Philadelphia, Day One Continued -- Pumpkin

Showered and changed (and recovered from the torrential thunderstorm that caught us as we walked the last four blocks to our hotel), we caught a cab to head out to dinner. Our original plan, on the recommendation of our friend C.S., was Mattyson, but apparently it is the hot place in Philly right now, and was completely booked up by the time I called. We settled for Plan B, which was a restaurant just South of downtown called Pumpkin. We had gone to Pumpkin on out first trip to Philly four or so years ago and had an amazing meal, so I did not hesitate to go back.

Pumpkin is a part of Philly’s vibrant BYOB scene, which alone makes a trip to the city worth it. Why couldn’t it be more widespread? Anyway, Pumpkin is tiny – a single minimally-decorated room that seats 26 if memory serves. The menu changes daily based on the ingredients at the chef’s disposal. Though nominally divided into appetizers and mains, all the plates are about the same size. Our waitress – one of only two working the room – was friendly and knowledgeable, and her service was excellent throughout the meal. I started with the Mediterranean rock octopus (a smaller variety with a more tender flesh compared to the giant “regular” octopus) served with chorizo, fingerling potatoes and romesco (tomato and bell pepper) sauce. It was unbelievable. Definitely the best octopus I have ever had. Up until then, my reference was the giant grilled octopus tentacle I had in Toronto’s Greek Town about ten years ago, but Pumpkin blew it, pardon the pun, out of the water. J., on the waitress’s recommendation with my enthusiastic encouragement, opted for razor clams. They proved to be delicious as well – large and plump and very clammy-tasting.

My second course was the most unusual thing I had had in a while – fresh sturgeon. It came from the Columbia River in Washington. I had no idea there were any sturgeon species in North America. It was excellent – very firm, with a deeply flavored, dense and oily flesh. It had some swordfish and some tuna in the taste, but in the end was its own animal. It was served with brussel sprouts and salsify, scattered with a few corn kernels, and accompanied with a dollop of a creamy sauce I could not quite identify. J.’s choice was the skate wing, which was also very good – tender, with a powerful lemon kick and served with the largest caper berries I have ever seen – they looked like figs. My only complaint, if it can even be called that, is that my sturgeon clashed mightily with the wine we had brought -- a half-bottle of the 2006 pinot noir from Baileyana in the Edna Valley of California. It was crisp, light-bodied and spicy with a pronounced flavor of cranberries on the palate, but the fish was just too, well, fishy for any red, even one as versatile as a pinot noir. That, and the fact that after the two courses, J. and I were too full to have dessert, delectable though it looked.

By the time we left the restaurant, the rain had stopped, and we walked back to the hotel through the rapidly cooling night, past a few inviting-looking bars and restaurants and across Rittenhouse Square. We had initially thought about going to the Apothecary – another happening place and Philly’s outpost of the burgeoning craft cocktail scene, but realized we really were not in the mood to deal with crowds of hipsters, so we got our nightcap back at our hotel’s bar. Situated as it was in the lobby of the hotel, separated only by a large divider, it retained some of the hotel-like sterility of most bars of its ilk. A few small round tables with two deep leather chairs at each helped a bit, and that is where we settled. I must say that the unremarkable atmosphere was deceptive – our drinks were excellent. Our waitress, who looked too young to know anything about real cocktails, looked confused when I asked if they had rye, but the bartender – a middle-aged guy who clearly knew his job and took pride in it – overheard me (the music was mercifully quiet) and nodded. I got one of the best rye manhattans I had ever had. J.’s French 75 – a forgotten classic if ever there was one – was very good as well. We sipped our drinks, mellowed by the long day and the delicious food, contemplating the fact that we were now married and attempting, unsuccessfully, to find some difference in how we felt.