Philadelphia Weekly

This ain’t your mama’s meatloaf: It’s chef Scott Schroeder’s mama’s.

Photo by Michael Persico

It was right about a year ago this time that South Philly Tap Room went on safari with chef Michael Zulli. There were ostrich kebabs. There were buffalo nuts. There were some pleased patrons. There were others who were not so pleased.

I’m not judging. Most of the food was pretty tasty (not to mention ballsy), a fitting complement for SPTR’s inspired, always-surprising list of American craft beers like the Bruery’s crisp Berliner Weisse and Avery’s bloodthirsty Maharaja, an imperial IPA with a taste as regal and dangerous as its name implies.

But then in the summer, lion roared into Zulli-bilee Zoo, sparking the kind of debate that made Obama and Clinton look like two brats arguing over the last slice of pizza. Shit got heated, and just as it seemed carnivore and herbivore would battle it out, both Simba and Zulli were gone.

Some say it’s unhealthy to dwell on the past, but Liongate 2008 is the reason I—not to mention many angry vegetarians—am back at STPR, slugging down my first Festina Peche of the season under the gaze of a Rocky puppet and Mike Schmidt bobblehead.

Six months have passed since new chef Scott Schroeder charged into Newbold like a white knight on a humanely raised horse. His menu’s got no game of the edible variety, but has plenty of the intangible kind, with a balance of both meaty and meatless dishes. The only people that might be offended are the prim spinsters who’d tsk-tsk at seeing cream chipped beef by its other name, shit-on-a-shingle.

Having cooked at Deuce and Royal Tavern, Sir Scott is no stranger to the gastropub scene, but the menu’s little bonuses betray fine-dining turns at places like Jake’s and ¡Pasion!. He goes the proverbial extra mile, making ketchup from scratch—the secret ingredients: cinnamon and clove—and doing his own duck prosciutto. The aforementioned S.O.S. requires cold-smoking and air-drying big Black Angus eye rounds in house—quite the process for a $7 appetizer.

To order, white bread gets toasted brown; an egg gets butter-fried sunny-side up; and cream sauce gets spiked with Tabasco, sage and celery seed and mixed with the chipped beef. Each rich, salty forkful was a flashback to the cream chipped beef of childhood—huge Melrose Diner platters eagerly consumed after Catholic school socials, and later, clubbing on Delaware Avenue when dawn would break over Broad Street like a runny yolk.

A wholehearted gracias to the Latino kitchen staff for coming up with the squat, stocky Mexican hot dog dressed with ketchup, mustard, mayo, chopped onion and pickled jalapeños, a choice from the menu’s collection of bar snacks.

Another debt of gratitude to Schroeder’s girlfriend’s parents: Last Christmas, they gave him these natural-casing dogs from Connecticut sausage-maker Noack’s, and now Schroeder makes a frankfurter pilgrimage up I-95 every three months to buy 20 pounds. Served in a cute crimped paper boat, the wiener looked like SpinArt but tasted full and fresh, the casing crisp around the dog’s almost fluffy interior.

I would’ve loved to have the hot dog’s vibrant spectrum of flavor in the bland mussels steamed in Ommegang Whitte and infused with orange and rosemary. Though the PEIs were plump and sweet and the Belgian-style Kennenbec potato—considered the king of spuds—frites were perfectly crisp outside and creamy inside, the watery broth screamed for seasoning.

Braised in Sierra Nevada porter, the buttery shredded short ribs tucked into a fluffy Baker Street onion roll also needed S&P. Fortunately, caramelized onions and a sheet of zingy Cabot horseradish cheddar came to the rescue.

Schroeder’s mom’s meatloaf was just as beefy. Served alongside classic elbow mac ’n’ cheese, it’s actually a blend of beef, pork and veal her son improves upon by grilling each individual slab, infusing each bite with a cool, unusual smokiness.

For dessert, there was a fine “pot brownie” served in a smoking-hot skillet, though you could just as easily holler at Lancaster Milk Stout (tastes like chocolate milk) or Dogfish’s Palo Santo, a psychotic 12 percenter more caramely than the pillow of caramel-apple bread pudding.

Great beer is at the heart of SPTR’s identity. With Schroeder in the kitchen, good food—not controversy—will follow.