Assaggi

Two novel things happened this evening. First, I began my exploration of Bethesda's top 100 options (I say Bethesda when I mean Rockville and Silver Spring and other cities north of the Beltway accessible only by traversing patches of forest and multiple Catholic schools) at Assaggi. Second, I finally got hit on while eating alone.

I was discussing recently how a friend and I always imagined we'd meet the man of our dreams on a train: my idea was that the train would be striking across Europe while I was reading Proust and drinking an espresso and Jean-Claude/Michel/Francois would invite me to admire the scenery with him over a Toblerone. When that didn't happen (I always ended up next to adolescent boy or young women doing their English homework), I began imagining I would meet him while I was glamorously enjoying a dinner alone, swirling my wine, and reading Jane Austen.

Tonight, Fred (or Frank, I'm not sure) and I made eye contact as he was walking his bike by with grocery sacks on his handlebars. He had caramel corn in one of them, which I thought was funny because I was having fancy cheeses for dinner. Despite what that may mean for my capacity for empathy, I kept looking and made eye contact again (he turned around again). I quickly reached for my phone to illustrate I was doing anything but making eye contact a third time and he turned his bike around, walked back, and stood there while I was desperately waiting for riveting, distracting news to pop up on my phone. The opening line was something charming and insightful like "Uh, is this an Italian place?"

I won't belabor the point, as I was in fact at a place called Assagi, A Mozzarella Bar. He asked about my cheese plate, to which I described what I had ordered, and he observed that I had three cheeses. I did. He asked a series of questions, to which I asked none in response, but persisted in telling me about the neighborhood, how he didn't like Apple products (he saw I had an iPhone), was intending to buy a Droid for his mother, and had Moby Dick for dinner. Despite my derision, I was quite patient, letting him pontificate and satisfy my dream of having a man be so enraptured with my solo dining he couldn't resist but to approach me with sparkling conversation.

I will not wish this on myself again (he finally left after I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows and hit my phone against my hand until it was obvious I preferred lukewarm cheese to him). I had a much better time with my waiter, who indulged me in every request I had. I began with a glass of supertuscan and a plate of fried squash blossoms (I only wanted these and no other fried options and he did it). Tammy and I were recently briefly discussing nonsensical menu items like flavored air and foam, which we agreed were egregious and overpriced features at "fancy" places. I decided tonight, however, that squash blossoms successfully ride this same concept, but with flavor: they are a delicate effluvium of flavor netted by being lightly battered and fried (here, with a very tangy marinara on the bottom).


I can't help it, but when I eat finespun squash blossoms, I'm reminded of Italy and mosaics and tile roofs. Pretty, tiny things cluster themselves together in my memory.













My waiter indulged me when I realized I was ordering food enough for me and Fred/ank (before he and his take-out had even ridden by). I ordered three (not a typo) types of cheeses to sample and when I asked for help on choosing the best accompaniments, my waiter said, "I'll just bring them all."

I had, starting at the top left, mozzarella di bufala, a favorite of my brother's. Well, first, I'll illustrate that cheese elitism is a family trait:


To begin again, just below the mozzarella di bufala is ricotta di bufala then burrata at the bottom (I would have invited myself back to Fred/ank's for caramel corn if he'd caught me right after that first bite of burrata). For accompaniments, I had marinated eggplant (deliciously tender but a bit too vinegary), roasted peppers (exquisite embodied duskiness), fresh tomatoes and basil, and a green tomato marmalade (a bit too sweet but cleverly flavorful).


After Fred/ank came by, my waiter asked if I was had gotten engaged through the course of my interactions with a be-biked suitor, then left me to my own devices. It was a delightful pause in dinner and I saw the sun set through the BMWs and trees.

My waiter thoughtfully allowed me to get a half order of pasta, as pasta after cheeses and fried food is ambitious. I had the garganelli pasta with veal sausage, sugar snap peas (I think they were instead green beans), crema and black pepper. It was beautiful and the sausage made it very... homey. It was comforting like pasta bolognese but still appropriate for summer.


There was little justification for dessert beyond a slurred thought of "it's good for the blog." There were butter cookies, chocolate butter cookies, lemon butter cookies, and sandwich butter cookies with hazelnut chocolate filling.


With Judy to commiserate with on the way home, it was a perfect night.