I love clever alliteration, but my title is legitimately explanatory. Saturday, I dined at Poste Modern Brasserie, an upscale contemporary brasserie located in downtown Washington DC, [that] features modern American cuisine emphasizing fresh, local ingredients and then proceeded to both pass and be passed at today's St. Patrick's Day 8K downtown. I'd like to take a moment to note that both events were recommendations of readers, so essentially my life is playing out pawn-like in a series of exhoratations by friends/readers.
So, Poste. Well, pre-Poste. Weekends in the DC area are now those melancholy yet mildly hopeful days (but only if you see jonquils desperately poking their buds up out of the ground). So, I wandered first to my local farmer's market to see what I could find to bring light to an overcast day. One of my favorite vendors (in addition to the lady who sells the candy-colored tomatoes and the tough, sourpuss grandma who can lift the steamer trunks her husband refurbishes) is a man who sells canned goods, mostly jellies and vegetables. My favorite and a semi-frequent purchase last summer was his jar of Pickled Okra... juicy, spicy, and with just enough okra-fuzz. I also bought (for an inagural time) Dilly Beans, "spicy" snappy green beans with lots of dill. The charming man was discussing with other customers candies with a cherry filling and a chocolate covering that were sprinkled with peanuts. Once they left, I asked if he was discusssing Cherry Mash, a midwestern candy whose headquarters is in St. Joseph, MO (and whose factory I passed while on some field trip in high school). I was reminded of these delectable treats while watching a Food Network special that he watched too. However, he liked the look of them so much, he bought a box. And the nice man (after we chatted about his canned goods) said he'll bring me one next week. In cases like these, candy from strange older men is preferrable to the romantic advances I get (Friday night, it was only barely-21 enlisted Marines and soldiers).
After the market, I made my pilgrimage to DC to try some fancy food. I mentally likened Poste to one of many satellite culinary Meccas in DC. Its own characterization as a "Moderne Brasserie" made me imagine the competent but disinterested waiter who would serve me, a haven that permitted hours of reading sophisticated newspapers over small cups of coffee, smart conversation and a seat that made me feel continental and erudite just sitting in it.
Poste was not any of these things. It makes me sad that a paragon of restaurants can't be consistently good and that I spent $30 on an experience that would have been less painful at IHOP. The service was the core of the problem. I waited 15 minutes for my water and my cocktail (neither one of which my waiter delivered), he took 30 minutes to take my order, and had an obnoxious, disinterested smirk (not as charming as qualified, petulant disinterest) on his face that made me want to use the mini-jams on my table for a task far beyond what they were created for (I imagine the jar of orange marmelade would have hit its target). The Bloody Mary I got (a "Poste Mary" with horseradish, jalapeño infused Square One and juice of organic Brandywine tomatoes, garden tyme, and rosemary) was good, but the glass being overfilled forced me to repeat the word "meniscus" over and over in my head.
For another science reference, see me convex in the sugar bowl.Meniscus is one of those terms that only comes up in reference to syringes filled with medicine and cough syrup measuring cups. So, unappetizing associations were elicited. Additionally, to continue my wallowing, I must admit that my brunch left me so downtrodden I didn't even finish my $11 cocktail. Who leaves good alcohol in the bottom of a glass save a person whose culinary soul had been temporarily crushed?
Poste is in the Hotel Monaco, which for some reason means that the restaurant's restroom can't be remotely close to where you would actually be dining. So, seemingly a quarter mile after I decided I wanted to wash up, I arrived.
Even if the waiters can't, the lampshades exhibit their competency at the Hotel Monaco.
Poste is in the Hotel Monaco, which for some reason means that the restaurant's restroom can't be remotely close to where you would actually be dining. So, seemingly a quarter mile after I decided I wanted to wash up, I arrived.
Even if the waiters can't, the lampshades exhibit their competency at the Hotel Monaco.Lunch was really good, though. If you scroll down really fast my sandwich actually looks like cake. And it was just as indulgent. I got a croque madame, which in French means "French women don't actually eat this because it makes you fat." It was fabulous. And it came with a cone of thin, perfectly salted pomme frites. I couldn't decide what to order and it was the pommes frites that sealed the deal on this choice.
This statuesque sandwich had ham and cheese on the inside (oops, Lent), a frame of what must have been brioche, and a fried sunny-side-up egg on top, with a light flourish of mornay sauce, which is a version of Béchamel.
Perhaps you'd like another view? Perhaps of the ribbon of egg tickling the side of the sandwich?
Maybe the benefit of an incompetent waiter is that without his watchful eye, you can take three photos of your entree. Plus, he didn't overturn a tray of five cocktails on me, but at the table of three lady brunchers in front of me. I whispered to the manager that the service was terrible, took my hoodie and left, saw the unencouraging but quirky movie Two Lovers, and came back to Alexandria and carbo-loaded. What a fun sport this running is.
I had dinner at Pines of Florence, a charmingly unsophisticated Italian restaurant on King Street. There were lots of tables of family and friends. Besides the woman next to me incessantly commenting on the superlative nature of her terrific/fantastic/amazing osso bucco, I had a lovely time. Lingering heartache made me forget to photograph my food, but I was impressed that even though I ordered the cheapest food item (spaghetti with tomato sauce) and nothing but water, the service was still attentive and competent. A good thing to know in times of culinary trial.
And then I had the race this morning, after which I had the best bagel (pulled from a cardboard box and eaten in about 2 minutes) that I've ever had. Horray for post-race food. I ran the course in 47:14, was 311th out of 735 in my gender/age group, was 149th out of 432 first-time racers, and had a mile pace of 9:30. Yes, I'm only highlighting the more flattering stastistics, but I'm writing the blog, not the winning runner who ran it 23 minutes faster than I, aren't I.
I went out with my loyal friends/readers/co-runners after the race for breakfast and we ended up at Harriett's Family Restaurant.
I thought oatmeal and one egg would make for a lovely, light meal. Harriett, who works so hard in her kitchen she hasn't heard there is a recession, brought me a platter of perhaps three eggs, four pieces of toast, and breakfast potatoes.
What nice friends I have, when I crumple my shoulders in disgust that my phone (and more importantly wallet) are in the car, they photograph my food for me. I also got oatmeal, but Harriett cooked up an entire can of oats. A cell phone camera could not have accommodated that bowl. We left, me longingly looking at mugs of green beer young folks were drinking in another room. Dear St. Patrick: since I ran for you this year, will you ensure I meet with green beer soon?
This statuesque sandwich had ham and cheese on the inside (oops, Lent), a frame of what must have been brioche, and a fried sunny-side-up egg on top, with a light flourish of mornay sauce, which is a version of Béchamel.
Perhaps you'd like another view? Perhaps of the ribbon of egg tickling the side of the sandwich?
Maybe the benefit of an incompetent waiter is that without his watchful eye, you can take three photos of your entree. Plus, he didn't overturn a tray of five cocktails on me, but at the table of three lady brunchers in front of me. I whispered to the manager that the service was terrible, took my hoodie and left, saw the unencouraging but quirky movie Two Lovers, and came back to Alexandria and carbo-loaded. What a fun sport this running is.
I had dinner at Pines of Florence, a charmingly unsophisticated Italian restaurant on King Street. There were lots of tables of family and friends. Besides the woman next to me incessantly commenting on the superlative nature of her terrific/fantastic/amazing osso bucco, I had a lovely time. Lingering heartache made me forget to photograph my food, but I was impressed that even though I ordered the cheapest food item (spaghetti with tomato sauce) and nothing but water, the service was still attentive and competent. A good thing to know in times of culinary trial.
And then I had the race this morning, after which I had the best bagel (pulled from a cardboard box and eaten in about 2 minutes) that I've ever had. Horray for post-race food. I ran the course in 47:14, was 311th out of 735 in my gender/age group, was 149th out of 432 first-time racers, and had a mile pace of 9:30. Yes, I'm only highlighting the more flattering stastistics, but I'm writing the blog, not the winning runner who ran it 23 minutes faster than I, aren't I.
I went out with my loyal friends/readers/co-runners after the race for breakfast and we ended up at Harriett's Family Restaurant.
I thought oatmeal and one egg would make for a lovely, light meal. Harriett, who works so hard in her kitchen she hasn't heard there is a recession, brought me a platter of perhaps three eggs, four pieces of toast, and breakfast potatoes.
What nice friends I have, when I crumple my shoulders in disgust that my phone (and more importantly wallet) are in the car, they photograph my food for me. I also got oatmeal, but Harriett cooked up an entire can of oats. A cell phone camera could not have accommodated that bowl. We left, me longingly looking at mugs of green beer young folks were drinking in another room. Dear St. Patrick: since I ran for you this year, will you ensure I meet with green beer soon?
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