October 9, 2007
By: Brian Freedman
bfreedman@aroundphilly.com
Atmosphere: Though not as dimly, darkly, cavernously comforting as Monk’s—this spot, like the Rittenhouse center for all things fermented and mussel-y, is owned by Fergus Carey and Tom Peters—The Belgian Café is nonetheless comfortable and laid-back. The space itself falls just short of pretty, though the hand-painted art nouveau works on the dining-room wall are attractive and add a certain richness to the room. Really, this is the perfect fit for the neighborhood. It lacks all sense of pretension, and has a lived-in feel that seems to be a feature of so many restaurants and bars in the Fairmount ‘hood.
Crowd: Fairmount at its finest: The precious poodles of Society Hill aren’t yelping here, even by the outside tables; the Hermes Birkin Bags of Rittenhouse are swinging on yoga-toned shoulders far on the other side of the Parkway; and the University City liver-picklers are guzzling their cheap brews elsewhere. What you’re left with is a crowd as serious about its subtlety as it is passionate about its beers. Jeans and a t-shirt are just fine.
Service: Passionate about what Tom and Fergie are doing here, which is focusing on locally-raised and –produced foods and spreading the gospel of real beer. It’s not obnoxious, and it’s not preachy, but there’s an undeniable undercurrent of pride here in terms of what the Café seems to stand for.
What to Get: The De Koninck mussels, while flouting the no-cheese-with-mollusks rule, worked very well, probably because the swiss was melted into the broth and acted more as a thickening agent than anything else. And its nuttier notes were balanced out nicely by the apples and leeks floating throughout. The beer, as expected, was fantastic. The list is a veritable society-page roster of familiar and more obscure breweries. Pick the brains of the bartenders about all of them—they know as much about beer as some high-end sommeliers do about wine.
What Not to Get: The vegan wings are made of seitan, a meat-substitute whose affinities with the devil run deeper than just its name. And while the preparation itself was fine—cornmeal coated, fried, and slathered with a sweet-spicy barbecue sauce—I just could not get past the texture of the little wheat-gluten wings, which was like the unfortunate lovechild of a sweetbread and a sea anemone. Perhaps vegans and other meat-substitute aficionados would appreciate it more than I. And the meat in the Vlamese beef stew, though cut from grass-fed and locally-raised cows, was tough.
Verdict: Give it time: If Monk’s—which truly is one of the treasures of Philadelphia, on par with the Liberty Bell, the Art Museum steps, and, these days at least, Charlie Manuel—is any guide, then The Belgian Café will find its groove and a comfortable niche in the neighborhood. It’s good right now, but not yet great.
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The Belgian Café
