Philadelphia Weekly

707 Restaurant & Bar

707 Chestnut St. 215.922.7770. ww.707restaurant.com
Cuisine: American.
Hours: Mon.-Thurs., 11:30am-10pm; Fri.-Sat., 11:30am-2am; Sun., 5-10pm.
Prices: $5-$19.
Sound advice: Nonintrusive middle-of-the-road.
Atmosphere: Opulent yet casual.
Service: Preoccupied, absent.
Food: Blah.

Does a hot dog taste better if it's eaten under a chandelier?

Ryan Margolis, 31, former Stephen Starr underling and owner of 707 Restaurant & Bar, certainly hopes the answer is yes. On a bustling weekend night it seems most diners agree, as plate after plate of 707's petite hot dog trio wing their way to tables eager to wolf down the chili and cheese, sauerkraut and shallot relish dogs. That they're doing so in such a sleek, posh spot and on top of formal white tablecloths seems to matter little. At first glance it looks as if 707's goal of combining opulence with comfort is succeeding.

About that opulence: 707 looks great. Designed by Renee and Don Freeman of Freeman Interiors, the space is broken into three modern and minimalist areas--a cafe, bar and dining room all streamlined and sporting masculine creams and browns. Each area is distinct, yet all flow together seamlessly.

But 707's flow and seamlessness end with the design. For the sad truth is, if you're eating pigs-in-a-blanket next to an artistic nude sculpture, they're still, sadly, nothing more than an elementary school cafeteria breakfast staple. Yes, even when served on ethereal china.

But the patrons on this night don't seem to mind, and the "Washington Square scenesters" Margolis told Zagat.com he hoped 707 would cater to have turned out in force--some dressed to the nines, others sporting shorts and flip-flops.

Perhaps because of the sizable crowd, service drags. It takes a good while before a waitress makes herself known, and she disappears after taking our drink orders. The kitchen shows the fatigue of performing for a crowded weekend; the wait for each course becomes longer and longer.

After the pastry pigs fail to enthuse (cut into threes, they'll give you serious flashbacks), Reuben spring rolls--stuffed with corned beef, pastrami, swiss and 'kraut and served with a smidgen of Russian dressing--threaten to become the first "now we're talkin'" item sampled. But they're too difficult to eat. Upon first bite much of the roll's hearty filling spills out of its crispy cocoon, and a big strand of hot corned beef dangles awkwardly from your lips as you're left staring at the empty hull of the spring roll.

A small $10 hanger steak is up next. It's cooked a perfectly juicy medium rare, herbed butter and port reduction making it even moister. Accompanying the steak are tempura-battered red onions. They're inedible.

Those familiar with tempura's wonderfully delicate, light-as-helium texture will wonder how 707's attempt could go so horrifically awry. These rings are everything tempura's not: heavy and greasy with a lingering, almost poison-like aftertaste. Fried baking-soda cakes would be a more apt description.

The kitchen misfires again with an order of mahi mahi. It tastes unseasoned. The bed of orzo it rests upon, overly seasoned. The orzo is served cold, as is an accompanying pile of "pickled cucumbers" (aren't these just pickles?).

A pork chop with buttery fingerling potatoes and snappy green beans is the first base hit of the night. The chunks of sauteed pineapple on top leak juice everywhere, drowning every bite in a sweetness that keeps the dish inside the park.

Dinner's a bust, but at least it's a scene. Later in the week, lunch sees 707 sparsely occupied, but service is still slow, the food still takes an age to come, and when the dishes do arrive, they disappoint.

A bistro salad arrives bruised and slimy. A few lowly shaved red onions cling to the barely dressed leaves of spring mix. It's sent back. A more robust version shows up, but is still unable to disguise the fact it's just a couple handfuls of greens tossed in balsamic vinaigrette. Our table is splitting it three ways, and without asking, 707 has supersized the portion and charged a whopping $14.50. Because of the send-back, this charge, thankfully, is comped.

"Honeyed chicken drumlets" are dry, underwhelming chicken wings with sweetness where you might expect kick. Prince Edward mussels are tasty (if oversalted), and cooked in a broth of India pale ale.

Both the tuna and pork sandwiches are unimpressive. At $12.50 and $11, respectively, they shouldn't be. It's when they come out (after an hour and a half in a near empty dining room, mind you) that a sense of despair begins to set in.

This place should be good. It looks gorgeous. Dinner is relatively cheap. There's no fuss, no stuffy air of pretense--they serve hot dogs, for heaven's sake.