Virginia, part one

What would you, dear reader, say if I claimed to 1. have had an epic Labor Day weekend and 2. be able to pair ever significant food experience with one of "love." You may say it can't be done. You might also say it took me damn near long enough to force everything to meet those two criteria.

I'd say that I can do it if I change the definition of love to mean either a passionately positive or negative experience with an individual of the opposite sex. I'd further say that this will be most symmetrical food/love nexus description ever been written about a trip about traveling around Virginia. I've even included real names to praise the innocent and shame the brazen.

Unnamed (well, unknown) Men
The food/love adventure began as most of these described in this weekend do, over fish and alcohol. Dear Christine and I had beer, moules, and frites, to test to how strong our constitution would fare when faced with a weekend of fried-food eating (we passed the indoor-fried-food-consumption test). We found ourselves at Brasserie Beck at the moule-friendly happy hour, we met two young men, one of whom provided useful information on rural Virginia.



















We rewarded him with an invite to a bar down the street, as well as his friend, who runs drunk across townhouse roofs. Focusing more on his knowledge of Jefferson's accomplishments than his name, we thanked him heartily but generically at midnight and congratulated ourselves on securing beer, travel advice, and mild flirtation on a school night.

Scot (deliberately one T) and Andy
Ever wonder what culture has the best skirts and the worst food? After visiting the Virginia Scottish Games and Festival, watching strong men throw stuff they'd find in forests or toolsheds, and eating three bites total of both haggis and a Scottish egg, I had an idea. The day after Brasserie Beck, I caught up with old friends Andy and Rachel and had the wherewithal to order (see above) fish and chips and beer. Christine cleverly got a bridie, a burrito-shaped meat pie that evoked flavors of stew, pastry, and not-haggis.



But, with all the bagpipes, wool socks, and log-tossing, I started getting restless. Everyone's second-favorite fair treat (kettle corn) wasn't enough: haggis was my object. It was, quite possible, the most hideous thing I've ever eaten and tasted like how it looked: like ground up corn nuts, cat fur, and liver. I can say little better for the Scotch egg, whose sausage tasted like haggis with the haggis casing still on.

While largely similar in appearance in texture, I'd prefer to eat these and enjoy the company of Wilford Brimley, an added bonus.


James M.
I did live and luckily was able to celebrate the life and residence of James Madison, our fourth president, who built his fine estate in Orange, Virginia. What's the nexus here and how would I dare presume to compete with Dolley? Traveling to learn about James permitted Christine and I to eat at a fine Charlottesville restaurant and to swat love away in all the wrong places. But first, feast on Montpelier and its surrounding countryside:

Madison was a smart man and we admired the intellectual endeavors of the Father of the Constitution a great deal. So much so, we decided to discuss them in detail at Charlottesville's C&O Restaurant, a quite blog-worthy meal.



















We had bread, a delicious dense, biscuity, hearty-yet-pliable fortifier, and Christine had a delicious-looking salad with a mustard vinaigrette.



















For my appetizer, I had the cleverest combination of Mediterranean and Super Bowl potluck flavors: kibbeh and burrata from the former culture, fried onion straws from the latter. The base of the plate was filled with stringy burrata, holding in place the pine nut-studded kibbeh meat. In case you also wanted to simutaneously indulge in the buttery sparseness of a popover, a small profiterole sized one was sliced in half and placed on both poles of the plate. Atop it all were the fried onion straws. If I were fully reconciled to my skirt sizes getting progressively larger, I'd eat this every night.



















Then, we really commemorated the Federalist Papers and Dolley Madison's fine-art-related bravery by enjoying our entrees, Christine with the beef tenderloin and I with the salt-crusted fish and the best skin-on potatoes I may have ever had.













We polished off our dinners in less time than the Articles of Confederation even existed.













Proceeding to Calvados (apple brandy indigenous to Normandy and which we both tried sentimentally for the first time in la Normandie), we had for dessert the coupe maison, a scoop of ice cream infused with grated vanilla bean, toasted almonds, whipped cream and brandy laced Belgian chocolate sauce. We were in train to have a few more digestifs afterwards, though...



To be continued...

Sushi Sono

I like eating pretty food on days where the clouds mute city noise, when Madeleine Peyroux seems the only appropriate music to listen to, and when you can sip pink wine and look out on a tranquil lake to clear your head. Today I headed 52 miles north to let slippery raw fish glide down my throat.

When I arrived wherever I was in Maryland (ok, Columbia), I moved cochlea-like through small roads and parking lots to arrive at Sushi Sono, situated perilously on the cusp of Lake Kittamaqundi. I had a delicious, dramatic glass of plum wine, which looked like something offered to princesses in Disney movies.



















I started with shrimp shumai, the one Japanese food item I've had that seems like soul food: it's warm and chewy and adorably bite-sized, but here had the delightfully bonus of featuring fresh shrimp.


My waitress was attentive and informative and apparently coveted by other diners (more about that later). Between the jelly fish salad and the live scallop, she recommended the latter. They loved their soy sauce bath (don't worry, I didn't see any recoiling).


I didn't realize that despite all the yawn-inducing mediocrity of an overcast day, I'd eat one of the most delicious sushi rolls, at least this year. I had the Hurricane Eye roll, featuring spicy tuna and crab meat wrapped with soy paper, covered with crispy brown rice, and
garnished with a hot sauce dot. The pieces crunched and gave and didn't hide behind normally chewy nori (toasted seaweed).


I had exquisite, generous pieces of saba (mackerel), garnished with green onions, lemon, and a bit of ginger.

I was already overwhelmed by this point when my last roll came out, the Sono Roll, tempura-fried shrimp (it's there, at the bottom) in the roll, with tuna hugging the roll on top, and sprinkled with flakes and fish roe. As I slowed my efforts to dip these pieces in my soy sauce without them being deconstructed and get them to fit them in my mouth, I was able to watch the show a regular patron put on.



















After staring down the small,spoiled, disrespectful girl at the table in front of me (who had only served to make me fear for the future of children and their incompetent parents) and making her and her father uncomfortable, she was seated after running through the list of waitresses she hoped would serve her.

She ordered a glass of wine and in between sips, left her lipstick upright and open on the table. I can only imagine that this was so she could apply and reapply it easily, to leave those sophisticated lipstick marks on her stemware that all women who used to be little girls secretly love. In between puckers, she poured white wine on her sashimi to make it taste better. I couldn't help but giggle. If Sushi Sono's dining room was as stage, it was like being in the midst of Sunset Boulevard or Gypsy.

Without applying any lip gloss before, I had black sesame ice cream for dessert. It was creamy and toasty and salty, but delicious. Calcium gives me fortitude for the endeavor of dining at 27 more lipstick worthy restaurants.

Indique Heights

Tonight was an Indian food night. Maybe I can be convinced, but a person has to be in a particular mood to subject herself to Indian, by which I mean four types of carbohydrates and liquid yogurt. I had spent a a long (good) weekend at home (and thus, was reticent to return), was drenched on two occasions this morning, and crushed by a deluge of work e-mail and all manner of Virginia bills in my mailbox. The likelihood good conversation could be safely had over wine and greasy food seemed small to my friends and me; our proclivities toward excess (ie, too much wine coupled with greasy food) was the primary fear, in addition to the general diceyness of eating ethnic foods far from home. So I forged ahead alone.

But why the Ganeshing of teeth? (sorry, couldn't think of anything more clever or less offensive). It might have been most immediately because I had a weekend full of Oklahoma-delicacy eating, then turned around to have a dehydrated packet of oatmeal for my first meal back. Or the fact that I wasn't able to drink beer before noon, like it was game day in Norman. Let's pick up here: the morning of Oklahoma's second win, we visited Blackbird gastropub, a new bar on Campus Corner.













Over beers, we had blue corn tortilla chips with guacamole and roast beef sliders...













...and (a food that maybe explains why Oklahoma is number 1 in the nation), deviled eggs on fried black eyed peas and jalapeno cornbread. It's lite time travel to have beers with your parents in the same building where you bought your first professional clothes (it used to be Harold's), where your mom bought text books before that, and where your dad understood, from others, that it had also been an establishment that served Norman's gentlemen.


Even the banal was beautiful in Oklahoma, from the mural in a parking lot where cars are repeatedly vandalized to neon red light gently illuminating fried okra at Earl's Rib Palace.













Anyway, that's all a dramatic introduction to a normal top 100 night, this time at Indique Heights, a beautiful gem in the lobby of a very oddly situated business building (the metro is immediately below and streets surround the triangular property on all sides). I sat next to an indoor fountain on a chair that made me feel like a Kipling-esque raja, plus had chutney with my wine.



















It was the chair, rather than the service, that inspired the Kim-ness, though. My waiter was charming and provided great suggestions, but provided the same level of service I used to get upon ordering a hot dog at the public swimming pool (I got a lot of thumb's up rather than verbal inquiries, the table bussing was spotty, and the descriptions sometimes incomplete, all of which he made up for with a grin). He was quirky but got everything right and had good taste: I started with the fractured vegetable samosa atop a bed of chickpeas, a smooth and crunchy delight.


He also recommended a dosa, a crêpe made with a fermented batter of lentils and rice, stuffed with chicken, and served with five different chutneys, including cranberry, coconut, and spicy coconut, and was spicy, stewed, and delicious.


For good measure, I got shrimp varuval, with onions, tomatoes, curry leaves, and spices and a side of lemon rice, perked up with crunchy lentils. My waiter thankfully disassauded me from the tandoori shrimp, one huge super tandoored crustacean, and steered me here.


I was too far from home for another glass of wine but felt entitled to a full evening, so had a mango lassi (another good waiter pick, a mix of mango juice and yogurt). Plus, the excruciating (maybe only to me) first date at the neighboring table made me enjoy my pleasant company to myself that much more (I didn't brag to myself about my study abroad experience in Italy, dedication to life-long learning, or try to take myself seriously while sporting a pink tie). I'd ask me out to a top 100 again.

Marcel's

Let's play a guessing game, tangentially about tonight's dinner at Marcel's. Do I:

a. have three food guardian angels at Marcel's in the form of my waiter Jonathan (who kissed me goodbye on the cheek), my driver (who shares my affection for a delicious Latin place in Courthouse), and the maitre d', who spoke perfect French

b. no longer need an introduction and am known for my secret but amateur food blogging jaunts, which results in impeccable service

c. consider myself lucky that a top 100 restaurant lives up to both its reputation for superlative food and hospitality

It matters little because whatever the reason, I felt more indulged than the more important individuals who had diplomatic-plated black sedans or black Escalade convoys picking them up at the Kennedy Center. Because my dining establishment came to get me tonight after my opera. That's right, I got an amuse bouche, amuse feet, and amuse patience.

So what am I talking about? I went to Marcel's, a Robert Wiedmaier restaurant on Pennsylvania I had largely brushed aside because Brabo and the Tasting Room, his restaurants in Old Town, were notable but not memorable and for some reason, it always seemed like an old person place.

But, humbly submitting myself to my third decade this year, I figured I'd join the AARP crowd for the pre-theater menu before seeing Tosca tonight. I was there ten minutes early; as soon as I had parallel parked (well, five minutes after I started jiggling my car around), the maitre d' approached my car. Instead of regaling me with criticism (as I expected him to do), he knew who I was when I simply said I was going to dinner at Marcel's, took my keys, and led me to my table. I read about this stuff in my Jane Austen books; I don't often write it here.

He pulled the table back, and I sat in the restaurant's ideal seat: on a banquette, facing the kitchen, but far back enough I could see the entire panorama. I met Jonathan, who flattered and explained and proferred detail, in an excessively personable way I didn't mind at all (pre-decision time is usually a hallowed time of reflection, panic, and fitting the puzzle pieces of a tasting menu together that I usually prefer to do uninterrupted).

Before I delved into considering what three choices from the seven course menu I'd select, I had a Ricard, which required no additional explanation (first time this has happened since the last Belgian place I went to).


The amuse bouche was a beautiful pâté terrine, crusted in pistachios, and adorned with a port reduction. To illustrate the depths of my admiration, I will point out every fault I can find. First: on this dish, there was sprinkled water. How delightful to be so unblinkingly picky and still be so extraordinarily satisfied.


If I were a paranoid food critic, I'd think they were messing with me when I got the bread and butter. Served with a Kalamata olive bread were three types of butter: sun dried tomato, normal creamy, and fennel butter. Who would have thought my aperitif would even match my butter.

For my appetizer, I had an oyster stew with pastry vol au vent. As I slowly excavated my soup, I found fat but smooth oysters, small cubes of delicate potato and celery (I think), one of my favorite pork products (lardons), and lily pads of puff pastry. The second faux pas was one less-than-bright oyster in my stew, but he was the last one consumed. And he didn't tarnish my delight with a remarkably smooth, delicate, and hearty stew that made me wish for bitterly cold winds if I could have this regularly as an antidote.


For my main course, I had boudin blanc. It was so delicious, I'd go up against a firing squad that may or may not be shooting blanks instead of bullets (oops, Tosca spoiler and gross hyperbole) for a few more bites. The boudin blanc--made of chicken and pheasant (I believe)--was ornamented with marigold petals and micro basil, nestled on two piles of softened, caramelized onions that themselves were secured on a disc of pureed celery root. Haloing the dish was a pinot noir reduction with caramelized shallots. I scraped off every last bit.


For dessert, I had cheese. I hesitated ordering it as it doesn't showcase the pastry capabilities. Instead, it makes me happy and secondarily and more seriously, can illustrate the quality of the service and their taste.

Jonathan, my delightful waiter, after telling me his stories of working at Windows of the World at the World Trade Center, of his marriage, and his son in the Southwest (charming and welcome, rather than intrusive, stories), selected for me a cheese on the far left produced by Trappist monks and soaked in a walnut liqeur (served with honey); a triple cream (served among raisins and candied walnuts and that winningly tasted like a French barn (think French barn from Madame Bovary, for sensuous effect)), and Brillat Savarin which was somehow slightly chilled but still gave like butter (with more port reduction). I think I eked out perhaps 17 bites to prolong my satisfaction.


To cap everything off, the petits fours (if that's not correct, I'll call it the small-fancy-plate-of-unexpected delight) were clever. The bottom was a chocolate tartlette that had exquisite crust, above that was crunchy amaretto ball (was distracted apparently for the first two descriptions), then above was a banana cream tart (with expertly made crust), and at the top, passionfruit sorbet enrobed in white chocolate.


I was so impressed, it got a close-up alone.


Maybe I unfairly associate restaurants with context, so inherently, this meal would have been exquisite because I knew I had a date with Puccini afterwards. But, I don't think so: every element of service was carefully considered and executed. My meal was paced perfectly so I finished just in time for the chauffer to take me to the Kennedy Center. My plates never stayed too long on my table without being quickly bussed, but were never taken away before I was finished. My wine was decanted, the chef (well, one) smiled at me (briefly), my waiter Jonathan consistently used my name without artificial intimacy, and I even got two boudins blancs instead of one (and I could verify because a guy across the room just got one).

If Floria Tosca had loved Marcel instead of Mario Cavaradossi, she might not have been so upset.