Hot Koko

Kokopelli's clubby feel doesn't diminish its culinary appeal.

by Adam Erace

SHE GET IT FROM HER MAMA: Kokopelli chef Gina Rodriguez's excellent green chili-stewed chicken (right), topped with a wee cornbread muffin, is inspired by her mother's original recipe.

[ review ]

In three years, three concepts have occupied the glitzy walls of 1904 Chestnut. First came Pearl, pimping bottles to the wannabe elite. Then there was Akoya, a star-crossed pan-Asian affair. Now the tenant is Kokopelli, a spot specializing in Southwest small plates and named for the American Indian god of fertility.

Out on Chestnut, the sign has changed. Inside, the space is as unfashionably slick as ever. Beaded curtains shimmer like gunmetal waterfalls, dividing buttercream banquettes as padded as a white-collar criminal's Cayman Islands account. Recessed into the ceiling and under the sleek bar, a state-of-the-art LED lighting system casts the room in 283 shades. Crayola, eat your heart out.

Managing partner Adam Solomon, who opened Kokopelli with Kenny Yeretzian and Rich Brenner, grew up in the restaurant biz, fixed to the hip of his grandfather, operator of Seafood Shanties in the '70s and '80s, and Horn & Hardarts in the early '90s. More recently, Solomon helped Old City's Rococo transition into the (now-defunct) World Fusion, and the nightlife background could be an omen for the future of Kokopelli, the first restaurant he's owned.

Or maybe not. Solomon has done what he can to exorcise the space's ghosts of clubs past: painting, installing handsome bar shelves for Kokopelli's tequila collection, setting those LEDs to "fire colors" that evoke a Southwest sunset. "I want Kokopelli to have a neighborhood feel," he says, and while that seems ludicrous in the restaurant's current state, he might achieve such a vibe after some planned changes to the décor are executed.

Happily, the kitchen already has that feeling, thanks to chef Gina Rodriguez. Though her plates are uncommonly pretty — accessorized with caramelized onions and oyster mushrooms, the fluffy tamales are objects d'art in corn-husk coveralls — her cooking also radiates an undeniable soulfulness. When food is as homey and satisfying as the Arizona native's green chili-stewed chicken (an old family recipe), does it matter where it's served?

"The flavors I incorporate are what I was raised around in Tucson," says Rodriguez, who moved here for this gig. "I get to combine my formal training with flavors that are comforting to me."

That formal training includes Le Cordon Bleu in Scottsdale, followed by positions at John Besh's August and on the SoCal resort circuit. The experiences make her food look and taste tight and clean, but those skills fall back to what she learned in her Mexican/American Indian family's kitchen. Like how to coax the most flavor from Anaheim chilies (fire-roast them), which account for the jade tint and easygoing heat of Rodriguez's chicken stew. "Every year, the whole family would roast huge batches of Anaheims, and my mom would always pair them with chicken," she explains. "Adam [Solomon] told me, 'Make your mother's chicken.'"

This is it, a small bowl with big flavor thanks to the Anaheim purée stirred into a Jack-cheese-and-cream gravy. The chicken is pulled from breasts braised in a tea of cilantro stems, garlic and "house spice," a Southwestern ras el hanout (cayenne, cumin and Mexican oregano are among the 15 aromatics) that forms the backbone of many of Rodriguez's recipes. Veined with minced jalapeño or serrano, the accompanying mini muffin charmed — Rodriguez runs a cornbread clinic, her versions neither too sweet nor too savory, too dry nor too moist. Count the velvety corn bisque as another bowl winner: Like a life preserver, a single grilled shrimp floated on its surface, suffusing the entire soup with haunting smokiness.

More often than not, Rodriguez absolutely nails seafood. Other shrimp options came both big (lacquered in chili sauces and served under salty sunflower seeds) and small (bangin' blue corn-crusted rock shrimp paired with peppy cranberry-chipotle sauce), all tender and sweet. That same blue cornmeal breading made boring ol' fried calamari new again, and even crab cakes managed to thrill, with bits of unexpected candied orange peel and a lively citrus-fennel salad kissed with white balsamic. These are cakes of the flat and crispy variety — non-kosher crustacean latkes, if you will. Seared golden, the crunchy crusts are the textural opposites of their soft interiors that feature herb-flecked whitefish mousse as an elegant binder for nuggets of jumbo lump.

Rodriguez can do meat, too. You've heard about the chicken; now consider the short rib, braised in white veal stock (bones blanched instead of roasted) and red wine, glazed in a reduction of the braising liquid and accompanied by roasted cippollinis and orange pico de gallo. It's so tender, a stiff wind would make it fall apart.

When Kokopelli falters, Rodriguez is rarely at fault. Exceptions included the mango-melon salsa (fruity but watery) served with a cute sack of plantain and yucca chips and a weak chocolate/banana dessert tucked into a square shot glass.

But most snags lurk outside the kitchen: an unmanned hostess stand, a dried-out slice of lime, an appalling beer list. The startlingly chipper bartender put together a pleasant-enough tipple inspired by sangrita, the tomato-chili-citrus tequila chaser, but Herradura Reposado does not a $12 cocktail make.

Service was more professional than you might expect, even if the server felt it necessary to trumpet another dessert's combination of strawberries, balsamic vinegar and black pepper. This "very unusual" setup is actually pretty classic, here lending a kid-friendly Jack & Jill vanilla sundae a sophisticated, savory kick. This dessert was unexpected. Not unlike Kokopelli itself.

(adam.erace@citypaper.net)

Kokopelli | 1904 Chestnut St., 215-557-7510, kokopelliphilly.com. Open Sun.-Thu., 4-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 4 p.m.-mid.; bar till 2 a.m. Soups and salads, $5-$6; seafood, $7-$15; meat, $8-$17; sides, $4-$6.