Mintwood Place, Huong Viet and the 99.5th Best Restaurant

I clearly haven't devoted as much time to the food blog that you'd expect a person trying to finish two lists would. If you could imagine anything about each of those three restaurants, though, you'd probably guess they have very little in common, except being on two very different lists sponsored by the same magazine.

Despite any other intuitively logical way to proceed, we'll go chronologically, and start with the most French. I signed up for a cooking class at Living Social, offered by the chef de cuisine at Citronelle, David Deshaies. Recall that Citronelle is the last restaurant on the top 100 I have yet to visit (I'm still catching up from writing up some others, but trust me: I'm one fancy dinner away from completion). Since Citronelle, and the hotel it's housed in in Georgetown, is currently closed because of extensive remodeling, I'm going to claim I only have half a restaurant left. Or maybe three fourths? Wait until you see the quality of my macarons.

We started by making a scallop, frisee, and jicama salad, topped with hollandaise. My yolk didn't run, but it looked like it could have if cooked a minute less!

 We whipped the macaron filling by hand (egg whites and sugar here) and baked our macaron tops and bottoms.

 

The best--and the Frenchest part (see the ingredients)--was making the boeuf bourgignon. Below, in my pan, are butter, onions, and bacon.

And the desserts. Bonjour, chef! (He thought I was French until he heard me speak more and butcher his language like the poached egg before that).

 

Sonia came in town soon after, so we went derivative-restauranting: instead of going to Citronelle (because it's closed) or David Deshaie's current restaurant (Central, where I'd already been), we went to Mintwood Place, where the chef used to be sous chef at Citronelle also. Got that?

My bourbon cocktail was delicious, as were the lentils (French, hearty, and flavorful).

  

 I also ordered the bacon and onion flammekueche, a specialty from Alsace (in northeastern France), which was as good as it looks. Sonia, before eating dinner.

 

 

Unfortunately, the rest of the bevy of plates on our table were disappointing: the greasy octopus, the limp broccoli, and the overfried kale salad. Zero pour trois--pas bon.

If you can scroll a bit further, we'll let the food-quality-pendulum swing back to the good, to a two-photo Vietnamese place in Eden Center, Huong Viet, on the top 100 Cheap eats. It was lovely, reasonable, and family-friendly, albeit smelling very potently of fish sauce back near the kitchen (where I sat). I had an avocado boba drink, which was tremendous: a smooth milk-based drink with a delicate undercurrent of avocado and tapioca balls at the bottom. For dinner, I had caramelized fish in a hot pot. Vive la difference.

Columbia Room and Ping Pong Dim Sum

Tonight, I felt like a gypsy in search of both drinks and food. Further, I'll insist tonight's activities were the work only a food blogger would do. After all, after a day of work (having lunch, mind you, at a regimented time like 12:30), I went to the still-relatively-scary-area of the Convention Center to sample alcohol, with a small side of food, Boca Sola style (tonight, that means, without even a book). It was a celebration of cocktails--bitters, liqueurs, zests, gins, and fancy-sounding European mind-alterers--ordering the tasting menu at the Columbia Room.

Long ago (I'd say 50 restaurants prior), I had a true Boca Sola dinner and learned from my bartender at 701 about the seminal bars in DC. (The amazing thing about this food blog is when I can quote myself.) He recommended both the Passenger and the Columbia Room, the Passenger's interior bar. They had, up until this evening, been mythical bars with ethereal drinks.

It was clever--I learned about grenadine (theirs has pomegranate), smelled wormwood and the bark used for bitters, and inhaled artichoke liqueur. Unfortunately, I had to eke out a lot of this information from the busy bartenders but this was a place where liquor nerds go to share. And I did.

It's a charming place: I made a reservation a few weeks ago, had to ask a waitress how to get in (hint: it's an unmarked black door), and settled into my solo chair. This is not the place to go alone, particularly book-less. The drink-making is a spectacular show, but being so intimate, it's hard to people-watch without eavesdropping. Nonetheless, the drink tasting menu (yes, seriously) was unrolled quickly enough for me to comfortably savor, observe, ask questions, and enjoy.

Cocktails are serious business these days: there is esteem for the tradecraft, ingredients, and recipes of cocktails of yore. The Columbia Room setup, though, despite largely making me uncomfortable that everyone knew I could hear their conversations (more irksome because some of them were so boring), illustrated to me that 1. alcohols I don't normally like can taste delicious when assembled in magical combinations and 2. magical combinations can come from unlikely ingredients.

I learned the first lesson with the first drink: a punch with lemon juice, soda water, and Tanqueray 10, considerably lighter and less juniper-y than normal gin, making it a gin I like (which I thought was impossible).

 

The second drink fell in the magical-combinations category and was a totally counter intuitive mix of amontillado sherry (the third cocktail I've had in nearly as many weeks with sherry, a feat I'm proud of), artichoke liqueur (Cynar), acquavit (a serious Norwegian drink the bartender aptly noted smells of rye bread), and peach bitters. I'd never order it again but its layered flavors made a nearly intolerably-bitter drink quite pleasant.

The surprisingly apt pairing was lamb tartare: I must say I respect a place that offers raw meat as a snack. Served atop a taboulleh salad, the lamb tartare was mixed with harissa, and served besides Greek yogurt and pita. The good, fresh, chewy kind. It was tremendous to be pleased when I was least expecting it.

The last drink was our own choosing and the Columbia Room takes an admirable risk in allowing preferences, suggestions, or word associations to dictate what drink is made. I asked for a drink that featured Pernod, a French anisette-flavored liqueur that I've only once had in a cocktail and that's usually served over ice. I specifically asked for a cocktail that only featured a splash of it, and got one with, starting left: vermouth, Cointreau, Pernod, and gin, three of which I usually actively avoid.

It was a tremendous cocktail. Subtly anisette-y, but full of other smooth, crisp flavors. It was impressive. Coupled with the young hipster woman sitting next to me telling me how "awesome" it was I went all alone, I happily made my exit. It was time for dinner: a girl can't be satiated by tartare and olives alone after three cocktails. 

  

I went to Ping Pong Dim Sum, two blocks away. Dinner had that same perfunctory feel that Taco Bell does after a night of drinking (I'm hearkening back 10 years here and it's not necessarily their fault), albeit a bit more sophisticated. It's very hip and features club music, things I've never associated with dim sum. Nonetheless, the pork buns were good. The meat was flavorful but I ate the rice paper they were cooked on (not the obvious stuff, but the cleverly transparent stuff just under each bun). I most memorably had something similar at the Source, so will have trouble ever being equally satisfied, but they were still nevertheless good.

I also had the duck/five spice dumplings: the duck was tender and the spicing was subtle but with punch. It worked: good textures and straightforward flavors. It did the trick after a night of spirit-slinging magic.

Haute Dog and Fries

Thankfully, dinner was good last night, because I learned yesterday that my Korean drycleaning lady has been judging me for years. I came in right after work, hair pulled back and sporting my glasses and felt coat. I guess typically I come in on Saturday mornings, thinking I exuded casual elegance despite being in sweats. I guess today I looked like I could afford the amount of money I spend on their overpriced services. She didn't recognize me at first and then when she did, cried "Did you get married?" with a very marked tone of enthusiastic exuberance. She retrieved my clothes and I said no, but I could barely hide my amusement and asked why; she replied that I "looked different."  Well, clearly. I was too befuddled at the implied suggestion (in my mind) that my lack of hoodie directly correlated to marital bliss to inquire any further.

That, my friends, is how I will lead off a blog dedicated to the nexus between food and love, transitioning from disabusing the lady at the cleaners to weiners. No, really. I went to Haute Dog and Fries, which is just up the street and conveniently, recently offered a Living Social half-off deal. I've already delivered enough bad news, so I'll front load the how-the-sausage-was-made here: the service was all kinds of confused (I had to ask for things, un-to-go orders, and generally converse with the staff much more about my food than I ought to have; the manager, however, noticed and graciously cared for the rest of my concerns so all was eventually well).

It's a cute space: funky pictures on the wall and a kid-friendly environment. I even got to watch CNN talk about some cardinal being named pope who did not seem to become appreciably happier (he, to his credit, however, apparently did not get married today).

I started with a local beer and "The Bombshell," a hot dog also known as "The Monroe," which boasted caramelized onions, mango, pineapple, and jalapeños. It didn't have an alarmingly sweet and savory punch, but was delicate in its varied flavors. Each flavor seemed to fall behind the other and willingly meld into the subtly-flavored dog and the ridiculously-well toasty grilled brioche bun. The fries were fabulous, too, with a bit of crisp and crunch, but too little salt.

 Since I'm partial to dachsunds (even not real ones), I particularly enjoyed this down-the-table view.

Dinner was great: simple, flavorful and clever without being cute. I was really looking forward to the Eskimo Dog, though: three scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with hot fudge and caramel, reverently situated in brown sugar and cinnamon toasted hot dog bun.

The ice cream was good, but it was ice cream. Once I started tugging at that bun, though, the ice cream began its involuntary retreat. The bun was soft (on top), caramalized on one side, and on the interior, sopped with ice cream, chocolate, and caramel.  It was like eating the best part of French toast, reduced to its essentials, and barely soggy. It was a lovely evening, even for someone disproportionately happy compared to her cohabitation quotient.

Minibar

Last Wednesday, 6 March, is a day that will live in famy--a dream-like food day with meringue, ice, smoke, and dissimulating entrees--leaves were cheese, pumice was chocolate, snowballs were mezcal. I went to Minibar, which will now be considered the top 100 best restaurant in my book (er, blog. Also, I know that once a month I say a place is a new favorite but I've never fallen in love with so many dishes and chefs at once).

For an amateur food critic (who happens to be single, too), this event was like, well, her wedding day... maybe for sake of similes and metaphors, I'll say her elopement. All day, she thought of what she would wear and didn't eat much (not to make sure she could fit into her dress but so that she didn't compromise her appetite), then nervously awaited when the cab would come get her. She only remembers a blur of images afterwards, hints of memories. Dramatic? Yes. True? Of course!

For lunch, I had hummus and a thin salad at an Irish bar (no reason for a snow day to have kept me down) and spent the day bumming around and ensuring I could easily and safely arrive in the city despite the day's (weak) Snowquester. The suspense and anticipation was subtle but, for a girl like me, palpable. Upon arrival (at a minimally-marked address), I grabbed a seat on the couch in Minibar's "waiting" room--in front of two sets of curtains ensuring the mystery of the dining room--and peeked through a cut out to the kitchen, just over a very modern fireplace. The hope of suspended, delayed gratification was exquisite.

Unsurprisingly, I was the first one to arrive. I sipped a glass of cava from my vantage point and imagined going down the rabbit hole of gastronomy. I imagine other people talk about the weather and comment on the decor. An armchair did look like it was made of marble, after all.

While sipping and trying to calm my delighfully nervous nerves, I enjoyed rice paper crisps with a nori/lime powder. It was served in a hollowed out "book." I ate them all, then played with the book.

The staff--who were very friendly throughout the ranks--shepherded us (a couple arrived, then later, a younger man) into the dining room. I settled and removed my scarf, thrilled like I was at Christmas mornings of yore. With a puzzled look, I tried to find a place to put my scarf: seat back? next chair? floor? Before I dropped it, someone came over and relieved me of it. How thoughtful.

Then, it began. I consumed 28 dishes in a dizzying show of culinary artistry, mastery of chemistry, and creativity. I'll warn you: I'm going to go through each one, so ensure your seat is comfy and you're well hydrated. I've never before thought so thoroughly about my food and how it was made, what it tasted like, how the texture felt in my fingers, nose, mouth, and throat. More delightfully, nothing was at it seemed: "snow" was yogurt, "bread" was meringue, "beans" were chemical anomalies.

The restaurant Komi, technically, is the top restaurant in DC (on the list I'm operating from). It's snooty, poorly lit, and criminally, does not permit photography. When I went and pulled out my Blackberry (a dark era of food blogging) I asked the staff if they were kidding and received a very not-kidding response back. Minibar eschews these trappings, encouraging both photographs and questions. The staff refrains from interrupting conversations (like Komi) and lets diners reach a pause in their conversation before describing a dish's 8-12 ingredients, preparation, and construction (quite welcomely).

I learned photos were ok at dish 6 at Minibar: up until that point, I blissfully enjoyed the freedom of not picking up  my phone and savoring the mystery of what I was eating. The chefs finished preparing the dishes, then plated them right before our eyes: dashes and flourishes of this and that were added while we sat and watched. The first dish was a "Oaxacan Marshmallow," a mezcal-infused ball of what seemed to be soft ice or hard marshmallow. Next, was an Asian "Coca de Vidrio," what looked to be thin, tender glass. After that was a Parmesan leaf (situated among real leaves and holding its own quite well), then within this winter still life, a dish called "Walnut Mimetic," a replica of a walnut to be eaten in its entirety, filled with liquid walnut barely enclosed in a thin candy shell. Next was a "Pillow of PB&J," a small ravioli that exploded in jamminess and what looked like a deeply-rich ground saffron powder, which was finely ground raspberries.

I couldn't resist commemorating the dish "When Pigs Fly," a hollowed-out swine-shaped meringue (replete with a curly tail) and stuffed with bacon ice cream.  I started to struggle a bit with the heavy and the rich: I questioned my fortitude for the many dishes to come.

Right after Babe was a "Foie Bomb," liquid foie gras barely held together by a thin shell that looked like a hand-spun Christmas ornament. This is what taking a literal bite out of the soul of French gastronomy would taste like.

The detail with each plate--edible and otherwise--was remarkable. The container (plate or otherwise), the accouterments, the senses that were awoken reflected the thought that went into each dish.  The "churro tendon," literally, gelatinous veal tendon breaded in panko, fried, and coated in cinnamon and sugar was served atop a bit of paper to evoke how you'd eat one at a fair. An almond tart with blue cheese was served next: what looked like a perfectly-halved egg shell (which was, in fact, made of almonds ground and shaped into a small bowl) was served atop a small bed of rocks (legitimately inedible; we weren't sure, though, underscoring how credible their imitations had become). 

As an aside, along the way I had a variety of drinks: wines, nonalcoholic cocktails, and liqueurs. At one time, I had more than four non-water glasses on my table. My unsuspecting favorite, however, was amontillado sherry. That glass, I finished, while remarking that it is the only mostly-non-creepy thing I can associate with Edgar Allen Poe.

The dishes up to this moment were clever but full of novelty: dishes meant to be enjoyed in one quick bite, instead of slow savoring. The next dish was a "Pigtail Curry Panini," one of my favorites (of five, perhaps? I see no need to narrow down too much). The "bun" was an apple meringue baguette, with cleverly inscribed hash marks to suggest it's really bread. The pig tail meat tasted of apples and curry... the meringue held up exquisitely and slowly became juice and juicier. Admittedly, though, I was glad to consume something that required bites, rather than a quick pop-in-mouth.

The dishes at first evoked titters at their cleverness, but then slowly started precipitating gasps and sighs. Next, we had a Thai soup with coconut milk dumplings in a beautiful dark pottery bowl. After that were baby carrots with coconut and curry, one of my other favorites: "carrots" were actually reshaped carrot puree, robed in a chemical compound that created a skin on the new shape. When a person manhandled these delicate faux carrots, its juice moved roughshod over the bowl like a poached-egg egg yolk.  It was brilliant.

Next was another favorite, beech mushroom risotto with truffle. I love being delicately disabused for a moment, in what I expect to see and smell: a bag (reminiscent of state fairs, ring tosses, and goldfish) was placed in a bowl before us. The top was cut, silky, stocky steam exuded, then whole truffles were shaved before us, right into the steaming plastic madness. There's no pasta, only mushroom. That's better than a carnie thinking you weight 10 pounds less.

Next was smoked oysters with escabeche. At this point, my interest started flagging: I started talking to my dining neighbor, a lovely man from California who was my equal in blowing large amounts of time and money at exorbitant restaurants. A man on business, he spent the night before at Komi (see above!) and was visiting Adour the night after. This, dear kind reader, is a man who was deliberately knocking out the 1st, 2nd, and 50th (Alain Ducasse should not be 50th, j'avoue) best restaurants on a business trip. We discussed restaurants in New York, DC, San Francisco, Paris, and Las Vegas in the type of detail typically reserved for those who speak Klingon at Star Wars conferences. I met my equal and he works in IT.

My amount of photography at this point is directly proportional to the intensity of conversation: we discussed Michael Mina, Thomas Keller, Alain Ducasse, Joël Robuchon, Gary Danko, Paul Bocuse, and Michelin (the stars, not the tires) in the most gratuitous, esoteric, snooty detail--coupled with the full appreciation that we were both mid-level working-level non-food-industry people. It was like finding a food soul mate.

After that were exquisite things: "Fabes con Almejas," a wonderful bean stew (fake, chemically-reconstructed beans which were a pleasure to eat), Grilled Lobster, Peanut Butter and Honey (I started flagging at that point), "Espardenyes with Bone Marrow" (I think I was getting annoyed at this point that I was being interrupted while conversing) and Roast Squab with Oysters and Seaweed (I have no idea what this was).

Dinner was done and after my conversation, I regretted never having visited the French Laundry, not getting a reservation at Paul Bocuse's place near Lyon, and blowing my money at Harrod's steakhouse instead of chez Joël Robuchon in Las Vegas and while we're at it, never visiting his place in Paris. I know how that all sounds, but I eat cereal or pasta for dinner when I'm not eating foie gras, don't worry.

Next, were the pre-dessert dishes: there were way too many previews for this movie. First was the olive oil soup with a freeze-dried mandarin. I had a heads-up on this one from Tom Sietsema, my local food critic, and liked it as much as he did, which is to say, not at all. He likened it to "not unlike slurping vinaigrette." That's true: it was cold (not good-gazpacho cold, but freezing chicken soup cold) and too oily to be tempting. Next was "Dragon's Breath": I think the other single diner and me were discussing some chef of note and I was annoyed the dessert didn't justify the interruption.

Pre-desserts started improving, though: the Pine Snow with Honey was tempting. Freeze dried yogurt, crumbled into snow flakes, was served beneath Greek honey, aside a (non-edible) pine branch. It wasn't delicious as much as fascinating.

Next was coconut sticky rice with mango: I started getting a little tired by the end, deciphering between what was real reality and imitated reality. The mango here wasn't real, it was sorbet. I started wondering to myself why the fake thing was so close to the real thing when the real thing was good, but that esoteric wandering died quickly: no need for wandering when it is prorated, dish by dish. Here's a photo, ruthlessly borrowed.

Unfortunately, I can't recall the Pina Colada Tablet or the Sable Bon Bon: frankly, I was ready for dessert, as I saw no need for anterior or inferior desserts. There was a TerraMisu, which I also don't recall: I'm at an unknown amount of drinks in at this point (yes, I took the Metro). When we moved to the bar, aptly and reversedly called BarMini, I remembered again.

I had a Rhubarb Binchotan: it was so clever because I thought I was eating charcoal. A stone, rounded on top like a reverse meniscus, hospitably housed two small pieces of rhubarb coated in something that resembled ash (binchotan is a traditional charcoal of Japan). I was delightfully and exquisitely tricked.

Last was a Lava Rock Chocolate: at this point, there was no point in pretending I was doing anything more than enjoying the superficial benefits of a cleverly-textured edible rock. Maybe it was a rock, who knows.

If you've scrolled this far, I have little shame in admitting I was at Minibar for five hours. I stayed for a cocktail, because I found one that had sherry in it, which as you recall, magically became my new favorite liqueur. Cleverly, this sherry drink was infused with smoke and was even more cleverly served in a Mason jar, to ensure that smoke sunk in.

 

My friend, whose name I didn't even catch, let me photograph his gin and tonic, replete with fat slices of cucumber, juniper berries, and its own bottle of Tonic Water. I didn't even have to ask for a small photo shoot: he just offered.

It was exquisite and everything a fancy dinner should be: delivering wonder, well-constructed food, and cleverly-contrived dishes. Minibar, you're worth your weight in foam, smoke, meringue, and gold.

Afghan Famous Kabobs.. and Monster Trucks

When working one's way down a list of 100 restaurants, why not start at the very beginning? A's a good letter, even if the restaurant title it's commencing is farther away from one's neighborhood than its early alphabet ranking would suggest. Doing things in order, Dotti and I headed to Gainesville, VA (40 miles away--that's more miles than letters of the alphabet) to visit Afghan Famous Kabobs. The food was so good, I'd recommend traversing each of those miles.

As an entree though, I'd like to share my Saturday activities before that great Sunday afternoon lunch. It's relevant because it involved a man and monster trucks and that's a bit of what this blog is about. The details are less relevant than the fact that I had the privilege of watching trucks crush cars, teenagers ride motorbikes upside down in a cage, and see replicas of school buses fly through the air.

Here's what it looks like in motion:

Captured mid-jump...

...Then mid-crush

 

This truck is actually called "Crush Station" and that bit of yellow is holding its "pincers"...

Just more video, please:

After all that revving and destruction, a girl needs some sustenance (albeit a day later). So, we found a fine strip mall that housed an unassuming Afghan place in what I would call the Best Afghan Ever (or certainly of recent memory). I may have ranted about how burger don't need to be fancy--because they are burgers--and I'd apply the same soapbox to Afghan food. This is comfort food and doesn't need starched table cloths or pithy music in the background (like another top 100 cheap eats Afghan place has, ahem). The fluorescent lights didn't do much for the art, but, alas.

For $15 apiece, we had approximately eight plates on the table. We started with aushak, ravioli filled with leeks, hiding a sauce of yogurt-mint below, and topped with ground beef sauce.  The leeks were richly sauteed and the yogurt and meat combination of sour and complex would have been worth the drive.

We split two entrees: the super dish with a chicken kabob, lamb kabob, and shami (like kafta: spiced meat, formed into spheres, and grilled). In addition to a salad, a side of rice was served with meat sauce (qurma).

 

The next entree was the vegetarian plate (we went from A to Z on that one): starkly bright sauteed pumpkin (kadu), sauteed eggplant with tomatoes (bouranee banjan), and sauteed spinach (subzi).

  

We each had warm, stewed chickpeas (which warmed our bones like soup)...

 

 ...and a huge piece of Afghan bread, perfectly constructed, strand by strand:

 

I consumed nearly that whole piece (twice the size of my head), enjoying it much more when I realized it could be even more exquisite when dipped in a cilantro/chili/yogurt sauce:

 

If only I could only have one of those monster trucks take me to my much-anticipated dinner at Minibar tonight, then I'd really be set.