The time leading up to Valentine’s Day is always filled with sweet, sweet love in the air.
Newly formed couples write cheesy love song lyrics back and forth on Facebook, your neighborhood pharmacy is stocked with questionably imported teddy bears, and at least one person sobs himself to sleep accompanied by the soothing sounds of Delilah’s Love Someone Syndicated Radio Program … (damn you, Delilah).
I took a 9-mm to my inner cupid as I roamed Philly, stuffing my face with obscene amounts of food in anticipation of my 8 p.m. date at the Trocadero with a very special musical guest, Glassjaw.
My adventure began as I packed up early and scooted down 95 into the city of brotherly lovin’. Leaving my little car to the Wild West of the North Temple streets, my friend and I scurried underground for a subway ride down Broad and into Center City.
With an epic hunger raging inside me, I quickly got my bearings and pointed the way to my favorite watering hole, Monk’s Belgian Café. One of the first establishments I patronized when I moved to the Philly area — and the only one that requires a stop every time I head to the city — Monk’s is pretty much the Jerusalem of beer. Top-notch brews from all over jockey for recognition, but the Belgians have the place on lockdown. With an outstanding selection of Trappist Ales (non-beer snobs, please educate yourselves on this holier-than-thou drink) and the owner’s personal relationship with some of Belgium’s most-recognized breweries, this place hits a homerun every time.
Sipping on Gueuze with warm wood paneling and dim lighting surrounding me, I planted myself into one of the pews in the back, appropriately next to gothic-style, stained-glass windows and paintings of pontiffs past.
If the atmosphere and beer list doesn’t tip you off to just how special of a place you are in, one item on the menu is sure to light the fire … Veal Cheeks. After much debate on exactly what constitutes the “cheek” portion of a cow (it is, in fact, its butt), I ordered up a plate of Veal Cheeks, looking for that food-induced coma of bliss they’ve put me in so often before. Three little succulent medallions braised in a hearty combination of veggies, Spanish olives and herbs, and accompanied by an Abbaye brown ale, were truly the essence of culinary treats … a wonderfully tasty, unethical treat.
Leaving Monk’s mid-afternoon with much time to spare, it was a forward march towards Good Dogs for the one dish that makes the place soooo popular.
Tucked into a narrow space alongside South 15th in Rittenhouse sits this nondescript jewel. I nestled myself at the far end of the bar, picked a few beers off their chalkboard display of daily features, and turned down the bartender’s proposition of a menu. The only thing important to me here was the epic Good Dog Burger.
I want to rant on and on about how amazing the beer list is, how unique the atmosphere is and how the food “always hits the mark,” but I can’t. The beer list is good, but honestly what establishment around here doesn’t boast one? The atmosphere has its niche, but it’s nothing to stop the presses for. And the food … well, I’ve never really ordered anything but the Good Dog Burger, and you shouldn’t, either.
It comes out steaming hot, next to a colossal mound of crispy fries (appropriately mixed sweet and russet potatoes and a deadly fry sauce), and on a bun so shiny and symmetrical it could be the star of burger commercials nationwide. The patty is topped with caramelized onions and stuffed with the ultimate experience of all — melted n’ oozy Roquefort cheese. I took one bite into this monster, and as that pungent cheese punched my taste buds and burned my lips, Dave Thomas rolled over in his grave at this burger supremacy.
After expanding my stomach to the point of rupture, the time had ticked to the hour that the doors of the Troc would be opening. I dragged myself out the door and nabbed a quick pick-me-up from La Colombe Coffee. I marched through the ever-eclectic Chinatown and into the sweat-scented auditorium of the Trocadero.
After a couple of snooze-inducing opening bands, the post-hardcore/punk pioneers from Long Island took the stage. With such romantic tunes as “Pretty Lush” and “Pink Roses and the Graveyard,” Daryl Palumbo’s schizophrenic voice plucked at my heartstrings for a Valentine’s Eve that will forever be remembered.
I was able to satisfy my hunger for Philly and some fist-raising tunes. Too bad all you could do was spend your evening with Delilah…
Read more from Evan on his blog, found at www.AverageEnthusiast.com.
