The first indication that Pearl is as serious about its food as it is the sense of style that pervades the space is the wine list. Spots that look like this, after all—a color-changing lighting scheme a la Morimoto, a bar-and-lounge upstairs that warrants the use of a bouncer and a velvet rope outside—are easy to make assumptions about, most of which come down to the same theme: In terms of dining, it’s all about the sizzle, not the steak.
But in virtually every way, Pearl confounds that kind of logic. This unexpected ethos is signaled, before you even take a look at the food, by the wine list, a deliciously eclectic collection of names that leans every bit as heavily on the novel as it does on those required bottlings that all lists apparently need.
The Champagnes, for example, are broken into two blocks: The familiar grande marques that everyone knows on site (Veuve Clicquot, Moet et Chandon, etc.) and grower-producer bubblies, which are wines that have been crafted by the same people who grew the grapes. They’re more difficult to sell since so few people are familiar with them (when’s the last time you rocked the Henri Billiot bottle service option?), but the idiosyncrasy and sense of discovery they offer is unparalleled.
That’s the type of thing that’s easy to miss if your antennae aren’t specifically attuned to the wine list. More difficult to overlook is the food itself, which manages to take the old concept of pan-Asian fusion and inject it with the kind of spark that made it so exciting when it first hit the scene.
Peking duck spring roll employed flavors from a number of very specific spots in Asia without finding itself in any sort of muddled, overwrought Eastern tangle. Chinese mustard provided the bite, Thai basil the perfume, corn puree a sense of subtle sweetness. All of them, however, were utilized as supporting elements for the shredded Peking duck itself, a moist, savory filling that provided a real sense of grounding for all the other components floating around it.
Lacquered pork ribs suffered only from a numbers issue: Four of us at the table found ourselves nearly having to fight over how we would divide up the three ribs that came with the serving. The lacquer turned out to be a far more sophisticated version of the kind of teeth-sticking layer that, at so many Chinese restaurants in the city, utilizes sweetness in lieu of anything more interesting.
Here, however, the lacquer found a sense of maturity and interest in its careful balancing of Indonesian soy sauce, high-toned herbal notes of cilantro, and pineapple pieces whose time on the grill had imparted a smoky, vaguely charred character that just sang next to the meat itself.
Seared filet mignon compensated for that cut’s inherent lack of explosive flavor with a tamarind-Worcestershire sauce that, like so many of the other dishes coming out of chef Ari Weiswasser’s kitchen, toyed around with the balancing notions of sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. (In that regard, in fact, he incorporates one of the defining elements of Thai cooking into much of his menu: A sense of equilibrium among the constituent flavors.)
It’s not all Asian, of course. That filet was plated with a shiitake – potato pancake that seemed like the apotheosis of Chinese – Jewish cooking: This was a latke to make your grandmother jealous.
The gaminess of lamb chops was cut by a judicious rub of crushed wasabi peas, panko, and butter, as well as by the sweet scent of lavender – lamb jus. Black truffle scallops only hinted at that often overused aroma instead of leaning too heavily on it, and the result was a succulence that never crossed over into the territory of the cloyingly rich.
Not everything was flawless, of course. For $6, a side of edamame should have given more pleasure and held my interest longer than it did. The same goes for a side of royal oyster mushrooms, which arrived a bit wet and unexpectedly wan. And tempura rock shrimp with pineapple and macadamia nuts, as addictive as popcorn or calamari, could have used just the slightest bit more seasoning.
But those were minor shortcomings in an otherwise exceptionally well-considered and carefully executed menu. Service was knowledgeable, but beyond that it’s an aspect of the restaurant that I cannot assess (I attended the same high school as owners Brett Perloff and Scott Stein, and while I do not feel as if I received special treatment—and would have turned it down were any offered—it was impossible to maintain any sense of anonymity).
The biggest surprise at Pearl, though, is the nature of the role it’s beginning to play in this city. It may be a hot new nightlife destination, but there’s an entire world of fabulously interesting, exciting food there of the sort you might not expect. That, perhaps, is what’s most extraordinary about dining there: The feeling of unexpected discovery and a genuine focus on dramatic, balanced, honest flavor.
AroundPhilly Staff
