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The Farmers’ Cabinet is not the sort of place to take your vegetarian friends. My date dubbed the new restaurant “the creme de la creme of mancaves,” given that the dimly lit space is adorned with animal skins and taxidermy deer heads. Add a footnote for women who don't feel bound by traditional gender roles when it comes to dinner choices and you’ve got an accurate description of the decor.
With few exceptions, I have eaten breakfast at Reading Terminal Market almost every Saturday of my entire life. Even after moving to the suburbs, Reading Terminal breakfast remained a family tradition.
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I’ll admit that I preemptively judged The Farm and The Fisherman. Although I try to be a conscientious eater whenever possible, I assumed that the much touted “farm to table” restaurant striving “to make the best social and ethical decisions” would serve fantastically fresh food in a space where everything else ranged from rustic chic to dirty hippy.
In my defense, even the website advertises the restaurant as “quaint." In size? Oh, definitely. Claustrophobics should steer clear, especially during peak hours, as should anyone else who might be tempted to eat off another table if it’s within arm’s reach. But tucked in to this intimate and unassuming space is an experience to rival existing five star restaurants –– from the white tablecloths to the alcohol–free but easily triple–digit bill.
If you forget to or can’t BYOB, don’t despair; the nonalcoholic options to toast with are one of the highlights. At my visit, the rotating iced tea menu had landed on a chocolate rendition that was subtle and slightly addicting. The idea that chocolate should be watery was the first of many instances in which the Farm and the Fisherman required me to suspend what I thought I knew about food.
The menu is limited, and there’s something in practically every dish that I’ve either never heard of or tend to avoid. But over the span of three savory courses, I learned that the husband and wife team, Chefs Joshua and Colleen Lawler, could clearly teach me a thing or two.
MMCo. seems like the perfect niche idea. In the days leading to my visit, I studied the online menu’s seemingly endless permutations of meat– (or veggie–) ball, sauce, cheese and optional toppings so as to not be overwhelmed in person.
Two years ago, the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s beloved and renowned director and chief executive, Anne d’Harnoncourt, died of a cardiac arrest at age 64. When she was named director of the museum in 1982, d’Harnoncourt became the only woman to head a museum with an annual budget of more than $25 million. During her 26–year tenure the only child of René d’Harnoncourt, former director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, worked tirelessly to revive the popularity and prestige of the PMA.
One Citizens Bank Way is quiet at 7:55 a.m. The door marked “Administrative Office” is locked. In 12 hours the 43,647 blue bleacher seats will be teeming with enthusiastic fans; the broadcast booth and newsroom will be abuzz; the dugouts and bullpens will be filled with pinstriped players and all attention will be focused on the diamond under the currently unlit lights. But for now the home of the Philadelphia Phillies is silent and still, except for a few janitors and Richard Strouse, the team’s General Counsel.
The Reading Terminal Market has some of the most satisfying lunch options in the city, and certainly the most varied under one roof. If you’ve got the patience and tenacity to withstand the crowds, any one of the hearty sandwiches from the cult classic DiNic’s is worth the wait. And long before Oprah and Bobby Flay took note, Philadelphians have been caving to their cravings for Delilah’s crispy-not-greasy fried chicken and tangy mac and cheese that strikes the perfect balance between the simple cheesiness of Kraft and the complexity of more upscale interpretations.
I wanted to label Le Cochon Noir as a diamond in the rough. The Philadelphia Business and Technology Center is not just an unassuming location, it’s practically out of the city limits (okay, maybe not, but how often do you find yourself at 50th and Parkside?). Inside, the space has a warehouse feel: exposed pipes, a completely open kitchen, and a floor that has paint stains from the last few incarnations of the building.
The website for Tweed proclaims that the new restaurant is “much like it’s name.” To restaurateur Edward Bianchini’s credit, the experience is, as the website’s predicted manifestation of the fabric, one of “leisure and sophistication.” But consider what the unofficial uniform of British landed gentry is not: tweed is not sexy, sensual, exotic, avant garde, or particularly memorable. And neither is Tweed.