Vidalia

To clear the air, we can set one thing straight: sometimes I'm not the most mature of food thinkers. For proof, scroll to the end to see my last cooking-related venture to the kitchen.

So, when faced with the possibilities of ordering a choose-you-own five course meal at Vidalia, I was clearly reduced to the kind of excited breathlessness and uncontrollable outbursts seen by elementary school kids pre-Christmas. "No one's ordering the steak tartare?" I spat, wild-eyed, at one point.

Vidalia was a variation on the Southern-restaurant theme; without the rather hokey ubiquity of greens and cheese, though, it was hard to think of the restaurant as themed rather than just deliciously crafted food--all 25 plates. After our table dignifiedly staked claim, negotiated and retracted desired choices from the menu, our waiter suggesting we instead do the autonomously-determined five course tasting menu, choosing from both a hot and cold appetizer, a fish dish, a meat dish, and a dessert--a choice that gave us more latitude to order more (and has subsequently led to a moratorium on dining out until we get a few more paychecks). The portions were smaller than the normal dishes but we each could have been rolled out at least an hour before dinner was technically over.

Since we split everything four ways it's hard to know where to start, but I'm fairly certain at dessert is best. Vidalia was charming: in the basement (which was initially unnerving as I went in the wrong entrance, took an elevator down, tried to enter a locked door, capitulated and took the stairs back up and went in the correct door), intimately laid out, and with very friendly wait staff (the bartender and the host both took an active interest in my meter-feeding exploits).

Just to emphasize the ridiculousness of this all, let's start with the 26th picture I took, the final dessert plate:


Selections I can remember include, second from the left, a toasted marshmallow, macaron, oatmeal cookie, rum ball, cherry financier, and pecan pie bite. It was excess Paula Dean style.

I had the peanut butter dessert that featured delights that slowly became evident bite by bite: the peanut butter crunchy topping on top, the seductively muted peanut butter cream below that, the chocolate covered rice balls, the dual textured crunch of the ganached cake. I was feverish.


Mike got the lemon chess pie. Even Mike who readily lambastes my raptures was rapturous.


Andy sanely and responsibly got the sorbets, which were fresh and staid and beautiful.


Kerry got the "pear pairing" which won with its wildly counterintuitive but delicious combinations: saffron poached pear brûlée; pear port sorbet; pink peppercorn frosted pear olive oil cupcake (I ensured I re-read that slowly to Kerry and then giggled); pear pecan, shortbread chocolate bar; and a buttermilk brown sugar sauce. There were moments of maniacal laughter.


I have no idea how to explain the glory of the preceding 2.5 hours, but maybe I'll group the glory thematically. Drinks: excellent. The red wine and whiskey was good but we had fancy cocktails with charming regional names: on the left, the Hatteras (sweet tea vodka, rathman and winter apricot (Austrian apricot liqueur), and ginger ale), OBX (rum, lychee, sour), a mint julep, and an amuse bouche of a warm velouté with I think sliced sunflower seeds.

To be arbitrarily thematic, I'm going to talk about bacon, eggs, and fried foods and how superlatively Vidalia handled these items. There were a variety of non-pork/egg/straight-from-the-fryer dishes, such as Kerry's braised barbecue bison short ribs...


...Or Andy's foie gras with seared tuna with a blackberry-basil salad (you heard right; criminally succulent combined with refreshingly virtuous)..


...Or Mike's chicken and dumplings, country-doughy but reminiscent of gnocchi...


...Or Kerry's Oral-Roberts-praying-hands soft shell crab fried tempura style...


But to me, it was the cholesterol bullies--the eggs--that won the taste war: Andy's crisp pork trotters with a sunnyside up egg, goat cheese grits, apple butter, and béarnaise:


His steak tartare with a slice of brioche and another sunnyside up quail egg:


And my stuffed quail, served with foie gras mousseline, mustard greens, black pepper dumplings, and apple cider jus. And an egg.


The yolks were visible, but not always the pork. Well, it was certainly evident in Mike's full-figured pork chop with a hush puppy (that had sweet hints of yellow cake).


Mike had less-visible pork products in the seared sea scallops with carrot purée, pea tortellini, crisp pig’s ear-pea shoot salad, and lemon-thyme vinaigrette:


I had frogmore stew with rockfish, carolina shrimp, lump crab, smoked sausage (I'll assume pork), confit potatoes, shellfish broth. I tasted at least 7 exquisitely unique flavors.


Finally, the cholesterol trifecta boasted its own trifecta of egg batter, pork and fried: chicken fried veal sweetbreads and waffles with asparagus, bacon fondue, lemon caper veal jus.

Speaking of poultry, happy Easter and happy 44-restaurants left.

Ray's the Classics

Mike and I last Saturday wrangled tornadoes to get to Ray's the Classics. Along with my trusty Jetta, Babe the blue ox, Mike, playing Paul Bunyan, successfully hewed problematic roadways, navigating me around foreboding puddles, tricky interchanges, and confusing planned shopping areas. And I can't imagine a better place to end up at the end of a harrowing 30-minute drive to Maryland than a steakhouse.

I'm knowingly muddling my folklore.

Virginia did flood that weekend and tornadoes did touch down south of DC, but that didn't stop two heroes of food folklore from closing down the restaurant. Ray's the Classics is a steakhouse of the franchise that includes Ray's Hell Burger and Ray's the Steaks, two restaurants that have made an indelible impression on the food lore of my friends and family: the former was delicious but gave me and my brother stomach aches and the latter was eviscerated nearly two years ago by an amateur food critic.

Because it was on the list, though, we had to try it and it seemed appropriately full-circle to go here as Mike was the person we were celebrating at the blog's significant run-in with a Ray's restaurant the first time. True to Ray's form, we started off with spiced cashews and Parkerhouse rolls. I didn't have to fight with Mike over eating another roll as they are un-Paleo friendly, but I wouldn't have needed to anyway due to their uncomplimentary texture. Not looking good, yet, Ray.

Mike admirably pulled out the big guns when he ordered his salad. "Does the Caesar salad come with anchovies?" he asked. When the waiter said no, Mike said he's like some, please. Whole anchovies, that is. In a non-patronizing way, I was quite proud.

I got the "devlishly good eggs," which I was thinking about days before when I first saw the menu. Two hard-boiled eggs were stuffed with hand-chopped steak tartare, served devilled egg-style. I didn't find the steak tartare too tender and its flavor wasn't appealing. Despite getting points for cleverness in combining the presentation of steak tartare and devilled eggs--the onion and cornichons accoutrements were for steak tartare and there was crumbled egg yolks on the plate--it didn't work. I was much happier just drinking the red wine.

In true American folkhero style, Mike got the The Cowboy, a massive bone-in rib eye with grilled red onions and horseradish cream. Mike acknowledged it was a Fred Flintstone-sized steak, but proceeded to defeat it, bite by bite (unfortunately a before and after picture is not available).

I swallowed my pride and ordered a NY Strip (self-respecting Kansas Citians use the abbreviation of their own town to describe it) and wasn't disappointed in my slow foray beyond filets. It was tender and flavorful, girded by peppercorns and served with a port/peppercorn cream sauce. It was satisfyingly opulent like hot fudge sauce.

We felt obligated to get creamed spinach because it seems an imperative at a throw-back steakhouse.

But then that prompted a serious discussion on steakhouses. Would either of us come back to Ray's the Classics? Probably not. There was nothing exceptional about it. The steaks were tremendous but nothing else was: not the appetizers, salads, or sides. The ambiance wasn't bad but wasn't remarkable. The music wasn't memorable and it didn't have the formality of a Ruth's Chris nor the comfortable working-man's-ness of a Cattleman's in Oklahoma City.

We were the last to leave but we didn't linger excessively. Everything beyond the conversation and company (of course) was rather mediocre prompting the two us to try and determine: what is it that makes a good steakhouse? Morton's has reliable service and presentation, but a rather unvaried menu. Ray's the Steaks is high on pretension but scored sub-zero points for service with steaks that were akin to any other fine steakhouse's steaks. We each had our personal preferences for steakhouses but it seems a good steakhouse must boast high marks in all categories--service, taste, ambiance and variety--yet deign an additional extraneous gift to the diner. For me, that was jazz at the Majestic Steakhouse in Kansas City, the historic yet delightfully seedy location of the Golden Ox, also in downtown KC, the popovers at BLT Steak in downtown DC, an exquisite sauce that didn't hide the delicious flavor of the meat at Chez Georges in Paris. Some outside factor either complemented the taste of the food or deliberately staked out a memorable ambiance for the diner.

For dessert, Mike ordered both the key lime pie and the strawberries in cream to share (I was going to get the pie two but was frozen in indecision when he got it first). Both had homemade whipped cream. Nobody was raputurous, but they weren't bad. Dessert came with a side of panic when we worried the restaurant was already closed (we had another half hour).

We ended the evening with Ray's signature chocolate peanut butter bark--which melted in my fingers. We lassoed the car, bounded over puddles, flicked away nuisance twisters, and squashed the 55th restaurant on the list like a bug.

Black Market Bistro

What a delightful slice of Americana I had Sunday with my friend Dotti. After church and Sunday school (see!), Dotti and I met up for lunch at one of the "far away ones" on the list. We found ourselves in Garret Park, Maryland, quite possibly on the other end of the universe judging by the expressions on our faces that idyllic, country charm could be found so close to the Beltway (about 7 minutes away, in fact).

After only a few short turns from main thoroughfares, we found ourselves in a charmingly windy neighborhood with Victorian homes, pickup trucks, and flying American flags. Black Market Bistro, situated squarely among delightful paragons of American culture, is an old house with a real working post office on the ground floor.


We found ourselves on the house's front porch and saw no fewer than three trains that whistled, two all-American sheriffs riding on motorcycles, one ice cream truck in the distance, and lots of babies, old couples, and families. We even saw young kids we thought were hobos (until we saw the girl's North Face label on her jacket). And, less enigmatic, flowers.

Dotti and I, like any good brunchers, ordered mimosas; mine was half orange juice, half grapefruit juice.


I didn't eat dinner because of the copious amounts of Americana I drunk in. Figuratively, not literally (I only had one mimosa). I began with the house-made granola, layered with orange-rind-infused yogurt. Meal so far: sugar water, alcohol, berries, yogurt, and addictive-like-candy-bar crunchy granola.


Add to that the best worldly incarnation of ham and cheese combined, the croque madame. Dotti and I eschewed blog etiquette and both ordered the same thing, without guilt. The last croque madame we both had was on brioche too. It was also not a true croque madame: the cheese was inside rather than melted on top, there was little to no bechamel, and in this case, the eggs were poached instead of sunny side up. But, I didn't realize any of this until I began writing it up, suggesting that the innovation did not detract from my enjoyment of it.

The glory of oozing egg yolk:

It seemed irresponsible to not get grits at a place like this. In its creaminess, it was a more convincing risotto than many risottos I've had and Dotti said it was maybe some of the best grits she's ever had. And she's Southern.


Dessert seemed impossible, but I would be a negligent amateur food critic if I didn't order something. The choices were exquisite (Nutella crème brûlée, apple crisp, root beer floats) but I settled on two scoops of ice cream: chocolate/anisette (left) and coffee/cardamom. With the combinations, it was like having six separate scoops: sometimes half the flavor, other times both.

It was a perfect lunch (and default dinner) and chance to watch trains go by.

Brasserie Beck

This is one of those places I have heard people talk about for years, like Mount Olympus and Pompeii, except as a modern place more known for its delicious Belgian food than its mythicality. Coupled with the fact that I had a Living Social Deal and a theatrical waiter who could have doubled as Othello on stage, you can tell that the next seven paragraphs will be ebullient praise for Brasserie Beck.

I began as I have the last few weeks, playing the DC power player: grabbing a drink at the bar and playing with my iPhone. I read so much news I had to stop and look around, and it was beautiful. And much preferable to depressing news on a screen half the size of my Gouden carolus tripel, which was described as having notes of marshmallow, coriander, and curacao. Frankly, I tasted few of these things but enjoyed the foamy head and spicy undertones.

The bar was beautiful: tight like European bars but with celebrations of liquor festooned jubilantly on the high walls. There were menus on mirrors, clocks with times for Washington and Brussels, and a wide array of beer glasses. The crowd was a bit...serious...and then men a bit...well, they were either creepy-starers, loud-talkers, or cads I had to let pass first when we were trying to traverse the same one person alleyway.

Once at our table, we jumped in eagerly. Andy, Kerry, and I did Belgian-y recently at Lyon Hall and one of my first blogs was at Cafe Belga back in '09. Not sterling recommendations for solid knowledge of Belgian cuisine, but we're no amateurs and ordered as such. We had delicious, fresh bread with a full cup of butter, illuminated by a fake candle that exposed the full range of items on the menu (salads, innovative appetizers, mussels, French and Belgian entrees, and, of course, beer).

I asked for something different that my first bar beer and admirably got a new glass to match, along with Andy and Kerry. I got a Colossus, as imposing as the picture with a hint of fruitiness on top and sourness on the bottom.

Ordering with Kerry and Andy is streamlined. We optimize our choices with items that most of us want to eat, without duplicating. So, we ordered the pork belly with fried softshell crab and dandelion greens. I'm almost certain we each wanted to get the dish because of one item: I, particularly, wanted the greens. I admire anything that should taste awful and doesn't.

Our second appetizer was the charcuterie plate, another easily collective choice. From the left were toasted bread slices with cheese and a variety of hams and salamis. I'll admit the most remarkable was the rabbit pate right in the middle.

The anticipation was tremendous.

We were obligated to order mussels or moules at a moules place, but we did it well, ordering moules in a way counter to their natural proclivities. As an indicator of my satisfaction, I (for the first time in many posts) forgot to photograph my own dinner. However, on the left, Kerry got the mozzarella/roasted tomato/basil mussels, which replete with solid mozzarella slices were more reminiscent of marshmallow than the purported flavors in my first beer. Andy ordered the mushroom moules, which were better than mine too. I ordered the chorizo/fennel moules, which were good and bright red in their pan. They were tasty and the chorizo was spicy and flavorful but what followed outdid it quickly.

To accompany my dinner, I ordered Brussels sprouts (maybe cliche), which I'll cruelly say now remind me of that choir guy in middle school who somehow ended up becoming the star football player in high school. Maybe less offensively, they remind me of plastic-framed glasses and white tennis shoes: they used to be totally uncool and have come into their own. Maybe more accurately, I thought they used to be terrible and now I am smarter. Brussels sprouts to me have always seemed like tepid, shrivelled little monstrosities. But, cooked at places like Brasserie Beck with lardons, apples, and fried onions, they certainly are more quarterback than quarter note.

The fries were easy perfection and cleverly featured a mayonnaise sampler: curry mayonnaise on top, a tomato mayonnaise on the bottom (I'm guessing entirely), and a normal mayonnaise on the bottom.

We powered through our Belgian food and were happy. The chairs were cute, French plastic wicker patio chairs in bright blue that were cafe-suggestive and proudly executed their role as a sturdy yet colorful accommodation. Plastic light casing ran up the sides of the tall walls, decorated like Belgian lace, and our waiter was able to answer all our questions on the menu with facility.

Dessert stood alone, as a beacon of lumiere on the dark mer. Kerry ordered a scoop of cinnamon apple ice cream that was paired with two cookies. It was smooth like sorbet but rich like ice cream and was served in a frozen bowl.

I ordered the bread pudding, hearkening back to my youth when it was my favorite dessert because it was always served different but sustained its comforting-ness despite innovation. This was one was studded with fruit and was wonderful, but sort of forgettable, but only because of dessert #2. Yes, that I ordered.

Among our dessert choices was also a pantheon of ice creams, one of which was surprisingly, delightedly, and enlightedly brown butter ice cream. One of my favorite dishes when I go home is my Yiayia's brown buttered spaghetti, the top item I ate in 2008. Quite possibly the highlight of that whole year, food-wise. And yes, I made that claim then.

I'm ready for the next 46 if I can see my favorite pasta turned into ice cream at another one.