Minh's

I'm getting sick of myself say "Washingtonian's top 100," but I'm forging ahead with new cuisines, neighborhoods, and menu items, sometimes at the risk of my own health. Thankfully I have the assistance of friends like Mike, who watched me (and offered to help ensure I didn't) almost choke to death at my own gluttonous hand this evening.

Virginia's selections on the top 100 are a bit.. quirky. And there is no uniformity: there's the Inn at Little Washington, quite possibly the most romantic (and thus formidable) restaurant on the list where I feel I can only go with my parents or a boyfriend. Who I have to find in one month who could then possibly be worthy by December (to make the last minute cut). There's also PassionFish, with clever seafood, ceviche with popcorn, and mojitos, and Willow, where I had criminally delicious portabello fries, mussels, and bar foods. Anyway, point is, these places are, respectively, far out in the country, in a planned community, and on the first floor of a mini skyscraper and unexpectedly good in spite of their unconventional locations.

The top 100 list also includes at least three Virginia-based Vietnamese places, a sometimes underrated cuisine, including Minh's, where Mike and I went tonight. Minh's is on Wilson Boulevard, in the bottom of an office building I've passed for five years without noticing. But it's easy to see why it's on the list: you could taste the individual ingredients and they were good. And that's encouraging, as we chose five items from a 15-page menu. Food math is more germane and thematic when I'm working off a top 100 list, that's for sure.

We started with Asian brews--Tiger and Lao beer--pleasant both for their crispness, cool labels, and price.

My brilliant idea was that we should order the steamed escargot with ground pork, black mushrooms, ginger, and onion, stuffed in an escargot shell. Even more brilliant was my decision to ladle a spoonful of spicy ginger/pepper sauce on my bite of meatball (that's the gluttonous/prideful part; I think the sauce subsumed the bite) and proceeded to prolifically cough, sniffle, and run mascara all over my face and napkin. It was charming. A bit like the palatability of the appetizer. The flavor was delicious, but the combination of textures of mushroom and escargot became a bit unnerving the last few bites.

Mike's legitimately clever idea was to order pho and Minh's equally clever idea was to serve it in three sizes, so we each had a cup. I'll insist my favorite place in Oklahoma is better, just because I'm uppity, but the meat tonight was tender, the noodles were perfectly cooked, the broth needed no additional seasoning, and it was perfectly sized and proportioned.

After trying the appetizer, I backed off from any aspiration for oxtail or jellied pork for dinner and instead had Heo and Tôm Kho Tộ, caramelized pork and shrimp with green onions, served in clay pot. It was exceptional: tender pork and lots of shrimp, in a rich, sweetened but savory, thick sauce with wilted yet luxuriously flavorful onions.

Mike got ginger beef, but my dinner steamed up the lens.

However, neither excessive local humidity nor personally-intolerably-high-levels-of-ginger will keep me down: Wednesday is chez Alain Ducasse, quite possibly the culinary love of my life.

Proof

I have to admit I am a bit proud of myself for setting a seemingly ambitious goal and realizing it's quite easy to achieve and pleasant to work towards (provided there isn't as much butter in these meals as I think there is). Just last night, I was joined by two charming friends at the 31st best restaurant in the city, 24 short hours after dining at the 8th. We had lots of good drinks and food at Proof, where my friends even let me take flash photography. Proof's a bit pretentious, admittedly, but has an intimate interior that permits either flirtation or eavesdropping (depending on your predilection) and admiration of an impressively large wine collection, replete with a rolling ladder.

I uncharacteristically ordered a glass of red wine not from Bordeaux and after delightfully unhurried and rich conversation, we all universally admitted we were starving. Proof has an impressively varied menu, with both dignified snacks and entrees. Only by the sake of having this blog was I entrusted to order. We started out with the chef's full charcuterie board, refreshing in its perfunctorily satisfying richness, as well as its innovation, and the tempura of wild mushrooms and green beans with a lemon-truffle dipping sauce.

The cornichons, mustard and hams were exceptionally good, but the most satisfying was the terrine, with a rich, homey flavor I couldn't place. It was pho terrine. A brilliant incarnation.

Nice ambiance (and before my friends let me turn the blinding flash on).

Next we had crispy pig's head with a celery root remoulade and a Fuji apple salad and "spicy little meatballs" (their name) with goal cheese agnolotti, tomato fondue and basil. It was like being at a really nice superbowl party.

The crispy pig's head were small cubes of very flavorful pork, enrobed in a cube of crunchy bread crumbs. Second point for innovation. Our last dish was sauteed pumpkin gnocchi with roasted squash, Fuji apples, sage-brown butter and parmesan cheese.

My final trick was ordering a cheese plate for us for dessert, my francophilic activity of the night. I ordered (yes, pasting from the online menu with its clever descriptions): Brillat-Savarin from France (soft, triple-cream, rich, decadent), Bleu d'Auverge from (guess where)(semi-hard, grassy, creamy, wild flowers) and some type of chevre (from France) that's no longer listed online.

There is now ceremony in the crossing off of another restaurant for my list, a delight I'll incur again this Wednesday.

CityZen

I will defeat this list in no time. Despite my trash talking about the Mandarin Oriental's location, it was quite conveniently situated to Arena Stage, where I took myself to see a play this evening. After parking and reparking, avoiding snow drifts and pre-6:30 parking prohibitions, I found a nice very federal looking street and walked to the Mandarin.

I love walking into a new restaurant, in this case, CityZen, seeing the bar's landscape, and at nice restaurants, experiencing the full pantheon of good service. The bartender greeted me, then the greeter greeted me, then he took my winter gear and green-curtain-Wizard-of-Oz style, he tucked it away in a hidden coat closet behind him. Lovely hipster greeter then told me he would go prepare my table. I love that. That I have a special table being prepared just for me. Of course, this meant that he moved the chair away from my table so it was just me and my back pillow royally looking out onto the kingdom of my table. The service was really good.

But it started off a little rocky. Since apparently, by habit, I do one French-ish thing during each meal, I ordered a Ricard when asked what I'd like to drink. The waiter had no idea what I was talking about. But he asked if I wanted it "neat." I said I didn't know what that meant. He asked again what I wanted and I said, "anisette. With ice and a little water. You know, licorice." The bartender was called over to translate and after subtly shrugging and shaking his head, he said he had a really good cocktail called Corpse Reviver with anisette and citrus. It so strong it precluded me from a glass of wine so that I could sit upright at my play. Good willpower, Julie.

In fancy restaurant style fashion, I got a bunch of small plates before my meal. I used to foolishly think the chef was making them just for me. It makes me happier to pretend he is and so I will, so tonight, the chef, who knew how passionately I adore food, prepared just for me lobster pannacotta.

This is about life-size. Nestled at the bottom of my opulently large bowl (in unused surface area) was a legitimate lobster pannacotta, nearly solid while nearly creamy, with a thin layer of pepper-infused oil, a comparatively bountiful mound of lobster, and an asiago cracker.

Next, the chef knew what a big Dr. Seuss fan I was so illustrated his interpretation of green eggs and ham (a little cutesy but quite good). Atop an arugula coulis, he put a thin slice of a deviled quail egg under a small bit of ham salad. Then my waitress broke out a chunk of "very [somehow beneficial]" Himalayan salt and grated some over my dish.

Then a lobster soupy foam came out. I was ready for my dinner to start.

Then I got a choice of breads (I chose ciabatta) and two types of butter: salted, left, and unsalted, right. I love lining up little plates in little rows.

Then I got my first course: quail ravioli with fried parsley and manchego cheese, somewhere in it. It was surprisingly and delightfully rich, despite being a bit frighteningly unphotogenic.

Then the mini Parkerhouse rolls. Like carbohydrate bonbons. And yes, I buttered them. I laughed when they were delivered.

And then dinner, which of course was lobster tail. With fried veal sweetbreads. My kind of mix of classy and semi-refined (you can dress up offal but not much). And these were on top of a wintry autumnal couscous something or other with apples. It was overwhelming.

Overwhelming before the four plates of dessert. First, a lychee sorbet with a hibiscus pudding.

Then my espresso with shortbread cookies (I like America where we serve our coffee with our dessert).

And then a chocolate on the left, coconut macaron in the middle, and a guava loukoum on the right. Awwww, on slate, just like in Marseille.

And then my dessert. My legit dessert, verbena poached pineapple. With cannoli and some ice cream.

Number 73, bring it.

Sou'Wester

I'm a lucky girl: the good, important men in my life read this blog and even join me in my dining. Even better, two male blog-patron friends (and one of their lovely wives, I'm nearly certain) are willing to join me along the way as I embark on my now-aspirational 2011 conquest: trying all 100 restaurants on the Washingtonian's 100 Very Best Restaurants List. We've already hit many of them together and many I will probably venture into alone, but what girl could ask for better friends.

These friends joined me to commemorate DC Restaurant Week on Sunday at SW's most southwest (and inaccessible) address, the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, the only luxury hotel I know of that overlooks a parking lot rimmed with barbed wire, a CVS, and gritty train tracks reminiscent of some cheesy 1980s music video.

In the Mandarin are two restaurants on the list: CityZen and Sou'Wester, which was delicious. Sou'Wester is warm without oozing Paula Dean and dignified without evoking debutante balls.

We started with two baskets of corn bread muffins (with actual corn kernels in them) and flaky biscuits. And a whole rounded rammekin of honey butter. Not a bad start.

And then bloody mary's, which later turned out to be on the house because our food was.. slower than molasses in arriving (sufficiently Southern?).

Andy had the foresight to order oysters, which tided us over. The oysters were served on a bed of chilled rock salt, spiced with star anise and cardamom seeds, and with a side of bloody mary sauce. Big points for presentation.

Charmingly or unfortunately (I think it's great), our tastes aligned and we all sought to order the same thing (eggs florentine with egg white meringue and parmesan cheese).

I veered last-minute toward the arepas, because of the pork jowl lardons. Throw a French word in and I'm sold.

Two poached eggs, each atop a grits cake, with a tomato/lardon sauce.

Only 75 more restaurants to go.

Lyon Hall

The irony doesn't escape me that despite spending 3.5 months in France and eking out only two food write-ups, one week in DC and visiting one restaurant with a French city in its title brings me back prodigal-food-writer-style to amateurly critiquing food.

I'm not going to lie: it's been hard being back. Instead of Special K 100 calorie bars, I bought €5 bars of artisinal chocolate. €3.50 bottles of wine were better than some glasses (ok, three) that I was offered at a fine American steakhouse and turned up my nose at. I consider cheese a dessert, I have heavy disdain for bread that's not two feet long and baked this morning, and I'm going through pastis withdrawals. I'm intolerably snotty, I have to check myself from beginning every sentence with "when I was in France, I ate...," and my palate has decided to only like French imports, which are decidedly pricier than their related products manufactured, sold, and bought in France at half the price.

So, imagine my surprise when after a week of being in DC, where the only things giving any pleasure to my enlightened but petulant culinary consciousness were leftover French chocolate, a few glasses of Bordeaux a night, and clementines from California, I eagerly and happily ate an entire meal. This was epic, for an amateur food writer who used to be satisfied with soy nuggets for dinner and then got spoiled by foies gras, bloody steaks and the like.

So what is this place that casually uses the name of France's gastronomical capital, Lyon? Lyon Hall is a restaurant in Arlington that impressively and creatively serves mostly French-themed dishes with either an American or Alsatian/Hungarian/Basque/German twist. It's of peu importe: most dishes come with sausage or bacon so it's sort of like intellectual comfort food.

And it was pretty much the most flattering pre-food-blog writing experience ever. My charming company, including the indefatigable, supportive food-blogging trifecta of Andy, Kerry and Mike introduced me as a veritable above-average amateur food critic. Expectiations that I actually know something intelligent about food were high, but so were the opportunities to nip bites from other peoples' plates. And what a place to take spoonfuls of other peoples' food.

I started off with the beet and arugula salad. Innocuous and nearly what I ate for New Year's: roasted beets, pistachios, arugula, shaved fennel, and goat cheese (ok, I really want to say chevre but I will keep it hidden in the parentheses). The vinaigrette wasn't too strong and I would only criticize the little goat cheese balls forming a triangle around my plate. That's why I'm unnerved by Wendy's square burger patties: beef (and cheese) aren't meant to be shaped certain ways. Also, I liked my salad because my dining neighbor, Pete, mentioned how he hated canned beets too and was discovering that fresh beets can taste sort of amazing, like I have recently discovered. Remarkable, these non-canned beets.

Did I mention I spent $18 on two pricey (but delicious) American beer (in the background)? Lyon Hall 1, Julie 0.

So I got the mussels for dinner, because that seemed sufficiently Frenchtentious (I may decide to delete that tomorrow). But, since Lyon Hall is only partially French (the host had the French complicated scarf tying going on but was sufficiently un-French in his reception), my mussels normande were American-French: mussels with blue cheese, empire apples, bacon and a Calvados-leek broth. Since blue cheese is my current favorite (especially coupled with apples), I approved.

The main highlight of the meal was trying other peoples' food, something I silently demand from men with whom I date (it's a test) and something that drives my brother crazy, but that delightedly, none of my tablemates and friends minded. I tried Mike's squash soup (pumpkin-beer puree, duck-fig sausage and celeriac kraut: it didn't taste that complicated but was satisfyingly hearty), Andy's sauerkraut (pleasantly earthly and un-tart) and his lamb sausage plate. This place is where you go where you feel insatiably cold and need something amelioratingly warm (or post-France after a semester of language, etc.). Merci.