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.