the cutter replied, deadly serious. I was glad to have the counter serve as a barrier between us.

“Um, yeah.  That.”  He motioned me to the other counter to place the knish order.  That’s the quirky thing about Katz’s Delicatessen – if you want a sandwich, you go to one of the many cutters in the center of the counter, if you want a hot dog or knish, you go to the station at the end.  Want a soda?  Go down to the other end.  Want a beer?  Go back to where you ordered the hot dog.  You could skip all of this exercise by asking for table service, but where’s the fun in that?  Plus, if you go to the counter to get your sandwiches, the cutter will always provide you with a sample of the meat for your approval before he begins carving your order.

The sandwiches at Katz’s Delicatessen are immense, heavy with the weight of 121 years of tradition.  They are true deli sandwiches, served with a combination of sweet and tart pickles on the side and a swipe of sharp yellow deli mustard that serves to cut the richness of the fatty meat.  The pastrami sandwich is a full two inches of meat, precariously balanced on a comparatively small and thin platform of rye bread, its beefy edges crusted with spice rub.  The corned beef is similarly endowed, but with a juicier, fattier aspect that is characteristic of a superlative brisket.  As good as the corned beef can be, you can reach for epicurean nirvana by ordering a classic corned beef Reuben, which pairs the meat with a mountain of tangy sauerkraut and a layer of Swiss cheese so thick, you could ski down it.

The knish is a rectangular pillow of dough wrapped around a densely packed filling of potato and onion, fried until golden.  I highly recommend it if you’ve never had one.  You should be aware, though, that there are two varieties of knish.  The Coney Island knish is as I have described; there is also a traditional Jewish knish that is round and baked.  I tried one once and didn’t like it as much as the Coney Island, but you should taste one of each since it’s a matter of personal preference.

The last thing you need to know about Katz’s Delicatessen is this – they work off of a ticket system.  When you come into the deli, you’re handed an orange ticket, and as you order different items from the counter, the countermen take your ticket, mark it with what you’ve ordered, and pass it back to you.  At the end of the meal, you hand your ticket to the cashier, who totals it and takes your money.

Don’t even ask what happens if you lose your ticket.  You, and your wallet, really don’t want to know.

“Steak frites, please.  Medium rare.”  The words tumbled out of my mouth with all the weight of a commandment, an incantation that would invoke the start of one of the most wonderful and highly anticipated meals of my life as a food writer so far.  Was it really that good?  Absolutely!  Should you go there for dinner?  Yes!  Go right now.  Take me with you.

Stephen Starr opened Parc on Rittenhouse Square in downtown Philadelphia nearly a year ago, on July 14, 2008 – Bastille Day.  Offering seating for close to 300 patrons, with additional space for 75 more at the sidewalk tables, Parc instantly evokes memories of its mainstay Parisian counterparts, the brasseries that remain crowded and brightly lit, stoves hot and ready to serve, well into the depths of the post-midnight hours.  Having fondly missed Paris almost every day since returning from our vacation five years ago, Parc has been cemented to the top of my to-do list for a very long time.

And a long time it has certainly been.  I have made seven unsuccessful attempts to have dinner at Parc – that’s how many times we’ve found ourselves in Philadelphia and somehow managed to eat somewhere else, either due to convenience of location or at the behest of the people we were visiting.  Our busy schedules keep us from driving down to the city “just because”, so whenever we’re in town, we’re in town for a reason.

You can imagine my excitement, then, when I saw a spontaneous window of opportunity open up on Saturday, with just myself and my wife, plus the addition of the inimitable Amy Shields from the profoundly fabulous superband Mojo and the Helper Monkeys.  We were hungry, we were downtown, and we had nowhere else to be – so I seized the day like an obscure 80s movie reference..  “Parc! Parc! Parc!” I shouted as we navigated the narrow streets of the City of Brotherly Love.  I think I may even have made up a song about Parc along the way.  I was quivering with excitement, or maybe low blood sugar – either way, we were going, at long last, to have dinner at Parc!

We arrived early enough to have the fortune of being seated immediately.  As we were led through the massive space, I was impressed at how authentic Parc felt – the layout, tiled floors, dark woods, and zinc bar were all reminiscent of classic bistros in Paris.  We placed our drink orders, and, as I have practiced over and over in my head since first previewing the menu online, I ordered the steak frites.  Listed on the menu as “seared hangar steak, maitre d’ butter”, the description is deceptively plain for a dish that, to be honest, requires a certain elevated measure of talent to pull off correctly.  I’ve seen other restaurants offer steak frites, but compromise on the true interpretation by offering ribeye, or strip steak, or some other cut of beef that is more forgiving than hangar.  If you’ve ever worked with it, you know that hangar steak is a naturally tough piece of meat, and if prepared inartfully, can turn a dining experience into an event only slightly better than chewing on a wallet.

While we were waiting for our food to arrive, our server brought a basket filled with an assortment of bread – French baguettes, hearty wheat slices, and raisin bread, all accompanied by a crock of softened butter.  The bread, baked on the premises, presents a nice array of varied textures and flavors – the crusty, chewy baguette, the thick, grainy slabs of dark bread, and the sweetness of raisins tucked into a loaf that just yearns to see you return for breakfast.

The moment of truth arrived as my steak frites platter was placed in front of me.  True to form, it was unmistakably hangar steak – no other cut of beef has that same muscular, fibrous quality, a look that makes you wonder if you should eat the steak or wear it as a vest.  Brushed liberally with melted butter, parsley, a touch of garlic, and salt, the steak needed nothing else to become transformed into classic steak frites.  I wielded my steak knife, held my fork firm, and was reassured to feel the knife glide effortlessly through the meat.  Placing the first bite into my mouth, an act that I had looked forward to for close to a year, yielded an astounding burst of gamey flavor and a tenderness that approached filet mignon in its delicacy, but with the characteristic chew that can only come from true hangar steak.  I’ve had steak frites in Paris; this was no mere replication of that dish, no homage – this was truly a genuine steak frites in every sense.  The fries, slender, golden, dusted with sea salt, were served with an aioli for dipping.  The plate oozed with decadence, each bite as rewarding, flavorful, and satisfying as the first.  And, just like that, it was gone.

Other dishes proved just as skillfully executed and true to form.  A Trout Amandine presented perfectly cooked, delicate white flesh, adorned with slivers of almond toasted in butter and a splash of lemon.  Unapologetically French, there is little on the menu at Parc that would classify as light fare – even a Salade Lyonnaise comes draped with a poached egg.  But the poached egg is not alone, as it’s paired with lardons, that wonderful gift of salty, smokey pork fat.  It’s bacon taken to the next level and beyond.

As is typical with any outstanding restaurant experience, I’ve already assembled a mental hit list of menu items that I need to try on my next visit.  As the last dish that I enjoyed before leaving Paris, it is imperative that I sample the escargot, if only to have an opportunity to relive that memory again.  A charcuterie platter was a generous pile of cured meats, accompanied by pate and chicken liver mousse, presented on a wooden cutting board.  The onion soup gratinee, along with a glass of wine, would make for a wonderful midday lunch.  And was that steak tartare that I spied on an adjoining table?

It was the first truly nice evening of spring.  A two-day heat wave gave way to a dusk that was tinged with the smell of cut grass, the rhythmic chirps of insects awakening to their own dawn, and the longing of everyone who, bone-tired of a winter chill that had long overstayed its welcome, just wanted to sit outside with a cold drink and a nice meal.  As it so happens, that’s exactly what we found at the Four Dogs Tavern in West Chester.

There’s some history behind the stone walls and heavy wooden floors of this place.  Two centuries ago, The Four Dogs Tavern was a stable, an accompaniment to the neighboring stone edifice that is now known as the Marshalton Inn.  A few days earlier, we had made an attempt to come to the Four Dogs Tavern for dinner and drinks with our neighbors, but the weekend crowds had packed the establishment so thoroughly, it was impossible to even find a hostess to find out about the wait.  We left, frustrated, only to fall prey to a lackluster dinner at a nearby bar that, in hindsight, should have never even been considered as a second, third, or even fourth option.

Despite the initial impression, we made a second effort to hit Four Dogs a few days later.  Like a lot of things in life, it turns out that timing is key – having gotten there at around 5:15, we were seated immediately in the outdoor patio area.  By 6:00, though, a line of hungry patrons had started to form around the periphery of the patio, with various sets of eyes darting to and fro, looking for any signal of a dessert order, or a request for the check.  There would be no such satisfaction, though, at least not from our table – given the weather, the beer, and the excellent food, our early bird status had given us free license to linger and savor each moment.

We started with an order of the calamari, served on a long serving platter, crusted with parmesan, and dotted with remoulade and parsley pistou.  Far from being overwhelmingly chewy, a sure sign of poor quality pre-frozen ingredients, each of the tender rings was delicate and tender, lightly batter-coated and flash-fried until just barely done.  Despite the wispiness of the coating, the richness of the remoulade made for a deceptively heavy dish, at least when apportioned between two people.  Overall, the calamari is a pleasant departure from the traditional heavily breaded stalwart tubes that one always sees served with a cup of marinara.

What really made the meal, though, was the burger.  Described quite simply on the menu as an “8oz Black Angus Burger with Fries”, its unassuming title fails to convey the absolute perfection of what arrived at the table that evening. A pillowy bun, wrapped lovingly around a thick patty that was prepared precisely to order (an occurrence so rare in other establishments that I’m actually surprised when someone gets it right), with a burst of sizzling hot juices that run down your wrist on your first mouthful, and the crusty char that is characteristic of the best tavern burgers around.  This is why I would be a miserable failure of a vegetarian.  Some cultures worship cows as sacred beings; I worship cows because they are delicious.  Is this the best burger in Chester County?  It may very well be.

The fries are worth a mention, for the sole reason that they reminded me of the fries that they used to serve at Veterans Stadium – crisp, thin, and not at all greasy, and not at all like what is served today at Citizens Bank Park.

The quality of this meal went a long way towards convincing me that, one day soon, we need to book a reservation at the Marshalton Inn for dinner.  If the kitchen can be so artful in its execution of a simple grilled burger and fries, I’m intrigued by the possibilities presented by the higher end menu items that are served across the parking lot.  But, before that day comes, I suspect that I’ll be having quite a few more burgers at the Four Dogs Tavern.

You wouldn’t expect a birthday party for a six year old to include house-cured duck prosciutto and steak tartare, but then again, it’s not every day that a restaurant has a birthday party.

We had the fortune of being invited to the sixth anniversary birthday party for Alison at Blue Bell, Chef Alison Barshak’s second venture since her return to the Philadelphia area in 2001.  As the sunlight of late afternoon faded into an early evening dusk, we mingled among roughly a hundred friends, family, and associates, all of whom had come to celebrate the restaurant’s entry into its sixth year.  That, and also the pig.

That’s where this story actually begins, with a tweet about a pig.  On Twitter, Chef Barshak had started following me, and having heard a great many good things about her, I followed her back.  Over the course of a week or so, I followed her updates and watched with interest as she started mentioning the preparations for this party.  She noted that they were pit roasting a whole pig for the event – an exchange of DMs led to an invitation to join the fete.

We arrived right at 5pm to find Alison at Blue Bell nearly empty – the kitchen was in its final moments of preparation, and guests who shared our sense of timing were standing around making small talk.  We were offered our choice of sangria or beer, and we settled into a table, nursing our drinks while partaking of pita wedges and hummus, only a mere preview of what was soon to come out of a kitchen that was clearly running on all cylinders.  By the end of the evening, I was glad that we arrived when we did – within an hour, all of the seats and tables in the small bistro would be filled, and latecomers would find themselves standing for much of the meal.

Standing turned out to be not as bad as one would expect.  Service was flawless, with the servers flowing through the crowd with trays of passed hors d’oeuvres like a performance of culinary ballet dancers (kudos to the server who, after witnessing my repeated failures in getting a sample of the bacalao fritters, made a priority out of dashing from the kitchen straight to our table when the next tray became available).  In addition to the constantly rotating offerings that were emerging from the kitchen, a long table running the length of the dining room featured platters of oysters and bowls heaped to overflowing with caesar and garden salads.  I typically don’t expect great things from salad, but the garden salad caught me off guard, bursting with the flavors of mint, tomatoes, radishes, tarragon, and snow peas in a light vinaigrette.

To date, I am still amazed at how well the handful of servers at Alison at Blue Bell managed to cater to that many people, with such a grand variety of dishes.  There were the aforementioned bacalao fritters, small marble-sized croquettes of fish, quickly breaded and fried, the delicate nature of the cod offset by the salty hit of a disk of chorizo sausage.  Wooden skewers bore small pieces of sweet melon wrapped in the house-made duck prosciutto, a combination that was only enhanced by a small dollop of mint pesto.  Small anchovies, known as boquerones in Spain, were accented with baby artichoke and bread crumbs.  The mozzarella en carozza were light pillows of cheese, breaded and flash-fried – the perfect food-on-a-stick, something that ought to come by the dozen in a paper cone at the ballpark.  Hangar steak tartare was served on crostini, topped with a sharp gorgonzola.  Bowls of lamb meatballs and tomato sauce were a surprising departure from standard beef-pork-veal combination. Small dishes served to bear a single ravioli, a delicate envelope of pasta wrapped around an eggplant filling and served with a sauce that bore the unmistakable tang of goat’s milk.

Among this panoply of treasures were more than a few outstanding preparations worth noting specifically.  Hollow egg shells were transformed into serving cups, holding an absolutely heavenly spring pea and parmesan custard, its foamy lightness tempered by the slightest hint of earthy truffle.  Shot glasses were filled with warm sunchoke soup blended with the irresponsibly decadent combination of foie gras and truffle.  Of these, I probably ate more than I should have, but I would have regretted it had I not.  You know those dishes that haunt your dreams?  I now have two more.

While all of this was going on, the pig slowly rotated on a spit outside, its skin having turned to bronze from the heat of the charcoal beneath it.  My overindulgence meant that when it was time to serve the pork, I admittedly wasn’t very hungry anymore, but when Alison Barshak presents you with something that has spent the better part of a day in the making, you don’t refuse.  It was an interesting choice to serve the slices of spit-roasted pork with a tonnato sauce, that concoction of tuna, olive oil, and mayonnaise that is more traditionally served as an accompaniment to veal.  I ate maybe three-quarters of one slice of pork before realizing that I had to throttle back to ensure that there was enough room for the cake.

Cake? Cake!  Of course, every birthday party needs a cake, and this party was no exception.  Like the prosciuttio (and, I suspect, everything else) the cake was made in-house, but that’s not really surprising given the caliber of the kitchen.  The really outstanding aspect of the cake, something that has made me completely forget mostly all of the other details about it – was the filling.  Running throughout the center of the cake was a layer of burnt caramel filling, the best of all worlds sweet, smokey, and dark, which pulled everything else about the cake – the frosting, the crumb, into a perfect synergy of flavors.

Happy birthday, Alison at Blue Bell.  You sure know how to throw down.

I’ve recently started contributing content to West Chester Dish, a site dedicated to all that is hip and happening in and around the quaint college burg of West Chester, Pennsylvania.  As part of this new gig, we were invited to a press dinner for Georges’ (formerly Les Mas, formerly Le Mas Perrier) in Wayne to preview their new Butcher Shop menu, a collection of supremely high end cuts of prime beef and veal.

Here’s an excerpt:

My entree, the strip steak, was a 14oz platform of perfectly medium-rare goodness, seared to perfection on the outside, a uniform crimson throughout, with no bone to interfere with the coordinated attack of my knife and fork. The meat possessed that telltale mineral flavor that’s indicative of beef that’s been aged.

My writeup of that evening has been posted to West Chester Dish and can be found in its entirety here.