Barclay Prime

It was opening night, a glorious October evening on Rittenhouse Square. The restaurant’s neon name adds a glow to an otherwise bland building’s facade. Inside is spectacularly lime chic, but acoustically and architecturally unfortunate.

Huge chandeliers are kept so dim, one needs a flashlight to see the menu. Low candles on the table serve little luminary purpose, but do burn the tuxedo shirtsleeves of waitpersons attempting to place food on the table from just beyond oversized patrons’ chairs. The chairs are soft-bottomed so that an initial “sinking” feeling is created in one’s stomach.

“May I offer you folks a celebratory opening night glass of champagne?,” asks a waiter with his first words. We, as offerees, accept. Later, our check included a $20 charge per flute.

The steaks presented, one a heavy Filet Mignon, the other a large Rib-eye, cost nearly $50 each (with sauce), and although no one could observe the meat’s redness (not enough light), the taste and texture are superb. Worth every penny. The gimmicky “choice of knives” routine (diner offered one of a half dozen various sorts of knives) wastes everyone’s time. The steak stands on its own quite marvelously, and doesn’t need the “gamey” tastelessness.

“May I offer anyone some steak sauce?,” asks another waiter. We, as offerees, accept. A $3 charge was added to our check for a strongly scented mediocre concoction in a tiny white tub. I cannot describe the color of the sauce as there wasn’t enough light to discern a hue’s hues.

The restrooms are unisex and could become disarmingly noisy, even with closed door stalls. Looking at someone of the opposite sex then wash his or her hands afterwards is too “liberal-college-dorm-roomy” for me, so that a washroom “sinking” feeling occurs.

This is Stephen Starr’s 13th adventurous endeavor. The opening night jitters and jerkiness need a more gentle generation of atmosphere tranquility. Improve the wandering waitpersons’ attention span; enlighten the lights; nix the jungle music; don’t do any knife tricks; and outsource the sauce.

All should go well, as I’m wishing upon a Starr.