I like this photo so much that I’ll start this review by giving props to its creator, James Muspratt. He’s a graduate student at Yale and has some great design and photography work online. Check out his site.

The thing I love about this photo is that it shows the back alley entrance (or exit) to one of the fanciest restaurants in the United States. It demonstrates that even a venerable institution such as Le-Bec Fin has something to hide.

What they’ve been hiding recently, according to the scuttlebutt around town, is a growing unpopularity and creeping irrelevance. So the owner, Georges Perrier, took action, remodeling the stuffy restaurant into a (slightly) dressed down, a la carte dining room.

Having not had the opportunity (i.e. the money) to try Le-Bec before this blockbuster re-imagining, I was a bit apprehensive to be among the first patrons of the new, mainstream Fin. And as if proving my intuition to be correct, my experience there was a decidedly mixed bag.

As lucky receivers of a very generous gift card to Le-Bec for Christmas (thanks mom and dad!), my and my wife’s schedules finally let up in mid May for us to go on the adventure.

So we threw on some fancy clothes, walked the several blocks to 15th and Walnut and announced our reservation to the waitress. The dining room was smaller than expected and we were led to a circular table in a corner near the front.

This was not a good way to start.

Not only was the table too big for a couple, but there was a completely empty two-person table right next to it. Thankfully, the maitre d’ allowed us to switch, but the damage had been done. I find that kind of behavior, where a restaurant attempts to seat you at a worse table because they think you won’t protest, just plain disrespectful. But I digress.

Deciding to spend every penny of our gift card, we started with $20 glasses of the restaurant’s own champagne. Though I am by no means a connoisseur, this was among the best champagne I’ve tasted: a light, effervescent delight.

After taking in the rather large and expensive menu, we settled on appetizers and entrees. Feeling particularly French, my wife went for the Escargot ‘Persillade’ (Almonds, Roasted Bell Pepper, and Capers) and enjoyed the little gastropods mightily. I tasted one of them (my first ever) and concurred - these were some tasty mollusks.

I, unfortunately, was not as lucky with my Seared Diver Sea Scallops (Heart of Palm Fricassee, Jicama
Horseradish, Mango, and Mustard Seed Vinaigrette). I chose this relatively tame appetizer because I was planning on a rich entree and could not muster the stomach strength for Sauteed Foie Gras (which would have been another first). Our waiter agreed with my thinking and the alternative, but for me, the scallops were a big miss.

The first problem was false advertising: there was only one scallop. The second problem was that the scallop was not particularly good. It was rubbery and not well flavored. The third problem was the taste. Maybe it’s my admittedly unrefined palette, but there was a slightly bitter undertone to the whole dish, which was not pleasant.

Before we get to the entrees, a note on service: it was just average. This is one area where we may have come in with too high expectations, having heard from at least one friend that you were “completely pampered.” Not that the service was bad, but it also wasn’t brilliant. The only time we got that sense was:

1. When the sommelier kindly allowed me to taste several reds before choosing a good pair for my entree
2. During the dessert cart finale

But I digress again - back to the food. My better half decided on the Grilled Hamachi (Dried Mulberries and Bulgur, Onion Compote, Balsamic vinegar and Champagne emulsion), while I went all in on the Elysian Field Farm’s Domestic Rack of Lamb and Crispy Belly (Baby Artichokes and Shiitake Mushroom, Natural Jus with Thyme).

The fish was disappointing, though I chalk that up to our high standards with seafood. We’ve had delicious fish all over the city (and just recently in Florida), so this particular white fish, although well-prepared, was really nothing special. The rack of lamb, however, was epic. I’m not sure I have the words to describe it other than that, but its succulence is making my mouth water even now. It was that good.

Similarly, words fail to describe some of the sweet concoctions of the equally epic dessert cart. There were at least 15 poached fruits, tarts, pastries, and cakes to choose from this world famous, double-decker dessert paradise. Our choices were delicately sliced and arranged on a plate specially prepared according to to our individual orders. From the little detail I can remember, there was a rich, single-source chocolate tart, a smooth cheesecake, a poached pear tart, an apple crisp, a strawberry/marscapone cake, and many others. If you have no other reason to go to Le-Bec Fin, fake it through the meal and try these all-you-can-eat concoctions.

With tip, we managed to get right up to the gift card amount, with nothing to spare. It was certainly a meal to remember, but not nearly the best we had in Philly.

That would come just a few days later at Marigold Kitchen.

It’s been a long time coming, but I’ve finally updated the list of my favorite Philadelphia restaurants.

Since I’m bad at decisions and love alliteration, ten has become fifteen. And why “final?” Well, that’s another story entirely.

The short version is that I’ve moved out of Philadelphia. Maybe I’ll get to the long version eventually, but for now, I will be bringing you the latest food news, restaurant reviews and random opinions from beautiful northern New Jersey.

I still have a few more Philly stories to push out before I switch over completely. I hope you enjoy the new list and these last Philly posts as much as I loved living and eating in the City of Brotherly Love.

Fluffy, subtly sweet and always delicious, pancakes are one of life’s simplest pleasures.

But lately, it seems that everywhere I turn, some ambitious chef or restaurant is trying to overly complicate the already-perfect-as-is pancake.

It started innocently, as these things do, with a few berries, some unique syrup flavors and maybe a chocolate chip or two. And then, all of a sudden - bam! - we’ve got nuts in the batter, mountains of powdered sugar, and not a dollop of good old fashioned butter in sight!

This madness must end.

Of course, I’m too much of a hypocrite to lead the charge, what with my eyes glazing at every mention of a “pancake special” at brunch. In fact, it was my saying “yes” to two such specials in recent weeks that instigated this post in the first place.

My first mistake was ordering the French toast special from Devil’s Alley, a hit-or-miss grill spot down the street from my apartment. Now, I know that French toast and pancakes are fundamentally different brands of breakfast pastry, but for the purposes of this argument, we’ll just let it ride.

The special was billed as being “topped with strawberries and blueberries, with peach-marscapone spread.” In reality, it was topped with strawberry and blueberry compote, a wholly different kind of topping. But the true crime of it was that the berry goop wasn’t even tasty. Both compotes were just bland and wet. The only saving grace was the marscapone spread, which was creamy and lightly sweet.

At least my second adventure in over-indulgent pancakism had real fresh fruit. In fact, the slices of strawberries and bananas were the best part of the Oatmeal Flapjacks I consumed at the Country Pancake House in Ridgewood, NJ. With a humongous list of pancake and other breakfast options, I was immediately overwhelmed. But instead of ordering a nice short stack, I went for one of the most popular dishes - the aforementioned flapjacks.

These things (four of them that spilled over the plate) were huge… bigger than any other order among the people in my party. Unfortunately, they just weren’t very good. These flapjacks were dry, not moist; crumbly, not fluffy; and over-reliant on the chocolate chips for taste.

And that, my friends, is why I will never again order specialty pancakes. Those buttermilk circles of heaven were only meant to go with two things:

1. butter
2. syrup

Far be it from me to deny the natural order of things.

I’ve been waiting for a serious attempt at high-end Indian food since I moved to Philadelphia four years ago. Bindi, from the people behind one my favorites, Lolita, has ended that wait.

The first thing you should know about Bindi is that it’s not authentic Indian. Just as Lolita heightens and contemporarizes Mexican spices and flavors, Bindi takes the same approach to Indian tastes. In other words, leave your  chicken tikka craving at home.

Again like Lolita, Bindi offers pitchers of drink mixers. These can be paired with either rum or vodka (as opposed to tequila for Lolita’s margarita mixers) and taste so phenomenally good that they are a legitimate danger to you and your loved ones. We ordered a pitcher of the Nimbu-Pani (Indian style pomegranate-ginger lemonade); I doubled the suggested dose of vodka and still couldn’t taste the alcohol. As I said, dangerous.

The food - that’s a different story. But before we get to that mixed bag, I feel forced to add a disclaimer: Because we went here over a month ago and the menu had just changed (and is not yet updated online), food details may be a little sketchy in this review. Bear with me.

We began our meal by sharing a delicious lobster appetizer. If memory serves, the lobster meat was stuffed in small tartlet crust and mixed with vegetables and spices, and topped with some type of jicama slaw. There was a lot going on but somehow all the flavors mixed harmoniously and we were off to a great start.

Unfortunately, the entrees didn’t quite live up to the promise of the appetizer. I ordered a pork chop that was perfectly succulent, but salty and over-spiced. It sat in a kind of stew of potatoes, corn and beans that was too often chewy and overcooked.

My wife fared only slightly better with a fish dish that was flavorful but not wholly appetizing. Whereas all of the ingredients meshed in the appetizer, these entrees seemed to pile on ingredients in a manic attempt to prove its “Indianess.”

Bindi certainly has the goods but it’s trying to hard. The place needs a few more months to gain some confidence and execute its concepts in a more satisfying way.

Unlike the night before, I had made reservations for graduation dinner months in advance. The location: Rae, a chic, contemporary new restaurant in the chic, contemporary new Cira Centre.

Occupying about a third of the ground floor of this busy skyscraper, Rae seems to be designed for the hip, rich after-work crowd.

Though not exactly a parental utopia in terms of atmosphere, our group was more than pleasantly surprised by Rae’s quality of food. In short, dinner was spectacular.

After ordering a bottle of wine for the table (a duty that somehow fell to me, though I wasn’t paying and my sommelier skills are somewhat questionable), we looked over the sparse but intriguing menu.

A full two-thirds of our party ordered the Caesar Salad to start and were quite happy with their selection. I took a different route, straying as far away from vegetables as possible with the Risotto Fingers. These little bundles of fun resembled mozzarella sticks in their shape and tater tots in their consistency. They were the perfect match of crispy, crunchy outside and tender but creamy inside. Rich enough by themselves, they were also served with a truffle/soy sauce that was richer still.

As good as the apps were, this place is all about the entrees. Again, half of the table overlapped each other with the Salmon (asparagus and dill). I heard several compliments of the dish, which I managed to verify through a small taste of my dad’s fish.

Although I initially ordered the Spring Chicken (fava and chanterelle), I went back to the drawing board after the waitress informed us that the chickens had flown the coop. As a remplacement, I chose the Beef Tenderloin (Rae bearnaise and red wine). It was a medium-rare masterpiece of meat, which I almost finished despite my stomach’s signals to stop halfway through.

More adventurous (and more representative of the playful inventiveness that chef Daniel Stern’s honed at Gayle) was my wife’s dish: Horseradish Tuna. Its preparation was undeniably unique. First, the tuna was just barely seared on the outside, leaving the vast majority of the fish raw and cold. The tuna was then wrapped in what looked to be phyllo dough, heated to brown the crust and fuse it to the meat, and then chilled again.

The tuna was then sliced into geometric sections and served cold alongside a cup of horseradish ice cream. Yes, horseradish ice cream.

I managed to coax a taste from my wife’s dish and the “hot” cold sensation was one of the weirdest I’ve ever experienced. It was certainly the winning dish in terms of adventure.

Buoyed by good wine, good conversation and good food, the whole table continued to dessert. The popular choice for this course was the Caramel Apple Walnut Pie. The ‘rents raved about every aspect of this sweet fruit treat, from the crispy crust, to the chunky, gooey innards. My mom and I, chocoholics to the core, went with Variations of Chocolate, which is exactly what it sounds like: a cornucopia of petite chocolate desserts. Coming off the high from the last night’s simple chocolate mousse, however, I was a little disappointed.

Don’t get me wrong, any chocolate is good chocolate, but the cookies, pastries and beverage that made up this plate didn’t seem to gel in the flavor department. It was a bit too complex and overwhelming.

Despite this minor setback, we exited our celebration happier than we entered… which is saying a lot considering the smiles of relief, pride and joy that we walked in with.

I’m bad at making reservations. Especially on weekends.

So even though I knew for months that my parents were coming for UPenn graduation weekend (where my lovely and talented wife officially became a doctor of veterinary medicine), I had not made reservations for their first night in town.

As anyone from Philadelphia can tell you, this is a big mistake. Restaurants are booked solid throughout that weekend as proud parents wine and dine their graduating progeny… and themselves.

Fortunately, this mistake was easily rectified with a last-minute reservation at Caribou Cafe. I had heard great things about this place but could never muster up the enthusiasm to give it a try, especially with so many restaurants ahead of it on my “need to try” list.

I’m pleased to report that only one visit to Caribou completely cured me of that enthusiasm problem and I’m well on my way to recovery.

When we arrived for a 6:00 reservation, I was happy, although a bit apprehensive, that the restaurant was only sparsely populated. We were immediately seated at one of the comfortable inner booths and were impressed by the authentically casual French bistro ambiance. It felt as if we had walked in off the streets of Paris. (Not the Texas one.)

After discussing wine options with our especially convivial waiter, the ‘rents dove right in with a couple appetizers. Mom ordered the soup du jour, which I believe was a cream of mushroom, although my memory is a bit faulty on that one. My dad ordered the Salade Au Roquefort (arugula, red and golden beets, sliced apples, roquefort cheese, olive oil dressing). Both were delicious and quickly devoured.

It was a flush of fish for our main entrees, with both my parents opting for salmon and me for the rainbow trout. Of the salmons, I enjoyed dad’s off-the-menu preparation (grilled fish, tomato vinaigrette, vegetable pistou) better than my mom’s more simple prix fixe option (which only came with tartar sauce). However, at $30 for three courses (or $16 for two on the lunch menu), mom’s pri fixe choice is a great way to go.

My Truite Meuniere (rainbow trout fillets, olive oil mashed potatoes, roasted red pepper, spinach, almonds) was truly out of this world. Not over-buttered (which is always my fear at any French restaurant), the fillets were delicately prepared and plated in a target-like pattern around the potato mound. The peppers and spinach were a perfect match for the fish and I enjoyed swirling my fork around the plate to collect all of the flavors in each bite.

Although I hadn’t planned on getting dessert, when the waiter suggested the house-favorite chocolate mousse (made from the chef’s mother’s recipe), I knew I was powerless to stop myself from ordering. After all:

1. It was chocolate
2. It was originally made the mother of a chef

It was easily one of the best chocolate mousses I’ve ever tasted, just edging out the one I lapped up on the last night of my honeymoon in St. Lucia (a primary source of cacao plants and, therefore, chocolate). The mousse was rich, smooth, with a pure chocolate taste that many mousses tend to downplay.

My mom’s mocha pot de creme was almost equally as good. Generally, you can’t go wrong with pot de creme (a mousse-like, spoonable dessert), and that’s why it’s offered so frequently around town. But this one had an amazing flavor and consistency that raised it above the standard.

As we headed out the door, I marveled at how the meal couldn’t have worked out better. And I also ridiculed myself for ever underestimating the ways of the Caribou.

I’ll definitely be back and might even try the escargot. Maybe.

Let’s ignore the fact that it’s been more than a month since the wife and I returned from the Florida Keys. When I look at these pictures, I’m already back there.

We had a ton of great food during our time on the islands and as you might expect, most of it was happily swimming along less than 24 hours previous.

The Island Fish Company

Just down the street from our vacation rental was an awesome little place unimaginatively named the Island Fish Co. We were treated to a great little table on the water (bayside) and basked in the quintessential Keys meal.

I had one of the specials: freshly caught hogfish with tomato, asparagus and a tangy bechamel sauce (pictured above). Even more delicious was my wife’s fish-of-the-day choice: simply prepared grilled mako shark (to your right).

Both came with yellow rice and mixed veggies. Both were perfectly prepared. And both were so tasty that I forgot to mention our appetizer: crab cakes.

While I didn’t get a good picture of them, I can still remember every moist, flavorful morsel. You’d think I’d never had a good crab cake before. And I would probably admit you’re right.

I don’t count myself as a crab cake connoisseur, mostly because I’ve had some dry, tasteless cakes in my time. But this one appetizer saved the whole dish for me. I will be having crab cakes again, but only near a coast.

Southernmost Beach Cafe

A few days later, we found ourselves in the land of beach bums, wild roosters and drunk tourists: Key West.

Right next to the Southernmost House (where we met up with friends and lounged by the pool for a day - highly recommended), is the Southernmost Hotel. And part of the Southernmost Hotel is the Southernmost Beach Cafe.

There’s nothing like a fresh fish sandwich. And when you’re in the Keys in the spring and summer, there’s a good chance that the fish in the middle is mahi (a.k.a. mahi-mahi and dolphin).

The Cafe grilled the fish simply, slapped it down on a fresh bun slathered with a mayo-based pink spread, and added some perfectly crisp fries. You can’t get much better than that.

My wife, however, would beg to differ. Although she ordered the same fish, it was placed in a more healthy environment - among the greens of a fresh salad.

Among the ingredients in attendance were apples, grapes, croutons, a tangy vinaigrette and plenty of lightly fried mahi goodness. It was one of the few lunches where we were simultaneously satisfied by our own food and jealous of each other’s.

Good stuff.

Kelly’s Caribbean Bar, Restaurant and Brewery

Maybe it was post-sunset ennui or the less-than-diligent service. Or maybe it was just too difficult to follow the perfect lunch. Whatever this issue, Kelly’s Caribbean just didn’t strike the right chord.

One excuse I can’t use was the “dining room.” Set among beautiful flora and fauna, the outdoor garden dining area was an amazing way to eat al fresco.

We started with shrimp cocktail, mostly as an excuse to try the famously well-advertised Key West “pinks.” They certainly were enormous, but unfortunately, fairly tasteless. They were also too chewy, leaving my wife to deny her third shrimp. Not a great sign.

To combat fish fatigue, I went with jerk chicken (darkly photographed below). Although it came with a tasty mango chunk sauce, the dish was only decent. My wife also ordered a chicken dish, although I can’t remember a thing about it. Also not a great sign.

The food may have been forgettable, but the interminable wait for the check (after only one cup of coffee and one slice of key lime pie) was the stuff of legend. We beat a hasty exit shortly after finding the waitress gabbing it up on a cell phone near the kitchen.

We were done with Key West. And it, apparently, was done with us.

The geniuses at the Key West Key Lime Pie Company came up with this beauty of a frozen treat and it’s the best thing since key lime pie on a plate.

Honestly, I’m not sure how you could go wrong with this process. Covering already delicious desserts in chocolate and freezing them on a stick just seems like the right thing to do.

I usually try to avoid food carts: those mobile metal eateries that litter city streets despite said cities having about a bajillion other places to eat.

Excuse me while I generalize, but I find them to be depressing, dirty and just plain superfluous food entities that prey on hurried and uncreative business people. In other words, most of us.

But sometimes, there’s a story. A story which floats around your office like a bad odor. A story that eventually makes it to your cubicle despite it starting in another department. It’s a story about The Cart. For my office, it’s known by an additional, crucial word: garlic.

THE GARLIC CART

According to the story, which had now taken on mythical proportions (at least in my mind), the garlic cart was an institution. The owner/proprietor sets up shop around 10:30 a.m. and caters only to an in-the-know lunch crowd, some of whom wait on line for upwards of a half hour.

What does this wizard create? Probably the tastiest, strangest and most garlic-filled sandwich in all of Philadelphia.

Now, I’ve only been once, but I’ve heard that the meal changes (if only slightly) every day. This means that you could go to this cart all five days in a week and never have the exact same combination of flavors. This I like.

I also heard that no matter how hard you try to hide it, you will smell like garlic the rest of the day after consuming one of these behemoths. This is completely and utterly true, as my wife could not and would not approach me post-consumption.

I chose a rainy day to try the cart, believing that the lines would be smaller and I would have an easier time ordering. The latter was a concern because, much like Seinfeld’s infamous Soup Nazi, the Garlic Guy (as I call him) has a reputation for impatience and surliness. You either order what he makes or you’re dismissed. No food for you!

The cart is adorned only in garlic bulbs. They’re raining from the overhang, overflowing the counter, strewn in every different direction.

The Garlic Guy himself was a swirl of motion. He’s grilling the chicken, he’s coning the pita, he’s spooning this in, spreading that around, and sprinkling a dash of spice onto everything. Every sandwich (or platter) is made fresh while you wait.

When I got home to enjoy the aluminum-wrapped monstrosity, I took a moment to take in the mess of ingredients:

1. pita
2. grilled chicken slices
3. falafel
4. a pink, minced garlic mixture (pictured)
5. greens
6. a brownish sauce
7. an oil-based dressing
8. a sprinkle of spice

It was overstuffed, hard to eat, spicy… but completely delicious. I’ve honestly never had anything like it.

Therefore, even though I’d like to keep this place a secret, I will divulge the garlic cart’s daily location. From 11:00 am until about 3:30 pm, you will find the Garlic Guy at the northeast corner of Market Street and 20th Street.

One more warning: don’t forget your biohazard suit if you have an afternoon meeting.

That greyish slab of meat you’re looking at is not a pork chop. It’s a tuna steak.

This particular experiment gone wrong was adapted from a Men’s Health recipe for seared swordfish steaks. I foolishly thought that if I replaced the expensive swordfish steaks with the affordable (i.e. previously frozen) tuna steaks, everything would be fine. Did I mention how foolish this was?

I did follow the recipe very closely, adding a sprinkle of salt and pepper to each side of the steaks before tossing them in hot oil. After searing them for several minutes, I flipped the steaks and threw the whole skillet in the oven for another 8 - 10 minutes.

When removed from the oven, I was disappointed that the fish did not look as professionally “crusted” as I expected. But the real surprise came with the taste test.

After cutting in and sampling a bit, my worst suspicions were confirmed. Not only were they overcooked (not a hint of pink on the inside), but they retained that unpleasant fishy taste.

Like any desperate cook (or politician), I tried to cover up my mistake. There was still some oil in the skillet and I thought it would be a good way to moisten up the meat before turning to the refrigerator and spice rack for additional flavors.

Somehow, I ignored the fact that the skillet had just finished a good 10 minute bake at more than 300 degrees and was therefore extremely hot.

So I grabbed it.

It took a split second for my brain to realize what my hand was doing. But that split second was all it took for the burn to take hold. I like to describe it this way: OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!

Ten minutes under cool water and a good numbing ice pack later, I was finally able to use my left hand to eat some of what I prepared.

The conclusion: my fingers were better cooked than the fish.

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