Oldie but goodie

I have written about it before so I will spare everyone the gory details, but I revisited the Blue Duck Tavern on my recent trip back to DC, and once again had a delightful experience there. The only exception was the terrible wines that we had to drink, but that might have been more a consequence of a limited budget. The first one we ordered, a 2007 Morgone from Marcel Lapierre, was absolutely undrinkable. We had to send it back, which Ty did with a wonderful touch of class. We left it to the waiter to pick a replacement for us, which was only marginally better.

You could argue that it is the sommelier's responsibility to make sure all the wines on the list are enjoyable - even the cheap ones - but hey, you can't please everyone.

This was a special for the day - advertised as a New Orleans gumbo with duck breast. Not much of a gumbo, and not enough spice, but still very delicious. The best part about the Blue Duck Tavern is that everything is brought to the table in these serving dishes, so it is very easy to share (and steal) food.


I regretted that my simple iPhone camera could not capture the true magnificence of the beef short ribs.


When in Rome, right? I was only in that part of town for so long, and I had to eat crabcakes. These were served on a bed of fennel, which could have been cooked a little longer but was quite tasty nonetheless.


Everything here is simple and heartwarmingly good. No fuss, no muss, no complications and/or avant-gardism. Just food done tavern style, done well and presented with pride. It is one of my favourite places in DC for lunch, not least of all because of the beautiful light it gets and the stunning open kitchen.

A walk down memory lane: Ray's The Steaks

Ray's The Steaks
1725 Arlington Boulevard (at N Quinn)
Arlington, VA 22209
703-841-7297

For my last year or so in DC I was part of an informal association – an invitation-only club that met once a month and still does to this day, only now without me. We called ourselves the Scotch Club, formed as a male-only retaliation to a female-only book club that a friend of ours had set up. We would get together to drink Scotch and compare our tasting notes, but in reality few of us knew anything about the drink, and some even despised it. But we all liked one another, and so Scotch Club became a symbol greater than the drink we celebrated – a symbol of good times, with good friends, living large in the nation’s capital. More than anything it was an experiment in the social nature of man and his proclivity for forming associations and institutions – to make the days and the nights of this passing life a little less lonesome and a little more bearable.

Once a quarter we would organise an outing, be it a scotch tasting event or a trip to Shelley’s Back Room for a good cigar. Sometimes these outings involved scotch, and sometimes they didn’t. One of these outings was so nice, we had to do it twice: making the pilgrimage across the Potomac to Arlington, VA and a restaurant called Ray’s the Steaks for a nice, thick, juicy cut of beef. Scotch, stogies and steak: at the risk of sounding chauvinistic – those form perhaps the Holy Trinity of masculinity. Of course, a mention is also due to the fourth and more unsavoury cousin – strip clubs.

I have always believed that the meat that you can get at steakhouses is far superior to the meat available to the common consumer because restaurateurs (especially the national chains) usually get first dibs on the good, USDA Prime beef. They have access to better distribution channels, and their sheer demand gives them leverage with the top cattle growers both in and out of the United States. It is the sole reason I still go to steakhouses, for I think I can make a pretty damn good steak by myself at home. But because the meat I have to work with was never as good as that which I could get by eating out, I had to go to the Palm, or Morton’s, or Smith & Wollensky. I never really liked Ruth’s Chris, and the Capital Grille was mediocre at best. All that was, of course, before I went to Ray’s the Steaks.

There are many things you have to put up with if you want to eat at Ray’s the Steaks. Foremost and perhaps most annoying, the restaurant does not take reservations. This means that you have to show up the day of, and either hope you are lucky enough to be able to walk in and get a table, or drop by at least two hours in advance to put your name down. My annoyance at this policy abated a little when I found out that this was designed to make things easier for the people living in the immediate vicinity, and to preserve the “local restaurant” flavour of Ray’s. Still, it is rather annoying.

In addition, Ray’s is a no frills, mom-and-pop restaurant. There are no white tablecloths; there are no large Burgundy wine glasses. The décor is nothing to shout about – the walls are painted an unmemorable off-white and are unadorned of any art or artifice. It reminds one of a high school cafeteria, or even a homestyle local eatery in the Jersey suburbs. It is even located in a strip mall. The service is brusque and the waitresses move quickly but surely – focused more on their own efficiency rather than your general comfort. The wine list is sparse but filled with very drinkable wines for very reasonable prices.

If you can put up with all that, then your reward is one of the best steaks I have ever had the fortune of eating, and all the complimentary mashed potatoes and creamed spinach you can stuff your face with. Ray’s ages, cuts and trims all their steaks on-site – and the result is a large, thick-cut, juicy and well marbled corn-fed piece of beef, grilled however you want it and served with whatever sauce you choose. I had the filet, with a peppercorn sauce that was as tart as brandy and as smooth as heavy cream – a sinful but savoury accompaniment to what was a succulent steak.


There are also several nods to the good old days – before nutritionists had their say – when people did not just have seconds or thirds for dinner, but second and third dinners in one sitting. I thought my filet was already a huge hunk of meat, but at Ray's you can also get the "Cowboy Cut" – a 28-ounce bone-in ribeye – or the Chateaubriand – center cut toploin sliced and served with onions, mushrooms and asparagus. The latter is advertised as a meal for two, but originated as a cut for one person – the author and diplomat who served Napoleon and Louis XVIII, from whom it takes its name. They really knew how to eat in those days. I sometimes wonder if I would trade another five years of life expectancy, for the ability (or blissful ignorance) to make stupid decisions or eat and drink to wanton excess. It’s a toughie, that one.

I think I might despise people who eat their meat well-done even more than I despise vegetarians. At least vegetarians have morals. People who eat meat well-done on the other hand, should not be allowed anywhere near the scarce supply of good beef available to the rest of us, and should be refused entry at any self-respecting steakhouse.

I liked my dinner at Ray’s because I was with good company, but also because of the acceptance that the dinner was not going to be about the service, or the wine, or anything else but the steak. Even the bread and the sides, though solid, were mere distractions. You come to Ray’s because you crave sinking your teeth into a pink and juicy slice of meat, charred on the outside but barely warm on the inside. Accepting that it is all about the meat allows you to focus solely on the enjoyment of that particular experience, and it was not unexpected that conversation came to an abrupt halt once our steaks had arrived. For several minutes there were only the sounds of cutlery clinking on plates and the low, gruff, moans of satisfaction only a steak can elicit.

Ray’s the Steaks has now expanded beyond its modest mom-and-pop beginnings: there are multiple locations, a retail arm, and a burger joint just down the street. I do not know what this means for the Rosslyn location. I do hope, for all our sakes, that it preserves what has made it so unique in the past – a dedication to the local community and the ideals of nourishment over artifice, and not least of all, putting good steaks on the plates of its diners.




Photographs courtesy of Brian T. Hege

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world

“By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it up by finding something better.” - Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

It was the worst place for a bar, and consequently also the best place for one. The old Red Derby was almost at the top of the hill that led to all the bars in Adams Morgan; hidden away atop an Ethiopian restaurant with nothing visible to the street but a picture of a red derby hat and a dusty, decrepit staircase. The inside was painted vermilion red, and there was a pool table as you walked in, along with mismatched couches strewn around the place. The bar was hidden in the corner furthest away from the stairwell, long and sleek and organised. The sexiest parts of the place often escaped notice – the two large skylights, and the bathrooms, impossibly tiny but decorated with an artist’s eye for collage.

I think most of all it was the people that made it a comfortable bar because they were all interested in each other and in their drinks. They were all good and real and wished nothing but the best on you. There was always somebody there to talk to and everyone had stories. Even if they were lying they always told the stories well, and it was much more enjoyable than listening to a true story. And people only lied when they got too drunk, as everyone does, and then who can really blame them?

At the centre of it all were Sasha and Dave, who welcomed everyone in with a disarming honesty that made you feel at home immediately. They treated everyone like long-lost friends, and there is nothing else really to do with long-lost friends but raise your glasses. They would always sit and chat if they were not busy and were the perfect hosts. Pat, the bartender, had kind of a manic energy but in a good way, and it was always a good time talking to him.

Matthew brought me to this place the day after it had opened; he and Katie had stumbled upon it only the night before. For the next few months it was all I ever went to. I remember walking up that street and looking out for the lights of the main drag of Adams Morgan, and stopping before even getting there. We walked in semi-darkness past the tennis courts on the right and we were never there early enough. It was one of those places where you ordered a shot of Jamie and a Schlitz or a PBR to start the night, and then maybe you could trade up to a mixed drink. Nobody would look at you funny if you had a mixed drink. But it was beer that we were most often there to drink, and they had all their beer in cans so it was easy to drink and to dispose of.

The Derby did not last long in Adams Morgan: the official story was that they had gotten into a dispute with the landlords and had to move out. I found this out the night before they were to close, and it distressed me to no end. The night itself I was there from open to close, right to the very end when Sasha played ‘New York, New York’ and we all sang along. When the song ended she pushed us out even as we drunkenly called out for an encore. She told us that she wanted to clean up and get out early but I could see from her eyes that she wanted to close the doors and grieve in private. As I walked back down 18th St I felt like someone had kicked me in the shin with a steel-toed boot. I did not cry, but there was a knot in my stomach and it felt like there was no other pain in the world.

Dave had promised that they would reopen in another location but spring came and went and the Derby was still no more. There are other great bars in DC and I was never short on entertainment but as the days went by I became surer and surer that this had been a one-time deal. It had come and gone and I was glad I had taken advantage of it as best I could, but it had been taken away and all the good times could barely make up for the heartbreak.

The Red Derby finally reopened up in Petworth, and I was fortunate enough to visit it several times before leaving DC. They kept the vermilion red walls, and Sasha and Dave and Pat were still their amazing selves. They still served beer only in cans but had expanded their selection and had started serving food as well. But somehow it felt different and also it was ages away, so sadly I did not go there as often as I would have liked.

What I liked about both versions of the Red Derby was how effortlessly it transcended the sum of its physical spaces. I never felt like I was in a room of any sort when I was there, never noticed whether the walls were grimy or if the paint was chipped. Anybody can take a space and serve liquor and beer in it but it takes something else to transform that space into a bar that people enjoy themselves in and can call their own.

Dave had told us once that the Red Derby was his trial run, and what he really wanted to do was open a bar called the Gin Rickey, named after the drink. I knew that no matter how long it took or wherever the place might be I should try my best to be a supporter and a good friend. He and Sasha had no shortage of good, good friends and supporters but I enlisted as another without hesitation. For I knew if they could create a place as good as the Red Derby that they could go on to create more, and make even more people happy through food and drink.

A good café on the corner

Dupont Market
1807 18th St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-797-0222

On Saturday mornings I would get up late and then work until I felt hungry, which normally did not take long. It was a choice between finishing up early on Fridays and working Saturday mornings, or the other way and I almost never went the other way. I liked my evening coffee on Fridays and then a nice cold beer to close the week and start the night. But this sometimes meant that I worked on Saturdays while people were enjoying the day.

One of my favourite places to go when I got hungry and it was nice out was Dupont Market – down the street from where I lived. It was the best place in the neighbourhood for sandwiches and to be sure I went there in the cold weather too; but when it was warm you could sit on the patio and read the paper or watch the people walk up and down 18th St. The owners set a dish of water outside for any dogs passing by, and there were always people walking in and out of the tiny shop. Across the street was a gas station and right beside the deli were two other eating places, so it was easy to miss except if you were looking out for it. But once you knew it was there it became hard not to stop by when walking past, and the sandwiches inspired deep loyalty in those who lived or worked nearby, including myself.

There was a narrow deli counter tucked into the back of the small shop space, next to the table with the coffee flasks, behind which three people could barely fit. They had a griddle and a bread toaster; and between those and a fully stocked deli they created wonders. There is something about watching your food being made for you that makes you hungrier. It makes the waiting even worse than it already is. But it turns the eventual eating into pure joy.

I liked the El Umberto sandwich very much – turkey, Swiss cheese, avocado and alfalfa sprouts on toasted ciabatta. If you didn’t ask them not to, they would drizzle the filling with olive oil and crack fresh black pepper onto it, which made me happy. I think the olive oil at the end really transformed the sandwich. Of course, I am also a fool for sprouts. E-- hated sprouts and thought eating them was like eating grass, and she used to tease me mercilessly for adding sprouts to everything.

She liked to have the chicken salad sandwich, which I was also a fan of because they used dark meat most of the time, and because it had grapes in it. It was creamy and peppery and tasted of borscht. They also sold the chicken salad by itself in little takeaway cases, hidden in the fridge along with a surprisingly fine cheese selection. Like everything else in the shop – it was a little overpriced.

But what we both loved there and got more often than anything else was the breakfast burrito – a filling of burger patty cubes, cheese, pickled jalapenos, tomatoes, eggs and avocado in a wheat tortilla wrap. You could not keep it for long after it was made because the moisture from the eggs would seep out and make the tortilla wrap soggy, so we often sat outside with our burritos and a coffee and ate them while deaf to the sounds each of us was making. I racked my brains to figure out why it tasted so much better than any other breakfast burrito I had ever eaten, but to this day I have no satisfactory explanation. I have seen them make it – so I know that there aren’t any secret ingredients, and the ones that they use did not look particularly extraordinary. Yet somehow when they were all put together, some kind of magic happened. Maybe it was the griddle that they cooked it on.

There are places you go to because they are destinations, and places that you go to simply because they are there. Dupont Market is a little bit of both. There were times when I thought to bring someone there or otherwise I craved a sandwich and made a special trip there; but other times I would walk by on the way back from tennis and duck in for an Orangina and a piece of bread. It seemed to be open all the time and I always felt at home there. Perhaps it was because I knew that after leaving the place it was simply a left, two blocks and a right to my house – not a far way to travel before laying my head to rest.

The Washington Round-Up

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.

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.

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.

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

Service Compris

Marcel's
2401 Pennsylvania Ave NW
Washington, DC 20037
202-296-1166

I did not grow up with very much exposure to what one would consider “haute cuisine”, or fine dining. In fact, the concept of a restaurant in my young mind was very loosely defined and confined to what the Chinese would consider a restaurant. These were typically the large banquet halls with round table sets of 8 or 10 – always bustling, always loud; the service efficient to the point of being brusque. Innovation in cooking was a scarce commodity, to the extent of being frowned upon – chefs were judged by how well they prepared the classical dishes. The driving force behind these restaurants was to feed people.

As I grew up and explored Western cuisine, I became fascinated with the French classics and especially with the concept of eating as experience. I am a fool for Old World formal dining, with restraint and respectability, with white tablecloths and starched napkins and more importantly, impeccable service. The driving force, I discovered, encompassed more than just feeding people, it was ensuring people had a good time. Eating was, far more than in the settings I had grown up in, a release from the day’s anxieties and frustrations. This meant that the diner’s every whim should be anticipated and acceded to within reason, and he should not want for anything.

Marcel’s in DC is just one of those restaurants, with Old World classics in haute cuisine married with a formal setting and excellent service. Nestled in that no-man’s land between the aristocratic elegance of the West End, and the bourgeois chic of Georgetown, it was opened in 1999 and feels like it has been around forever. In the cut-throat world of slim margins that is the restaurant business, you know the ones who hang around the longest are the best – and that is also the reason that if given the choice, I like to go to the restaurants with tradition rather than the latest offering by the latest celebrity chef.

As my time in DC slowly winds to a close, I finally made it to Marcel’s the other night for a completely and utterly decadent evening. Marcel’s has a stonewall interior and even though it is large the space is divided into cozy rooms, each seating no more than 30 or 40. This gives you the feeling of privacy even amongst a crowd, and the noise never rises to above a murmur. The Beaux-Arts iron fixtures are a beautiful touch, and the restaurant is bathed in a dim glow that would make even me look attractive. There was live piano jazz at the bar, accompanied by a beautiful singer in a shimmering black dress who crooned the Tin Pan Alley tunes that I am such a fan of. At one point in the night I thought to myself, “Play Misty for me”, and she did. It was the most uncanny thing.

I have to admit that because we ordered such fine (and expensive) wines, we were accorded special treatment – the maitre d’ himself attended to us, and a phalanx of servers saw to our every need. But judging from the way the staff did their job, excellence was a quality intrinsic to their offering. Danny Meyer writes, “Service describes how you technically deliver a product, Hospitality describes how you make the recipient of that product FEEL.” The staff that waited on us were not merely bringing us food and pouring us water, but they were fashioning a night to remember for us. They did their jobs with efficiency but also pride and dignity, and not once did the thought occur to me that anything could make the night better.

And the food. The food was mind-blowingly good. Typically in a multi-course meal you wind up trying many things – especially if you are dining with others and get to try a bite of their food too. And sometimes even if a restaurant is excellent and makes many impressive dishes there are invariably one or two which aren’t as memorable as the rest. This is unavoidable. At Marcel’s, though, this was not the case. Everything that was brought out was technically perfect. The challenge sometimes laid upon formal haute cuisine is that while it stimulates the intellect and the palate, it does not comfort the soul so much – and the tiny portions at some restaurants don’t help either. Again, this was not the case at Marcel’s. The food had a soothing, warming quality, and came in just the right portions and at just the right timings that left us unequivocally satisfied.

This was Brody’s first course – a steak tartare that was equal parts citrusy from the lemon and savoury from the beef. Ty and I had the sweet corn soup with Gulf shrimp (not pictured), which had a country hearth heft to it but also the delicacy of classical cuisine, which is just a fancy way of saying it had a lot of butter in it.


My second course of foie gras with glazed apricots. I love apricots. People should cook with them more. The tartness of the apricots complemented the savoury creaminess of the foie gras; and it was like a party in my mouth. Ty had the snails in garlic butter (not pictured), which did not have an overwhelming taste of snails, but instead burst into waves of flavour – of earth and of garlic and of butter – in my mouth just before I gulped it down.


My third course – roulade of rabbit in a carrot ginger sauce. I love rabbit. The texture is very gentle, yet grainy, and the taste gamy yet subdued. It complements sauces very well, but has a taste of its own.


Ty and Brody each had the lamb wrapped in phyllo dough; I had a bite and I have to say, all I remember was that the phyllo dough was delicious. I thought to myself that it was wonderful how the kitchen applied itself to technical excellence in every aspect of every dish.


I trooped away from Marcel’s castigating myself for not trying this under-appreciated DC gem sooner. To be fair, it is expensive, and definitely not everyday dining. But it was classical food in exquisite preparations, comforting and colourful, in a setting of elegance and attentive service. What more could you want from a restaurant?

Blue Hill, Blue Duck, Stone Park

August was a great month. We laughed, we cried, we drank some wine, we saw old friends, we made some new friends, etc. etc. Throughout this month of highs and lows, strikes and gutters, the food I've been eating has been top notch. In three weekends I ate at three extremely delicious and very expensive restaurants. Some people may do this every weekend in New York but for me it has been quite a blowout.

A couple of weeks ago Jason was in town and he made us a late reservation at Blue Hill, which hadn't been on my culinary radar up until then. We had a great meal, which I will get into in a minute, but most of all we had a great time. I hadn't seen our friends Camille and Reed in far, far too long, and it was a pleasure to reconnect with them and to then proceed to drink copious amounts of whatever we could get our hands on. Blue Hill is a great space for a nice meal, it's very warm and welcoming. I particularly liked the minimal signage and the whole speak-easy vibe. We started out the meal with a really nice Morgon Beaujolais, a great wine to begin with. I had the sweet corn ravioli with red kale and basil. These tiny pouches were very delicate both in terms of texture and taste. They were not a huge portion, but I thought they worked very well as an appetizer, the intense sweetness of the corn and the buttery sauce was an excellent combination. I followed that up with the grass-fed lamb. I'm not exactly sure what cut they were using for this steak, but it was very flavorful and tender. Unfortunately, I thought they could have gotten a better sear on the outside, to be honest. It came with sauteed vegetables and an herb sauce that was also very fresh, rich and delicious. My entree went extremely well with the second wine we ordered, a Pinot Nero. I had digestif instead of dessert but they all looked great. I know that you have to pay a premium for fresh ingredients and sustainable, grass-fed meat, but I was still a little shocked at the sticker price on my lamb: $36. That's a lot of money. It was a great meal, but it's definitely going to be another special occasion if I'm going to return.

The next week I was in D.C. visiting Jason and we made a great meal, despite the last minute lack of a grill. The second night I was there we went out to the Blue Duck Tavern. This, I thought was a great restaurant. The open kitchen is a delight to watch. I am shocked, shocked that it manages to do all of the food for their many seats, the lounge and all the In-Room dining as well. How do you even place a meat order when you have that many possible people eating? On any given day you could have dozens of people eating in their rooms. Crazy. I feel like, while I had a great meal, I did not see this restaurant at its best. It was a Sunday night, so they ran out of both the soft shell crab appetizer and the mackerel rillette. Furthermore, they had recently had a chimney fire in their wood burning oven, which 86ed the roasted bone marrow... alas and alack, all my favorite dishes were dropping like flies. That having been said, the crab cake with remoulade was extremely crabby, sweet and delicious. Though not particularly innovative, it was certainly well executed, which is what haute tavern cuisine is all about. My braised beef rib with house steak sauce was extremely delicious. Perfectly braised, well presented, with the sauce providing a nice tangy, mildly hot contrast to the intensity of the beef. It was like the apotheosis of A1. The Brunello we were drinking didn't hurt the equation at all. I adore braised meats, I often find them to be the most interesting preparations since the cuts tend to be more flavorful and harder to find. Give me the braised beef cheeks and I'm happy. Ah yes, and an after dinner cigar, which we also indulged in.

Most recently I had a meal in Brooklyn at the Stone Park Cafe. This was an excellent meal as well. I went with wine aficionado and winebar-tender Dave, who was ready to blow out his gaff after 7 straight nights of work. I had heard good things about this spot from fellow Stoned-homie Buckley. I started with the braised octopus with chopped salad greens and a lemon- black pepper vinaigrette. The octopus was extremely tender. This is something I've never made, but am very, very interested in attempting. I order it pretty much every time I see it so I look forward to trying my hand. I then had the grilled strip steak with herb spatzle, wilted mustard greens and green peppercorn jus. This was a giant, and I mean giant steak. The sides were well seasoned and the jus was luscious. Weighing in at $27 I was quite happy with the dish. We were drinking an extremely, nay even obscenely expensive bottle of Barbaresco, which had a structure and finish that just wouldn't quit. A sensational meal, I will definitely return, funds permitting. I oddly found that this was the second sirloin I had in maybe 3 weeks. I adore steak, but having eaten 2 NY strip sirloins in such a short period I found myself thinking that it is a relatively uninteresting steak. Perhaps uninteresting is a little strong but I think I actually prefer the "lesser" steak cuts like hanger, skirt and flank, or tri-tip. They just have more interesting flavor.

On the whole it was a roaring success of a month on any number of notes, but particularly when it came to eating & drinking beyond my means, just generally living life in 4th gear.

If wishes were fishes, DC edition

Places I'd like to eat at, in no particular order:

Minibar
6-seater (hence the name) afterthought of a restaurant that serves a 30-course tasting menu showcasing all the tricks (and the pretension) of molecular gastronomy. I'm usually not a fan of things that are what Morgan calls "unrecognizable as food", but hey, you can't knock it till you've tried it, right?

The Inn at Little Washington
Back in the days when I was enamoured with French classical cooking, and Italian simplicity of style, I often wondered, "What can New American do for me?" Nowadays I see so much in the American style that I like - it is healthy, eclectic, inventive and unrestricted by ethnic boundaries. All this, and more, is apparently showcased in what is one of Washington's perennial top ten restaurants.

Obelisk
With the closure of Galileo for extended renovations this is reportedly the best Italian in town, which may not be saying much. If I were in New York I could probably throw a stone and hit five Italian restaurants, and at least one of them would be amazing. As much as I cannot stand him, we need a Mario Batali in this town. People just don't seem to know, or get excited about, good Italian food, much less good regional Italian food.

Ray's the Steaks
A mecca of meat and apparently the best steak in town. I was out of town the last time the guys organised a trip out to Arlington for this one. No excuses, I have to make it here before my time in DC is up.

Makoto
DC's closest thing to Masa, except a third as expensive, and even then that makes it one of the more expensive places in town. They make you take your shoes off and wear special slippers, so either those slippers are ridiculously expensive, or the food is ridiculously good. I don't know, I'm not a psychic. Emi has promised to take me here so if you are reading this, dear, holy buckets you'd better come good on this one.

Viva Espana

Taberna del Alabardero
1776 I St NW
Washington DC 20006
202-429-2200


With the football team’s Euro victory, Nadal’s successes at Roland Garros and SW17, and more recently Castre’s triumph in the Tour de France, this has undoubtedly been a great year for Spain. It is recognition that has come somewhat belatedly in all other arenas but cooking. In cooking, Spain has been leading the way for quite some time now – names like Ferran Adria, Santi Santamaria and Jose Andres are almost requisite knowledge for any gastronome. I love Spanish food for its big, bold flavours; I love the bitter tang that olives impart, I love the defiant orange hue that saffron brings to a dish. And so it was with high expectations that I ventured to an establishment that the Spanish government calls “the best Spanish restaurant outside of Spain” – a restaurant right here in little old Washington DC. I had heard many good things about Taberna del Alabardero, not least from RK who has certainly eaten at enough good restaurants to know the real deal when he sees it. I expected great things.

The consultants in my company got together recently for a training course in DC, and I selfishly anointed myself the “One Who Gets To Pick The Restaurant”. We all enjoy a good meal out (I honestly believe that is the only reason they hired me) and fighting off the sly self-serving suggestions of others in order to fulfill my own self-serving wants was trickier than I thought. But in the end not too many people were disappointed when I picked this place – Ty had been there before and had only good things to say about it.

The Taberna is in an odd location, right in that no man’s land between downtown and the West End on 18th St, one of the busier throughfares in the District. Tall office buildings soar around it and with its Rioja red awning and distinctive lettering – it looks rather out of place. I arrived early and immediately ordered myself a tinto de verano. Hunter had recommended this, and it turned out to be exactly what I needed.

Tinto de verano, translated as “summer red”’, is a refreshing seasonal drink much like sangria, but made by mixing equal parts of red wine and soda - typically La Casera, which is similar to Sprite. It is one of the secrets that the Spanish do not market abroad extensively. I much prefer it to sangria, which can be rather sweet and stick to the roof of your mouth sometimes. Also, with sangria there are more combinations and possibilities for people to absolutely screw it up, whereas any bartender with half a brain can pour a tinto de verano.

There is a bar of tapas right outside the main dining room, where you can take your pick of cold and warm appetizers. But what caught my attention was the leg of Jamon iberico just chilling on a table, in plain sight, illuminated by the dim glow of the heat lamp, half carved and tantalizingly appetizing. Sheer marketing genius – just like bars that serve peanuts because they make you thirsty – but I fell hook, line and sinker for it anyway. I was already hungry, and now I was ravenous.

I could hardly wait for everyone to arrive, and when we were finally seated I paused to take in the surroundings. The walls were painted a deep red, with just the right amount of trim and flourish adorning the hallways and furnishings – it was just shy of kitsch and oozed a certain Old World charm. We started off with a heavy-hitting wine, a 2003 Bodegas Mauro Vino de la Tierra – which while enjoyable was a little too concentrated to open our palates with. It had wonderful accents of vanilla and tobacco but was very dark and not very fruit forward, which I thought rather atypical of Tempranillos, and of Spanish wine in general.

I always find it amusing when people are unsure whether or not to order a personal appetizer, and as a result suggest one, or several “communal” appetizers for the table. Nobody wants to be the one who decides on what to order, and it takes a special breed of friends to agree exactly on what those choices are. I always keep my mouth shut in instances like these, for I know there is never the right thing to say. For every person in this world there is a palate and a preference, and – particularly when there are more people at the table – it is often hard to reach a consensus. Somebody is inevitably disappointed, and it is never polite to say so when you are.

So when Ty hesitantly suggested getting the bacalao, I was pleasantly surprised. Not many people know what bacalao is, let alone like it. Ty was very gracious about the whole issue, and immediately qualified his suggestion with a non-committal “But we don’t have to get it if you guys don’t want to.” I did want to, and immediately threw my backing behind him. Sadly it did not turn out to be very good, and neither were the other appetizers that we picked. Democracy, as history will no doubt prove, does not always yield the optimum result.

I was convinced I had found my gastronomical soul-mate when Ty beat me to suggesting that we should also get paella for the table, and squid ink paella at that. Now there are very few things I love more than seafood, and being a nice Chinese boy I am partial to rice. A rice dish made with assorted seafood, to me, is heaven on a plate. I also like squid ink very, very much. The dish that arrived was lovingly spooned onto our plates by the waiter, with the final drizzle of a squid ink sauce the coup de grace. It was beautiful presentation, and I am glad to report that the paella lived up to the hype. The squid ink and fresh seafood added a mariner’s tang to the gummy, starchy goodness of the rice, and I tasted the sweet accents of saffron and paprika, judiciously used. I did not have to pepper the dish, and in my world that is very high praise indeed.

I had the pork loin for an entrée, and it was good without being spectacular. It clearly bore the hand of a skilled cook, for it showcased the big, bold flavours and spices of Spanish cuisine, sauced classically – which is to say heavily – but not once was it overbearing, and the flavours melded together as if by some strange force.

What did stand out was the wine that the sommelier picked for us – a 2002 JC Conde “Neo”, Ribera del Duero. This was a Spanish wine to end all Spanish wines and for me typified what Spanish wine was. It was bright and full-bodied, very fruity and sensual, with rich, opulent aromas of espresso, crème de cassis and white chocolate. If ever there was a wine that made you feel like dancing, this was it.

The Taberna was a good experience, but when the bill finally came I had a little sticker shock. It is funny how much the price of an item casts a relative judgment on its quality. I found myself thinking, “Well my pork loin was good, but was it thirty-six-dollar-good?” One of the main reasons why the Taberna is so expensive (and probably also the main reason it is so authentic) is that it sources many of its ingredients directly from Spain. I signed the check and sighed inwardly, and as I did so I started thinking of the explaining I would have to do.

A Taste of Tuscany, or Notes in a Symphony

Blue Duck Tavern
1201 24th St NW (24th and M St)
Washington DC
202-419-6755

In the play Amadeus, Salieri makes the realization that his nemesis, the great Mozart, composed his symphonies entirely in his head – with parts for the string and the wind and the percussion all written into a finished product before he even committed pen to paper. Whether this was true I do not know, but if it were then one can only imagine his excitement when transcribing these finished works of genius, as if he were unearthing, bit by bit, that which was already whole and complete. Replace one note, or remove one note; and the symphony would be diminished. That is sometimes how I feel about food – that on that rare occasion, everything comes together in a sumptuous fusion of taste and texture that to modify it would be to lessen it, and would be the most cardinal of sins. That is also how I feel, most of the time, about the best Brunello di Montalcino that I have had the fortune of tasting.

One of my first experiences with this fabled grape came two years ago at a restaurant out in Fairfax, VA called simply, 2941. That restaurant experience, while fabulous, is another story for another time. That night I had a bottle of 1997 Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona, and it was a moment of clarity. It was like someone had smacked me and I had to sit down – it was that good. I recently dug up some of the emails I had sent out the morning after that dinner – written in a frantic hand and with a messenger’s urgency – and in one particular communication I raved, “it was like drinking silk”. I described the wine to Morgan after the fact and joked that I would never be able to go back to Chianti again. He seemed very disturbed, and we laughed it off, but I must admit that ever since that day, I rarely order Chiantis any more.

Brunello is a variant of the Sangiovese grape, grown in the town of Montalcino in Tuscany, Italy. Most Brunello that I have had have been big, rounded wines – usually a deep red hue and with beautiful legs in the glass. They take a while to open up, but enough patience and the bouquet, usually very floral, soon opens up into a lush ensemble of flavours, emboldened by a strong tannic structure and an acidic tang that washes over the middle of your tongue. They are fruity, but the fruit is more an accent than a point of focus – and usually dark fruit – plums, cherries, blueberries, sometimes hints of chocolate. I feel, at least, that Brunello more so than any other grape I have tasted, stimulates all the areas of the tongue and is perhaps the most rounded, most complete wine drinking experience. For lack of a more elegant expression it is a Mozart symphony in your mouth, and swallowing seems like such a pity every time. Such a shame that they are so expensive; but I suppose you do get what you pay for.

But I digress. The DC contingent of my firm gathered for lunch recently to celebrate the end of a successful year, and I took the chance to suggest one of the restaurants I had been meaning to try for a while – the Blue Duck Tavern, a Foggy Bottom establishment in the corner of the Park Hyatt. Formerly Melrose, it had reopened last year under the stewardship of Brian McBride, and prides itself on being a contemporary American tavern, using American farm-grown ingredients and time-honoured techniques like roasting, braising, preserving and smoking in the preparation of wholesome American fare. RK had also promised to bring along a couple of bottles of his finest, so I had another reason to look forward to this.

I arrived on time – which is early by our company standards – and took the opportunity to invite myself on the grand tour. Alejandra, our gracious waitress who we would grow quite fond of throughout the meal, indulged me and walked me through the place. There were but a scattering of diners – it was lunch, after all – and the restaurant seemed pristine and unblemished, with a relaxing aura of decadence hanging about. The Blue Duck Tavern is, simply put, quite beautiful. Soaring ceilings and windows let in an abundance of natural light and enclose a space that is marked by lacquered brown marble, clean lines and – my favourite bit – concrete pillars for that Brutalist touch. The interior – designed by Tony Chi – was one of those which just plain made sense. You walked in and there was a natural order, a intuited path, a promenade that the gently sloping walkways led you down, past the pastry chef’s table with the gingerbread house, past the commis and cold stations, past the sprawling open kitchen – pausing to admire the wood oven at the end of the room – and finally to your table.

The open kitchen deserves further mention; I must have stopped for an eternity and gazed upon it in slack jawed amazement – and I was later able to wander through it once more, stopping to talk to the cooks. It was lunch time, so there was none of the hustle and bustle you normally associated with kitchens, but instead an almost pastoral scene of several smartly-dressed cooks moving, no, gliding about the gargantuan range briskly and wordlessly. The saucier hunched over his many bubbling pots, dipping, tasting, his mind surely whirling with the possibilities and permutations, oblivious to his audience. The most amazing bit was that it was all there, every last bit of the kitchen. Usually, open kitchens are small façades that hide the proper kitchen – where all the actual cooking gets done. It hurts to think about it, but the back is where all the dirty stuff happens, where chefs yell at their cooks Gordon Ramsay-style and grill-masters who are too hung-over to speak drop your steak on the ground, pick it up, and throw it back on the grill without so much as a second thought. This was not the case at the Blue Duck Tavern. Everything, soup to nuts – except perhaps the dishwashing station, was laid bare for all to see.

RK had brought three wines – and we decided to have a blind tasting of the three. The first was easy enough to place – a classic Bordeaux with a barnyard nose and hints of apple, still keeping strong in spite of its obvious age (we found out later that it was a 1986 Chateau L’Eglise-Clinet). It had begun to lose some of its colour but none of its lustre. It was a great start to the meal, and we were a good way through the bottle before our appetisers even arrived.

The next wine we had was a little fuller, fruitier and spicier, with less terroir. It turned out to be a Gaja Super Tuscan (Ca’ Marcanda Toscana Magari, 2004). It filled us with much anticipation to try the third and last wine, which was – after all had been said and done – our unanimous favourite out of the three. I don’t know how many bottles of Brunello RK has in his basement, but there is one less now. We had a 1997 Fanti, which was everything that a Brunello should be – big, strong, complex and yet so, so enjoyable. I would write about it, but my words would do it no justice.

The food itself was simply executed: I started with an heirloom beet salad, slippery and slivery with the right amount of vinaigrette and crumbly, melting goat cheese. The delightful twist to this dish was the addition of roasted spiced pumpkin seeds, which added a lovely crunch to each bite. Others at the table went with a pumpkin bisque with duck confit, a fall dish if there ever was one, and which I did not taste but was a lovely colour.

The entrees at the Blue Duck Tavern come in little serving bowls, which you do not eat off of. The greatly facilitates the sharing of food between people, and was heartening to see, for I grew up eating meals “family-style”, as it is known here. This name always amused me, for it was the only style I knew, so to give it a name seemed rather superfluous. In any case, the standout was the wild mushroom sauté – the chanterelles were first and foremost fresh; but also sweet and meaty and juicy and cooked perfectly. My brother does not eat mushrooms – he says that the texture puts him off – but I say that he is crazy. The perfect chanterelle – sautéd in a pat of butter and maybe some parsley – has just the right amount of resistance to the bite. Who could say no to seconds?

I personally ordered the venison sausage and sauerkraut which, while very good was not life-changing. It gave rise again to my eternal, internal dilemma – to order what I really want to eat, or to order what a restaurant is good at making? Most times I just order what I am in the mood for, which may or may not be a restaurant’s signature and while perfectly pleasing may not be the optimum dining experience. But sometimes the best dish at a restaurant may not be what you are in the mood for, so what, then? Damned if I know.

What I did know was that also on the table was the beef braised short ribs, which were excellent – perhaps a dash too much paprika but otherwise meltingly tender and succulent, with a deep, full flavour of spice and wine and other bone-warming ingredients. It was not cold out, and most certainly not in the restaurant, but I almost wished it had been. Who knew how much more orgasmic the combination of braised short ribs and Brunello might have been?

When it came time to go it was already the middle of the afternoon, on a Friday, no less – about that time when people stop working and kick back after a week’s exertions. We were not about to go back to work, and as we went our separate ways I knew in my heart of hearts what would be the perfect icing on the cake after a lunch of decadence – a long, wine-induced, mid-afternoon nap.

Of pizza and place

Coppi's Organic
1414 U St
Washington, DC 20009
202-319-7773

To borrow a couple of turns of phrases from one of the greats, Coppi’s Organic is the kind of place that you mix your emotions up with. There are places in this world that it is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about but there are some that will make you care. The room is long and narrow and not well-lit; as you walk in you can see the bar at the end of the room and the great wood-fired brick oven glowing insistently. It is high-ceilinged, and there are black and white pictures up on the walls of Italian Grand Prix cyclists from an era gone by. It is as if the owner opened a window into his passion for cycling, opened it for anyone – interested or not.

The last time I was there I was with Jeff and we sat in the middle of the room. I had been looking forward to the meal for a while before and this was a good a place to have it as any other. The murmur of conversation formed a wall around us as we sat and ate, and talked. For that reason alone I am convinced that Coppi’s is the place to go if you want to have a good meal and a good conversation. It is either due to great acoustics or a quirk of fate that no matter how close you are seated to other tables – and they do get pretty close – somehow, the only conversation you will hear at Coppi’s is your own.

The restaurant specialises in Ligurian cuisine, which Jeff informs me is superb. Liguria is a coastal strip in north-western Italy, famous for its focaccia and pesto among other specialties. Its influence is clear in Coppi’s menu – which is dominated by greens, mozzarella and sweet basil. Their antipasti is passable, and the home-made pasta good without being exceptional. These flavours and foods are all wonderful things, but what I really like the most about the place is its pizza.

The pizza at Coppi’s is made in a large-domed brick oven at the far end of the room, a large beast of an oven that defines the room. Wood-fired ovens are far superior to others for the cooking of most foods in general, and pizza in particular. This is not only because they can reach temperatures far higher than conventional ovens, but also because the food is evenly cooked by the wood-fired floor below as well as the heat radiated from the dome above. This ensures that pizza, in particular, can be browned to a crisp on the outside and yet remain light and fluffy on the inside.

But all the technology in the world will not save you if you do not care about the food, and that Coppi’s does. Its dedication to local and organic ingredients means that it can be a little expensive, but this is all completely forgotten once the pizza is served. The pastry had that taste of simplicity that most Italian cuisine has, with more than a strong hint of high quality olive oil. Yet the refusal to complicate the bread-making process ensured that it still predominantly had that old fashioned doughy goodness that I like in my bread.

I had had the lamb sausage pizza before, and I did it again, knowing it would not disappoint. When I called two days earlier I had asked if they were still serving it, knowing that the menu rotated with the seasons. The woman on the other end of the line laughed at the preposterousness of my question, and said, “Absolutely. That’s my favourite too, and I promise you, they’ll never take it off.”

It tasted like a thousand lambs had been killed to make that sausage, and their meats had been seasoned with the spices carried by a thousand merchant ships, across a thousand oceans. The garlic was strong but not overpowering, and there were hints of rosemary and thyme. Jeff chose the Genovese pesto pizza, wanting to see how Coppi’s would take local ingredients from the here and now, to recreate a tradition from many miles away, and many years ago. The pesto had been salted heavily and had a lovely crunchy texture. Both pizzas were, naturally, gone all too quickly.

With the turnover so characteristic of the restaurant industry it is sometimes difficult to create that familial atmosphere among the hostesses, waitresses, cooks and bartenders and all the other lovely people that help put the food on our table and make sure we have a smashing time. This did not seem like a problem at Coppi’s, the banter was obvious between everyone on the floor, and most of the people looked genuinely happy to be there. The one time I was there with Mira we had a delightful waitress – I think her name was Jamie – tall and dark-haired with an uncommon beauty; she spoke with a lilting, abrupt delivery and walked with the awkward grace of one who is still discovering the beauty of her own body. One is always discovering, it seems. She was charming beyond measure and I think I kind of fell for her a little. I asked about her this time I was there but she was not working that night, and somehow that made me fall for her a little more.

As we left we had that feeling of leaving a party that we knew would go on for long after our departure, and that saddened us a little. The winelist is decent and the other food is very, very good but not great. The dessert selection was also a little disappointing, but the pizza, with its well-chosen combinations of intense flavours, with its superior pastry baked to wood-oven perfection – the pizza alone, is reason enough to go back.

Be the best at what you do, and be kind to those who are not

Java House
1645 Q St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-387-6622

There is a coffee shop a few blocks down from where I live that I frequent, and hold dear to my heart. In the past year they have tried to diversify their menu, adding an array of wraps, melts and sandwiches to the pastries that they offered before. They even do homemade seasonal soups now – a turkey three-bean chili in the cold months, and chilled gazpacho when it is nice out. I have tried, with every fiber of my being, to bring myself to like their offerings, for I like writing and working there, and am addicted to their coffee. But – and the finality of this pronouncement pains me – but nothing is really very good there.

When I first discovered the Java House and made it my local coffee place, it was the final piece in me being able to call myself a resident of this fine city (the other prerequisites being a local dive bar and a magazine subscription). It had filled a void in my life created by the move away from Providence and with it, Coffee Exchange on Wickenden. I had shopped around – there are options aplenty around where I live, but none with the personality of the Java House. The wonderful lady who ran the counter had a conspiratorial sparkle in her eyes that made me feel young and restless again, and our first conversation centered around the days when she used to live in Ethiopia and roast her own coffee beans out of a saucepan. These days, there is a coffee roaster – the first thing you see walking in – and they roast their own beans daily in the late mornings, after the morning rush. If you stop by the machine and take a deep breath as it is going, you can catch – if you concentrate hard enough – a whiff of the heavenly.

It is hard to say just quite when, and why, a coffee place, or a restaurant, or a bar, becomes more than the sum of its four walls, but it is a joy to experience when it does happen. The Java House is sparsely decorated and functionally equipped at best, and is less than overwhelming at first blush. There are no couches, only stiff-backed counter-style chairs. I have spent long periods of time in the corner where the outlets are, and I want to say that they only have five mix CDs in their repertoire. Needless to say I have heard them all multiple times. Yet in spite of all that, there is a charm about the place that transcends its physical space. The regulars are quirky and include a whole slew of families and housewives who bring their babies in, complete with strollers and bonnets. There is almost always a meaningful conversation going on in the place, as there is almost always someone tippy-tapping away at their computers. The waitress does this cute thing where she raises her speaking voice when she is on her cell phone, as if distrustful of the technological capability of the modern-day cellular telephone. It kind of makes me feel like I am in a bad movie set in 1982. The place, really, is like the ungainly kid who dresses badly and is average at everything, but who you want on your team anyway because he is just such a stand-up guy.

And then there is the coffee. God, the coffee. The house blend has a distinctive sweetness layered over the bitter coffee bean taste; not quite nearly as bitter or dark or powerful as I would like, but it comes closer than almost anything else I have tried within a six-block radius. It has a wholeness of flavour that is consistent from the second it hits your lips through to the swallow. The roasting gives it a burnt taste which lingers on your tongue for minutes. I usually have a double shot of espresso, but it drinks as smooth as a latte with whole milk would.

Apart from that though, as my original point was, nothing else is really very good there. The oatmeal cookie is baked hard and crunchy, rather than crumbly and chewy the way I like it. The sandwiches are basic and unimpressive. The chili is watery and too sweet; also, it has bits of corn in it. There is no greater faux pas. I could go on, but it pains me almost as much to write this as it did to actually eat their food.

I suppose, though, the same is true of almost all coffee places. I do not recall going to one which had both fabulous coffee and good food. Even the pastries at Coffee Exchange were less than spectacular. It must be either one or the other, all or nothing. They are, after all, coffee places that dabble in food on the side. Coffee is their core competency, and most if not all their energy, one would hope, should go into scouring the depths of Ethiopia and Rwanda and Sumatra and Brazil and Colombia for the finest beans available. For that, I am thankful.

I still go to the Java House, unwavering in my loyalty. Perhaps it is out of habit more than anything else, but the fact is that I forgive them their mediocrities.

I do want to say, though: is it really so hard to get a decent cookie around here?

Lunch in the Afternoon

Persimmon
7003 Wisconsin Avenue
Chevy Chase, MD 20815
301-654-9860

It seems a great pity that few people take the time for lunch any more; I myself have often been guilty of this trespass. Yet lunch is a meal too, which makes it one of only so many we get in a lifetime, and it is rather a waste to ignore it or not to give it its due. For – assuming quality as a given, naturally – the one thing I ask of my meals is that they be unhurried.

Simon was in town yesterday briefly before he headed back to Providence, and we caught up over lunch. He chose, at his mother’s suggestion, Persimmon – remarking as we sat down that this was an old favourite and that they served a lunch worthy of a proper meal. For my part, I was just glad to sit down to lunch, a lunch complete with water glasses and multiple forks and starched napkins.

Persimmon is in the Bethesda-Chevy Chase area, an area that smacks somewhat of the new and artificial. I always think that there isn’t anything up there but hotels and chain retail and restaurants, but I am often pleasantly surprised. The restaurant is dubbed as a ‘New American bistro’ – which makes me wince a little, but I recover in time to appreciate the warm golden-orange walls – persimmon, from the name of the restaurant – with splashes of inviting yellows. The hostess, an older woman, had a light, pattering step and an eager manner, and her silvery tresses danced just atop her shoulders as she led us to our table.

I have known Simon for a long time now, and when I first met him he had that infectious, boyish brashness of youth, quite arresting in its warmth, its unguardedness and lack of pretense; capable of putting anyone at ease. His was a personality that reached out to you, singular in its eccentricities, and he possessed that uncommon inability to leave a room unmarked by his entry. He spoke with a wonderful turn of phrase, and was a lovely conversationalist. Later when I met his mother for the first of many times I understood where it all came from. Yet as the years had gone by he had mellowed somewhat, and had become more considered in his speech, more deliberate in his manner. At times during the meal he took on that absent air of one who has great responsibility. He was still Simon, but perhaps he had grown up a little.

I have a great affection for him though, and as the conversation fell into step I felt that relief that comes with eating at a familiar table. The calamari was superb, sautéd lightly and adorned with nicoise tomatoes and a pumpkin seed pesto, served atop a bed of rosemary polenta. The polenta was rich and creamy yet bore a lightness that betrayed the skill of the chef’s hand. Together they made for a wonderful combination of flavours. Simon and I also shared the duck confit appetiser with flageolet beans, a dish perhaps too heavy for lunch but nevertheless extremely tasty.

We owe the concept of a bistro to the French, whose country is littered with small cafés or restaurants that serve simple, modest and down-to-earth fare which warms the body as much as it does the soul. Persimmon had on its menu a nicoise salad and the classic steak frites – both nods to traditional bistro fare – as well as a bouillabaisse that hinted at the chef’s fascination with all things French. It was the latter that Simon made me get, recommending it with a raw enthusiasm I have learnt to distrust in people. Knowledge begets consideration; most often those who are overly animated are also overly ignorant. When the dish came it was a massive plate of mussels and shrimp and squid in a golden broth, daunting just to look at. It went quickly, though - I made a veritable fist of finishing it - and I was impressed by the freshness of the ingredients.

When I used to wait tables, I always had a soft spot for that bittersweet moment after dinner had been eaten and cleared. I probably did not wait enough tables to get jaded, and so I would always involuntarily share a little in the dining experience of those I waited on. There is something about that little window after the busboy cleared the plates away – and on slow nights I would always try to check myself and time my reappearance to allow for that extra beat, so that people could tie up loose ends, could find the last, definitive word on the night’s conversation. On busy nights however, as any waiter worth his salt can tell you, just getting to the table at all is an admirable feat. As a diner, I am more than familiar with the feeling: it is like having an unspeakable loss hit you, and realising that the loss had been, little by little, a long time coming. Whatever the case, I almost always felt like the absolute devil when I would return to a table, not because of the temptation I represented through the offering of the dessert menu, but because I was, in some sense, the one who drew the line at the end of their night.

Certainly that was how Simon and I viewed our waitress, who had been pleasantly anonymous until she came back and uttered those immortal words. She was, unwittingly, a cruel reminder that there was work to be done, and still a large part of the day to get through. That is, then, perhaps the only drawback to enjoying a good meal at lunchtime. Simon and I were stuffed, leaning back in our seats and making ungodly noises under our breath – but it always seems almost criminal not to at least take a look at the dessert menu. The rum-raisin bread pudding sounded divine, and Simon had wonderful things to say about the pumpkin cheesecake. I had no doubt about the quality of the offerings, but it was the middle of the day, and I had a girlish figure to maintain.

It was a good meal, with a good friend – and the restaurant is more than conducive to that. As we left we kept up the chatter, which in turn was prime evidence that the food, the surroundings, the service – the meal, essentially – had lightened our spirits. It had allowed us to connect in the most meaningful of ways, and to do that which only true friends do: make fun of one another. It was a charming place, and served good, hearty food. Who was it that once wrote that he liked his meals heavy and his women light? At the risk of sounding chauvinistic, I concur fully.