Philly Cooks!

Drink-me-I'm-free Stella Artois can loosen up the stuffiest suburbanites. A few even made eye contact with me.

by Drew Lazor

The seventh installment of Philly Cooks!, held last week at Turbine Hall in beautiful downtown Chester, pitted 48 area grub purveyors against one another for awards that ranged from "Best Savory Dish" to "Best Non-Chocolate Dessert." The Philly Mag-helmed competition wasn't as blue suit/red tie/cufflinks as you'd think: All-inclusive events rife with drink-me-I'm-free Stella Artois can loosen up the stuffiest suburbanites. A few even made eye contact with me.

Turbine, which struck me as a slightly more polished Flugelheim Museum from Batman, was set up like a trade show, with dozens of tables representing various restaurants, caterers and even a kitchen appliance wholesaler. (Stick to hawking commercial ice machines, Fretz.) Chefs sweated behind their setups, scrambling to accommodate patrons who paid $85 to wait in line. Teams of young gals, many decked out in unapologetically bust-enhancing outfits, stood in front of their respective stations, rocking their best smile/giggle in an attempt to allure attendees. It totally worked, like, every time.

Despite the evening's bewildering science fair approach and far-from-subtle sponsor backrubs (a crapload of Mercedes were parked in the lobby), it was still an opportunity to sate the hunger within. The theater district's upscale Estia served simple plates of citrusy, grill-smooched octopus; Café Aldo Lamberti whipped up miso- and sesame-crusted black bass. Italian steakhouse Davio's featured perfectly seasoned short rib sliders; and Brasserie Perrier's Daniel Marcantuno won "Best Meat Dish" for his insanely tender veal cheek with goat cheese tortellini.

My we-wuz-robbed vote goes to Pottstown's Funky Lil' Kitchen, which served greasy-delicious housemade bacon atop sweet apple, chestnut and goat cheese oatmeal drizzled with mushroom vinaigrette. More people would've had the chance to try this innovation if it wasn't for one obnoxious guy who somehow managed to spit red wine all over their table. Was this the epicurean equivalent of a contract hit? The world may never know.

After scarfing close to 20 savory plates, I was a little too full to try all the sweet offerings. (Blame it on my adherence to the No Scallop Left Behind Act.) I did, however, get the opportunity to try the winning dessert, a richer-than-Mohammed-Al-Fayed Oreo beignet from Valanni chef R. Evan Turney. There ain't nothing wrong with deep-fried cookies, but after one bite, I felt like I was being jabbed in the aorta with the business end of a broomstick.

As I Pavarotti-waddled back to my car at the end of the night, one thought nagged me: For all of the event's implied pinky-curling, some of the food was really crappy. For every great dish, there was a salty stew, flavorless prime rib sandwich or terrifying gnocchi-on-a-toothpick waiting to suckerpunch my palate back into Arghsville. I wonder if any of the Main Line attendees felt the same way I did. Then again, they probably don't even know I exist. Sigh.

(drew.lazor@citypaper.net)