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.