Parc

Stephen Starr has often said the "most fun" aspect of his business is the process of creating his restaurant "children" - a brood of 18 stretching from Walnut Street to Atlantic City to New York.

But when the kids turn out to be as gargantuan and unruly as Parc, the mega-bistro he has conjured up for Rittenhouse Square, a little extra attention to the after-care is also in order, in both the dining room and the kitchen.

I can only imagine the fun Starr and designer Shawn Hausman experienced in putting together Parc. It took true vision to blow out little Bleu and the entire ground floor of a former hotel at 18th and Locust to create the grand corner bistro space this city has never had. It took $9 million to bring it to life. And when Parc was ready - the wine-red awnings stretching taut over sidewalks lined with rattan chairs, the imported zinc bar agleam, the gorgeous tilework of fanned mosaics and fleurs de lis shining, and a fresh stain of faux nicotine smoking the ceiling and walls - the biggest restaurant spectacle of the decade was toasted with an unprecedented debut.

It was besieged by le tout Philly on its Bastille Day opening, and the mob hasn't let up since, as an average of more than 1,200 diners a day pour in for cheese-welded crocks of French onion soup, raclette-smothered burgers, and paper cones of crispy frites. And Parc's sidewalk scene, no surprise, has amped the 18th Street glitz quotient to levels of socialite posing (with the inevitable valet-parked sports cars, trophy dogs, and Botoxed beauties) not seen since the early days of Rouge (which on my recent visit, by the way, had ample empty seats).

The crowds are understandable, given the sheer magnetism of Parc's Parisian good looks, not to mention the many highlights of chef Dominique Filoni's polished bistro menu. There are iron crocks of tender escargots in hazelnut butter, pristine oysters on the half shell, and addictive bowls of rarely seen brandade, creamy salt cod whipped with garlic mashed potatoes. The amazingly crusty baguettes and country bread from pastry chef Frank Urso and his baker, Carlos Apricio, may be the best in the city. A prime New York strip glazed in green peppercorn au poivre sauce was so good, my guest, a steak-seeking Texan, literally hollered "Woohoo!" when he took a bite.

Not that anyone heard him. The dining room was so ear-numbingly noisy, we could barely hear the server beside our table - and that was in the quieter room in back. There are plans to dampen the din, but right now eating in the front area at night feels like dining amidst a well-moussed stampede lubricated on Lillet and Stella Artois.

Parc's best moments may be during the more sobered bustle of lunch. Or in the tranquil mornings, where Philadelphia has no more romantic view than one from Parc's open-window seats: the flower-fringed park framed by cafe tables laden with bacon-scented quiche and bowl-shaped cups brimming with cafe au lait.

That my omelet was a rubbery désastre, or that my cafe au lait was barely lukewarm (on the first try) and as weak as brown milk (on the redo) only reinforced a frustrating theme of my several visits. Parc may be a sprawling showroom of vintage Starr creation, but before this latest child can become the institution it is destined to be, his staff must learn to run it with more consistency.

And as the frenzied pace of evening service kicks in, the struggle to execute at dizzyingly high volume is even more obvious. At my first dinner, the skate had such an acrid whiff of ammonia on its underside that it had to be sent back. At my second dinner, the braised lamb shank over polenta was deliciously tender, but so tepid it had to be reheated - a complaint shared by the Teamster at a neighboring table, whose shank was promptly taken off the bill. The beef bourguignon was nicely stewed, but it also was not hot enough, not to mention overwhelmed by the heavy smoke of American bacon.

The constant crush of patrons puts Parc's service team on the spot to deliver, a challenge it doesn't always handle with equal grace. The staff was particularly clumsy in its machinations to redirect special attention toward my party once I was spotted, yanking a delightful server from a nearby table (to focus on mine).

"And we're not important?!" the good-natured Dennis Smyth, a retired history teacher who had been celebrating his brother's birthday, later wrote me teasingly. (Aside from the din, he said, their meal was enjoyable.)

Smyth's wasn't the only snub. My wife was told there would be a 25-minute wait for a table at lunch - until I sidled up behind her. After 25 seconds and a flicker of recognition, the hostess promptly led us to one of the many open tables. But so much for special treatment: The kitchen still served us mussels that weren't quite hot and were crunchy with grit.

A splendidly juicy cheeseburger, though, plus some addictive fries and a decadently silky chocolate pot de creme, were convincing reminders of what Parc can be when it lives up to its potential. The French-born Filoni, who made his name locally at Savona, is a talented chef. And when his 75-person kitchen is locked on (and many of these flaws are so easily corrected), Parc turns out a stellar repertoire of bistro classics, from Cognac-scented pate de campagne to a flaky pissaladiere pastry topped with caramelized onions, goat cheese and olives, to a fork-tender roasted duck a l'orange infused with honeyed citrus.

There were some stellar fish, like the dewy fresh branzino topped with shaved fennel, a textbook trout amandine, and a crisply seared skate that, on my final dinner, was pretty much perfect. But red meat, it seems, is the savory kitchen's best bet, whether you indulge in the velvety beef tartare glistening with raw quail-egg yolk, or a prime-grade hanger steak-frites that was nearly as satisfying as the more expensive strip.

Parc's most reliably delightful flavors, though, have been coming from Urso's pastry kitchen, beginning with the stunning breads, and ending with polished updates to some familiar bistro confections: vanilla-speckled creme brulee, deeply caramelized rounds of apple tarte Tatin, and a gorgeous lemon tartlet scattered with cigarette-shaped meringues artfully torched to a tawny brown. The chalky warm chocolate mousse was my only disappointment.

My favorite, though, were the throwback profiteroles. Those delicately crisp choux-pastry orbs come sandwiched around homemade vanilla ice cream and get drizzled tableside with shiny black streams of hot, bittersweet chocolate. Eating at Parc should always be this much fun.