DC's answer to Pinkberry

Tried Sweetgreen tonight on M Street in Georgetown. It's a tiny little salad shop, where customers can make their own or choose from a list of "chef crafted" salads. I, however, skipped all that leafy stuff and went for the Sweetflow, or frozen yogurt.

It was Pinkberry-style, meaning that it was more tart than sweet, with a range of toppings to dress it up. I had a small ($4, and plenty big) with almonds, raspberries, and bits of chocolate chip cookies, and it was delicious. I'm sure Pinkberry, the yogurt chain that has exploded in California and New York, will eventually make its way here, but until then, Sweetgreen is a nice alternative.

The power of...willpower?

This would happen the week I cut junkfood out of my life. Someone go eat these for me.

Photo credit: New York Social Diary

EatHere

Apologize for the brief hiatus - my term as sorority president officially ended today, so I've been wrapping up some things. With the occasional break to run outside and jump up and down with pure, unabashed glee. Oh the bonds of sisterhood run deep, my friends.

Anyway, ate at EatBar with the Brit (I know, I know, we're On Again I suppose, although who really knows with those creatures?) last night and it was a total blast. I'd been to the adjoining restaurant, Tallula, and had enjoyed drinks at the bar, but never dined there. (The bar has a completely separate, more relaxed, but still delicious menu.) It's just such a fun little place - they have fun cocktails, delcious sandwiches, charcuterie, an impressive selection of beer, yummy desserts, the list goes on. I ordered the BBQ pannino, which was pretty much just pulled pork on grilled bread, but it was delicious. I also had a Wimbledon, a strawberryish cocktail rimmed with Pop Rocks. The cocktail was mediocre but the Pop Rocks made me feel like an eight-year-old, so all was forgiven.

The best part, though, is that Sunday nights at EatBar are movie night, meaning that at 8 p.m. they turn down the lights and play a movie on a big projector screen. They offer complimentary truffle butter popcorn and get this - ALL THE CANDY YOU WANT. Literally, a chick walks around with one of those old-fashioned concession boxes and offers candy bars to everyone, free of charge! POP ROCKS RIMMED MARTINIS + FREE KIT KATS = HAPPY KATE.

This is so clever - the manager told me the bar fills up every Sunday night now. Next week, they're playing Sixteen Candles, and I'm totally dragging my posse. Yes, my posse. Because, after all, POP ROCKS RIMMED MARTINIS + FREE KIT KATS + JAKE RYAN = VERY HAPPY KATE.

This both pleases and sparkles. Sunshine!

Ten points and Official Favorite Reader Status if you get the reference.

But...good news! Next week (Jan. 14-20) is DC Restaurant Week. Participating locations (i.e. a lot of fancy restaurants) will have fixed-price three-course lunch menus for $20.08, and three-course dinner menus for $30.08. This is what is referred to as a bangin' deal.

Unfortunately, I am in Saving-Money-So-I-Don't-Have-to-Live-off-Beans-in-Law-School Mode right now, and also insanely busy, so the opportunity to take part may pass me by this time. If I do go, however, it will be to Hook, Rock Creek, or Zola.

Enjoy!

For more information on Restaurant Week, click here.

I'm shipping off...to find my wooden leg.

Was in Boston for the past couple of days visiting law schools, freezing my tuchus off, attending an office holiday party that wasn't mine, and you know, generally avoiding the mountains of work and term papers that accompany this time of year. Which, come to think of it, I'm still avoiding. I got up at 9:30 this morning ready to buckle down and just do it, and it's now 10 minutes until 5 p.m., and I have yet to write a word. No matter.

This post is about the best meal I've ever had in my life. Seriously. It was at Troquet, which is a wine bar on Boston Common. I don't know if it was the snow falling outside, being in an unknown city, the three glasses of port I drank before I went to dinner, or just the Heavenly Bed™ at the Westin Copley Square, but I was feeling damn festive, and this restaurant was just icing on the cake.

The restaurant is very much about the wine, and each course has an accompanying flight of wines to compliment it. The wines can be ordered individually in 2 oz. or 4 oz. servings, or you can order the tasting flight - one of each to go with your dish. I had the duo of foie gras as an appetizer, which was served with toasted brioche, and an accompanying flight of Sauternes and Muscat. It was absolute perfection. For dinner I had veal with polenta and swiss chard and various Merlots. I try not to eat veal if I can help it, but it was so tempting and was perfectly cooked. The wines it was served with were a bit overpowered by the dish, I felt. I much preferred the Marquis-Philips Shiraz that Date let me sip. For dessert we had six different cheeses - by this time the wine had definitely kicked in and I don't remember the names of any of them. There goes my career as a restaurant critic. In any case, the wait staff was so attentive and so helpful, the food was out of this world, and the setting was spectacular. Go there.

Whatever you do, don't order the bitch beer: Brasserie Beck

Boyfriend and I went to Brasserie Beck downtown last night and I fell in love - with the restaurant, of course. I love everything about it - the high ceilings, the modern, Mondrian-esque design, the tragically hip clientele, the FOOD, the book of Belgian beers they give you, with tasting notes for each beer - just a great dining experience.

I had moules frites (mussels and fries), which I always seem to order when they appear on the menu. They were pretty fantastic - plump and juicy, well-seasoned, and the fries, oh lord, the fries. They were thin and crispy and came with a trio of mayonnaise (Belgian-style), which I typically loathe, but I was practically licking the plate if that tells you anything. Boyfriend got the same, except he got his mussels with fennel and chorizo, while I stuck to the more traditional white wine, parsley, and garlic. We also split a cheese course, which was delicious, if slightly lacking in variation.

Brasserie Beck serves up typical Belgian brasserie food, but to be honest, the focus is not the food - it's the beer. Pages and pages (15, if I counted right) of all different types of Belgian beer, each served in a brand-specific glass for ultimate tasting pleasure, our server informed us. The fun was in choosing which beer to try next. I had a total of four: an Affligem Blond (crisp and flavorful, though I'm no beer aficionado), Delirium Tremens (my favorite), St. Louis Framboise (a raspberry-flavored lambic vaguely reminiscent of a wine cooler - bitch beer, pretty much), and a Kwak (caramel-y amber ale - yum.)

Cuteness: I was actually going to order a different beer than the Kwak, but the waiter interrupted me and told me he would bring me what I really wanted, and would overlook my lapse in judgment when I ordered straight up raspberry juice with the Framboise. He came over with the Kwak (which I lurved) in a bizzare beaker-like glass that had it's own wooden stand. How did this man know I love anything involving caramel (even a beer with a caramel finish) and that anything that's so pretentious it has to have its own wooden stand automatically captures my heart with its ridiculousness? Methinks I've found a soulmate.

One last note, to the chick next to us who insisted on having a 20-minute discussion with the sommelier about which wine she was "feeling:"

1. We know you like wine. We know you like showing off to people that you "know" wine. But when you practically scream to the restaurant that you're "LOOKING FOR SOMETHING WITH A HINT OF A PEPPERY FINISH, THAT OPENS UP TO THE PALATE EVER-SO-GRADUALLY," you make everyone in the vicinity want to engage in homicide. Please refrain, and get over yourself.

2. You are at a brasserie with a fifteen-page list full of brews you can't get anywhere else in the city. Man up and order the beer.

Photo credit: heatherfreeman.com.

Missouri loves company, plus orgasmic pizza

Yeah, yeah, I've been slacking off. I've been in St. Louis this past week visiting The Family. For some reason as soon as the plane hits the Lambert tarmac, I lose all motivation to be a productive human being and nothing seems quite so enticing as sitting and watching television with The Dog on my parents' big comfy couch.

I did manage to cook up a four-course meal for my hard-working parental units last Monday that turned out quite superb. (I even did a cheese course! A CHEESE COURSE! God, I'm fancy.) I had every intention of taking pictures and posting recipes, but then I decided that my fan base of 2.5 people would just have to suck it up and look elsewhere for culinary inspiration.

I was so lazy this week that I didn't even make it to two food destinations that I was very much looking forward to - Ted Drewe's and Jilly's Cupcake Bar. Ted Drewe's is pretty much a summer staple in St. Louis - people wait in line for ridiculous amounts of time for their concretes - frozen custard in the vein of a Dairy Queen blizzard, but way better. Dairy Queen on crack, basically.

Jilly's is a new place in town that is pretty self-explanatory. Cupcakes. Lots of 'em. I've never been, but I've heard good things. I really wanted to go stuff my face with a Bee Sting or Chocolate Thunder (which, I'm pretty sure is the name of a sex toy) cupcake, even more so when there was a big article on the bakery in the Post-Dispatch. But, 'twas not meant to be.

I didn't make it to either of these places. But I did get a haircut and my teeth cleaned. Woohoo.

All this was made up for last night, though, when I bit into honest-to-Mabel the best pizza I have ever tasted. That is saying a lot. A lot a lot. It was at the Liberty Tavern in Clarendon (yes, folks, I'm back in town, let the party begin.) Here's a run down, in haiku form, because this pizza deserves a haiku:

The Summer Pizza

Sweet figs, salty ham

sit atop an air-light crust

cheesy seduction

Sooo...I'm not quitting my day job. But there you have it. I'm not sure that haiku actually captures the glory that is this pizza, but I just know that I've never wanted to write a haiku after leaving 2 Amy's, so the fact that I just did for this one should be an indication of its fabulousity. It's the stuff food dreams are made of. If soulmates came in pizza form, then I met mine last night. I think you get the picture. Hurry if you want some because the menu changes, and if you see an awkward girl full-on licking a pizza plate in the corner, that could be me, so say hi.

Oh no, that’s not a pot of gold. That’s CHEESE, baby.

Restaurant Week in a nutshell: Great for the wallet, shit for the waistline.

Case in point: dinner at The Melting Pot in Dupont last night. So much food! For $30.07, we got a four (4!) course meal that was immensely satisfying, and by satisfying I mean I felt like throwing up due to the sheer amount of food consumed, always a sign of a successful restaurant outing. I also felt quite smug at only paying 30 bucks for a meal that would probably cost upwards of 60, until I realized that on the second Tuesday of every month, they do a “Girl’s Night Out” thing and offer the same menu for…30 bucks. Exit smugness.

The first course was melted cheese with bread, apples, and (bizarrely) carrots and celery. What kind of fatass dips his carrots and celery in melted cheese? Like, hey! I’ve got some carrots…damn, I wish I had some nacho cheese. That would really make these veggies fantastic. In any case, all was well because fatass-ness is highly encouraged at The Melting Pot.

There’s a bunch of different cheeses to choose from, and since there were ten of us, we got three different kinds: the Wisconsin Trio (because everyone enjoys a threesome), cheddar, and fiesta! (Exclamation point is required for the fiesta! cheese.) The Wisconsin was definitely the best – creamy and sharp, with a sherry and white wine base, so you know it’s classy. Plus, from what I’ve heard, Wisconsin is just awesome. (Advice: don’t order the fiesta! – just go home and zap some Velveeta and salsa in the microwave.)

Next, the salad course. I had the California salad, which was greens, walnuts, and Gorgonzola (mmm…I love the taste of feet) and a walnut-raspberry vinaigrette. I ordered it because I was feeling masochistic and wanted to punish myself with smelly cheese.

I knew the meat course would be good. Who doesn’t love frying assorted pieces of animal in a vat of hot oil? They gave us two types of chicken, two tiny shrimp, some balsamic-marinated steak (yum), and a bizarre noodle-thing that tasted like it had cheesy mashed potatoes in the middle. After a 30-minute tutorial on proper fondue/frying techniques (terms like, “cross contamination” and “search-and-rescue spoon” were thrown around with complete seriousness), our waitress let us have at it. The oil was a-bubblin’, tempura batter was a-flyin’, good times were had by all. Oh! They also give you squash, mushrooms, broccoli, and potatoes. Potatoes take fucking forever to fry. Dot, my inner fat girl, was really irate.

Finally, the dessert arrived. We got three different types of chocolate – Cookies and Cream (white and dark chocolate and cookie crumbs), dark chocolate with peppermint Schnapps, and the Flaming Turtle (chocolate, caramel, and nuts that is LIT ON FIRE.) Honest to god, if I ever own a business I’m naming it the Flaming Turtle (e.g. Flaming Turtle Pub and Restaurant, Flaming Turtle Lawn Maintenance, Flaming Turtle Attorneys at Law.) These pots of chocolatey goodness were served with biscotti, bananas, strawberries, a tiny brownie, a single cube of pound cake (stingy, much?), some marshmallows, and a hunk of CHEESECAKE. Joygasm.

So, needless to say, I left the Melting Pot fat, sassy, and satiated, with the delightful smell of cooking oil lingering in my hair.

It was a great night.

The French Paradox and the Easiest Dessert Ever

Alors, I eat and eat and yet I gain nozing...

Perhaps one of my favorite things about living in Paris was eating everything in sight and not gaining a pound. I’m not sure if it was all the walking I did or if there was actually something in the water, but I ended up losing weight in France despite eating dessert every day. And we’re not talking fruit, we’re talking gooey, fatty, buttery pastries, or my favorite, crepes. (Were I to live this lifestyle in the States, I would blow up like a pregnant Tori Spelling before you could say "croissant.") My favorite crepe stand was what my friends and I affectionately referred to as “the blue awning place” off Rue de la Huchette (its real name is Boulangerie de Papa) next to the St. Michel Metro. I highly recommend it if you make it to Paris.
Unfortunately, creperies are slightly less ubiquitous here in the states, but luckily these delightful treats are super easy to make at home.

Dessert Crepes
Recipe adapted from The Gourmet Cookbook.
Makes 4 medium-sized crepes.

2 eggs
6 Tbsp. all purpose flour
½ cup milk
A couple pinches of sugar

1. Mix together eggs and flour until blended.
2. Add milk and stir until batter is runny. Add sugar. It will pretty much look like creamy snot at this point.
3. In a crepe pan or medium-large frying pan* pour out ¼ of the batter and swirl the pan around so the batter coats the pan in a thin layer.
4. Cook over high heat for a minute or two, then flip. Once you’ve flipped, you can drizzle on a topping (examples: sugar and lemon juice, Nutella and bananas, whipped cream, paper clips and thumb tacks for enemies, etc.)
5. Fold in half, dust with powdered sugar if desired, serve.

(Note: The Gourmet recipe calls for Grand Marnier. I’m in college and can barely afford the vodka that comes in the plastic bottle, thus, I did not include it. Toss a teaspoon or so in the batter if you like.)

*Is there really a difference as far as the outcome? Methinks no. I'm going to call Brian Williams and suggest crepe pans as an episode topic for "The Fleecing of America."

Boulangerie Photo Credit: B. Rinne

The Buttock

Unbeknownst to me until the tail end of it, last week was Bethesda Restaurant Week. (I am perpetually out of the loop.) My roommate brought it to my attention Friday night, so we went out to dinner at La Miche in Bethesda to take advantage of the deal. In French, a miche is a round loaf of bread, but in slang it can also mean “ass cheek.” I’m thinking the restaurant owners were going with the first definition when they came up with the name…

La Miche was overall very pleasant – its interior was quaint, intimate, and very traditional. I thought the French music in the dining room was a nice touch, too. For $28 (a RW special), we got three courses. (When it’s not RW, you can get the same menu for $35, typically, which isn’t a bad deal.) For appetizers, we shared the baked brie and the escargot. The brie was mediocre at best – served with apple compote and toast, it was lukewarm and bland. The escargot was swimming in garlic butter – very tasty, but nothing out of the ordinary.

We both ordered the cuisse de canard (duck leg confit), which was served with potatoes and mushrooms. It was delicious, albeit a little greasy. This could have something to do with the fact that it's SOAKED IN ITS OWN FAT before being cooked in fat. Yum. Fat. The skin was perfectly crisp and golden, and the potatoes were cooked to perfection. I cleaned my plate.

For dessert, my roommate and I split the raspberry crème brûlée and the blackberries with fresh whipped cream. The crème brûlée was heavenly – delicate and buttery, with the raspberries adding nice little pockets of tartness. Loved it. The blackberries and whipped cream were nothing special; the cream was a little vanilla extract-heavy, and there were only about 6 blackberries in the dish. I should have ordered something a bit more exciting, but after the duck I was feeling like quite the heifer and didn’t feel like anything too heavy.

My feelings about the service were very mixed; it would best be classified as amiable but inefficient. Everyone was very friendly, (even the water guy beamed at us and asked us how we were doing) and the chef visited each table to make sure everyone was enjoying their meal, which is always a plus in my book. However, our main course took forever to come out even though the restaurant wasn’t particularly busy, and we had to wait an absurdly long time to get our check because our waiter was chatting with his friends who happened to be dining there. Slightly annoying.

I would recommend La Miche if you are looking for relatively inexpensive, traditional French food in an upscale setting. If you're willing to pay a bit more, I would recommend La Chaumière in Georgetown, which has slightly better service and a little more inventive take on French cuisine, although I suppose that’s another entry.

Mangez bien!

In Which the Protagonist Bakes a Pie

Old Ebbitt Grill is not a good first date spot for me. I've been there twice now on a first date, and it didn't work out either time. The first first date was with a guy who ended up taking my roommate to a concert a couple months later (they were friends) and then kissed her and tried to rip her bra off. A narrow miss. The other was with a man who would only communicate with me via text messages and wanted to introduce me to his mother.

After one date.

What Old Ebbitt does have, however, is one of the most magnificent desserts I have ever tasted: a bourbon-chocolate-walnut pie that is out of this world. I've been wanting to replicate it for quite some time now, and I finally came up with my own version. To make the pie, I tweaked a Mississippi Pecan Pie recipe from the 1000 Best Recipes cookbook, adding walnuts and chocolate chips instead of the pecans. I was a little nervous as to adding bourbon to it, so i just added it to whipped cream and topped it with that. Also, the pie crust may seem like a bit of work (versus buying pre-made), but it's worth it.


Walnut Chocolate-Chip Pie with Bourbon Whipped Cream
Pie recipe adapted from the 1000 Best Recipes Cookbook
Serves 4-6

For the crust:
1 cup all-purpose flour
4 Tbsp. butter
2 Tbsp. powdered sugar
1 egg yolk

For the filling:
5 Tbsp. light corn syrup
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
4 Tbsp. butter
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 cup semi-sweet mini morsels

For the whipped cream:
1 cup heavy whipping cream
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. bourbon

1. Dump the flour in a bowl. Dice the butter into the flour, then mix with your hands until the mixture looks like bread crumbs. Stir in the sugar, egg yolk, and two tablespoons of very cold water. Mix and knead with your hands until the dough is smooth. (Add a bit more water if the dough seems really dry.)
2. Roll out the pastry dough on a lightly floured surface until it is large enough to line an 8-inch pie dish. Line the dish with the pastry and prick the bottom with a fork a couple times, then line the crust with foil filled with beans or pie weights (this will weigh the pie crust down so it doesn't bubble up when baking.) Chill for 30 minutes and preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
3. Bake the pie shell blind (alone) for 10 minutes. Remove the foil and beans/weights and continue to bake the crust for 5 more minutes.
4. Reduce the oven temperature to 350 degrees.
5. To make the filling, heat the corn syrup, brown sugar, and butter in a saucepan over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Remove from the heat and cool slightly. Whisk in the eggs and vanilla extract. Stir in the walnuts and chocolate chips (but you don't have to stir until the chocolate melts - it's better if it doesn't.)
6. Freak out because the filling looks very liquidy, but pour it in to the crust anyway, and trust that everything will work out better than my first dates. Bake for 35-40 minutes until the filling is set.
7. While that's baking, whip together the cream, sugar, and bourbon with an electric mixer until peaks form and it resembles, well, whipped cream. Feel free to add a bit more whiskey, if you'd like. Serve with the pie.

The Catholic Guilt Complex

I just ate a Fractured Prune doughnut. At 4:30 in the afternoon. And now I feel very bad about myself. Just thought I'd share. (Although, sweet Jesus are they good.)

It's coming...

DC Restaurant Week! From August 6-12, select restaurants around the city will be offering prix-fixe menus for lunch and dinner. Click here for a list of participating restaurants.

I've been dying to try Butterfield 9, and this seems like the perfect opportunity! Joy, rapture.

Image credit: washington.org

"I had a scallop for lunch. It was decadence."

Over the weekend, I ate at Agraria Restaurant on the waterfront in Georgetown. The concept, however admirable, seemed a little crunchy when I first read about it – it is farmer-owned and operated and American family farms and ranches supply all the food. The result, however, is surprisingly upscale – the décor rivals many D.C. restaurants and the service was impressive.

I wanted to like Agraria, I really did. The menu was simple, with dishes listed by their main ingredient. I ordered the scallops ($19), which were sautéed in rosemary butter, if I remember correctly. I guess I just assumed they’d be accompanied by a vegetable/side of some sort. Imagine my surprise when the plate came out and contained…three scallops. Call me crazy, call me an unsophisticated American obsessed with quantity over quality who fails to comprehend the concept of FOOD AS ART, but I don’t know what chef sends out three scallops and says, “Wow. That is a completely sufficient amount of food for a main course. Well done, me.” That’s $6 a scallop. Granted, they were absolutely delicious – flavorful, buttery, devoid of sand, but I was left unsatisfied. Perhaps I was supposed to eat the sprig of rosemary they so generously added as garnish.

I suppose I was a bit miffed as well because for a few more dollars, my date got an entire red snapper (complete with eyeballs and tiny snapper teeth, yuck). He said it was delicious; I took his word for it – something about seeing the teeth of the organism I’m eating just turns me off a bit, but I digress. My point is that portion size seemed a little skewed.

My date caught me looking longingly at the dessert menu (again, for me, 3 scallops does not a meal make), so we got two of their fruity options, labeled simply, “Peach” and “Blueberry.” The Peach turned out to be a cobbler with a flaky, brown sugar-y crust. I adore cobblers – they remind me of my Georgia-spent childhood, sitting on my neighbor Elliott’s front stoop and letting peach juice dribble down my five-year-old chin, but this one was (and I never thought I’d say this) too sweet. Way too sweet. So sweet I couldn’t even finish it (a rarity, in the world of Kate), and even resorted to tempering it with the other dessert. Which brings me to...the Blueberry. When we ordered it, I had no idea what it was – the description merely had random words like “float” and “vanilla” involved. It turned out to be this odd take on a root-beer float (sans root beer, obvs). I suppose the best way to describe it would be a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a glass filled with chilled blueberry coulis. Don’t get me wrong – it was tasty – very fresh, syrupy, a perfect blend of tart and sweet, but as a dessert, it just didn’t do it for me.

In all, I was not overly impressed. Honestly, if I wanted to show someone the best of American cuisine, I’d take them to a Texas barbecue joint (Dickey's, after which I will name my firstborn)before I’d take them here.

Logo credit: agrariallc.com