Now that I am leaving the tree-lined streets of the District of Columbia, I thought it only appropriate to summarise my impressions of the city's restaurants.
Caveat: Excluded from mention are 2941 and the Inn at Little Washington, which I figured too far out of the city for consideration, and a list of three restaurants I did not make it to that may have made the grade on these lists: Obelisk, Makoto and Dino.
My Fav Five:
1. Komi - $$$$. Without a doubt my favourite restaurant in DC and one of my favourites ever. Komi is nominally Greek food, but I like to think that what it does is present the bold and robust flavours of the Mediterranean though a filter - that filter being the sophisticated and elegant palate of chef Johnny Monis. Power tempered with grace, if you will. The food is always technically excellent, the service always attentive, the surroundings always cosy. If only it weren't so difficult to get a reservation.
2. Marcel's - $$$$$. Belgian-influenced food strongly rooted in the classical metier of French la grande cuisine, this Robert Wiedmaier expense-account establishment only marginally beat out the next restaurant for the number 2 spot. Mind-blowing not only for the quality of the food but the attention to detail. Excellent if expensive wine-list. Reviewed 8/30/2008.
3. Michel Richard Citronelle - $$$$$. Another expense-account establishment offering thoughtful and innovative food with absolutely stunning presentations. The care put into each dish is more than apparent. Again, an excellent if expensive wine-list. Reviewed 10/6/2008.
4. Blue Duck Tavern - $$$. A beautiful, beautiful space, with soaring ceilings and windows and a stunning open kitchen. Modern American tavern food - which means lots of grilled meats, braises, and wood-fired deliciousness. The best part about this place is that it is less expensive than you would expect. Also serves a great brunch, which is perhaps the best time to come because the interior looks a lot more lovely by daylight. Reviewed 1/3/2008.
5. Nora - $$$. The first certified organic restaurant in the USA, and out of all the ones I've been to, the only one for which I can truly say I tasted the difference. Simple, delicious preparations bursting with colour and flavour. Reviewed 8/19/2006.
Not Good / Do not Patronise:
Cityzen - $$$$$. This was actually decent to good, but wildly over-rated, and way too expensive.
Blacksalt - $$$$. Horrendous service, and an almost criminal treatment of fresh seafood. Reviewed 10/28/2008.
Ceiba - $$$. Very poor, almost shoddy execution on the part of the kitchen.
Cafe Atlantico - $$$$. Used to be good but jumped the shark.
Westend Bistro - $$$. How you can mess up braised short rib is beyond me.
It kills me to leave out so many other good restuarants. I used to love Cashion's Eat Place, but the food suffered when Ann Cashion left. Ray's the Steaks is technically in Arlington, but has the best steak inside the Beltway. 2 Amy's has managed to keep up the quality of their excellent pizza despite an obscene amount of Internet buzz and word-of-mouth. Le Paradou in the Penn Quarter for classical French cuisine, Palena in Cleveland Park for that funny thing we call New American. DC Coast for the beautiful, beautiful space and good seafood. I've had great times at TenPenh, 1789, and Cafe Milano. Persimmon in Bethesda if you want to venture a little further afield.
This wave of nostalgia I'm currently feeling may have clouded my judgment, but I hope this field guide provides some good suggestions for those who are thinking of visiting a city that I used to call home.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
A lack of respect
Blacksalt Fish Market and Restaurant
4883 Macarthur Boulevard
Washington, DC 20007
202-342-9101
I love seafood. I love it when it is done simply, I love it when it is fresh. Given its proximity to the coast, one would expect a proliferation of seafood places in DC - and there are several places that claim this specialty. DC Coast is a favourite of mine and, in my opinion, the best of the Jeff Tunks restaurants. I have yet to try Hook, which is relatively new. Blacksalt had always intrigued me because in addition to being a bar and restaurant, it was also a functional fish market. Unfortunately it is out in the Palisades, which is difficult to get to if you do not own a car. But I am leaving this place soon, and finally made it out there last Friday.
The first thing you see when you enter Blacksalt is the fish market portion of the place: a counter of fresh fish, sitting invitingly on a bed of ice. The more squeamish among us may have a problem with seeing - whole - what they are about to consume, but I say to these people: the only way to appreciate good food is if you have given thought to where it came from and what it was before.
I have written about the difference between service and the more exalted ideal of hospitality - an idea that Danny Meyer expounds on in his book. I have to say that I was summarily disappointed with both at Blacksalt. Our reservation was at 8pm, which was when two of our party arrived. Granted the remaining couple filtered in several minutes later, but the fact remains that we were seated at 8.05pm and it was 8.55pm before the waiter even took our order. In that time, we had to ask for bread and when that came, had to ask for butter to accompany it. To my mind, these are basics and should be buttoned down at any half-decent restaurant.
I think, though, even beyond the basic errors that our waiter made, he committed what I believe is the cardinal sin of service: he did not care. He had a disinterested air about him, and our every exchange with him appeared to be perfunctory. It was as if he did not believe in the words that he was uttering, but rather reciting them from a script. It was a rather disconcerting sight to see another person so lifeless and so lacking in dedication, that I almost forgot how mad I was at the terrible service. At the end of the night I rather pitied the guy.
Needless to say, this greatly discoloured our dining experience at Blacksalt. After the initial wait, the service did improved, as the runners and busboys picked up the slack for our waiter. But it was difficult to enjoy the food. My appetiser of mussels was good, but nothing I could not have done myself at home. Ty's tuna belly with sweetbreads was uninspired and did not have the intensity of flavour I expected from those ingredients.
My greatest complaint, though, with the whole culinary philosophy in the kitchen at Blacksalt - was the almost criminal way they treated the seafood by layering it with heavy, overly starchy flavours and complements. Now I know and like the taste of sea bass. I know and like the taste of red snapper. In a dish that contains either, I want to be able to discern those tastes. Any sauces or sides have to complement those tastes and allow them to shine through.
There was a Virginia red puppy drum on the menu at Blacksalt, which intrigued me because first, it was local and second, I had never had drumfish, at least not knowingly. I did not end up ordering it, but was glad that both Ty and Brody did. Yet the dish typified exactly what was wrong with Blacksalt. The fish came smothered in a curry cream sauce, and paired with a side of gnocchi. The flavours of these individual complements were good, but as a result I was unable to really taste the fish. For my part, I had ordered the braised octopus in garlic, parsley and olive oil - but it came with tomatoes that were not mentioned in the menu. The acidity of the tomatoes completely assaulted the octopus and rendered it virtually indistinguishable from squid. Needless to say, I was mortified at the complete lack of respect shown to these ingredients which were, for their part, extremely fresh.
To be fair, I did also have the Pacific butterfish with medjool dates and piquillo peppers - which are pretty strong flavours but somehow worked with the butterfish. And JP's whole sea bass was very good. There are hits on the menu at Blacksalt. One just has to find them.
One last thing about the restaurant destroyed whatever faith we had left after the meal, and whatever good feeling had been brought about by the excessive wine consumption through the meal. After we had paid our bill and were lingering finishing our wine, we asked for another bottle of sparkling water to wash everything down. To be honest, I had expected this to be comped, especially after how much we had spent at the restaurant. But we were brought a bill for $5 even as the water was brought out. RK made a point about how transactional the meal had been - completely devoid of hospitality and personability - just a group of individuals exchanging cash for food. That is not what dining out should be, but that is exactly what Blacksalt had reduced it to.
There are many reasons that I would not go back to Blacksalt - chief among them being the fact that I am moving from DC. But I felt that in many ways a lack of respect had characterised the meal - our waiter had disrespected his profession, the chef had disrespected the food - and as a result, we were left tremendously disappointed. It was not a good feeling, and it took me until the next morning to shake off the regret.
4883 Macarthur Boulevard
Washington, DC 20007
202-342-9101
I love seafood. I love it when it is done simply, I love it when it is fresh. Given its proximity to the coast, one would expect a proliferation of seafood places in DC - and there are several places that claim this specialty. DC Coast is a favourite of mine and, in my opinion, the best of the Jeff Tunks restaurants. I have yet to try Hook, which is relatively new. Blacksalt had always intrigued me because in addition to being a bar and restaurant, it was also a functional fish market. Unfortunately it is out in the Palisades, which is difficult to get to if you do not own a car. But I am leaving this place soon, and finally made it out there last Friday.
The first thing you see when you enter Blacksalt is the fish market portion of the place: a counter of fresh fish, sitting invitingly on a bed of ice. The more squeamish among us may have a problem with seeing - whole - what they are about to consume, but I say to these people: the only way to appreciate good food is if you have given thought to where it came from and what it was before.
I have written about the difference between service and the more exalted ideal of hospitality - an idea that Danny Meyer expounds on in his book. I have to say that I was summarily disappointed with both at Blacksalt. Our reservation was at 8pm, which was when two of our party arrived. Granted the remaining couple filtered in several minutes later, but the fact remains that we were seated at 8.05pm and it was 8.55pm before the waiter even took our order. In that time, we had to ask for bread and when that came, had to ask for butter to accompany it. To my mind, these are basics and should be buttoned down at any half-decent restaurant.
I think, though, even beyond the basic errors that our waiter made, he committed what I believe is the cardinal sin of service: he did not care. He had a disinterested air about him, and our every exchange with him appeared to be perfunctory. It was as if he did not believe in the words that he was uttering, but rather reciting them from a script. It was a rather disconcerting sight to see another person so lifeless and so lacking in dedication, that I almost forgot how mad I was at the terrible service. At the end of the night I rather pitied the guy.
Needless to say, this greatly discoloured our dining experience at Blacksalt. After the initial wait, the service did improved, as the runners and busboys picked up the slack for our waiter. But it was difficult to enjoy the food. My appetiser of mussels was good, but nothing I could not have done myself at home. Ty's tuna belly with sweetbreads was uninspired and did not have the intensity of flavour I expected from those ingredients.
My greatest complaint, though, with the whole culinary philosophy in the kitchen at Blacksalt - was the almost criminal way they treated the seafood by layering it with heavy, overly starchy flavours and complements. Now I know and like the taste of sea bass. I know and like the taste of red snapper. In a dish that contains either, I want to be able to discern those tastes. Any sauces or sides have to complement those tastes and allow them to shine through.
There was a Virginia red puppy drum on the menu at Blacksalt, which intrigued me because first, it was local and second, I had never had drumfish, at least not knowingly. I did not end up ordering it, but was glad that both Ty and Brody did. Yet the dish typified exactly what was wrong with Blacksalt. The fish came smothered in a curry cream sauce, and paired with a side of gnocchi. The flavours of these individual complements were good, but as a result I was unable to really taste the fish. For my part, I had ordered the braised octopus in garlic, parsley and olive oil - but it came with tomatoes that were not mentioned in the menu. The acidity of the tomatoes completely assaulted the octopus and rendered it virtually indistinguishable from squid. Needless to say, I was mortified at the complete lack of respect shown to these ingredients which were, for their part, extremely fresh.
To be fair, I did also have the Pacific butterfish with medjool dates and piquillo peppers - which are pretty strong flavours but somehow worked with the butterfish. And JP's whole sea bass was very good. There are hits on the menu at Blacksalt. One just has to find them.
One last thing about the restaurant destroyed whatever faith we had left after the meal, and whatever good feeling had been brought about by the excessive wine consumption through the meal. After we had paid our bill and were lingering finishing our wine, we asked for another bottle of sparkling water to wash everything down. To be honest, I had expected this to be comped, especially after how much we had spent at the restaurant. But we were brought a bill for $5 even as the water was brought out. RK made a point about how transactional the meal had been - completely devoid of hospitality and personability - just a group of individuals exchanging cash for food. That is not what dining out should be, but that is exactly what Blacksalt had reduced it to.
There are many reasons that I would not go back to Blacksalt - chief among them being the fact that I am moving from DC. But I felt that in many ways a lack of respect had characterised the meal - our waiter had disrespected his profession, the chef had disrespected the food - and as a result, we were left tremendously disappointed. It was not a good feeling, and it took me until the next morning to shake off the regret.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Public Service Announcement: DO NOT PATRONISE
Morgan is right in that we mostly write positive reviews of the places we go to, with only occasional mentions of ticks or pet peeves. Should we not also write about restaurants that don’t quite make the grade? I feel as though I am doing the public a service here, by warning them away from the following restaurants.
West End Bistro
I have been to this place twice, once for lunch and once for dinner, and I believe I have given it its due. One expects a certain standard of a restaurant by Eric Ripert. Unfortunately this restaurant does not quite make that standard. Maybe I am being harsh in expecting superior preparation of fish from a Ripert resto, but my skate was completely botched on my first visit. Even still, I accept that fish is difficult to master. But I also sampled the tagliatelle al ragu and, on my second visit, the braised short rib. Now, these preparations of beef are not difficult. It is, in my opinion, more difficult to mess up braised short rib than to do it well. You don’t even need a good wine for braised short rib – the key ingredient here is time. Lots of it. The short rib at West End Bistro was flat, had no depth of flavour, and was woefully underseasoned. I don’t know if anybody tasted it before sending it out, but it certainly did not seem so. To say that the restaurant – which is in the Ritz-Carlton – is also responsible for in-room dining is simply not an excuse. The Blue Duck Tavern, barely two blocks away, also has similar responsibilities for the Park Hyatt Hotel, and they do a lovely job. My advice to anyone who is thinking of visiting the West End Bistro – walk two blocks to the Blue Duck instead.
Café Atlantico
This place has definitely jumped the shark. It used to be known for adventurous, interesting flavour combinations and what was also enjoyable cuisine, but that is not the case any longer. I went here for dinner last week and had a scallop appetiser that was downright terrible. The menu promised seared scallop with coconut and crispy rice, drizzled in squid ink. The scallops were not seared properly and had been clearly been left cooking under a heat lamp for too long. The coconut rice was lacking in flavour, and there were probably four drops of squid ink on the entire dish, splashed on almost as an afterthought. I had to ask for more squid ink, which the waitress graciously provided – but even then it did not taste very good. My entrée of beef cheeks was less than spectacular, and a companion’s duck confit was just bad. The one bright spot was the flank steak, but even that was not enough to redeem this restaurant in my opinion.
(The other bright spark, obviously, was that I went to this place on someone else’s tab, and got to drink these wines: a ’90 La Conseillante, an ’89 Margaux, a ’90 Latour and an ’86 Mouton-Rothschild. They were all fabulous, with the Latour winning top honours and the La Conseillante a close second. But it only made me more pissed that the food did not stand up to the wine.)
Central
This is the sister restaurant to Citronelle, which I gushed about so heartily a little while ago. There is absolutely no comparison. Citronelle is thoughtful, eclectic and innovative cuisine with a strong emphasis on presentation. Central is none of those things. Sure, there is an attempt at bistro cuisine, but I tried a pate de campagne there that had a somewhat stiff texture and not enough taste to redeem it. I was there in a party of three once, and a party of six another time; so I tried my fair share of dishes, but none among them were worth writing home about. Bistro food is not tough. It is the equivalent of comfort food – of hot dogs and hamburgers – for the French. It is not rocket science. If you want to complicate it, by all means. Just don’t fuck it up.
Fogo de Chao
This is a chain restaurant. That should be enough said against it, but let me go on. Fogo de Chao is a Brazilian churrascaria, and it should be a heaven for a meat-eater like myself. A phalanx of servers bring grilled meats around on skewers and platters, and carve off pieces for you table-side; and they don’t stop until you tap out and beg for mercy. The problem here is that everything is seasoned the same way – sea salt and garlic. So everything, after a while, begins to taste the same. You can’t even tell the difference between lamb and beef anymore, much less between top and bottom sirloin, or between ribeye and filet mignon. I have been in other churrascarias before, and not had this problem, so I know it is possible. Also, I was promised by someone who had been here before, that they had a wonderful salad bar – “just like being in the produce section of Whole Foods”. Not that it really mattered to me, but I decided to hit the salad bar in the middle of the meal as a respite from all the red meat, and I have never seen a larger spread of limp vegetables in my life. Sure, it was impressive, but nothing looked very appetizing at all. I got some beets and nearly spat them out later at the table. Now, I even like beets raw, so you have got to do something seriously fucked up to them for me not to like them.
Every Chinese Restaurant in DC, Every Last One of Them
There is no good Chinese food in the District of Columbia. Period.
West End Bistro
I have been to this place twice, once for lunch and once for dinner, and I believe I have given it its due. One expects a certain standard of a restaurant by Eric Ripert. Unfortunately this restaurant does not quite make that standard. Maybe I am being harsh in expecting superior preparation of fish from a Ripert resto, but my skate was completely botched on my first visit. Even still, I accept that fish is difficult to master. But I also sampled the tagliatelle al ragu and, on my second visit, the braised short rib. Now, these preparations of beef are not difficult. It is, in my opinion, more difficult to mess up braised short rib than to do it well. You don’t even need a good wine for braised short rib – the key ingredient here is time. Lots of it. The short rib at West End Bistro was flat, had no depth of flavour, and was woefully underseasoned. I don’t know if anybody tasted it before sending it out, but it certainly did not seem so. To say that the restaurant – which is in the Ritz-Carlton – is also responsible for in-room dining is simply not an excuse. The Blue Duck Tavern, barely two blocks away, also has similar responsibilities for the Park Hyatt Hotel, and they do a lovely job. My advice to anyone who is thinking of visiting the West End Bistro – walk two blocks to the Blue Duck instead.
Café Atlantico
This place has definitely jumped the shark. It used to be known for adventurous, interesting flavour combinations and what was also enjoyable cuisine, but that is not the case any longer. I went here for dinner last week and had a scallop appetiser that was downright terrible. The menu promised seared scallop with coconut and crispy rice, drizzled in squid ink. The scallops were not seared properly and had been clearly been left cooking under a heat lamp for too long. The coconut rice was lacking in flavour, and there were probably four drops of squid ink on the entire dish, splashed on almost as an afterthought. I had to ask for more squid ink, which the waitress graciously provided – but even then it did not taste very good. My entrée of beef cheeks was less than spectacular, and a companion’s duck confit was just bad. The one bright spot was the flank steak, but even that was not enough to redeem this restaurant in my opinion.
(The other bright spark, obviously, was that I went to this place on someone else’s tab, and got to drink these wines: a ’90 La Conseillante, an ’89 Margaux, a ’90 Latour and an ’86 Mouton-Rothschild. They were all fabulous, with the Latour winning top honours and the La Conseillante a close second. But it only made me more pissed that the food did not stand up to the wine.)
Central
This is the sister restaurant to Citronelle, which I gushed about so heartily a little while ago. There is absolutely no comparison. Citronelle is thoughtful, eclectic and innovative cuisine with a strong emphasis on presentation. Central is none of those things. Sure, there is an attempt at bistro cuisine, but I tried a pate de campagne there that had a somewhat stiff texture and not enough taste to redeem it. I was there in a party of three once, and a party of six another time; so I tried my fair share of dishes, but none among them were worth writing home about. Bistro food is not tough. It is the equivalent of comfort food – of hot dogs and hamburgers – for the French. It is not rocket science. If you want to complicate it, by all means. Just don’t fuck it up.
Fogo de Chao
This is a chain restaurant. That should be enough said against it, but let me go on. Fogo de Chao is a Brazilian churrascaria, and it should be a heaven for a meat-eater like myself. A phalanx of servers bring grilled meats around on skewers and platters, and carve off pieces for you table-side; and they don’t stop until you tap out and beg for mercy. The problem here is that everything is seasoned the same way – sea salt and garlic. So everything, after a while, begins to taste the same. You can’t even tell the difference between lamb and beef anymore, much less between top and bottom sirloin, or between ribeye and filet mignon. I have been in other churrascarias before, and not had this problem, so I know it is possible. Also, I was promised by someone who had been here before, that they had a wonderful salad bar – “just like being in the produce section of Whole Foods”. Not that it really mattered to me, but I decided to hit the salad bar in the middle of the meal as a respite from all the red meat, and I have never seen a larger spread of limp vegetables in my life. Sure, it was impressive, but nothing looked very appetizing at all. I got some beets and nearly spat them out later at the table. Now, I even like beets raw, so you have got to do something seriously fucked up to them for me not to like them.
Every Chinese Restaurant in DC, Every Last One of Them
There is no good Chinese food in the District of Columbia. Period.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
A Letter From Amsterdam
By Janet Lindgren
UTRECHTSEDWARSTAFEL
It was time to celebrate what had been a most glorious sabbatical year in Amsterdam. I suggested we go to Restaurant de Belhamel – lovely, known, near. “It is one of the city’s prettiest spots, quietly situated on the fringe of the Jordaan area and offering splendid views of both [the Brouwersgracht and the Prinsengracht.]” It had also been an important part of the afternoon, two years earlier, when, after years of being indifferent to Amsterdam’s charms, I had fallen in love with the city. I made a reservations, but with reservations. I knew dinner at de Belhamel would be lovely – and that, strangely enough, was the problem. De Belhamel was not going to help me see anything differently – and that had been the great gift of my Amsterdam year.
Instead we chose to bicycle to Utrechtsedwarstafel – unpronounceable, unfamiliar, and half- way across Amsterdam. Utrechtsedewarstafel didn’t offer a new way to think about dining. It insisted, though only at the end of a familiar litany.
Our dishes are made with fresh daily products,
which we find on the market following the seasons.
We use pure and fresh products and serve the menu as a surprise.
The web-site, I learned, would handle the reservations – “Hans and Igor work on a number one top quality product, which takes all of their time and attention. Because answering the telephone will be too much of a distraction, we request you to make your reservations through the Internet.” I dutifully did as I was told – completing a “menu matrix” that linked number of courses and level to price, entering any “restrictions,” and calling before 2:00 p.m. the day we were dining to confirm the reservation.
I spent the first part of the evening trying to understand how Utrechtsedwarstafel worked. There really were only the two of them – Hans Verbeek and Igor Sens – handling a full house of at least twelve tables and close to thirty diners. Hans chooses the wine for each course, explains why he chose it, and tells what he knows about it, which is a lot. Igor prepares each dish, brings it to the table, and explains what he has prepared. They really do pay careful attention to the restrictions. As Hans seated us he confirmed that I did eat fish, despite my vegetarian leanings. They really do believe in surprise. This means that, beyond the necessary attention to the restrictions a diner lists, Hans and Igor make all of the choices. Not a word was said to my companion about what he would be having. We were served the same first course and had the same enthusiastic reaction. But, it was not until a sharp knife and red wine appeared at the table for his main course that I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing my meat-eating companion hadn’t been limited by my restrictions.
At table side Hans explained that their approach is based “on business principles – on commercial principles.” There are economies in staffing. Hans and Igor do everything but wash the dishes. There are economies in purchasing. Little goes to waste when you are purchasing on the basis of reservations. And, free to make what his imagination and the market suggest, Igor can choose ingredients that are high quality and reasonable in price. Then there are the economies of attention. Once Igor’s imagination and the market’s offerings have determined what will be served that evening, Igor can concentrate on the relatively few dishes he has chosen to make. And yet, there is a lot of flexibility. The “restrictions” keep Igor limber in the kitchen. People who walk in unannounced and ask to be fed are welcomed so long as Hans has a table available and Igor still has food. The restaurant doesn’t have a closing time – unless Hans is leaving for Barcelona very early the next morning, and then he says it closes at 12:30 a.m. With Utrechtsedwarstafel closed three days a week and nine weeks a year, Hans can practically live in Barcelona and work in Amsterdam.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out how Hans and Igor had figured out that they could reverse the restaurant world as I had known it – moving from asking what a diner wants, however restricted the choices, to asking only what a diner doesn’t want. I never quite managed to pin that moment down. Their admirable English was sometimes thin and my regrettable Dutch a great deal thinner. There was a limit to how thoroughly I could cross-examine them and still be a gracious guest. And, maybe even they don’t know. Perhaps it wasn’t a flash of insight but a slow process during which they slipped over the line without quite noticing at first.
In the kitchen, Igor explained to me that they started with the physical space, which was already equipped as a restaurant. For a time they tried “a long table d’hôte – with people sharing the table and Igor cooking course after course.” “It didn’t work,” Igor said. “People wanted their own table.” Then they tried what was mostly a wine bar, with food on the side. That didn’t satisfy either, probably because it gave Igor too little room to work his magic. And then . . . . when? . . . . they settled into their current arrangement. A couple of years later they built the kitchen around it. The new kitchen is compact, efficient, well-lit and carefully planned to fit Igor cooking alone.
Thus did Utrechtsedwarstafel grow, the first version of the restaurant bearing as little resemblance to the way it is now as the ten year old photo of Hans and Igor on the home page of their web-site bears to the two men who now welcome you. Hans, who holds nine large wine glasses in one hand in the photo, is still incredibly deft when it comes to swirling the wine in the glasses, but he no longer wears a tuxedo. Igor, though he looks very nearly as youthful ten years later, no longer has a suckling pig with a rose in its mouth tucked under his arm!
Well wined and well dined, we bicycled back to the Jordaan, working our way around two streets that were still closed off to accommodate long dining tables around which the street’s residents had gathered. I imagined each participant bringing to the table whatever he or she could make best from the ingredients available. This was surely the case with the friends who cooked farewell dinners for me in the days that followed. Each essentially asked if I had any restrictions and then made something wonderful. So too Hans and Igor.
Janet Lindgren has just returned from a sabatical year in Amsterdam.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Great Expectations
“When I made a cake I had the best ingredients, the best chocolate, the best butter. You feel it when you are making that kind of cake. You want to deliver that yourself to the customer. You want to say: 'This is a gift from me. Take it. This is everything I have.'" – Michel Richard
Michel Richard Citronelle
3000 M St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-625-2150
It is an unfortunate circumstance that the weight of expectation can sometimes crush an otherwise perfectly enjoyable experience. I have been to too many restaurants where a combination of reviews from other people and my own – sometimes unrealistic – expectations have not been met, resulting in me walking away somewhat disappointed. It is perhaps a harsh way to judge a restaurant, but it is unavoidable.
By all accounts my dinner at Citronelle was set up to fail this way. I had, for as long as I have lived in DC, heard only glowing recommendations about this place. I had made the reservation two months in advance, and had spent all that time reading about Michel Richard and his food. I must have spent a good three hours perusing the winelist beforehand to pick out what I wanted to try, and what was good value for money. If this meal had been anything short of extraordinary, I would have been let down. Yet I am happy to report that this bastion of Washington cuisine was everything I expected it to be, and more.
It was my birthday this past weekend, and several good friends indulged me by visiting. Morgan, Reed and Simon all made the trip down from New York, while Matthew came back from Pittsburgh. It was a reunion of sorts, perhaps made a little bittersweet by my impending departure. Personally, it was also my theoretical last day at work. So there was a lot to celebrate and commemorate, and as I dressed for the event (Citronelle has a jacket-required dress code for gentlemen) I thought it only fitting to wear a suit and tie.
Citronelle is located right-smack in the middle of Georgetown, within a boutique hotel called the Latham Hotel. The building façade is perhaps not the most attractive – a block-ish, staid red brick building that is somewhat lackluster next to its architecturally diverse counterparts on M St. But upon walking in we get that sense of being transported – the lighting is warmer, the background noise more restrained than on the busy street we had just left behind.
It was not only appropriate to start with some champagne, but rather necessary, I thought. In addition to the big houses Citronelle had a sizeable list of small grower-producers, which was very intriguing. I did not know enough about these to make a decision and so went with the “Brut Premier” – a non-vintage champagne and the lowest-end offering from Louis Roederer, the same house that makes Cristal. Now, I am not a regular drinker of champagne and do not know enough about it to comment but this was really delightful. This had more vinosity, more character than the champagnes and sparkling wine I am used to – and I could actually appreciate it as a wine in addition to appreciating it as a glass of bubbly. It was very cool, very smooth, with hints of golden apple and the finish was longer than I was used to in champagne.
I put our sommelier in charge of the actual wine selection after that – while specifying what I wanted. We were going to go champagne, white Burgundy, red Burgundy and then finish up with a Bordeaux – and I told him what I liked in each of those wines. Sometimes expectation can work wonders. As you grow older you learn how to manage people, and get the best out of them. Nobody likes being told what to do and how to do it – and they like it even less if the person who does it either micro-manages or is too prescriptive. Far better, I think, to outline the parameters of what you want, and give people the freedom of expression and the expectation to produce. I think most people will surprise you if they were only given that expectation of producing greatness. Our sommelier certainly did bring us some beautiful wines, toasted our health with each bottle, and was an all-round credit to his profession.
It is always difficult deciding what to order, and this task was made even more so with the lack of detail on the menu. None of the dishes were described in more than seven words, with mentions only of the major ingredients and then sometimes not even that. I liked to think this allowed for creativity in the kitchen – where the chefs could change the preparation of any given dish on any given day – and it certainly allowed for some banter with our servers to discuss our options. As we were to find out, it really didn’t matter that the food wasn’t described well on the menu because everything was incredible and it didn’t matter whatever you picked because whatever choice you made was sure to please.
We weren’t made to wait long for our appetizers, which arrived with minimal pomp and splendor. Reed and I both got the Lobster “Begula” pasta, which consisted of tiny balls of pasta dyed in squid ink to resemble caviar and served in a can. It was apparently a house signature and characteristic of Michel Richard’s culinary wit, a trompe l’oeil dish that confounded your expectations. Hidden under the layer of pasta were chunks of lobster meat and a poached egg that held the mixture together. The can was plated in the middle of ellipse-shaped ice cubes – and was an indication of the dedication to presentation so evident in the kitchen’s cooking. The pasta was done to the perfect texture – difficult when you consider its miniature size, and the lobster perfectly seasoned to bring out and not mask its natural flavour.
Hunter and Simon both got the abalone, which I was surprised to see on the menu. Abalone is a highly prized food, almost revered, in Eastern civilizations, and a treat for special occasions back home. It is, however, not used extensively here. It has a meaty texture and absorbs flavour very well while retaining its own distinctive mildness, making it the perfect conduit for many intricate preparations. At Citronelle it came with cubes of cuttlefish and crunchy daikon radish. The saltiness of the cuttlefish was a perfect foil for the abalone, which was in turn perfectly cooked and a pleasure to sink your teeth into.
But the standout appetizer was surely the “Mosaic” surf and turf that both Morgan and Matthew ordered. This was individual carpaccio circles of beef, scallop, eel, radish and salmon, arranged in an explosion of colour. On the square plate, it resembled a stained glass tile and was absolutely stunning in its presentation. It did not flatter to deceive, either. The one bite I had of the eel was heavenly, a punch of tart citrus, savoury umami and an underlying sweetness that enhanced the flavour of the meat. Words could do the Mosaic no justice, and I had to search Flickr for a photo of this dish that we almost did not order if not for the waiter explaining its construction and composition to us.
The sommelier followed up the champagne with a Chardonnay from Puligny-Montrachet (“Sous le Puits”, Domaine Larue, Puligny-Montrachet, 2003). This was very refreshing in a forest-glade kind of way – with a cool, dry mouthfeel and lots of minerality. It was wonderfully versatile and I believe it complemented all of our appetizers.
We had a little more variety in our entrées and I was lucky enough to try at least a bite of everything. Reed’s paella was a more-than-generous helping of seafood and pinenuts for rice, with every little squid, every little piece of seafood cooked just right time-wise, no more, and no less. Matthew got the squab, which came with gourmet tater tots – an absolutely charming touch. I have a long and lovely history with tater tots, and to see them make an appearance in fine dining brought a smile to my face. I myself got the lamb – bite-sized and almost identical spherical chunks of lamb loin atop a jalapeno and white bean sauce, with summer vegetables and a side of polenta. I admire a kitchen that respects its vegetables. In this case they were prepared with care, and each vegetable was seasoned and prepared individually, not treated as part of a medley. The tomatoes were drizzled with balsamic and roasted till tender, while the fennel was lightly prepared so as to retain its crunch.
Morgan, Simon and Hunter each got the veal three ways – shank, cheek and sweetbreads. I love all of those preparations. Special mention must go to the sweetbread, which was out of this world. I remember introducing Greg to sweetbreads at a restaurant in Montreal, only to have him say “This tastes like chicken.” I wanted to punch him in the face. But then I tried it and you know what, it did taste a little bit like chicken – but only in that it had a mild, sort of nondescript flavour. The sweetbread at Citronelle, though, was unlike any other I had tasted before. It had a buttery mouthfeel and a tender center, and was seasoned so exquisitely that it made my heart ache.
For dinner we had first the red Burgundy – Domaine Jacques-Frederick Mugnier, Chambolle-Musigny, 2000 – another excellent recommendation by our sommelier. The wine caused Hunter to comment without prompting on how good it was, which I took as a good sign, for Hunter does not drink much wine, and his praise was pure and unadulterated. I love the colour of a good red Burgundy Pinot – it has a pale brilliance, almost fragile and ethereal compared to the darkness and fullness of a Bordeaux or a Brunello. The wine had good earth, tasted of cranberries and a little licorice, and had a certain vibrancy that was hard to place. Needless to say, it went too soon.
I overruled the sommelier for the third wine, disregarded my original budget and picked what I thought was reasonable value for a second growth Bordeaux – a 2000 Chateau Leoville-Poyferré, St Julien. The youngest of the three vineyards that made up the original Leoville estate, it was the only one I had not tried, and what better occasion, really. It was rich and full-bodied, with lots of dark fruit and a creamy mouthfeel. Its medium acidity and tannic levels made it a perfectly pleasurable experience to drink, and it had a long, opulent finish.
Michel Richard Citronelle is not cheap. In fact, it is the absolute opposite. I read so many reviews online referencing its “regulars” and I thought to myself: how nice it would be if I made enough money to be a regular of this restaurant. For that kind of money, the restaurant must always live with a set of astronomical expectations. What a dangerous place to be in, where the only way is down – you are expected to produce nothing but quality, expected to innovate constantly without losing your soul. The non-regulars who visit the place, myself included, expect nothing short of a magical, unforgettable evening. Fortunately for us, the restaurant more than delivered.
- Me, looking rather bemused at all the fuss over yet another birthday
Michel Richard Citronelle
3000 M St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-625-2150
It is an unfortunate circumstance that the weight of expectation can sometimes crush an otherwise perfectly enjoyable experience. I have been to too many restaurants where a combination of reviews from other people and my own – sometimes unrealistic – expectations have not been met, resulting in me walking away somewhat disappointed. It is perhaps a harsh way to judge a restaurant, but it is unavoidable.
By all accounts my dinner at Citronelle was set up to fail this way. I had, for as long as I have lived in DC, heard only glowing recommendations about this place. I had made the reservation two months in advance, and had spent all that time reading about Michel Richard and his food. I must have spent a good three hours perusing the winelist beforehand to pick out what I wanted to try, and what was good value for money. If this meal had been anything short of extraordinary, I would have been let down. Yet I am happy to report that this bastion of Washington cuisine was everything I expected it to be, and more.
It was my birthday this past weekend, and several good friends indulged me by visiting. Morgan, Reed and Simon all made the trip down from New York, while Matthew came back from Pittsburgh. It was a reunion of sorts, perhaps made a little bittersweet by my impending departure. Personally, it was also my theoretical last day at work. So there was a lot to celebrate and commemorate, and as I dressed for the event (Citronelle has a jacket-required dress code for gentlemen) I thought it only fitting to wear a suit and tie.
Citronelle is located right-smack in the middle of Georgetown, within a boutique hotel called the Latham Hotel. The building façade is perhaps not the most attractive – a block-ish, staid red brick building that is somewhat lackluster next to its architecturally diverse counterparts on M St. But upon walking in we get that sense of being transported – the lighting is warmer, the background noise more restrained than on the busy street we had just left behind.
It was not only appropriate to start with some champagne, but rather necessary, I thought. In addition to the big houses Citronelle had a sizeable list of small grower-producers, which was very intriguing. I did not know enough about these to make a decision and so went with the “Brut Premier” – a non-vintage champagne and the lowest-end offering from Louis Roederer, the same house that makes Cristal. Now, I am not a regular drinker of champagne and do not know enough about it to comment but this was really delightful. This had more vinosity, more character than the champagnes and sparkling wine I am used to – and I could actually appreciate it as a wine in addition to appreciating it as a glass of bubbly. It was very cool, very smooth, with hints of golden apple and the finish was longer than I was used to in champagne.
I put our sommelier in charge of the actual wine selection after that – while specifying what I wanted. We were going to go champagne, white Burgundy, red Burgundy and then finish up with a Bordeaux – and I told him what I liked in each of those wines. Sometimes expectation can work wonders. As you grow older you learn how to manage people, and get the best out of them. Nobody likes being told what to do and how to do it – and they like it even less if the person who does it either micro-manages or is too prescriptive. Far better, I think, to outline the parameters of what you want, and give people the freedom of expression and the expectation to produce. I think most people will surprise you if they were only given that expectation of producing greatness. Our sommelier certainly did bring us some beautiful wines, toasted our health with each bottle, and was an all-round credit to his profession.
It is always difficult deciding what to order, and this task was made even more so with the lack of detail on the menu. None of the dishes were described in more than seven words, with mentions only of the major ingredients and then sometimes not even that. I liked to think this allowed for creativity in the kitchen – where the chefs could change the preparation of any given dish on any given day – and it certainly allowed for some banter with our servers to discuss our options. As we were to find out, it really didn’t matter that the food wasn’t described well on the menu because everything was incredible and it didn’t matter whatever you picked because whatever choice you made was sure to please.
We weren’t made to wait long for our appetizers, which arrived with minimal pomp and splendor. Reed and I both got the Lobster “Begula” pasta, which consisted of tiny balls of pasta dyed in squid ink to resemble caviar and served in a can. It was apparently a house signature and characteristic of Michel Richard’s culinary wit, a trompe l’oeil dish that confounded your expectations. Hidden under the layer of pasta were chunks of lobster meat and a poached egg that held the mixture together. The can was plated in the middle of ellipse-shaped ice cubes – and was an indication of the dedication to presentation so evident in the kitchen’s cooking. The pasta was done to the perfect texture – difficult when you consider its miniature size, and the lobster perfectly seasoned to bring out and not mask its natural flavour.
Hunter and Simon both got the abalone, which I was surprised to see on the menu. Abalone is a highly prized food, almost revered, in Eastern civilizations, and a treat for special occasions back home. It is, however, not used extensively here. It has a meaty texture and absorbs flavour very well while retaining its own distinctive mildness, making it the perfect conduit for many intricate preparations. At Citronelle it came with cubes of cuttlefish and crunchy daikon radish. The saltiness of the cuttlefish was a perfect foil for the abalone, which was in turn perfectly cooked and a pleasure to sink your teeth into.
But the standout appetizer was surely the “Mosaic” surf and turf that both Morgan and Matthew ordered. This was individual carpaccio circles of beef, scallop, eel, radish and salmon, arranged in an explosion of colour. On the square plate, it resembled a stained glass tile and was absolutely stunning in its presentation. It did not flatter to deceive, either. The one bite I had of the eel was heavenly, a punch of tart citrus, savoury umami and an underlying sweetness that enhanced the flavour of the meat. Words could do the Mosaic no justice, and I had to search Flickr for a photo of this dish that we almost did not order if not for the waiter explaining its construction and composition to us.
The sommelier followed up the champagne with a Chardonnay from Puligny-Montrachet (“Sous le Puits”, Domaine Larue, Puligny-Montrachet, 2003). This was very refreshing in a forest-glade kind of way – with a cool, dry mouthfeel and lots of minerality. It was wonderfully versatile and I believe it complemented all of our appetizers.
We had a little more variety in our entrées and I was lucky enough to try at least a bite of everything. Reed’s paella was a more-than-generous helping of seafood and pinenuts for rice, with every little squid, every little piece of seafood cooked just right time-wise, no more, and no less. Matthew got the squab, which came with gourmet tater tots – an absolutely charming touch. I have a long and lovely history with tater tots, and to see them make an appearance in fine dining brought a smile to my face. I myself got the lamb – bite-sized and almost identical spherical chunks of lamb loin atop a jalapeno and white bean sauce, with summer vegetables and a side of polenta. I admire a kitchen that respects its vegetables. In this case they were prepared with care, and each vegetable was seasoned and prepared individually, not treated as part of a medley. The tomatoes were drizzled with balsamic and roasted till tender, while the fennel was lightly prepared so as to retain its crunch.
Morgan, Simon and Hunter each got the veal three ways – shank, cheek and sweetbreads. I love all of those preparations. Special mention must go to the sweetbread, which was out of this world. I remember introducing Greg to sweetbreads at a restaurant in Montreal, only to have him say “This tastes like chicken.” I wanted to punch him in the face. But then I tried it and you know what, it did taste a little bit like chicken – but only in that it had a mild, sort of nondescript flavour. The sweetbread at Citronelle, though, was unlike any other I had tasted before. It had a buttery mouthfeel and a tender center, and was seasoned so exquisitely that it made my heart ache.
For dinner we had first the red Burgundy – Domaine Jacques-Frederick Mugnier, Chambolle-Musigny, 2000 – another excellent recommendation by our sommelier. The wine caused Hunter to comment without prompting on how good it was, which I took as a good sign, for Hunter does not drink much wine, and his praise was pure and unadulterated. I love the colour of a good red Burgundy Pinot – it has a pale brilliance, almost fragile and ethereal compared to the darkness and fullness of a Bordeaux or a Brunello. The wine had good earth, tasted of cranberries and a little licorice, and had a certain vibrancy that was hard to place. Needless to say, it went too soon.
I overruled the sommelier for the third wine, disregarded my original budget and picked what I thought was reasonable value for a second growth Bordeaux – a 2000 Chateau Leoville-Poyferré, St Julien. The youngest of the three vineyards that made up the original Leoville estate, it was the only one I had not tried, and what better occasion, really. It was rich and full-bodied, with lots of dark fruit and a creamy mouthfeel. Its medium acidity and tannic levels made it a perfectly pleasurable experience to drink, and it had a long, opulent finish.
Michel Richard Citronelle is not cheap. In fact, it is the absolute opposite. I read so many reviews online referencing its “regulars” and I thought to myself: how nice it would be if I made enough money to be a regular of this restaurant. For that kind of money, the restaurant must always live with a set of astronomical expectations. What a dangerous place to be in, where the only way is down – you are expected to produce nothing but quality, expected to innovate constantly without losing your soul. The non-regulars who visit the place, myself included, expect nothing short of a magical, unforgettable evening. Fortunately for us, the restaurant more than delivered.
- Me, looking rather bemused at all the fuss over yet another birthday
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