The Pub on Passyunk East

FOOD > REVIEWS

The P.O.P.E.’s brunch is the answer to Passyunk Avenue’s prayers. 

By Adam Erace

Add Comment | Comments: 0 | Posted Jun. 30, 2009

Breakfast of ham-pions: The P.O.P.E.’s eggs and ham steak serve as vehicles for chef Peter Miller’s red-eye gravy.

Photo by michael Persico

If it takes a village to raise a child, then it takes a bar to raise a village. That’s certainly the case with the Pub on Passyunk East, aka the P.O.P.E. For three years, the crooked avenue has flourished with the tavern as the de facto clubhouse for the new and newly entrenched, an oasis sating locals with holy waters from Sly Fox, Stone and Smuttynose. Who’s down wit P-O-P-E? On Passyunk, every last homie indeed. 

The P.O.P.E guards the nabe’s north end like a castle or fortress. Close up, it looks more like ye olde ale house—or at least how someone from South Philly might imagine ye olde ale house, an  outré collage of chunky stone, crisscrossed beams and narrow arches. Above the outdoor vestibule that juts onto the corner, the wooden sign sways, announcing His Holiness in medieval lettering. 

Inside, the P.O.P.E. is dark even on the sunniest day, and you could brick up bodies with casks of Amontillado behind the numerous alcoves pocketing the front bar and shadowy dining rooms. But the jukebox jams at all hours, and the flighty but friendly staff is more likely to make you feel genuinely welcome than like someone who just wandered into Fangtasia. 

Tomorrow the tavern turns 3, but there’s more to celebrate. This past March, owner Dennis Hewlett hired consulting chef Pete Miller to overhaul the kitchen, but Miller wound up staying on permanently and giving the P.O.P.E. a menu to match the dazzling beer program. 

Here, beers come from as close as 901 N. Delaware Ave. and as far away as Japan—Waddup Hitachino Nest Real Ginger Brew!—but Miller’s grub is straight-up American heartland, particularly the hearty brunch fare inspired by his childhood breakfasting at truck stops in rural Illinois. Wake up and smell the red-eye gravy: What brunch at Sabrina’s is to Bella Vista, brunch at P.O.P.E is to East Passyunk. 

Quivering over-easy eggs and a brawny, flattop-seared ham steak were the vehicles for the red-eye. The gravy may have roots in the South, not outside Chicago where Miller grew up, but the sauce—equal parts bacon fat roux and black coffee— was something “my grandfather always used to make for us,” he remembers. Miller employs the standard flour-butter thickener for his gravy, but the same shot of potent joe that elevated the plated proteins in such a strange, singular way also accentuates the tart Michigan cherries in a pint of Founders Cerise. 

Dude clearly knows his way around a cup of coffee; his wife, Nancy Trachtenberg, owns Benna’s Cafe and offshoot B2, situated just across the street from the P.O.P.E. Trachtenberg actually hooked up Hewlett with her hubby, who’d been helping out at her two coffee shops after turns at Royal Tavern, Rembrandt’s, North Third, Fergie’s, Southwark and Fork. The couple met at Fork—Miller cooking and Trachtenberg tending bar—and shared their first kiss there during an after-work round of Spin the Bottle. According to Miller, “People are still talking about it.” 

They should be talking about his vegan French toast, a breakfast neither as epic as Sabrina’s pyramids nor as neat as Café Estelle’s stuffed pillows, but nonetheless distinctive enough to garner a special place in the pantheon of Philadelphia French toasts. Pureed raw almonds and coconut milk replace the standard custard batter, but the bread fried up just as crisp and golden, while the spicing of cinnamon, vanilla and nutmeg tied the flavors back to the classic. My mom—who considers vegetarianism a misguided notion she can rid the world of one chicken- cutlet convert at a time—loved it. 

Miller did pan-seared, onion-topped justice to pierogi, the Polish potato parcels all pubs seem to be doing and none seem to be getting right, but the brunch burger was an overcooked disappointment. Atop an Angus patty, cheddar and crisp bacon, the thinly veiled yolk of a fried egg peeked toad-in-the-hole-style from a circle cut out of the top of the bun. Cute, clever and functional; the yolk popped like a water balloon filled with yellow paint, putting some richness and moisture back into the dry patty. 

But if it’s moisture you’re needing, you can also order up another Allagash White, Avery Salvation or Arrogant Bastard. Three in dog years is 21, so happy birthday, P.O.P.E., and cheers to Miller for brunch with soul. ■