For a long time, savvy Philadelphia foodies defined the city by the state of the BYOBs, those pocket-sized, button-cute restaurants that, over time, helped usher in an appreciation for every ingredient on the plate, and not just the spectacle of dining grandly or glamorously.
Lately, however, a good bit of the most ardent buzz has been reserved for the gastropubs that have been popping up around town. Maybe it’s the uncertain times we’re living in; perhaps the everything-old-is-new-again popularity of pubby eats has something to do with a mass subconscious yearning for comfort and reliability. Whatever the reason, a solid burger and a pint of good beer are what the vox of the populi is calling for.
And that’s the communal need that Memphis Taproom seems to be trying to sate, though with a greater focus on classic American comfort food prepared with a chef’s attention to detail, as opposed to those oddly baroque plates buttressed by unnecessarily complex flourishes that too many so-called gastropubs fall victim.
Not only is the team at the Tap succeeding in terms of the dishes it’s doling out, but also in the tricky realm of décor: dark woods, perfectly shabby moldings, and a press-tin ceiling surround you during a meal. The crowd ranges from tattoos-and-tees to Birkenstocks-and-button downs, from architect-y black-framed glasses to crowns of silver hair, all equally likely to order another pint of Fuller’s creamy London Pride (on draft).
Yes, the unmistakable vibe of American-style egalitarianism runs seamlessly throughout this Port Fishington gem.
It also provides the thread that ties so much of the menu together. The onion rings, for example, embody this ethos perfectly. They arrived in a heaping pile, all tangled and crispy-fried, and accompanied by a humble-looking cup of white-ish habañero cream. But one bite revealed that something else was going on here. The onions, more tangy than sweet, showed a completely different side of the preparation’s personality, and their avoidance of clichéd sweetness was an unexpected treat. As for that cup of creamy happiness, its crème fraîche-like texture and gentle afterburn of heat were just haut enough to provide a sense of elegance without ever devolving into gastropub ordinariness.
Clams casino, while built on a base of slightly chewy, overcooked mollusk, nonetheless confounded expectations in much the same way as the onion rings. In this case, though, the sweetness of the roasted red peppers and the subtle floral notes of the tiny cubes of Parmigiano Reggiano crowning the clam were the stars of the show, as opposed to the more ordinary backbone of smoke and salt from the bacon. (Those flavors were there, of course, but in backup roles: More Pips than Gladys Knight, more Eubanks than Leno. More, uh, Federline than Spears.)
Chicken fried chicken was nothing more, essentially, than grown-up chicken fingers, a sadly beleaguered preparation whose reputation has been ruined by those boxes of frozen and only vaguely chickeny abominations in the grocery store’s freezer section.
These, however, were everything that chicken fingers should be: built on an almost preternaturally moist I-beam of breast meat; blanketed in a thick, toothy nap of fried crust; and seasoned aggressively enough to render ketchup completely unnecessary. If only there had been more than mid-sized piles of macaroni salad (fabulous with its bright bits of carrot) and collard greens (tangy and tooth-sticking), then this would have hit all the right notes.
The BBQ pork sandwich found a sense of equilibrium between sweet and tangy, as well as a defining (and unexpected) note of smokiness. That deep, subtle sense of smoke—as well as an onion-like crunchiness—was provided by a clever smoked cole slaw on top of the moist meat. Pork sandwiches are rarely this completely realized. Only the handcut, well-seasoned fries left a bit to be desired, as too many of them were underfried and soggy.
Desserts, though, were flawless—studies in simplicity and confidence, both of them sourced from Baked, a local outfit run by the prodigiously talented Tracy McGuiness. Lemon cheesecake left a gentle citric aftertaste on the tongue for 30 seconds or more, and the haunting impressions of its suede texture for far longer.
And the vegan chocolate cake managed the unusual trick of being both dense and light at the same time, a soft roundness brought to the slice by a drizzle of homemade almond milk. If I hadn’t been told the cake was vegan, the thought never would have occurred to me.
Memphis Taproom, then, in its straightforward philosophy and bravely unadorned preparations, embodies all that’s right about this type of dining experience. And the fact that such a willfully unpretentious menu is being served in a space as lived-in and unselfconscious as this one only adds to the experience.
It seems, then, that lost amid all the widespread naval-gazing for meaning in our city’s newfound love affair with the classics is a truth far simpler than any convoluted explanation could clarify: Good old fashioned American food can be a beautiful, straightforward, honest thing—just what we need right now.
