Table (and other things)

Is there any other better season than summer? Admittedly, I think all three other seasons are better because it's just too damn hot in DC. But what about the ethos of summer: the general disregard for severe responsibility? The brazen toleration of humidity? The full embrace of fun things like condensating beer, pools, and squinting-into-the-sun baseball games? The charmingly Darwinisitic tendencies to embrace utilitarianism by ducking into museums to stay cool, parking in shaded spots, and seeing rain as a natural air conditioning system?

It's been a good summer. So good, in fact, I've elected to sit on my couch frequently and not move (unless to find newer, colder spots on the couch), hydrate with cheap beers (pretty much all across the city), or travel south (where, it seems, it was hotter, but we'll get to that in subsequent editions). However, by excuse of heat-induced exhaustion, I've not described my summer much to my extensive readership (I jest; all of my readers will almost certainly be mentioned below) since early this month, when I was in a delightfully air-conditioned delicatessen. So, it doesn't count.

The most emblematic of blog-worthy dining events was Table: we had a charmingly French-speaking waiter, exquisitely delicious food, and an air conditioner that protested and died when the block's power was turned off. That's right: my friend Ashley, her husband, Saad, and I battled a summer brunch--sans air conditioning--and were the last table to leave. Gladiator style.

There are many things to say about a summer, but the unique thing about a season like this is that it's fun--sports events, outdoor concerts, fireworks--but it's also hard to rustle up energy to viscerally exhibit excitement. Except at good brunches with a lady like Ashley. She had spotted Table, run by a Belgianman (incidentally, a chef from whom I took a cooking class), and we raptured about its brunch menu and decided to go. I arrived early and, delighting at the menu, French-accented waiter, and minimalist but welcoming interior, was (metaphorically) jumping up and down before she arrived as I could hardly contain my excitement. I'm no meteorologist, but would peg DC as having 100% humidity (equalling 100% of sapping one's energy), making this an impressive manifestation of elation.

We hydrated immediately: I had a kir (probably no surprise there) and Ashley and her husband had juices and coffee, the latter of which came with a real milk bottle, which Ashley presciently (for posterity's sake) suggested I photograph (isn't it charming in its anachronistic-ness?).

 
















Ashley was kind enough to warn her husband (who, himself, charmingly acquiesced) that I have this little side project, which necessitates I photograph things before they are eaten.  You can see that Ashley is (also) posing charmingly and patiently while I excuse myself for delaying their gastronomical enjoyment. How lucky am I have to have such supportive friends.

Saad had vibrantly-colored smoked salmon and Ashley had a beautiful humbly-colorful salad. We had a three-course brunch, so they started off responsibly light.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. I got the duck (salad), because I know someone who likes duck (this is a food/romance blog after all) and I like duck too (let's not kid ourselves). Who knew it would look a bit gastronomically pornographic when photographed?

That's right: not only does it have duck, but bacon too. With a rich (what I would guess was a) Chinese five-spice dressing. "But what about that elusive other pre-meal course of which you speak?" you may be asking yourself. We had a plate of pastries, with copious amounts of butter and/or nutella. Just what a growing 30-something needs on a summer day.

Around this time, we learned that the electronic groaning sound we had heard was, in fact, the electricity going off. Our charming (yes, to emphasize, French-speaking) waiter let us know that the electricity was off for unspecified reasons in surrounding buildings, but that our meals had been started pre-energy crisis.

Saad went for the admirably-delicious-looking stuffed French toast, during which we realized we could have been at the same Capitol Hill fundraiser together had events not conspired against us (how DC-sounding is that?). The lovely Ashley ordered eggs en cocotte, which tasted like (because she was so generous to offer) a light-ish quiche or more-solid omelette.

I, apparently, wanted to see if my arteries and/or cholesterol could hack it, so had the croque monsieur omelette, which was ham and bechamel in an omelette, with grilled hearts of palm on top.

We would have stayed longer--eating, sipping, and soaking in the ambiance that featured herbs growing on the walls--had we not actually been soaking and had the temperature not become prohibitively fatigue-inducing. My friends kindly transported me to the National Gallery of Art where I, instead, took photos of foods. I had to work off duck + heavy cream somehow.

Do you have time for me to tell you about the rest of my summer?

I had German food (with Dotti) and photographed it, papparazzo style:

 We had pie (at Dangerously Delicious Pies), post-German-food, because that's what drinking German beer does to a person.

 

And, drank more beer, because that's what pie does to a person.

On another day, I had cocktails (multiple, all across the city, actually) with Sonia. We tried Le Diplomate and Vinoteca. And two other places I forgot to photograph.

  

I had a cheese plate (and cocktails and wine) and a panzanella salad with a new friend at Room 11 in Columbia Heights. 

 

Nevertheless, a night in, though, with a cold beer, a chilled glass of water, and a working air conditioner, isn't so bad either.

DGS Delicatessen

I had dinner tonight at 5:30.

Please keep reading.

Let's start at the beginning: I'm at a personal and professional crossroads. In trying to figure out what to do with my life (friends and neighbors I'm sure are tired of the word "existentialism" being bandied about, particularly when I gleefully use words like "existential crisis" in ways I'm sure they're not intended), I thought I'd make a list of goals for July. There are some good ones (start learning a new language), some quotidian ones (finish this book, start another book), and then some ones that might as well be "breathe as often as needed" or "ensure proper water consumption," like "four great restaurants."

I made the list yesterday; I'm no closer to really committing to the language I'll learn, but I've had one good meal. I used this future-envisioning list-making time to recall and research places to visit; I made a few reservations for set times in July and for other places that aren't on OpenTable (Little Serow and Ghibellina, for example), penciled in proposed times in my calendar.

So, we return. Unforeseen technical difficulties cut my work day short this afternoon, forcing a poor amateur food critic to wander over to Dupont 1.5 hours early for her dinner reservation for dinner at DGS Delicatessen. As such, I was able to swing the prime real estate: a two-seater right by the window, alongside bustling Connecticut Avenue.

I've not had much deli food: I shared a mound of either pastrami or corned beef with my high school boyfriend on our school forensics trip to New York City (the only memory that really stuck beyond the foot-high cheesecake I ordered was a blurry photo I believe he took of me near a life-size pickle dangling from the ceiling). I also had knishes and matzo ball soup on one of my solo trips to New York City a few years ago (it was freezing outside and I thought it'd be more touristy to walk everywhere). DGS Delicatessen, however, is on the 2013 top 100 Washingtonian list, though, so I thought I'd try it in real-time (instead of trying to whittle down this year's list in say, 2015).

It was really terrific: the waiter indulged every particular, detailed question I had about the cocktail menu, to start. "What is champagnec?" was my fifth question concerning cocktail ingredients. "Uh, I think that's a typo," he said.

I had a cocktail that tasted delicately of Red Bull that I wouldn't get again, but enjoyed for its uniqueness just the same. Tenth Ward Cooler sported vodka, kummel (a caraway seed-flavored liquor), champagne, celery soda, lime, and celery bitters. It was sweet without being sugary and a watered-down sort of savory.

As I mentioned, on my July goals list is to finish this certain book. In a literary/culinary prima donna way (in which I tried to be as charming as possible), I politely asked the waiter if I could place my order but not have it delivered for 20 minutes.  I wanted to read. He said yes, that he might even deliver it in 25.

Right on cue, my latkes arrived. I got a side order, which was served with creme fraiche and apple preserves. Admittedly, I don't know my latkes (I think I may have had them at someplace like IHOP once) but these seemed exquisite. The potato was grated very finely, they seemed to be lovingly coated in butter, and the creme fraiche was just sour enough: I could barely keep myself from polishing off the whole dish, but knew I had two more coming.

 These two.

With this, from Brooklyn...

 

...Almost like a party arrived on my table. 

A longstanding favorite of mine is stuffed [any vegetable]. I ordered the stuffed cabbage; I didn't realize the cabbage was in there until I had eaten half the orzo and found a small crescent moon-dumpling-shaped cabbage roll in the middle of a small pile of bread crumbs. The meat was richly-flavored though and the orzo tasted of slowly-transformed onions and tomato.

I also had a side of roasted cauliflower with ras al hanout (a blend of Moroccan spices). I would have loved a little more spice and more crust, but it was delicious.

See you at least three more times this month.

Fiola

I found a keeper in the way these things are supposed to work. Tonight, I attended a tornado relief fundraiser on Capitol Hill. It was very DC--the nametags, the shallow gazes at chest-level, the congressmen announcing their bills in the same way guys with big muscles talk about their extensive chest workout that day, and the unfulfilling quantities of food around dinner time. (Nevertheless, there were Oklahoma-shaped cookies I wasn't quick enough to eat, but did photograph.)

I wore a new (silk) dress today, and when I left (hungry), of course it got rained on. Post-fundraiser, I walked back to my car and after briefly celebrating not having a parking ticket (it used to be inevitable I got one about every two months), realized I had to use the little silk-dress-girl-wearing-room. I did a quick search on OpenTable to determine what was nearby and settled on Fiola (for reviews about the food, but expecting it to have a ladies' room too), an accidentally brilliant choice (see a later paragraph) and one that was remarkably close. Here's the dress when dry:

 

An exquisite restaurant, I am starting to believe, is one that coaxes you into liking it when you expect not to fully. It's Italian--Italian can be good, but it can also be Olive Garden good: gill-stuffing, unpolished good. It can also be snooty good (like here, where I will never go again). It can also be a restaurant, like any other, that humbly, subtly impresses with attention, charm, and hospitality. You can see where this is going.

From the above, you could probably guess that priority number one upon sitting down was the ladies' room. As a (relevant) aside, my favorite scene in a movie (quite possibly of all time) is the clip below, where Michael Corleone confirms a very fateful decision in an unlikely place.

So, imagine my delight when faced with an equally dramatic chain: if you pull one of these in an Italian restaurant, who knows what could happen next.

Needless to say, it was the stuff less of Pacino movies and more of Disney films: the table next to me discussed mission trips and I had a glass of prosecco, on the house and to tempt my palate. Since I was eating circa 9pm, it wasn't obvious to me that everyone got one of these, so I savored my pretend preferred status.

The beautiful thing about fine dining in DC is that it's equal opportunity: a fancy place can be miserable, as well as the inverse. Fiola is rustic: it's loud and there's a prominent rock-studded wall before the kitchen. But, it's warm. It's certainly fancy--the guy next to me had movie-style-wavy-blonde hair and was from California and there was plenty of lobster and truffles to be had--but it's responsibly and comfortably sophisticated. DC dining can also surprise: for the first time since the Source--one of my top 100 favorites--I went in expecting empty gastronomy and found rich culinary hospitality and exceptionally fine yet humble service.

I started with the veal tonneto, a special tonight. It's apparently quite famous (like, as a dish), but I get a pass since I'm amateur: it was cold, sliced veal (which had been cooked rare) atop a tuna emulsion (like a handmade tuna mayonnaise) and topped with seared tuna. And with sliced summer squash and tomatoes. I usually read a book or let myself play with my phone while I eat, but for the first time in a while, I just continued to admire my meal, attempting to craft the perfect bite each time.

 

Since this is no ordinary food blog, I can say that finding a good restaurant is like having a good date. The veal arrived and I had only half a sip of prosecco left, i.e., no wine with dinner. In my world, this is like a date saying he has two secret families living in North and South Dakota respectively (that's more for dramatic effect, but you know what I mean). But, for half a second, I was very disappointed. However, in a manner perfectly timed, the wine guy/sommelier/manager came up with a delicious glass of perfectly-paired wine for my antipasto about 10 seconds after it was delivered. It's sort of like that moment Lloyd Dobler tells Diane Court to avoid the broken glass: the perfect action at the perfect time.

Dinner was mediocre--chevre (goat cheese) ravioli with roasted corn and a parmesan foam--but I guess I don't like corn except on tacos. Admittedly, I can't blame Fiola for that. But it was beautiful.

I think what sold me on the dish was the fried zucchini blossom: it's one of those must-always-order items. It was perfectly crisp and not too greasy, with the fresh taste of summer and vacations in Italy.

 

My waiter even charmingly ended our night like a good date: he hoped I had a good time and would see me again. He was lovely, unobtrusive, and didn't ask any awkward questions, by which I mean he left me entirely alone when I was talking with Sonia on the phone, about whom we will hear in subsequent amateur blogger episodes (Fiola's sister restaurant, Casa Luca, is opening soon).

I had two delicious white chocolate macarons for dessert (they tasted like they were frozen and de-frosted, but it was a first date, after all).

 

Then I stopped by the ladies' room on my way out. Sonny would be proud: I came out of the bathroom holding more than a to-go box in my hand. Ok, that's the sommelier's hand, but I have a wine recommendation too.

Chez Billy

You'll have to excuse me; I haven't done this in a while. It's like being out of the dating world for a prolonged period of time.

"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?

My (early) summer vacation

I've not been here in quite a while, and by here, I mean finding ways to celebrate the glorious nexus between food and love, Boca Sola style. I had a lovely time (for a rather rare occasion) where the part that made it lovely didn't involve delicious food, deciding where to dine out, and taking pictures of food before the waiter could catch me. Where I have been, I had one night of good food I photographed, but since you can't tell what any of it is, I'm not sure it counts.

As such, however, there has been much to catch up on: fancy lady-who-lunch lunches, day drinking (including trying fancy dessert wines I'm trying to track down), weird fried pig parts, previously untried cocktails, artisinal beers from my home states, and Oklahoma/Lebanese food buffets. I've been trying to squeeze in as much America into these past few weeks as possible, and what better way to do it than to consume it.

I came back and started at the beginning. Hours after nearly a day-long flight and a shower, I stumbled to Restaurant Eve, my favorite place for a fancy $15 lunch (that with dessert and wines, ended up being $50, but my intentions were good). I had an exquisite salad with kimchi-flavored radishes and sauteed mushrooms with crispily-fried garlic on top. I was too enthusiastic to eat my banh mi to photograph it, but exercised restraint before snapping a photo of "chocolate mousse" (solidly dignified rather than the soupy lukewarm state I usually find it in). The bartender, in what I viewed as a great sign for my highbrow summer drinking, brought me a glass of an Italian dessert wine on the house, which I'm trying to track down at Society Fair.

 

After that first lunch, all kinds of good food things started to happen. Fast. I bought fancy foods:

Tried homey foods at fancy bars (sliders and chili at Columbia Fire House, with an adorable little beer flight):

Tried homey foods at homey bars (Oohs and Aahhs on U Street, which boasts great fried chicken and catfish, along with sticky floors and crazy, raving men sitting outside the front door):

Tried homey foods from other cultures (well, Le Pain Quotitiden in Alexandria):

 

And homey foods from homey cultures (Lebanese is like Greek, here at Capers Mediterranean Buffet near my grandmother's house in Oklahoma City):

 

Tried homey foods (grilled bologna, hot dogs, and steamed vegetables) in my parents' home:

Tried elitisty, organic salads (kale with blueberries) and soba noodles in an old Packard showroom (Packard's in Oklahoma City):

 

Had fancy meats and drinks in a red-lit steakhouse in the old Buick showroom downtown (Red Prime in Oklahoma City)...



...Where we took pictures of our stuffed-selves bathed in the mildly-creepy red glow of the ubiquitous neon lights:

Watched a food show about homey food near my parents' home while I was at home (Leo's BBQ in Oklahoma City):

 

Had fried pig ears on a salad (left, at The Pig on 14th Street):

And had a lovely dinner in someone's old home in Capitol Hill (Bistro de Cacao, which was chosen because the restaurant-reserver researched that it wasn't on this blog). I had lobster...

...And since I couldn't decide, he ordered two desserts...


 








...And then the Calvados, the memories-of-Normandy-inducing vision that Calvados is.

Then, of course, there was the beer: the bottles, snifters, and pilsner glasses of beer. Boulevard took top honors, in addition to those from New Hampshire, Washington, DC, Virginia, Oklahoma, Michigan, and Texas (Shiner with grapefruit, no less).

I adopted some bottles and brought them home in Alexandria:

I drank some (Oklahoma City-based Coop Ale Work's DNR beer) in downtown Oklahoma City before Blake Shelton's tornado relief concert:

I bought some local favorites (that weren't 3.2 point) at a liquor store near my parent's house (including Boulevard's elusive Tank 7, which I forgot and left in the fridge for the beer photo shoot):

 

I drank Devil's Backbone (not far from Charlottesville, VA) Vienna Lager on a Monday during which I'd otherwise be working (at Virtue):

I drank 3 Stars Brewery's Peppercorn Saison at the most celebratory-of-pork restaurant I've ever been to...

...That also brought Dotti and me two full bottles of beer to our table at the end of our meal (ok, one was root beer, but in a float, was probably more dangerous):

There was much to much of everything, a trend I hope summer continues to bring!