Philadelphia is unique among cities of the American northeast: it is known exactly as much for its food as for its collective bad attitude. Some are known more for their food (New York, although I’d argue that this is mostly decades of accumulated hype); some are known primarily for their bad attitude (Boston); but Philly is carefully bipolar, where the quality of lunch is exactly good enough to let one ignore the honking and deranged cursing going on outside the restaurant windows.
Of course, this is an aggregation. Just as there are some terribly derivative steak joints that actively worsen one’s experience of Philly, there exist some meals that are bite-sized apologias, testimonies to Brotherly Love. And the places that serve those meals? They are the apologetes, defiantly asserting that some things are so good that malevolence cannot exist in the same body.
On 18th and Samson there is one such apologetic, a restaurant that exists for the love of food and by extension the love of life, to such a degree that they cannot escape the circularity of naming themselves after it: The Love.
Of course, it doesn’t escape us that the simplicity of The Love, from its navy awnings to the candlelit interior, is itself a facade: the artfully arranged “reclaimed” decor and carefully plain furnishings are a marketing scheme to lull one into a sense of comfort. But one cannot help but appreciate it, as anything more ostentatious would detract from the experience of eating there.
It must be said that The Love is not necessarily a transcendent experience — if one eats without speaking, orders a glass of wine too many, or allows the internet to infiltrate dessert, then any dish, even The Love’s never-too-sweet, creamy, autumnal pumpkin soup, will fade into the ennui and drudgery of its surroundings.
But if dinner at The Love is an occasion for laughter, for companionship, or for the simple act of enjoyment? then the experience is transcendent. The chive butter spread onto a skillet of oat-crowned rolls becomes an essential component of one’s joke. The al dente resistance of cauliflower risotto, spiced to perfection, takes on life as a sign of one’s involvement in the discussion. The meal itself is another participant in the conversation, as the collard greens are passed around and tasted like they’ve transubstantiated (which is my only explanation as to how they could be so appealing); the Georgia grits are given a stamp of approval by real-life Georgia expatriates (once the jalapenos were removed for making the effect too queso-like); and the fried chicken (after much joyous sampling of the meat, which actually tastes like chicken rather than odious sauces atop Tyson-brand rubber, and the fiery comeback sauce, which accentuates the natural flavors of the meat rather than buries them) is nominated as the Best Fried Chicken North of the Mason-Dixon.
For a few minutes, suspended in time like the turning of the leaves, the act of eating at The Love becomes inseparable from the enjoyment of life. To be alive is to be at that table, with those people. The song of life, ever subliminal, rises to an audible level with each delighted bite, with each contented swallow.
And the song crescendos, trumpets and horns flaring, as dessert is presented. It is a testament to how fully alive each of us are by this point in the meal — we see “vanilla pudding” on a dessert menu and think it the most natural thing in the world. What could be more natural than to enjoy the most primal of all enjoyment, licking a pudding-filled spoon? There’s a collective nod of approval for the blondie sundae (a brownie would be threaten to overwhelm all the flavors that came before), but ultimately its unmitigated sweetness cannot really be the fitting end to such an evening.
So — a roll of the timpani — the obvious choice appears, ginger madeleines. Ginger is a spice warm enough to offer a little bite, perfect for a city like Philly. And each flavor served alongside the little cakes brings out a new dimension of warmth, from the orange whipped cream to the homemade caramel to the cranberry compote. A citrus rush into nutty sweetness and a tart finish, but the ginger warmth stays lit like a hearth in the throat. Collectively, it is everything that this meal at The Love has been, warmth and companionship and joy and delight all superimposing upon one another to be Philos, and each bite of the madeleines is an ovation and a self-evident apologia for Love.