Blue Duck Tavern

I used to think I had an unlikely but delightedly virulent aversion to trappings of power, prestige, and fancy-ness: I thought Rage Against the Machine was fair and balanced, I understood "the man" to be a pervasive, ubiquitous force in society, and I really liked the word Foucauldian (particularly because of that random d). My proletariarism is less evident now when I listen to Rage on pirated and burned CDs, ruthlessly support "the man" (who happens to subsidize my rent and health insurance), and patronize restaurants that appeal to the puff-chested, trophy-wife-sporting, power suits.

Sometimes in DC, this clientele and the atmosphere they create in the dining room is untenable; eating congealed butterscotch flavored bone marrow in the Capitol dining room would be more appealing and I'd see more famous people. But, at a place like Blue Duck Tavern, where in response to my telling the waiter I couldn't hear him he says, "It's my braces, isn't it? I knew it," grinning, the flowing wine, fancy but comforting food, and exquisite hospitality make bourgeoisie a nice word again.

Blue Duck Tavern is fancy, indubitably, but its staff is extremely approachable, thoughtful, and unobtrusive. I went to dine with Sue, my rich-laughed friend, and upon telling the hostess our third friend wouldn't be joining, the hostess wished that everything was alright with her. In the bar, when the waitresses realized they had overlooked me for a few more minutes than they should have (I'm sure my Jane Austen book gave away how important I was), they sent the sommelier over to take my order. After having mentioned to the hostess Sue and I would take a table earlier, if possible, she remembered to seek us out in the busy bar when one came available.


We started with one of the friendliest dishes of foie gras I've ever had; it wasn't scary or lobey at all. Plus, it was sweet--if Paula Deen became goose liver mousse, she'd taste like this. Their brûlée of foie gras has a paper-thin layer of caramelized sugar and bourbon peaches, raisins, and poppy seeds on top. The amount of toasted brioche was insufficient for the dish, but the fact that the dish seemed to reach the outer limit of deepest indulgence, reeled back only slightly with the fruit, made up for it.


Smart Sue got the duck (signature) and graciously posed with the perfectly blue-colored (fancy unintentional camera effect) fountain. We felt like princesses with our frequently refilled Cabernets and the lulling cadences of our other waiter from Spanish Galicia. Her duck was tender and rich (but not sickly so) and had a fresh but sticky whole red plum.


We had exquisite side dishes: the wood oven roasted creamed corn with tarragon (with flavors from both the country and New Mexico)...


...and a warm pie of sheeps’ milk, ricotta, Swiss chard and anise hyssop (it's in there somewhere). The pie had hints both (in size and shape) of hunger-satisfying Jumbo Slice and the homey warmth of spanakopita.


As an aside, want to see what Jumbo Slice looks like at night when you haven't been drinking?

I had fat, juicy, perfectly encrusted scallops, whose scallop crevices seemed to cleave willingly to let in the light lemon and thyme sauce.


In a bit of a pseudo indecision about which one dessert we wanted, we got two. I felt compelled to get the nectarine, blackberry and almond crumble, with a filling of fresh fruit roasted with orange, lemon peel and vanilla bean and topped with an almond crumble and crème fraîche. I was powerless to resist after seeing it posted on the Blue Duck Tavern's blog.


Cleverly thematically (blue again) Sue ordered the Straight from the Oven Chocolate Cake with a Maker’s Mark flambé. So giddy on wine, gossip and romantic insights, we forgot about the flambé part, which gave us quite a show when it did arrive.

And just because I can. What better place than here, what better time than now.