Philadelphia Weekly

In full ’shroom: Sonata’s innovative mushroom-crusted tuna steak comes overdressed in two sauces, a Cabernet redux and a foie butter.

Photo by Michael Persico

My first car was a Hyundai, so drawing a Korean auto comparison to the new NoLibs bistro Sonata comes easier than a musical one, though I’m pretty sure that’s not 29-year-old chef/owner Mark Tropea’s intention. A sonata, explains the former executive sous chef of Malvern’s Desmond Hotel, is a composition meant to be played rather than sung. “A chef does the same through his food,” Tropea says. A noble theme, sir, one driven home by a G-clef standing in for the ‘s’ in Sonata’s logo; sheet music confetti stuffed into the candle holders; and the jazzy jazz posters hanging on off-white walls.


Sure, the “art” looks straight out of Marshall’s HomeGoods, and the patriotic palette—navy blue ceilings and fire-engine-red trim complement the walls—feels more ROTC than BYOB, but Sonata still looks a thousand times better than this address’ previous—and very purple—occupant, Swallow. I thought the French food there was very good, even if the place looked like Grimace’s boudoir, but Swallow abruptly passed away in May, a victim of the recession or its pre-mortem all-mac-’n’-cheese-all-the-time menu, depending on whom you ask.


Tropea swooped in soon after, putting pen to paper and paintbrush to drywall. In July, he opened with a new look and succinct new American menu, one that’s as heavy on the sous-vide compressing (to its benefit) as it is on the saucing (to its detriment). 


Consider the scallop crudo, and the glug of ectoplasmic chive oil spilled across my dish like The Dip in Who Framed Roger Rabbit . The shot of green popped beautifully against the white of the scallop and plate, but the oil made each sashimi slice slippery as an eel—not exactly the most desirable quality when eating seafood. More so, the onion totally overwhelmed the crudo’s oceanic sweetness, let alone the delicate accent of vanilla salt.


At times during my dinner at Sonata, it was like Tropea couldn’t help himself, that add-more reflex that afflicts lots of young chefs. It’s a real shame, since mostly he’s doing fresh things with quality ingredients at friendly prices. His pan-crisped pork belly, brined for 24 hours and cooked sous-vide for 12 more, came correct with opposing textures, and I loved the little spheres of compressed Fuji apple and the deeply autumnal calvados molasses—even if the latter tattooed the plate in passé diner-dessert squiggles.


Watermelon also got the compression treatment in a light, summery salad with peppy watercress and creamy Shellbark Hollow goat cheese from West Chester. Here, Tropea went light on the lemon vinaigrette and balsamic reduction, fortunate since Cryovac-ing transformed the melon into a dense, steaky, pink brick brimming with nectar. Another choice for vegetarian Libertines included the chickpea patties, slightly dry but nonetheless enjoyable swiped through tangy roasted garlic yogurt. A thicket of wiry frisée accompanied.


I had to lift my self-imposed ahi embargo when Sonata’s menu promised a decidedly un-Asian (and thus, un-
clichéd) tuna steak crusted in dehydrated black trumpet mushroom dust. The fatty, expertly filleted fish—Tropea breaks down whole loins in house—
delivered, with a surprisingly harmonious contrast of earth and sea beneath a ragout of chanterelles and undercooked favas. But there was that tick: not one, but two sauces, Cabernet redux and frothy truffled foie gras butter. Though the ahi was meaty enough to keep pace with both, a single sauce—and less of it—would have sufficed. If Tropea takes this advice and drops one, I hope it’s not the beguiling foie butter, notably lighter than I expected it to be.


Desserts were weak, a disappointment considering sous and pastry chef Krystal Weaver, Tropea’s former classmate at the Restaurant School at Walnut Hill College, did desserts at Brasserie Perrier and Miel Patisserie. The photogenic mission fig and blueberry tart was little more than that. Lemon ice cream lacked zing, as did the passion fruit panna cotta garnished with distracting raw corn salsa, basil and orange—or should I say raw corn salsa garnished with passion fruit panna cotta, since they appeared in nearly equal proportions?


It seems Weaver suffers from the same overdressing tendencies as her boss. I’m not too concerned though, because it’s way easier to subtract than to add. Sonata has merit to spare. Sauce too.