[ review ]
It feels dumb to admit it, but a year before I found myself ensconced in the understated, heather-gray dining room of Sbraga, I hadn't thought this two-month-old restaurant's namesake, Kevin Sbraga, would win Top Chef.
That's not to say I didn't want him to win. Of course I did; our shared geographic DNA compelled me to root for him, the same way I root for Joe Flacco and Matty Ice on Sundays. But in the season seven finale, I thought lean, flashy Angelo would take the title. A lot of people did. Except for Sbraga himself.
"In the finale in Singapore, when I put my dishes up for the judges, I was very confident," he says. "I saw the other contestants looking at my food, like, 'Oh, shit.'"
I'd like to borrow those words to describe my reaction to Sbraga's foie gras soup, my first taste of the cooking I spent four months watching from my couch last year. I'd never been to Rat's, the Starr-operated New Jersey joint Sbraga helmed pre-TV, but had I known this luxurious liver love potion was served there, I would have made it my business to go.
A server placed a bowl on the table, murmuring "rose petal relish" to identify the debris at the bottom. Holding a pitcher, a second server appeared and streamed the steaming soup into the bowl in a tidy milk-chocolate waterfall. The heat activated the subtle vanilla in the relish, which rose to the surface like a trove of sunken rubies, petals drifting across the surface like tiny pleasure-crafts.
In the clay-colored purée, my spoon found fine-diced Asian pear and crunchy crumbs of pumpernickel. The soup was rich and lusty, as expected, but then came something unexpected: lemongrass? And notes of curry, developing like photographs in a dark room, sly and surprising against the creamed and brandied backdrop.
I would order it for every course if I could, four in total for the $45 pre-fixe most Sbraga guests elect. It's a helluva deal, one of the best in town, and it says more to me about Sbraga as a man than as a businessman. He could charge twice as much and starry-eyed onlookers would probably fight for the privilege to pay it.
Sbraga's fans won't be disappointed. Though his Twitter feed would have you believe he spends his days cooking demos in the Caymans and talking smack with Marc Vetri, he's at his restaurant. He was when I was there, anyway, looking very much like a regular old Philadelphia chef, expo-ing plates in the open kitchen that's wrapped in planks of reclaimed Douglas fir. He did a little meet-and-greet around the softly lit room, but I've seen a lot smarmier glad-handing from a lot less famous chefs.
People have come for Sbraga. Smarter people have come for his food, inspired ideas anchored by flawless French execution. The terrine, for example, was textbook: tight and solid and clean, compliments quick to escape while mesmerized by the mosaic of red (fruity piquillo peppers), green (biting green tomatoes) and purplish-black (eggplant). Sbraga served Tom, Padma and Gail a similar terrine during the Top Chef finale, though here, instead of kaffir lime and Thai basil, the cool, pressed-veggie pastiche is entwined with funky-sweet black garlic, goat cheese and jalapeño.
Both the terrine and the foie soup fall into the first-course category of the menu, with subsequent sections listing seafood and meat dishes, then dessert. The diner, not the kitchen, builds the tasting — though I'd recommend relying on sommelier Joseph Norkus when selecting wine to match your Indian-ized fish and chips and much-lauded meatloaf. His pairings, featuring wines culled from small growers, are spot-the-F-on — a bony Alsatian Domaine Francis Mure Riesling cut like a scythe through the rich foie soup — and cost $30 for the four-course menu, another wild bargain. Outgoing and smart but a bit sales-y at times, my server poured generously, though perhaps that was because I think I was ID'd as a critic soon after I sat down.
Whether my plates tasted better than my neighbors' I can't say, but I was impressed with what came across my table. (The only exception was the majestic white pillar of miso-glazed cod, beautifully cooked but bland, with yellow-bellied bok choy heart "kimchi.") The staff stayed discreet, as well, and in the beginning, damn near ghostly. At the table, we waited too long to be greeted, and when we were, it was by a charmless back-server who proffered a drink menu and near-demanded an order. Awkward.
The kitchen smoothed out the tardiness, getting the first course out quick and subsequent ones at intervals that never felt too long or too short. Bright anchovies were just the thing to follow the foie, minced into silvery slivers over labneh ravioli, a brilliant, unexpected creation. Lamb came two ways, tender chop and braised belly, the prince and the pauper over savory oatmeal. Anointed with cumin-laced lamb jus, the cuts reminded me of the cumin-style lamb at Han Dynasty, a dish that's hard to improve upon but that Sbraga manages to. As for the Second Coming of Meatloaf, it's made with veal mousse, foie gras and bacon-tomato marmalade. Those fancy embellishments were not so detectable in this pork-and-beef slab; it just tastes like a very, very good piece of meatloaf. And to hear Sbraga tell it, that's the point.
For dessert, Sbraga demurs to his wife, Jesmary. She slayed the course with creative interpretations of tiramisu (a bowl of smoky coffee granita, chocolate and mascarpone creams and chocolate streusel) and piña colada (almond financier topped with electric spiced and braised pineapple, alongside luscious coconut sorbet). Dessert is notoriously dicey territory on Top Chef. Not at Sbraga.
On my way out, he had hopped off from behind the line, but he wasn't schmoozing or taking pictures — he was hunched over the hostess desk, going over the night's reservations. For reality stars, post-TV life can be uncertain, but Sbraga's future is set: the demands of a busy restaurant on its way to ranking among Philly's best.
(adam.erace@citypaper.net) (@adamerace)
Sbraga | Symphony House, 440 S. Broad St., 215-735-1913, sbraga.com. Open Mon.-Thu., 5-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 5-11 p.m. Four-course tasting, $45; nine-course tasting, $110.
