Home is where the 'Weck is

America has had a reputation as a culinary wasteland. We saw ourselves and were seen as having no true character, no soul, no history. Somehow, tuna noodle casserole and meatloaf became iconic American dishes. And yet, what lay and lies a bit under that stereotype is a truly imposing variety of regional cuisines, all of which have their own history, and often, their own ingredients, on account of the climate and location. I can't think of Maine without thinking of lobster and shrimp. I can't think of Maryland without craving crab-cakes. Living in Rhode Island I loved the fried calamari you would find in dozens of variations, the Portuguese chorizos and seafood stews, the deep fried clams I ate at the beach. The pacific northwest has its wild salmon, and incredible variety of produce. So-cal and the Southwest have their Mexican influence and BBQ traditions. Jason has often mentioned his love of Louisiana Creole cuisine.

There's no shortage of regional flavors and recipes, but one that is particularly close to my heart and is the iconic food of my hometown, Buffalo, NY. Buffalo has had a number of waves of immigrants in its history including Poles, Germans and Italians. Some of the great butcher shops in Buffalo are remnants of these old school food-cultures. One great hold over from a more German era is the Kummelweck roll. Supposedly brought from the Black Forest to Buffalo by immigrants working on the Erie Canal in the 1800s, this kaiser-esque bread is studded with caraway seeds and sprinkled with sea salt. In Buffalo the roll is then turned into what is lovingly known as Beef on 'Weck, slow roasted beef, kummelweck roll, beef jus, and as much prepared horseradish as you can stand. There are only 4 components really, the roll, the meat, the jus and the horseradish, but it is shockingly delicious. Heart clogging and sensational. If you didn't make a mess, you didn't do it right. To cut straight to the chase, I wish I was eating one right now.

The Shanghai Cocktail Chronicles

"If I'm not wasted, the weekend is." - Jimmy Lerch (attributed)


It is easy to lose yourself in Shanghai, both literally and metaphorically. The city is steeped in history as diverse as it is rich, and the people who have come and gone have left marks on the city as varied as they are indelible. It is an incredible confluence of both old and new, both foreign and Chinese, which creates a narrative that is perhaps unique to the city.

I had the good fortune of spending a weekend in Shanghai being hosted by a couple of old college buddies who have made the city their home, and it was a great pleasure to see them again. We had changed much - that was certain - but as we raised our glasses to one another it kind of felt like the old times again.

It was perhaps appropriate then, that in a city such as Shanghai, such a blend of cultures and influences - that I rediscovered the magic of the mixed drink, otherwise known as the cocktail. I have never been one to be terribly partial to liquor; beer is more often than not my poison of choice. And I suppose I have never really had a really transcendent cocktail. But Jose, Jimmy and Angel brought me to one of their favourite lazy Sunday hangouts: a French restaurant, owned by an New Zealander, in an area formerly known as the International Concession. They swore by the talent and palate of the resident mixologist - as they are called these days - and JImmy sold me on the place by claiming that it was the perfect place to pass a rainy afternoon. It did not rain, but once we got there I saw what he meant.

The Hamilton House is located on the first floor of one of the beautiful buildings that litter the strip known as the Bund, on the banks of the Huangpu River. It was here that the turn of the century saw a building boom of French, British and American banks and trading houses in many different architectural styles. I saw some beautiful Art Deco and Beaux-Arts buildings, somber in their ornamentation and oozing both history and character. It was not lost on me that directly across the river was a stretch of modern glass-windowed skyscrapers, each one trying to outdo each other in the race to the clouds.

What Jimmy meant by his comment was that the Hamilton House was a cozy place with tall windows, through which you could see out into a busy intersection. Evidently he had spent several rainy afternoons here - either by choice or by necessity - tracing the rivulets of rain as they trickled down the glass and watching the world go by, sipping on a cocktail and forgetting about life for a while.


As I browsed the cocktail menu I marveled at the variety of ingredients that went into each drink, and lamented the sad state of the much maligned mixed drink. Most of what gets ordered at bars today does not deviate much from the standards - rum-and-coke, gin-and-tonic, vodka-and-soda. The Hamilton House made me yearn for an era gone by, where a bartender worth his salt could draw on the flavours and tastes of different types, ages and brands of liquors, bitters, aperitifs and juices to make a tasty concoction. If done right, the cocktail can be a creation in itself, a mini-feast for your senses of taste and smell and sight, in addition to that all-important responsibility - to get you drunk.


I started out with a Sun Wukong (above, foreground), made with kiwifruit-infused vodka, passionfruit liqueur, dragonfruit, lemon, lemoncello and green tea. Jose ordered his regular drink - called an Oriental Mule (above, background) that had passionfruit-infused vodka, coriander, lemongrass, ginger, lime and ginger beer in it. I thought these two were the standouts of the evening - just sweet enough to satisfy the palate, just bitter enough to be worthy of an alcoholic beverage. Not only were the flavours well-balanced, but they were local, and seasonal. Evidently a significant amount of thought and effort had gone into the making of these drinks. I should imagine that drink creation is quite enjoyable, for you can always drink your mistakes. Everyone's a winner.


As day turned into dusk, the conversation flowed as freely as the alcohol. I feel like the older I get, the more time I spend reminiscing. Not that there is anything wrong with the present moment, but thinking and talking about the past is a habit easy to pick up and difficult to shake off.


There was a drink on the menu called the Soixante Quinze (above, left) which I absolutely had to try - Bombay Sapphire, Calvados, absinthe, lemon and champagne. For me it was a jolt back to the days when people drank Sazeracs, or Negronis, or pounded any manner of stiff drinks like their life depended on it. I absolutely loved it. It was hair-on-the-chest strong, with the licorice taste of the absinthe and accents of apple thanks to the Calvados. Also pictured is the Cha-tini (above, right) which was similarly delightful, but in a more refined manner. "Cha" being the Chinese character for tea, it was a mix of jasmine tea-infused Bombay Sapphire, Martini Bianco and lemongrass. The two drinks were Yin and Yang together, and disappeared far too quickly.


My last drink was a Henley (above) - Bombay Sapphire, Pimms No. 1, guava nectar, apple juice, lime and mint. At this point you could probably have fed me turpentine and I wouldn't have noticed the difference. It had been the perfect lazy Sunday: we had gotten up late, had brunch on Wujiang Lu*, walked the French Concession, stopped for cocktails and were now headed back home for dinner and then movie night, curled up on the couch or sprawled on the floor in front of the HD TV, drifting in and out of an alcohol and food-induced coma. Truly, life does not get any better.

* Back alley off the main artery of Nanjing Xi Lu, famous for outdoor food vendors and dive restaurants selling all manner of grilled meats and steamed dumplings, among other delicacies

If my trip to Shanghai did anything, it gave me a renewed faith in the cocktail. I have always been a fan of the culture of the Roaring Twenties, and as we sat and watched the cars buzz past, looking out through the window at an intersection of four Art Deco buildings, I felt transported. It was Prohibition all over again and people treated the cocktail with reverence and respect. Everyone, men and women, drank hearty drinks with absinthe and pastis and herbsaint and Pernod and Pimms, with whiskey and bootleg gin. Bartenders made your drinks with care and a sense of purpose. The night before the Hamilton House expedition we had made the acquaintance of a gentleman at one of Shanghai's finest bars, who introduced us to another delicious cocktail called the Scottish Crush - basically a Mojito with Scotch instead of rum. It got a few of us a lot drunker and a lot faster than we expected - and was roundly celebrated and cursed at in equal measure the next morning. Shanghai certainly loves its cocktails, and so do I.

Of wine and wine-making

While we were in San Francisco we decided, like millions of others every year, to make the pilgrimage out to wine country. It would have been plain silly of us not to do it while we were in the area, and we could not have picked a better day for it, really. The sky was cloudless, and despite the sun beating down upon us there was a balmy breeze that kept us cool. I had just left a city that was beginning to get into the throes of winter and this was more than welcome.


For over on the left coast the leaves were just starting to change colour, and it was rather nice to get out into the country. The air was certainly different - fresher and cleaner, and it was nice to see a little topographic relief after being in Kansas much of the previous few months. One of the vineyards we visited was located at the foot of an extinct volcano, which made for some impressive landscaping.


I had never previously visited a vineyard or winery and had at best only a hazy notion of how wine was made, so I found the tours very informative. What left the greatest impression on me was the tremendous pride and passion everyone had for their wine-making. They knew it and they knew it well, and when they waxed lyrical about each little step in the making of their wines and why they made the choices they did, you could not help but respect them. It made me a little sad; I could not hold forth on the intricacies of my profession for longer than several minutes - and even then it would be probably only to complain about it.


But it ultimately gave me a greater appreciation of wine. As one of our tour guides put it, it gave you insight into the "story" of a particular wine. The knowledge and appreciation of how even the most minor decisions could affect how the wine eventually drank - when to harvest the grapes, what oak to store it in, etc - made me pause to think. Despite the commercial nature of the wine-making industry today and its highly mechanised process, at its heart it was still a labour of love. The product that finds its way to your lips was - if done correctly - a product of someone else's care and dedication.

We had the good fortune of meeting Kathy Inman - of Inman Family Wines - a small producer of hand-crafted Pinot Gris and Pinot Noir in the Russian River Valley. We were interrupted twice during our conversation by her phone ringing - first her husband wanted to know about dinner and then her daughter called about getting a ride home from band practice. It was quite funny at the moment but it did underscore the human element of these winemakers - faces you never see, hidden behind the labels on the bottles.


It was late in the season when we went, and the grapes for most wines had already been harvested. We did, however, manage to sneak a taste of some grapes fresh off the vine at one vineyard. Because of the intense heat of these dog days of summer some of them had already dried up considerably, but the good ones that I bit into were tart and not overly sweet.


The wine tastings themselves were also great fun, but more than once I wished for some proper food to accompany the wine. The latest Opus One, for example, called desperately for a bistecca alla fiorentina. I wished for raw oysters while drinking the Miner Family Vineyards Chardonnay. I suppose, in the wise words of the philosopher Jagger - you can't always get what you want.

I came to wine late in my relatively young life: my parents were not drinkers, and neither popularity nor knowledge were widespread when I was growing up in Singapore. These days I am quite the snob myself, and wine culture has definitely taken a few large strides forward in my hometown. The past few years have seen many wine bars and local gourmet wine shops sprout up in the unlikeliest of neighbourhoods. I find, though, that there tends to be a lot of Australian wine (the proximity of our countries goes some way to explaining that), which is not my favourite. An Aussie mate of mine once told me that Australia does not export any of what the locals consider good wine, and so what the rest of the world gets is the swill that they themselves will not drink. The same thing applies with that other famous Australian alcoholic export - Fosters lager. No self-respecting Aussie will touch the stuff.

But even then, we don't get a lot of what I consider the good stuff in Singapore - the Bordeaux, the Burgundies, the Brunellos - the Old World stuff that I love so much. I attribute this to two reasons. One has to do with limited supply; and I think the EU and the US, which have been buying wine for ages, get first dibs on these wines - which in turn does not leave much for the rest of the world. This is something that can hopefully be remedied by the globalisation of demand - the increasing wine savvy of the Asian market and the potential for untapped markets may shift the balance of power this way across the globe. The second reason, though, is one of taste. I think the average Singaporean palate is partial to spicier wines, with more fruit, which make New World wines like Spanish Riojas, South Africa Syrahs, Chilean Cabs, and Argentinean Malbecs generally more popular here - and I'm just talking reds. In many respects these wines stand up better, and are more suited to the cuisine here anyway.


On the ride back into the city I gave a lot of thought to what little I now knew about the wine-making process. Like many other processes - for example a manufacturing process - it could be broken down, separated into mini-sections that could be further studied, understood and optimised. The growth, the harvest, the fermentation, the mixing, it goes on and on. There was so much that was scientific about it, so much that gave itself to the scientific method. Yet so much else was not. Clearly the quality of the harvest was at the mercy of the elements. Choosing grapes, or knowing when to take the wine out of the barrels, or deciding which grapes to blend for the wine - depended on the taste and palate of the winemaker.

In that respect it was not unlike cooking. To be successful, you needed to understand and adjust for many different elements - some scientific, some not, some under your control, and others not. And just like cooking, the fruits of your labour are gone in an instant, often all too soon.

California Dreamin'

"Cuisine is like a fireworks display; nothing remains. It is “une fête, rapide éphémerale” - Paul Bocuse

On a recent trip to San Francisco I had the chance to eat at a restaurant called La Folie, or what translates roughly into "The Madness" in French. All the staples of classic French food were there - foie gras (albeit of the Hudson Valley variety), terrines, forcemeats, rabbit, etc. Needless to say, I was delighted, although my waistline probably did not need it. It was excellent food, very fresh and I soon saw where the "madness" manifested itself. The presentations were all controlled chaos, explosions of contours and colours that I took great pleasure in dismantling.

This was a terrine of warm pig's feet, sweetbread and lobster. One could tell that it was French because the tang of dijon mustard was unmistakable.


Lobster with butternut squash ravioli - with a cute pumpkin touch.


Salmon with smoked ham hock and sweet onion sauce.


Trio of rabbit - loin, rack and braised leg. I love rabbit, there is something so delicate yet arrestingly flavourful about it. I read somewhere that in the south of France wild rabbits subsist on a diet of thyme and sage - natural seasoning, if you will - and that they are delicious.


One thing that struck me about my trip to San Francisco was how prominently figs featured in the cuisine of the region. They were everywhere! From appetisers to entrees to desserts. For my part I could barely contain myself. Here is a mission fig tarte tartin with goat cheese sorbet.


On our trip out to wine country we also stopped for lunch in St Helena at a lovely little place called Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen. It was on a street off the main drag - hence the name - but this also reminded me somewhat of going to Pastiche in Providence, where you have to peel off Atwells onto the smaller back street of Spruce. It gave me a good feeling walking in and even though we did not get to sit outside, the interior was lit beautifully by the warm Californian sunshine, and it felt almost as good.

Here is a fig flatbread.


And, just for Reed, a close-up. Eat that, Reedy.


These were listed on the menu as Incredible Mushroom Tamales, which sounded very appetising. I asked our waitress what she thought of them and she replied, "Oh, they're very good." I am disinclined to ever believe any waiter who says that without explaining why they think so. For once in my life I would like to hear someone tell me the truth and say, "Oh, they're not very good in my opinion - you have to really like X." or something along those lines. But she had kind eyes and a great smile and so I was suckered into ordering the tamales. They were a good way short of incredible, I'll tell you that.





Photos from La Folie courtesy of Ms Camille Chow

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.

A Letter From Amsterdam

By Janet Lindgren

UTRECHTSEDWARSTAFEL

www.utrechtsedwarstafel.com

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.

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