Minor Gourmandry

No longer a diamond in the rough, Sovalo is still a gem

Inquirer food critic, Craig LaBan, recently released his "Bells of 2005" to highlight the year's restaurant reviews. Out of over fifty new-ish restaurants reviewed in 2005, only six received above 2 bells. None received a perfect score.

Scrolling through the list, I noted a couple of restaurants I had sworn to try. At the top of that list was Sovalo; coincidentally, it also topped LaBan's list with a 3-bell review. Researching further, I found Citypaper gave the restaurant a glowing review, and included it in their year-end wrap. Lauren McCutcheon of PW, however, was unimpressed by Sovalo's hype and failed to mention it in her review of 2005. Though fine dining is too expensive a venue to debunk critical controversies, the overwhelmingly positive ring of Sovalo's reviews drew me to the Northern Liberties restaurant (I mean, we're talking 3 bells).

Sovalo has the added attraction of being Philly's next (if it isn't already) boomtown. Just peruse the community's bulletin-cum-webpage, and you'll find several places new & old that are on the dining hotlist: Pura Vida, N. 3rd, Azure. There's a bevy of great coffee shops, one for every hip clique. Lucky for the expat Californian couple who own Sovalo, they nabbed the nicest building in the area. Several massive windows protrude vertically from the ground, giving the interior the illusion of being spacious. The color scheme is appropriate for a So-Cal Italian restaurant: sleek blacks, midnight maroons, wood floors, and floral upholstered walls. Each table is dimly lit by a sole candle (bloggers beware, your photos will suck).

The monthly menu is composed of four sections: Antipasta, Pasta, Secondi, and Contorni (vegetables & sides); and this month, "Gennaio," is overwhelmed with attractve options. I appreciated the careful pairing of ingredients for the menu's several salads. Rarely has a salad selection distracted me from the rest of the appetizers. I decided upon the Blood orange, pistachio, and watercress salad (8.95), which came atop a thin mat of sliced sopressata. The salad was dressed with no more than a simple oil, but the rich oil of the roast pistachios and dripping juice of the blood orange slices provided more than enough dressing. The sopressata was wowing, due to its encompassing flavor, which included the citrus flavor of the blood orange. Want to avoid the leaf? My second choice was easily the mouth-wateringly attractive Sweet breads and chanterelles with apple mantecato and pomegranate.

For a second course, the decision fell between the heartier Secondi section (Braised pork shoulder, mushroom-stuffed quail), or the enticing Pasta one. One look at the Bartlett pear, onion, and fontina ravioli and the menu was shut. Every element I could ask for in a filled-pasta was present: a bold cheese, toothable but not tough pasta, and an intriguing filling The slightly sour caramel of the onion and the sweet pear bits caused me to sigh in delight. The pasta packets were surrounded by a brown butter sauce spiked with crisped bits of sage. (And you thought the dish couldn't get any better? $13.95)

Replacing my white pasta plate was the menu for the final course: Dolci. The selections are more complementary than supplementarty, as Sovalo has no pastry chef and therefore avoids that fields grandeur. Still..(options...). I selected the Florentine Hot Chocolate. The oblong plate came with a palm-sized cup of melted bittersweet chocolate and a duo of Amaretti and almond biscotti. The 8oz cup held an intense bittersweet chocolate liquid - no compaints on flavor - with the consistency of slightly gloopy coffee. The hot water (no milk here) only partially melted the blocks of chocolate, giving the drink its disappointing texture. Though not all reviewers were equally impressed, the low-rise Chocolate Hazelnut Torta dolloped with whipped cinnamon marscapone pleasured the palates of my two dining partners.

It's not hard to tell why Sovalo had LaBan ringing a trio bells: the location, the nuance (slates of freshly baked bread and herbed butter), and the desire (the owners make sure the waitstaff is convincingly concerned). The menu is endlessly attractive, though not particularly daring, and well-priced for the care and quality. Simply put, Sovalo is a restaurant to get excited about. Spread the word.

Location: 702 N. Second St. (Philadelphia, PA 19123)

For Reservations: 215-413-7770

From "Oh Mercy!" to Mercer (Cafe)

On the tip of PW writer Lauren McCutcheon, I traveled to 2619 Westmoreland St -- the wrong 2619 Westmoreland St. Thanks to my cursory mapping, I landed myself and my dining partner in great peril, or so we thought. Suffice it to say the nearest thing to a cafe from this Westmoreland St. was a McDonald's with outdoor seating (no offense).

After this stress-inducing mishap, we made our way to the correct street in Port Richmond, a section of North Philly that's a stonesthrow from I-95. This part of the city is a far cry from Rittenhouse Square, but as a close appendage to Center City, Port Richmond's cheap real estate must be attracting some new commuters and entrepreneurs.

Mercer Cafe's presence is certainly a sign that things are looking up. The cafe would be a nice fit for any small town -- I'm actually quite jealous. It's friendly sign and bright striped awning give it a precious appeal. When we arrived at 11:40, still planning on breakfast, the place was filled accept for two long family-style tables. And when I say family-style, I really mean six strangers sitting  in close proximity.

Despite our late arrival, all breakfast items were still available. The menu opens with a selection of sandwiches, numbered from 32 to 56 (don't ask me why), plus chalkboard specials. The last two pages were filled with morning diner fare -- eggs, meats, potatoes, waffles, and pancakes. Along with those typical selections, one of two chalkboards was filled with more upscale breakfast choices. Out of those, the marscapone French toast jumped out as a sure bet, and the chocolate chip pancakes and crab, asparagus, and mozzarella omelet sounded nearly as alluring. Since I'm not a fan of chocolate in the morning, and because I've been duped by fanciful omelets before, I ordered the French toast. McCutcheon's positive review of said omelet nudged my dining comrade into ordering the dish.

I should note that the wait service is lacking. Mercer is understaffed, a fact that is especially evident around midday. It took too long for us to get our drinks -- a delicious Raspberry Chai Tea and a La Columbe-press cappuccino -- and when delivering them the edgy waitresses nearly spilled them. In our famished state, the wait for our food was simply ennervating. Make sure to bring your newspaper and get comfortable.

When the orders did arrive, we (ok - I) could bitch no more. Mercer's cooks are obviously fed up with the boring same-old, same-old that is so easy to come by and so hard to avoid. (Good breakfast foods aren't all that difficult to make, but you wouldn't know it judging by the pale eggs and gloppy pancakes that most restaurants serve.) The crab, asparagus, and mozzarella omelet had to be the most visually appetizing fried egg dish I've ever dined on, and the taste was no let down. The crab was juicy and accented the entirety of the egg. Quiches everywhere should envy the solidarity of flavor had by the asparagus and crab combo. And the mozz! Fresh, stingy, and fully flavored. The eggs in this omelet were only the glue that held together the ingredients; they were cooked just enough to keep a light yellow color without becoming rubbery.

My one minor annoyance with the omelet dish was a side of French fries. Not only is the addition pointless, but the fries were of terrible quality -- limp and underseasoned.

The marscapone French toast was illuminating. Mercer's version is the best classic French toast I've had, sincerely. The French toast was 3 slices of compact, not airy, challah that soaked up the mix of marscapone and maple syrup that was spread over top. The marscapone, which was used in place of extra butter, outweighed the syrup and defined the dish's flavor. I will never use butter again.

Aside from these two delights, we split a side of potato pancakes. While I was thinking flat fried hash browns, the potato pancakes actually looked like balls of crab cake. They were panko-encrusted, a reshreshing change, and were very creamy and spiked with scallion and parsley. They were good, but the herbed cream overwhelmed the potatoes.

So, although service should have been more snappy, Mercer Cafe is an exemplarary little cafe. The breakfast and lunch selections range from simple to adventurous, leaving fussy eaters without excuses. Even if you don't want to eat a meal, or don't feel like a healthy portion, Mercer's supplies it counters with Isgro's pastries (made-to-order cannolis included), cookies, and croissants. So what's left for Mercer Cafe to do? Open one in my town.

Location: 2619 Westmoreland Street, Philadelphia (Port Richmond area)

A Slice of Lacroix

Several weeks ago, a question was posed to me: "would you like to have a graduation party, or would you like to go to Lacroix." Moments after the query was broached we were making reservations. After returning from a dreamy experience last night (6/2), I reassured myself that I had made the correct decision.

It goes without saying that any food-loving Philadelphian sets the bar high for the degustation at Lacroix. It's indisputably one of the top three restaurants in the entire area, and likely one that'll find a place on national lists (as if it needed more accolades). I too expected a meal of fantastical proportions, but I tried to be reasonable - one can only expect food to provide so much transcendence.

What made eating at Lacroix live up to my lofty expectations was not the exoctic French dishes I consumed, but, I dare say, the glamour and luxury permeating the restaurant's atmosphere. Spending a night at Lacroix is partaking in the complete dining experience.

To my initial dismay, I realized that I had left my camera behind at the house. How would I preserve the meal for later perusal?  I worried. I thought about drawing pictures. After the fact, I'm glad I did not concern myself with materializing the sublime night with photographs. And you readers can leave the appearance of the foods up to your own imagination. Besides, a glance at the food's desriptions should suffice in causing you to salivate.

The dining room itself is supremely designed, with distinctively modern but unobtrusive architecture and arrangements. I was happy that the room was not all glitz and glam as one might expect for a restaurant in the Rittenhouse hotel. Those adjectives are more suited to describe the plating.

Connie, our warm and spritzy hostess, informed us that a tour of the kitchen was planned for tonight's meal, and that Chef himself had reserved a spot at the chef's table for our desserts. Though bubbling with excitement, I calmly agreed that it would be "wonderful."

Now it was time to open the Degustation Menu, and commense the feasting. After great deliberation our choices were set; I went for the 4-course plan ($69 compared to $60 for 3), due in part to a slight nudge from our waiter. In times of great celebration only true gluttony should be avoided.

For my first plate I selected a torchon of Foie Gras topped with a spiced bread paillette (cheese straw) and a side of Bosc pear moutarde. The foie gras's puck shape and pallor were more than a little off-putting, but never would I judge a food soley on appearance. But first appearances can be right: the first bite conjured a taste that was reminiscent of a bad goat cheese experience mixed with an awkward butteryness. The fois gras was simply overwhelming. Not even the slightly mustard-tinted pears could cut through the puissant goat flavor. You could say I was off to a rough start, but I did not let this misstep quash my high hopes. (Hey, we were enjoying the fresh metropolitan bread and expertly chosen libations.)

The Hawaiian Black Pomfret, swiming in a bacon broth along with a wonderful potato tourne and a pungent merguez sausage and a knot of pickled green beans, was just the kind of reassurance I needed. The pomfret, a tender mahi mahi-type fish, was expertly paired with a bacon-flavored broth. The tiny bridge-shaped merguez sausage packed a wallop of aged Spanish meat flavor.

The next dish proved equally as wonderful, although with a wholly different appeal. An artful swirl of sauces and ingredients mixed under two crossed Pan-Roasted French Quail thighs. These tiny packets of quail may have been apex of game flavor. The chef coaxed every morsel of stripped-pork flavor from the meat. There was no tough sinews or fats to chew through, just tender meat.

The fourth plate was less inspired, but just as good as any top quality byobs' fair. The Atlantic Skate Wing (like they really needed to say Atlantic) was lightly pan-seared so that each side had a nice tan. Skate usually has a mouthfeel like flounder, but Lacroix's chefs' preparation made the fish even more succulent, with help from an orange jus, and delicate. Accompanying the wing was a two-bite milk-braised pork shoulder -- tiny, but each bite was very satisfying.

Now I needed time to recline and let my belly rest. No such luck. Minutes later our waiter escorted us into the kitchen where the eponymous executive chef Jean-Marie Lacroix was introduced. Before he saw us, I watched as he sat unassumingly in his foreman-like office, overseeing the clockwork mechanics of his white-gowned staff. Unlike some other Frenchmen I've met, Chef Lacroix was both modest and reticent; although I couldn't imagine him being so quiet when a cog slowed the prep process. (A few chefs emphasized, with admiration, his dedication to perfection.)

We were shown to a table adjacent to the kitchen area. The placement was almost surreal: the shake and hustle of the kitchen surrounded us while we sat suited and tied, pleasantly slurping and sipping. Adding to the oddity of the situation, in the middle of our dessert course, a tourist group of about 18 were ushered into the room. Their guide explained to them the areas of the kitchen and then joked, "we even hired a couple of models." To make the evening even more unreal, I was able to visit the dessert station and the saucier's station. The patissier and his crew were round and jolly, and even the overworked saucier still readily obliged to a tour.

After all the wonderful events of the night, the desserts couldn't possibly have lived up to the proceeding dishes - it's true one of them didn't. The final course is courtesy of Chef (or free), but along side the grand presentations  of the savoury dishes, the dessert selections don't make for a fitting finale. I would make this point without hesitation if it was a normal evening, but this night my dessert selection was accompanied by a flurry of extras: a two-piece chocolate set, several petit sweets, a scoop of Tonka ice cream, and a congratulations traditional petit four cake (which, it should go without saying, was way too good for such a tiny chocolate-almond cake). My actual selection was the Raspberry Tart: a finger-sized slither of tart was the base for six little raspberries. Thankfully, a dollop of lemon sorbet accented the tiny flavors of the tart.

I wouldn't have eaten more that night if you paid me, but when leaving Lacroix I wasn't thinking about my soon-to-be-grouchy belly. No, such corporal matters were of little concern - I was still floating from my French-themed high.

The Great Banh Mi

Vietnamese cuisine in Philly is typically associated with two Chinatown standouts: Vietnam and Vietnamese Princess. Other than those two bastions, Vietnamese cuisine is indistinguishable from the other foods of Pan-Asian ethnicities. And let's be honest, more often than not the Asian cuisine is simply amalgamated and labeled "Chinese" for simplicities sake. And all in all, the flavors look and taste similarly, right? Wrong. (Chinese food as we know it is much more a product of melting pot America than anywhere else. Good luck trying to find General Tso's Chicken in Shanghai.)

Since I too once whined for "Chinese food" when I really expected Sushi, I try to make an effort to weed out Ethnic impostors in search for the real thing, be it Cantonese or Vietnamese. That said, you can imagine my radar blipped wildly when I first heard the mention of the Vietnamese Hoagie. A few months back, a few eGulleters in the Philadelphia forum announced they were currently in search for the best Vietnamese hoagie in town. After skimming through a few posts - some arguments over certain vender's merits ($4.25 was "too expensive"), and a pair of fond obloquies - I decided to set out to taste one of these great Bahn Mis.

It just so happened that while I was passing through the Italian Market to reach a restaurant supply store, I came upon a smear of a cafe. A small plastic sign above the entranceway read Cafe Nhu Y (pronounce it I cannot). I pushed through the front door and smack in front of me was the counter, behind which an older man sat smiling. I looked passed him and my eyes met the man's wife, who was using a tiny vegetable peeler to slice the skin off of the largest cucumber known to man. Odd indeed. On my right was a plastic board lettered with the menu. Each of the items started with the two words, Banh Mi, and then were followed by a few more Vietnamese words with accents over every syllable. Underneath the Vietnamese word was a pithy American translation, i.e. Banh Mi Bi - Shredded Pork Hoagie.

Underneath the Banh Mi Thit Nguoi I found the two words I really wanted to see: Vietnamese Hoagie. I ordered up one of those without bothering to ask for further description. I doubted the old man and I could communicate properly anyway. I watched as the woman stopped peeling the monstrous cucumber to ready the sandwiches fix-ins. Meanwhile, the man grabbed a long and skinny baguette and threw it underneath a make-shift panini grill. Minutes later, the baguette was removed and some mayonnaise-like sauce was squirted on before the vegetables and meats were carefully arranged. The process was slow, but I appreciated the care the couple put into the sandwich. I almost felt guilty as I handed the smiling old man my $3.35 to pay for the hoagie and a one-dollar "white gourd drink."

Right away I bit into the baguette, which was as soft as I could've wished on the inside and perfectly crunchy on the out. Despite mostly being uncooked, the julienned vegetables on the hoagie were awesome, crunchy and very fresh. The two meats, one of which was very likely a thin-sliced tofu, were also very flavorful. Tying the sandwich all together was a sprig of cilantro and the spicey-sweet mayonnaise sauce. The old man had applied just the right amount to wet your taste buds without making the sandwich soggy like so many vinaigrettes do. I was seriously blown-away. I wasn't expecting it to be this good, no way. And it was only $2.25! I could have one of them every day and always be satisfied. Light yet satisfying, simple yet DELICIOUS.

Location: 802 Christian Street

[Edited and Updated: Bahn to Banh. Check out this great link for a more researched article - Banh Mi to you. I went to a rival - in an American capitalistic sense - bakery for another type of hoagie. Pics in Local Philly Eats album]

Nan Restaurant

"This is why Philly is so fat" read a quip under Nan's 2005 Zagat rating. Hmm...I guess that's high praise, but such a theory could be applied to McDonald's as well. Maybe they use too much butter. Exiting the Sino-French enclave, I drew my conclusion. Yes, the chef uses lots of butter, and no, it won't keep you from licking your plate.

Nan isn't located in the most inviting part of the city. Even more odd is its corner location, more reminiscent of a deli locale than an upscale restaurant's. Really, that's all beside the point. Nan has reigned on that spot for many years, creating, with astonishing consistency, some of the best food in the city. Once you step into Nan's demure white dining room, any concerns about your car's safety will be wiped away.

The restaurant's interior appears to have undergone some considerable renovation. Still, a budget can only be stretched so thin. My chair was somewhat uncomfortable, and the table was a tad wobbly. Annoying at first, but something that can be overlooked.

Moving on to the more important elements...The service at Nan is very solid. Our young waiter was pleasant and informative, and most importantly, he wasn't mealy. The restaurant isn't far from Penn University's campus, so it tends to be partially staffed and occupied by grads and undergrads. He promptly handed us the menu, which was filled with enticing options presented as simply as a roadside diner's: Pork, Venison, Sweetbreads. The blue-chipping present on nearly every swanky BYO menu in the city is totally absent from the menu. This typically indicates the confidence of the chef. He wants you to trust him with the preparations. And from my experience, trust me, you can trust him.

For appetizers, our party of three decided to split a Thai Beef Salad and a Diver Scallop Salad. Both were specials. One thing about Nan's menu, even their specials rotation, is that it never changes. Some see this as a flaw, other appreciate the restaurant's appeal to "regulars" (i.e. frequent diners). The Thai Beef was barely seared on both sides, leaving it with the intense incarnadine hue that probably would appeal more to hardcore carnivores than we civilized omnivores. Still, the flavors were very good, though the salad greens themselves added little to the dish. The Diver Scallops would be my pick from the two. Again lightly seared, the three treasures were soft but had just enough bite to feel substantial. The scallops sat atop radicchio and nice thick asparagus, and were surrounded by a thick beurre blanc -- intensely buttery. I'm not a fan of heavily buttered sauces (even though most culinary school sauces are, I appreciate it when the butteriness is subtle), but because the scallops themselves were not doused in the liquid, I'm not gonna complain.

For my entree. I chose the Peking Duck special. I've had duck that tastes like pork before; this was not that duck. I wasn't prepared for this succulent skinless treasure, I expected it to be more Peking-ed. The dish was loaded with a thick buttery sweet sauce (the waiter tagged it a "vinaigrette"). It was as if Asian and French iron chefs battled on my plate, and the French had emerged victorious. Diplomatically, the victors allowed for a slight spiciness and some soy to sneak in to the fruity buttery "vinaigrette." I suppose the Peking descriptor was also merely a  votive for the fallen culinary comrades. Whatever the circumstances, the dish layered flavors very well. I mean, look at my description: buttery, sweet, fruity, subtly spiced. As a side note, the entree came with a cup of root vegetables. This was more of an afterthought; the veggies were unexciting and a tad dry. I would've been content with the plentiful duck.

As married couples oft do, the two other diners in attendance split the Pad Thai entree, their all time favorite dish from the Orient. And truly the only solely Asian dish on the menu. The waiter presented the entree on two plates; the portions were more than enough for two hungry diners. They ate happily.

We decided to skip dessert -- instead we stopped at the Green Line Cafe to sip lattes before going homebound -- although the decision was difficult. Despite the pastries chef's absence, our waiter dutifully noted, their most popular desserts remained: classic chocolate cake, two types of fruit-based puff pastries, and a creme caramel.

The bill was higher than the menu led us to expect, but the specials menu tends to be more expensive. The appetizers were $14-a-piece, my Peking Duck was $23.95 (which would have tied for the priciest item on the menu), and the Pad Thai (menu item) was 14.95. Through and through the place is a deal. The portions are on the larger side, and the quality is superb.

Location: 4000 Chestnut Street (University City), Philadelphia, PA

Other Reviews: Philadining.com (very high praise), Craig LaBan (outdated, but still relevant - 1998)

Matyson

Most of the praise directed at Matyson is slathered upon their dessert menu. Sonjia Bidegain Spector, the sweeter half of the husband and wife culinary duo, is the mastermind behind the sweets, pastries, and breads. Although I truly quake in front of a good dessert menu, when I go out to dinner it's not to savor the coda alone: I want the entire performance to resonate.

But, times as they are in our BYO-leaning city, Matyson was the only place with a table we could book. Again, let me emphasize that I was not disappointed in our selection, I'm lucky to be going out at all. Still, the thought of shelling out for an entree course that was simply a $20-plus pit stop was one that left me salty. (Lo! In case I've caused you to believe a scathing review lies ahead, note this preclusion: by the time I left Matyson, the salt was thoroughly wiped from my frame.)

We arrived on time, thanks to some parking good fortune, and were seated with alarming immediacy - alarming because that just doesn't happen, now does it? The place was crowded, but the noise level was kept around a casual romance calm. We were greeted by a rotating door of waitresses; at one point we asked the maitre 'd to take our drink order. Our true server was spritely as she navigated the floor with ease. Her willingness to answer even our non-sequiturs was much appreciated: "Didn't Zellweger just look terrible during the Oscars?" One minor quibble (ahem): please waitrons, do not ask us how our meal is four seconds after you place it in front of our faces.

Right...on to the food. The "eclectic" American menu is categorized under the typical twosome: appetizers, which are a tad pricey in the $8 to 15 range, and entrees - $22 to 24, with the chicken pot pie bottoming out at $16. I suppose any price quibbling would be shortsighted, because although the prices are a tad higher than some BYOs, once you reach that twenty dollar plateau, what's a couple more dollars?

My dining compadres and I opted to pass on appetizers  in order to leave room for dessert (what, you think I'd skip out?). One compadre went with the Sesame Crusted Waluu, citing he was a sucker for sea critter's with odd names. The fish sat in a very tasty coconut curry sauce, with diced red peppers to add some pizazz. The flavorful bok choy also accompanied to good effect.

The female in the group went with the Chicken Pot Pie, 'cause if the chef has the gall to stick it next to Waluu, it's gotta be good. Correct assumption. Thyme roasted root vegetables and unbelievably succulent chicken, simmered together in a thick pie crust (courtesy of missus, I presume).

Finally, I chose the Pan Seared Bronzino. And my conclusion - I think we are misdirecting some of our praise. The dish masterfully combined some simple flavors, allowing each to shine separately while adding a dimension to the dish as a whole. A sweet white anchovy sat atop two hefty pieces of Bronzino (a "striped bass-type body and taste," we were informed), giving an initial salty burst, as if to say "prepare your buds for anything!" To balance the sweetness was the punch of garlic and olives. A mild red pepper sauce underlined all the flavors and limited their overpowering potential. Sounds crazy, I know, I didn't believe it myself - a plate with thematic elements. Whatever Chef Spector did, it worked.

And then came dessert. The menu aimed to please all palettes, ranging from the decadent (a Bittersweet Chocolate Brownie Semifreddo), to the embellished familiar (Rustic Apple gallette [sic]). I went with the Chocolate Hazelnut Truffle Tart, deciding that passing on the appetizers left enough room in my stomach for a rich finale. I expected something with a nice crust of some sort, but this tart had little flour; thought the baked exterior gave it a nice crisp brownie-like crust. The tart had a strong chocolate flavor, but not overwhelming thanks to the hazelnut (although I can't say I tasted more than a hint). I really enjoyed how the tart held together, but oozed like a truffle when cut. A scoop of brown sugar ice cream sat atop the warm dessert and melted slowly into the tart as I blissfully ate.

My fellow dinners opted to split the Lemon Soufflé Tart, citing that it was intensely tart, but not oft-putting. It certainly looked very impressive. Desserts were a reasonable $7.

If you need any more reason to make your way down to Matyson, then you need to lower your standards a tad. The meal was no fantasy fulfilling repast, but it was damn near flawless.

Lauren McCutcheon's review for Philadelphia Weekly

Craig LaBan's review for the Inquirer

Location: 19th Street, between Market and Chestnut

The Best Damn Cannoli

I really like Italian Pastry Shops, at least more than I ever thought I would. I used to loathe their tendency to over-cream and over-frost, and found their liberal use of nuts unappetizing. And then I went to Isgro's Bakery in the Italian Market. Down to their smallest cookie, Isgro's does it up right. They take pride in each of their glorious creations and should be the paragon of quality control for other Italian shops. While it's still true that many Italian pastries tend to overwhelm, there is serious quality in many of the desserts - Sfogliatella (my favorite! "svoy-a-dell"), Napoleon (although I prefer the French version, mille-feuille), Tiramisu, Almond Macaroons... But the most recognizable and most beloved of all Italian sweets, the cannoli, always seemed a bit overrated, subject to many of the criticisms above.

My first ever cannoli, which was purchased at Termini Bro's in the Reading Terminal, reinforced my uncertainty. "What makes these so damn popular?" I thought, as the crisp shell cracked and the thick ricotta oozed onto my pants. In all fairness, I didn't altogether abandon cannolis. A few months later (the past Christmas), after hearing a couple of rave reviews from Chowhounds and EGulleters, I ventured into the depths of South Philly to give a little place called Varallo Bro's a try. I was actually headed to Potito's, which had just been featured in Rick Nichol's Inquirer column, but it was close to Christmas and the place was hopping. Varallo Bro's was busy, but the line was manageable. I approached the counter worrying that my typical vacillation in front of sweets would incur some South Philly 'tude, so I quickly ordered one ricotta cannoli and got the hell outta the way.

Walking along 10th and Morris, I took my first bite. Heaven I tell ya! Then I knew, I understood why it was advisable to "leave the gun" and "take the cannoli." The shell was light and layered, but crispy enough to sink your teeth into, and best of all the damn thing held up. The ricotta filling was great, not too sweet or overwhelming, and studded with ginger bits and mini-chocolate chips. I was loving every minute. Only one question mark remained, why hadn't I bought a dozen?

Competition: With DeSanka, a sweet little mum-and-pup joint with supposedly knock-out cannolis, closed for business, the competition in South Philly really boils down to Isgro's, Potito's, and Varallo Bro's (I may need to taste a Termini Bro's fresh from their main location on 8th before I fully exclude them). Thanks to VB's, I rank cannolis right up there with sfogliatella as my favorite Italian treat, so I'm sure I will eventually hit all of those spots. If I didn't, I just wouldn't be the Minor Gourmand, now would I?

Varallo Brother's: 1639 S 10th St. (off Morris Ave in South Philly)

Potito's: 1614 W Ritner Street

Isgro's: 1009 Christian St. (off Italian Market)

UPDATE: I just returned from Isgro's; this post elicited a cannoli craving so I decided to treat myself  - let's call it a consolation prize for completing the literature exam I took at eight this morning. Sadly, their "best" cannoli reminded me more of my Termini experience: shell like a pizelle cookie, too-rich ricotta cream. Yea it was ok, but I ate it with a raised brow and again asked myself, "what's all the fuss about." Maybe it's just me...

Sabrina’s Cafe

Before my days as a Minor Gourmand, I used to sneer at the undue attention breakfast received from health gurus. Most important meal? Whatever; best meal? Far from it. Nutritionally, I couldn’t think of a less healthy meal from my experience – fried eggs, butter, white flour, and sausage-stuffed arteries. When I was a wee kid I loved those mile high flapjacks and thick slabs of French toast, but soon a plate of pancakes only reminded me of the hours I would spend redoubled from all that maple syrup. Going out for breakfast became my least favorite of all meals.

I have since been edified that breakfast isn’t only a physically sustaining necessity, but one that can be truly superb. I must attribute the latter deduction to my first morning at Sabrina’s Café at 910 Christian St., an artery of the Italian Market. Now I’ve had some good flapjacks and some satisfying French toasts, but Sabrina’s opened my eyes to the new wonders of brunch and breakfast: an egg-white frittata with salmon, tomato, and goat cheese, an array of fresh vegetables and fruits, and a side of outstanding home-fried potatoes (so they’re not part of a “complete breakfast,” shoot me). Their creative offshoots of the typical butter and syrup rounds caused me to shed former prejudices. Ok, so maybe I was bound to learn that breakfast out doesn’t suck, and a meal at Sabrina’s is no brunch at the Four Seasons, but hey, it was a first.

Over Christmas break I decided that dear old Dad needed to be rewarded with a trip down memory lane in South Philly, and a stop at my new breakfast favorite was at the top of the agenda. Typically the Cafe is packed with all sorts – hipsters, socialites, conservatives (a few) – but it was a lazy Friday morning so we sat right down. Waiting for some service, Dad noted that the antiquated wall tiling and long, straight glass windows were probably leftovers of an old neighborhood bakery. I remembered hearing Sabrina’s was the spawn of a middle-aged bohemian couple, still the current owners, and the Mod tunes playing overhead remind diners that the proprietors aren’t just revivalists, they’re the real deal.

The waiter arrived with two menus, breakfast/brunch on one side and lunch on the other. He didn’t bother to point out the daily specials menu colorfully scribed over yonder on a chalkboard, but it’s not like it’s inconspicuous. The menu tries to take homey but hackneyed favorites and give them a needed twist, be it by stuffing it with mounds of fruit or substituting health-conscious egg whites while keeping the dish from dulling. Dad chose the two slices of thick challah French toast, ‘cause they’re just plain good. I urged him to go with the famous cheese-stuffed challah version or the seasonal pumpkin pancakes, but he didn’t think he could down them. After great deliberation, I went with the Egg Primavera, thanks to the abundance of market fresh vegetables and the ringing approval of our waiter.

Moments after receiving our beverages, La Colombe brewed coffee and cappuccino and fresh-squeezed O.J., two steaming plates were plopped in front of our famished faces. The kitchen must run like clockwork, because the dishes are timely but never look shoddy or rushed. By now all tables were full with the eclectic Sabrina’s crowd, from families to solos, so their wait may have been a bit longer. My Dad’s Frenchies negated his hopes of leaving without adjusting his belt, but he looked satisfied by his choice after just a few bites. My skillet-filling egg-omelet-like Primavera was packed with enough onion, eggplant, julienned carrot, pepper, and slightly garlic-ed spinach to make a soup stock. Aesthetically the dish was lacking, and the egg-only bits were not so appetizing, but overall lack of flavor was not a problem. The dish came with some LeBus multigrain bread and outstanding home fries – thick, salted, and topped with onion, not at all like the crisped hash brown versions I was accustomed.

After the egg finished soaking up the flavors of the vegetables and spinach, the Egg Primavera took on new height. Ultimately it was a great execution of a simple dish, with solid sides that make the price tag ($8.95) well-worth paying. Dad and I had no complaints. Sabrina’s guarantees great fresh food (entree and accompaniments), snappy and friendly service, and a spunky atmosphere. I just can’t think of a better place to renew your faith in that meal before lunch.

My First (and Best) Philly Cheesesteak

I have a confession to make. Despite living in or outside of Philadelphia for all my life, I have never had a cheesteak. In the heart of the Cheesesteak capital of the world, the place where every visitor tries at least one; where "Pat's or Geno's?" is a valid question to any denizen, I was an outcast.

I'll begin my tale by recounting a past experience. When I was around 9, I vaguely recall having a "plain" steak thrust in front of me at the dinner table. At the time I abhored the sandwich -- I readily confessed that the only cheese I liked was "pizza cheese," all other options were out (how far from reality that is today!). This experience of having a terrible plain steak (albeit one from a local faux-Italian pizza shop), along with my abhorrence of cheese in general, detracted me from the greasy logs for years.

Enventually I mustered-up the nerve to try a cheesesteak and join the group. I decided that I must begin with the best: if I did not like the best, well, cheesesteaks and I were through forever. I was prepared to go to either Pat's, Geno's, or Jim's, hearing that they formed the pinacle of cheesesteak goodness. But alas, just as I was ready to embark, Philadelphia Magazine's annual Best of Philly came out, and the "Best of" went to Cosmi's Deli (1501 S. 8th Street).
Pat's, Geno's, and Jim's received decidedly mediocre marks, so they were out of the question. Disappointed, I set another date. I just had to have the Best!

Qué es ese queso?

Last year I discovered something: Cheese is divine. At first I thought it was merely a great accent to salads, but I have learned it can be much, much more: cheese can constitute a meal! I never really thought a world existed beyond the cheese section of my local grocer - still, my shallow elitism caused me to accept nothing less than the finest grade American Gouda, hah! Now I would not deign so much as to gaze in its general direction (...some habits never die). In truth, I am too humble to ever call my self anything more than a cheese patron.

Anyhow...I decided to write this post in response to the recent tasting of a most amazing bleu cheese: a
Valdeon. I have tried English Stilton and Gorgonzola, but never has a cheese struck the right balance between sweet and salty, mild and strong. Maybe I need to try more bleu cheese before I can make such a judgment, but as of now, Valdeon is my new favorite. I found an article about it in the SanFran Gate, which you can read here (of course I google a cheese soon after after I buy it). I you have a chance to try this delectable bleu (similar, but better as you will find, to its relative, the Spanish Cabrales), nosh away.