Cafe du Parc

So that I can continue keeping this blog, I can only devote 30 minutes to writing about a fine meal at Cafe du Parc. See, after all of these delicious yet highly-caloric, butter-filled, carbohydrate-inflated, and always-comes-with-dessert meals, I worry that my clothes won't fit and my food budget will go to buying clothes replicates one size up. As such, I intend to go to to gym early tomorrow morning which may preclude neccessary editing.

Anyway, I'll begin. Two lovely girlfriends joined me this evening at Cafe du Parc, a two-level restaurant in the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania.

We ordered a bottle of red, had our bread (slices of a delicious baguette, a pile of which were welcomingly visible as we ascended the stairs to the dining room).

I started with an appetizer (then you'll understand the need for gym-time early tomorrow morning), a salad (perhaps an ensemble?) of escargot, German spaetzle, spinach, and wild mushrooms. It was heavy and greasy and delicious in a way few dishes that seem to be favored by burly Alsatian men foraging for mushrooms would be.

For dinner, I had the rockfish served with ratatouille. The waiter detailed the acquisition of the fish, which came from the Virginia Beach area. It was tasty but a bit too generous: the middle was pink and was too thick to be useful or delicate. The ratatouille was tasty: the vegetables tasted fresh, the acidity not too puckering, but it wasn't quite stewed enough to be the French soul food it usually seems to be.

One delightful friend ordered the seared scallops with a wild mushroom risotto:

And the other ordered the other special, a lamb stew, with exquisitively tender lamb perfect for the rainy evening:

The delightful lamb-stew ordering friend had the coffee tart for dessert, which was accompanied by a chocolate sorbet.

For dessert, I had the Ile Flottante (I know, there's no circumflex but that's how the menu listed it and remember, workout), done up a bit unconventionally with a non-floating mergingue ile on top of an un-bruleed creme brulee with caramel sale at the bottom of the glass. Salted caramel is one of my new delights and here it was delicious. The presentation was beautiful and original but a bit too perfectly constructed to the sinking mess an Ile Flottante usually becomes.

Dinner was lovely--mostly because of the exquisite conversation. But, the blue, continuous banquette along one of the exterior wall provided a pop of color, drawing your attention out to the view of Pennsylvania Avenue along two walls.

Appetizers and entrees were a bit pricey, but could easily be covered by cancelling one's gym membership for a month.

701

I felt like an industry insider last night. I talked food, restaurants, cocktails, and the bartender confided in me, not vice versa. I got a free glass of Côtes du Rhône, a list of restaurants I need to try, and two sips of the guy to my left's cocktails, just to give them a taste. It was one of those nights I realized why I keep a food blog detailing the glories of dressing up and dining alone on Saturday nights in the first place.

I headed to 701, the 41st best restaurant in the city. It started off well: I was able to make a reservation online less than one hour in advance (in my eyes, the mark of a confident restaurant) and park less than two blocks away (and pre-paid my $3.81 for two hours of parking as yesterday I paid off parking tickets for two states). I eshewed my table reservation for the bar, as it was half empty, well-lit and friendly-looking.

I settled in with my first glass of wine and my bread. I'm starting to get the hang of professional criticism: I noticed and silently tsk-ed the sticky surface of the bar, while un-visibly nodding at the host's invitation to enjoy the dining room another time. The bar seemed more inviting than the older, heavy-on-the-wool-blazer-wearing-men crowd eating dinner at tables.

The bread was mediocre: the poor cornbread muffins were disheveled and malformed and the rolls didn't have that freshly-spun texture of good rolls, but seemed to be in the purgatory of the bread world: not too hard to be stale but not fresh enough to admit to be freshly-baked.

Next were oyster shooters, which glorified the almost-springtime night. Each shot glass had an oyster or two at the bottom, almost microscopic wedges of lime at the top and bottom, hints of lemongrass and chili, and a layer of coconut milk finishing off the top. I only take shots when they are free and I'm drunk, so I slowly extricated two disproportionate bites from each shooter. I didn't get the holistic flavor, but parsed them out and they were fresh and mostly light, with the rich coconut milk finish.

Next, I had the rock fish tartare, with a small moat of green gazpacho and jalapeno-prosecco granita on top. To me, it combined three fond food memories: my growing affection for legit tartares (I'm good with ceviche but the word tartare use to chill my bones), soothing memories of gazpacho-eating in Andalusia, and granita-drinking in Spain. Point being I appreciated the culinary liberties from different cultures taken with the dish. This is the type of nonsense I was spouting to my company, two bartenders.

Afterwards, I had the crayfish ravioli (compassionately offered in an appetizer portion) with duck prosciutto on top and a basil sauce on the bottom. This was brilliant conceptually, but the raviolis were a bit dry and cooked a bit too al dente (there was a mild but discernible crunch).

At this point, off-duty-bartender having dinner on my left and on-duty-bartender enjoying his birthday at work, and I started talking about drinks. Here, I mostly listened, but was able to taste one of 701's house cocktails, the Fig Manhattan (with fig foam and which I sampled with a straw) and another with peach schnapps and a rosemary-infused vodka. Off-duty bartender invited me to his bar (I will be going there on one of his Monday to Wednesday evenings on duty) and on-duty bartender gave me a list of bars that have both good bars and bartenders (Cafe Atlantico, Oyamel, PS7, The Passenger, and the Columbia Room).

I insisted on ordering dessert (I did only have ahem, four ravioli) and got the fried banana cheesecake. On the side, a scoop of peanut butter ice cream and on top, a bird's nest of shredded phyllo. Tri-polar like the rock fish tartare, it was Greek Festival-inspired with the phyllo, state fair-suggestive with the fried cheesecake, and Elvis-homagey with the combination of banana and peanut butter.

I reserve a small amount of derision for restaurants that don't seem creative enough to invent a name beyond its address for its title, but last night I reallocated that regret and lamented I didn't order more delicious food to enjoy.

Kotobuki

I'm back in the black: tonight I had a dinner rich in flavor that didn't significantly add to my ballooning top-100-restaurant-inflated credit card bill. After an evening at work that crept into the late evening, I headed to Kotobuki, quite possibly the only sushi restaurant I've ever been to where the price and quality were inversely related (in the best of ways). With Beatles in the background, bright lighting, friendly service, Japanese regulars dropping in, and the guy next to me reading a book about pirates to his daughter, it felt like a neighborhood diner.

I began with a Sapporo which quickly became more interesting than my book. The environment is almost reminiscent of a college-town pizza joint: people coming in and out, chatting with their company and the staff, for takeout; friends getting together for a quick meal; and all the furnishings charmingly dingy.

I began with the steamed shrimp shumai, an item from which I baseline how good I think the rest of the dinner will be. These are sometimes small and chewy or lacking flavor, which presages the subsequent plates, but these had dense povitica-style dumpling sheet layers rich in shrimp, served with a side of spicy mustard.

I ordered three pieces of nigiri sushi: flounder, mackerel, and sea urchin (uni), which was the most unnerving thing I've eaten since that fish eye. I was less adventurous with the maki sushi rolls, ordering eel and tuna/avocado.

In case you're wondering whether sea urchin has the appearance, consistency, and color of a human tongue and if it slowly falls apart in a gelatinous disaster when you pick it up, it does.

To cap things off and because I had accidentally checked an incorrect sushi roll box (the urchin was no mistake), I ordered a spicy scallop roll. Unlike spicy rolls elsewhere, it was legitimately spicy and in place of flavor-masking spicy mayonnaise, was liberally sprinkled with powdered pepper flakes. Number 38, check.

Present

The theme of the Vietnamese restaurant that ranks 71st on the Washingtonian's top 100 list only made sense to me as I was leaving. The restaurant Present, situated in a strip mall among nail boutiques and pawn shops, posted a sign on the door out stating "Enjoy the Present. Enjoy your Life."

It was easy to do there: life seemed better eating near the semi-tacky waterfall in the center of the restaurant, along with the beautiful white tablecloths, the glimmering bar, the copiously-stocked menu, and the decisive service. I went there on a Sunday afternoon (sorry that this present was a week ago) and I found the service to be flawless and the food mostly delicious.

I started ordering Vietnamese with a Saigon beer, which was a delight:

Then, the requisite summer rolls: vermicelli, pork, mint, basil, lettuce and shrimp, wrapped in rice paper with peanut sauce. Delicious, of course.

Afterwards, at the insistence of the waitress, I ordered some cleverly-named noodle dish (for context, other entree options are "sophisticated golden chicken," "hard-working piglet," and "fish going wild"). Presenting the waitress with my three possible choices, she chose the below for me unhesitatingly. Scallops, shrimp and calamari were cleverly surrounded by vegetables among crispy nooodles. Those noodles lucky enough to be doused in seafood and vegetables were tender and the surrounding nest was crispy, creating an appealing divergence in taste.

I didn't try enough food to experience the full pantheon of flavor at Present, of which I am certain there is an abundance. What I had was delicious--with a variety of flavors and textures breaking through--but based on this selection, I wouldn't go back. It was in the category of good-to-try but I didn't order anything that would impel me to go back for more.

Since I write this blog, I'd like to state how I am 0 for 2 on new, recent dining experience. In the closer-to-the-present, yesterday evening in Oklahoma City, my parents and I went to Kyle's 1025, paradoxically called "Oklahoma City's foremost dining experience." For reasons too numerous and depressing to list, this was untrue, but I want to record that yesterday evening, I had an entirely-fried meal. The transition here may be poor, but my accomplishment has to be recorded somewhere.

The restaurant cleverly pulled in the recent past through press clippings, menus, and posters of old Oklahoma City establishments in a respectful homage to the city's culinary history. For example, an old poster touts the then-newly-recently-renovated Skirvin, which has since undergone a major transformation:

We started with an appetizer of fried calamari, surprisingly crisp when coupled with abysmally poor service:

For dinner, I had the chicken fried steak with garlic mashed potoates and green beans. With creamed gravy. My arteries hurt thinking about it.

Because the service hovered around 2% accurate and timely, the whole dinner was free including this dessert, coconut creme pie with small mounds of Belgian chocolate with chantilly.

I'll resume when cooking doesn't seem a better alternative to dining out.

Siroc

I think it's possible that I'm starting to think like a real food critic now. I went to the Italian restaurant Siroc last night, ironically just across from Georgia Brown's when you cross McPherson square. There, I noticed that instead of trying to convince myself that I should like everything or excusing its tepidity as my own fault, I decided not to actively try and find value in everything I tasted to justify my going out.

This novel (but fairly obvious) conclusion was drawn after having received the amuse bouche. It was delicious--one solitary piece of pasta, stuffed with mild cheese and covered in a butter sauce--but it wasn't hot. At first, I assumed it was because I was busy arranging my silverware at right angles prior to my partaking, or overly preoccupied killing spiders on my table with the butt of my knife (ok ok, big knife, one small spider), or taking too much time to photograph it. But, I think it was just cold.

This philosophy, however, is why I get drunk at wine tastings. I assume wine purveyors wouldn't give me a bad wine and only under very limited circumstances would I not like a wine. By extension, I feel I should like all of them and finish every glass. This philosophy is also driven by a conservative propensity to waste nothing. But tonight I metaphorically swirled wines, smelled their bouquet, and ruthlessly dumped their contents if they weren't to my liking.

Ok, I didn't really do that--at all--but since I knew I had four dishes coming, I paced myself and three out of my four dishes were half-eaten, only because I had sufficiently tasted them. It's sort of less fun that way but certainly more analytically illuminating. Sorry, polysyllabic digressing.

I got the rabbit sausage which was stellar: two rabbit sausages on a hill of diced potatoes threaded with mild, melted cheese (montasio) and a homey, brothy, red wine sauce haloing it.

The salad was the only plate I finished off and it was surprisingly the most satisfying. I ordered the endive and watercress salad with avocado, crispy bacon and candied pecans dressed with a vanilla vinaigrette. I may have overdone citrus last night so the vanilla vinaigrette--delicately parfumed and not too strong--was a welcome touch. The avocado wasn't ripe and snobby food critic like, I had to pick out some of the endive since the salad quickly became disproporiately endiveful, but the flavors harmonized well.

I couldn't decide between pastas and my waitress helpfully offered that I could order two halves to try both. On the left, house-made black pepper tagliatelle with sweet garlic, olive oil, red pepper flakes and seared scallops. I liked the tagliatelle because it undulated like ramen. Maybe that suggests I have no food writer street cred. I didn't taste much else besides the pepper. The scallops were good but here, they could have used a little more than a quick sear.

On the right were cappelacci (raviolis that looked like sunny-side up eggs) filled with roasted butternut squash, mascarpone and amaretti, tossed in sage butter with smoked prosciutto. I would have loved more filling and to taste the amaretti. In Little Italy in Boston or New York, I had this dish with crushed amaretti on top. Maybe that's the Italian culinary equivalent to Mickey Mouse butters, but it tasted better and the flavors were better identifiable individually yet worked well together.

I had no right to order dessert after dismissing half my dinner to the busboy in what felt a very regal brushing-of-the-hand-way of saying I was all done by cracking open my book again. But I ordered the ice cream trio: passionfruit at the top left, mango clockwise, and blackberry at the bottom. And each one was adorned with a raspberry and surrounded by blackberries and blueberries.

Akin to last night, I didn't get my limoncello like other tables, which was fine because I was driving home. But, no more Miss Nice Girl.

Bistro Bis

What a week. It started with low country (on Monday, Valentine's Day) to high-dining on Friday at Bistro Bis. Then, to add an element of complexity to it, while drinking a Sonic limeade today and talking to my mom, I came up with a new theory on dining out: Roland Barthes' reader response theory may apply. Whatever, we'll get there later.

First, time for a montage from Georgia Brown's (I had three valentines who acquiesced to modeling their delicious gravy-covered "low country" southern cuisine):

So, last night I went to Bistro Bis, one of the higher ranked restaurants on the list at number 14. It's in the Hotel George, in a mostly swanky neighborhood (I saw a guy relieving himself in the neighboring alleyway when I left) on Capitol Hill. Back to the cerebral stuff, reader response criticism in literature posits that "the reader is an active agent who imparts 'real existence' to the work and completes its meaning through interpretation." I am going to reinterpret that theory in my own amateur criticism world to mean that my experience at a restaurant will depend on how I feel coming into the restaurant, how a restaurant makes me feel in return, particularly how the food and service impact my aesthetic engagement.

Phew. As always, it started innocently with a glass (quite full) of red wine and fresh bread and butter. I decided I don't like butter that looks like the icing borders on Wal-Mart cakes because it's just too cutesy: give me full cups of butter, Mickey Mouse-silhouette butter patties, or nothing.

When butter gets serious:

Like last week, I got a series of appetizers because they were much more interesting and innovative than the entrees. I started (ok, uninnovatively) with the beet salad with the Beet Salade au Citron, roasted heirloom beets with goat cheese, walnuts, orange slices, salade frisee, and citrus infused olive oil. It was beautiful and delicious, once I made a mess of it.

Next I had the quennelles, which I first had in Paris at Alain Ducasse's restaurant Aux Lyonnais (sigh). I didn't know what they were then but they were exquisite.

Can I show you a picture of my first quenelle? Thanks.

Oh oh oh, what about the one I had in Lyon, home of quennelles?

My pretentious point is that there is an element of complexity to the dish that you might be able to see: creamy sauce and a merginguey-yet-solid exterior and then what you can't see: a very smooth, delicate, but complex interior that's dumpling-ish yet still foamy and very fishy. (My smile in Lyon attests to my satisfaction.)

Unfortunately, it was all foam and not fishy (but with neat little crescent pastry on top), making it a pretty pale imitation of an obscure dish.

To conclude my series of mini entrees, I had the veal cheeks; the word "exquisite" kept running through my head as I ate them. The server boasted I didn't even need my knife; I took him at his word and cut all three of them with my fork. They, too, were served with a hint of citrus, carrots, and small cippolini onions.

The fancy literary theory applies here: I was in a bit of a sour mood when I arrived and the off-pace service, minimally interested waiter, and short skirted/red velveteen-suited 23-something couple to my left didn't help. When I realized the server neglected to serve me gougères that I saw a neighboring table receive and not relay the dessert items du jour, my smouldering rage got a bit hotter. Another table recommended I order the dessert du jour, which I asked about and got.

A pear tart is on the right, with caramel/vanilla ice cream on the left. It was unremarkable too, but I'm not sure if that was just because I was grumpy. Oops, I'm a not so objective food critic. Deep breath; I'll try again.

The Source

Tonight I realized it may not be a coincidence that I'm working my way through the top 100 and turning 30 this year. Because, as a frequently single diner (although you wouldn't think it these days), there is something to be said for being in your 20s and sitting at a bar for dinner. Especially when your bartender was born in circa 1987.

Tonight I went to The Source, only because it seemed to be the closest restaurant to me when I finished my afternoon tea at Teaism in Penn Quarter (incidentally a lovely place to read, drink chai, and try and sort out one's future).

"Wolfgang Puck," "Asian food," and "suckling pig" were the only things I associated with the restaurant before walking down Pennsylvania, bewilderedly looking for The Source or any other open restaurant and finding it on the northwest corner of the Newseum.

I came in from the bitter cold and had the warmest service: my coat was taken, I was offered the full range of dining options in the bar (communal table, a legit table when one opened up, or the bar where the "fabulous" bartender would take care of me), and the hostess even asked me to forgive her that she couldn't offer a spot in the dining room (when I had legitimately just walked in off the street). I sat at the bar, sighed contentedly, and had a glass of wine.

The layout is minimalist and exposed to the street on two walls, and a translucent staircase linking the bar area to the dining rooms upstairs. Another wall is the kitchen and the wall that spans both floors is a well-lit wine cellar. The decor seems like it would be cold and overly modern but with the exceptional service and constant movement of people, staff, and vibrant plates of food, the atmosphere was surprisingly warm.

Staircase leading up to the dining room.

As may have been readily apparent, I was treated well by the bartender, in addition to the hostess. He helped me adjust my order to what plates complemented each other and which were his preferences. And refilled my wine while I was mid-meal without asking. I started with the crispy suckling pig, accompanied by a black plum puree, cipollini onions on top and a sweet bean sauce. The pork was recomposed into three cubes, with a layer of crispy skin atop each. And I ate them with chopsticks, which made them taste better.

I cheat a bit: this is how they appear on the website:

The plates progressively became better, with a high bar set with the suckling pig. At the bartender's suggestion, I ordered pork belly bao, two small rolls sliced and stuffed with pork belly, a hot sauce sweetened and reminicent of barbecue sauce, cilantro, sprouts, and cucumber. I made four small bites last about 10 so I could savor them.

The final dish, my favorite of the three, was the stir fried Colorado lamb in lettuce cups with pine nuts and a small salad atop each. The sauce was deeply flavored and sweet, the salads cut the richness and the pine nuts added a luxurious nuttiness. I slowly created my own proportional bites of meat and vegetables with the chopsticks, then started eating them like tacos.

By this time, there was no need for dessert but the great experiment necessitated at least a glance at the dessert menu if not an actual choice. Again, the bartender suggested the carrot cake, one of my favorite desserts anyway. I went to the ladies' room and returned to my glasses being covered by napkins and a new glass: a German dessert wine. Just as a bartender-offered complement. I kept from giggling. The carrot cake, nearly true to its 15-layer claim was actually ten very thin layers, each overlayed by cream cheese and served with ginger ice cream and toasted and candied walnuts.

Everything was exquisite: the service was attentive, the food was well-portioned and clever and I got two free glasses of wine. I picked up my coat at the coat check, gushed to the hostess how lovely my evening was due largely to the service, and avoided walking straight into a glass door by realizing the hostess's squeaked-out "oh" of concern was due to my own inattentiveness. Ironic.