Philadelphia Weekly

Wouldn’t it be rice?: Chef John Strain’s paella is one of the best renditions of the classic Spanish dish in the city.

Photo by michael Persico

Former New York Times critic Frank Bruni once said restaurants tend to fall into two categories: “Those that worship in the Church of Carrie Bradshaw. And those that honor Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.”

Bruni was talking about the eateries of downtown Manhattan, but the same can be said of our restaurant scene. At a glance, Valanni, which has been around since 1999 and hasn’t left certain affectations from that era behind, falls into the former. “Reminds me of Paradigm,” my astute dinner guest commented as we followed a slinky hostess through a maze of dark, slick rooms. That is not a compliment, but it’s the truth. Owner George Anni’s Wash Wester rocks the hit-me-baby-one-more-time aesthetic like a pair of Sergio Valente jeans. Cocktails have names like Cotton Candy Cosmo, Ecstasy Martini and Boys Gone Wild, and plates come in the kinds of polygons I didn’t know whether to eat off of or put together like a puzzle.

Book. Cover. Judged. Closed. And shame on me for that. Valanni might have one last-season stiletto on the red carpet, but the other foot wears a Croc firmly planted in the kitchen. Chef John Strain, who took over as skipper when R. Evan Turney moved to Varga Bar full-time, has made some unflashy new additions that feel ripe for today’s food climate.

A Northeast native and Restaurant School grad, Strain has altered the menu without upending his predecessor’s legacy. (Turney’s name still appears on the bottom of it.) Over the summer, he expanded the tapas, slimmed the entrees and added an array of vegetarian bites that include some of the best brussels sprouts around.

You can’t swing a dead organic farmer in this town without hitting these once-maligned, now-darling dwarf cabbages. For good reason, since when they’re cooked properly, brussels sprouts are fucking awesome. Strain flash-fries his so each orb opens like a flower, papery charred outer leaves unfolding to reveal a pale green heart that still has some bite. Smoky Marcona almonds, aged balsamic and diced Granny Smith deepened the complexity of this meatless treat. It was simultaneously sophisticated and farm-y, hardly something you’d expect to find in the realm of Apple Jolly Rancher Martinis.

There were, however, execution issues. His chickpea frites, arranged like gold bars on a banker’s shelf, were undercooked and underseasoned. Chunky, aggressively spiced tomato masala for dipping overwhelmed what little garbanzo flavor the frites’ spongy interiors had. The tasty jalapeño poppers bursting with bacon-flecked Oaxaca cheese-enriched buttermilk bechamel hadn’t been seeded, and were therefore uncomfortably spicy. Unlike the jalapeño-and-lime-infused drawn butter escorting steamed baby clams, a tapa whose heat glimmered on, rather than incinerating, the tongue. 


Unholy Oreo beignets covered in caramel were not beignets at all, but doughy blobs that met death in the deep fryer. An autopsy showed recent ingestion of milk’s favorite cookie, and made me never want to eat them again.


That’s harsh, yes, but I’ll follow it up by saying I never want to eat anybody’s paella again but Strain’s. At Valanni, the one-pot Valencian masterpiece is portioned for one or two, with or without meat and seafood. Paella for one was big enough to split and served in the coppery two-handled paellera in which it was cooked. Saffron-scented steam wafted forth as my server spooned a bed of bomba rice on our angular plates. The chorizo, chicken thighs, shrimp, mussels, calamari, scallops, clams and lobster tail were all delicious, but paella is more about the rice than what’s on it. Cooked with tomato, roasted garlic and ancho chili powder, it possessed a risotto-like creaminess, intensified by a blushing dab of sharp garlic aioli I stirred in like ricotta into pasta. We scraped the crusty bits of burnt rice off the bottom of the pan—the hallmark of proper paella—like scavengers. I can’t say enough about the intense umami of those stuck-to-the-bottom bits. And at $33, the paella is a deal considering it feeds dos. All of Valanni is a deal, really, with most items around $10.

Never having been to Valanni when Turney was in charge, I can’t compare Strain’s efforts to his forerunner’s. I can, however, tell you I’d be happy to eat here again, passé cocktails and irksome china notwithstanding. ■