Shallow | Center

Guess It Beats 'Alison at Fort Washington'

Barshak's New Fort Washington Venture Gets a Name

NICE TIDBIT reported by the Inquirer's Michael Klein yesterday: Alison Barshak has chosen a name for the restaurant she is opening in the Fort Washington site formerly occupied by Marita's Cantina. Okay, so "Alison Two," a complement to her superlative Alison at Blue Bell, may not be the most original moniker, but with the quality of food Barshak's kitchens have turned out over the years, she could call the new place "Eat at Joe's" and I'd still be there. The charismatic Barshak made her bones at Striped Bass years ago before opening the ill-fated and short-lived Venus & the Cowboy, then decamped to New York for a while to find herself. Alison at Blue Bell is simply terrific, plating utterly sophisticated and satisfying fare in a suburban office park, of all places, and the news that Barshak was opening a place even closer to my home was well received in the Shallow Center household.

To get the latest from the chef's mouth -- well, from her keyboard, anyway -- you can check out Barshak's blog about Alison Two. How cool is that? S|C

How Does the IRS Tax That?

THERE WAS a neat little passage in Craig LaBan's review of the Northeast BYO Rylei in Sunday's Inquirer:

A bigger question, though, was who would cook? The unlikely answer is Jose [Vargas], 26, a longtime waiter whose culinary education consists of studying cookbooks from the Inn at Little Washington and the French Laundry, Wikipedia queries into the elements of molecular gastronomy, and three years of trial and error at home. His volunteer sous-chef is his father-in-law, Terry Brennan, a retired state social worker who has never cooked, who wishes to be paid for his labor in beer (Victory Hop Devil preferred).

I'm not sure what's cooler: That a former waiter with no formal training is turning out such good food, or that his wife's dad is accepting nothing more for his help than just a very tasty pale ale.

A Bone to Pick

LET ME preface this by saying: I'm not anti-Buffalo wing. I'm not anti-beer. I'm not anti-scantily clad women engaging in nontraditional activities with one another. As a matter of fact, I'm pro-all of those. Very pro.

But, sweet fancy Moses, do I hate Wing Bowl.

There is nothing -- absolutely nothing -- redeeming about it. Today is truly a dreadful day to be a Philadelphian, for all that is shameful about our great region is about to be paraded in front of the world. Mindless overconsumption? Check. Public vomiting? Check. Rampant classlessness? Check. Twenty thousand drunkards cheering it all on? Check (times 20,000). A parochial self-satisfaction that confirms every New Yorker's, Bostonian's, Chicagoan's, Washingtonian's, and Los Angeleno's sordid perception of Joe Philly? Check.

Feline Conversation

AN INTERESTING aspect of my new venture is that when I need to block out online distractions and just get some writing done, I can head  to the nearest Starbucks. There, I'm able to grab a good cup of coffee and, more importantly, avoid e-mail and the Web, since I can't bring myself to pay for Internet access outside my house. Whereas my previous coffeehouse experience was typically during the morning drive-time, when caffeine-starved professionals and college kids would snag their joe and scram on the double, now I plop myself down at all hours of the day and, in addition to work, people-watch and eavesdrop. (Yes, I realize this defeats the purpose of getting away from distractions.) Which is how I came to hear this gem today, courtesy a pair of middle-aged women discussing a piece in the Food section of this morning's Inquirer, one of whom said to the other, "There was an article in the paper today about two women who wrote a book about being thin. I hate them." (Insert obligatory meow reference here.)

Pearly Gates, Wit'

Mourning the Passing of a Sandwich Genius

A MOMENT of silence, please, for Harry Olivieri, who, along with his older brother, Pat, created the steak sandwich. Harry died yesterday, 73 years after he and Pat, hot dog vendors at the time, sold their first steak, to a cabbie at 9th and Wharton in South Philly. They'd go on to open Pat's King of Steaks, whose reputation, as with Geno's Steaks, far outpaced the actual product they served. Indeed, the essential joy of the cheesesteak is that there is no one place to find it perfectly done. Every neighborhood in the city and suburbs has dozens of places that can grill up a fine cheesesteak. Each is slightly different than all the others, so you get the best of all possible worlds -- the chance to find a taste that precisely matches your individual palate. Harry and Pat may have helped to launch an unfortunate trend in tourist-trap eating (see also "Bookbinders"), but each should be remembered first and foremost for creating culinary magic on a roll.

High Steaks and the Low Road

Seriously -- Can't We All Just Get Along?

FIRST THINGS first: Joey Vento, the owner of Geno's Steaks, one of the lamer tourist-trap cheesesteak joints in our fair city, is not completely wrong in posting a sign that tells his customers: "This is America. When ordering speak English." Generations of immigrants -- including my ancestors -- have come to the United States and learned the language here in order to become functioning citizens. It's just the way it is, and as a nation, it makes us stronger to have a common language.

Beers to You

A Trip to the Delaware Shore Turns Up a Microbrew Treasure

AMONG THE many charms of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, is its status as the birthplace of Dogfish Head, one of the country's younger and very best craft breweries. Dogfish has enjoyed sufficient success to move its main operations to a larger facility inland, but the place on Rehoboth Avenue still operates, as a brewery, distillery, and restaurant. And so, in addition to picking up a six of the insanely smooth and very drinkable Shelter Pale Ale to fill our hotel fridge last weekend, I quaffed a couple of pints of DH's 60-Minute IPA at dinner on the brewpub's deck one night. Delightfully dry and hoppy, it was a terrific complement to the tasty thin-crust pizza I had it with. A big part of the appeal of the microbrew renaissance, I think, is the stark contrast it presents to traditional American corporate brewing. While Anheuser-Busch, Miller, and Coors employ vastly more accountants and marketers than brewers, the beers really worth drinking got their start in the not-too-distant past in guys' basements and garages. From well-known brands such as Sam Adams and Pete's Wicked to up-and-comers such as Dogfish Head, Flying Fish, and Yards, the focus is on crafting a drink with character and taste, not manufacturing benign enough to move lots of it. It makes a beer geek and would-be entrepreneur wonder.

Grilled, Please

The First Schmitter Since Last Season Rekindles the Desire for Opening Day

THE RUSSIAN DRESSING combined with the melted cheese and dripped down my fingers in a way that just doesn't happen at Citizens Bank Park. Schmitters at the ballpark are delicious, but lunch today was at McNally's Tavern, the sandwich's home, and the experience was transcendent. Piping hot and crafted with love, unlike the good-but-lukewarm sammies slapped together by the high school kids at CBP, my Schmitter this afternoon did more to get me in the mood for baseball season than the World Baseball Classic, Barry Bonds's steroid problem, and the Phillies' suspect starting rotation combined. Is it Opening Day yet?

That's One Tall Step for Man, One Venti Leap for Mankind

Fighting the Power, One Cup at a Time

SO I'M AT Starbucks late this afternoon, having decided to kick back for a few minutes with a decaf, and I do what I always do: eschew the chain's absurd, faux-European size designations and ask for a "medium." Not once has the chick behind the counter -- sorry, the "barista" -- ever held out and waited for me to say "grande" instead. I always get my medium, as I did today, and I always get the (very) small satisfaction of thwarting corporate America's furious attempts at mind control. Power to the people, man. Or, as my brother would say, get a haircut, hippie.

(I know, I know -- you waited almost five days for a post, and you get this? Hey, it's spring training -- if the guys in the Show can take it easy until the real games start, then so can I.)

Just a Salad ... Just a Salad ... Just a Salad ...

Acme Backhands a Noble Lunchtime Effort

SO, YES, LIKE everyone else, I am hoping to incorporate more healthy behaviors in the new year, Karen Heller and her obsession with cheese notwithstanding. To that end, yesterday, when the rest of the Western world was enjoying a day off and I was back at the office, I dutifully schlepped to the Acme down the street at lunchtime in search of a salad. And once again I was left wondering why on earth this beloved Philadelphia institution, like so many other beloved Philadelphia institutions (the Mummers, Action News, etc.), was ever considered beloved.