Philadelphia's BYO Revolution

On my last visit to Matyson, one of Philadelphia's finest restaurants -- with or without a liquor license -- my wife and I ate a delicious five-course Year of the Pig tasting menu: split pea soup with smoked ham and seared scallop; twice-cooked pork belly; barbecued pork shoulder on a sweet potato waffle; tender roasted pork loin with Brussels sprouts; and a warm pecan tart for dessert. We brought along a modest $16 Cotes du Ventoux that would've cost three times that much at a licensed restaurant. Instead, the whole meal -- including our wine -- cost less than $120.

Another reason the BYOBs have taken off is the prohibitive cost of liquor licenses for many young independent chefs: up to $60,000 in the city and more than $300,000 in the suburbs. Since the city isn't issuing any new licenses because of a cap, restaurateurs have to buy one from an existing owner.

Pumpkin's owners, Ian Moroney and his partner, Hillary Bor, are a classic example of who opens a Philadelphia BYOB. Moroney's first kitchen job was at his father's 23-seat BYOB restaurant, Little Fish. After he met Bor, the two hatched a plan for their own restaurant and ended up doing it for less than $50,000. "We don't have financial backing," Moroney said. "We don't have rich parents. If times get tight, I can cook, Hillary could run the front, we could hire a dishwasher, and we'd be okay."

LaBan and others credit the BYOB movement with energizing the city's dining scene. "The restaurant is only making money on the food, so it had better be damn good," says Dave Sulock, an environmental consultant who publishes the online directory http://byobguide.com/.

Others see it as limiting. Philadelphia magazine's April White sardonically described the stereotypical BYOB owners in the January issue: "He's in the miniature kitchen; she's in the dining room with the decor straight out of the Pottery Barn catalog." White declared, controversially, that BYOBs were so ubiquitous that they were contributing to a rut.

"I love BYOBs," White says. "Because of the business model, I wonder if you can only reach so far with a BYO."

Chef David Ansill, though, is living proof that the BYOB offers an opportunity for up-and-coming chefs to gain a following. Ansill opened Pif in 2001 for under $50,000: "It was not a huge investment in order to see if I was as good as I thought I was."

Five years later, he has taken that exposure and opened an adventurous, eponymous restaurant that has garnered a lot of buzz and critical acclaim. "I love Pif. It's my baby," he says. "But I'm hoping to make some money at my other place."

Even at Ansill, which has a liquor license, he felt pressured to offer a BYOB night -- every Tuesday, the night that Pif is closed -- with a lower-than-usual corkage fee of $15 on other nights.

Owners of liquor-license establishments throughout the city have felt a similar pressure. When Joseph Scarpone opened Sovalo two years ago with his wife, Karey, they aimed to be what Scarpone calls "BYOB-friendly," even though Sovalo has a liquor license. "I'm originally from Philly, so I knew BYOs were big," he says. "But I never knew how big until we opened and started having BYO on Monday night." Scarpone has regulars who dine at Sovalo every Monday, when there's no corkage fee, but never on any other night.

While the freedom is empowering to diners, observers occasionally grouse about the downside. Caricatures of the BYOB enthusiast have emerged. This is the guy who busts out a 1982 Bordeaux and loudly announces it to the restaurant; LaBan calls him "Mr. See-My-Cellar." "It's the culinary equivalent of driving to the mall in your Hummer," he says. "It's become like a Kabuki dance for some people."

While BYOBs allow the wine-savvy diner to spend less money on a potentially better bottle they bring to their own table, LaBan laments, "restaurants have traditionally been places where we've learned about wine. We're missing that a bit in Philadelphia."

As an example, LaBan tells a story that may sound like an urban legend, but he swears he witnessed the scene. Two couples arrived at a BYOB carrying wine in a wicker basket, then sat down and unwrapped crystal glasses that had been swaddled in Hermes silk scarves. After tasting their wine, the men declared that it had turned to vinegar and called the waiter over, asking him to take the bottle to the kitchen and dispose of it. A few moments later, a cook sheepishly appeared at their table. The wine tasted exactly like it was supposed to, the cook told them, but that's because it wasn't wine at all. The diners had brought in a bottle of sherry vinegar by mistake.

Jason Wilson is a food and travel writer who lives in the Philadelphia area.