"Do you come here often?," a fine restaurant might ask me. "No, I've been doing a lot of pasta-cooking and Game of Thrones-watching."
"What's your sign?," a top 100 might titter. "Scorpio, but I really like this Chinese takeout place near me and trying 'expensive' beer from Total Wine that caps out at $5 a bottle."
As I am still on the 2010 list, I'll note that Citronelle still hasn't called or asked me out (it still allegedly has large amounts of hotel renovations, which can be cooroborated on their Web site, so it truly is "busy with work").
Tonight, after a very long time away from here, I remembered that trying new restaurants in true Boca Sola style gives me a great deal of pleasure. Unfortunately, there were minimal amounts of pleasure to be had earlier in the day: work kept me from keeping a 6:15 reservation at the Kennedy Center's Rooftop Terrace Restaurant and then precluded me from attending the play itself. The whole play. Where I believe my ticket boasted I snagged an orchestra seat, which I'm also pretty sure was in the front row. Needless to say, I was a little put out come 8 o'clock tonight.
I remembered Chez Billy, a place that would have been the site of a lovely outing a few weeks ago had it been open on a Monday. But, today was Wednesday and I was able to secure a seat by the window for me and my new erudite book. We were actually able to watch the sun go down and smolder pink.
Chez Billy is in Petworth, which is an area where young ladies who live in Old Town don't often go. I circled the restaurant twice or thrice to ensure I got the closest parking spot to the restaurant, eventually parking my entire car over a street grate; thankfully my car wasn't swallowed up like so many high heel tips and cigarette butts.
I settled in. There was only one waiter for many tables, so the manager came over and took my order. Despite my Birkenstocks and sweet demeanor, I expect solidly good and professional service and tonight, upon being asked about my drink order, I noted what I would be having for dinner. The manager recommended the pinot noir with my appetizer. These are the times (more than you might expect) when I love a man ordering for me.
While reading the first of three pages I actually got through during dinner, I got a plate of bread. As it has been a while since I've dined out fancy-like (and alone, taking pictures, and mentally crafting phrases for subsequent blog-drafting), I savored the exquisite feel of fresh bread with indulgent butter. This bread was taken from the small bread-branches of the fancy French bread loaf, pain epi, that to me looks like cartoon leaves on a cartoon branch. Well, those that are delicately plucked off and served with whipped butter.
Then, the really transformative restaurant stuff started happening. Mind you, I had fried tofu and some cold wild rice concoction for lunch, so we're starting at the bottom. However, I ordered boudin noir. That's blood sausage. I figured sauteed foie gras would probably knock my socks off in the not-able-to-walk-back-to-my-car (that's maybe been enveloped into layers of the earth or at least into the top track of the Metro) way. Instead, I had a small block of (probably fried) boudin noir, with a fried quail egg, pickled asparagus, and a fig gastrique. I was silent until I finished each bit. It was beautifully done.
The scallops were fine. Not transformative, but I think I realized tonight that scallops are usually doused in butter or cream sauces that are exquisite for the first few bites, then distract from the plump, salty, perfectly seared-edged scallops. There were fava beans, asparagus, frisee, and English peas, all lovely things that made it green, but it was too creamy after a while. I did, admittedly, have a brick of blood-infused pork as a first course, so I couldn't be too ambitious.
With my second course, I was able to make the same request for a wine. "Something to go with the scallops," I told the manager, who brought me a lovely glass of wine. I think it's the closest I'll get to being a princess: "a wine pairing," I kindly ask, while in my head I dismiss with my hand and congratulate myself on my regal forbearance.
Chez Billy was lovely: real, sophisticated, French food without the pretension that plagues real French places. Sometimes the waiter (not the manager) came to the table, seeming like he just wanted to say hello and then return to the kitchen, to make sure I was ok. It was charming. There were cognacs, armagnacs, and calvadoses to keep me there longer, but I'm still new (again) to fine dining. Maybe we could see each other again?
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