Jackie's

What happens when two girls who have been cooped up all weekend long from the cold are let loose for brunch? Seven mimosas, seven donuts, and one Bloody Mary find themselves on our table then in our bellies. Hundreds of dollars are spent on shoes, Starbucks is raided, and cheapie cubic zirconia-esque earrings get bought.

Before closing down Jackie's this past Sunday afternoon, Dotti and I had an exquisite brunch. Jackie's, #82 on the top 100, is nestled among laundromats, a Jamaican restaurants serving ox tail, potholed alleyways, and a particularly divey Greyhound bus stop--and yet is just blocks from a Reston-like town center in Silver Spring, Maryland. With a velvet curtain hung outside the large wooden doors, quirky pink tables, chairs, and back lighting, and construction lamps floating like lightening bugs above the dining room, it's the type of place I'd open if I sought to highlight the best of Barbie and Bjork.

I had a head start before Dotti so had a thick, spicy (the flecks of white are pepper seeds) Bloody Mary. When I said I'd just be waiting and when my friend did arrive, we'd probably stay awhile, our waiter underscored that the restaurant was pretty laid back and that'd be fine. It was: as a spoiler, even after the restaurant closed, our water glasses kept getting filled up and we were joking with the kitchen staff. That's because I was staring at the donuts they were carrying around and Dotti was looking for the bathroom in the kitchen.


We started with the cinnamon sugar donut holes as an appetizer. They were chewy and soft and more like marshmallows than greasy cake. Even the cinnamon sugar was appropriately proportioned so we got enough cinnamon to make them very autumnal.


Dotti got an English muffin sandwich (cleverly wrapped in patterned wax paper) and potatoes.


I had the poached eggs set atop slices of baguette with a potato/cabbage/bacon/onion hash. I've probably mentioned that gooey egg yolks remind me of my grandfather--who ate them long before I gained an appreciation for them--so meals like this seem as classic yet anachronistic. Salt and Tabasco helped me reach a new breakfast plane.


But, then we were done with breakfast. With much more gossip and life discussions to delve in to, we had.. some more Mimosas.


Like two or three more. Each. Oops.


In between topics of conversation, our eyes would wander toward our lovely waiter and the handsome bartender yonder. While watching the movement of plates and drinks, waiters and busboys, and other diners to and fro, a chef approached us and asked if we had the donuts. Technically yes, but only the hole variety. He brought us a raspberry donut, with sprinkles, on the condition that we speak positively about the restaurant (something to this effect; I think I had Mimosa in my ear). I didn't think I was compromising my food objectivity--if I was going to write effusively anyway--by greedily nodding and having a simultaneously cakey and airy donut that matched the decor.

Not wanting to still be at the restaurant when they began serving dinner, we decided to wear off excess Mimosa at DSW. We both found it much easier to be decisive when posed with shoe-buying dilemmas: get both. With the end in sight--there are only 19 restaurants left on the list--I hope to soon by more pairs of shoes than pairs of Mimosas. Maybe.

Montmartre

Why is it that French men, largely reviled for their country's military ineptitude, tight jeans, and amour-de-fromage, are exceedingly more generous in attention-giving, particularly to a party of an amateur food critic and her sidekick friend, than a whole host of American men?

Over offal and slugs last week, Dotti and I at Montmartre discussed the merits of a town where two grown women and our assorted acquaintances associate ourselves with silly men who pause relationships for "marathon-training," men who leverage three types of communication systems in a three-hour time period to relay one message, and men whom we can't figure out if they adore or hate us.

Further, it is a puzzle to me how more than 80 restaurants in, it is only the restaurant owners and managers--working class men of all persuasions--and one creepy but bold biker who have the correct manly attributes to even consider engaging a woman dining alone or gasp, with a close friend. I eke out nexuses of food and love, but DC naturally offers little to link the two beyond providing a list of 100 good restaurants that someone liked along the way.

Nevertheless, Dotti and I were welcomed with French hospitality at Eastern Market's Montmartre, a beautiful upscale bistro. I enjoyed, quite easily, a Ricard at the bar. As proof of my paragraph above, as one of the owners prepared unknowingly my drink, he asked what I wanted to drink. I said that was it, he understood it was my drink he was making, then he poured a bit more on top. There's no bitterness here, just a broad-brush repudiation for a city that cultivates such silly men beyond those who staff restaurants. If I were doing a top 100 list of business sectors, restaurateurs would have to be #1.


Our waiter took our drinks to the table (like a gentleman and good host) and we commenced our wine drinking and conversing. Our waiter, French-style as well, deferred to us to set the pace and order when we had sufficiently gossiped our most important gossip.


To begin, I had the most exquisite escargots--the mind-numbingly buttery-garlic variety--such that I've not had since that first taste my freshman year of high school. Dotti can attest that I couldn't keep myself from shaking and shuddering in delight.


I also ordered the pâté, a solidly tender tranche, with cornichons, salad, and a sliced and toasted piece of bread. Pâté to me conjures up sophisticated fairy tale picnics or something a huntsman in a Hans Christian Anderson story pulls out of a satchel for his afternoon lunch. Or something I really enjoyed that night with fresh, warm bread.


Dotti ordered the skirt steak, a rare and tender concoction with a soy sauce and accompanied root vegetable and asparagus side. With red wine, it was magnifique.


I told my waiter, who couldn't decide whether to recommend the scallops or bronzino, to surprise me. He brought the scallops, crusty, plump, and tender with a bed of spinach, grapes, and pine nuts.


To sweeten our resignation, we had delicious desserts. Dotti had a blackberry and raspberry tart. I had l'Ile Flottante, the dessert I ordered the first time I went to Montmartre back in 2004.


















At least we'll always have Paris.

Eola

Why is Miles Davis' Autumn Leaves so good? Because it's got such a good season for inspiration. Jagged spikes of red, chilling breezes that transition to cool if you thank autumn for the apple cider it's brought you, and foods that inspire you to keep watching football or meander through crunchy leaves instead of pitifully letting winter defeat you. On a crisp day that started like fall and quickly swiveled to summer, Christine and I dressed up for brunch and a garden party.


At the White House.



















On a brisk Sunday morning (somehow we both managed to get somewhere before noon), we headed to Eola for one explicit culinary purpose, photographed, perhaps vulgarly, a few paragraphs below.

Knowing what food challenges we were on the horizon, we each instinctively thought of bloody marys. In color and subtle heartiness, no other drink seems to match autumn as well. After enduring the indignity of being told "the restaurant didn't have them and they were out of season anyway," we girded ourselves for the frigid chill of winter.

I got a kir royale, a French cocktail of champagne and blackcurrant liqueur. Christine ordered a cocktail I forgot to photograph and as sturdy pot of coffee. Then we began strategizing; we knew we had to make smart choices.



















We began with the biscuits and jelly. They were perfectly and lovingly crafted and didn't need a lick of butter. Weird.













The biscuits were also a wait to prepare ourselves for the only reason Eola itself was open for its monthly brunch: its bacon flight. From a list of 12 bacons--including jowly face bacon--Christine and I ordered three. I have no idea what we got but at least one of them was a Berkshire and each varied in saltiness, fattiness, smokiness, and meatiness.



















Thick pork is an intimidating thing; as such, puns about squealing in delight or pigging out would be misplaced. We congratulated ourselves on about four bites each and retreated to more traditional plates. Christine had corned beef and hash with eggs and I had eggs benedict.



















And the more-breakfast-than-brunch-dish, grits.

After staring up the nose of our waiter (can that be a reverse metaphor?), enduring the charmingly silly inquiries of our platinum-haired busboy, crisscossing the anti-GMO protestors and enlightened Occupy DC protestors very proud of themselves for going to see Cornel West, and savoring the attire of those who appeared more fit to fix their transmission than visit the White House, we silded up to the bar at Elephant and Castle. Seemed in season to me.

Westend Bistro

I don't think I ever want 15 minutes of fame, but I'm quite content with the 20 second intervals of it that seem to come my way. In true DC socialite form (or rather, like any frugal early-bird-special qualifier), I headed to Georgetown ("the West End," technically) to both valet my car for a show that evening and to grab a bite to eat. Granted, the bite and the valet was at the Westend Bistro at the Ritz Carlton, but it's 67th on the top 100 and the valet was only $8 ($2 more than street parking and a guarantee of not getting a ticket, of which I've received three at top 100 restaurants).

My 20 seconds of fame did not come when I was recognized as a famed amateur food critic in the dining room or when Eric Ripert, "culinary director" of the restaurant, strolled over and blinked at me with his piercingly beautiful eyes (neither of those things happened, of course). Rather, it came when I was leaving the restaurant, walking to the Kennedy Center, and saw that my seven-year old car--with pashminas, umbrellas, and a bottle of Windex in the back seat--was parked on the Ritz sidewalk. I've only seen Rolls Royces and Jaguars typically on esteemed Ritz cobblestones, so I couldn't help but proudly giggle that my car--for perhaps a brief moment--was an accidental beacon of luxury.

As I arrived before the dining room was even open (what happens when you're part of a snooty "pre-theater" crowd), I settled in at the bar and ordered an exorbitantly tall cocktail. It was exactly the type of happy hour you'd expect at a fancy DC hotel--bartenders who don't keep eye contact for more than four seconds, youth listening to iPods while their books idle to the side, and impeccably dressed older men in suits projecting their rank to younger women.

The cocktail--a flute of prosecco, cherry and pink peppercorn bitters, with a cube of sugar elusively dissolving itself at the bottom--was gorgeous. Its height made it teeter, but I raced it to the bottom to make sure my sips were somewhat proportionate to the pace of the dissolving sugar. I was bored, wanted my table, and didn't want my last gulp to be straight sugar.


I had my last gulp at my table, seated on a beautiful banquette subtly reminiscent of Paris but entirely American. It stormed alternately delicately and violently during my dinner and the flashes of lightening--that I thought came from cameras the first few times--kept pulling my eyes out the window.



















The bread was, refreshingly, good. Porous and crusty, chewy and in some places, smooth.


I had the tuna carpaccio to start. I would have been fooled that it was one miraculously single piece of tuna; the manager explained to me that rather the small pieces of carpaccio were pressed together, but it appeared seamless and was simply flavored with lemon juice, olive oil, chives, and shallots. It looked like a praline-colored skating rink.


My waiter, charming, had instantly cut the think fog of pretension that occluded the bar when I sat down at the table. He brought a great glass of wine and I had the 72-hour barbecue brisket for dinner. It's probably not surprising that I would have preferred the Midwestern version $20 less, served in a red basket with a side of fried okra, but this was quite delicious. The broccoli and mushrooms were respectively crisp and smooth and the brisket was tender, smoky, but severely lacking in barbecue sauce (remember: KC BBQ tactics are superlative). He indulged me and brought me more.


I had the carrot cake brownie for dessert, a beautiful little gem with a scoop of ice cream on top.

The 20 seconds of fame after dinner was soon followed by a simultaneously delightful yet interminable show, Les Miserables; avoiding three fat, scurrying rats; and a series of creepy text messages from a now-former suitor, but the ebullience wrought by Ritz-parking-spot-glory lasts longer than a little sugar cube.

PS7's

Hopping almost directly off a plane after a four-day bender (not really, but sounds better) of oyster, clams, and pasta and heading to a Friday-night urban haute-hot-dog-and-pizza picnic, it's impossible to deny how lucky I am (culinarily). Maybe I'm defeatist in promoting a tired theme of my good food fortune, but what else would you call it when an amateur food critic has a bacon-chocolate milk shake less than 24 hours after admirably creamy burrata (besides full up on calcium)?

Dotti, new and old blog fixtures, and I went to PS7's, the 66th best restaurant in the city. After four orbits around the same block (that was me being unable to converse and spot parking spaces), we settled in quickly for a drink. Our waitress was quite possibly the most enthusiastic smiler-nose-schruncher I've ever seen, which put the table at ease.

And, again, why wouldn't I be at ease? The night before, in Boston's North End, I had a whole portion of burrata, a tomato half the size of my head, and butternut squash tortelloni. Plus, my waiter's name was Carmen. I vowed to myself I'd watch the Godfather II and sip chianti this weekend to prolong the memories.














At PS7's, we focused on all the details of the present. We ordered six of the eight appetizers to start. With there being four of us and three appetizer food units per appetizer plate, we ordered to maximize the amount of food each of us could try. In thinking we were ordering three full plates, we actually received two hot dogs instead of two plates of hot dogs, one pork belly banh "mini" sandwich, and one tuna tartare bun. After portioning up our mini-servings, we clarified and began filling the fully round Scarface table with more plates (Carmen's legacy lived on a day longer).

We ordered two flatbreads--exercising some restraint as there were three on the menu--starting with the "nutty goat" flatbread featuring walnut butter, goat gouda cheese, arugula, toasted shallots. Breads--particularly the pizza kind--are great complementary vehicles to gossip over.


We also had the Autumn flavor flatbread: butternut squash puree, spiced pepitas, pickled cranberries, and Virginia ham.


The tuna tartare sandwiches, as they began trickling out, were adorable in their modesty. Each was served with white miso aioli and cucumber-cilantro slaw.


The banh minis, a diminutive play on Vietnamese banh mi sandwiches, were ridiculously tender and flavorful too, even when divided into two extra mini portions.


We kept drinking and food kept arriving. We had a charcuterie plate with reed-like breadsticks with exquisitely and complexly flavored meats.


We finally capitulated and ordered entrees, three of us getting the pork loin, set atop potato salad with pancetta, a side of BBQ peaches, and a fried basil leaf.

It seemed reckless and foolish to order any more, but when the waitress mentioned a dessert with banana, peanut butter, and bacon, rational-decision-making seemed irrelevant and we got “The Elvis.” Cutting into the peanut-encrusted cubes released a wave of melty peanut butter and banana. On the side was a chocolate bacon milkshake. It started off as a hunka hunka burnin' love, but quickly devolved to a bizarre aftertaste. It was worth it, though.

To finish, we had chocolate espresso balls.

One of our party graciously picked up the entire tab, pulling the pay-while-en-route-to-the-little-diner's-room. Thankfully, 24 additional--albeit veggie-ful--opportunities exist to repay the hospitality.

Palena

Sometimes, when I'm old-fashioned-thinking, I feel a little guilty for my self-congratulating tone when I write about my terrific meals and my wanton financial ways in ordering whatever I flittingly want. I know it's for a greater good--marking restaurants off a probably arbitrarily crafted top 100 list, which hopefully has some societal value...to someone--but sometimes I get a bit existential wondering what-does-the-incessant-desire-to-photograph-and-write-about-food really mean? Then, on Sunday afternoons, I find myself for 43 minutes sucked into and perusing the sordid world of Twitter and its role in memorializing the dissolution of marriages and I realize that mine hopefully classifies as quite a minor online self-indulgence. Before those 43 minutes, what 2.5 hours of brunch glory I luxuriated in, self-congratulation be damned!

Christine and I, this morning and afternoon, went to Palena, a cozy but proper establishment on Connecticut. Christine kindly called a while ago to set up a week-of reservation; after they more or less scoffed at her for presuming to get in reasonably soon, we walked in straightaway this morning and got a quiet seat near the kitchen. As anyone who's hosted a party knows, near the kitchen is where the talk is good.

In the minutes before Christine arrived, I had a delicious, roasted, and rich coffee and wrote postcards (what else would I do?). When Christine arrived, we delved into phase one of brunch: more coffee and breads. The impressively tender and porous options included sourdough, wheat, and semolina.



















After we covered the first phase of catching-up (and sufficiently sampled each of the breads), we transitioned toward the glory of Palena cocktails. Christine's had an exquisite ginger foam and was spiced with cardamom or cinnamon (a fall day spice) and featured the famous memory-evoker, Calvados...

Mine, the Alexandra, had pear vodka and soaked raisins (which I unabashedly retrieved with my soup spoon); a drink this exciting only exacerbated my wrist flourishes.

A good hour and a half in, we tucked into brunch. Our waitress, to our delight, timed our entire afternoon to our conversation and preference. Observervant, she neither rushed nor slowed us down unneccessarily. For her meal, Christine commemorated another fine one we shared together, eating buckwheat crepes (galettes) in Paris.

Since it's fall and I'd frankly rather be in Paris, I'll impose on the linearity of the previous paragraph and promote the legitimate Breton galettes at Breizh Café we had there. Located in the Marais, Breizh Cafe crafts somber but soulful buckwheat crêpes, with things like raw cheese and yolky eggs in them. All this is paired with cidre in pottery cups.



















And if Demi Moore can post creepy photos of herself with her eyes closed on Twitter, I can post a year-old photo of another hand-crafted meal Christine and I shared in Paris, with the salted butter (to accompany the bread, radishes, and even chocolate a few verres in) as the centerpiece. Self-indulgent indeed, on all accounts.



















Ok, back to today. To suit my Classics-friendly sensibility, I got a Roman-inspired stew. Vaccinara con Polenta featured oxtail, pine nuts, and raisins with a coddled hen egg, wilted spinach and cardoons, beautiful and celery-esque and also called artichoke thistles. I was so eagerly enamored with it, I consumed it entirely with a fork.



















Making it a two-day donut weekend for me, we ordered the frosted lemon donut, what Christine called the best of her life. It was crisp on the outside, porous but dense on the inside (reminiscent simultaneously of the textures of sourdough and pound cake), and subtly lemony.


Saturday's donut adventure was loukamathes at a Greek church's festival, so I should be set for the next few months.

Being so close to the Zoo, it seemed only natural to wander south and see the side of a zebra:


A panda bear in profile:


And an elephant...


...Up close on a poster.

Having 25 restaurants left on the list is something to congratulate oneself on, though, right?