Review: James

The first few times I visited James, the much-lauded and nationally recognized restaurant on South Eighth Street, I got up from my table and walked out to the pavement more than a bit confused. Why, I kept on wondering, had this place become such a darling of the city’s fooderati? The dishes generally read better than they tasted, the miniscule portions seemed to have taken their cue from the mid-80’s, and the heaping side of condescension and pretense that came along with each meal seemed anachronistic at best and insulting at worst.

 

But following a recent reassessment, I am happy to report that the first two problems have been corrected to wonderful effect.

 

Chef Jim Burke’s focus on seasonal, locally produced ingredients shines as brightly as ever. But now, the promise of all those farm-raised birds and locally grown vegetables seems to be manifesting itself with a clarity of purpose and a sensibility of execution that I had not experienced there before.

 

Sunchoke soup, poured with a flourish tableside, rendered the occasionally vegetal root far more rich than it usually is. Not that its inherent flavor was obscured; that would run completely counter to the restaurant’s technique. Rather, as was the case with the best preparations here, its edges were softened and the most appealing aspects of its character were coaxed to the fore. Bite-size bits of house-preserved lemon countered the nuttiness of the roasted, pureed sunchoke, and muddled black truffle and miniscule croutons added a deep savory element and a pitch-perfect snap to each spoonful.

 

Sweetbreads, poached, coated in rice flour, and pan fried in duck fat, looked like nothing so much as homemade chicken fingers, so offal-lovers heading to James with squeamish dining companions should take note: This is a great way to trick your dates into tasting organ meat.

 

That breading, however, served far greater purposes than mere aesthetic ones. Its gentle crunch highlighted the softness of the sweetbread itself, and provided a witty echo of the delicate flavors of shredded, braised, caraway seed-scented Savoy cabbage and white onion upon which they rested. A simple mustard sauce, subtler than you might expect, provided the bridge element without overpowering.

 

The stinging-nettle filling of homemade tortelli (a slightly larger version of tortellini) took the flavor of spinach and raised it several pepperier notches. As is typical here, the kitchen knew when to treat a perfectly delicious ingredient delicately and allow it to stand on its own terms; this was nothing less than a study in successful restraint.

 

As was the poulard, a generous breast-and-leg portion from Wayne County’s highly regarded Four Story Hill Farm. Though the skin could have been crisped up for just a few more seconds than it was, the meat itself—sweet, tender, and exceptionally “chicken-y”—was enough to carry the dish. Even the apple-infused pan sauce was impeccably considered. No extraneous ingredients, no overwhelmingly reduced flavors, no unnecessarily unctuous glazes found their way onto the plate to detract from the chicken itself and its accompanying porcinis.

 

Mushrooms (as well as toothsome chestnuts and perfectly tender Brussels sprouts) also accompanied the olive oil-poached Scottish salmon. They played a very different role here, though. Whereas the porcinis reiterated the earthy caramelization of the poulard’s skin, with the salmon the black trumpets played that role solo, bringing an earthy-sweet flavor to a protein that, by virtue of its preparation, was just as much a textural tour-de-force as a flavor one. This was the sort of rich, evocative dish I’d always wished for here, and the style at which the restaurant seems to excel.

 

As exciting and soulful as the food was, however, the service still left me feeling cold. More than that, actually. It was, in general, so focused on technical proficiency that a sense of the personal had been completely sacrificed. It seems as if contractions and colloquialisms are verboten at James, and the stilted language of discourse here, while amusing at first, doesn’t take long to grate.

 

I’m no fan of sloppy service. Too many otherwise great restaurants in this city are dragged down by unprofessional and overly familiar waitstaffs. But professionalism and a lack of personality (not to mention condescension) should be mutually exclusive. As has always been my experience here, the warmth of the space seems maddeningly misleading when considered in the context of the ice-cold service.

 

The best service, in fact, is both professional and friendly, and capable of modifying itself—within certain parameters, of course—based on each table’s unique personality. That is the genius of it at the world’s best restaurants, and my favorite ones, from our very own Le Bec-Fin to New York’s Daniel, find a way to make you feel both special and comfortable at the same time. So being told that a sunchoke is another name for a Jerusalem artichoke, for example, assumes a level of ignorance that ceased being typical of Philadelphia’s restaurant-goers a long time ago. Answering questions that may very well not need to be asked is condescension of the worst sort and, paradoxically, makes less-knowledgeable guests unlikely to ask questions at all for fear of coming off as ignorant.

 

But considering how far the food has come, I have no reason to doubt that the service will improve, too. James seems to be a restaurant in constant search of raising the bar. They have done so brilliantly with the food. Now it’s time to work on its delivery.