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.