Atmosphere: There are sections of broken floor tile, the walls are a rustic shade of blue-grey somewhere between sky and pewter, and the art tends more toward the porcine than the overtly Gallic (and though there is the requisite oversized French ad poster adorning one of the walls, it advertises “abattoirs industrielles,” or industrial slaughterhouses, so it still sticks to the meaty theme). In other words, there’s no pretense here, no presidential candidate-like veneer of popular appeal, which makes it, you know, all the more popularly appealing. Who, after all, doesn’t love a place where you can eat like a carnivorous king and still feel comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt?
Crowd: In my experience, most professional food people—chefs, restaurateurs, critics—tend to gravitate toward restaurants exactly like this one when they’re not on the clock. Spending your professional life fussing over the minute details that make or break a dish is exhausting, and at the end of the day, we just want to tuck into a solid, hearty meal that feeds our souls as much as it does our bellies. To that end, and not surprisingly, there were more than a few food folks there the evening I visited: A couple of chefs from small neighborhood restaurants, a well-known local food editor, and moi. And most of the other guests seemed, for all the world, like reasonably passionate food-followers, even if not professionally.
Service: Perfectly suited to the space and the overriding ethos, which is to say as unprepossessing and devoid of pretension as the space itself. Servers know the menu well, are honest about the dishes they enjoy, and describe them, when pressed for more details, with greater depth than the infuriatingly commonplace yet truly uninformative, “Oh, that dish? It’s very popular.”
What to Get: Chicken livers were charmingly reminiscent of the best General Tso’s chicken (without, of course, all that gristle that inevitably mars the experience): Battered and fried so the outside was crisp and the inside remained gloriously organ-y. They were served with a sweet, tangy reduction of balsamic vinegar, raisins, and candied walnuts, and were simply magnificent. On the lighter side of the appetizer spectrum was a salad of haricots verts, soft diced tomatoes, shallots, thin-sliced almonds, and a beautifully emulsified mustard vinaigrette. Cornish game hen was soulful—not usually the case with poultry—its preserved lemon sauce both bright and hearty at the same time. The star of the show, though, was a slow-roasted pork shoulder served atop lentils du Puy studded with bitter pieces of Brussels sprout. All of this was crowned with a poached egg, which, when pierced, tied it all together into a single, heart-stoppingly (both in the literal and figurative sense) rich whole. It was almost enough to make me wish for the cold weather of winter.
What Not to Get: The food here takes its cues from the heartier cuisines of Southern France (the Provencal part, not the Riviera). As such, you may not want to get that cholesterol test for at least a week after dining here. Also, skip the bottle of white wine and go for something with more (and here’s a technical word) oomph. I had a fabulous bottle from the south of the Rhone Valley that paired perfectly with much of the food. Also, for now, most of the desserts are from Miel Patisserie. Look for house-made listings in the coming weeks and months.
Verdict: Among the new crop of French bistros popping up around the city, Cochon stands out for its laid-back attitude, its magnificently hearty cooking, and its devotion to all things that oink, moo, or go baa. And word is that, in the not-too-distant future, there will be a special menu devoted to organ meats, which makes me downright giddy. When did this section of Passyunk Avenue become such a dining destination?
AroundPhilly Staff
