May 15, 2008
By: Brian Freedman
bfreedman@aroundphilly.com
With its suggestive name, vaguely old-school French décor and NoLibs location, I had assumed, before visiting, that Swallow would be one of those restaurants that finds its footing in the lustier aspects of the dining experience. I’d hoped for something earthy. Something passionate.
Instead--surprisingly--there is a real strain of unexpected and rather odd asceticism running through it that caused me no small amount of confusion and, in the end, came perilously close to undermining the entire experience.
I don’t need a pulsing side of love with my meal. I do, however, need bread.
Which, in fact, was a problem. For ten minutes after ordering, our table sat bare save the twinned salt-and-pepper shakers, utensils, and a single votive candle. Finally, needing to nosh on something to whet the appetite, I asked the waiter if he had any bread. Of course, he replied, and returned a few minutes later with…well, a hunk of sliced French bread marooned in the center of a bread plate. It was accompanied by neither butter nor oil nor any pretense of presentation.
Fortunately--bread notwithstanding--presentation is given a fair amount of consideration at Swallow. The flip side of that coin is that it is often at the expense of the effort that should have gone into conceiving the flavors and constituent components of the dish.
Grilled prawns, for example, their heads attached and eyes bugging out in some sort of crustacean disbelief, spoke of this kitchen’s willingness to challenge its guests with presentations they might not be used to. And the flavors were some of the most cleanly defined I experienced at Swallow. Charred and smoky from the grill, that darkness found a clear counterpart in the slightly tart, spicy green papaya salad off to the side.
The Achilles’ heel (or spine, I suppose, since prawns don’t really have heels to speak of) was the nearly inaccessible meat, which had been cooked into the shell with such force that after too many fruitless attempts to dislodge that protein from its sheathing with my fork, I gave up, replaced my utensil next to the place, and chicken-legged the thing.
Spinach, watermelon and feta salad too arrived in a blaze of color and promise that was immediately deflated by a combination of ingredients that I’m still trying to wrap my mind around. The salty bits of feta, in fact, completely obscured any bright snap the watermelon (odd to see this time of year) might have contributed. And while I love a solid Dijon-lemon vinaigrette with my baby spinach leaves as much as anyone, I cannot imagine a more discordant accompaniment to the rest of the salad.
Entrees suffered similar fates. Frog legs, a delicacy that could really gain some traction here if more people could get past their squeamishness, was done no favors by the wan, under-fried crust and overpowering garlic aioli, which itself would have been a fabulous partner for some sort of potato--boiled, fried, roasted--had there been any. As it was, that apparently Atkins-esque aversion to carbs manifested itself again as this protein, too, was accompanied by nothing more than a cucumber salad.
Duck confit, expectedly dense and succulent, also lacked any accompanying carbohydrate. The fried quail egg on top and mixed greens on bottom could be argued to have nodded in the direction of a Lyonnaise salad, but it only went so far as bacon and, yes, potatoes, are a standard part of that beloved equation.
Desserts did not fare much better: cream puff sundae was little more than a vanilla ice-cream slider with a zig-zag of vaguely brandy-inflected chocolate sauce crowning it, and amaretto-infused mascarpone-and-strawberry parfait, tasty as far as it went, could have used some sort of crunch to add greater interest and a sense of depth beyond the homogeneity of its creaminess.
I want to like Swallow--I really do. But the mistakes it’s falling victim to right now are not the kind that instill much confidence. That bread, it turns out, was consistent with so many of the issues I experienced. So was the fact that there was no ice bucket available to chill my bottle of wine (a quick stint in the freezer did the trick, but still…).
More than anything, though, some guiding philosophy has to make itself known before Swallow finds its footing and its voice. Because as it is now, there’s just too much uncertainty in the service and half-conceived dishes on the menu to make it stand out among the fray of so many other worthy restaurants in the neighborhood.
Visit Swallow
