Square meals: though its design nods to the building’s sinful past, Swallow’s menu is honest and straightforward. Photo by Michael Persico.

Restaurant Review

Swallow

by Adam Erace

Before Standard Tap and Banana Republic, Northern Liberties was a red-light district where our forefathers went to play 69 love songs. Today NoLibs is a bit shinier, and nowhere more so than Liberties Walk, where chefs Jason and Cindy Caminos have unveiled a brothel-inspired BYOB that reflects the neighborhood’s past.

Magenta draperies frame the doorway while chandeliers drip ruby crystals. Gothic mirrors and empty black frames hang on walls that look papered in ornate patterned eggplant skin. It’s as black and purple as a bad bruise, and it certainly does look like a brothel—almost cartoonishly so, as if the brothel were in the Haunted Mansion where Grimace was the madam.

With such a lack of subtlety, you’d expect the soundtrack to be a steady cycle of “Roxanne,” “Smack Dat,” and LL Cool J circa 1996. Instead the tunes bop from Alanis to Erasure to Pure Moods Vol. II, which makes the ambience almost as odd as the sharp disconnect between the look-at-me space and the seasonal menu of simple, subtle Ameri-French fare.

The Caminoses relocated from D.C. to Philly. Jason, citing his desire for Swallow to stand on its own, refuses to name-drop other restaurants at which he’s worked—which is weird. The Google gods offer little, except that he donated to D.C.’s Squished Penny Museum—which might be weirder.

In the kitchen, the couple’s timing is golden, knowing the precise moment to pull the perfectly crisp frog legs from the stove fryer, and when the grilled baguette served with the mountainous arugula salad is (just) warm enough to melt a smear of goat cheese. The half roast chicken, a beautiful black-feather hen arranged around pumpkin-hued patty pan squash, grilled lemon and honey-yellow fingerlings sauteed in duck fat, emerges from the 500-degree oven at optimal doneness. Gentle fork pressure shatters the golden skin, revealing meat that’s too juicy to be real.

Swallow swoops in and offers some beautiful dishes: harmonious spinach-watermelon-and-feta salad; head-on Poconos rainbow trout almondine so moist and nutty from brown butter you’d think the fish had been swimming in a river of the stuff; raw button mushrooms escalated from their lowly station into a light, lemony salad of fennel and 36-month-old Parmigiano shavings; a lovely cheese plate anchored by d’Affinois, a deadly good double-creme; a lush amaretto-spiked Mascarpone-and-strawberry parfait.

So where is everybody? There are hundreds of nearby apartments and condos, and surely Bart Blatstein hasn’t used them all to harbor his embryonic clones. Swallow is the ideal neighborhood gem—especially considering the affordable prices. But on both my visits, only two other diners were there.

Is it Swallow’s emptiness that causes Jason to approach the table with frequent mood-gauging queries—Is the music too loud? Are the prawns okay?—and fits of gratitude for ordering the duck confit, “which represents 12 hours of labor and preparation”?

The guy looks really uncomfortable, a ball of nervous energy wound up into a tight white perma-smile. He’d do well to let his staff handle the floor. The tatted-up crew don’t hover and seem genuine in both their desire for you to enjoy yourself and their affection for the food.

There are occasional missteps, like the skin on that thigh of duck confit (rubbery in parts) and the sloppy-looking, one-note profiteroles sundae. Three studly prawns get grilled head- and shell-on, and while the spear-shaped heads with their charred antennae preserve flavor, make a dramatic presentation and pop off easily, the shells don’t. Removing them results in a messy pick-and-peel session that requires a thorough hand-washing in the bathroom.

And oh what a bathroom it is, departing from the bordello decor but reveling in similar wackiness with robin’s-egg blue walls, river rock floors and 52 round mirrors above the toilet that turn peeing into a personal peepshow.

But I digress. Once wrestled from their shells, the prawns taste great. Tossed in Thai bird chilies, fish sauce and lime juice, the accompanying green papaya slaw, a nod to Cindy’s Asian heritage, tastes great too.

Together, fireworks. Smoky. Sweet. Hot. Fruit. Ocean. Rock. Awesome.

By the last sip of intense Ethiopian coffee served in a French press for two to four, it’s evident Swallow doesn’t have to put on the red light. Let’s hope it can make the locals come quickly.