Philadelphia Weekly

On the black, mirror-backed shelves, Louis XIII stands center, like Holy Communion at Benediction. He's there for you to worship. The cognac is top-shelf, literally, out of reach of the willowy barmaids, its Swarovski crystal bottle getting low � la Lil John. At $175 a shot, you've got to wonder in these economic times who drinks this shit, besides characters in Cocktail. And probably Lil John.

Then again, this is Lacroix, tony treehouse of the Rittenhouse elite. Among loaded loyals, Le Louis is par for the course, but the august establishment's ballsy new bar (one Chef Matthew Levin has been pushing since arriving in 2006) seems to cater to a lighter wallet.

Sure, the service is flawless, the wine glasses swoon-worthy and the Meg Rodgers interior--herringbone leather floors, granite bar, hand-woven rattan chairs--predictably lavish. But Bar 210's menu and prices (about half the formal dining room's) make it deliciously easy to lose sight of your surroundings.

You'll arrive, as I did, with good intentions. Clean. Properly dressed. Sipping your cocktail at a polite pace. But before you know it, you'll be unhinging your jaw for a damn good burger smothered in provolone, losing a fight with a dainty bottle of Heinz 57 and wiping your truffle oiled paws on deluxe linens embroidered with the Lacroix logo.

I can't imagine Levin, tattooed rebel-leader against the deep-seeded dogmas of fine dining, would want it any other way.

He's a sneaky bastard, slipping Coca-Cola into the tempura-fried shiitakes' soy-sauce dip, spiking fresh-squeezed lemonade with tequila and jalape�os. In Levin's world, the chicken "nuggets" are the size of bricks and the strawberry "pearls" floating in the cardamom-laced Champagne involve a gelling agent called Kappa and a medical syringe.

Levin captains Lacroix with the mischievous spirit of a little boy who just tricked his grandma into eating a bug. And Bar 210 sells the food he'd make for his co-conspirators: conceptual comfort stuff--ooh, the meatloaf gratin!--and guilty pleasures tapped from deep, dark places in our subconscious.

I'm thinking of the lemongrass martini, a lilac elixir of Hangar One Mandarin Blossom vodka, lemongrass syrup and Chambord that tasted like a cross between a floral Ming Dynasty tea and a Pixie Stick. Also, the nugget, made from white-and-dark meat mousse that Levin sous-vides, buttermilk batters and fries till golden. The sweet, tangy black pepper barbecue was a dead ringer for the Chick-fil-A Polynesian Sauce that I stockpile in my fridge when the nice drive-through attendant gives me extra. I told you: deep, dark places.

Pastry man Max Carmona-Rivera follows Levin's lead with witty desserts like "Memoirs of France," an artful assembly of caramelized pear, citrus and fluffy house-baked brioche French toast. Cocked atop a cloud of lush mascarpone gelato, a brittle pistachio tuile looked and shattered like a pane of green stained glass. The flavor was pure crystallized caramel, shades of Sugar Smacks.

I'll take a pass on overcooked Tabasco syrup-glazed shrimp and starchy barbecued rib dumplings. Just pile on another helping of squid salad, ribbons of impossibly tender grilled calamari tangling with grape tomatoes alongside a comet of herbaceous, ink-stained black chimichurri.

Or the pork belly, dressed with Togarashi (a Japanese seven-spice blend), inventive onion caramel and humble romaine. You wouldn't expect it from the lettuce patch's most vanilla of residents, but romaine worked perfectly, its sturdy crunch the ideal foil for the buttery belly.

Zesty za'atar-dusted lavash and addictive tempura chickpeas with Aleppo pepper aioli made great drinking mates for Bar 210's creative handcrafted cocktails. Think fresh-squeezed blood orange mojitos and beautifully balanced Ciroc martinis garnished with frozen grapes, seckel pear sidecars and spiked apple cider ladled from a steaming punch bowl.

On went the pumpkin whipped cream. Down came the cinnamon, nutmeg and floral Taiwan pepper. In went a plastic bendy straw. The lovely bartender carried the cider over on a lovely tray. She set it on an embossed cocktail napkin trimmed in Lacroix green, the straw seeming to bob to the subliminally low beat of "The Tootsee Roll" on the sound system above.

As we went to press, PW learned Chef Matthew Levin left Lacroix. For the first time ever, we wished we were a daily.