Most east-coasters can agree: Philadelphia has a gritty charm that New York, with all its brilliant light and deep dark, does not.
My weekend in Philly was spent with a sometimes-pal/sometimes-lover now happily entrenched in Penn's pseudo-Ivy academic lifestyle. (Think: big, rambling student houses, stacks of beer bottles, grad students nuzzling and talking politics over flickering candles.) There's an aesthetic I like here. It's punky, leisurely, academic, but still warm and active.
Arriving on a sunny autumn Saturday, I took a stroll with Pal on the lovely
Schuykill River, along whose banks twenty-somethings were picnicking and racing bikes. Then we went to the romantic Philadelphia Museum of Art (perhaps best known as the building attached to Rocky Balboa's running steps). The museum is worth going to if you're a fan of Americana - true to form, I particularly liked the Warholian pop-era collection, while Pal preferred the masculine American realists, like hometown hero
Thomas Eakins. This suited me fine, especially when we wandered by this lovely piece, called "Study of Girl's Head":
Pal says there's something of me in it - this is enough flattery to get me through early next year.
All that said, the true stars of Philadelphia's art scene, in my opinion, are the incredible
murals and street art that bubble out of the city's grit around every corner. New York lacks such a vibrant pop art culture, and it's a true loss. Seriously, how could you not love this stuff?
To me, of course, no city exploration is complete without delving into the depths of the food world.
Philadelphia is replete with competent cafes and coffee shops, but to find its heart and soul you need to stumble into some of the more creative, outside-the-box culinary enterprises. (With a near-totalitarian ban on the serving of alcohol, creativity often springs up out of sheer necessity.) The only-partially-gentrified neighborhood of West Philadelphia, according to Pal, is ground zero for young aspiring chefs.
With this in mind, we headed to one of the city's best-reviewed restaurants,
Marigold Kitchen, the brainchild of chef Robert Halpern. Halpern interned with celebrated "molecular gastronomist" Grant Achatz at Alinea in Chicago, and it shows in the food. I'm normally allergic to endless amuse bouche courses, stuffy
gelées and foams, but something about dining in a modest clapboard house in West Philly tempered the experience, and our smiley, pierced waitstaff were so comfortable with the food that I barely uttered a snarky peep all night.
After a chain of five or six amuse bouches - including a standout sweet corn bisque and a decadent brown butter ravioli - we settled into our appetizers, fresh off the new fall menu. The crispy sardines and pickled vegetables were both fresh, lovely starts to the meal, but the apples course, while visually creative, was a major letdown. Let's show it here, for its beauty alone:
Note the "apple caviar," presumably created with isomalt, the cute puffed rice and the apple foam. (For some reason, weird, tasteless powders also adorned almost every plate.) If this dish could pack more of a flavor punch, we'd have a truly autumn-inspired winner!
Happily, the meal progressed to rich, buttery entrees. I had a crispy squab topped with a rich foie gras ragout (I know), while Pal had beef three ways:
An excellent, and fun, meal overall. Highly recommended!
Cruising the streets of West Philly after dinner, we hit a classically divey bar nestled behind a deserted Ethiopian restaurant. It was warm enough to sit out back with the tattooed locals, drink a yuengling (Pennsylvania's uncontested state beer), and slow dance shamelessly to jukebox tunes. Yet another buzzed autumn night, out late, tingling with energy, color and sounds.
For those who haven't been to Philly - or haven't been since their eighth grade school trip to the Liberty Bell - GO! And don't forget to dig for those under-the-radar gems of art, food and drink. Thanks to the city's enviable attention to detail, they're out there, if not immediately obvious.
The onslaught of winter always makes me turn to the Velvet Underground, one of my very favorite bands, for that certain heroin-fueled winter warmth.
