Pablo's House

It's DC Restaurant Week, which means the Boca Sola will be on a 24-hour food watch. I dropped my first $35.09 (an unconvincingly catchy price) tonight at my neighborhood restaurant, The Grille at Morrison House. The Morrison House, ostensibly my block's own "classic tale," is a charming boutique hotel with all sorts of plush decor, ranging from shiny chandeliers to vibrant Persian rugs and all kinds of worn marble surfaces. My dining room was sparse--with only a rather somber couple celebrating some momentous event in their lives with a bottle of champagne--but my Blackberry was busy, taking (unfortunately) the most unappetizing photos of some spectacular food. I blame this on Pablo, my nice be-vested waiter. Pablo was a nice man but he was playing food sentinel: plates would be whisked away 36 seconds after I consumed the final bite; water would be refilled before I realized I had sipped anything; and Pablo just wasn't convinced I liked the food after my rapturous little expressions after the first bite. In the nexus-between-food-and-love-realm, it's overkill (in both worlds). Don't call immediately after a first date (and don't inquire about my happiness all the time). Don't linger. A waiter too must play hard to get.

However, Pablo did permit me little indulgences even under his watchful eye. I watched a woman in the neighboring business office working past 7 o'clock brushing her hair. I observed a polka dotted lady in the courtyard smoke a cigarette on a wrought iron bench. I realized that rotating the stem of a tall wine glass has the calming effect that yoga has on others. I watched linen crop circles emerge on the table cloth from where my plates and glasses rested. And I didn't even say "thank you" after some of Pablo's services, again returning to the rules of the dating world: someone has to put their foot down if the communication is excessive.

So, the Restaurant Week menu was good. It wasn't reeling in creativity, but it was a standard, but innovative selection. And I got two freebies: the first was beef carpaccio with orange zest, sea salt, and micro celery. I had to ask Pablo for bread (a cute, fresh little bread ball with sea salt on it too), but he brought fancy Irish butter that was form-fitted to its container, so he was forgiven.

I know it looks disgusting, but I think it was blinded by my camera flash. I kept waiting for Pablo to leave so I could secretly photograph it (sipping wine and water to keep busy) that the sea salt flecks melted. Next, I had my Curried Mussel Soup made with coconut milk and a brioche crouton.

Pablo was rushing me (he only stepped away for seconds at a time), so my soup wasn't very photogenic either. Pablo sort of corrected his offenses when his colleague brought out an intermezzo (had to look it up; thought he said intermezze like between Mediterranean tapas) of mango sorbet. This is the only photo that partially illustrates the dignity of the place. Sorbet ball in a chilled martini glass: what culinary flirtation.

Then Pablo got down to business: I got no fake lace doilies with my rockfish. I've decided rockfish may be one of my favorite fishes: it's rich and flaky, but if the skin is either baked or fried, it complements the delicate fish with a crispy, indulgent, dense pack of flavor. This fish was served with sea beans (coral-shaped vegetables that tasted like salt and chlorophyll), orange marmalade, and parsnip puree. It was lovely: serious in it's neutral colors but playfully convoluted looking with the seabeans.

Then I had dessert. I had a choice of either chocolate or apple cake. But, Pablo told me that either this recipe or apple cakes in general were the favorite of Abraham Lincoln. What sort of Alexandrian would I be if I didn't continue to commemorate President's Day in some small way this week? So I had the apple cake. It reminded me of my mom's apple cake, which I lovingly remember breaking up into 20 small bites to separately savor the moist base, the solid center, and the crispy exterior. And it reminded me of the word apfelkuchen which I learned in sixth grade.

It came skidded on caramel sauce, which for some reason reminded me of warm wool socks by a fireplace. Pablo--unwilling to break us up and let me walk away or trying to upsell me on a cheap Restaurant Week evening--offered me cognacs, cordials, and dessert wines, but in a quiet romantic restaurant with only an unromantic couple in the corner, I couldn't stay--not even for a usually requisite espresso. Pablo told me about the restaurant's specials, what a pleasure it was to serve me, and what a pleasure it was that I came. To hide my true identity as an amateur food critic, I told him I live nearby and just wandered over (both true, but the latter less interesting and more needy). To this, Pablo noted he lives just across the street from me! He doesn't know, but I can actually see his apartment from mine and could probably do some spying if he were better about keeping his blinds open (creepy joke). But I'll give Pablo some space.