J&G Steakhouse

Some nights you get lucky: you have a great night out, a delicious steak, an exceptionally-selected wine, and inquisitive and introspective conversations at dinner. If you're an amateur food critic, a superlative evening on top of that includes when a friend comes to dinner, is an excellent host, and offers to provide his insight on both food and romance--blog hallmarks--with a guest blog entry. How enviously lucky am I? Without further ado:

And now for something completely different. Sort of. As Julie, your esteemed guide to culinary adventure prepares for the final stretch in her conquest of the Washingtonian’s top 100, I managed to convince her to sit this one out and just enjoy the meal, while you, her loyal readers, experience a tale of food and friendship from a guy’s perspective (Editor’s note: guest editor Steve deserves a round of applause for culinary-critiquing finesse in the paragraphs that follow and lamb carving skills in the entry before). Why you ask? Because the Boca Sola is all about new experiences and an escape from the ordinary. Also, she’s busy packing for her trip to France. So there’s that. But don’t worry, she still has to edit this sucker so she’s here in spirit. By the way, fans of grammar may want stop reading now and jump to the next blog entry. Still here? Let’s get on with it...

This particular episode brings us to J & G Steakhouse inside DC’s trendy W Hotel. Taking point on the expedition was of course the lovely Ms. J, joined by her charming partner in crime, Dotti. Rounding out the crew was Eric, himself no stranger to the top 100, Doug, a well-travelled expert in wines, and me, your guest commentator for the evening.

Upon arrival, I was struck by how refreshingly modern the atmosphere and lighting was. Steakhouses, even in 2012, often fall into the trap of going too dark, usually black with more black, with a little bit of red. This, I’ve found can often be a deterrent for the ladies, who don’t typically enjoy hanging out in something that looks like the Corleone compound from Godfather II. (Editor’s note: particularly if, in the restaurant, some crooked cop says it's got the best veal parmigiana in the city).


Unbeknownst to me when I rather arrogantly requested to write this entry, the privilege of serving as guest blogger came with the responsibility of selecting all starters, sides, desserts, and the wine bottle for the entire table. This can be daunting when you have the palate of a ten year old kid. Nevertheless, this night was about getting out of one’s comfort zone, a concept applicable to both food and relationships in general. We opened with a round of appetizers including crispy calamari with pickled chiles and yuzu dip, bacon-wrapped Gulf shrimp, and a jumbo crab cake with a sugar snap pea remoulade. I found the crab cake to be absolutely delectable, and among the best I’ve ever had. Of course, it should be noted that I’ve never had crab cake before and have always wanted to use the word "delectable" in a sentence, so mission accomplished.


I completed my experimentation with crab cake just in time to see the last of the bacon wrapped shrimp get gleefully devoured by the quartet in front of me. The shrimp, I’m told, rocked. This is probably because it was wrapped in bacon and you don’t need a soon-to-be world class food reviewer like me to tell you that anything wrapped in bacon is automatically awesome.


I didn’t eat the calamari because according to Wikipedia, calamari is fried squid, and squids are gross. (Editor’s note: one of your Greek seafaring/fisherman/sponge-diving ancestors just shed a single tear, I'm sure.)

On the drink front, there was plenty of Malbec consumed through the course of the evening, though Eric and I had to start off with good old American beer and Julie kicked off with a Calvados-infused cocktail. In the lead up to the main course, we elected to grab a bottle of Cabernet from Margaux, France, which most of the table enjoyed, though we ultimately returned back to the comfort of the Malbec before the evening concluded.


Much of the evening’s conversation revolved around change, both personal and professional, with two of our party either having started, or being on the verge of starting, new work assignments and all the good and bad that comes with such a change of scenery.

Soon the entrees arrived, with three of us opting for the filet mignon, cooked perfectly I might add, with a nice pink center.


Doug went with the peppercorn prime New York Strip steak which is like 14 ounces of awesome.


Perhaps the star of the show, however, was Dotti’s hanger steak with a massive helping of French fries on the very same plate. I’m told it tasted even better than it looked.

For sides, we went with some grilled asparagus, black truffle cheese fritters, and potato gratin. The asparagus was middling. While I appreciated the olive oil, there was way too much lemon. I aint down with that. The Cheese Truffles were good, but not as epic as they deserved to be. Fried cheese should be an automatic home run every time. This was more of a ground rule double.

Hands down the sides winner in my book was the potato gratin. Imagine the best potatoes you’ve ever had packed with the finest melted cheese known to man. This is why America is the greatest nation on earth: we’ve made the classic steak and potatoes meal even more awesome with the inclusion of melted cheese. I’m tempted to chant “U-S-A! U-S-A!” even as I type this (Editor’s note: potato gratin is French. Good try though).

By far the funniest moment of the night took place during dessert. Doug ordered a cappuccino and they straight up brought him this:


We’re not sure what it was, but it looked like it was the few remaining drops of coffee from a cup bussed off of another table. The look on his face was worth the price of the whole meal.
Very quickly that was remedied and we all got to enjoy a combination of warm chocolate lava cake and salted caramel ice cream with a popcorn and chocolate sauce. You heard that right.


The smile on Dotti’s face for the chocolate lava cake nearly lit up the restaurant. Even Boca Sola’s founder and my editor-in-chief got a kick out of it.


As the evening wound down, a few of us scoped out the rooftop bar on the W to check out the view of DC and briefly enjoy the weather. All in all, not a bad night. (Editor’s note: bravo, Steve, and kali orexi. Your guesting is welcome back any time.)

Eating Across America

America is clearly what's temporally on my mind, surprising since I haven't had Oklahoma barbecue (and a side of fried okra) in a while (a combination of food that invigorates my faith in both humanity and dining in general). As such, I'd like to explain what I've been up instead of completing my top 100 goals. I'll spare the apologies and excuses and just say it's been a lovely non-top-100 year food-wise. There have been pounds of meat (roasted in my own oven), Tex Mex in other time zones, marriage celebrations where love of food was celebrated alongside love of spouse (in robustly tandem amounts), and lots of pictures to commemorate it all.

Most recently, my friend Allison--my high school debate partner, counterpart in Harry Connick Jr. adulation, and savory pie chef--wed in Chicago, which she also (almost entirely) catered. A woman of many talents, she had (of course) a number of delicious hand pies, in addition to exquisitely-crusted sweet pies. And colorful pickled things. I danced, I had fancy regional French specialities the next day (kouign amman at Floriole Cafe, tres bien), and had Boulevard from a hand-imported-from-Kansas-City keg.



















I also visited my brother in Georgia and tasted the culinary genius of "Cletus," the catch-all name for Georgian locals (best to stop there). There's really little better than Waffle House on a Saturday in northwest Georgia, where I just couldn't help responding in kind to our waitress' thick Southern accent, as sugary as that sticky syrup holder next to the Tabasco.



















The biggest feat of 2012 was my Easter dinner, replete with a five-pound lamb leg and pastitsio, quite possibly the most non-Greek Greek favorite. Pastitsio--a sort of Greek lasagna--requires taking one day off of work, browning meet interminably long, stirring a bechamel sauce for about 45 minutes...straight..and being comforted by female relatives (who have made pastitsio) as many times as they will pick up the phone and answer your harried queries.













I was even lucky enough to have a Yiayia who happened to have baked Greek koulourakia a few days before my party and a mother who didn't mind Fedex'ing them about seven states over.


I headed to fancy Gramercy Tavern in Manhattan sometime in March and enjoyed the simple pleasures of wine and petits fours on a Thursday afternoon. (Admittedly, not a bad gig.) I had some food for lunch but the treat was the carrot cake with butter pecan ice cream--with candied carrots--and the quarter-sized macaron. And the subtle ambiance of dining at your perfect idea of where ladies-who-lunch actually lunch.

The next day, my friend Sonia--now a recent graduate of the French Culinary Institute--and I wandered more around Manhattan. She took me to Baked By Melissa, a delicious mini-cupcake almost-stall that sells delicious cake/icing combinations like peanut butter and jelly, red velvet, and mint chocolate chip. In profile, they look like this, copyright almost certainly infringed:



I clearly enjoyed them as well. And the lamb Sonia braised, while in the kitchen at the restaurant at the French Culinary Institute, the night before.



















I was finally able to visit Philadelphia and instead of starting with a cheese steak, had a Croque Madame at the Ritz, which was surprisingly artsily photogenic (the sandwich and the hotel). Then I happily gave in and went to a cheese steak place.



















Then I watched its beautiful construction and ate every last bit.













Earlier in my eating-across-America tour, I had gone to Kansas City, visiting my old haunts (food and otherwise) with my parents to celebrate Allison's bachelorette party (like her wedding, her bachelorette party was deliberately built around food, to my satisfaction).

There was Tex Mex and a beer tour, with requisite tasting.













There was a robust appreciation for the variety of barbecue sauce at a local grocery store and envy for Boulevard's prolific beer choices and great labels a few aisles over.













And of course, farm-choked-chickens at Stroud's and BBQ-sauce-drenched chopped beef at Gate's.













I had mole enchiladas in Austin, necessitating a cowboy-size appetite.



















There was Southern food and spiked coffee (the "Irish Hangover Cure") with Sue (my favorite UGA/Oklahoma fan) at Kitchen 2404, with all manner of fried eggs, grits, and shrimp.



















And then, there was the birth of Stephanie's baby--the first of many girlfriends' lovely children--sweeter than any many-dollar Jose Andres dessert concoction.

America Eats Tavern

I love American food. I love a steamed hot dog in crinkled foil with only a few pumps of mustard from a vat to adorn it. I love McDonald's French fries: the short, pointy, crunchy ones and the long mushy ones that have absorbed generous sprinklings of salt alike. I love macaroni and cheese from a cafeteria hot bar, pineapple upside down cake with uniformly-arrayed-pineapple-from-a-can at picnics, and juicy burgers with even juicier tomatoes. I particularly like the complement beer and potato skins add to already good conversations. Real American food, however, is not improved with condescension and tradition-skewering improvements. I suppose that's my opening shot.

Christine and I this afternoon had a lovely day celebrating Western landscapes and colonial portraits at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. We admired photos of Americana by Annie Liebowitz and the juicy still lifes.














We saw portraits of Reagan, Davy Crockett, cowboys, Indians, Benjamin Franklin, and expansive landscapes of mountains and gorges, with glimmery waterfalls, idyllic little deer, and light that can't possibly exist in reality. Patriotism was clearly in no short supply, making us extremely biased toward sampling our Motherland's food.

As such, we decided to try Jose Andres' new restaurant, America Eats Tavern. The space that previously housed Cafe Atlantico and its swankier 6-seat restaurant-within-a-restaurant upstairs, Minibar (both top 100s), has been converted to a dining room "that brings the history of America to life on your plate." It's like a food Epcot, without any animatronic Presidents.

You can tell from the subtle derision I've already exhibited that the concept didn't fly like Old Glory on a windy day, for a variety of reasons. One, Americans don't really eat like this (you'll see). Two, American food is significantly cheaper that the prices we were charged (our bill was $100+). And three, our waiter's puritanical view of food (he invoked the glories of the restaurant's "catsup" while freely admitting there was nothing on the menu to put it on) coupled with his latent snootiness (he called me out for rolling my eyes when he mechanically said the strawberry shortcake's selling point was that the berries came from the nearby farmer's market). Christine wisely noted that there is no point changing something that's already good if you're not making it better.

After 10 minutes of perusing the menu (each item had a small paragraph more focused on food history than actual ingredients), we were exhausted and needed a drink. I had the Moscow Mule with lime, ginger beer, and vodka and Christine had the French 75, a cocktail created at Harry's New York Bar in Paris (with gin, lemon and sparkling wine). We split biscuits with blackberry butter.



















Clearly, we were looking past our slightly intrusive waiter (who readily admitted to listening to our conversation--quite a juicy one at that) and enjoying our cocktails and sweet things.


With our first dish, we realized that really delicious classics--the historic culinary favorites a restaurant like this is both celebrating and capitalizing on--oftentimes can't or shouldn't be improved upon. Case in point: Waldorf salad is good because of the creamy mayonnaise, the grassy and nutty crunch of celery and nuts, and the tart apples ubiquitous in each bite. Instead, the potent integration of the various textures and tastes today was watered down and deconstructed with layers and lettuce for a reasonable $12.


Christine wanted a burger, but the filet-mignon-grind was mixed with bone marrow. Instead, she had the fried hot dog on a crusty roll and relish. It was tasty but, well, a $10 hot dog.

I didn't fare much better: I had the peanut butter and jelly sandwich with foie gras. The sandwiches were charmingly pocketed into little pouches but they were heavy and, I found, an unappetizing mish-mash that went half eaten. The milk and the chips were good, but I guess they were the only parts that made me successfully and sufficiently nostalgic.



















We had dessert, largely driven by the fact that I was still hungry. Since American Express and Dole are sponsors of America Eats (not sure how this works since you'd think the patrons were being sufficiently financially extorted), pineapple was on the menu. It was admittedly beautiful, but was a little too sugary, lacked sufficient amounts of pineapple in the cake, and missed a tacky maraschino cherry on top (ok, I'm not judging them there but who thought I'd miss it). Next time I have American, it will be in baseball stands, on a paper plate, or on a stick, please.