Nude and grille life: Lamb chops (above) and naked ravioli are part of Chick's Italian renaissance.

Restaurant Review

Chick’s Café & Wine Bar

by Adam Erace

As old-man bars go, there never was one more old-manny than Chick’s.

Dark. Dirty. Smoky. It’s hard to imagine what kept this place in business at the long-gentrified intersection of Seventh and Kater. Maybe they were busing in the old neighborhood’s old men from Washington Township.

Last year realtor Nella Genovese purchased the musty taproom and partnered with chef Jim Piano—they met while he was cooking at Bridget Foy’s, her happy hour haunt. They kept the name and, after intense excavation and restoration, debuted a chic speakeasy colored with pressed tin, stained glass and hazy lighting.

Buffed to a candy-apple gloss, the original mahogany-and-tigerwood bar anchors the saloon, where moonshine’s been served since the end of Prohibition under Pennsylvania liquor license No. 376. In the upstairs lounge, a rose-colored bar awaits a license extension, the baby grand a good tickling.

Piano finds most success with the menu’s Italian-inflected small plates: a grilled gold bar of polenta topped with garlicky broccoli rabe; matchstick-thin Tuscan frites, twice-fried and tossed with fragrant rosemary and garlic; skewers of bacon-wrapped, Valdeon-stuffed dates; butter lettuce and spinach tossed with balsamic and strawberries; beautifully presented antipasto boards that diners customize from a selection of 20 meats and cheeses. I like Parmigiano, Camembert and Prosciutto di Parma as much as the next guy, but—paging Tria—the selection could use a few exotics.

The lower half of the menu finds pastas and flatbreads made in-house—muddy flavors plague the duck confit, cherry, spinach and Chevre flatbread—and “entrees” priced like mains but only slightly larger than standard appetizers. Three scallops for $16. A lonely fillet of branzino for $18. There’s a subtle art to overcharging, another lesson Chick’s could learn from Tria.

Poised over a chilled fingerling potato and haricots verts salad, the branzino has an overripe, leftover-from-the-weekend flavor, and its skin, not crisp enough, slides off in one sheet like a fish-flavored fruit roll-up. An uneven yellowish crust coats the scallops.

The accompanying saute of fava bean and shiitake, hedgehog and oyster mushrooms should be light and springy, but the cream creates an unseasonably heavy sauce not unlike condensed cream-o-’shroom soup. The third scallop goes untouched.

Normally, I’d make an excuse that I’m just too full as the plate is whisked away, but the servers’ dispositions are so cool, I doubt they give a flying fava.

Over silky porcini-studded polenta, the braised wild boar is heavy for the weather, but the dish is nonetheless tasty. Four lamb chops rest on minty cannellini beans, their panko crust lending a crunchy counterpoint to the tender Dijon-licked meat.

Gnudi, naked ravioli, are just that: nutmeg-sprinkled mounds of ricotta and Pecorino missing their pasta envelopes. Sauteed spinach and prosciutto keep the airy dumplings from floating away.

I love the chocolate truffle tart, a decadent ganache ottoman balanced by bright raspberry coulis, but the rest of pastry chef Kristen Weber’s desserts need tweaking. The chocolate, chili and espresso in the pot de creme aren’t integrated well. Lavender, novel a year ago, feels done-to-death today in the silky creme brulee.

With such uneven food, it’s a good thing Chick’s has a liquor license. Katie Loeb, master bartendrix (her word, not mine) and former moderator of eGullet’s Pennsylvania board, has stockpiled Chick’s bar with obscure cocktailing weapons.

French cassis tames the bite of the tequila-spiked Diablo, while Le Demon Vert gets its fleeting tropical finish from falernum syrup, a tiki bar sweetener infused with vanilla, almond, ginger, clove and lime.

Loeb makes her own mixers, from the ginger beer—the bite in the effervescent Dark & Stormy—to the lemon cordial and Thai basil syrup—both in the luminous gin-based Front Stoop Lemonade, winner of Blue Coat’s drink contest.

Her tipples are so delicious, chugging them for the sake of gettin’ drunk rather than sipping slowly seems awfully uncivilized.

Wine gets just as much attention, with most bottles less than $40, and every wine available by the glass. For beer, expect mostly microbrews on tap, interrupted by mainstay Peroni, a respectful nod to the old men who don’t live here anymore.