Bistro D'Oc, Potenza

I went to my favorite restaurant last night. In lieu of ordering my favorite, mussels (well, moules), I had le salade d'artichaut et asperges (baby artichoke, grilled asparagus salad with shaved parmesan cheese) and Croziflette (gratin of buckwheat pasta, French ham, bacon, onions and reblochon cheese). This latter dish is quite possibly the most delicious food ever, as it draws from the world of comfort food (a la Kraft macaroni and cheese), country kitchens (it's served in a cast iron pan), and la vraie cuisine francaise (to pronounce it is to nearly mimic the voices of French-speaking angels).

In the course of the evening, with a little help from Edith Piaf, I realized that little has changed since this written food adventure's inception. Thankfully, I still delight at my own company at restaurants. I have seen all nature of men across the dinner table, however, since this effort's genesis. And their demeanor in the kitchen or restaurant has given important clues into their potential success, in retrospect.

The beauty of a restaurant, though, or a food items is that it can be refashioned and new memories can be created. Which is a good thing, because I can't find good mussels anywhere else. In this vein, I have at times viewed dining alone as something I have to like because that's the only option. But now, having had the precedent of some ridiculous culinary interlocutors, dining alone is both the default and what I actively embrace, while also appreciating more the casual comfort a good friend imbues into a meal.

That's enough of that. This gets better, I promise. Sunday, I decided to wander around DC on what seems to have legitimately been the hottest day of the year. By wander, I mean board the metro stop a mile away from my apartment, ride to the District with a car full of pubescent, sweating boy scouts (misery), and needlessly cross and re-cross streets because I had no idea where I was going.

The goal was to see the movie Restrepo, which was tremendous.

I recently made a vow not to eat French food prior to my trip, which, after two exceptional French meals (the one mentioned above and the other below), I decided was a foolish and arbitrary goal. I reneged, because something about encountering multiple groups of sweaty boy scouts again after the metro (they were in town celebrating their centennial), passing and re-passing Madame Tussaud's while disoriented (creepy, yes, but French), and my increasing general malaise about the hot weather made Bistro D'Oc, a quite-French place, extremely palatable.

This place is right in the middle of general tourist ridiculousness. Tour buses cast their shadow on this part of the block, where this weekend boy scouts congregated in front of it and where the neighboring stores sold "You Don't Know Me" witness protection t-shirts and mini Capitol replicas. I mean, the Hard Rock Cafe is nearby. Big-time sellout tourist neighborhood and everyone knows only tools go to the Hard Rock Cafe.

Ok, so I ordered that once but I was really thirsty. Because just before, I was doing this.

And yes, I know I'm getting a little unbearable, but I really wanted to have a sort of convenient way to also mention the fact that I recently ate pigeon, a supposed aphrodisiac.

And rabbit.

And this crazy dish called koshari, which is beans and carbohydrates. With tomato sauce. And fried onions. Because of course those are natural complements (was amazing though).

A whisk of the hand creates this:

Are you wondering if you can get koshari near you?

But they have other floors.

And I, new vices.


Ok, ok... I really wanted to show off the pigeon and the pigeon had to be showed in context. So returning to the first story after post-soliloquy, Bistro D'Oc was a quiet French culinary island in a storm of tourism. Pastis beckoned me to the bar and quietly whispered that everything would be ok.

I ordered pastis amande, with Ricard. Who knew pottery could be so charming.

It was refreshing like glacier water or a bubbling brook or water from a charming spout.

I only ordered gazpacho to ensure I could catch my movie, but the soup was tremendous. It was almost as if it had a light grated cheese in it to round out the tomato flavor, but it seems it was predominantly tomato, cucumber and cilantro.

After the movie, I was hungry again. I wandered, for real this time. I checked out a few restaurants on E but decided I wanted to try Proof, which wasn't open until dinner time. Nor was Central or TenPenh. I went into both Coco Sala and Cafe du Parc and left because the menus were unappealing (I ascribe that to the heat too). I apparently felt that with no more than three glasses of water that day, I had a right to wander DC until I found the perfect restaurant, despite the 100-plus degree weather. I think it was the absolute opposite of imagining oases in the distance.

I settled on Potenza, only because it was open. It was surprisingly delightful. Of course, the waitress was strange (she lost the wine opener under my chair and proceeded to awkwardly retrieve it) and the sous chefs were accusing each other of making a mess of the line and not preparing well, but I didn't die of thirst, so I was ok.

I ordered another chilled tomato soup, golden tomato soup with cucumber, fennel, celery and oregano.

Snacked on breadsticks and sweet bread (porous foccaccia-like bread, crowned with a dried cherry and sprinkled with sugar).


And admired the pancetta wrapped figs laid out for the anticipated droves of prix fixe menu orderers.

and

I ordered the polpettine carbonizzati, baby octopus, olive oil poached tomatoes, shaved radishes and fried onions.

It was a nice enough place with a few beautiful bars and an impressive pastry/takeaway section.

I suppose the point of all this (if there in fact is one) is that the food doesn't disappoint.