Somebody needed a change of scenery.
Today's road trip to D.C. was as much about catching up with Lady G as it was seeing two exhibits and venturing to the waterfront for lunch. We hung our visit on history and art, but the underpinnings were nothing more than an an epic conversation.
Driving up under a break-your-heart-it's-so-blue sky, she shared with me her first visit to Dumbarton Oaks as a teenager on a bike, recalling an unfortunate incident where a homeless man knocked her off her bike and tried to grab her. It was startling how much detail she remembered about that experience (trying to retrieve a fallen shoe?) for how long ago it was. Trauma never forgets.
Like we seem lucky enough to always do, we slid into a parking space on Constitution Avenue around the time most of the local worker bees were thinking about their second cup of coffee. Our destination was an exhibit by the Smithsonian National Museum of Black History (and, no, I still haven't been in there yet), but one housed at the Smithsonian Museum of American History.
"City of Hope: Resurrection City and the 1968 Poor People's Campaign" brought together photographs and film documenting the six-week protest against economic injustice that was MLK's final legacy and the burning issue a month after he was killed.
And while I have vague memories of seeing newspaper photos of people living on the mall during that time, the exhibit provided a clearer understanding of how many poor people of all colors and races rallied together to make their cause known.
So much about the carefully planned and executed protest seemed quaint and downright impossible to conceive of today. I can't imagine for a second that the government would allow 3,000 people to set up a protest camp for six weeks on the national mall now. In 1968, the government had a team of architects work out how best to set up the simple wooden tents and sidewalks to make optimal use of the space and terrain.
For that matter, they had cultural programming in Resurrection City, a reminder of what a kinder, gentler time it was, not to mention a time when the importance of arts in life was better understood.
Photographer Robert Houston had been there and his pictures captured daily life in a newly created zip code. My favorite, by far, was "Woman Between Tents: Resurrection City," a gorgeous, warmly-colored composition that could have been a woman pausing between chores in Africa or the Caribbean. It had a painterly quality with the summer light giving a warmth to the many wooden tent walls around her as she sits barefoot in a chair.
Lady G and I left the museum better off for having seen the photos and films, but disappointed in the surface-skimming signage which provided so little in-depth information that we felt deprived of the bigger story.
Our only fear is that this is the new museum normal - shallow exhibits with minimal information - and we're woefully out of step in wanting to know more. Since neither of us had visited the American History Museum in over a decade, we vowed to return for a full look, albeit with concerns that the entire museum experience has been reduced to sound bite-sized signage.
Excuse me, Smithsonian, but we're here to learn.
Leaving there hungry for more knowledge, we allowed my friend's phone to direct us to Dumbarton Oaks, only to be flabbergasted when it took us south over the 14th Street bridge and back over the Key Bridge to land at the Dumbarton Museum.
In our sights (the gardens are currently closed) was a new exhibit, "Women in Art 1850-1910"," a show of fashionably dressed urban women of the late 19th century, as depicted by impressionists.
For a small exhibit, there were some major names - Renoir, Gauguin, Degas, Seurat - but the big revelation was Alfred Stevens, a Belgian painter who worked in France. Each of the never publicly displayed works of his we saw showed a clear homage to a better known artist (Whistler, Manet, Morrisot) as he executed a Whitman's sampler of then-current artist favorites, with occasional nods to Flemish and Dutch painting of the 1700s.
Since it was our first visit to the museum, we wandered down hallways and into a large circular glass gallery overlooking the gardens. It was as close as we were going to come to its beauty today.
By then it was mid-afternoon. so we once again crossed town, although not via two bridges, this time to head to Southwest and the hot new dining neighborhood, the waterfront. While I'd read about all the development going on along Maine Avenue and the old marina, I hadn't been down there in over 10 years when it was still looking tired and forgotten.
For that matter, if you want to go way back, in the '70s we'd come down to Southwest to go dancing at the gay clubs, back when the only other businesses were those enormous seafood restaurants like Hogate's. You can imagine the delight Lady G and I felt when we spotted a sidewalk marker acknowledging Hogate's rum buns, because no one who ever ate there didn't carb-load on those buns.
Can't say I'm impressed with the fake town center look of Wharf Street (and what the hell is up with piped-in music along the river?), but Del Mar de Fabio Trabocchi offered Spanish decor and eats plus a view of bobbing boats on the blue river while we relaxed into a late lunch.
Besides being enormous and high-ceilinged, Del Mar made it clear it had been fashioned by a Spanish decorator, with a fish sculpture clearly inspired by Picasso, deep blue Majorcan tiles fronting a wall and glass walls looking over the waterfront.
From my vantage point, I had a view of masts snapping in the brisk January breeze a few feet from the river, while both G and I admired the staff jackets of blue and white seersucker with inset floral panels. Our server said they took some getting used to, but now he appreciates the stylish look as well as lightweight fabric for non-stop movement.
Beginning with Ramon Canals Cava Reserva Rose (an easy-drinking Temperanillo blend that would make outstanding porch sipping), we kept lunch to four courses and of course G thought her choices were better while I like to think mine were.
Let's see, inexplicably fresh-tasting chopped tomatoes (how is that possible?), garlic and olive oil atop crispy Catalan bread was followed by a bowl of vibrantly-colored charcoal-grilled beets with sheep's milk cheese and black garlic dressing, earthy and deeply flavorful.
When our server came over to check on our bliss level, we inquired about the upstairs and he offered to arrange a tour after lunch so we could see the views as well as the private dining rooms and terraces.
Because we were in a Spanish seafood restaurant and although it was too chilly for the patio, nothing but grilled branzino would do for my main course, especially with that Cava Rose. I only wish I could have teleported to some sunny Spanish coastal city while I ate it. Sure, G's Chorizo and pork belly with white bean stew was to die for in terms of today's chilly DC climes, but, oh, that fish.
For dessert I had the creamiest of vanilla flans, with a blood orange sauce and tiny little basil meringues for crunch. We took our time finishing up, but the moment we threw in the towel, our server appeared eager to hand us off to our upstairs guide. His last piece of advice was to be sure to use the bathroom up there so we could properly ogle it.
Can do, sir, I make a habit of ladies' rooms.
From Picasso prints forming a frieze in one private dining room to another with a wall housing hundreds of bottles of wine, everything about upstairs involved a stellar view of the marina and water. A patio looked like it was just waiting for the party to start.
In fact, the hostess told us that they're in the process of trying to figure out how to manage the very different crowds who will want to hang out on the upstairs patio (likely casual dressers) versus the downstairs main dining room (at these prices, people are bound to dress better). Good luck with that.
Besides, that's their problem and on a blue-sky day in my hometown with a favorite girlfriend, we still had over two hours in the car as the sun set to continue dissecting my lack of blogging, her come-to-jesus discussions with her man and why we handle saying goodbye so poorly.
Was it enough? Never! Do I feel better after all that history, art and Spanish food? Without a doubt.
Girl talk, it's what's for lunch.
Showing posts with label dc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dc. Show all posts
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Meet Me in DC for Olli Meat
Why drive 214 miles round trip for dinner?
To enjoy the alluring and satisfying company of a DC foodie friend.
To eat the amazing and local Olli Berkshire prosciutto (with buffalo Quadrello bleu cheese) and brag to the staff that I just drove up from the same place from which it comes.Melt-in-your-mouth lovely.
To try a new restaurant, Fiola by Fabio Trabocchi, from a small table by a large window looking out on an unhurried plaza as a light breeze waffed in.
To use my compact mirror to watch the couple behind us make out at their table, she in his lap, both oblivious to the rest of the world.
We ate ourselves silly. To give you an idea of the sheer quantity of food we shared, the feast began with an amuse bouche, so to speak; each of us was served four raw oysters with lemon juice and mint. Yes, four. Our bouches were highly amused.
The rolls were basically croissants in roll shapes (the excellent olive oil was extraneous with these butter-filled beauties), the carpaccio of wild cod, frisee and blood orange.was a tad tough in places, but flavorful, and the spaghetti with jumbo lump Maryland crab meat and Catalina sea urchins kind of confusing (rustic with upscale ingredients).
The chickpea flour pappardelle with royal trumpets and mushrooms in a morel sauce paired simple ingredients but resulted in a a decadently rich dish. And the Shenandoah Valley roasted leg of lamb porcehtta style for two resting on some tasty collards could have served four.
The chef came out to solict commentary (or perhaps hear compliments) from us and we spent the whole time talking about Olli and its meats. He said it took one bite to fall in love with Olli's meats. Don't I know it.
Dessert was a trio of gelatos, the most interesting of which was a fennel (sublime when it softened) as well as a Gianduja torte, leading to a discussion of the Italian obsession with hazelnuts.
The pleasures of sharing so much food and conversation with a passionate eater and talker can not be overstated (although he'd probably enjoy it if I tried). Especially one who can guess my Myers Briggs personality type off the top of his head.
The smart ones will get you every delicious time.
To enjoy the alluring and satisfying company of a DC foodie friend.
To eat the amazing and local Olli Berkshire prosciutto (with buffalo Quadrello bleu cheese) and brag to the staff that I just drove up from the same place from which it comes.Melt-in-your-mouth lovely.
To try a new restaurant, Fiola by Fabio Trabocchi, from a small table by a large window looking out on an unhurried plaza as a light breeze waffed in.
To use my compact mirror to watch the couple behind us make out at their table, she in his lap, both oblivious to the rest of the world.
We ate ourselves silly. To give you an idea of the sheer quantity of food we shared, the feast began with an amuse bouche, so to speak; each of us was served four raw oysters with lemon juice and mint. Yes, four. Our bouches were highly amused.
The rolls were basically croissants in roll shapes (the excellent olive oil was extraneous with these butter-filled beauties), the carpaccio of wild cod, frisee and blood orange.was a tad tough in places, but flavorful, and the spaghetti with jumbo lump Maryland crab meat and Catalina sea urchins kind of confusing (rustic with upscale ingredients).
The chickpea flour pappardelle with royal trumpets and mushrooms in a morel sauce paired simple ingredients but resulted in a a decadently rich dish. And the Shenandoah Valley roasted leg of lamb porcehtta style for two resting on some tasty collards could have served four.
The chef came out to solict commentary (or perhaps hear compliments) from us and we spent the whole time talking about Olli and its meats. He said it took one bite to fall in love with Olli's meats. Don't I know it.
Dessert was a trio of gelatos, the most interesting of which was a fennel (sublime when it softened) as well as a Gianduja torte, leading to a discussion of the Italian obsession with hazelnuts.
The pleasures of sharing so much food and conversation with a passionate eater and talker can not be overstated (although he'd probably enjoy it if I tried). Especially one who can guess my Myers Briggs personality type off the top of his head.
The smart ones will get you every delicious time.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
DC Does Florence
When a man refers to me as a bon vivant the very first time we have dinner together, I'm inclined to accept his subsequent dinner invitation, even when it means my fourth road trip in seven days. It's true what they say about me: Will drive for the right kind of compliment.
Our destination was Acqua Al 2 on Capital Hill, a four-week old Italian restaurant already drawing capacity crowds. What he didn't mention until we were at the bar sipping and swapping two very different roses was that the restaurant was part of a chain.
Mamma Mia! I don't patronize chain restaurants, I told my friend. Not to worry he assured me, it's a Florentine chain. Well, that certainly made me feel better; apparently it's only American chains I have an issue with (although they do have a California location also now).
The purpose of the evening was twofold: to talk non-stop again and to taste as much as possible. We started with the Insalata Caprese (tomatoes more than tolerable but not great yet), followed by the Assaggio di Primi, a consecutively served sampler of five vegetarian pastas, all Chef's choices (bow tie pasta with zucchini, garlic, rosemary and Parmesan was probably my favorite), then a hand cut veal chop grilled and served on a bed of arugula (one of two veal chop offerings), and Topini al Radicchio Rosso (gnocchi with house made tomato sauce, Italian red cabbage, mascarpone and Parmesan) because who doesn't love gnocchi? Don't look at me.
The girl at the table next to us was there because she'd been to the original in Florence and confirmed that the menu was the same, although the bread here was much better. I asked her how the rustic atmosphere, with its exposed brick and tin ceiling, compared and she said it was similar, although the lighting was lower in Italy. One thing I did like was the view out the window behind my friend's head; painted on the facing wall was a shuttered window, a sign and a plant-filled window. A charming view for a wall.
By the time we called it quits after endless courses, a walk was in order. It had rained during the multiple hours we were in the crowded, noisy restaurant (lip-reading would have been an asset at times, although the din also assured privacy of conversational topics), so the air was heavy and humid, expectant even. We strolled through the thickness with the same languor with which we'd eaten through all those courses before I had to hit the highway.
Tonight I was called a truth-teller and complimented for my fierce intelligence, practically guaranteeing that I'll be accepting a subsequent dinner invitation. The soul-sucking I-95 aside, what's a hundred miles between new found friends?
Our destination was Acqua Al 2 on Capital Hill, a four-week old Italian restaurant already drawing capacity crowds. What he didn't mention until we were at the bar sipping and swapping two very different roses was that the restaurant was part of a chain.
Mamma Mia! I don't patronize chain restaurants, I told my friend. Not to worry he assured me, it's a Florentine chain. Well, that certainly made me feel better; apparently it's only American chains I have an issue with (although they do have a California location also now).
The purpose of the evening was twofold: to talk non-stop again and to taste as much as possible. We started with the Insalata Caprese (tomatoes more than tolerable but not great yet), followed by the Assaggio di Primi, a consecutively served sampler of five vegetarian pastas, all Chef's choices (bow tie pasta with zucchini, garlic, rosemary and Parmesan was probably my favorite), then a hand cut veal chop grilled and served on a bed of arugula (one of two veal chop offerings), and Topini al Radicchio Rosso (gnocchi with house made tomato sauce, Italian red cabbage, mascarpone and Parmesan) because who doesn't love gnocchi? Don't look at me.
The girl at the table next to us was there because she'd been to the original in Florence and confirmed that the menu was the same, although the bread here was much better. I asked her how the rustic atmosphere, with its exposed brick and tin ceiling, compared and she said it was similar, although the lighting was lower in Italy. One thing I did like was the view out the window behind my friend's head; painted on the facing wall was a shuttered window, a sign and a plant-filled window. A charming view for a wall.
By the time we called it quits after endless courses, a walk was in order. It had rained during the multiple hours we were in the crowded, noisy restaurant (lip-reading would have been an asset at times, although the din also assured privacy of conversational topics), so the air was heavy and humid, expectant even. We strolled through the thickness with the same languor with which we'd eaten through all those courses before I had to hit the highway.
Tonight I was called a truth-teller and complimented for my fierce intelligence, practically guaranteeing that I'll be accepting a subsequent dinner invitation. The soul-sucking I-95 aside, what's a hundred miles between new found friends?
Friday, June 11, 2010
I Will Miss His Frequency
Old friends are best. King James used to call for his old shoes; they were easiest to his feet.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)
One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.
Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.
I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.
And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.
I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.
I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.
Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.
~John Selden (1584- 1654)
One of my oldest friends is moving from Maryland to Key West, which means our monthly get-togethers for lunch/dinner/theater in DC/Fredericksburg will end. I'm completely bummed about this upcoming change even as I celebrate the new chapter in his life and wish him the best.
Today we had our next-to-last meal together at Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg at our usual table and it was a little bittersweet. We tried not to spend too much time on the subject of his departure, but it was the elephant in the room, so there was really no ignoring it.
I love this guy for many reasons, not the least of which is that he's my biggest cheerleader, here. He brought up the perfect woman theory yet again today and I still find it hugely gratifying because this is a guy who has been happily in a relationship since the day I met him, yet whose high opinion of me has never wavered. We are proof positive that men and women can be the best of friends without ever crossing that line in the sand.
And soon he will move to a place he has been visiting since before I met him and will only return to the area a couple of times a year. I will miss his raunchy sense of humor and his well-informed take on life and love. I will miss seeing a sharp-dressed man walking down the street grinning at me in anticipation of our time together.
I will miss someone who remembers me before I was fully formed (although he would say I was always exactly the same as I am today). I will miss trying new restaurants in DC with him and losing track of where we were because we were in our own little world. I will miss how easily (and loudly) he made me laugh.
I don't want to get too downbeat, because the friendship isn't ending. It's only the frequency which is changing and some is better than none, at least in this case. But like comfy old shoes, this is one of two friendships in my life that is so easy, so stress-free as to be effortless.
Not that I wouldn't have been willing to work at it, but it was never once necessary in all these years. And I have a feeling he will still be my biggest fan, no matter where he lives. Believe me, I know how lucky that makes me.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Eating and Talking Like a Critic
I'm not a restaurant reviewer, nor do I play one in the blogosphere, but I'm more than qualified to accompany an actual critic to dinner and play eater and conversationalist.
The invitation came from Todd, the food critic for Washingtonian magazine and a fellow PG County-ite I'd met here. Not having finished his new book, The Wild Vine yet, I wasn't quite ready to present my book report, but he was gracious enough to overlook that, so I hit the highway to DC.
The restaurant under the microscope tonight was going to be Blue Duck Tavern at 24th and M, which provided a wonderful trip down memory lane for me since for years I lived three blocks away at 21st and N Streets. Tellingly, the parking goddess must have recognized me from years gone by because I scored a space directly out front. Unheard of.
Since we were new friends, with less than an hour of conversation under our belts, there was no way of knowing what to expect out of an evening eating together. I couldn't have hoped for a more intense or enjoyable outcome, though; the abundance of food was exceeded only by six hours of non-stop conversation with someone as talkative as I am. Maybe it was something in the water in P.G. County.
So what did we eat while the overly attentive staff hovered around us? Morel mushroom custard with roasted morels, fava beans and caraway oil (tasty but oddly served in a wide, shallow dish), sauteed frog legs, fiddlehead fern ravioli and fava beans (we were friendly enough by then to suck meat off the same bone), oven roasted bone marrow (oilier than I've ever seen it), ricotta cheese dumplings, ragout of young goat with English peas and Virginia ham (yes, I drove to DC for Virginia pig), baby green Romaine with yoghurt dressing and salted anchovy (definitely a highlight) and the pork chop and braised pork cheek with grain mustard sauce (done in the sous-vide method, so let's talk texture).
It was interesting that Todd made the same comment that Ruth Reichl had when I'd seen her talk at the Smithsonian back in April, here. Critics bring people along on reviewing expeditions for company, for amusement, for conversation, but not to share their opinions of what they're eating. Which worked out well for me, because I'm an eater, not a critic and I'd much rather be over analyzing relationships and discussing reading habits than dissecting dishes. (Full disclosure: when he asked for my opinions, I did provide them. I can't help it. Opining is what I do.)
Afterwards we moved to the bar to escape the helicopter staff buzzing about and get comfortable in the lounge for even more, surprise, conversation. I'm telling you, this is a guy who was no more spent after the first four hours of continuous talk than I was. Some restaurant critics can go on and on.
And, as we know, I like that.
The invitation came from Todd, the food critic for Washingtonian magazine and a fellow PG County-ite I'd met here. Not having finished his new book, The Wild Vine yet, I wasn't quite ready to present my book report, but he was gracious enough to overlook that, so I hit the highway to DC.
The restaurant under the microscope tonight was going to be Blue Duck Tavern at 24th and M, which provided a wonderful trip down memory lane for me since for years I lived three blocks away at 21st and N Streets. Tellingly, the parking goddess must have recognized me from years gone by because I scored a space directly out front. Unheard of.
Since we were new friends, with less than an hour of conversation under our belts, there was no way of knowing what to expect out of an evening eating together. I couldn't have hoped for a more intense or enjoyable outcome, though; the abundance of food was exceeded only by six hours of non-stop conversation with someone as talkative as I am. Maybe it was something in the water in P.G. County.
So what did we eat while the overly attentive staff hovered around us? Morel mushroom custard with roasted morels, fava beans and caraway oil (tasty but oddly served in a wide, shallow dish), sauteed frog legs, fiddlehead fern ravioli and fava beans (we were friendly enough by then to suck meat off the same bone), oven roasted bone marrow (oilier than I've ever seen it), ricotta cheese dumplings, ragout of young goat with English peas and Virginia ham (yes, I drove to DC for Virginia pig), baby green Romaine with yoghurt dressing and salted anchovy (definitely a highlight) and the pork chop and braised pork cheek with grain mustard sauce (done in the sous-vide method, so let's talk texture).
It was interesting that Todd made the same comment that Ruth Reichl had when I'd seen her talk at the Smithsonian back in April, here. Critics bring people along on reviewing expeditions for company, for amusement, for conversation, but not to share their opinions of what they're eating. Which worked out well for me, because I'm an eater, not a critic and I'd much rather be over analyzing relationships and discussing reading habits than dissecting dishes. (Full disclosure: when he asked for my opinions, I did provide them. I can't help it. Opining is what I do.)
Afterwards we moved to the bar to escape the helicopter staff buzzing about and get comfortable in the lounge for even more, surprise, conversation. I'm telling you, this is a guy who was no more spent after the first four hours of continuous talk than I was. Some restaurant critics can go on and on.
And, as we know, I like that.
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