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.