Slate

One of the greatest aspects of Philadelphia's down-to-earth sophistication is its ability - with an abundance of affordable real estate and fresh talent - to perpetually offer opportunities for ambitious young restaurateurs to make their own space.

The BYOB revolution was a product of this, as is the recent gastropub craze. And it's been a boon to the city's neighborhood dining scene, which has grown organically, often on a few shoestrings, and frequently with endearingly quirky character.

There is a downside to this homespun movement, of course. Many of these first-timer creations are unfinished out of the box, with a lack of polish that risks obscuring the tasty virtues just below the surface.

After savoring my way through some clever comfort-food updates at Slate, from homemade lamb gyros to barbecue pork spring rolls, I'm hoping this newcomer doesn't become a casualty of such shallow first impressions.

It's not that this new restau-bar on 21st Street is ugly, per se. Owner Laurentiu Muras spent 10 long months transforming the old Cafe Habana himself, replacing the kitchen, opening up the room, installing so much polished stone across the long bar and tables that he was inspired to coin the restaurant's name.

"I have a friend who owns a granite company," he says, "and it kind of went from there."

What Slate wants to be, however, is simply not apparent from an initial glance, causing an identity crisis diners might have a hard time relating to. The usual gastropub hipsters will likely find the taps too predictable and the space too slick, with its polished granite, loungey music, and austerely empty earth-tone walls. On the flip side, it's not upscale or distinctive enough, either, to merit "destination" status.

What neighborhood diners have slowly been discovering, though, is that this room is a launching pad for a tandem of talents making impressive debuts with creativity at refreshingly affordable prices.

The first introduction, naturally, is Muras, 35, a thick-whiskered Romanian who immigrated to Olney two decades ago speaking no English, and worked his way through various jobs (HVAC, pizza delivery) and numerous bar gigs (Valanni, Jack's, El Vez, Trust) before opening his own place.

Muras cheerily strides the long bar near the entrance on most nights, and though his short, commercial wine list is lame, the growing craft beer selection has already improved, and it's hard not to be engaged by his friendly demeanor at the cocktail shaker. If only he could instill a bit more of that personal warmth into this tabula rasa of a room, not to mention a notch more distinction to his bar, it would go a long way to filling in Slate's personality blanks.

Some notable marks are already being chalked up in the kitchen by capable Eric Paraskevas, a 28-year-old who looks to be Muras' slightly taller, shaven-headed, goateed twin. The State College native brings a variety of influences to this wide-ranging menu, including three Nuevo Mex-flavored years at Lolita, where he was last chef de cuisine.

The Latin accents are occasional and light, but add a sparkle throughout the menu, from the exotic brightness of papaya gazpacho beneath scallops and bacon-wilted chicory, to seared cubes of queso fresco that add some Nuevo World warmth to the cool tomato and bread salad of Italian panzanella. What's even more apparent is an appreciation for organic local produce - often sliced raw and elegantly piled atop plates for contrast - a hallmark of the Lolita style.

Shredded snap peas and red onions made a slaw that added a cool crunch to the hot roasted duck breast over mashed white beans and gingery fig jus. A melange of asparagus ribbons and chayote added the same fresh effect to a seared red snapper fillet paired with warm cauliflower florets in a creamy sauce of crab bisque.

Paraskevas is having great fun recasting familiar comfort foods in new ways, wrapping tender pulled pork into crispy spring rolls with a thoroughly zesty side of tangy red barbecue brew. Retro indulgences, like baked brie, get spruced up with thyme crackers and a blueberry compote. House-herbed "Boursin" and onions braised in Yards Philly Pale Ale add some distinction to an otherwise standard local beef burger (too bad it was slightly overcooked).

Slate also fries up some of the more creative frites riffs in town. The French Fry Variations here come cilantro-salted (with the burger), dusted with garam masala curry (with mango mayo and a very nice crab cake, better without the bun), and drizzled in mustard (a slightly soggy but spicy counterpoint to the addictive pork sandwich bound with molten cheddar cheese.)

Not all of Paraskevas' ideas quite worked. The fried crawfish "Cajun popcorn" for the po-boy were too puny to matter inside the unwieldy crusty roll. The addition of truffle emulsion to the panzanella was an ill-advised grace note, a gratuitous play at cheap luxury that stepped on the otherwise lively flavors.

Other gambles, though, paid off brilliantly. My absolute favorite: a nod to the chef's Greek heritage, a homespun revamp of lamb gyros so overdue, I can't believe it took this long for someone to conceive it. Heat-charred slices of Paraskevas' lamb and onion puree - spiced with poblanos and aromatic with cinnamon, cumin, and clove - come rolled inside a soft pita with fennel slaw and minty, homemade tzatziki. Opa!

On a lesser magnitude of ambition (but no less satisfying) was a thrilling encounter with chicken that wasn't a boneless breast: an entree of apricot-glazed thighs, tenderly braised and served over Israeli couscous with tart cucumber-chive chutney.

Even more surprising, though, was the unanimous admiration for the chef's clever vegan creation, the noodlelike shreds of zucchini "spaghetti" tossed in basil coulis with nutty crumbles of tempeh. Between the al dente snap of squash threads, the roasty pop of grilled cherry tomatoes, and the surprising savor of the crumbled tempeh (a fermented soy that reminded us of sagey stovetop stuffing), every skeptical carnivore at the table declared they would happily eat it again with a blindfold on.

Paraskevas lends the same creative touches to dessert, with some novel twists on creme brulee (with a burnt espresso crust), and cheesecake (peanut-butter-infused with blackberry sauce). He left a couple of good ideas high and dry. The spiced carrot cake and Rolo-studded bread pudding were parchingly dry. But a topping fluff of homemade mint marshmallows and blueberry jubilee salvaged the cliche of yet another flourless chocolate cake.

No, Slate is already far from being a cliche - even if it's still a work in progress. Figuring out exactly what it is remains a question, but it may never quite fit an easy niche. Simply watching this tabula rasa fill in the blanks with an appreciative neighborhood crowd is already a promising place to start.