Restaurant Week 2010 -- Kellari Taverna

I had never heard of this place when Gary e-mailed to say he’d booked a table for our usual RW group, but I like Greek food and don’t get a chance to have it often, so was looking forward to it. The space where the restaurant resides has notoriously been a dead zone for eateries, so it would be nice to see something succeed there.

After running into each other on the Metro, Gary and I battled the freezing wind and made it to the restaurant to meet Heather at the bar and wait for Ali. The restaurant and bar were very inviting on such a cold night—dark wood and sizable wine glasses at the bar, and warm ivory and blond wood in the dining room. The bar was pretty crowded, but we managed to snag barstools and settled in with some wine. They are very generous at Kellari Taverna’s bar (a trend that would continue in the dining room—more on that in a bit). In addition to the deep wine glasses, there is also a massive bowl of different kinds of olives and a large platter with a big hunk of cheese and piles of crunchy bread for snacking on—gratis. Not your average bar snacks, that’s for sure.

Ali having arrived, we settled our bar tab and headed to our table. The hostess handed us our reading material—in addition to the Restaurant Week menu, you could also order off the regular menu, which is pretty sizable, and there was also a HUGE wine list. Our young waitress, the adorable Alexandra, came by to explain how things work. Kellari is primarily a seafood restaurant, and one of their specials is fish by the pound. Sitting on a mound of shaved ice on one side of the restaurant is a variety of types of fish, which customers are invited to inspect before choosing what they want. That seemed too complicated for us, though, so we just stuck with the RW menu.

All right, so appetizers: Ali and I ordered the grilled octopus, Gary got sardines, and Heather got spanakopita, which is a classic Greek snack of phyllo dough with spinach and feta cheese. The octopus was charcoal-grilled and came with a little salad of fennel and leeks and capers. Gary’s sardines were grilled with olive oil and lemon, and he declared them delicious, if bony. The octopus was very good, but man, I am here to tell you that that was not an appetizer portion. I don’t think I got even a quarter of the way through it before I started getting full, and we still had two courses to go! I felt bad letting Alexandra take my uneaten portion away, but octopus is not something you can take home and reheat the next day. Unless you are trying to resole your sneakers or something.

Wine with apps, recommended by the manager/wine guy: Kir-Yianni Paranaga, a dry-ish blend of red varietals from Greece that I cannot pronounce. Very good.

When it came to entrees, I wanted the paidakia (lamb chops), but I was a little reluctant to order something that wasn’t seafood, since that’s the restaurant’s specialty. But then I remembered that this was also a Greek restaurant, and Greeks know their lamb, that’s for damn sure. Ali ordered the scallops with squid ink pasta, Heather got the tomato-braised Chilean sea bass, and Gary got the Arctic char. Everything was really good, but once again—HUGE portions. My plate held four lamb chops, which was about two more than I needed, and they were Flintstone-sized. I got through two and a half, and the rest of the gang helped out with the rest. Ali’s scallops, while cooked beautifully, were each the size of a baby’s fist, I swear. And not a preemie, either. I’m talking a regular baby. Big. Flavors were great, though—the lamb was exactly what I was hoping for from a Greek kitchen.

Wine with dinner, also chosen by wine guy, who gave it to us for a cheaper price because he rules: Angelo Iatridis Axia, a 50-50 Syrah/Xinomarvo (I don’t know) blend. Less dry than the previous one, and a very nice wine.

I had maybe a micron of space left for dessert, but I was looking forward to at least trying the Greek yogurt with sour cherries and walnuts. I probably shouldn’t have been. The yogurt was fine, but the cherries were more like pie filling. Certainly was no match for the chocolate bombs and hazelnut ice cream that the smarter people at the table had ordered. I gave my dessert the finger, and I think Alexandra saw me because she came over and pretended to scold me, “Okay, what’s the matter with your dessert?” I said, “Nothing, it’s just not that,” and pointed to Ali’s chocolate-palooza. “I would totally have this for breakfast, though!” Which I did the next day.

All in all, a good experience with Kellari, but I sure hope they can stay in business. Between the fancy freebies at the bar and the gargantuan portions, I worry about their bottom line. But it’s a nice place, the food is good, and the staff is pleasant. And the President lives right down the street, so if he ever gets a hankering for a shitload of Greek food, maybe you’ll see him there!

http://www.kellaridc.com

Up next: Café Atlantico.

Meet the Mascot

Please say hello to Sister Terrifyah, the Tiny Screaming Nun.



She'll be making appearances here on Nom3 as she accompanies me to various dining establishments and hootenannies. Here she is being menaced by a giant olive at Kellari Taverna. The terror!

Bryan Voltaggio is a Dirty Liar

A couple of weeks ago my friend Roland said to me, “It’s too bad you’re not going to be here the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I have the chef’s table in the kitchen at Volt.” To which I replied, “I’ll be back on Saturday!” And so began on of the most spectacular dining experiences of my life so far.

A little background: Volt is a restaurant in Frederick, MD, that is co-owned and chef-ed by one Bryan Voltaggio. Bryan (I call him Bryan) is also one of the final three contestants on this season of Top Chef, and he always does really innovative, interesting food on the show. It’s hotly debated who is going to win this season—all the finalists are great contenders. Volt has also received much high praise as one of the best restaurants in the DC area. So clearly this was not an opportunity I was going to pass up.

Oh, and Bryan’s also super dreamy.

I got all duded up and arrived at Kim and Andy’s house at 7:45 or so, having been told that the limo (limo!) would be picking us up at 8:15. Greg and Sally were already there, so we hung out in the kitchen with some wine and cheeses, and Kim and I tried not to squee too much about the prospect of meeting Bryan. “What if he’s not there? Do you think he’ll be there? I bet he’ll be there. I bet he came home for the holiday. Oh my god, what if he’s there?” Finally, just before our voices reached teenage-girl pitch, I got a text from Roland saying he was two minutes away. We all got our coats, said goodbye to Amelie and Grandma, and went outside.

I had never been in a limo before—went to proms in Honda Civics or my date’s dad’s Caddy—so I didn’t know what to expect. Here’s the thing: limos are ridiculous! Blue starry lights on the ceiling, shag carpeting, bottom-lit bar along one side, big wrap-around seat—absolutely hilarious. Roland, being the wine guy and generous soul that he is, had brought along some very nice champagne. It was quite an experience, being driven through Maryland while drinking fancy wine, laughing with pals, and rocking out to Motley Crue. This is the way to travel, folks.

We finally arrived in Frederick, and after some joking about stopping at Sheetz for subs and chips, made our way down the main street of the very pretty Old Town area. The trees are all decorated with white lights, which just added to the special feeling of the evening. The restaurant is in a massive brick mansion, and while it’s quite grand on the outside, it’s very clean and modern inside. Roland checked in with the hostess, who took our coats and then guided us past the main dining room and the private party room to the small kitchen dining room in the back. I went in first.

You guys? Bryan. Was. Right. THERE.

He was talking to the people at the table next to ours. I looked at Kim. She looked at me. We may have both peed a little right then. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” went my brain, although I don’t think I said anything out loud. My face must have been betraying my thoughts, though, because Roland gave me a look that said, “All right, calm down.” You would have thought all of Duran Duran were there (except Andy Taylor, because he sucks).

Once we were seated, a tiny little boy wearing his father’s suit came over to explain the menu and take our cocktail orders. (He was actually the junior sommelier, and I shouldn’t make fun, but seriously, he was very wee. And 23. How does one become a sommelier when one has only been legal to drink for two years?) We asked him for recommendations, and he told us which were his favorites. (The Presbyterian and the Pomegranate Fizz, in case you’re curious.) We had decided not to go with the wine pairings with dinner, but rather to order off the wine list. This is what you do when you’re out with Roland.

Okay, so the main event. The kitchen menu is six courses, plus an amuse bouche and yummy breads. Here’s what we had:

Amuse bouche – tiny meringue shell filled with guacamole, tiny tuna tartare with sesame oil “air”, tiny falafel with lamb heart:





Shiitake veloute with pine nut sabayon, chili oil, and basil:




Goat cheese ravioli with butternut squash, sage brown butter, and chanterelle mushrooms

Monkfish tail with ruby quinoa, black trumpet mushrooms, salsify, and prosciutto broth

Iberico red wattle pork belly with cranberry beans, calypso beans, red ribbon sorrel, and pancetta chip

Beef strip with ratte potatoes (I don’t know), broccoli puree, dragon carrot, and garlic “transparency”:





Textures of chocolate – white chocolate ganache, milk chocolate ice cream, cacao bean crisp, and chocolate caramel:




Wines:
Domaine Humbrecht Pinot d’Alsace (Roland, correct me on this?)
Hartford Court Pinot Noir, Russian River
Saviah Cellars Une Valee red, Walla Walla

Everything was absolutely exquisite. If I had to find fault with anything, I’d say that the ravioli was slightly more al dente than I like, and the monkfish was just ever so slightly overcooked and a little tough. But the shiitake veloute was UNBELIEVABLE, the sage brown butter sauce was the stuff of dreams, and the beef was probably the most perfectly cooked piece of meat I’ve ever had. Just stunning, stunning food.

And the service! The waiters are all very young, but whoever’s the boss of them has those kids trained. Everyone’s dishes arrived at the same time, and the team of waiters, acting on some invisible signal (I know, because I was watching), put the dishes down in front of us at the exact same time. Gorgeous to watch. Oh, and they all wear eggplant-colored Chuck Taylors, because that’s what Bryan wears.

After we finished dessert, I begged Kim, who had been making friends with our various waiters all night, to ask one them if Bryan was still there (he was nowhere to be seen just then). She said, “You ask! I’m not asking!” So I took a last swig of wine and screwed up my courage.

“Is the chef still here? Do you think he could come out and say hello to the birthday boy?” (Read: “take a picture with me?”) I was assured that yes, he was still there, and the waiter would go see if he was free.

He was free.


When he came out I almost fainted, but managed not to make too much of a fool of myself. We chatted with him a little bit about the food, Kim asking him about the sabayon and why chili oil and not siracha and things like that. He was incredibly gracious and professional, and just an all-around nice guy. I asked if I could take a picture of Roland and him, and even though he must be getting sick of people taking his photo, he said, “Sure, of course!” He and Roland were posed together and I was about to take the photo, when Kim said, “Jenny, you get in there too!” Not being one to disobey orders, I took up position on the other side of Bryan. And I put my damn arm around his waist! Holy crap, what was I thinking?! He didn’t seem to mind, though, although all I could think was, “I’m touching Bryan Voltaggio. I’m touching Bryan Voltaggio.” He’s a pretty slim dude, too, in case you were wondering.

So after all that, TJ (the tiny wine guy) came by to see if we wanted any after-dinner drinks or coffee. We didn’t, but one of the guys said something about wishing he had a cigar. Says TJ, “Let me get you our cigar menu.” What does this restaurant NOT have? So the boys ordered cigars and we all repaired to the patio so they could enjoy them. TJ accompanied us out there to cut and light the cigars, and in the meantime told us about his aspirations to own his own restaurant one day. He was just a delight to talk to. He brought us chairs and got our coats for us. He brought the bill out to us with a plate of teeny tiny “ice cream sandwich” profiterols, and didn’t rush us to pay, even though we were one of the last groups in the place. And after we’d paid the bill and the guys were finishing their cigars, out TJ comes one more time.

“Here are some pumpkin cranberry muffins for you all to take home.”

I mean, come on. Just a lovely touch. That right there is how you get a repeat customer.

It was a perfect evening. Good friends, good wine, a little celebrity sighting, and exquisite food. Thanks, Roland, for letting me be a part of it!

Oh, and the dirty liar part? While we were talking to the chef, Roland said, “Well, we hope you win Top Chef,” and Bryan replied, “I hope I win, too!” At which Kim or Andy or someone said, “You don’t know who won yet?” He said, “No, I don’t even know!” Which is when I sassed back, “You’re a dirty liar, you do too know!” Bryan laughed and said, “You’re right, I do know.”

I made Bryan Voltaggio laugh.

Squeee!

http://www.voltrestaurant.com/

Behave Yourself!

Recently a list of 100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do was posted on the New York Times website, and boy, did it generate some commentary. While I definitely agree with some of the items, others I think are overkill—always bring the peppermill with the appetizer? Really?—and most of the list is really just a primer in good behavior. I know you didn’t ask, but it’s my blog, so here are my thoughts on some of these dos/don’ts.

3. Never refuse to seat three guests because a fourth has not yet arrived.
PLEASE. I have always found this to be unreasonable. If the majority of the party is there, seat us, especially if we tell you that the remaining one or two are parking or in the cab or something.

7. Do not announce your name. No jokes, no flirting, no cuteness.
The name thing doesn’t bother me. On the one hand, I’m not assuming we’re going to be buddies after my meal, but, if you’re an awesome waiter, I want to be able to commend you by name. But yeah, don’t flirt and don’t perform. That’s annoying.

12. Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass.
OH MY GOD SERIOUSLY. I was at a gastropub this summer where the water comes in reusable antique glass bottles (very cool idea), but the runner picked up the bottle by ITS MOUTH when moving it to make room for our food. NO.

17. Do not take an empty plate from one guest while others are still eating the same course. Wait, wait, wait.
I’ve talked about this one before, so I’ll just say this: WORD. A thousand times, WORD.

41. Saying, “No problem” is a problem. It has a tone of insincerity or sarcasm. “My pleasure” or “You’re welcome” will do.
I know a lot of people get wound up about this, but I don’t see it as a big deal. “You’re welcome” is certainly more polite, but I’m not going to get bent out of shape over “NP.”

64. Specials, spoken and printed, should always have prices.
Please. I always assume that the special will be more than the regular entrees, but I’d like to know how much more.

84. Do not refill a coffee cup compulsively. Ask if the guest desires a refill.
Mother of pearl. This happened to me at brunch on Sunday. The waiter would sneak in behind me and pour more coffee without asking. All I wanted was maybe one or two cups of coffee to wake me up, but I ended up with like five. And I got charged for the refills. Not happy.

85. Never bring a check until someone asks for it. Then give it to the person who asked for it.
Eh. I don’t love it when the check just shows up, but I hate even more trying to find the server when we’re ready for it. I think it’s okay for the server to bring the check and just put it on the table with “I’ll take this whenever you’re ready.” That way I don’t have to hunt for him, but I also don’t feel rushed.

97. If a guest goes gaga over a particular dish, get the recipe for him or her.
What? No, this one is just weird. I think restaurants need to keep their awesome recipes a secret—that’s what makes the experiences so special. I have a friend who partly judges her dining experiences on whether the food is something she could not make at home. Handing out special recipes diminishes the fun.

A lot of this list is just common sense, but people do sometimes need reminding. The flip side of this, of course, is a behavior guide for restaurant patrons. I’ll start us off:

1. Do not treat your server like a servant or be rude. You’re entitled to good service, not to treat a fellow human being like shit. And if you do that and I’m on a date with you, you may be sure you’re not going to hear from me again and that I will tell everyone you’re a tool.

2. Do not snap your fingers at the server or bartender, or ever, EVER use “garçon.” Did you not see Pulp Fiction?

3. If something is wrong with your meal, speak up early. Don’t eat three-quarters of your entrée and then complain about it.

4. Don’t expect anything to be comped, even if it’s a special occasion or something wasn’t right with your order. Restaurants are businesses, and it’s not a great business model to give the product away. If something is comped, then that’s great, and you should be appropriately thankful. But don’t assume.

5. If you’re a large party, for heaven’s sake, bring some damn cash. Don’t hand the waiter the folder back with 27 different cards in it to split up the check. It creates chaos at the end of what was probably an enjoyable time out.

All right, that’s enough of my peevery for today. I just think people need to remember that going out to eat is an event, and should be fun. If we treat each other right, everyone wins!

What gets you? Hit me up in the comments!

In the Kitchen with Dad

My dad was many things—a scientist, a Navy man, a husband, a shy Midwest guy, a lover of puns—but no one would really call him a chef. He traveled a lot with the Navy when we were kids, so Mom did most of the cooking. But once in a while, usually on a Saturday, maybe a rainy one, Dad would pull out his big binder of recipes and take over the kitchen. Sometimes his experiments went well—“experiments” because he was a scientist, after all—and some didn’t go quite as planned. But I loved being in the kitchen with him, even if it was just to watch.

I first thing I remember Dad making was beef stroganoff, which I didn’t like as a kid because of the mushrooms and the noodles, but I love it today. We only had that a few times, all special occasions, as I recall. He made pita bread (which we called “Arab bread”—hey, it was the 70s. Political correctness hadn’t been invented yet.), which always came out hard and crispy, instead of soft and pliable, no matter what he did. But it was still delicious with butter and honey. I can still see the little white rounds on squares of tin foil all over the kitchen counters. He could rock a pan of shit-on-a-shingle (creamed chipped beef on toast, for those of you not in the Navy). His experiment with bagels was an interesting one—I think the fact that the dough had to be boiled first really fascinated Dad and made him want to try it. They came out a little too doughy, but the kitchen smelled like a dream. His flank steak marinade is still my favorite, and he could slice that meat so thin that it was never, ever tough. He made soft pretzels once, and I had the hardest time trying to figure out how to make the knot shape when I was “helping” him.

But it was Christmas when Dad really shone in the kitchen. When we were younger, my grandmother would send us tins of her Christmas cookies—honey cookies, anise cookies, spritz, Brazil-nut bars, and a German molasses-based cookie called lebkuchen (or something like that). But as she (and we) got older, it probably became too much work, so Dad started baking our Christmas cookies. He was usually solo in the kitchen, and we would wander in and out to see where he was in the process. For a couple of weeks there was a bowl of some kind of dough in the refrigerator. We would sometimes help him out with rolling the dough or cutting out shapes. But the bulk of our job was to decorate the cookies when they were done. We did it as a family either on a Saturday or after dinner some night. We would all sit around the table, which was covered in brown paper, with bowls of green, pink, and white icing, green and red sugar, red hots, and those little silver balls. We kids tried to be as detailed, creative, and meticulous as possible, while Mom and Dad kept it pretty simple. But I know they had a great time watching what we came up with, and didn’t care that we licked our fingers as we went.

Ten years ago, we lost Dad very suddenly. Christmas that year was really hard, but my sisters still made honey cookies and lebkuchen. We still decorated the honey cookies around the kitchen table, and it was a wonderful time, but there was an empty chair, a lack of puns, and a hole in our lives that no amount of cookies could ever fill.

If your dad is still around, give him a hug or a call. Then go make some cookies.


Lebkuchen
1/2 cup honey
1/2 cup molasses
3/4 cup brown suger
1 egg
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp lemon rind
2 3/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp soda
1 tsp each of cinnamon, cloves, allspice, nutmeg
1/2 cup citron (candied fruit)
1/2 cup coarsely chopped walnuts

Bring honey and molasses to boil. Stir in egg, lemon juice, and rind, and add dry ingredients. Chill dough overnight. Roll to 1/4 inch think on lightly floured board; cut into squares. Bake 10-12 min at 400 degrees.
Makes 6 dozen. Store these cookies in a tightly covered tin. They lose their moisture pretty quickly, but that just means they’re extra good to dunk in tea.


Honey Cookies
1 egg
1/3 c sugar
2/3 c honey (8 oz)
1/2 c shortening, melted
2 3/4 cup flour
1 tsp soda
1 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla

Chill dough before rolling. Cut into festive shapes. Bake at 350 degrees until slightly brown. Test doneness by touching lightly.


Anise Cookies
1 ½ cup sugar
½ cup shortening
1 cup milk
1 whole egg + 1 egg white
5 cups flour
2 tsp ammonium carbonate
10-15 drops anise oil

Dissolve ammonium carbonate in milk; let sit overnight. Combine all ingredients. Refrigerate dough overnight. Roll dough to about 3/8 inch thick, and cut into shapes. Bake at 350 degrees until firm – about 8 minutes. (These cookies should not brown.)

For the honey and anise cookies, make icing with powdered sugar and milk and add food coloring. (Icing shouldn’t be too thick—should drop off a spoon.) Get your family together, find some kids, and ice cookies and decorate with colored sugar, red hots, nonpareils, or whatever you think is festive.

Food Memories

I was talking with my sister Maria recently and she reminded me of a restaurant we used to go to as kids in Annapolis, The Little Campus. We went there for birthdays and special occasions—Maria said, “I remember wearing my long dress there.” (Remember when a “long dress” was the height of glamour and formality?) I couldn’t tell you anything about the food, except that we always got to have Shirley Temples, and they had this roll-up cake that we always got for dessert. It was chocolate cake with either white frosting or ice cream, all rolled up like a Ho-Ho. I Googled the restaurant, and it appears, sadly, to have been replaced by an Irish bar. Don’t get me wrong—I like an Irish bar as much as the next person—but it was kind of sad to realize that a piece of my childhood was gone.

Our conversation got me thinking, though, about other food memories of my childhood. We went on a lot of summer car trips as a family, mostly driving up the East Coast to Maine or to visit Grandma and Grandpa in Ohio. Dad usually wanted to get started early in the morning, so we would head out right around dawn. The trade-off for this was that we would get donuts for breakfast. I’m not really a fan of the donut now, but as a kid it was a special treat—a decadent change from the usual breakfast of Product 19 (remember that cereal? No? Just me? Carry on.) or Cracklin’ Oat Bran. We’d drive for several hours, and we three girls in the back of the Volvo would bicker and color or do needlepoint (shut up, it was the 70s), and Mom would occasionally pass back a roll of Lifesavers. Everybody wanted the cherry one, of course. And when Lifesaver Lollypops made their debut—oh boy, was that a great day for candy-dom! (My dad the scientist told us about the Wint-o-Green trick—how, if you bit down on one in a dark room, green sparks would come out of your mouth. Then he told us why, but we didn’t care about that. I still don't. If you really want to know, look it up.)

If it was a summer trip, we’d stop around lunchtime at a rest stop, and Dad would pull out the big, clunky turquoise Coleman cooler with the squeaky latch, and the red jug of lemonade. (We had Kool-Aid extremely rarely, so sometimes Mom would surprise us with that.) Our picnics didn’t consist of pre-made sandwiches. We had whole loaves of Italian or sourdough bread, logs of baloney or salami, and hunks of cheddar and jack cheese. Dad would slice the meat and the cheese, and we’d rip off hunks of bread to make sandwiches. You could chase me down the street with baloney these days, but some taste and texture memory still lingers of those roadside sandwiches.

Eventually we would stop for the night at a Holiday Inn, which was exciting enough for a kid. Hotels meant swimming pools, watching TV in a big bed, Pepsodent toothpaste (which I loved the taste of, and no, I don’t know why we only used it when travelling), doing the Wint-o-Green trick, and eating in a restaurant. I loved eating in restaurants. (Harbinger of things to come, maybe?) There was so much choice and possibility, and they did things so differently than at home! They filled your milk glass all the way up to the tippy top, which for some reason I found fascinating. If you got chocolate pudding for dessert, it came in a fancy glass dish with a little blob of whipped cream on top. And everybody could have something different for dinner. Maria told me recently that she remembers always ordering chopped sirloin, because it made her feel “so grown-up.” I went through a period of only ordering fried shrimp, French fries, and Orange Crush. (I guess I wanted all my food to be the same color or something.) In my mind I did that for years, but it was probably only for a few weeks in Maine.

Trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s for holidays were even more wonderful, food-wise (although maybe not as exciting). We would get to their house in the afternoon and sit around talking and catching up while drinking Teem or strawberry soda (the height of exotic beverages, to my eight-year-old palate) from aluminum glasses and eating those rippled potato chips that came in the big can (Maria, brand, please?). I remember being so excited to go to Ohio for Thanksgiving because it meant we got to have “lumpy mashed potatoes!” What I didn’t realize then was that those were real potatoes, mashed by hand—we had instant “mashed potatoes” at home. I hope I didn’t offend my grandmother too much by pointing out the lumps. Breakfast (brunch, really) was a massive, extended affair, with Grandma’s cream coffee cake, pecan rolls, homemade bread, orange and applesauce donuts, eggs, sausages, actual butter, homemade jam—all the fixings of a good Midwest brunch. Grandma had these awesome glasses commemorating the Apollo missions, and I always tried to get the milk lined up with the top edge of the blue flag graphic. (I was utterly thrilled to find the same glasses in an antique store years ago. I have one in my bathroom right now.)

Looking back, even though I guess we probably didn’t have a lot of money, and Mom wasn’t exactly a gourmand, we were always well-fed on pretty normal food, like any normal family. But it was the special times—rolled-up cake, grenadine “cocktails,” fresh bread in fresh air, sparkly red soda, homemade apple dumplings and ice cream—that probably made me start appreciating food. And for that, I thank my family.

Restaurant Week Summer 2009, Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

For our second Restaurant Week 2009 adventure, Ali had booked a table at Art and Soul, a southern restaurant owned by celebrity chef Art Smith. I think it’s safe to say that if you’re going to a celebrity chef’s restaurant, you shouldn’t expect said chef to actually be in the kitchen. He wasn’t, but whoever was did a pretty fine job. But even though the food was good, we didn’t have the best experience.

I got off the Metro and took a mildly frightening walk through a sort of dodgy neighborhood (conveniently located right by the DC courthouse) to the restaurant in the Liaison Hotel. (If you decide to go and take Metro, get off at Union Station. Less scary.) The rest of the girls weren’t there yet, so I went to the bar to have a drink and wait.

Now, I don’t know if it was because it’s a hotel bar or if it was because it was Restaurant Week, but the bar was crowded and noisy, no thanks to the TV showing the Little League World Series. I managed to find a free barstool, though, and ordered The Standard (Ketel martini, slightly dirty, three olives). The martini that arrived was way too salty, but the bartender seemed more interested in talking to her friends who had just come in than checking in with her customers, so I just took small sips while perusing the menu and listening to the two drunk suits next to me try to one-up each other on the “who knows more important people” scale. Gotta love DC!

Ali, Heather, and Kim arrived, and we were shown to our table. It was right inside the door, and spitting distance from the hostess stand. Not the most ideal location, but at least it was August and we wouldn’t have to worry about a cold breeze every time the door opened.

The waiter came and offered us our water choices (we went with DC’s finest tap) and delivered the wine list and menus. After we’d had a few minutes to peruse and discuss, he came back and asked if we had any questions.

Me: How is the salmon cooked?
Guy: However you want it.
Me (in my head): Really? You don’t want to tell me how the chef recommends it? Huh. Okay.

Ali: What would you recommend?
Guy: Oh, everything’s great.
Ali (in her head): Thanks, that’s really helpful.

Come on. When a person asks for a recommendation in a restaurant, that’s what she’s looking for! Tell me your preferences. Ask me about mine. I know you eat the food there. Help me out.

That unhelpful exchange over, we asked for a few more minutes to decide. We settled on our RW choices and decided to try a couple of sides from the regular menu. After all, when you’re in a southern restaurant, you don’t NOT try the mac ‘n’ cheese and the fried green tomatoes.

Turns out we should’ve passed on the latter. They were heavy with fried batter and pretty much tasteless, and the remoulade on the side didn’t help much. The mac ‘n’ cheese was pretty awesome, though.

Anyway, on to our actual meals. Heather, Kim, and I all started with the arugula salad with goat cheese, watermelon pickles, and blackberry vinaigrette, which was very good, but maybe a little heavy on the arugula. Ali had the restaurant’s version of a Caesar, with grilled hearts of romaine, shaved parm, and a white anchovy. She loved it. Nice starts for all.

I went ahead and ordered the salmon, mostly because it came with pea risotto and I am powerless to resist the R word. I asked for it medium, and it did indeed come out cooked perfectly all the way though—nice and flaky and moist. It also came with a little salad of yellow beets and a sauce of preserved lemon vinaigrette. Really good. The risotto was a little on the gummy side, but it was very flavorful, and the peas gave it a nice green-ness and a little pop.

Kim also had the salmon, while Heather had the roast chicken (which I was tempted to order, because it came with a goat cheese drop biscuit, and who wouldn’t want to try that? No one, that’s who.) and Ali went with the pork chop with stone fruit (peaches, nectarines, plums, stuff like that) relish. Both had good things to say about their entrees—Ali so much so that she was a little reluctant to share.

We were pretty much utterly stuffed by now, but as I recently learned from Jeffrey Steingarten’s fun book, The Man Who Ate Everything, there’s a difference between hunger and appetite. I certainly wasn’t hungry, but I still had an appetite for my lemon pudding cake (PUDDING!) with blueberry sauce. It was nice and light and a lovely ending to that big meal.

Sounds good, right? “What’s the problem?” you may be asking.

The problem was the service. Our waiter never came back to check on us, to see how everything was, not even once. Isn’t that like lesson #1 in waiter school? I mean, I know it was Restaurant Week, but we had a late reservation and the room wasn’t full or busy. Guy just disappeared on us. Also (pet peeve alert), plates were taken away before everyone was finished, WHICH I HATE. It rushes the people who are still eating, and leaves the other people just sitting around. God. It might not seem like that big of a deal, but when I’m out for dinner, I’m not just there for the food, I’m there for the whole experience. If you want a good tip and you want me to come back, make me feel cared-for. This is not rocket surgery, people.

Happily, a comment card came with the check, which Ali filled out and handed directly to the manager. To his immense credit, he came back promptly and apologized for the service and told us very sincerely that he would address the issues with the staff. He offered us complimentary after-dinner drinks, which we declined on the grounds of imminent explosion if we ingested one more molecule, and urged us to come back. I guess he’d conferred with the hostess as well, because she then came over and handed us each her business card, inviting us to come back any time and telling us she’d find us “a nice handsome Jamaican waiter” to serve us. Well, sold!

That’s how you make a customer feel good.

And now, a few final thoughts on Restaurant Week from Karina:

(17:11:22) Karina: I've got a post about that: Indebleu: blows.
(17:11:36) Karina: The only reason to go there is for the cocktails.
(17:11:41) Karina: oh but the mac and cheese with bacon at Redwood is f*cking money

There you go.

http://www.artandsouldc.com/

http://www.redwoodbethesda.com/