Philadelphia Weekly

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To understand Matyson, the darling BYOB of Rittenhouse Square, just look at the five paintings hanging above the banquette. A purple plum. The papery twist-tie top of a yellow onion. A lipstick-red strawberry. Silvery fish stacked on a platter. The goblin-green and hot-pink inner folds of an artichoke.

The oversized oils on canvas are the stand-out decoration at Matyson, a place that favors almost subconscious details--like lilies that make the men's room smell like a ritzy flowershop, and avant-garde Moore College of Art & Design playing cards used as coat-check tickets. Even when the 56-seat room is filled to capacity (it often is) and the banquette feels like an overcrowded church pew (it often does), you can look up at those appetizing paintings and remember what this place is all about.

High-quality ingredients, simply prepared.

Original chef/owners Matt and Sonjia Spector installed this philosophy when they opened Matyson in 2003. This past fall the couple left for Napa, selling their BYOB to partner and uncle Butch Puchowitz. Ownership changes rarely go smoothly, but there's continuity with co-exec chefs Brian Lofink and Ben Puchowitz (Butch's son) in the kitchen.

These culinary young guns are 26 and 24, respectively, and their youth informs a menu that's playful but not capricious, bold but not cocky, and current without bowing to trends. Don't tell Matt, but I think the cooking is better now than it was before.

This maturity isn't evident in the first course of Matyson's shellfish tasting menu: good-but-dated tempura shrimp with honey-mustard-mango sauce that feels so late-'90s its follow-up could be Dawson's Creek chowder.

Themed around an ingredient or group of ingredients, the five-course $45 tasting menu is offered Monday through Thursday and changes every week. It progresses confidently after the shrimp with plump, briny PEI mussels in a gently curried puddle of backyard-smoked yellow pepper sauce. Then a playful pan-seared scallop "sandwich" stuffed with yellow ribbons of pineapple and served with golden razor-wire waffle chips.

Swiped through a brushstroke of scallion aioli, each perfect bite packs a masterful balance of sweet, salty, sour and savory--and that's without the applewood-smoked bacon. (On again with my on-again-off-again spirituality, I elected to go veg, it being Ash Wednesday and all. It's worth noting server and kitchen accommodated the request without making me feel like a crazy Christian.)

Cioppino follows, the Frisco fish stew updated with sweet langoustine and tender New Zealand cockles. Made from shellfish stock and white wine, the juice is tasty slurped from a spoon, and even better mopped up by not-sour sourdough and hearty multigrain from Germantown's Baker Street Bread Co. Topped with a row of bruleed bananas and a ping-pong-ball-sized scoop of house-made brown sugar ice cream, the compact chocolate-hazelnut tart ends the light-bodied shellfish tasting on a rich note.

The regular menu's dishes are just as tempting. Lightly spiced with madras curry, the velvety brown sugar-roasted eggplant soup strikes the right chord on a cold night, while tart pineapple and salty crisped prosciutto slice through the rich fattiness of pan-seared foie gras.

It looks like a blind man butchered the pristine hiramasa (farmed Australian yellowtail kingfish) for the south-of-the-border sashimi with chili oil and homey-roasted poblano coulis standing in for wasabi.

The manly black Angus New York strip anchoring the steak frites is tough in parts, but the real stars of this dish are the toothsome creamed spinach and crisp bistro-style fries tossed in parsley and Parmiggiano-Reggiano. Brined overnight in apple cider and braised for two hours, the pork belly is a dream paired with creamy white hominy grits enriched with queso fresco. The inky sauce is pureed huitlacoche, the Mexican corn fungus often compared to truffle. By itself, I think the huitlacoche tastes like Listerine, but dabbed on the pork the flavor becomes something earthy and dynamic.

Sticky butterscotch pudding and the macadamia-crusted, ganache-striped coconut cream pie make satisfyingly finales almost as sweet as my waitress. A waiter on a different night is just as sure-footed, but it would be nice if he would look me in the eye and not at the wall when he's reading specials.

Maybe he's admiring the fat, juicy strawberry hanging above my head. If that's the case, I guess I can't blame him.