No Tea, Just Simplicity

DO I TASTE SMOKE?: A mustard-crusted pork chop is boosted by aromatic collard greens, sauce charcuterie and potatoes layered with ham and Gruyère. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Leaving behind its formal tearoom past, Marigold Kitchen steeps itself in the earthy BYOB trend.

by Maxine Keyser

Sometimes, you sit down to write a review, and you don't want to. Not because you can't think of anything to say about the restaurant in question; quite the contrary, I have plenty to say about Marigold Kitchen, the BYOB in the Spruce Hill section of West Philadelphia. It's just that I liked it so much that I am reluctant to share. I'd like to keep this place a secret, so that I can get a table whenever I want, but that is too selfish even for me, so here goes.

There was always a boarding house at 501 S. 45th St., and people still inhabit the top two floors. The building housed a tearoom in the 1930s and more recently was the Marigold Dining Room. The original restaurant and kitchen has been updated with brushed steel and formica to fashion a pleasant, modern little room with banquettes facing the gas fireplace and a handsome porch for more clement weather. The good news is that it is run by the skeleton staff of the late and sorely lamented Salt. When the chef decamped, his crew came here, and if the menu is as innovative as Salt's was, and if there are faint whiffs of Ferran Adria (the uber-chef from Barcelona) as there were there, it's perfectly fine with me.

First off, I applaud the wine glasses. Seldom do you find such lovely stemware in a BYOB. Next, Jonathan Makar, the young general manager, makes us feel right at home and discusses the menu, which changes with the seasons, with much self-contained glee. We start with an amuse-bouche — a cup of soup, Salt-style. Silky, earthy, with a lingering sweet finish, would you ever guess this is parsnip soup, foamed with bacon-flavored créme fraîche? We then proceed to appetizers: chicken livers melting within a crisp crust to dip in curried mayonnaise; rosy squares of beef carpaccio with a barigoule (stew) of artichokes; and a crunchy frico (cracker) of parmesan cheese. Two of my companions are scraping the bottoms of their bowls of risotto, made of golden beets and roasted red beets. It's properly resistant, sweet and creamy, and frothed with a wisp of walnut milk. One could stop with any one of these dishes and be happy. The only slightly off-note is a plate of clever rillettes (of shredded duck) molded into a terrine, with a nugget of duck foie gras in the middle. It is a bit short on flavor, and the texture is a little stringy, but the pickled chanterelles and red onion marmalade on the side do pep it up.

Some of us continue with the white wine and some switch to red — new glasses are brought — as we move on to our entrees, and I am starting to regret having eaten some bread. My lamb shoulder is braised in coffee to forkful tenderness. The taste is dark brown, but you would never guess the ingredient. It's bedded on smooth chestnut puree, perfect with the baby Brussels sprouts that form this classic combination. My partner is moaning over the braised veal cheeks, so fat they almost melt into the polenta that beds them and benefiting from the fresh snap of Swiss chard. The two who devoured the risotto have switched their allegiance, it seems, to a chunk of Chatham cod as light as cod pudding, surrounded by earthy, orange chanterelles and Savoy cabbage and gilded by a sea-urchin emulsion that imparts a vaguely marine, mysterious flavor. An entree for the vegetarian crowd turns out to be one of the stars of the meal: A lasagna of roasted cauliflower with leeks, napped with almond-scented bechamel, and sprinkled with truffled pecorino cheese. It is almost vulgar in its richness, but on this cool evening, it feels definitely permissible. Thanks to chef Steven Cook's masterful handling of such a variety of vegetables, you might become a convert.

Pastry chef Julia Kovacs' desserts are always something special, so we try to fit them in to our already bursting digestive systems. You could never go wrong (if you love bananas) with a neat little banana-and-chocolate bread pudding, but the malted-milk ice cream on the side is my favorite guilty pleasure. I could eat it by the gallon. It speaks of bygone days, malted milk balls and big malteds at the soda fountain — and when I never worried about my avoirdupois. A poached pear with pomegranate-ginger sorbet is pleasant but not high on my list. A mascarpone cheesecake "trifle" features layers of orange-flavored foam and dense cream, all shot through with cranberries and pecans. It is a big hit, as are croquettes of milk chocolate, crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside, with an ice cream made with horchata, a Spanish drink of rice, almonds and milk. This dish offers a tinge of unexpected curry in the coating, the rich chocolate, the cool almond-scented ice cream, and the sharp, big bright splash of mango coulis.

Cook, Kovacs and sous-chef Angie Wolfe are running a restaurant that is doing everything right. They are using the seasonal local ingredients, some quite humble, and creating dishes that can be breathtakingly innovative but never twee. Despite the El Bulli influence, this is a solidly American place supporting American artists, like Jesse Blanchard, whose paintings decorate the walls. The owners are friendly to the locals, and not the least bit haughty about their skills. Now, if I could get a room upstairs.

Marigold Kitchen 501 S. 45th St. 215-222-3699