Philadelphia Weekly

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Mac daddy: Chef Bill Murphy’s macaroni and cheese has a delectable combination of Gruyère, Cabot cheddar, Parmesan and fontina.

Photo by michael Persico

Mine is the only table occupied in 
Teplitzky’s, Stephen Starr’s diner-by-the-sea in the lobby of Atlantic City’s posh Chelsea Hotel—and at the very least, the views are nice.


Say what you will about Starr restaurants, but damn, they look good. Named for the original owners of the HoJo that once stood at this address, Teplitzky’s is no exception. The smart, cheeky diner redo—courtesy of Shawn Hausman Designs (Parc, Butcher & Singer, the beachy-keen Standard Miami)—is Continental reupholstered in Jones, a prepossessing riot of royal-blue plaid, palm-print wallpaper and Country Crock-colored laminate.


Alcove booths line generous windows opposite a counter/bar combo with tweed swivel stools and a full liquor cabinet with fixings for minted swizzles and spiked cream sodas. There’s seating at a low-slung banquette rimming the polygon dining room, as well as at a sensational poolside salon, where wooden barstools complement the palm-
patterned paper. If Don Draper threw a luau, this is what it’d look like.


But no matter how flattering the light from the ladylike chandeliers, how nifty the midcentury modern patio furniture, an empty restaurant feels like a grave. And the Chelsea, lately, feels like a cemetery. Is the emptiness a product of the biblical rainstorms that made June a literal wash? Or something larger, an upshot of an economy that has developers of the Atlantic City of the Future pulling out as fast as nervous virgins?


It’s not all doom and gloom. The great thing about Atlantic City is that even if the long-necked construction cranes continue to stall in the distance like petrified steel brontosaurs, there’s still an actual city here. A real, authentic place. When chef Bill Murphy is at his best, it’s when he’s tapping into the authenticity simmering under Teplitzky’s jazzy quartz-flecked floors like oil waiting to be struck.


Murphy, a Culinary Institute of America grad who’s been working for Starr on and off since 2000 (Blue Angel, Buddakan, both Continentals), is bullish about globally inspired, shareable party fare like a sort-of chic meze plate of warm grilled pita, cumin-scented tzatziki and inside-out Greek salad lettuce wraps boosted with nutty farro. How strange, though, that it feels old hat when something much, much older (the excellent matzo ball soup) feels so fresh.


Two tender matzo balls bob like buoys in the broth. On the shimmering surface, golden droplets of chicken fat—the only way to conjure them is making the stock from scratch, which Murphy admirably does—catch the light like shipwrecked jewelry on gentle Atlantic swells. These magic molecules inform a broth so deep it sends echoes down the esophagus. Now I get why they call this stuff Jewish penicillin. All the single bubbes, put your hands up. I’m available.


There was also some of the best 
mac ’n’ cheese I’ve ever dug into: Gruyère, Cabot cheddar, Parmesan and fontina enrobing elbow noodles under an evenly browned panko crust. Diner staple success! Which leaves me befuddled over the terrible turkey club, something a diner, of all places, should nail. 
This pretty much unfuckupable triple-decker is done so royally with soggy wheat toast and rubbery bacon that it looks and tastes microwaved.


The soft shell crab entree lands somewhere between the mac and the club. Bright and tangy from a buttermilk bath, the meaty tempura-fried crabs are swell. The strange mango vinaigrette and soggy, overdressed watercress, tomato and avocado salad are swill. Not swill: The chocolatey malt, dreamy and smooth and so thick it makes the bendy straw stand straight; and the cute key lime pie capped with killer coconut foam.


Service is an issue. When restaurants are dead, servers tend to spread the attention on thick as cream cheese. At Teplitzky’s, it’s the opposite. I have to snatch a spoon off another table. Water is never replenished (fine by me, actually, since the H2O has that stagnant, sat-out-overnight taste). The server’s coup de grace comes when she gropes my iPhone for a side-by-side comparison with her new 3GS. I’m like Nurse Jackie at the literal hands of Dr. Coop.


Then again, AC doesn’t do boundaries very well. The line between what is and what could be is very blurry at Teplitzky’s. If restaurants are stages (as Starr ones clearly are) and all the women and men in them players, then this is one boring one-man show—even if some dishes definitely deserve an encore. ■

Teplitzky’s


Chelsea Hotel, 111 S. Chelsea Ave., Atlantic City, N.J. 609.428.4550. thechelsea-ac.com


Cuisine: American diner.


Hours: Mon.-Thurs., 7am-10pm; Fri.-Sun., 7am-midnight.


Prices: $2-$12.


Atmosphere: Another cool, clever diner update from Starr. Now if only people could fill it. 


Service: Nice but neglectful.


Food: A gamble.