Pimp my rib: At St. Stephen’s Green the bar’s the place to be. (Photo by Michael Persico)

Restaurant Review

It’s all about the bar at St. Stephen’s Green.

by Adam Erace

It’s too bad St. Stephen is the patron saint of stonemasons and not multiple personalities, because the handsome Fairmount pub St. Stephen’s Green could use a little divine intervention sorting out its various identities.

You’re at a crossroads the minute you step into this craftsman rehab of the old Cuvee Notredame. The bar area opens up to the right, a hot spot that’s pleasantly raucous even on weeknights. High-top tables flank the polished pine bar, where Irish bartenders tickle 13 taps while bullshitting with regulars about the Man U match on the flat-screens above.

The restaurant side of St. Stephen’s Green unfolds on the left, a quiet study-like respite framed in storefront windows. Here the populace tends toward tenured Penn profs and older upper-crusties who might confuse Delirium Tremens for a new exhibit at the Art Museum.

The menus (one for the bar, one for the restaurant, plus an evolving list of specials) have similarly different personas. Formerly of Dark Horse and New Wave Cafe, chef Ben McNamara offers dishes that run the gamut from simple (sirloin burger, fried catfish BLT) to fancy (rack of lamb, risotto crab cakes with basil buerre blanc).

This duality is of course engineered. Here’s the hard sell: Come to St. Stephen’s Green, a casual/upscale bar/restaurant specializing in unpretentious pub grub/sophisticated fine dining. It’s great for a few pints with the boys/brunch with your mother. They’ve even got a stash of chicken fingers and crayons should you arrive with offspring in tow.

With such large menus, it’s a challenge to get every dish right. The frites need salt and a shot of Viagra; they’re flaccid beneath lukewarm hanger steak splashed with intense shiitake bordelaise. The potato leek soup is so thick and potatoey, it’s like eating a bowl of instant mashed, and the bacony brussels sprouts (though addictively gilded in duck fat) are undercooked. Fried “Green Street” tomatoes are actually red, as mealy and insipid as you’d expect from tomatoes in the dead of winter.

That I ate all of the above in the restaurant wing probably influences my bar preference, but there are other issues as well, from the orthopedic back braces they call chairs to the server, who asks if I’d like to hang onto my silverware between courses.

I do love the cottage pie, though. It comes in a homey oval casserole, the crunchy browned peaks of the steaming whipped potato cap like bruleed meringue. A rustic, wonderfully wintry peasant stew of ground beef, carrots, peas, celery and onions lies beneath, but even while I’m enjoying it, the music and lively conversation off in the bar make me feel like a grounded kid stuck in his room while everyone else is at a party.

With Dark Horse, Black Sheep and Bishop’s Collar in their portfolios, owners James Stephens and Jeff Keel have craft beer in their veins, which is probably why St. Stephen’s Green feels most at home when it behaves like a classic gastropub.

In the busy tavern, the food is tastier, the atmosphere more convincing, and the service more assured. My server scores instant points by clueing me in to a limited-edition keg of Flying Fish’s cherrylicious LoveFish on special for $3 a pint.

With the exception of rubbery cornmeal-crusted calamari, McNamara is more consistent with pub fare like meaty chicken wings tossed in sweet, zesty barbecue sauce and flaky, Guinness-battered cod with crisp, thick-cut chips.

He wanders into the Asian pantry with spare ribs lacquered in soy and mirin. Slowly grilled, the ribs pull easily apart into a messy adventure of meat, fat and bone. Best are the caramelized bits of glaze, crunchy then chewy like a sweet-and-salty hard candy from a Tokyo sugar shop.

McNamara prepares close to 10 desserts from scratch every morning, and you can taste the freshness in the fudgy black-bottom pecan pie, airy Baileys cheesecake wrapped in a thin layer of ganache, and death by chocolate, a dense, flourless cocoa torte. Guy likes his chocolate.

So when you visit (and you should) and the hostess asks where you’d like to sit, bypass the restaurant and head right to the bar. At St. Stephen’s Green, as in life, it’s where many of the answers lie.