Charlie Palmer Steakhouse

The buzz for the blog-reading-and writing-crew was palatable for this one: Charlie Palmer's menu was checked collectively at least 10 times before any of us even departed for the restaurant, a coat jacket was sported, frilly and satiny dresses were worn, and crisp napkins were eagerly fluttered across laps.

Charlie Palmer's was a strange place, though. Team service left us puzzled about water-pouring and order-taking primacy, the lateral table boasted two mediocre Anna Nicole Smith-lookalikes (godesses?) with an unattractive benefactor and his (maybe) son, lots of men with official-looking pins, and a curiously-timed (read: bad) delivery of drinks and dishes.

With late wine bottle delivery, un-refilled glasses, frequent clarification of dishes' ingredients, two long pauses without service, and a general impression the wait staff was disinterested in delivering prompt service (we didn't even get skinny breadsticks!), I spoke to the manager, who was as antsy as I was: I hate confrontation. These occasions are similar to my literary heroines who imagine gloriously decisive moments of oratory eloquence but in reality, hear their voices crack and feel their cheeks getting hot. Thankfully the restaurant's manager, also not Anne of Green Gables or Elizabeth Bennett, felt the same way.

After the manager's profuse apologies and my most determined effort to be as stern as I would be reiterating my outrage to my dining companions if he left without being sympathetic, he kindly offered us an exceptionally delicious assortment of desserts.

That we clearly hated. Seven minutes before, the plate was laden with a cheesecake with macerated strawberries on the far left; a chocolate/peanut butter terrine (quite possibly the most exquisite dessert I've had since the peanut butter malt I had in Clifton, VA last weekend) comprised of layers of chocolate, peanut butter cream and filling and thin wafers; above that, a coconut cake with a sabayon and mango sorbet; and on the far right, a chocolate hazelnut pyramid with phyllo tuiles and warm chocolate sauce poured over it. We watched the pouring with four dropped jaws.

Flashback to Clifton, Virginia last weekend:

I could stop there--in what actually lasted only the final 15 minutes of the meal, during which time I was partially preoccupied about getting yet another parking ticket--and advocate a trip to Charlie Palmer's, if not only for the intruiging people watching, the expansive view of the Capitol, and the admirable taste and texture of the desserts. The restaurant staff and management, however, additionally illustrated their adeptness at understanding and addressing the concerns of an undercover amateur food blogger.

With the time it took us to scrape every last remnant of sauce off, you would have thought we didn't eat at least four pounds of meat and fish between the four of us. But we probably did. But I'll start with recounting the side dishes, a combination of traditional sides featured at Sunday-night-steak-dinners with those at the business meals of fancy Senator hangouts. In the former category, Mike ordered the creamed spinach, an item selected, I believe, on review #1 of the menu. A selection of fancy mustards, ordered from mild to spicy is to the right; each featured a uniquely spicy, mustard seedy, or dilly bent.

Andy and Kerry ordered the mushrooms and onions, an exquisite mixture of alternatively smooth and wrinkled mushrooms that stood independently rather than a steak accoutrement.

I ordered the broccoli rabe, primarily to ensure I was pronouncing it correctly, and it was tender, spiced with chili powder, and topped with Parmesan.

The fish and steaks were the centerpiece of the meal, except until we had dessert. But since I'm writing reverse chronologically, that's what we felt at the time. I had the hangar steak, an obscenely large yet flavorful steak with roasted onions and a rich, sweet marinade. The beauty of hangar steaks is that they are simultaneously tender, crisp on the outside, while just fatty enough to seem more legit than a fat-free, sometimes flavorless filet.

Mike, Paleo style, delved into the fat-ringed, bone-in, flavor-packed ribeye, a solid hunk of meat seemingly pulled from a Flintstones episode.

Kerry ordered fish, with an inviting combination of vanilla-scented sweet potatoes and brussel sprouts and the requisite crispy layer of skin that only seems to be executed at fancy restaurants.

Andy got the New York Strip, also exceptionally tender and flavorful.

Through careful planning and attentive listening during order-taking (with a robust fallback selection for each of us), we each ordered a unique dish in each phase, only overrided by Andy and Kerry's mutual affinity for oysters, served here with a cucumber and green apple migonette and caraway crackers.

Mike had the butternut squash soup with duck conflit dumplings (it, ahem, looked delicious). We all briefly thought of peace and love, man, for a moment and I thought of what benefits Wal-Mart's falling prices could do to unprecedentedly large blog-induced credit card bill.

I had the braised short rib ravioli. I nod my head in approval to its full stuffing, al dente pasta, and tender baby artichokes and chanterelle mushrooms.

We began with the sea bass ceviche as the amuse bouche, served in charming little metal spoons.

The evening was a charming, despite hiccups: the general outrage and protest among our party about the service slowly mounted, interspersed between unsurprisingly interesting conversation among the amateur food critic and her seasoned dining-out delegates. After collaborating and determining grievances by consensus, engaging the responsible power and voicing unrest through non-violent means, our dining voices were heard in the shadow of the Capitol. After a redress of grievances through a dessert plate fairly gerrymandered four ways, I can confidently say that I'm an amateur food critic and I stand behind Charlie Palmer.