DonRocks

A friend and I had dinner at Sette Osteria last night (Wednesday). At 7 PM, there were a couple of tables left; at 7:10 PM there was about a 15-minute wait but still seats at the bar; at 7:30 the bar seats were taken. The crowd at that time was definitely an after-work coat-and-tie scene which is distinctly not the impression I get from JohnW and his late-night/weekend antics. The hostess and bartender were both professional and friendly, and as it turns out, the glass of wine they served my friend before I arrived ended up being comped on the bill. We ordered a bottle of Calabrian Aglanico del Vulture for $35 which, along with other well-priced offerings on their list, represented fair value for intelligently chosen selections. The winelist is impressively listed roughly north-to-south by region within Italy, and if you’re not familiar with this minefield of selections, then give your server a color (red/white), a price-point, and ask them to serve you something imported by Leonardo LoCascio who is a very reliable importer – it’s a layman’s cheat to getting an interesting wine at a fair price, and there’s nothing wrong with asking for your wine in this way rather than playing Russian roulette. The wines are impressive, and so are the pizzas which, based on my one visit, rank as peers or superiors to Pizzeria Paradiso as best thin-crust options in the city, at least for the time being. Add the late-night hours, hip waitstaff and prime location, and the place instantly becomes a monster on the DC dining scene. Point-by-point, Washington is sloowwly acquiring more little jewels that make it seem more-and-more like New York: Ginger Cove (try any fruit-based drink!), E-Street Cinema (run, do not walk, to see Les Triplettes de Belleville which is simply not of this earth), and now we have Sette Osteria as a legitimate, fun, serious late-night killer pizza and wine bistro – times are good here. Cheers! Rocks.

Can we examine this statement a little more closely?

Here are my two opposing points of view: 1) From an insider's point of view (i.e., someone like Mark), the questions can indeed become repetitive. Although he cannot possibly be as up-to-the-minute as Tom, Mark already knows the answers to these things. What can you possibly say in a Washington DC restaurant chat to enlighten a grizzled industry veteran? Let's face it, this town is pretty small, and Mark keeps awfully current as to what's going on. 2) Okay, so? Given the subject matter and slow servers (and they both are givens), how is the chat going to be any better? Answer: I don't think it can be. What's Tom gonna do, talk about how to shoe a horse? He has to talk about the Zaytinyas, the Nectars, the romantic dinners at this-and-that place - what other option is there? And let's face it, if the word "Zaytinya" comes up in the next two months, people will accuse the chat of repetition. Furthermore, Tom is constrained by the shackles of decency and cannot type things such as this: Q: What did they give Tickle-me Elmo before he left the factory? A: Two test tickles. My interpretation of Mark's posting is that it's not a criticism of Tom; it's simply that other than a startling revelation that Ann Cashion has been whisked away by space aliens, the chat cannot possibly be as entertaining for him as it is for other, less in-the-know readers. Fair interpretation, Mark? You could always read through some Orlando Gibbons, y'know?

My evil twin submitted this question today, but inexplicably, Tom chose not to post it on the chat. --------------- Exiled Aborigine from Northwest Territories, Canada Good morning Tom, I was wondering if you knew of anyplace in town where I could get some beaver. (Along with muskrat, it's an important staple of our traditional diet, often free of contaminants since it eats no meat. It's also an excellent source of iron, protein and vitamin B.) Thank you in advance for your thoughtful reply.

Welcome to ego-wallet dot com

Reactions of patrons after Jarad Slipp reveals the "secret ingredient" in his suspended crème brulée: http://www.updater.co.uk/ (Warning: rated NR-17 for language.)

I just saw the website this morning, and it is indeed a train-wreck - especially the whole Lastname,Firstname thing i.e. Backward,Shat i.e. Shat Backward. I assume that "backwardshat" on eGullet is someone who stumbled across this kid's parody website, decided to make up an eponymous screen name, and began posting here to jerk peoples chains? Mildly amusing if true, though I could think of more fruitful endeavors.

Take two tums. (And change banks.) Go to Sushi-Ko and ask to see their list of red Burgundies. This is Daisuke Utagawa's Big Theory - that red Burgundy goes well with certain types of raw fish - and I have to say, he sold me on the virtues of this many moons ago. The combination works amazingly. P.S. Kudos to Firefly and Colvin Run Tavern for having excellent wine service this past week, with the wines served in proper stemware and at the proper temperature. Cheers, Rocks.

Why McDonald's Fries Taste So Good

A couple of additional thoughts: Remember, I'm the person who went to Wendy's drive-thru and scarfed two spicy chicken filets after having 34 courses at the Minibar. I was grossed out when I found out my last bite at the Minibar was a Listerine-strip sorbet. Wendy's spicy chicken filets: there's a good example of something that tastes good but isn't. And the converse to what we've been discussing? Nora. There's one other thing I neglected to mention. When the lights went on in my dream: “nnnnoooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” “AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” Well ... that was the other person in the room screaming. That's why I was so upset.

Still downing that DC tap water? Ecoli? Colorless, odorless, tasteless Chemicals in your (not organic) watermelon? You'll never know. Margarine instead of butter? Easy to slip past in certain recipes. Corn syrup instead of cane sugar in your soft drink? Where does that beautiful mahogany chair you're sitting on come from? Hormones in your farm-raised salmon that reaches full size in half the time as a wild Coho? The list goes on, and on, and on. It all matters, at least it matters to me. And if I have to stand alone, then by golly, I'll stand alone. No, I'm not militant about it, but it's worth mentioning, discussing and thinking about. Cheers, Rocks.

Hi Katherine, Thanks for replying. I read that thread and don't see any correlation between someone not liking pasta and the more universal philosophical point that I was trying to make. I love great pasta, and I cherish a really well-made piece of rustic bread much more than I would a portion of bad foie gras or caviar. I'll take an honest Cotes-du-Rhone over a second-rate Grand Cru Burgundy any day of the week. So I'd like to gently defend my posting against the "downscale/not expensive enough" conclusion that you drew from it, because what I wrote has nothing to do with being expensive, highbrow, elitist, or however someone else might want to paint it. Does that make sense? Again, I thank you for your impressions, Rocks.

One day an apparition appeared before me, and made the following offer: you can have the best sex you’ve ever had in your life, IRA sex, the kind of sex where you’d cash in your entire retirement account to experience just one time. “Cool!” But there’s one hitch… Nervously, I asked, “what’s the hitch?” It has to be in a dark room. “Are you kidding? Bring it on!” Are you sure? “Am I sure? I’m a guy! Of course I’m sure. Bring it on! And so I showed up at the appointed hour and location and waited in the dark. I heard a door open, and then shut. For the next two hours I was in a state of euphoria: without any tawdry detail, it was indeed IRA sex. Exhausted, content, uplifted beyond my wildest dreams, everything seemed right with the world at that moment. And then the lights went on. “nnnnoooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” “AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” I awoke with a start and sat up in my bed, panting, drenched with sweat, in a state of disorientation and total panic. It was 2 AM, and I had just had an unspeakable nightmare. The next day I was shopping at Whole Foods, and I picked up a beautiful-looking watermelon marked “Conventional,” and thought about my horrible dream the night before. I immediately put it down and went over to the boxful of more-expensive, slightly lesser-looking watermelons marked “Organic,” picked one up and put it in my cart, and continued my shopping. One day I stayed at a Bed and Breakfast in the rural mountains of Virginia. For breakfast, the hostess served up a marvelous egg dish, something like a strada but not quite the same. She had sat down at the table, we were all enjoying the conversation, and I was commenting on how much I liked this dish. A smile came across her face, a coquettish smile, the kind of smile a child would have when he wants to tell you a secret, but also wants to keep you in suspense. She said, proudly, “it has a secret ingredient that makes it so good.” “Well I would love to know what it is,” I said, picking up my fork. And just as I put the next bite into my mouth, she chirped: “It’s Miracle Whip!” All of a sudden that ethereal, subtle flavor that had so intrigued me became painfully clear, and this dish that I was enjoying so much instantly because as pleasurable as downing a mouthful of castor oil. I then had to sit there and finish the entire breakfast with her in front of me, beaming, and talking about all the things she does and all the inexpensive ingredients she uses to cut corners, and that nobody can ever tell the difference. I propose that gustatory pleasure is a necessary but insufficient requirement for greatness. How something tastes is not enough. There must be substantially more behind any great dish than the illusory fallacy of “if it tastes good, it is good.” A flawed-but-honest dish is always superior to something cunningly manipulated to “fool the diner” into thinking that it’s good. And with that, I invite your comments and disagreements. Cheers, Rocks.

Sara, Liam, Yeah, I know, I went back and read what you wrote after I wrote this, and then there's Danzig who, if it's who I think it is, also knows what he's talking about. That's 3-1 by my count. Sietsema likes it too. Make that 4-1. But I'll continue to blather: Buck's Fishing and Camping - Unjustified rap for bad service. My read is that they're slammed during rush hour, and if you can get there during off-hours, you'll have a great experience. The latest was tonight, when I walked in and immediately took a seat at the bar, and Amanda (who was hostess) and Jessica (who was tending bar) were the most cordial people I've come across in quite awhile. I asked Carole Greenwood tonight, "So, is this place a destination restaurant or a neighborhood restaurant?" She smiled, and said "Both!" And I replied, "but what do you want it to be," and she smiled, and said "Both!" The Original Penis of Rome Bethesda - Here's a trusted friend's letter to me, which I happily duplicated (take it for what it is, however): "depending when you go, (and sunday nite is pretty popular w/the families) and which room, there can be lots of parents and kids and fairly active noise levels. but seems like they try to seat the kids in one room if they can. you could try asking for a more quiet room, but if it's packed, ya gotta take your chances. i think y'all can cope!! (it's WORTH it!) don't forget though: order: white pizza w/fontina (ask for it to be well done) marinated red peppers (x-tra garlic ... if you're man enough) make little open-faced sandwich by layering: white pizza, pepper, parmesan and hot pepper sprinkles (if you're man enough. make sure to get a good touch of liquid (vinegar) from the pepper on the pizza. savor first bite and feel the heavenly bliss. en-JOY!!" Indique - Falls under the radar as one of the great dining destinations in the city. Everything is wonderful, and I could wax on-and-on about things, from the chutneys (free!) to the breads to the rice to the bengan bartha to the tandoori king prawns to the ... oh, you get the idea. Tabard Inn - The wine list and wine service are first-rate. The food ... well, the liver as a main course is killer, served medium-rare when I ordered it medium-rare. I owe it another visit before commenting further. Clyde's Tyson's Corner - Half-priced crab-cake sandwich after 10 PM, meaning $6.00 for a decent legit crab-cake sandwich with fries. At that price, it's a fair deal. Artie's Fairfax - One of the largest but most welcoming bars in that area, with decent food ranging from $8 (for certain sandwiches) to the low $20s (for certain specials and fish items). It's never bad, and often good, and considering the number of customers they serve, it's flat-out amazing. Sweetwater Tavern is basically the same thing, except that they brew their own beer (corner of Route 50 and Gallows Road). 2 Amy's Still, the best pizza in town. Corduroy I've had the parsnip soup three times since my glowing description of this place, and each time, it has not been as good as the time I had it then. But it's $6.00, so who cares? The best chocolate desserts in Washington? That's right, Tom Power is probably the most underrated artist in the city using chocolate as his medium. I stand by my stellar report of the Baked Chocolate Sabayon. It's absolutely brilliant. Ceiba My feeling is that Chris Clime is so busy and hogtied that he's unable to unleash his full potential. Those are my thoughts for the week, Rocks.

I chatted with Ann Amernick today about a variety of things, and she said it would be okay if I paraphrased some of our conversation here. ‘Don’t post about the doughnuts!’ she pleaded. ‘Everybody wants the doughnuts. I’ve had people come in here and ask for doughnuts, and when they find out we don’t have any, they just walk out. Why can’t they try some of my other things? Have you tried my Baltimore Cake?’ Indeed I have, and it is fabulous (as are the doughnuts). I noticed she had hamentaschen today, and I asked her if she’ll continue to have it after this weekend. She said that, no, after this week it will be difficult to sell, but if people call her in advance, she’ll try and accommodate - not just for the hamentaschen, but for other things as well. I told her how much I adore her focaccia, both the goat-cheese and the pizza version. ‘Don’t post about that either,’ she said. ‘We lose money on it. I use real Reggiano, have you noticed? And the goat cheese is the same one we use at Palena.’ Well, yes I have noticed, and that’s why I’m in there seemingly every other week. So what do you want me to write about, Ann? ‘Everything in here is made in-house except for the doughnuts, which are made down the block at Palena. All the ingredients are the highest quality I can find. Sometimes it seems that nobody cares about quality anymore - even Tom Sietsema thinks I need to do something new and different.’ I raised an eyebrow when she said that, because that’s simply not the impression that I’ve gotten reading Tom’s reviews and chats. And I questioned her on it. ‘Did you see what he said in his Dining Guide? He likes Frank, but he thinks my desserts at Palena need to change. Well, I’m xx years old now, and I do what I do, and I’m not going to change.’ I reiterated that Tom has come across as being squarely in her corner, but I also decided to play devil’s advocate. “Well, some of the things on the dessert menu at Palena are the exact same things you get here, and after a rich bowl of soup with a quail egg in it, you aren’t always in the mood for a shortbread cookie.” Ann threw up her arms, and almost – almost – smiled. ‘Well, okay, but get the sorbet. The sorbet is wonderful – have you tried my grapefruit sorbet?’ I didn’t have a good response for this, because she was right. She continued: ‘I’m not going to do anything new and different, because I’m concerned about executing the traditional things in the right way using only the best ingredients. Someone needs to do this, and if I don’t do it, who’s going to? Have you tried my schnecken? It’s wonderful, they have this at Greenberg’s in New York. Here, take one home and try it.’ I was embarrassed that I didn’t know what a schnecken was – I always thought these things were called sticky buns. But I had it this afternoon, and yes, it was wonderful, every bit as good as her Baltimore Cake, her almond cookies, her cheese straws. ‘People need to try my things, they would love them if they’d just try them,’ she said. I replied that people simply don’t know about them – who on earth knows what a schnecken is? And I suggested to Ann that she should put together an email list and send out an occasional email letting people know what she offers. ‘How am I going to do that?’ “Put a bowl out on your counter and have people fill out their email addresses. People want to know!” ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’ And I believe she will do it, and the next time I’m in there I’ll leave her my email address along with scores of other customers eager to receive regular updates about what this talented pastry chef is up to, what’s new and seasonal, and what’s coming down the pipeline. And I also believe that this bowlful of email addresses will sit there and languish, because Ann’s not going to take the time to figure out how to send out a mass email, because she’s too preoccupied doing what she does best. Ann, you might be xx years old and set in your ways, but I cannot imagine Cleveland Park without your bakery, and I suspect a lot more people feel that way than you think. Biz hundert un tsvantsik. Cheers, Rocks.

ALERT, ALERT! Amernick's bakery is selling them today, and they are great, but this will be the last day they have them. Get over there this afternoon!

Rumba Café and Sushi Taro are two neighborhood restaurants, Rumba being in the heart of Adams Morgan on the 2400 block of 18th Street, and Taro about a 15-minute walk south on the 1500 block of 17th Street. Having been to both restaurants twice, I’m eagerly looking forward to my third visit to Rumba Café, but cannot see returning to the terribly overrated Sushi Taro. Both places can serve up things that are pretty bad, but when Rumba Café is bad, it’s bad with a full dose of soul, and when Sushi Taro is bad, it’s just plain gross. I went to Taro this evening with high hopes, and couldn’t remember exactly why I was so disappointed the last time I went. Then the edamame came out to the table, and I had a flashback: like before, it was a terrible color, with brown hairs growing from it. It was old, soggy and had an odd, salty flavor. I looked at the raw vegetables sitting in a plastic tub behind the sushi bar, to be used for tempura, and noticed how old they looked: the asparagus was more brown than green, and the yellow pepper looked like it was pre-prepped the week before. Nobody at the tables will know just how decrepit these things looked because they were batter dipped and fried. I asked my sushi chef if they had fresh wasabi, and was told that they did. The last time I was there, I asked for the same thing, and twice in a row now, it came out looking disturbingly close to 75% powdered, 25% fresh – ever been to a Holiday Inn and ordered “fresh orange juice” only to get a glass that tastes like it was frozen juice cut with a small percentage of fresh-squeezed? The sopa del pollo at Rumba is just that: chicken soup. A bowl of broth, with about five things in it: a couple of thick-cut carrot slices, an undercooked slice of potato or two, and a drumstick of chicken. It sounds impossibly simple, and then it shows up on the table and you’re like, jeez, this looks like something my grandmother would have made when she was on her period, and then you taste it and you’re like, how can something this simple be this good! I often lay awake wondering if uni and umami are derived from the same root in Japanese, because uni is umami distilled to its essence: there is nothing better than a great piece of uni, and yet when it’s bad, uni is the single worst food in the world, with an aftertaste that can stay with you for two days. I stared at my uni reluctantly this evening - because it isn’t obvious from sight or smell whether it’s good or not - and then in a moment of old-fashioned derring-do, I stuck it into my mouth and bit into it with great élan, and immediately started cursing to myself, because right then and there I knew that I was going to be free-basing Altoids for the next 48 hours. Mofongo fon mariscos is a pestle-full of mashed yellow plantain, dry and cold as paper maché, to be dug out with a fork and dunked into a bowl of tomato sauce with shrimp and scallops in it. It sounds kind of blah, but it’s really quite good, and is a perfect example of tasty food, honest food, that also happens not to be fine food. The chef’s omakase selection of sushi ($40) featured nineteen pieces, and the sushi chef must have spent between ten-and-fifteen minutes laboring to make them. I believe this gentleman was the head sushi chef (out of seven chefs working behind the sushi bar), and worked diligently putting together the best plate he could. But the sushi rice was poorly made, the fish was inconsistent (with most pieces being painfully ordinary in quality, and only a few being remarkable for their freshness – the ebi, for example, tasted of the sea which is not the way it’s supposed to be), and everything seemed so busy and overblown with all the hamfisted sauces and fancy combinations of things in each piece. Lomo a la huancaina is a grilled piece of filet mignon covered with a "special Peruvian sauce" made with cheese, peanuts, milk [!] and Peruvian yellow pepper. It's simpler and more mild than the description would have you believe, and is one of several examples of dishes at Rumba that lead me to believe that this restaurant tends to underseason and undersauce, rather than overseason and oversauce, its dishes - no crime in that. Rumba Café and Sushi Taro are examples of restaurants that would probably “rate” the same number of stars, or points, or whatever else you want to dole out to them, but there’s no question in my mind that Rumba Café is a flawed-but-good place that makes up in character and soul for what it lacks in fine-ness, whereas Sushi Taro is nothing more than a churn-‘em and burn-‘em factory serving haphazard sushi to undiscerning customers.

There's no shortcut to learning about wines: you have to drink them thoughtfully, and you have to read about them incessantly. For practical advice and lots of consumer ratings, get the latest copy of Robert Parker's Wine Buyer's Guide which should be available at most large bookstores (he would probably chuckle if he knew I was recommending his book, but it really is the best thing out there for someone seeking practical wine-buying advice). But what I always recommend to people wanting to learn about wine are Terry Theise's catalogs, published annually (one for Germany, one for Austria and one for Champagne). Forget about the wines themselves and just read Terry's hilarious, beautifully crafted writing that just gushes with passion. You can view the catalogs online (or order them hardcopy) at this website: http://www.skurnikwines.com/theise_catalogs.html Cheers, Rocks.

I've been onioned by Gillian Clark: her meat loaf sandwich is served with onions three-ways: raw, sauteed, batter-dipped-and-fried. Has anyone noticed that Gillian "Herbert von Karajan" Clark's and Carole "I cook because I'm an artist" Greenwood's initials are palindromes? Has anyone ever seen them in the same room together?

I just did, and I want to second your enthusiastic recommendation for their terrific wine service. Andale also deserves a mention in this thread as another restaurant that gets it right.

eMullet: Man, standing behind bar, waving and shouting over a four-person-deep wall through a digital megaphone-with-subwoofer raised to his mouth: “Dude!” Bartender: <turns towards man and cups ear> Man: “Dude! What’s in my toasted pumpkin seed dip?” Bartender: “What?” Man: “WHAT’S IN MY DIP?” Bartender: “One pomegranate margarita, coming right up!” Man: “Cool.” ------------- eGullet: Man, sitting at bar. Bartender, extending hand: “My name’s Johnny.” Man: “Hey Johnny my name’s Don. Can I look at a wine list?” Bartender: “Sure. All bottles are half-priced tonight [Monday] with an entrée.” Man: You mean if I get this bottle of Alceno it will be $12 for the whole bottle?” Bartender: “Yes, if you order an entrée with it.” Man: “I’d like that, and also to order a few other things …” Bartender: “Alright Don, take your time and let me know.” Man: “Dude, what’s in the toasted pumpkin seed dip?” Bartender: “It’s made with roasted tomatoes, Habanero chiles and cilantro, but the chef here emphasizes flavor over heat when using peppers, so it won’t blow you away. It comes with homemade corn tortillas.” ------------- The red wine is brought out, from what is obviously a cellar or temperature-controlled area, and is presented and poured in a high-quality wine glass. It (the Alceno) was just as it was described to be, and just as I had hoped: a good, minerally, medium-bodied table wine without oak and without pretense - the single best bottle of $12 wine I’ve ever had at any restaurant in America (it’s listed on the menu at $24). Don’t look for fireworks here; look for correctness and character, along with proper wine service. The dip, listed on the menu as Zicil-P'ak, arrives, and it was honest and very good, though I was tempted to reach for the salt shaker. Then the entrée of Pescado en Tikin Xik : Sushi grade Tuna marinated with Achiote, garlic, Mexican Oregano and saour orange juice, Pan seared medium rare, Served also with housemade corn tortillas, pickled red onions, chiltomate salsa and fresh avocado . On his March 3rd chat, Tom Sietsema implied that the small dishes at Andale are stronger than the main courses, and this would be consistent with my experience. Although this tuna dish was well-presented, correct and perfectly tasty, there was a certain spark missing and I’m not certain what it was – it didn’t have quite the depth that I had hoped based on the menu description. Still, it bears emphasis that Ms. Swope stresses subtlety of flavor and nuance rather than simple spice and heat. This is food to enjoy with fine wine, not necessarily beer. Then came the Chile Relleno which was the one disaster of the evening: sitting in a pool of epazote oil, it the chile itself had been lightly egg-battered and fried, but it too had been drenched in oil. Given that it was stuffed with a fair amount of melted cheese, it left the entire plate gooey and oily, and it just wasn’t worth eating. I had become simpatico enough with Johnny the bartender where I went ahead and mentioned this to him, and he thoughtfully listened to my comments - and when I got the check, he had removed it from my bill even though I told him that wasn’t necessary. (Incidentally, Johnny also works at Fin, and he assures me that the dishes at Fin have taken a substantial turn for the better in recent weeks after they got a new chef. He knows what he’s doing, and I take him seriously when he says this.) “Next time you come, you should try our specials,” he said. “Lemme have one now!” I replied, and I’m glad I did. The Tortita de Jaiba is a crabcake consisting of crabmeat and corn, and bound together by a scallop mouse, served with plantains and a chile spiked butter sauce. I liked it more than the dessert of cheesecake with candied pecans sitting in a small pool of caramel sauce simply because that dessert came across to me as simply too sweet, although there’s no question the quality of both the cheesecake and caramel was there. Andale is on the northeastern corner of 7th and D, and Rosa Mexicano is on the southeastern corner of 7th and F – a mere 1 ½ blocks from one another. Towards the end of my meal, there was only one other person at the bar at Andale, although they were packed with people when I arrived during the tail end of happy hour. When I left to walk back towards my car, I stopped into Rosa Mexicano, and counted 46 people at the bar, some of whom were having dinner. Until these numbers flip-flop, I’m happy to continue emphasizing that while Rosa Mexicano may be great fun for a drink and some guacamole (I like Rosa’s guacamole more than I do Andale’s, by the way), it’s a much better choice to take that ninety-second walk south on 7th Street, and enjoy your meal at Andale, especially on Monday evenings when the amazing half-price wine deal runs for the entire evening. Andale is good, honest food, conscientiously conceived and fairly executed. Can I mention once again that the entire wine list is half-price on Monday evenings when you order a meal? That is amazing! And it’s a really good list, too! Of course, you could always cross 7th Street and walk into Poste, but that's for another thread... Cheers! Rocks.

Rumor has it that the meat counter is shoved in a corner. But it sounds to me like the real meat counter was the guy sitting at the front door, clicking off the customers that came into the store this morning. Heading to the antipodes, Rocks.

I alerted my dining companion to this thread, and he sent me the following note. Cheers again, Rocks. ... But your post on our lunch was admirably concise and judicious. If you feel like it, add a note from your "anonymous lunch companion" to the effect that he (I) felt the food displayed a certain contempt for the American diner. To ask THOSE prices for THAT food in THIS city where at least 18 restaurants exist serving FAR superior food at lower prices is either blitheness, blindness or contempt. No amuse-guele! Sweetbreads tolerable, sauce too chivey (it's an innately vulgar flavor) and the whole sweetbread-nugget thing seems antithetical to the gooey umami ju-ju that is the raison d'etre for sweetbreads. Duck confit not inedible but "incorrect". Diagnosis: whoever was expediting the lunch line today is not tasting the food. Dessert: 2 of 3 sorbets laughably inept, mushy and grainy. Service: competent and pleasant. Wine list: insulting. Ambience: more elegant than what's on the poor plate, that's for sure. ....

Many years ago, I was the very last diner ever to leave Gerard Pangaud's Dining Room at the Ritz Carlton in Pentagon City. It was after 1 AM, each table had a black rose on it, and it was the end of an incredible era in Washington dining, perhaps the best food this city has ever seen. That evening was yet another example of the amazing talent and technical abilities of Gerard Pangaud, one of the finest cooks (if not the finest) ever to set foot in this area. Fast forward to the future: at 11 AM the morning that Gerard's Place opened in McPherson Square, I was nearby and happened to remember it was opening day, so I ran a few errands waiting until 11:30, and ended up being the very first diner ever to set foot in that restaurant. I remember to this day that the thermostat on the wall, right next to my table, had been put on upside down by mistake. Gerard's Place has been good, even great, in the past, but the financial power of the Ritz Carlton chain has not been there supporting the genius of Gerard Pangaud, and so things have never been the same. Nevertheless, when Gerard has been in the kitchen, there were glimpses, sometimes strong glimpses, of the brilliance that made him the youngest Michelin two-star chef in the history of France. The last time I ate there was several years ago. It was the latest in a string of disappointing meals, and the service was inexcusable. I said to the hostess on the way out that I had seen enough, and that I wasn't coming back. Fast forward to the present: after years of hearing through the grapevine about the mediocrities of this underachieving restaurant, I had begun to hear some positive things on occasion, and even whispers about a comeback from people I trust - it was time to try it again. I was to meet a knowledgeable friend for lunch, and he balked when I suggested Gerard’s Place, saying that he had been there about five times in the past, and had left disappointed each time. However, like me, he hadn’t been there in several years, and so I was able to talk him into it. Gerard's must be the most expensive restaurant in the city, with main courses at lunch mercilessly creeping into the $30s and at dinner well into the $40s. First of all, the wine list. Overpriced and mediocre, featuring poorly selected Bordeaux and lots of mainly negociant red and white Burgundies at triple retail (the highly overrated Girardin, Chartron et Trebuchet (huh?), Laurent Roumier, the list goes on). How about a 1990 Latour at $1200? Too expensive? No problem! They have the 1999 at $500 (spare me). There was virtually nothing worth ordering, and so we settled for by-the-glass selections: a perfectly fine Touraine Sauvignon Blanc and an adequate red Bourgogne, which was served ten degrees too warm. Gerard’s Place does offer patrons the courtesy of bringing their own wines and paying a $40-per-bottle corkage which - I hate to say it - is the best option. The $17 sweetbreads appetizer featured small-cut sweetbreads on a bed of excellent mushrooms (trumpets, etc.) sitting atop a reduced sauce of butter, mushroom and chives, all topped with a small fanfare of microgreens. I liked this dish a lot, apparently more than my friend did, as he commented that “whenever I see chives like this in a sauce, I think of some cowboy chef back there in the kitchen, wailing away with scissors.” Not wanting to open myself up to libel, I cannot say that my $26.50 duck confit main course had been microwaved, because I don’t know if they even have microwave ovens. Nevertheless, what am I to think when the confit arrives, looking like the skin at one time had been perfectly crisp, and yet it was lukewarm, rubbery and soggy? When I cut the duck open, and steam roars out like it's coming from a deep-sea vent? (I expected to see a ventworm nut or two) When the juices in the meat are unevenly distributed, some parts being wet and steaming hot; other parts being less wet and merely warm? When the bone itself is as hot as a poker pulled from a fire, as if it had been heated from the inside-out? I’ll tell you this much: if they didn’t microwave it, then they sure fooled me. The dish came with really bad oven-browned fingerling potatoes, and a frisée salad that was notable only for its use of raw garlic. I ate precisely half of the dish, and could stomach no more of it. Dessert was better, but not by much: the $9 trio of sorbets had a scoop each of green-apple, blood-orange and “exotic-fruit” sorbets, and the blood-orange was quite good, as good as I could possibly expect. But the other two were simply too dense, more like ice cream in texture, and they were both dull and uninspiring. I have a friend coming in town next week, and coincidentally he wanted to have dinner at Gerard’s Place with me. I mentioned to him that I was having lunch there, and that I’d make a dinner reservation on the way out if I felt the restaurant was back on track: I did not make the reservation, as I’m not willing to take the expensive gamble. Cheers, Rocks. P.S. Thanks, morela, for the good chuckle: www.gerardsplacerestaurant.com

I didn't realize Captain Morgan made Burgundy now!