Ambar

I welcome myself back: I dined in true Boca Sola fashion last night. When DC Restaurant Week arrives, a girl has had a long couple of weeks, and all she wants to do is read a rather trashy novel and drink pastel-colored drinks, she goes out Boca Sola style. This time, for a culinary respite, I opted for Balkan. That's right. This, here.

Thanks to Balkan culinary tradition, there were no foam-covered foods or too-delicate-to-eat appetizers like last time I dined Boca Sola-style a year ago.  Last night was cabbage and meats and hearty.

I went to Ambar, in Eastern Market. Along the main drag there are reliably delicious standbys like Greek and pizza, but then there is Ambar, a new addition to Barracks Row. Somehow, its shyness and unobtrusiveness seems to have attracted the entire neighborhood: I barely snagged a stool at the bar while I waited for my table for a very typical Boca Sola drink-before-the-drink.

It was chaotic, as Restaurant Week is wont. In particularly bad form, though, a runner passed dishes to a bartender behind the bar between two bar patrons. Despite the restaurant's gloss, the move seemed like something from a Balkan diner rather than a Balkan club, but later became more forgivable...the longer I stayed, the more I saw the warmth of the staff and how genuinely engaged the owner seemed.

I started with a glass of white wine (only because the delightful-sounding description made it sound like red) and it did legitimately have hints of rosemary. It tasted like spring--like a subtle spring, not a Disney-esque-birds-landing-on-fingertips-spring.

I had settled at the bar upstairs and when I descended to be seated, the hostess thanked me for my patience, apologized, and touched my elbow. The fact that I'm lauding elbow-touching underscores what good, memorable customer service the restaurant had. My charming, young waiter eagerly checked on me to ensure I was well-fed and comfortable. One couldn't mistake the swanky decor for being reminiscent of someone's home, but the food did feel like a hip derivative of someone's grandmother's recipe collection. 

The Restaurant Week menu--I think very cleverly, here--is accompanied by a cocktail. I chose a grappa rakia sour. Rakia is a grape brandy--bottles of which contributed to the clever bar background in the first photo--and was muted-ly sweet and not too strong. 

 

To begin, I had veal stew, less perfunctory than it would have been in this cold weather since I'd already warmed myself with the cumulative effect, nonetheless, of cold drinks. This was convenient since the soup wasn't that warm in the first place but it was a great tasting soup: small pieces of rich veal in a shade-thicker-than-thin broth with ribbons of sour cream. A squeeze of lemon juice on top sufficiently cut the richness.

For a second appetizer,  I had a more photogenic view of my cocktail and the mushroom crepes. They were filled with four types of forest mushrooms (per my charming waiter) and potatoes, then brushed with a thin layer of bechamel. After two, I was quite full. Upon the resumption of enjoying my crepes (and reading another chapter of said trash literature), I noticed they began tasting better the more they basked there. It was incredibly rich and hearty, but perfectly sized.

For dinner, I couldn't resist cabbage rolls. This is country food and I appreciated the no-fuss method of serving them. They were hot in their small cocotte, served with a side of yogurt. The meat (veal and beef) was rich and flavorful without extravagance--no deconstructed anything added on, no French sauce, no bizarre gelatin-based accoutrement. Just two things on my dinner plate.

It was delightfully refreshing and good, especially in blustery weather. However the only hint of real vegetable were the microscopic adornment-chives, the  mark of any good comfort food regardless of culture.