Philly, Pfriends, Pfood: An Overly Verbose Trip Report
Apr 20th, 2009, 05:06 PM
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Philly, Pfriends, Pfood: An Overly Verbose Trip Report
I love boys, don't get me wrong. I even love men. But I live with 3 of the creatures now, and after the 6th conversation in 10 minutes of Why Mommy Doesn't Have a Penis and three straight diapers that would give a linebacker PTSD, how glorious to find myself minus penis(es) at a train station at 7:30 in the morning, being handed a coffee by a radiant Pam Pecan. Yes, yes, ya'll – this girl is in need of a girls' weekend.
7:31:00 – I discover there is Bailey's in my coffee. I love Pam. (you remember: http://www.fodors.com/community/unit...rip-report.cfm )
7:31:10 – I discover there is in fact a butt-ton* of Bailey's in my coffee. I am in trouble.
Pam and I catch up, sensei and grasshoppah, as we head towards PA, and my bastardized beverage goes down like buttah. But one older gentleman leaves the café car with a cold Yuengling. At least I'm not THAT dude.
9:00:00 – Pam and I both call into teleconferences for work. My liver cocks an eyebrow, but things are cool. My conscience (wretched thing) is relieved. Yuengling dude goes back for another one.
10:30ish – Rockstar Pam hangs up, gets a chardonnay from the café car, barely beating Yuengling dude with his 3rd. I wave off the pace car; at that rate I will be asleep by noon. We pass the time chatting and reading, and I quickly discover that Pam gets more texts than an alpha teen during study hall. After a sleepy lull we ditch Jersey, wander out into the vaulted echo chamber of 30th Street Station, and catch a cab to the Loews (1200 Market Street, right near the convention center, http://www.loewshotels.com/en/Hotels.../Overview.aspx ) The lobby has that tall, cool, dimly-lit semi-contemporary décor that can be a bit chilly, but we are greeted warmly by reception and score a $100 food and beverage credit through a Winter promotion (ten bucks sez this is blown by snacktime). We make our way to the room and a waiting Piper (up from Carolina), who opens the door for me and exclaims "OhMyGod you're GIGANTIC!!"
Ah, my friends.
The room is lovely, two queens with plenty of room, a nice view of the city and the river beyond, and a decent, updated granite and tile bath. After Piper finishes backpedaling furiously (she had apparently forgotten I had a few inches on her. Uh-huh.) we hit the road and head towards the Reading Terminal Market for lunch (read: soakage).
Less than 2 blocks away, the market is clean, fun, and one of those places I wish to God was near me but am also kinda thankful is not. Amongst the bustle you can find anything from French crepes to a beer garden to soul food to halibut to cheesesteaks to whoopee pies (which apparently are the new cupcake), and we wander for a bit before I decide on a tasty DeNic's pork sandwich ($7), which I will remember to get some cheese and veg on next time (kinda needed a little extra somethin'). The building is busy but not quite claustrophobic, and surprisingly free from nose-singeing reekage that can often accompany enclosed markets. Pam finds falafel, Piper tags some turkey, and we continue catching up before backtracking on Market to the beautiful Macy's, in the National Historic Landmark John Wanamaker Building, its three-story Italian marble grand court making it IMHO much nicer than the flagship in NYC. Pam throws the good folks at MAC a stimulus, and then it's back to the hotel to gear up (and lighten up as, in an entertaining sociological bit of self-selection, none of my good friends ever, EVER happen to have any poop shame. None. There may, in fact, be Poop Pride.)
We head East down Market towards the Independence National Historical Park, surprised to pass a Burlington Coat Factory, Old Navy, Kmart, and a Dress Barn (does a less attractive name for a woman's clothing store exist??). This struck us as a bit odd. We are, however, entertained by the bling bodegas next to the dollar stores; amongst the bejeweled crowns, fists, and signs I quickly make out an 8-inch "Bitch" done up in CZ's on a 14 kt dog chain. Mother's Day!
Rolling into Independence Visitor's center to try our luck, we learn that tickets for the Independence Hall tour were long gone, and our best bet is to return tomorrow as close to 8:30 as we can. Piper and I befriend the standard costumed-gentlemen-in-tricornered-hats, there to answer questions and get their pix taken with tourists . After about 10 seconds with us they drop the colonial act and start telling us where the best bars are, which was nice. We head across the street to the Liberty Bell center, a newish, long building with several exhibits on the causes the Bell came to represent, a good reminder of how young our country is, how tumultuous our short history has been, and how idiotic we can be because seriously, only a man would try to repair a crack by MAKING IT BIGGER.
We wander aimlessly amongst the brick buildings and squares, and decide to duck into the Curtis Center, a handsome white marble building (just across from the Independence square park on Walnut Street) to see the lobby's 49-foot-long Maxfield Parrish mosaic "Dream Garden". Back in the late 90's Steve Wynn bought the Tiffany-made mosaic, planning to haul it to Vegas, but the good (and rightfully pissed) people of Philly bought it back with the help of the Pew Charitable Trusts. It's quite lovely, with such beautiful gradation of color you have to get close to see how it all fits together, but we were puzzled by the lack of any marker or information – in fact, the approach was almost obscured by some cheap formica counters we'd assumed were left over from a reception. Odd.
Heading back West and ditching hundreds of years of nascent US history, we wander through a rather dreary Jeweler's row and loll down Walnut, fortuitously approaching the Naked Chocolate Café (1317 Walnut Street, www.nakedchocolatecafe.com) where we belly up to the counter to take in all the handmade chocolate goodies. Mad props to fodorite Amy, their Spicy hot chocolate was The Stuff – good God. Rich, luscious, intriguingly complicated, indulgently naughty – just the way I like my…chocolate. Pam and Piper snag chocolate-coated wads of caramel-stuffed Belgian waffle, and after hanging for a bit we head towards the 13th and Sansom area, poking into some fun clothing and home goods boutiques and meeting Steve Duross at Duross & Langel (www.durossandlangel.com), purveyors of handmade soaps, balms, and everything that Smells Yum. Anybody who sells bacon-flavored dental floss AND has the brains to state "Not everything synthesized is bad" deserves to be heeded, and after our browsing and buying he steers us across the street to El Vez (www.elvezrestaurant.com, 121 S 13th St), recommending their margaritas. He's right, they're quite good (try the Blood Orange), but we're almost too mesmerized by the rotating pink-and-gold tricked-out Schwinn fit for a Queen above the circular bar to notice. Passing apps looked promising, and the gold-and red-velvet booths, funktastic wall art, and yes, B&W photo booth looked like it would make for a way fun night out.
But we have some bar money to work on, so it's back to the hotel to work on the credit, work up some gossip, and work out what we'll do about dinner. After another hour plus of chatting and relaxing, it's back up to the room to do the ritual ablutions, and soon we're back down the Mach 3 elevator jumping in a cab headed East towards Amada (www.amadarestaurant.com, 217 Chestnut Street).
Amada is currently one of the hottest places in Philly, a darkish, buzzing, ever-so-vaguely-pottery-barn place (all that dark accent wood) minus the pretension and plus umpteen kinds of fabulous tapas. As we're taking our chances without reservations (and there's an hour wait just for bar tables) we hang out by the bar and within 15 minutes or so three seats open up. And then we make our first and only mistake by ordering a pitcher of the sangria Blanco, which, although it comes in a cool old-school sangria pitcher, is way too sweet for all of us. Ah, but soon we're cool with the bartender, and he steers us to the fabulous Meat Mixto with some beautiful charcuterie (including lovely Serrano ham) and then totally earns his keep with the Cheese Mixto platter, where he picks the three cheeses for us. Oh, Lord, out comes some aged Manchego with truffled lavender honey, Cana de Cabra with fig & cherry marmalade, and Peral with currant-pistachio remoulade, and we are floored, staring at each other as we've lost the English language and can only mutter obscenities. It was the best cheese course any of us had ever eaten, and we were sorely tempted to order another round, but the rest of the menu beckoned. Out came some lovely spicy sizzling garlic shrimp, a plate of baked goat cheese with tomato, basil, and almond puree, and a shrimp, chorizo, and garbanzo bean flatbread. As some of our plates were a bit delayed (like we cared…) out came a plate of fried green Spanish pimiento peppers. It was a fabulous meal, I highly recommend a try, and get that orgasmic cheese course or I'm never speaking to you again.
Happy and buzzed (%^&k that cheese rocked!) we head out to the bars of Old City, our first stop further down Walnut where we instantly meet up with the Biatch School of Bartending. Sticking it out we order a round and are seized upon by a few Boston boys, who chat for a while and maintain something resembling normal drunken pleasantries. That is, until a guy with a Yankees hat settles in like chum in the south Atlantic. In 0.8 seconds the men are literally climbing up on stools and BRAYING AT EACH OTHER with MY eardrums in the line of fire. Honestly. I will never understand this rudeness, this fanaticism, this slavering, frothing zealotry, a turnoff triple-play…but let's not get started. Suffice to say the only way these dorks will EVER talk to a woman in a bar is if their mommies call them.
So. Drinks quickly pounded we move on to the 2-story The Ploughman and Stars, so not an Irish pub but nonetheless a much more promising crowd with OK music. We settle in against a railing with some drinks and things look intriguing – there's a large crowd of fairly clean-cut guys looking like they all know each other from work, but only a handful are in office attire. I'm puzzled – they're not military, and there's not enough facial hair for cops or firefighters, but they have That Vibe. Eventually one peels off and says his friends want to chat; we oblige and initially talk to a handsome, nattily dressed gentleman in trendy specs, suit, and trench (lawyer, definitely), and when I ask what's up with the big law-looking group things make a lot more sense.
We're surrounded by FBI agents.
Okay, then. We settle in and soon it becomes clear that I have A Friend, but I'm pleased, buzzed, and enjoying myself and besides, they've got some smartass going on, not to mention the Gofer was cute and had an arse that could break your hand. They were all out celebrating catching a Very Bad Man and buy us a few rounds, too, and at one point my Friend finally notices my wedding band and asks, "What's that? A friendship ring?" (DH, upon hearing this, asks if my Friend's name was Thomas. Apparently my 3-year-old heard I took the train down and asked if I was riding Thomas this weekend). Piper and Pam eventually retreat (after some sotto voce teasing along the lines of "Me love you long time Mistah EFF-BEE-AYYYEEEE") and after another half hour or so I look over and begin to think I've fallen down the rabbit hole. Piper is sanguine, content to hang, and normally Pam would be toying with a Navy boy, batting around an accountant, or lip locking a personal trainer, but she is simply Hanging Out and, horrors, singing and dancing to "Take Me Home Country Roads." Huh. After a quiet investigation, I learn Pam needs a burger - evidently she's gone past shiitake'd to grease-craving (we DID start at 8 AM…) so we all decide to ripcord before "The Pina Colada Song" comes on (and before my prints are taken off my Amstel bottle). In the cab, the last thing our driver hears is Pam's stunned cry to the Heavens: "I have no Mojo in Philly!!!!!"
It is an odd town.
* - Somewhere between a sh!t-load and Avogadro's number
7:31:00 – I discover there is Bailey's in my coffee. I love Pam. (you remember: http://www.fodors.com/community/unit...rip-report.cfm )
7:31:10 – I discover there is in fact a butt-ton* of Bailey's in my coffee. I am in trouble.
Pam and I catch up, sensei and grasshoppah, as we head towards PA, and my bastardized beverage goes down like buttah. But one older gentleman leaves the café car with a cold Yuengling. At least I'm not THAT dude.
9:00:00 – Pam and I both call into teleconferences for work. My liver cocks an eyebrow, but things are cool. My conscience (wretched thing) is relieved. Yuengling dude goes back for another one.
10:30ish – Rockstar Pam hangs up, gets a chardonnay from the café car, barely beating Yuengling dude with his 3rd. I wave off the pace car; at that rate I will be asleep by noon. We pass the time chatting and reading, and I quickly discover that Pam gets more texts than an alpha teen during study hall. After a sleepy lull we ditch Jersey, wander out into the vaulted echo chamber of 30th Street Station, and catch a cab to the Loews (1200 Market Street, right near the convention center, http://www.loewshotels.com/en/Hotels.../Overview.aspx ) The lobby has that tall, cool, dimly-lit semi-contemporary décor that can be a bit chilly, but we are greeted warmly by reception and score a $100 food and beverage credit through a Winter promotion (ten bucks sez this is blown by snacktime). We make our way to the room and a waiting Piper (up from Carolina), who opens the door for me and exclaims "OhMyGod you're GIGANTIC!!"
Ah, my friends.
The room is lovely, two queens with plenty of room, a nice view of the city and the river beyond, and a decent, updated granite and tile bath. After Piper finishes backpedaling furiously (she had apparently forgotten I had a few inches on her. Uh-huh.) we hit the road and head towards the Reading Terminal Market for lunch (read: soakage).
Less than 2 blocks away, the market is clean, fun, and one of those places I wish to God was near me but am also kinda thankful is not. Amongst the bustle you can find anything from French crepes to a beer garden to soul food to halibut to cheesesteaks to whoopee pies (which apparently are the new cupcake), and we wander for a bit before I decide on a tasty DeNic's pork sandwich ($7), which I will remember to get some cheese and veg on next time (kinda needed a little extra somethin'). The building is busy but not quite claustrophobic, and surprisingly free from nose-singeing reekage that can often accompany enclosed markets. Pam finds falafel, Piper tags some turkey, and we continue catching up before backtracking on Market to the beautiful Macy's, in the National Historic Landmark John Wanamaker Building, its three-story Italian marble grand court making it IMHO much nicer than the flagship in NYC. Pam throws the good folks at MAC a stimulus, and then it's back to the hotel to gear up (and lighten up as, in an entertaining sociological bit of self-selection, none of my good friends ever, EVER happen to have any poop shame. None. There may, in fact, be Poop Pride.)
We head East down Market towards the Independence National Historical Park, surprised to pass a Burlington Coat Factory, Old Navy, Kmart, and a Dress Barn (does a less attractive name for a woman's clothing store exist??). This struck us as a bit odd. We are, however, entertained by the bling bodegas next to the dollar stores; amongst the bejeweled crowns, fists, and signs I quickly make out an 8-inch "Bitch" done up in CZ's on a 14 kt dog chain. Mother's Day!
Rolling into Independence Visitor's center to try our luck, we learn that tickets for the Independence Hall tour were long gone, and our best bet is to return tomorrow as close to 8:30 as we can. Piper and I befriend the standard costumed-gentlemen-in-tricornered-hats, there to answer questions and get their pix taken with tourists . After about 10 seconds with us they drop the colonial act and start telling us where the best bars are, which was nice. We head across the street to the Liberty Bell center, a newish, long building with several exhibits on the causes the Bell came to represent, a good reminder of how young our country is, how tumultuous our short history has been, and how idiotic we can be because seriously, only a man would try to repair a crack by MAKING IT BIGGER.
We wander aimlessly amongst the brick buildings and squares, and decide to duck into the Curtis Center, a handsome white marble building (just across from the Independence square park on Walnut Street) to see the lobby's 49-foot-long Maxfield Parrish mosaic "Dream Garden". Back in the late 90's Steve Wynn bought the Tiffany-made mosaic, planning to haul it to Vegas, but the good (and rightfully pissed) people of Philly bought it back with the help of the Pew Charitable Trusts. It's quite lovely, with such beautiful gradation of color you have to get close to see how it all fits together, but we were puzzled by the lack of any marker or information – in fact, the approach was almost obscured by some cheap formica counters we'd assumed were left over from a reception. Odd.
Heading back West and ditching hundreds of years of nascent US history, we wander through a rather dreary Jeweler's row and loll down Walnut, fortuitously approaching the Naked Chocolate Café (1317 Walnut Street, www.nakedchocolatecafe.com) where we belly up to the counter to take in all the handmade chocolate goodies. Mad props to fodorite Amy, their Spicy hot chocolate was The Stuff – good God. Rich, luscious, intriguingly complicated, indulgently naughty – just the way I like my…chocolate. Pam and Piper snag chocolate-coated wads of caramel-stuffed Belgian waffle, and after hanging for a bit we head towards the 13th and Sansom area, poking into some fun clothing and home goods boutiques and meeting Steve Duross at Duross & Langel (www.durossandlangel.com), purveyors of handmade soaps, balms, and everything that Smells Yum. Anybody who sells bacon-flavored dental floss AND has the brains to state "Not everything synthesized is bad" deserves to be heeded, and after our browsing and buying he steers us across the street to El Vez (www.elvezrestaurant.com, 121 S 13th St), recommending their margaritas. He's right, they're quite good (try the Blood Orange), but we're almost too mesmerized by the rotating pink-and-gold tricked-out Schwinn fit for a Queen above the circular bar to notice. Passing apps looked promising, and the gold-and red-velvet booths, funktastic wall art, and yes, B&W photo booth looked like it would make for a way fun night out.
But we have some bar money to work on, so it's back to the hotel to work on the credit, work up some gossip, and work out what we'll do about dinner. After another hour plus of chatting and relaxing, it's back up to the room to do the ritual ablutions, and soon we're back down the Mach 3 elevator jumping in a cab headed East towards Amada (www.amadarestaurant.com, 217 Chestnut Street).
Amada is currently one of the hottest places in Philly, a darkish, buzzing, ever-so-vaguely-pottery-barn place (all that dark accent wood) minus the pretension and plus umpteen kinds of fabulous tapas. As we're taking our chances without reservations (and there's an hour wait just for bar tables) we hang out by the bar and within 15 minutes or so three seats open up. And then we make our first and only mistake by ordering a pitcher of the sangria Blanco, which, although it comes in a cool old-school sangria pitcher, is way too sweet for all of us. Ah, but soon we're cool with the bartender, and he steers us to the fabulous Meat Mixto with some beautiful charcuterie (including lovely Serrano ham) and then totally earns his keep with the Cheese Mixto platter, where he picks the three cheeses for us. Oh, Lord, out comes some aged Manchego with truffled lavender honey, Cana de Cabra with fig & cherry marmalade, and Peral with currant-pistachio remoulade, and we are floored, staring at each other as we've lost the English language and can only mutter obscenities. It was the best cheese course any of us had ever eaten, and we were sorely tempted to order another round, but the rest of the menu beckoned. Out came some lovely spicy sizzling garlic shrimp, a plate of baked goat cheese with tomato, basil, and almond puree, and a shrimp, chorizo, and garbanzo bean flatbread. As some of our plates were a bit delayed (like we cared…) out came a plate of fried green Spanish pimiento peppers. It was a fabulous meal, I highly recommend a try, and get that orgasmic cheese course or I'm never speaking to you again.
Happy and buzzed (%^&k that cheese rocked!) we head out to the bars of Old City, our first stop further down Walnut where we instantly meet up with the Biatch School of Bartending. Sticking it out we order a round and are seized upon by a few Boston boys, who chat for a while and maintain something resembling normal drunken pleasantries. That is, until a guy with a Yankees hat settles in like chum in the south Atlantic. In 0.8 seconds the men are literally climbing up on stools and BRAYING AT EACH OTHER with MY eardrums in the line of fire. Honestly. I will never understand this rudeness, this fanaticism, this slavering, frothing zealotry, a turnoff triple-play…but let's not get started. Suffice to say the only way these dorks will EVER talk to a woman in a bar is if their mommies call them.
So. Drinks quickly pounded we move on to the 2-story The Ploughman and Stars, so not an Irish pub but nonetheless a much more promising crowd with OK music. We settle in against a railing with some drinks and things look intriguing – there's a large crowd of fairly clean-cut guys looking like they all know each other from work, but only a handful are in office attire. I'm puzzled – they're not military, and there's not enough facial hair for cops or firefighters, but they have That Vibe. Eventually one peels off and says his friends want to chat; we oblige and initially talk to a handsome, nattily dressed gentleman in trendy specs, suit, and trench (lawyer, definitely), and when I ask what's up with the big law-looking group things make a lot more sense.
We're surrounded by FBI agents.
Okay, then. We settle in and soon it becomes clear that I have A Friend, but I'm pleased, buzzed, and enjoying myself and besides, they've got some smartass going on, not to mention the Gofer was cute and had an arse that could break your hand. They were all out celebrating catching a Very Bad Man and buy us a few rounds, too, and at one point my Friend finally notices my wedding band and asks, "What's that? A friendship ring?" (DH, upon hearing this, asks if my Friend's name was Thomas. Apparently my 3-year-old heard I took the train down and asked if I was riding Thomas this weekend). Piper and Pam eventually retreat (after some sotto voce teasing along the lines of "Me love you long time Mistah EFF-BEE-AYYYEEEE") and after another half hour or so I look over and begin to think I've fallen down the rabbit hole. Piper is sanguine, content to hang, and normally Pam would be toying with a Navy boy, batting around an accountant, or lip locking a personal trainer, but she is simply Hanging Out and, horrors, singing and dancing to "Take Me Home Country Roads." Huh. After a quiet investigation, I learn Pam needs a burger - evidently she's gone past shiitake'd to grease-craving (we DID start at 8 AM…) so we all decide to ripcord before "The Pina Colada Song" comes on (and before my prints are taken off my Amstel bottle). In the cab, the last thing our driver hears is Pam's stunned cry to the Heavens: "I have no Mojo in Philly!!!!!"
It is an odd town.
* - Somewhere between a sh!t-load and Avogadro's number
Apr 20th, 2009, 05:14 PM
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Awesome review...I like your style! lol I love Philly...and all that fabu food. Agree totally about the Reading Market...swoonworthy. *thud*. Had lunch at El Vez when I visited last month, and the food was outstanding. Amada is definitely on my "to do" list for a future visit (chose Alma de Cuba last time I wanted tapas in Philly).
Apr 20th, 2009, 05:43 PM
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You are too funny...what great style, thank you for taking the time to write that!
I love RTM, Amada, and the Dream Garden mosaic, the latter of which I way too often forget to include in my Philly posts. And yes, next time you visit, at DeNic's the pork sandwich absolutely must be accompanied by the sharp provolone and broccoli rabe combo.
I love RTM, Amada, and the Dream Garden mosaic, the latter of which I way too often forget to include in my Philly posts. And yes, next time you visit, at DeNic's the pork sandwich absolutely must be accompanied by the sharp provolone and broccoli rabe combo.
Apr 20th, 2009, 05:55 PM
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Hallelujah. I have been WAITING for this!!!
Kristina: you sure? http://www.fodors.com/community/unit...iladelphia.cfm (And I forgot to add whoopie pies, an addiction of my childhood. I even have the recipe.)
Kristina: you sure? http://www.fodors.com/community/unit...iladelphia.cfm (And I forgot to add whoopie pies, an addiction of my childhood. I even have the recipe.)
Apr 21st, 2009, 07:30 AM
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Day 2:
As my boys have me well-trained I'm up at the arse-crack of dawn, eff it. I'm not unhappy, though – it's calm, quiet, and at least no short people are up in my grill yelling for breakfast. In a few hours the girls are up and by 9 Pam cracks some Prosecco and dumps it into 3 glasses of OJ (hey, scurvy is dangerous stuff!). While they get ready I hit the concierge desk, as I forgot to plan accordingly and when it comes to something as important as brekkie it's best to ask a local. Christian, an engaging gent hereafter referred to as Rockstar Christian, steers us towards Sabrina's Café in South Philly, right at 9th Street and the Italian Market area and a quick cab ride away (www.sabrinascafe.com, 910 Christian Street). A line of college-age kids waiting in front of the converted row house looked promising, so we put our names down and wandered out into the gray Saturday to browse the market, which runs a number of blocks and was larger than expected. Once again, I wish there was something like this near me, once again I'm glad there isn't – we popped into several butcher shops with gorgeous slabs o' bacon and beautifully marbled 3" steaks that were going quickly, and we wandered around in several cheese and dry-goods stores that had hanging waxed cheeses as large as full punching bags. Boo-yah.
Upon our return we were quickly seated and quickly paralyzed by the sumptuous menu, finally deciding to continue chick tradition and Share Everything. Pam orders the egg white and veg deal, I'm in for the caramelized challah French toast, and Piper steps up with "Tex's Weird and Rockin' Breakfast" which is exhausting to read: sweet potato cilantro corn bread topped with pepper jack scrambled eggs with ground turkey, roasted corn, sun dried tomatoes, green onions, and poblano peppers and topped with a tomatillo-chipotle gravy. Yeah, a LOT can go wrong with such a shelf-shaking combo, but it was a beautiful breakfast symphony, the clear winner out of the three, and a sh!t-load of food to boot (the hash browns are damn good, too). Six very enthusiastic thumbs up, and a collective vow to ignore the scale for another equinox.
However.
Note to self for next time: hideous models of syphilitic appendages FIRST, THEN Weird & Rockin' breakfast.
After hailing a cab our next stop was the Mutter Museum, a place I'd wanted to go for ages (OK, since seeing it on TV, http://www.collphyphil.org/mutter.asp, 19 South 22nd St., 10-5 daily). The museum houses Thomas Mutter's personal collection of "unique anatomic and pathological materials" and has grown to over 20,000 objects of just about any body part, insertion route, or internists' nightmare you can think of. A fist-sized (!!) hollow-glass (!!) pessary* shocked me out of my food coma, and wax models of truly Godawful skin diseases made the three of us go veeeeerry quiet (I should also note that the 1800s collection is housed in antique glass cases, meaning that one has to read explanations through wavy and bubbly glass, too – if looking at gunshot-blown skulls doesn't give you a headache, too much reading just might). It's a unique experience, wandering amongst the displays – some of it gawkingly prurient, some amusing and informative, and some achingly sad (if you're sensitive about sick babies and little kids, be warned) – quite the reminder that we're all just problematic wads of meat, bone, and electricity. There's currently a temporary exhibit on Lead and its impact on health, right next to the unfortunately predictable museum store (though I'm not sure what I would have wanted to see, perhaps a candlestick fashioned from a lichen-planus-coated arm? Or a nice glass pessary paperweight, in a lovely cobalt blue? At least they stocked one of my all-time-fave books – Mary Roach's Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers). Anyway, after successfully holding on to our breakfasts, we eased on down the road to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
* go ahead – Google it. I'll wait.
So the only thing Piper wanted to do the whole weekend was a Rocky Run up the steps, and after some photo ops at the Rocky statue we did the obligatory haul. The statue, I should note, is at the foot of the stairs and to the right, as I guess it would interfere with all the damn wedding party pix we nearly walked into. The museum itself is absolutely ginormous (www.philamuseum.org ) with one of the most massive collections in the States, and you can get lost for hours, caroming off of works that, if you're like me, you know but didn't know were Here (Dali's Soft Construction With Boiled Beans, Miro's Dog Barking at the Moon, Brancusi's The Kiss, and a butt-ton more). Truly amazing were the exhibit halls containing practically entire churches, temples, and tea houses – how the hell did people run around and get the idea, "You know, I'm gonna take THAT building back to Philly with me"?? Did they lick them or something? The stone-carved Indian temple is just cool, especially given that the info refers to a carving within of a couple making love; naturally this begins a race to find it, and once discovered Pam begins the universal tap-that motion, which cracks the guard behind her up. Eventually we satisfy Pam's need for shiny things and chains by going to the Armory, where we learn a fun new word: chanfron. You know, the big metal mask-things they stuck on horses' heads to protect them from spears and the like during battle. Chanfron, chanfron, chanfron. Like an inscrutable color or something ("No, NO, sweetie darling – more Battleship, less Chanfron…").
Though we probably only scratched the surface of the Museum, a bit of the museum sleepies hit, so we head back down the steps (past yet more wedding parties, happily with some TRAGIC bridesmaids' dresses) and down the flag-lined Ben Franklin Parkway, leisurely heading back towards the 13th and Sansom area to hit Capogiro Gelato (www.capogirogelato.com ) for a little artisanal pick-me-up. They do not disappoint – Thai coconut milk, five different chocolate flavors, there's Blood Orange again (the new pomegranate, or what??) – I snag a small scoop of champagne mango, lovely and fruity, and one of burnt sugar, fantastic and unlike anything I'd ever tasted before – not maple-y, not sugar-cookie-like, not caramel, just reeeeally good. Pam and Piper hit up some chocolate goodness and after a bit of a rest it's back to work on that pesky bar credit.
Some time and a spent tab later, we again hit the road down Chestnut Street towards the packed Continental Mid-town (http://www.continentalmidtown.com/ -mind the sound! - 1801 Chestnut), again with no reservations but steered to a most-satisfying 3rd-floor partially-enclosed rooftop bar. The three-story "global tapas" restaurant/bar has a brow-raising 70s theme with enough modern spin to avoid James-Lileks-style savagery, but on the 3rd floor the all-Lucite bar in the round complete with the semi-shag carpet, fiberglass Eames-wannabe chairs, wicker papasans in the corners, and white-porcelain-glazed metal fireplace in the round give us all pause, then a bit of the giddies. Which turned into stun when we perused the bar menu and noticed that half the cocktails were based on a diabetic dare. One drink contained Kool-aid with a glass rimmed in crushed Smarties; Pam ordered one containing, I kid you not, Tang. Piper and I stick with our pedestrian wine and champagne, and we notice that again the crowd is odd, this time skewing very hard towards the bachelorette with barely a guy in sight (no shock given the drinks list) and a few snugs of college-aged kids with their parents. No matter, after a while we get a table on the 2nd floor (next to the deuces where the seats are actually suspended wicker chairs) and soon the food begins. Initially we sample from the Asian side of things, quickly learning that the food is not as outstanding as our previous nights' selections, with some pretty standard, not to mention fairly spendy, Thai curry lobster and scallop ceviche, but eventually there were good hits in the mix. The Kofta came as deliciously savory-spiced skewers of beef, and the Thai chicken lettuce wraps were nicely spicy and fresh. The food came too quickly, however, and we should have spoken up as we were in no rush – at one point our server actually took Piper's little cocktail shaker away when it was 3/4s full (perhaps he had had a few too many Smarties in the back). Speaking of sweet, the dessert menu is equally eclectic, featuring PBJ ice cream sandwiches and a "Chef's selection Cotton Candy" (that night it was Orange – sensing a trend, anyone?). We splurge, order the Midtown Monkey, Blond Bombshell, and chocolate & peanut butter mousse and gleefully share until we feel ready for display at the Mutter. Though it was fun times and we ate and drank until well past 11, IMHO The Continental is a bit like the hot, funny, golly-gee-popular New Guy – suspect per the straight guys, adored by the girls, but if you watch and wait you realize that somehow, somewhere, there's a woman who's tired of putting up with his sh!t. So go, have fun, tell them to slow down, and bring your insulin.
As my boys have me well-trained I'm up at the arse-crack of dawn, eff it. I'm not unhappy, though – it's calm, quiet, and at least no short people are up in my grill yelling for breakfast. In a few hours the girls are up and by 9 Pam cracks some Prosecco and dumps it into 3 glasses of OJ (hey, scurvy is dangerous stuff!). While they get ready I hit the concierge desk, as I forgot to plan accordingly and when it comes to something as important as brekkie it's best to ask a local. Christian, an engaging gent hereafter referred to as Rockstar Christian, steers us towards Sabrina's Café in South Philly, right at 9th Street and the Italian Market area and a quick cab ride away (www.sabrinascafe.com, 910 Christian Street). A line of college-age kids waiting in front of the converted row house looked promising, so we put our names down and wandered out into the gray Saturday to browse the market, which runs a number of blocks and was larger than expected. Once again, I wish there was something like this near me, once again I'm glad there isn't – we popped into several butcher shops with gorgeous slabs o' bacon and beautifully marbled 3" steaks that were going quickly, and we wandered around in several cheese and dry-goods stores that had hanging waxed cheeses as large as full punching bags. Boo-yah.
Upon our return we were quickly seated and quickly paralyzed by the sumptuous menu, finally deciding to continue chick tradition and Share Everything. Pam orders the egg white and veg deal, I'm in for the caramelized challah French toast, and Piper steps up with "Tex's Weird and Rockin' Breakfast" which is exhausting to read: sweet potato cilantro corn bread topped with pepper jack scrambled eggs with ground turkey, roasted corn, sun dried tomatoes, green onions, and poblano peppers and topped with a tomatillo-chipotle gravy. Yeah, a LOT can go wrong with such a shelf-shaking combo, but it was a beautiful breakfast symphony, the clear winner out of the three, and a sh!t-load of food to boot (the hash browns are damn good, too). Six very enthusiastic thumbs up, and a collective vow to ignore the scale for another equinox.
However.
Note to self for next time: hideous models of syphilitic appendages FIRST, THEN Weird & Rockin' breakfast.
After hailing a cab our next stop was the Mutter Museum, a place I'd wanted to go for ages (OK, since seeing it on TV, http://www.collphyphil.org/mutter.asp, 19 South 22nd St., 10-5 daily). The museum houses Thomas Mutter's personal collection of "unique anatomic and pathological materials" and has grown to over 20,000 objects of just about any body part, insertion route, or internists' nightmare you can think of. A fist-sized (!!) hollow-glass (!!) pessary* shocked me out of my food coma, and wax models of truly Godawful skin diseases made the three of us go veeeeerry quiet (I should also note that the 1800s collection is housed in antique glass cases, meaning that one has to read explanations through wavy and bubbly glass, too – if looking at gunshot-blown skulls doesn't give you a headache, too much reading just might). It's a unique experience, wandering amongst the displays – some of it gawkingly prurient, some amusing and informative, and some achingly sad (if you're sensitive about sick babies and little kids, be warned) – quite the reminder that we're all just problematic wads of meat, bone, and electricity. There's currently a temporary exhibit on Lead and its impact on health, right next to the unfortunately predictable museum store (though I'm not sure what I would have wanted to see, perhaps a candlestick fashioned from a lichen-planus-coated arm? Or a nice glass pessary paperweight, in a lovely cobalt blue? At least they stocked one of my all-time-fave books – Mary Roach's Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers). Anyway, after successfully holding on to our breakfasts, we eased on down the road to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
* go ahead – Google it. I'll wait.
So the only thing Piper wanted to do the whole weekend was a Rocky Run up the steps, and after some photo ops at the Rocky statue we did the obligatory haul. The statue, I should note, is at the foot of the stairs and to the right, as I guess it would interfere with all the damn wedding party pix we nearly walked into. The museum itself is absolutely ginormous (www.philamuseum.org ) with one of the most massive collections in the States, and you can get lost for hours, caroming off of works that, if you're like me, you know but didn't know were Here (Dali's Soft Construction With Boiled Beans, Miro's Dog Barking at the Moon, Brancusi's The Kiss, and a butt-ton more). Truly amazing were the exhibit halls containing practically entire churches, temples, and tea houses – how the hell did people run around and get the idea, "You know, I'm gonna take THAT building back to Philly with me"?? Did they lick them or something? The stone-carved Indian temple is just cool, especially given that the info refers to a carving within of a couple making love; naturally this begins a race to find it, and once discovered Pam begins the universal tap-that motion, which cracks the guard behind her up. Eventually we satisfy Pam's need for shiny things and chains by going to the Armory, where we learn a fun new word: chanfron. You know, the big metal mask-things they stuck on horses' heads to protect them from spears and the like during battle. Chanfron, chanfron, chanfron. Like an inscrutable color or something ("No, NO, sweetie darling – more Battleship, less Chanfron…").
Though we probably only scratched the surface of the Museum, a bit of the museum sleepies hit, so we head back down the steps (past yet more wedding parties, happily with some TRAGIC bridesmaids' dresses) and down the flag-lined Ben Franklin Parkway, leisurely heading back towards the 13th and Sansom area to hit Capogiro Gelato (www.capogirogelato.com ) for a little artisanal pick-me-up. They do not disappoint – Thai coconut milk, five different chocolate flavors, there's Blood Orange again (the new pomegranate, or what??) – I snag a small scoop of champagne mango, lovely and fruity, and one of burnt sugar, fantastic and unlike anything I'd ever tasted before – not maple-y, not sugar-cookie-like, not caramel, just reeeeally good. Pam and Piper hit up some chocolate goodness and after a bit of a rest it's back to work on that pesky bar credit.
Some time and a spent tab later, we again hit the road down Chestnut Street towards the packed Continental Mid-town (http://www.continentalmidtown.com/ -mind the sound! - 1801 Chestnut), again with no reservations but steered to a most-satisfying 3rd-floor partially-enclosed rooftop bar. The three-story "global tapas" restaurant/bar has a brow-raising 70s theme with enough modern spin to avoid James-Lileks-style savagery, but on the 3rd floor the all-Lucite bar in the round complete with the semi-shag carpet, fiberglass Eames-wannabe chairs, wicker papasans in the corners, and white-porcelain-glazed metal fireplace in the round give us all pause, then a bit of the giddies. Which turned into stun when we perused the bar menu and noticed that half the cocktails were based on a diabetic dare. One drink contained Kool-aid with a glass rimmed in crushed Smarties; Pam ordered one containing, I kid you not, Tang. Piper and I stick with our pedestrian wine and champagne, and we notice that again the crowd is odd, this time skewing very hard towards the bachelorette with barely a guy in sight (no shock given the drinks list) and a few snugs of college-aged kids with their parents. No matter, after a while we get a table on the 2nd floor (next to the deuces where the seats are actually suspended wicker chairs) and soon the food begins. Initially we sample from the Asian side of things, quickly learning that the food is not as outstanding as our previous nights' selections, with some pretty standard, not to mention fairly spendy, Thai curry lobster and scallop ceviche, but eventually there were good hits in the mix. The Kofta came as deliciously savory-spiced skewers of beef, and the Thai chicken lettuce wraps were nicely spicy and fresh. The food came too quickly, however, and we should have spoken up as we were in no rush – at one point our server actually took Piper's little cocktail shaker away when it was 3/4s full (perhaps he had had a few too many Smarties in the back). Speaking of sweet, the dessert menu is equally eclectic, featuring PBJ ice cream sandwiches and a "Chef's selection Cotton Candy" (that night it was Orange – sensing a trend, anyone?). We splurge, order the Midtown Monkey, Blond Bombshell, and chocolate & peanut butter mousse and gleefully share until we feel ready for display at the Mutter. Though it was fun times and we ate and drank until well past 11, IMHO The Continental is a bit like the hot, funny, golly-gee-popular New Guy – suspect per the straight guys, adored by the girls, but if you watch and wait you realize that somehow, somewhere, there's a woman who's tired of putting up with his sh!t. So go, have fun, tell them to slow down, and bring your insulin.
Apr 21st, 2009, 05:23 PM
#12
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Day 3:
I am spared waking up at the arse-crack of dawn again as I technically cannot see dawn. A thick haze of fog has rolled in, making Piper's early flight doubtful, but we pack up anyway and manage to sort through the toiletry and jewelry explosion that has eaten every horizontal surface in the joint. Piper had scheduled a 9ish shuttle to the dreaded and dreary Philly airport, so we hit the front desk to sort out a few bill boo-boos, fill Rockstar Christian in on yesterday's glorious brekkie, and sadly bid our Piper adieu. Since our own train rolls at 11, RC mentions a diner in the RTM, so we head across only to discover they've got electrical issues, and as it's Sunday the tasty Amish stalls are in holy lockdown. The few open places are full and not exactly tempting, so we head back to RC for a backup Cheesesteak plan, as one cannot leave Philly without sampling an FBI agent a greasebomb triple-threat – meat, bread, and processed "cheese" product in a color God never intended, what's not to enjoy? Alas, Jim's is not open this early, the RTM stalls weren't fired up yet, and Johns' is similarly shuttered, so we grab our gear and hop a cab for the obvious, with our driver obligingly giving us the lowdown on the South Philly 'hoods that we pass.
As the driver waits, I grab a Pat's and Pam gets a Geno's and we throw the driver a handsome tip upon arriving at 30th Street. Soon we snag a table, undress our goodies (hey now!), and crack a bottle of Cava, the better to dump into our OJs. Two college boys hoovering Dunkin Donuts pause and stare outright with obvious envy and respect; indeed, lads, you SHOULD have thought of this, as we thoroughly enjoy the taste test. Verdict: Geno's has better onions, Pat's the nicer steak, but with the tangy mimosas neither of us truly give a rat's arse. Before we know it, our train is called, and we hang for a bit chatting before passing out for a much-needed nappy-poo.
So. A million years ago BC* I read an article about this professor dude** who talked about time management and 4 quadrants compiled of Important/Urgent, Not Important/Urgent, Important/Not Urgent, you get the idea. People, and I think especially women like myself, tend to give very short shrift to the Important/Not Urgent bits, like sharing a good poop joke***, getting lost in an art museum, getting found in a cheese course, and taking time to hang with old friends. Big mistake, I'm learning. Recharged from the weekend, I can face my boys again and their urgent diapers, deeds, and demands with wisdom, serenity, and a wellspring of compassion.
OK, kidding. But I'm damn glad I went, and I'm looking forward to next year, so thanks again Pam and Pipe.
Happy travels.
*Before Children
**Randy Pausch, go fig.
***A big polar bear and a little rabbit are taking a dump side by side in the snow. The bear looks down at the rabbit and in a deep voice says, "Excuse me, Mr. Rabbit, but do you have trouble with poop sticking to your fur?"
The rabbit looks up at the huge bear and with a squeaky voice says, "Why no, Mr. Bear, I sure don't."
So the bear scoops up the rabbit and wipes his arse with him.
(you're welcome)
I am spared waking up at the arse-crack of dawn again as I technically cannot see dawn. A thick haze of fog has rolled in, making Piper's early flight doubtful, but we pack up anyway and manage to sort through the toiletry and jewelry explosion that has eaten every horizontal surface in the joint. Piper had scheduled a 9ish shuttle to the dreaded and dreary Philly airport, so we hit the front desk to sort out a few bill boo-boos, fill Rockstar Christian in on yesterday's glorious brekkie, and sadly bid our Piper adieu. Since our own train rolls at 11, RC mentions a diner in the RTM, so we head across only to discover they've got electrical issues, and as it's Sunday the tasty Amish stalls are in holy lockdown. The few open places are full and not exactly tempting, so we head back to RC for a backup Cheesesteak plan, as one cannot leave Philly without sampling an FBI agent a greasebomb triple-threat – meat, bread, and processed "cheese" product in a color God never intended, what's not to enjoy? Alas, Jim's is not open this early, the RTM stalls weren't fired up yet, and Johns' is similarly shuttered, so we grab our gear and hop a cab for the obvious, with our driver obligingly giving us the lowdown on the South Philly 'hoods that we pass.
As the driver waits, I grab a Pat's and Pam gets a Geno's and we throw the driver a handsome tip upon arriving at 30th Street. Soon we snag a table, undress our goodies (hey now!), and crack a bottle of Cava, the better to dump into our OJs. Two college boys hoovering Dunkin Donuts pause and stare outright with obvious envy and respect; indeed, lads, you SHOULD have thought of this, as we thoroughly enjoy the taste test. Verdict: Geno's has better onions, Pat's the nicer steak, but with the tangy mimosas neither of us truly give a rat's arse. Before we know it, our train is called, and we hang for a bit chatting before passing out for a much-needed nappy-poo.
So. A million years ago BC* I read an article about this professor dude** who talked about time management and 4 quadrants compiled of Important/Urgent, Not Important/Urgent, Important/Not Urgent, you get the idea. People, and I think especially women like myself, tend to give very short shrift to the Important/Not Urgent bits, like sharing a good poop joke***, getting lost in an art museum, getting found in a cheese course, and taking time to hang with old friends. Big mistake, I'm learning. Recharged from the weekend, I can face my boys again and their urgent diapers, deeds, and demands with wisdom, serenity, and a wellspring of compassion.
OK, kidding. But I'm damn glad I went, and I'm looking forward to next year, so thanks again Pam and Pipe.
Happy travels.
*Before Children
**Randy Pausch, go fig.
***A big polar bear and a little rabbit are taking a dump side by side in the snow. The bear looks down at the rabbit and in a deep voice says, "Excuse me, Mr. Rabbit, but do you have trouble with poop sticking to your fur?"
The rabbit looks up at the huge bear and with a squeaky voice says, "Why no, Mr. Bear, I sure don't."
So the bear scoops up the rabbit and wipes his arse with him.
(you're welcome)
Apr 21st, 2009, 05:45 PM
#13
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Major rounds of applause! I think the Philadelphia Visitor and Tourism Center needs a copy of this.
I'm glad that the lousy weather that weekend didn't interfere with the pursuit of happiness. Cheers!
I'm glad that the lousy weather that weekend didn't interfere with the pursuit of happiness. Cheers!
Apr 22nd, 2009, 01:44 AM
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Bravo for the trip report! I miss Philly (lived there several years) and always thought it was a great food town. Anyway, this gives me some new things to see and do next time I'm there. Thanks for taking the time to write a hilarious and engaging trip report!
Thanks again for your help, Amy!
