Kanella

Before he left Philadelphia and returned to Cyprus a few years ago, chef Konstantinos Pitsillides had the charming habit of leaving the occasional late-night tirade on my voice mail.

The simple pleasures of traditional foods were forever being snubbed, he'd grumble, in favor of "trendy fusion" fakery. The slow-braised virtues of secondary cuts and nose-to-tail cookery - the joys of goat, game, and ancient grains - were being ignored in our filet mignon culture.

I never took it personally. After all, I'd given a glowing review to the beguiling Cypriot-Greek flavors Pitsillides conjured during his chef stint at the short-lived Meze in the Italian Market. These rants, sometimes left nameless but always seasoned with a distinctive Mediterranean accent as salty as haloumi cheese, seemed directed at a wider, unappreciative world.

And so in 2006, Pitsillides left Philadelphia, where wife Caroline Christian grew up, and returned to Cyprus, where his family have been butchers, tanners, and farmers for generations.

But the nostalgic homecoming lasted only nine months before they came back.

"Over there [in Cyprus] it was even worse," he groaned. "All they want is McDonalds and Asian pretentious food. It went against my nature."

Cyprus' loss is our gain. Because Philadelphians have been given a second chance to appreciate that unique "nature" at Kanella, his nearly year-old BYOB at 10th and Spruce. And after several memorable meals there, marked by soulful stews, whole dorados grilled in grape leaves, and flavors resonant of the sun-baked history of his island, I appreciate that nature more than ever.

We have precious few chefs so devoted to celebrating rustic ethnic cooking with the blend of passion, attention to detail, and culinary skill that Pitsillides has. And he delivers his unique country cooking with the personality and uncompromising conviction of a great folk singer.

He is especially masterful at redeeming the nearly lost art of the braise and the stew. The venison osso buco, less tender than the typical veal but far more flavorful, luxuriated over bulgur wheat in a gravy exotic with cardamom, coriander, cinnamon and cumin. Cinnamon stick, for which the restaurant is named, is less heavy-handed here than in his earlier cooking at Meze. But it's an ever-present subtext, nonetheless, working like a key to unlock a spice box of other flavors.

His sublimely tender rabbit tingles with fenugreek and the North African spice blend of ras al hanout, a Middle Eastern shading that distinguishes Cyprus' cuisine from the otherwise similar flavors of Greek cookery. Red-leg partridge, among the many game birds used here, came steeped in a dark, tealike broth that popped with sweet onions and fresh green peas. Breast of lamb, braised softly in red wine and allspice, makes a hearty "salad" alongside bread and tomato salad piqued with preserved lemon, olives, and mint.

But few things excite this chef quite like the possibilities of goat, which he receives whole from a local kosher butcher. It's the centerpiece of his signature "katsiki" stew, served with toothsome wheat berries and fried okra. As one of the most expensive items ($25) on this otherwise reasonable menu, it seemed pricey for a peasant's plate of scraggly cuts in gravy. But the flavors, unfurling in complex layers, made it one of the most profound dishes I've eaten all year.

If you're lucky enough to dine on a night Pitsillides has made trahana, the ancient Cypriot soup that rehydrates grains of sun-dried wheat in the tartness of goat's milk and is simmered with cubes of salty haloumi cheese, you can savor the full "Baa-Baa Suite."

I was certainly humming happily after that meal, which had reached a distinctly higher level of confidence than the one I'd experienced at my first visit to Kanella six months earlier.

The house-baked little rye breads had an extra crispy, seed-scented crunch. The chunky beet salad tossed with yogurt and scallions was a still life of vibrant pink and crunchy green. Even something as simple as a bureki, a baked phyllo triangle filled with seasoned feta, became transcendent beneath a honey dipper oozing thyme-scented nectar over the warm, flaky pastry.

To be sure, Kanella is not for everyone. The menu, which avoids virtually all the familiar Greek taverna cliches, has little appeal to less adventurous eaters.

The servers can be as quirky as the brooding chef himself, with manners ranging from "soft-talker" to Masterpiece Theater dramatic. By the end, though, each of our waiters proved to be charmingly enthusiastic, skilled pros.

The corner room is deliberately spartan, with bare lightbulbs dangling over wood tables and tile floors, and a few personal artifacts scattered about (antique Venetian copperware; cherished cookbooks; a lemon tree in the window). But that austerity belies the soulful warmth of Pitsillides' cooking.

Even when he wades into the well-worn canon of Greek classics, he does them right: the creamiest, chickeniest avgolemono soup I've ever spooned through; a greaseless vegetarian moussaka topped with a bechamel as light as cappuccino foam; lemony, hand-rolled grape leaves; and an array of zesty Mediterranean dips that go well beyond the norm (carp roe-braced tarama salata; garlic-laced skordalia; mashed lentils piqued with anchovy).

There were few disappointments - a bland baby octopus; some overspiced green beans; a few bones left in the whole dorado.

Mostly, though, I'm still savoring the list of highlights. Crisply seared haddock over brothy chickpea-tomato stew. Spice-rubbed loin of grilled lamb with fennel and bulgur wheat. Roasted cuttlefish, so much meatier than squid, tossed like heat-charred petals with cucumber and onion salad. Hand-rolled "makaronia" ribbons, dumpling-esque in thickness and chew, twirled in tomato sauce dusted with mint and creamed with richly strained yogurt.

Pitsillides doesn't ease up at dessert (or even at coffee, which comes Greek mud-style, or classily French-pressed). He churns distinctive ice creams flavored with carob and fennel. A yogurt and lemon mousse with thyme syrup is tart, sweet, and herby. The almond-date cake with cinnamon ice cream is decadently moist. And the classic Greek phyllo desserts - nutty baklava and semolina custard-filled galatoboureko - are as good as they can be.

It's a sweet ending from a chef whose iconoclastic nature is also sometimes not so easy to cozy up to. His refusal to partake in what he considers to be the "gimmick" of Restaurant Week, for example, left his dining room feeling momentarily lonely.

"Every week is Restaurant Week here!" says Pitsillides, that familiar tone of Mediterranean swagger and tirade bubbling up again. I'm so glad to hear it - and taste it - once again.