Sushi Taro

With being 30, comes a revived sense of responsibility. I'd like to say that's true, as I am still at least five restaurants and multiple side events behind. The truth is, however, I'm only writing on a Saturday morning about a dinner I had more than a month ago now because I'm afraid to miss a hair appointment I've already missed once and am tethering myself to my computer until then. Thirty, schmirty.

I visited Sushi Taro (one month ago) with a new friend, one who thankfully had the patience to endure my ordering a nine-course tasting menu (and obnoxiously taking a photo of each one). The bad thing about lazily writing up multi-course meals ages after they're partaken of, though, is that I have no recollection of what I ate.

There were sea urchins, salted fishes, broths, and tempura-ed glories galore, but I'd estimate another 30 unknown ingredients that will go unmentioned. While begging for forgiveness, I present to you what I remember of a very good meal, where fortunately for me but unfortunately for you, the conversation was more memorable than the plate components.


I started off with pomegranates soaking in white wine. I don't remember what kind, but I do remember fishing out the pomegranates that didn't get swept out with the unknown wine. Next, I had the densest, silkiest bean curd I've ever had, heartied with a shallow pool of broth and sea urchin. I think. It, memorably at least, had the same consistency of my own tongue. Maybe it's good I don't entirely recall what I ate. But, I at least doubled up the photos to reduce the effort you expend to scroll. As penance.














Next, I had a fish tartare-stuffed persimmon with a shot of fruit juice with a skewer of tempura-ed... I don't know. I fail as a culinary Nancy Drew. I can better recall the exemplary tuna, salmon, and yellowtail that graced my tongue with more sophistication than an urchin and with the chewy yet forgiving tenderness that only fresh raw fish can offer.



















Then, I ate what could have credibly passed as an involved centerpiece or paintable Japanese still life. I feel less guilty, however, in being unable to recall this dish as the waitress had to repeat its contents about two minutes after she conveyed it the first time.

In the ceramic container, top left, were black edamame (soy beans in their shell). A real sea snail was in its shell at the top right (which I ate, while having cartoon-like visions of x's over my eyes). There were roasted (?) chestnuts, with nut meat soft enough to pull out of the shell in the middle. In the lower middle, I think I ate some caramelized banana (that doesn't sound very Japanese though) and I even unwrapped something from a banana leaf (I could be 0 for 2 on the final guesses). Then I perhaps had baked fish atop a bed of crusty salt on the right.



















Next, I had a type of Japanese fondue. In the small bowl on the right were fried pieces of fish, which I unsophisticatedly baptized in a a creamy soy milk broth with its own Sterno. At this point, I actively ceased trying to remember beyond the next course what I was eating. Further, every time the waitress placed a new dish before me, she giggled a little in delight at my mildly horrified eyes that yet another dish was coming that required at least 30 seconds of explanation. At that point, ingredient retention seemed futile. Next I had nigiri...well, what I could sample despite battling competing senses of accomplishment and exhauastion after a parade of plates.













Hours later, after robust discussions of work, men, and children (it's possible there may be a new blog cameo-er in the future), we had pudding with an exquisite flan-like sweet sauce at the bottom. I know I'll remember better next time because I've already gone.

30 (and Corduroy)

It finally happened: I became a grown up. Despite knowing for 29 years and 364 days that this would one day happen, I decided the final week of twentydom to eschew the hand-wringing, knitting-class-enrolling, flinging-with-24-year-olds, or Las-Vegas-Strip-indulging that previously seemed the appropriate response for a terrified 29 year-old. Instead, I ran head-long in, hurtling toward 30 and hitting four top 100s in six days. That's right.. I've been busy spending 25% of my salary (I calculated it) on bars, drinks, and requisite hotel rooms to welcome myself into a third decade but not writing a single thing about any of it.

This presents a bit of a problem, particularly for an amateur food writer with the memory of a fruit fly. Particularly fruit flies 29 1/2 years her junior. I'll cover them all, but the fact that this following week has been a parade of Netflix films, Lean Cuisines, and polishing off a magnum of generic red wine (read: three strong indicators of laziness), I make no guarantees this will be a prodigal or quick return.

But how better a way to ring in a new first digit of one's age than a trip to a fancy schmancy white-table-clothed restaurant with old friends Dotti and Eric (over medium rare venison and conversations about Paris no less) at Corduroy; a bawdy (yet classy; they are not mutually exclusive) dinner with Christine over Chiantis, Brunellos, and Calvados at Tosca; a dinner with a new friend who passed the test of patience with both food photography AND a tasting menu at Sushi Taro; and three Dotti meals (only one of which was the build-up-to-3o week; I'm behind) all around the city where we planned European vacations and the post-top-1oo project, Where the Men Are, a geographical inquiry into men-rich regions.

I'll begin with the most recent, because that's the only hope I have. Eric, loyal reader of early top 100 Proof fame, chose Corduroy and Dotti and I were glad to redux over more red wine. She and I drove in to the big city, valet parked our car, and ordered two Bordeauxs, please, at the bar, because that's what 30 somethings do. And talk about their sophisticated international travels, as we all did, over more fancy red wines. A bottle, to be exact, which of course paired well with the chewy, porous, deliciously fresh bread.


Eric started with the soup--the most impressive dish of the evening, which is a rare feat for that category of appetizer and one of the few presentations of a dish for which I wish I had had the foresight to record it. I'm truly an amateur.

The soup was served with a cracker-thin ring of cheese (I think?) that rested atop the bowl's lip. The staff, already impressive in reciting the menu-length list of specials, poured the cauliflower bisque into the reminiscent-of-ice-fishing hole in the middle.

I had the surprisingly good scallop tartare, cleverly arrayed in its own scallop shell with an accompanying cabbage salad with shiso, a charmingly punch-packing Asian green. Two tablespoons of raw fruits-de-mer, though, ensured I was starving for my main course.


I had the venison with the chestnut puree. It also had limp green beans, but I'm wiser now and didn't eat them. It had a delicious red wine reduction and the chestnut puree was nutty, albeit a bit saccharine. Sucrosey? But the venison, oh it was tender and juicy.


Dotti and Eric did better in their choice of pork, adorably served with mini-squashes. The sauce was good, despite me having any recollection of what it actually was.


Dinners like these are especially nice if they finish with a reminder of someplace else, a recollection of a beautiful memory or locale, particularly a place that was discussed over the first few glasses of wine (if you guess Paris I'm predictable). Eric was clever enough to propose the cheese plate for dessert, and we chose two (delightfully ubiquitous but unique chèvre cheeses), a few French and Spanish ones, and my stinky favorite, a bleu. How ridiculously delightful is an evening filled with conversations about France, food (we learned capon was a castrated rooster... well, it was described more delicately than that), and love? Hello 30, 14 more restaurants await.

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.