Hell Point Seafood

Food always tastes better outside, whether it's under a baseball awning or a lunch only separated by a bay with a small pane of glass. I've found too, that foods taste a bit better when its consumer is sunburned. Maybe more encompassing of an assessment, more robustly founded in fact, is that food eaten on a three-day Memorial Day weekend inherently tastes better when the hope of summer is right behind it.

As an al fresco preface to yesterday's top 100 foray, I had my first two hot dogs of summer at my first Nationals game ever yesterday. The food/love nexus is no more evident than at a baseball stadium where America's sports and culinary past times are on full display: baseball, beer, and dogs (and bellies).


And in all seriousness, few things taste as good as a shrivelled up hot dog with char marks, a fresh, cool bun, and excessive amounts of yellow mustard. I'm getting my mini season tickets soon (really).


So, it was a bit of a change to not unwrap yesterday's lunch or use my drink as an ad hoc air conditioner (I may have wiped beer cup/bottle condensation on my arms to keep them cool at the stadium). My friend Dotti and I made the trip up to Annapolis, Maryland to sample Hell Point Seafood and inquire into how it would also be possible to own waterfront property and acquire a boat. Before investigating the glories of yacht and wraparound porch ownership, we settled in for a glass of wine on their enclosed dining room overlooking the marina.

And what a pretty dining room it was: natural light, partially reflecting off of sailboat masts, bathes the white tablecloths and cruising boats (on the water) and families/couples (in the parking lot below) made for exceptional people watching. The restaurant is set back a bit from the throng of seemingly touristy crab places nestled among made-in-China Naval Academy trinket sellers. Also, despite the focus on shellfish in Annapolis, Hell Point ventured into fish dishes with Asian and British styles of preparation (that's right, fish and chips).

I hit the mainstays though: the shellfish sampler with clams, oysters and shrimp cocktail with summer-refreshing lemon and Tabasco and then a cup of New England seafood chowder with clams, white fish, and bacon (with of course little bits of diced potatoes).


It's easy to order at places when they are purveyors of culinary tradition, so I ordered the inescapable crab cake with fries and coleslaw. It deserved high marks for beauty, ideally toasted bun, proportional correctness, and crab consistency, but it wasn't remarkably flavorful like other crab cake iterations I have had.


Also, the coleslaw--ramen-like in its chopped-ness--was missing its dressing (the impressive camera phone close up).


After lunch, we couldn't help but follow summer tradition and have a fruity cocktail while watching the boats. That was soon followed by ice cream scooping from rowdy parlor summer employees, postcard buying on Main Street, and identifying age-appropriate military men. Not a bad way to celebrate love of country and hit #59.

Heritage India

Last night's dinner at Heritage India was the first solo dinner I've had since March; thankfully, my luck is improving because instead of a ticket and flat tire, I just got a blister. Gussied up in a sun dress, $2 Middle Eastern, blinged-out sunglasses, and shiny sandals (that apparently have forgotten how they used to comfortably mold to my feet), I walked the two miles from Rosslyn metro to Heritage India, a charming second-floor restaurant in Glover Park.

It's a perfect solo diner restaurant, even on a dreaded Saturday night: the service is attentive, the clientele responsibly eccentric (lots of families and seemingly normal couples, but also anomalies like the lady with the bad bangs, eye makeup and bright red silk dress), and the servers have opinions.

The hostess, charming and surprisingly enthusiastic, went through and poetically described the specials, adjective by adjective. Abandoning my pride and haughty ordering independence, I ordered everything she recommended and was delighted with it all.

I began with the guava cocktail, with pieces of ginger and mint, ginger ale, vodka and a maraschino cherry crowning it. It was girly, to be sure, but solid enough to be my only drink for the night.


Next I had the gobi kulcha (it's quite possible I'm mixing up the names, but I did have this at some point in the evening), a clever combination of naan and curried cauliflower. It's successful like stuffed crust pizza: a soft doughy exterior belies a flavorful squish on the inside. I stole that from the hostess, who enthusiastically reminded me that my appetizer had a double squish: the bread and the interior. At that point I was tempted to ask if she wanted to sit across the table and write this up herself.


For dinner, I had the shorshay mach, which she described as "a dish from Bengal that, upon the first taste on your tongue, is buttery and creamy from the coconut milk, then a few bites later" [with a dramatic pause that I've usually only heard in fairy tales when some manner of wolf is about to take the stage] "the flavors become exhilarating and challenging from the spice of the dish."

She was right: it was a flavorful, rich dish that's not tomato-based but derived from mustard seeds woven into coconut milk, with a smooth, sweet beginning and spicy finish, with substantive fish pieces soaking up both flavors.


I did a photo study of rice:


And the full, plated ensemble:


And then raita, because it's pretty.


My charming waitress (I presume one of the owners) advised me on my dessert, rasmalai, two simple chilled cream cheese and milk puffs served in a light milky pistachio flavored sauce. And there was cardamom, which I think is requisite to any Indian dessert (I was sort of appalled because I thought there was an egregious amount of foil on my dessert, but it was some sort of edible leafing).


The warm interior was smart: not too much sequin and bright color; instead, the walls were adorned with interesting photos, paintings, and prints of India's history. The staff clearly readily volunteered opinions on dishes and the quick food preparation and water refills made everything expedient while the atmosphere encouraged excessive lingering. I loitered, was exhilarated (not my word), and knocked out the 58th restaurant.

Sei

The challenge of being an amateur food critic is that you actually have to eat and write fairly frequently. Other associated attributes include regular (not pirated) Internet, a small pool of disposable cash, rolls of quarters for parking in DC, free time, and an apartment that is not being relocated in its entirety a floor down (characteristics I have not possessed this month). I have eaten in the month of May; specifically, I have only cooked once in my new kitchen, so the issue isn't a dearth of dining out. I have could have raptured about how the glory of the Greeks' invention of democracy took a backseat to their execution of comfort food at the St. Sophia Greek Festival:

And I could have written paragraphs about eating food like this all day, washed down with foam-melting-down-the-sides-of-a-squishy-plastic-cup draft beer, at the Chili Cook Off:

I had brunch with Mike's sister in Chicago at the Bongo Room, a blog first:


There there was the restaurant where my friend Allison was proposed to, where I was too busy finishing glasses of wine, learning about our friend Andrea's butchering skills, talking about cooking schools, and celebrating Allison and Kris to take pictures of the food:


There was the ridiculously good Rick Bayless cafe, also in Chicago, XOCO, where I had chips, salsa, and guacamole for lunch, chocolate to drink, and churros for dessert.


My croquetes de xocolata at the hotel restaurant, Mercat a la planxa, were even ridiculously tasty: chocolate croquettes nestled amongst a banana marshmallow cream and topped with rosemary infused caramel and olive oil.


And I even photographed (graphic) food (rare) at the Chicago Art Institute.


May has been a series of food pleasures (that clearly have passed with but a food collage memorializing them). Last night, however, my friend Peter heard the story of this and joined me in the 56th restaurant on the quest, Sei. It was a working dinner (we talked Paris) and despite the too-short ceilings (Peter is tall) and the too-chatty waitress (who as a rule do not give me free drinks), it was a perfect dinner.

Sei is part of the top 100 contingent that falls either into "hip Asian" or "Asian fusion," complementing both categories thoroughly. The decor was trendy but comfortable, the lighting ideal for serious travel discussions on Parisian self-guided walking tours, and the menu laudably creative. Further, despite these serious forays into preferred arrondissements, the food was able to shine without me giving it surgical attention to its detail and components.

The cocktails feature spice, herbs, fruits and hail from an international tradition, as does the menu. I ordered the signature cocktail, Liquid Wasabi, with unfiltered sake, vodka, lime juice, and habañero/ginger infused simple syrup.


Balancing the temptation at a sushi place to order everything appetizing against what can actually be eaten was especially challenging here: the non-sushi items here rival the hallmark items. I started with the wasabi guacamole with wonton chips and we split the tuna poke, a Hawaiian dish I learned about from Tammy, here served with coriander, mint and wonton chips:


Peter earned a position on the blog's notional board of directors by recommending instead of me trying to illuminate the food with the one weak tea light on the table (note how both dishes above look largely similar), I just turn the flash on. Sigh. The first two rolls came out just in time: on the left (what turned out to be my favorite) was the Habanero Scallop Roll with crunchy ramen noodle on top and stuffed with cilantro, and on the right, the cool but bizarre Fish and Chips Roll with flounder, malt vinegar, potato crisps, and wasabi tartar.


We had the Kobe Sliders with tomato jam and tempura onion rings, delightfully overproportioned in favor of the burger and pleasingly rare and juicy.


Next, the chicken croquettes with both a jalapeno chutney and an apricot or mango chutney (I'm not remembering faithfully the ingredients).


Finally, we ordered two interesting but unnecessary rolls, Kobe Tataki with spicy crunch, watercress oil, and red wine ponzu and it's possible the last one was Toro Scallion with yuzu kosho and rice cracker. After the seven or so previous dishes, I was just admiring how pretty they were.

Cheers.

Vidalia

To clear the air, we can set one thing straight: sometimes I'm not the most mature of food thinkers. For proof, scroll to the end to see my last cooking-related venture to the kitchen.

So, when faced with the possibilities of ordering a choose-you-own five course meal at Vidalia, I was clearly reduced to the kind of excited breathlessness and uncontrollable outbursts seen by elementary school kids pre-Christmas. "No one's ordering the steak tartare?" I spat, wild-eyed, at one point.

Vidalia was a variation on the Southern-restaurant theme; without the rather hokey ubiquity of greens and cheese, though, it was hard to think of the restaurant as themed rather than just deliciously crafted food--all 25 plates. After our table dignifiedly staked claim, negotiated and retracted desired choices from the menu, our waiter suggesting we instead do the autonomously-determined five course tasting menu, choosing from both a hot and cold appetizer, a fish dish, a meat dish, and a dessert--a choice that gave us more latitude to order more (and has subsequently led to a moratorium on dining out until we get a few more paychecks). The portions were smaller than the normal dishes but we each could have been rolled out at least an hour before dinner was technically over.

Since we split everything four ways it's hard to know where to start, but I'm fairly certain at dessert is best. Vidalia was charming: in the basement (which was initially unnerving as I went in the wrong entrance, took an elevator down, tried to enter a locked door, capitulated and took the stairs back up and went in the correct door), intimately laid out, and with very friendly wait staff (the bartender and the host both took an active interest in my meter-feeding exploits).

Just to emphasize the ridiculousness of this all, let's start with the 26th picture I took, the final dessert plate:


Selections I can remember include, second from the left, a toasted marshmallow, macaron, oatmeal cookie, rum ball, cherry financier, and pecan pie bite. It was excess Paula Dean style.

I had the peanut butter dessert that featured delights that slowly became evident bite by bite: the peanut butter crunchy topping on top, the seductively muted peanut butter cream below that, the chocolate covered rice balls, the dual textured crunch of the ganached cake. I was feverish.


Mike got the lemon chess pie. Even Mike who readily lambastes my raptures was rapturous.


Andy sanely and responsibly got the sorbets, which were fresh and staid and beautiful.


Kerry got the "pear pairing" which won with its wildly counterintuitive but delicious combinations: saffron poached pear brûlée; pear port sorbet; pink peppercorn frosted pear olive oil cupcake (I ensured I re-read that slowly to Kerry and then giggled); pear pecan, shortbread chocolate bar; and a buttermilk brown sugar sauce. There were moments of maniacal laughter.


I have no idea how to explain the glory of the preceding 2.5 hours, but maybe I'll group the glory thematically. Drinks: excellent. The red wine and whiskey was good but we had fancy cocktails with charming regional names: on the left, the Hatteras (sweet tea vodka, rathman and winter apricot (Austrian apricot liqueur), and ginger ale), OBX (rum, lychee, sour), a mint julep, and an amuse bouche of a warm velouté with I think sliced sunflower seeds.

To be arbitrarily thematic, I'm going to talk about bacon, eggs, and fried foods and how superlatively Vidalia handled these items. There were a variety of non-pork/egg/straight-from-the-fryer dishes, such as Kerry's braised barbecue bison short ribs...


...Or Andy's foie gras with seared tuna with a blackberry-basil salad (you heard right; criminally succulent combined with refreshingly virtuous)..


...Or Mike's chicken and dumplings, country-doughy but reminiscent of gnocchi...


...Or Kerry's Oral-Roberts-praying-hands soft shell crab fried tempura style...


But to me, it was the cholesterol bullies--the eggs--that won the taste war: Andy's crisp pork trotters with a sunnyside up egg, goat cheese grits, apple butter, and béarnaise:


His steak tartare with a slice of brioche and another sunnyside up quail egg:


And my stuffed quail, served with foie gras mousseline, mustard greens, black pepper dumplings, and apple cider jus. And an egg.


The yolks were visible, but not always the pork. Well, it was certainly evident in Mike's full-figured pork chop with a hush puppy (that had sweet hints of yellow cake).


Mike had less-visible pork products in the seared sea scallops with carrot purée, pea tortellini, crisp pig’s ear-pea shoot salad, and lemon-thyme vinaigrette:


I had frogmore stew with rockfish, carolina shrimp, lump crab, smoked sausage (I'll assume pork), confit potatoes, shellfish broth. I tasted at least 7 exquisitely unique flavors.


Finally, the cholesterol trifecta boasted its own trifecta of egg batter, pork and fried: chicken fried veal sweetbreads and waffles with asparagus, bacon fondue, lemon caper veal jus.

Speaking of poultry, happy Easter and happy 44-restaurants left.

Ray's the Classics

Mike and I last Saturday wrangled tornadoes to get to Ray's the Classics. Along with my trusty Jetta, Babe the blue ox, Mike, playing Paul Bunyan, successfully hewed problematic roadways, navigating me around foreboding puddles, tricky interchanges, and confusing planned shopping areas. And I can't imagine a better place to end up at the end of a harrowing 30-minute drive to Maryland than a steakhouse.

I'm knowingly muddling my folklore.

Virginia did flood that weekend and tornadoes did touch down south of DC, but that didn't stop two heroes of food folklore from closing down the restaurant. Ray's the Classics is a steakhouse of the franchise that includes Ray's Hell Burger and Ray's the Steaks, two restaurants that have made an indelible impression on the food lore of my friends and family: the former was delicious but gave me and my brother stomach aches and the latter was eviscerated nearly two years ago by an amateur food critic.

Because it was on the list, though, we had to try it and it seemed appropriately full-circle to go here as Mike was the person we were celebrating at the blog's significant run-in with a Ray's restaurant the first time. True to Ray's form, we started off with spiced cashews and Parkerhouse rolls. I didn't have to fight with Mike over eating another roll as they are un-Paleo friendly, but I wouldn't have needed to anyway due to their uncomplimentary texture. Not looking good, yet, Ray.

Mike admirably pulled out the big guns when he ordered his salad. "Does the Caesar salad come with anchovies?" he asked. When the waiter said no, Mike said he's like some, please. Whole anchovies, that is. In a non-patronizing way, I was quite proud.

I got the "devlishly good eggs," which I was thinking about days before when I first saw the menu. Two hard-boiled eggs were stuffed with hand-chopped steak tartare, served devilled egg-style. I didn't find the steak tartare too tender and its flavor wasn't appealing. Despite getting points for cleverness in combining the presentation of steak tartare and devilled eggs--the onion and cornichons accoutrements were for steak tartare and there was crumbled egg yolks on the plate--it didn't work. I was much happier just drinking the red wine.

In true American folkhero style, Mike got the The Cowboy, a massive bone-in rib eye with grilled red onions and horseradish cream. Mike acknowledged it was a Fred Flintstone-sized steak, but proceeded to defeat it, bite by bite (unfortunately a before and after picture is not available).

I swallowed my pride and ordered a NY Strip (self-respecting Kansas Citians use the abbreviation of their own town to describe it) and wasn't disappointed in my slow foray beyond filets. It was tender and flavorful, girded by peppercorns and served with a port/peppercorn cream sauce. It was satisfyingly opulent like hot fudge sauce.

We felt obligated to get creamed spinach because it seems an imperative at a throw-back steakhouse.

But then that prompted a serious discussion on steakhouses. Would either of us come back to Ray's the Classics? Probably not. There was nothing exceptional about it. The steaks were tremendous but nothing else was: not the appetizers, salads, or sides. The ambiance wasn't bad but wasn't remarkable. The music wasn't memorable and it didn't have the formality of a Ruth's Chris nor the comfortable working-man's-ness of a Cattleman's in Oklahoma City.

We were the last to leave but we didn't linger excessively. Everything beyond the conversation and company (of course) was rather mediocre prompting the two us to try and determine: what is it that makes a good steakhouse? Morton's has reliable service and presentation, but a rather unvaried menu. Ray's the Steaks is high on pretension but scored sub-zero points for service with steaks that were akin to any other fine steakhouse's steaks. We each had our personal preferences for steakhouses but it seems a good steakhouse must boast high marks in all categories--service, taste, ambiance and variety--yet deign an additional extraneous gift to the diner. For me, that was jazz at the Majestic Steakhouse in Kansas City, the historic yet delightfully seedy location of the Golden Ox, also in downtown KC, the popovers at BLT Steak in downtown DC, an exquisite sauce that didn't hide the delicious flavor of the meat at Chez Georges in Paris. Some outside factor either complemented the taste of the food or deliberately staked out a memorable ambiance for the diner.

For dessert, Mike ordered both the key lime pie and the strawberries in cream to share (I was going to get the pie two but was frozen in indecision when he got it first). Both had homemade whipped cream. Nobody was raputurous, but they weren't bad. Dessert came with a side of panic when we worried the restaurant was already closed (we had another half hour).

We ended the evening with Ray's signature chocolate peanut butter bark--which melted in my fingers. We lassoed the car, bounded over puddles, flicked away nuisance twisters, and squashed the 55th restaurant on the list like a bug.