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.