Birthday Dinner c/o Le Diplomate

When we established that we were going to spend the holidays in the Maryland/D.C. area there was the matter of a birthday dinner. Dad and I talked a bit about it at K. and A.'s wedding and then I began my research stage to consider the options. At first I was limiting myself only to the Silver Spring/Wheaton/Rockville area, but the conversation with Dad made me broaden it somewhat. I considered this Top Chef guy's place, but honestly the reviews were a bit mixed on Yelp. And I don't take Yelp very seriously, but if the overall message is 'some of the food was really good, but it was kind of weird and service wasn't awesome,' you still need to ask yourself if it's worth the hassle. I did think that a French meal of some kind would please me and also be in Dad's comfort zone, so I began honing in on French restaurants in the D.C/MD/VA vicinity. In the end, and not without at least a little Facebook input, I suggested we try a reservation at Le Diplomate. This is a relatively new restaurant in D.C. and is actually part of the Stephen Starr umbrella. Stephen Starr has a definite stake and reputation in the Philly area as one of the 'big-time' restauranteurs. I have not been to all his establishments, but I have been to a hand full. And whatever the formula is, they generally seem to work. Le Diplomate certainly did. Due to not planning many more weeks in advance, the only available times were either around 5 or 10 PM. Dad went with the earlier of the options, which I think was a very good idea. I started off the meal with a pamplemousse cocktail, which I can't find on the website to more fully tell you about. From my own recollection it did the balance between sweet and tart quite excellently. Refreshing but not cloying, with just a little effervescence in the mix.

I will admit that the lighting in the restaurant was better for the actual moode and place than for the photographs I tried to take. They also had very neat/old school tiled bathrooms with sinks that one child I encountered called "really cool." So please forgive the photographs, is really what I'm saying. So the Starr restaurants, I think the thing that really is down to a science is how to put together a relatively effective and professional team. Our server never got flustered by our delays in actually making a decision about the meal, laughed at our jokes, asked the right questions and knew most of the answers to ours. Basically I have zero complaints about the service. Though I will say that we pretty much stumped one newer employee when we asked for more detail about some of the accompaniments to our first round of dishes. But when he didn't know the answer he made the effort to go find out and come back, so that was nice.

I debated on what exactly I would order quite a lot in the days and hours leading up to this meal. I had a few concrete ideas but didn't know what combination would make the most sense. In the end I showed very little restraint. Here is the foie gras parfait...this was the fluffiest, spreadiest, heaven-on-earthiest of foies that I've had in quite some time. The thick toast and fennel aigre doux were the perfect texture and flavor to accompany this rich piece of manna. Seriously good stuff.

I also couldn't resist the frissee salad with duck confit, poached egg and potatoes. Variations of this salad have been my favorite for quite a number of years. The way the yolk mixes in with the existing dressing just makes a magic meal, especially if you add duck into the equation.

Then there was the deliberation of what to actually eat. Ultimately I chose to go with the roasted scallops with red wine salsify, truffle sabayon and black trumpet mushrooms...as well as what I recall as being some kind of legume or potato? I kind of forget that detail. I thought the scallops were well prepared and executed though I thought they were perhaps just a tad salty...that might actually be a reaction to my father's dissatisfaction with the grilled loup de mer he ordered, which he found too salty. His dish did come with tapenade, so perhaps it should have been expected. Meanwhile when I tried his dish I thought it wasn't that salty and, in fact, though my own dish was moreso. Dad didn't agree on his own comparison testing. In the end I wasn't too bummed about the salt level and was pleased with the tenderness of the scallop and the savory elements of its rich butter sauce magic topping.

We had this wine with our entrees.

Above, the photoshopped version. Below, the original. It's bascially like I did nothing, except I spent 15 minutes trying to do something. Alas. The main change is that Dad's country terrine and lettuce accompaniment turned a very different set of colors. Blue lettuce is de rigeur, don't ya know?

We opted for coffee and Armagnanac instead of dessert, in large part because we did have a secondary appointment for the evening and I felt that we were going to be too late if we had any additional courses. When we exited the restaurant we both took a moment before looking around for cabs, and during those moments I noticed a guy standing a few feet away that looked vaguely familiar. After a few surreptitious glances, we met eyes and I finally just asked him if his name was H., which it was, and he asked me if I was me, which I am. H. and I went to high school together! I was quite amused by this random run-in and asked whether we could have a photograph taken in order to prove that it ever happened. Dad and I were both a little punchy, so this is actually the photograph that he took for us. H. is pretty tall and clearly Dad's main goal was getting the sign in the photo. Still, a funny ending to a great meal. 

Big thanks goes out to Dad for the birthday dinner!

Brooklyn Birthday Dinner for L. c/o Bar Tabac

The season of November birthdays arrived in, well, the month of November if you can believe it. A great number of my dearest and nearest enjoy birthdays of the Scorpio and Sagittarius persuasion, and that includes one Mrs. L. I made my way to Brooklyn for L.'s b-day much as I had the year before, and enjoyed a few hours of silliness time in Fatty and L.'s apartment before the real festivities began. This time may have been spent lolling about, telling stories about this and that, putting a belt around my head in the style of a fascinator and generally just cutting loose.

But that was just a precursor to the real events of the evening: dinner and dancing. L. had a dinner with about 14 of her favorite folks at Bar Tabac. We had a nice spot in the back at a long table far away from the craziness of the first room and constantly in motion front door. Bread was served. Delicious. Delightful.

M., who was seated to my right, ordered the paté as a starter, it came with the tomatoes on its surface, but we added one of the cornichons to truly let its face shine. It was the good hearty version of paté that has a lot of texture to it and a nice earthy heartiness. Eaten with a smile of course.

I went with their friseé salad with poached egg, lardons, a few stray potatoes and a nice balsamic reduction. This salad may look simple, but once the yolk got involved its overall taste profile was off the charts as far as tastiness goes.

Fat T. loves his wife.

I went with the duck confit for my main course and boy howdy did it deliver. So rich and fallllllllll offf the bone tender! I believe this plate may have had a few lingering fries and lettuce at the end of my consuming its contents, but as far as duck was concerned only bones remained.

L. is notoriously not that interested in sweets, so when our server asked us what she might like as a birthday treat it was quickly decided that cheese, not cake, would most certainly please her. I believe that this was a very sound decision.

M. and me, holding the far corner down.

We then went to the Bell House, where I took copious photographs of shenanigans, hijinks and dancing...but share only the photograph I took in the bathroom, which makes it seem like I was all alone. Of course the reality was that there were about a million ladies all in line but the angle of the mirrors and their bodies made it seem like a ghost bathroom. Point, me.

A very lovely evening celebrating a dear friend, full of good company, great food, and music with a 'Party Like It's 1999' theme. Which is a great theme for those of us who graduated from high school in that year. Though I didn't actually do much partying then. But I can pretend that I did and then relive those days that never were at events 10+ years later and it almost becomes fact. Almost.

Drive on Up and North

So, what I have decided will be a mystery until the tail end of this post is where M. and I decided to go instead of France. It was in a northern direction, so northerly we did go. At about the half way mark M. drove, which allowed me to take a few photographs without risking anyone's life.
We drove through this small town and should have stopped whatever 'Railroads on Parade' was ... but we didn't because I am a merciless time taskmaster and wanted to make sure we arrived at our destination in plenty of time for ... well it ended up being in plenty of time for rush hour but shhh.
So. Our destination was Canada. And here is what it looks like when you are driving up to go across. I didn't take any more photographs because we didn't want them to think we were casing the joint, especially because we were not casing the joint. The French Canadian who allowed us to cross asked us if we had switch blades. I would never even think of that as being a question one would have to ask of two upper class white women, but there you go. Upper class comparatively to, I don't know what I'm talking about.
The signs in the province of Quebec are in French.
M. purchased a set of CDs to help us remember how to speak French, which we put in as soon as we crossed the border. She and I were in at least one French class together in high school, so it was like a mini-reunion of sorts. Not really. We were reminded of how to say it is a little truck, it is a big truck, it is a little car, it is a big car, and a few other phrases that really helped us out throughout our visit to ... Montreal! In this photograph I think M. is exclaiming something along the lines of 'sacre bleu, il est un grand camion!' But maybe not. We definitely didn't learn 'sacre bleu'.
The driving speed wasn't bad for the majority of our way to Montreal, but once we hit its true limits the fun was 'fin.'

Here's one thing we learned throughout the tedious driving that then followed: French Canadian drivers are assholes and don't know how to make right or left turns. They also are rude and unsafe and have no respect for simply waiting your turn to merge. So in that way they're very much like the French. Note: I haven't actually had the experience of French people being overly mean, but it's a stereotype that works in this context, so I'm going with it.
We crossed this bridge. It took a very long time to cross this bridge.
Next up you will see what we ate. I realized just now that I didn't take a single photograph of our hotel. It wasn't so spectacular that it truly deserved a photograph, neither was it so awful that it shouldn't have at least one photographic proof moment.

Salad Nicoise c/o Quercy

Our plan all along was to take a good long walk and then stuff our faces at a new restaurant L. had seen that specialized in sandwiches and fried chicken. Alas, by the time we rolled up to that spot there was a half hour wait; and we were having none of that. Still, hunger overwhelmed us and we needed to eat, so L. suggested that we go to Quercy, which was just down the street. Not only was the place close, it had the added benefit of having a waiter that L. and I both knew. I hadn't seen R. in, sheesh, I would say since I graduated from college so that would be seven or eight years. We thought it would be a nice surprise to show up at his place of work and say hello/stave off our not-real starvation.

When we were in college R. and I, for reasons I couldn't begin to explain, developed a very intricate greeting handshake. It had ten steps, which went from the typical grasping of hands all the way to a sort of chest bump. Back in our youth R. and I would do this greeting any time we saw each other. Say, for example, that R. was walking to class with a friend or two and I was walking away from class with a friend or two. We would excuse ourselves from the conversation at hand, do the shake then - usually without exchanging any more than a few words - continue on our merry ways. It was heartwarming that R. and I were, with little fanfare or fuckup, able to properly execute this handshake after so many years. We partook of the mimosas in a pretty major way, thanks in large part to R.'s generosity.
I had the salad nicoise, which I devoured. L. noted that she preferred a nicoise salad with grilled tuna, and I would generally agree, but this version wasn't shabby. The anchovy bits. Mmmm.
The moment of our meeting had to be captured of course. L. went all papparazzi at us and there were definitely a number of photos that will have to live a life of obscurity due to the chins I seem to sport.

I then tried to photobomb L. and R. but my job was made difficult by the fact that they were backlit and I was too lazy to mess with my manual settings. So I couldn't quite photobomb them.
See what I mean?
L. and I left full of mimosas and our hunger completely satiated. R. did have to work for most of the time we were there, so our actual talking period was condensed, nonetheless it was great to see him!

Brooklyn Croissant c/o Provence en Boite

I didn't awake quite as mutinously early as I sometimes do after late nights in New York, but I still arose before L. or Fat T. So I took myself on a walk to Provence en Boite, where I purchased myself a cappucino and croissant.

Neighborly Dinner c/o Miel

The T.s came to visit one weekend. They had been in the south for their niece's graduation (complete with D. having his first ever ice luge) and made the detour to come by and see my mother on their way back to Maryland. At this point she was still at the lodge and we weren't quite clear what the next step in her treatment would be, but she no longer had to wear her mask everywhere and could certainly have meals out. We went to Miel (I need to find the equivalent of Miel in Philly...an expensive French restaurant without a lot of pretense and with a good prix fixe). The amuse bouche of the evening was a salmon terrine type bite on crunchy baguette. It was to my liking.
We started with a sparkling Rosé, which was a little sweet...but I'm not really complaining.
The appetizer special of the evening was a soft shell crab dish. My parents split one, and I tried a few of its legs. Nice and crispy. I like it when soft shell crabs aren't overly breaded; it's a waste and a travesty.
I'll have to get my father to comment up on the red wine being decanted in this photograph. We also had a white wine I liked very much.
Before our arrival, I had every intention of ordering the risotto with ham, scallops and poached egg. But the entree special for the night was compelling to me, so I changed my plan and ordered the monk fish with short ribs on top. A strange combination for sure, but still good. I forgot how dense monk fish is and how rich short ribs can be. Would I ever come across the desire to remake this dish for myself? No. Did I eat all of it? Yes.
For dessert we shared profiteroles. They were yum, yum, yummmmmy.

And to end the meal, a dollop of fresh honey.
I insisted on a few photographs in the parking lot because that is how I roll.
It was great to see the T.s, neither of whom I have seen since last year's Preakness. Good people, the both of them.

Dinner c/o Miel

Another day, another sunset walk back to the hotel.
Later that evening, my father and I went to Miel for dinner. I started with a glass of sparkling wine, the name of which (of course) escapes me. Oh wait, maybe I do remember it. Well, on the receipt it says 'Poema.'
Forgive the color casts, please. The amuse bouche.
Dad chose to go with the $30 prix fixe menu, which included a soup or salad option, choice of three entrees, and dessert. I went a slightly less economical way and ordered the Osso Bucco. Before our entrees arrived, however, we snacked on fresh bread, creamy butter, lovely marinated olives and some of the best soup either of us have had in quite some time. The soup, pureed sunchokes with caramelized onions, was nice and hot. Oh man, and delicious. Did I mention the delicious-ness quotient? It was quite high. Quite high indeed.

Dad ordered a bottle of 2008 Domaine Faury Syrah. This was a fine, fine wine. Nicely balanced and mellow. I ended up drinking more than my fair share, and its buzz was a generally optimistic expansive kind.
The Osso Bucco came with polenta and a little toothpick with which to scoop out the marrow of the huge chunk of tender goodness's central bone. I have no doubt I will one day write far more on this meal and methods - in terms of the context of this meal - but for the time being I'll abstain from too much intellectualization of my food and simply say that it was quite rich, but delightful.

Dad's meal ended with sorbet. I don't think I tried much of it, but it also looked great.
The final touch of the meal was a plate with two dollops of honey splaced on silver spoons. This was entirely appropriate, as 'Miel' is the French word for honey. I believe this particular honey was relatively local, and it definitely had more depth that your usual honey bear variety.
Just a great, great meal. Service was a little wacky. When we arrived, the front door was locked because the host had gone into the back and felt it best to keep any potential customers out of the foyer...weird. Our waiter was generally on top of his game, though I picked up on a certain 'I am not just a waiter and resent being considered such' vibe from him, which I, as a former service worker, understand but could have done without.

Also, on an entirely unrelated note, though chronologically relevant:

On our return to the hotel, L. called my cell phone. Dad went on up to the hotel room while I spoke with her in the hotel's back parking lot area. It was during this conversation that I saw the pants-less man. Or, as my cousin K. called him when I told her about it, the 'Nash Villain.' Heh. I just can't quite get over it. I mean, it was a well-lit and traveled parking lot, and not too late at night, and yet I turn my head and see a naked butt receding from my view? Where did he come from?! Why no pants!? These were, of course, questions I immediately started to discuss with L. I can only imagine that the pants-less man heard these queries and thought it best to return to show me the view from the front (which didn't really answer any of the questions). I can't tell you a thing about his face, so distracted was I by his pink tee shirt, longish gray hair and, oh yes, the 'junk.' When did people first start referring to male genitalia as 'junk'? Well, I guess I can now cross 'see naked man's scrotum and penis in a Nashville hotel parking lot' off my bucket list.