Few new restaurants have garnered as much attention-or as many accolades-as James, the undeniably beautiful new American spot on Eighth and Christian streets. There’s been sexy glamour shots of the dining room in national glossy magazines and stars and bells galore heaped upon it in local papers.
Me? I just don’t get it. Even on this, my second visit, I was still left waiting for the culinary angels to ring out in some celestial chorus.
I dined here shortly after its opening this past January, and to call my experience nothing special would be an understatement. The uneven seasoning on nearly every dish I ordered rendered the majority of my meal virtually inedible. And even aside from that, I still wouldn’t have left very full given the portions (an overpriced puddle of risotto alla Kristina was particularly offensive). I felt as if I’d been transported back to the mid-’80s, to a culinary era when it was okay to serve portions more appropriate for little girls’ tea parties than grown-up appetites, just as long as you referred to it as nouvelle cuisine.
But I chalked up that experience to an unfortunate off night in a young restaurant that hadn’t yet worked out all the kinks. Which is why I returned earlier this June with a clean slate, ready to fall in love with James like so many others have.
The restaurant itself easily wins you over: If the set-designers from Friends got together with the folks from Pottery Barn, a space very much like James would emerge. The dark woods, whitewashed exposed-brick wall, and simple, elegant table-settings manage to be both rustic and chic at the same time.
And the house cocktails are clever but not outré, making intelligent use of ingredients that far too many bars do not: Drinks like the lavender cosmo and the rum and rhubarb are evidence that James’ philosophy of using fresh, well-considered ingredients is not limited to the kitchen.
And the food was, for the most part, pleasant enough. Again, the philosophy behind the preparations here is nothing if not laudable. This town is finally recovering from its addiction to those oversized, theme-type restaurants that have proliferated for far too long. And though James is a step in the right direction, though I mostly enjoyed my second meal there, I wasn’t wowed by it.
Blanched local asparagus, glazed with a preserved-lemon infused butter and accompanied by a fennel sabayon, was an ingenious, haute take on the more common preparation of the vegetable-too many restaurants, even in this age of culinary experimentation, insist on serving depressing little sides of overcooked, butter-drowned veggies like asparagus. So in that regard, the idea behind this dish was not only clever but necessary.
But there was a certain pop that was missing: The lemon juice’s acid that typically livens up the vegetable was missing here, and as a result, the preparation’s subtlety was actually its Achilles’ heel. And the porcini and early blueberry stuffed ravioli were bland as well. Again, a fantastic concept fell just short because subtlety seemed to have trumped excitement.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m the last person to believe that every dish has to snap-crackle-pop with flavor, and I often find myself enjoying more delicate preparations far more than I do the boldest ones. But there just wasn’t enough punch to hold my interest in these.
Other dishes, however, were better. The halibut with crushed English peas and chanterelles was executed with an expert’s hand, and the moist meat played well off the crunchy skin on top.
Grass fed veal with creamy cannellini beans in a pleasantly mild bagna cauda made excellent use of the natural flavors of the veal. The fact that it had been raised on a diet more in keeping with its traditional needs resulted in meat that was far tastier, far more nuanced than what’s typically found on area menus. And the subtlety of the preparation, in this case, worked to delicious effect. The balance of flavors was precise and understated in the best sense, and allowed the real focal point of the dish-the meat itself-to remain sharp and clear.
Desserts, unusually enough, proved to be the highlight of the meal. The homemade ice cream was rich but not weighed down by its own decadence; the scoops of fior di latte and goat cheese were especially wonderful, the latter ringing with the telltale tang that chevre lovers (including this one) get so worked up over.
And the chocolate terrine will certainly find its way onto my list of top dishes of the year, a few thin sheets of beautifully bitter chocolate layered atop a slice of olive-oil slicked sautéed bread and crowned with a sprinkle of fleur de sel. It was with this dish that James finally lived up to its potential, and in which all that subtlety and creativity ultimately came together.
If everything had been this noteworthy, if the kitchen would have let its proverbial hair down, if it had really let the flavors it’s capable of coaxing out of the ingredients linings its cutting boards and stovetop burners sing, I’d have been the first to spread the gospel of James to anyone who would listen. And while I cannot do so right now-while I won’t be jumping on the James bandwagon any time soon-the potential is there. Like the best of James’s food, it’s subtle, to be sure, but it’s there.
824 S. 8th St., 215.629.4980, www.jameson8th.com
AroundPhilly Staff
