July 10, 2008
By: Brian Freedman
bfreedman@aroundphilly.com
For all the progress and creativity that are the hallmarks of the new Philadelphia food life, we have, surprisingly, yet to find our inner Cajun or Creole. Which, when you consider our area restaurant revolution this past decade, is more than a bit odd.
For though we may not yet be a sort of Manhattan on the Schuylkill—I still cannot choose the region of India whose food I want to order in for delivery at 3am on a Tuesday, for example—we’re getting there. I’d put Taqueria la Veracruzana up against any Mexican spot in New York. Vetri is every bit as life-affirming, I’d argue, as even the best of the Apple, Babbo included.
So why, oh why, have we not been able to produce a great N’awlins-y destination recently? Is it a dearth of local chefs with the proper pedigree and innate understanding of the cuisines of the Crescent City? Certainly it cannot be some inherent flaw in our own collective palate, can it? I doubt so.
In the end, it seems to me that this gaping absence in our otherwise overflowing local pantry is the result of nothing more than the right chef not having come along in quite some time.
But now here comes John Mims, New Orleans born and raised, suburban restaurant rock star of sorts, and promoter of the fine-line distinctions between Cajun and Creole cuisines that precious few other chefs ever deign to make. The buzz that preceded his arrival on 12th Street was as loud as a Tulane student’s twenty-first birthday bash, the speculation similar to the morning-after what-did-I-do’s? that inevitably follow.
And in general, it’s filling that spicy void admirably. A recent crab salad special, for example, showed just how precise this kitchen’s flavors can be. Tender lumps of crab meat were folded into a Tabasco - mayonnaise blanket, given crunch by bell peppers and onions, and used as fluffy crowns for five-hour-roasted tomatoes with thyme and rosemary. The balance of the components, aside from a slightly overpowering role played by the thyme, was exquisite here, the barely perceptible tomato acid echoing the Tabasco’s tang, and a single miniature crab brûlée (essentially a fried crab cake) resting atop the center of the three, a heartier, simpler flavor setting off the complexity of the crab salad itself.
Eggplant beignets, though I’m still trying to decide if I bought into their melding of the sweet (a heavy dusting of powdered sugar), the savory (a seasoned-buttermilk marinade), and the spicy (drips of Tabasco), were nonetheless addictive. In fact, I had a bit of a Proust’s madeleine moment upon taking the first bite: The crispy, powdered-sugar-dusted crust; the unctuous, nearly molten center of hot eggplant flesh—these were like some sort of New Orleans riff on the apple fritters my mother used to make me as a kid to trick me into eating fruit.
But, of course, no trickery was necessary here. Neither was it for the pork tenderloin rubbed with ground espresso, coffee with chicory, cayenne, chile powder, and salt. And while those sliced medallions were a touch overcooked, the flavors were all pitched well, the coffee’s bass notes countering the chili’s high-toned heat at a similar level, a bit of sweetness brought to the plate by a well-considered onion confit held in check by homemade demi-glace.
Jambalaya, on the other hand, let each component speak clearly for itself, even in the context of the spice-heat framing it all. The fried oysters, unfortunately, had been overcooked to the point of Styrofoaminess, but all the other components were pin-point accurate, the Andouille smoky and lifted by a pleasant tang, the duck confit rich without falling victim to its own weight, the crawfish—usually the first part to suffer from overcooking, like the shrimp in a paella—snappy against the teeth.
The chocolate pecan pie relied too heavily on sweetness and not quite enough on the flavors of the ingredients that should have been focal points, but 21-year-old pastry chef Jessica Fasto’s other creations shows serious promise in terms of both conception and execution.
On the whole, then, Les Bons Temps is a successful effort at filling our city’s most egregious restaurant absence. Some of the preparations do come off as a bit heavy-handed. And I found myself wondering why, at this time of year, there were not more season-appropriate options. But the successes far outweighed the shortcomings.
And the space is unlike anything else in town: The drama of the balcony, the sweep of the lines, the warmth of the woods at the bar, all of them add up to a gorgeous retreat from the hot Northeastern summer. John Mims has the chops, and the passion for his native city’s food, to pull it all off.
What he has to do now is start filling up all those seats, move to a more jazz-centric soundtrack (a recent selection of 80’s pop was jarring, especially given the environment), and re-introduce Philadelphia, one guest at a time, to a cuisine we’ve lost track of for far too long.
Visit Les Bon Temps
