I’m all for populism, but I draw the line when the barbarians crash through the gates and invade what I like to believe is, or was, the last bastion of civility in this woefully uncivilized age. High-end restaurants were once oases of calm in an otherwise frenetic world, and a two- or three-hour meal at one was a chance to live life the way it ought to be: with a good glass of wine, professional and unobtrusive service and in the company of other guests who, for the most part, didn’t impose themselves on your radar.
And while a recent meal at Striped Bass was certainly very good-more on the food and wine in a moment-it suffered from the most common, heinous form of abuse this town can possibly offer up: people with no clue.
There we were, Ms. Martini savoring her tender octopus and shrimp cannelloni, the little pieces of seafood finding just the right balance between tender and toothsome, the pomegranate and whole grain mustard dressing framing those more succulent flavors beautifully. And there I was, spearing another forkful of toasted ricotta salad with thin boards of beautifully browned ricotta scattered throughout, slices of duck prosciutto salty and just the slightest bit gamey, beets lending the whole enterprise a certain undeniable sweetness and poached duck egg perhaps one ingredient too many-the salad was perfectly fine before I mixed in the yolk-but still undeniably decadent.
And then the procession began. Throughout the evening, slouching through the door like some sort of slovenly army of would-be gastronomes, proceeded one of the worst-dressed crowds I’ve ever had the misfortune of dining with: grown men in wrinkled, long-dead sweaters; women in sneakers (the Jerry Seinfeld kind); and later in the evening, miserably hunching his way through the dining room, a kid-probably in his late teens-in a blue Penn hoodie. He was surrounded by what I assume was his family (each one dressed worse than the next with a bent-backed posture), an entourage of slobs ostensibly livin’ it up for the night and blissfully unaware of how their appearance might be affecting everyone else.
Now as an American (and as a critic), I believe in equality-I’m mildly annoyed by everyone, my own friends and family included-but no matter what Mr. Starr’s policy, this family should not have been allowed into the dining room. Because as soon as they brushed by my table, I was taken out of the fantasy that Mr. Starr had spent so much time and money to create. And all the 28-foot ceilings and über-hip music in the world cannot overpower that.
Where are the fashion police when you need them? Where have you gone, Joan Rivers? Our city turns its lonely eyes to you.
The food was generally very good, though former chef Chris Lee’s flavors tended toward the clean and well-delineated (the unfortunately overwrought Philadelphia Cheeseskate notwithstanding), while Guillermo Tellez seem to lean more in the direction of high-impact and bold.
When this technique works-as it did with the cannelloni and, for the most part, the duck salad-it’s everything you’d want a meal at Striped Bass to be. But when it doesn’t, the dishes seem to sag under the weight of the very concepts that are supposed to strengthen them. The yellowfin tuna BLT, for example, is a great idea whose reality left me underwhelmed and confused. The pork belly (the B in BLT) was just as rich and succulent as you’d expect and fabulous on its own. But the pork overpowered the seared, sliced block of tender and deep-flavored tuna. One of them would have been fabulous on its own-and they each were made even more delicious when dragged through the smear of roasted garlic aioli painted onto the plate-but as a pair, they just didn’t work. (As for the L, it was nothing more than a pile of baby romaine leaves placed between the two proteins, over-seasoned, oddly dry and therefore ponderously ineffective in any other capacity than a conceptual one.)
On the other hand the wild striped bass kept things much simpler, and as a result, it worked as a fully formed and tasty whole. A generous filet of fish was plated with a decadent puddle of goat cheese polenta, a red wine essence and a sorrel pesto that added life to the dish and kept the other flavors clean and clear.
It was about this time in the meal when Hoodie McGee walked in. Ms. Martini used it as an excuse for dessert. ("To take my mind off it," she said.) And the chocolate tart did seem to offer her some sort of succor: mildly sweet and perfectly moist and with the scoop of passion fruit ice cream on the side, the plate looked like a mid-career Picasso, though at $10 it was far less expensive yet equally satisfying.
But for a bill of nearly $200, there were certain mistakes that should not have been made. Both glasses of red wine, for example, were served at room temperature. As a result, their fruit tasted a bit cooked, their alcohol a bit too pronounced. And the men’s room was a mess: Crumpled paper towels in the middle of the floor and an overflowing trash can do nothing for the appetite.
I’ve always liked Striped Bass and I appreciate the role it plays in Philadelphia’s, and the nation’s, restaurant life. But if certain problems aren’t addressed soon, Bass will become nothing more than a hangout for food groupies with overdeveloped financial lives and underdeveloped sartorial and cultural ones.
I hope that doesn’t happen, but it’s an awfully slippery slope. My fingers are crossed.
Striped Bass, 1500 Walnut St., 215.732.4444, www.stripedbassrestaurant.com
AroundPhilly Staff
