No other foodstuff has stuck to Philadelphia's image quite like cheese. Even discounting Kraft's Philadelphia Brand Cream Cheese—which was born in New York—this town has cranked out enough of its eponymous steak hoagies to put cheese right up there with professional sports failure as a defining characteristic of Philadelphia life.

Problem is, the default dairy product draping all that chopped steak—and macaroni and whatever else it has adulterated—is the kind of cheese that's spelled with a Z. Since at least 1952, a year that gave us both the H-bomb and Cheez Whiz, Philly's taste for cheese has been suspect. But that era is over, and we have the epidemic spread of the dessert-course cheese plate to thank for it.

The Big Cheese: Tria's small-plates menu includes an entire page of cheeses, including Charollais and Tomme de l'Ariège. : Michael T. Regan

With the flowering of the restaurant scene over the last few years, the cheese plate has escaped its confinement at Le Bec-Fin. You can hardly go to a new BYO without having to decide between a chocolate hazelnut torte and a platter of pricey curds to finish your meal. What's driving this trend is anyone's guess. Recently discovered uses for whey, the main waste product in cheesemaking, are making the business more attractive for producers. And for city dwellers who nurse romantic notions about the rural life, dairy farming—in which animals are nurtured, not butchered—is the cuddliest of agrarian fantasies. Vegans aside, cheese is one farm product that every foodie can feel good about.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said about cheese plates. A $10 platter saddled with a wedge of Brie and a bit of smoked Gouda isn't going to make anyone happy but the restaurateur who got it out of his fridge. Anybody can stick run-of-the-mill cheeses on a plate along with a clump of grapes and some candied nuts—and too many places do just that. Brie and smoked Gouda are perfectly admirable selections for sorority girls trying to gussy up a cut-rate cocktail party, but a self-respecting restaurant should have more up its sleeve. If a waiter doesn't offer you a choice of cheeses, that's a good sign to steer clear. And even if he does, your work isn't over, because what really elevates a cheese plate isn't the dairy portion—Di Bruno's has got you covered there, for less money—but the goodies that come with it.

There are a handful of Philly restaurants that get this right, and three stand out. The best is Marigold Kitchen (501 S. 45th St., 215-222-3699). Their cheese inventory is laudable, but more important is what their kitchen staff is doing with the accompaniments. They change nightly, but if you're lucky you'll get a taste of their fresh mustard chutneys. The base ingredients for these range from mango to tomato, but their transformation of fennel on a recent visit takes the prize. The basic technique is to saute a thinly sliced fruit or vegetable in simple syrup for a few minutes, add a few warming spices, deglaze the pan with sherry vinegar and mix in some mustard at the end. The resulting chutney complements different cheeses in surprisingly different ways. Combine three of these with as many cheeses, and you've got nine unique flavor combinations that will keep your tongue interested until the last bite. Considering the wafer-thin crackers Marigold tosses in, which have their own eccentric merits, this cheese plate would be worth ordering as a stand-alone snack—if tables at the busy restaurant were easier to come by.

For that kind of appetizer-only dining, Tria (123 S. 18th St., 215-972-8742) is a better bet. The small-plates menu includes an entire page of cheeses, each bearing a description that's informative but not pretentious. The individual pricing ensures that you won't have to eat something boring unless that's what you're after. Once again, care has been taken with the accompaniments, which include things like spiced cranberries, honey and preserved cherries. These don't mix and match quite as flexibly as Marigold's chutneys, but discovering which combinations you like and dislike will keep you engaged.

If you'd rather the restaurant did all the pairing work, Amada (217-219 Chestnut St., 215-625-2450) will do you right. Aged manchego comes with a lavender honey that's suffused with truffle essence. The truffle flavor nearly overpowers the cheese, but the tart tang of a green apple slice cuts through the honey's intense earthiness to restore a semblance of balance—although the cheese isn't quite old enough to avoid getting lost. Friendlier and less complicated are the tomato and orange marmalades. Perhaps best of all is the Monte Enebro, a soft goat cheese lined with vegetable ash. This presentation gives all those suckers-for-dessert the best of both worlds. It's served—amazingly and deliciously—with a chocolate hazelnut puree.