Maybe it’s the coming conclusion of this interminable political season, but I’ve found myself in desperate need of inspiration lately. Not that there’s been much shortage of it, really; it’s just that, with elections a mere three weeks away, I’m getting nervous about the time—not too far away now—when I’ll no longer be bombarded by television commercials and radio ads and Web-browser pop-ups touting the unique gifts of the men who would lift us up and lead us into the future. Indeed, I fear that I’ll miss this magnificent cacophony come November 5, and suffer some sort of inspiration hangover for which no amount of Advil or op-ed page soliloquizing will rattle me from my sad stupor.
Alright, maybe not. I think this need of mine has been more about the generally uninspiring lot of restaurants I’ve been visiting lately, a collection of mostly serviceable yet far from exciting workhorses that, while decent, were far from notable amid all the hundreds of other options in and around town.
That’s why I headed back to Chloe, that quintessentially American stalwart on Third and Arch streets that has quietly remained one of the city’s finest—and most authentically Philadelphian—BYOs since it opened its doors in 2001.
Some things, after all, not only don’t require changing, but demand a sense of reverence for what made them tick in the first place. So while Chloe is no restaurant anachronism, it nonetheless still trades in the kind of boutique-y, tea-candle-lit, unprepossessing deliciousness—in terms of both the food and the setting—that so many of it and its dearly departed BYO-brethren were known for way back in the beginning.
Beet salad brought together all the disparate threads, and on one humble plate refuted much of the criticism that, for a time, was lobbed in the direction of such establishments. Its reliance on seasonality and a few well-chosen ingredients (none of them particularly exotic or surprising) is exactly the reason it was so remarkable.
In terms of flavor—the only real metric by which most guests gauge a dish, and, indeed, the only one that, in the end, really matters—this simple salad had everything right: the roasted-sweet beets that still maintained their root-y crunch, the thankfully judicious application of heady buttermilk blue cheese, the bright hit of acid from slices of mandarin orange. Even the reduced balsamic drizzled on top of it all, so long ago relegated to the dustbin of BYO cliché, was here both a necessary component and a reminder of why some touches grow so popular in the first place.
A peekytoe crab and lobster crepe special stood out for its creamy comfort and its refusal to lean too heavily on those two star ingredients. Too often, after all, lobster or crab appetizers seem under conceived, which I’ve generally felt was a product of laziness, the idea being that, with such supposedly luxurious components, little effort beyond their inclusion would be necessary.
Which, of course, is a flavor fallacy, disproved here with care and certitude. The homemade crepes themselves—thinly spongy, generously filled but not so much that the pancake itself was rendered silent, and crisped on the top—arrived in a lobster-cream broth that, had I actually been provided with a straw, I would have happily slurped up.
This is a kitchen that clearly has a way with seafood, letting the main ingredients speak clearly and providing the best possible framework for their innate expression, though often with an unexpected twist. Scallops—buttery, pan-browned baby’s fists—were treated to a drizzle of smoked chile sour cream, a rather unusual touch unlike the sweet-tart component that ordinarily accompanies them. In this case, though, the subtle heat and sourness of that drizzle actually amplified the creaminess of the scallops. The only misstep was the potato pancake on the bottom, which suffered under the weight of too much oil and too little of the crispiness promised in the menu description.
Even standard fare like the rib eye succeeded not by virtue of any sort of pyrotechnics but instead as a result of a simple, straightforward preparation with just the right amount of a twist to make it pop. Here, it was provided by the subtle vegetal quality of the house-made Worcestershire sauce, an accoutrement that usually obscures the flavor of the meat but, in this case, highlighted its flavor.
Desserts were in keeping with these themes of seasonal-appropriateness and spruced-up simplicity. Cheesecake had the light, almost spongy texture of baked ricotta, and dialed down the richness to a level where actual nuance could be experienced with each bite, and not just an overpowering tongue-slapping of cheese and sugar. Banana bread pudding, too, found a place on the flavor spectrum where sweet nodded in the direction of savory without losing its essential character.
As for service, it was exactly what you’d hope from such a quaint, warmly decorated place. It was knowledgeable, sure, but also supremely attuned to the needs of its guests: A recent Saturday-night meal was punctuated by updates of the Phillies game score, which was not only helpful, but also provided a sense of community—conversation between and among tables was friendly and not the least bit forced.
Even after all these years, Chloe still provides the quintessential Philly BYOB experience. How refreshing, and how inspiring.
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