Walking into Mr. Noodle I immediately notice the remnants of Chao Tian Fu’s influence—the seating structure with the high top bar in the middle and the booths lining the walls still remains, and a mural of cute pandas and other hot pot related imagery, but now that is painted over, with a tapestry hanging over it that more closely aligns with the hand-pulled noodles concept. On the other side of the restaurant is a gigantic mural of downtown Richmond painted on the wall. It’s an inviting décor that creates a fun lunchtime atmosphere, and it’s a nice homage to the intersection of Richmond culture and Chinese cuisine. 

I find a seat at one of the tables near the entrance of the restaurant. There’s a steady flow of customers and nearly all of the seats are occupied. Throughout the meal I notice several times the wait staff hanging around the entrance of the kitchen idly playing on their phones. I mostly do not have a problem with this (although it doesn’t send the greatest message of hospitality to the guests), because the restaurant has decided operationally that the wait staff’s main purpose is a vehicle for food delivery to the table and that is all. Besides the moment where a red Solo cup of water without ice is delivered to your table after sitting down, and when the food is awkwardly dropped off by a member of the staff who seems to have taken a vow of silence, you should not expect to ever see or hear from them again. Jarring is the word I’d use. Not welcoming at all. 

This is the area that Mr. Noodle needs to improve upon the most if it wants to succeed. The first time I went there, we ordered some pan-fried buns for the table (which on consumption were delicious). The main meals came out staggered and the appetizer of buns never arrived. Even after finally flagging down someone on the staff and raising this to them, they lacked any awareness or complicity. In much the same way that all their other customer interactions are handled—by doing their best Gary Cooper impression; strong and silent—the buns arrived without any apologies for the delay or any explanation given for the inconvenience. Actually, as I write this review, it does seem like a miracle that I even went back, because I remember being extraordinarily frustrated at the service. That should say something about what I thought of the food. 

That was the worst experience I had there, but it was shortly after they opened so we can likely chalk that up to growing pains. I haven’t had any issues in the times I’ve been back since, but there is still a cold disconnect amongst the staff about how to warmly handle their guests that I find extremely off-putting. In my most recent visit, which this review is based upon, one of the waiters did come by to stand way too close to my table (like torso above the edge of the table) and silently pointed to my water and mumbled if I wanted more. I really shouldn’t have to answer that if you’ve already made the effort to come by with the pitcher of water in hand. Just give me the water. 

The food is ordered through a QR code at the table. I alluded to my feelings about this in practice in the Doro Soul Food review. That can be found here. (another mental note that I need to write an essay on QR codes in restaurants). Unlike the Doro Soul Food review, Mr. Noodle did manage to accurately label everything on the menu and provide pictures for most items, so I did not have an issue ordering two cans of Coke like I did at Doro Soul Food. The experience is relatively painless to order through the app, so I don’t really have any complaints about Mr. Noodle choosing to operate this way. If they believe it can lead to a more operationally efficient experience without losing the charm of being doted upon by a wait staff, then by all means. As I’ve previously harped on in this review, I don’t think doting is a strong suit possessed by this wait staff anyway. So maybe it is best that we limit our interactions to dropping off food and drinks, and we just let the QR code handle the ordering and payment fulfillment. 

I ordered the spicy beef noodle soup which comes with sliced beef, green onions, cilantro, and white radish, as well as a serving of their hand-pulled noodles (the star of the show). I also ordered a side of beef ribs. This is my secret, albeit expensive, pro tip. The beef ribs are braised low and slow until they come out tender and only slightly clinging to the bone. I'm providing a picture of the ribs as delivered to the table. They do not look particularly Instagram worthy: I wouldn't hold that against the restaurant, because they are a delicious addition to the soup. Pull and scrape all the meaty bits off the bone and drop it in. It delivers an additional beefy, umami kick to the meal. Unctuous and savory. You will get a little bit messy trying to get all the bits off the bone but trust me when I say its worth it. 

The soup is incredible. It’s topped with a heap of chili oil painted across the surface, which I’m given space to mix around in the broth with my own paintbrush: my soup spoon. The hydrophobicity of the chili oil makes it cling to the beef and to the noodles and allows the spiciness to shine through without being diluted by the broth. And I’ll tell you what: it is spicy. I have to balance the urge to shovel it all into my mouth at once like a hungry hungry hippo against the physical response of coughing it all up because I moved too quickly. In other words, the spiciness forces me to reflect and to savor the moment more completely. 

Speaking of my negative compulsions, I will offer a word of warning: spicy foods do not belong in your eyes. I often want to meld all of the flavors at once into one bite, and so there’s an impulse to dredge up the noodles from the bowl and to slurp them up at once. If you’re like me and you’re finding that as you age you are becoming more and more clumsy, you may find eating a spicy noodle soup to be a dangerous game. I pulled up some noodles out of the bowl and they all fell off my spoon and splashed some spicy broth right into my left eye. The pain is searing, and I’m embarrassed as I scramble for some napkins trying not to make a scene. In my mind I’m making the biggest scene though. Everyone is looking at me. And laughing. 

I manage to blot the broth out of the area around my eyes and my vision starts to restore, but then I’m of course hit with a coughing spell that turns into a sneezing spell. And at this point I’m very glad I’ve chosen the table in the corner away from most people. Finally I manage to compose myself and continue on with my meal. The food is too good to throw in the towel now; even if I almost took my eye out in the process. 

The noodles, by the way, are the star attraction of the meal for a reason. They are tender and delicate. And they have swam around in my mind for weeks. I would gladly choose to live in a world in which Mr. Noodle’s hand-pulled noodles are a major food group, necessary for continuation of life. 

The noodle soups at this place are extremely good. I will recommend you stick to those items; though the menu is expansive in other areas. It’s what they’re going to be known for, because it gives the greatest stage for the noodles to shine. Normally I might say at this point that I will be back. I’ve already uncovered the lede that I have been back. But I do think I may find myself slotting Mr. Noodle into the rotation more often, especially if they can see clear to making their service another priority in line with the quality of their noodle soups. And if we can do something about avoiding hot chili oil in my eyes.

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Mr. Noodle
City: Richmond, VA
Cuisine: Noodle Shop

I won’t take us through a moratorium of the restaurants that have come before it. Today’s review is about the concept that occupies that space now—the most recent attempt to make it work. And, by any grace of God, it would be great to see Indian Aroma persevere. Coming from a restaurant group responsible for a few Indian cuisine restaurants south of the river, there is hope here. 

The dining room of Indian Aroma immediately greets you upon walking in (such is the nature of the floor plan of the space). Its striking what they’ve been able to do with the place. The décor is upscale, beautifully arranged with dark wood tabletops and eggshell chairs. A long booth lines the entire back wall of the restaurant, creating an intimate atmosphere where everything feels contained and close. I found myself in the restaurant while the sun was still setting, but I can imagine the restaurant would be very inviting for a nighttime candlelit meal. 

I’m seated with haste and brought a bulky dual-sided laminated menu. This is a touchpoint for where this review will go: the food is excellent; the service is excellent, but some operational decisions do not align with the vibe of the restaurant. This is one of those times. Condense the menu into a book. Having to flip back and forth with a gigantic, laminated menu made me feel like I was in a Denny’s. I’m not railing against the practice of a bulky menu and I’m not even saying the menu was too long (hence Denny’s, not Cheesecake Factory), but it felt dissonant to the upscale vibes to have to wield a floppy menu that size. 

Like I said, the service was great. Waters were refilled consistently. The pace of the meal was set just right, so that I could enjoy my appetizers without fear of the entrée disrupting. The waiter was personable. We spent a few moments chatting about the new restaurant and the movie I had just seen. And he knew exactly when to make his exit to continue serving the other guests and let me return back to my meal. No complaints on the service. 

I ordered samosas and Madras fried shrimp for appetizers. Both were exceptional. I intended to leave some leftover to pack up for later, but they were so good that they disappeared right before my eyes. The samosas were crispy on the outside and stuffed with a rich filling of potatoes and peas and a smoky heat from the blend of spices that lingered delicately on my tongue even after I had finished off the last bit of the samosas. 

The fried shrimp was arguably the highlight of the meal. It was tossed in peppers and onions and lightly coated in a luxuriant curry marinade. The shrimp appeared to be grilled as it was nicely charred on the tail. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that “fried” in the South Indian tradition potentially points more towards grilled, especially in a tandoori oven. I suspect that might have been the case here. The shrimp were large and meaty, albeit maybe slightly overcooked—I’m talking maybe thirty seconds at most. Still, the combination of all the elements of the dish were enough to make it incredibly delicious and something I would insist upon as a must for the table if I find myself back. 

For my entrée, I ordered the Chicken Chettinad—choosing to stay in South India for the rest of my meal (samosas broke that trend already, but who cares). I also ordered a side of garlic naan. I think we got our wires crossed on the order, because I ended up with an absurd amount of naan. I’m pretty sure I received two orders. The naan was largely a bit too thin and crunchy for my tastes. I prefer a naan with a little more heft to it—pillowy, chewy. But extra naan is extra naan.

The chicken chettinad was an interesting adventure. I had debated between a few different options, such as the saag and the vindaloo but wanted to try something a little bit different than my normal go-to orders. The sauce was well-prepared and layered with the right amount of heat: not overbearing, but certainly not a beginner’s challenge either. I got a lot of notes of ginger in it, but there was a tapestry of other spices, bloomed in the cooking process that released a more complex layer of tastes. 

Obviously the more traditional notes of cumin and turmeric and coriander are present, but I think I’d have to return to try a few other options to really get a full breadth of how good the chicken chettinad sauce was. I will say, though, anything that stops me in my tracks and gets me to contemplate the individual arrangement of the notes of a dish is something worth paying attention to. 

The chicken by the way was succulent. Fork tender. 

With the food behind me, it’s time for my final note of the dining experience at Indian Aroma. I hate to end it on a negative note, but it happened at the end of the meal, and such is the case in a chronological review. 

Remember: this experience has been set up to seem upscale to the diners. The décor is beautifully arranged. The wait staff is dressed professionally and tidied up. The restaurant is clean and orderly. So, when I ask to have my food boxed up, I do expect the restaurant to take my meal from me and go box it up and return it back to me. Instead, what Indian Aroma did was leave me to my own devices to scrape the leftovers into a Styrofoam container with all my glasses and dishes cluttered around the table. It was clumsy and didn’t really fit the vibe. Anticipate the needs of your diners and remove the friction from their experience. 

Side note: Styrofoam is already being phased out legislatively in Virginia restaurants with part of the law taking effect on chains that started in July 2025 and will expand to all restaurants in July 2026. I only say that because while I don’t care all that much that I was given Styrofoam, I probably would have preferred something a bit more sturdy. 

With all that said, that is not enough to mar the experience. The food was delicious. The service was great. My complaints are nitpicky and could be easy areas of improvement.

Indian Aroma offers a very convenient local option to couple with a date night at the movie theater. It doesn’t hurt that it’s also quite good. They’ve only been open for a few months, but I hope people explore their curiosities and give this place a chance. If they do, it might just have what it takes to stick around once and for all. 

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Indian Aroma
City: Richmond, VA
Cuisine: Indian

Hailing from a line of hot dog slingers that dates back to the 1930s, it’s clear that the Mirabile family stands on business. Joey’s father, Tony Mirabile, owned and operated Tony’s Hot Dogs in Norfolk, VA, which became synonymous with hot dogs in the Hampton Roads area for decades. If memory serves me correctly, Joey’s brother then took over Tony’s Hot Dogs, and now Joey’s operates his outlet in Richmond, VA. The lifeblood of that original business still flows through the veins of Joey’s Hot Dogs, serving the same hot dogs and the same chili recipe that his father before him served all those years. Suffice it to say, the man knows what he’s doing!

Joey’s Hot Dogs occupies a small place on the corner of the Innsbrook Shoppes at 4028 Cox Road. When you walk in you immediately get a sense of the space (or lack thereof). An array of tables fill the left side of the restaurant, the floors a checkboard pattern, and a diligently waiting line of people stand near the door awaiting their turn to order food from behind the counter—a counter reminiscent of the old '50s diners complete with a row of bar stools. Lining the back wall of the dining room are picture frames of halfway famous people who have found their way into Joey’s over the years. The space is cramped, but you politely make way for people as they amble past the crowd and into the back of the line. 

As a side note: I’ve noticed I’ve seen less of Joey on the grill recently and more of what I have to believe is his son who I’ve seen in the store for years but has seemingly taken on a bigger role in the restaurant in Joey’s absences. I guess at the fact that it’s his son because he serves up the dogs in the same charming, warm, welcoming way that Joey does, so he’s either a very well-trained long-term employee or he seems to live by Joey’s dogma that’s painted all around the restaurant: Fast, Friendly Service. 

Joey’s Hot Dogs is one of those places where everybody is a regular, and regulars always have their order. Mine is always the same: two bratwursts plain and a Joey Dog with chili and cheese. And I apply the mustard to each of the items at the table. I like a lot of mustard on my dogs, and I feel we wouldn’t be on the same page for just how much mustard if I ask for it at the counter.

I always end up taking a seat in the same place, a table tucked away right beside the soda machine. A choice made out of necessity because the restaurant being as small as it is and as well visited as it is, there are typically not a whole lot of choices available. I do not mind at all, because I always get a kick out of the framed picture next to the table of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, which I am convinced is led by Ricky Bobby from Talladega Nights. You let me know in the comments if you think I’ve uncovered Will Ferrell’s deepest secret. 

One of the strengths of Joey’s Hot Dogs is that Joey has taken efforts to source the food from the best places he can find. I recall one time coming in and overhearing that Joey was not around, because he was traveling to meet with a supplier. That’s the standard he sets for his business. It’s not good enough to just order some slop from a wholesale supplier and call it a day. The dogs need to howl! 

I’m partial to the bratwurst. They have a really consistently savory, nutty flavor that comes out nicely on the grill. The casing is snappy. It feels authentic. And of course, it pairs nicely with the excessive amount of mustard I bathe it in. For my money, it is far and away the best brat I’ve ever had. I’m jealously hoping that this review might lead me to discovering the secrets of their sourcing on these brats. 

While I do find myself ordering the bratwursts, I feel it’s a little bit sacrilegious to enter the halls of Joey’s Hot Dogs and not order a Joey Dog, so I always throw that on to the back of my order. I love their hot dog. I just love their brats a little bit more. The bun is painted in a thin layer of cheese sauce. The dog itself is really snappy. There’s a significant bite to it. According to their website, it is an exclusive dog by Usinger’s in Milwaukee. 

But the star of the dish, for me, is the chili sauce. They scoop a deep ladle of chili and pour it on top of the dog. At first it looks like it’s going to be too runny to be any good, but by some magic it pours across the dog and transforms into a beautiful thin line of broken-down ground beef. It’s the perfect consistency for a hot dog, and it’s on the back of this recipe that Norfolk dogs’ names were made. 

I’ve found in my own experimentation in the kitchen that just a little bit of water while mixing up the ingredients is enough to get that really fine consistency of chili that the Mirabile family has been able to achieve. The chili is mild in taste. It plays its part well as a subservient to the hot dog wiener itself.

Combined together and you get a medley of ingredients that play well together. I am not a fan of raw onions, but that as well as sauerkraut and ketchup are additional ingredients that can be added to any of the hot dogs or sausages. So, there is a significant optionality available to you to find the order that’s right for you. And no, I don’t think ketchup belongs on a hot dog. I don’t know Joey’s opinion on the matter but he offers it, so get it if you must. 

I try as much as possible to throw my business at authentic people who are doing the work to make good food for their guests. In my approximation, Joey’s Hot Dog is doing exactly that. Their commitment to their sourcing and the level to which they make you feel welcome when you walk in the door are significant influences why I find myself coming back. And it's also one of the reasons why their name is often thrown around as one of the best hot dogs in Richmond. It would be premature of me to declare them the best without giving everyone else a fair shot first, but the Mirabile family have hot dogs in their genes. And that's enough for me.

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Joey’s Hot Dogs
City: Richmond, VA
Cuisine: Hot Dogs

One such restaurant, Tail Up Goat—a plucky neighborhood bistro in Adams Morgan—announced in April that it would be shutting its doors for good at the end of the year, closing an admirable decade-long run by its three owners. Without offering too much insight into their decision-making process, the owners of Tail Up Goat simply are deciding not to renew their lease, letting the restaurant close on their own terms. 

An admirable decision that also comes with the added benefit that I’m sure any restauranteur would love to have: getting to run a restaurant while unshackled by the constraints of actually running a restaurant. In other words: Tail Up Goat could just be itself in the time it had left. And that is freedom!

I got to visit the restaurant in September. It’s a short walk from the Woodley Park metro station. I’d say ten minutes. Unless you're wearing the same shoes I was wearing that have a strong distaste to stay tied for more than a block at a time. I hate them so much and that hatred leads to strife. So who’s to say how long the walk actually is. It’s pleasant enough I guess. 

The restaurant storefront is unassuming. It looks like any other restaurant you’ve ever been to. Not a whole lot screams Michelin starred restaurant about it. That I’ve come to learn is by design. There’s a lovely covered patio with maybe eight tables but mid-September is not far enough removed from the summery heat for me to ever even consider the patio, so inside we went! 

The first thing you would see when you walk into Tail Up Goat is a bar room that is divided from the dining room by a wooden partition. The countertop of the bar wraps around the entire length and extends further down to the end of the partition, such that a handful of bar seats are just facing a wooden wall. Not exactly the most scenic seats in the restaurant. 

We’re shuffled along to the dining room where myself and my guest (an old college friend who I guess technically paid for the meal so I was his guest) were given a table in the middle of the room. We had a 6pm reservation so the restaurant was already bustling with the earliest arrivals, and it was at this point that I was able to make a pretty stark comparison to Reverie (another DC Michelin starred restaurant that recently closed down that I reviewed here and had gone to the night before): whereas that experience felt funereal—a somber mourning shrouded in a black palette—Tail Up Goat felt celebratory. It was crowded and buzzing, and the guests seemed happy and relaxed and excited to be there. There was a familiarity to it that one might expect from any beloved local spot; Tail Up Goat had fossilized itself in this community and for nearly a decade these are the people they served. And though the night continued with excited energy and a consuming bliss, I do feel pangs for what it means to lose that rock. 

Before sitting down, I excused myself to go on an adventure to find the restroom, dipping and dodging as waiters swung around corners with trays of food lifted above their head. I managed to get to the restroom unscathed, but on the way back I noticed there was more organization to this trek. As I came down the hallway back to the dining room, a staff member forcefully gestured to people unseen around the corner to tell them to make way as I came through. I know in my brain this is because they didn’t want me getting clocked in the head by a tray full of ceramic ware, but in my heart I do think it’s because they saw I was a man of regal importance. 

Back at the table I found a mysterious drink in front of me that I did not order. I only have my friend’s account of what it was so you’ll have to forgive me and trust in him implicitly. He’s not typically someone I would choose to trust with so much on the line as he’s a rather flaky individual that shifts with the winds, but this one time we’ll give him slack. He said “I don’t know, they just put them down and said something. I think it was pineapple and black pepper”. I only tasted the pineapple. He swears his was peppery. Regardless, it was a nice aperitif that really awoke the palate. 

Our waiter came around to explain the menu to us. Tail Up Goat has a robust à la carte menu but also offers a six-course family-style tasting menu that he promised did not feature any items on the à la carte menu.

For this reason he did encourage us to consider ordering something from the à la carte menu if we wanted to supplement the tasting menu. When in Rome, so we ordered the tasting menu as well as a supplement of the rabbit croquettes. A beautiful crunchy exterior with a rich, creamy center. And they sat nestled atop a thin layer of pear butter that helped introduce a gentle sweetness to punch through the weight of the creaminess. It was a magnificent start to the meal. 

Next up was focaccia bread served with sun-dried tomato butter. I’m going to say this straight up and then I’ll immediately hedge because I think it gives an unfair impression: this was my favorite course of the night. But only because it was that good. I swear to God I would happily have paid the price of this meal just to be given a whole loaf of the focaccia and a mountain of that butter. It was crunchy and glistening, the butter spread so smoothly. And the potency of those sun-dried tomatoes. Truly unreal!

A melon topped with onion jam with a goat milk sauce was next. It was a simple presentation but all the flavors melded exquisitely. The tanginess of the sauce. The sharp intensity of the caramelized onions. And of course the fresh, juicy saccharinity of the melon. 

So a small aside: by this point we’ve had three courses, but they’re not exactly the biggest portion sizes. A piece of bread, a slice of melon, and a single croquette each. So to me it doesn’t seem shocking that we’d advanced as quickly through this portion of the meal as we did. The waiter on the other hand disagreed. Throughout the rest of the evening, he kept making strange comments every time he’d come pick up a dish. “Oh wow you guys ate that faster than I thought” or “I feel like I just put that down and turned around and you were done”. 

My every-course ritual is to try to jot down as many notes as I retained from the course description script they recite and then cross check with the other members of my party to ensure I didn’t miss anything noteworthy. I’m not a particular fast scribbler. And then couple that with remembering to fumble with my phone to take a picture. I try to split anything that isn’t a bite sized amuse bouche into several bites so I can have a few different impressions, and I jot those notes down too. So I don’t ever feel like I’m moving fast through a meal. In fact sometimes I feel I’m the slow one at the table. But the comments really irked me, and I think threw me off a bit. I don’t know that he was saying them in a malicious way. And maybe it’s just part of the jolly fun of the local neighborhood spot, but it seemed beneath a restaurant of Tail Up Goat’s caliber. One ribbing, sure. All in good fun. He went back to that well maybe four times total. It was weird. 

Anyway, back to the meal which is really what should take center stage. Next up was a green bean dish with a cacio e pepe sauce on top. Incredibly peppery. I think this is where the pepper in my aperitif ended up. Maybe not suitable for everyone but I tend to be someone who blankets my food in pepper like ash from Pompeii, so I really liked the dish. 

Another standout of the meal was ravioli with a corn filling that came out next. It featured a light sauce with habanero peppers bred to be absent of heat. The ravioli was very corn forward but delicious and fresh and airy. Each raviolo was like a little flavor bomb in the mouth, complemented beautifully by the floral accents of the habanero slices. 

At this point the sun has gone down, the restaurant has dimmed and the candles have come out, the buzz of the room has intensified, and we’re ready to tuck into the main course! What comes out is I think the most confusing dish I’ve ever received at any Michelin star restaurant. A stark white halibut filet and a fried zucchini cake perched to its side. 

This was their grand finale? This is the moment where Ode to Joy plays with fireworks exploding in the background as the two lovers finally realize they were meant for each other after all and fall into each other’s embrace on the Pont des Arts? This felt more like a backwoods hootenanny with Kid Rock blaring too loud and the sketchy uncle who insists on lighting firecrackers with his cigarette. It’s just not the same moment. 

The zucchini cake was good. Maybe a touch salty. The halibut was a travesty. I said it was stark white. It looked boiled and sad. It looked like it had been dragged across the counter to pick up some seasoning. But across a counter someone had just wiped clean. I’ve looked up pictures on Yelp of their halibut because I couldn’t believe it. And sure enough the previous iterations were nothing like this. They had color. They had seasoning. They looked inviting. In retrospect, I don’t know how ours got sent out in good conscience. 

I do think we should have questioned it. But we were a table of two people-pleasers, and we’d already spent half the night being bullied by our waiter so I don’t even think the thought crossed our mind at the time. It was edible, but it wasn’t good. 

Not to mention I’m concerned this is the first Michelin starred restaurant I’ll be leaving with a residual feeling of hunger. It’s not the most expensive so that plays a part in it I guess but up to this point (excluding the croquettes which aren’t part of the tasting menu), I had a piece of bread, a slice of melon, three green beans, four ravioli, and half a rather small filet of halibut. 

So now we’re starting to question whether we’ll need to find accommodations elsewhere for a small snack to tide us over. Do we just order another plate off the à la carte menu? That would give us something extra to review and split two ways it wouldn’t overfill us. Or do we just leave it alone, and suck it up? Are the entrees even going to be worth it if that’s what we were served for the halibut? 

As all these thoughts raced through my head, a plate of bavette steak and potato pavé arrived at the table. We were fools, all of us deceived! And there was indeed more food to come.

Unfortunately, in my reckless abandon and in either my lingering hunger or the adrenaline I felt from not actually having to make a decision on what to do, we forgot to take a picture before we had consumed most of the plate. Maybe the waiter was on to something.

It was a beautiful plate, and the steak was cooked perfectly. The bavette had a nutty pesto sauce to slide through while the potato pavé was accompanied by a creamy basil sauce. 

Potato pavé is one of those dishes that screams luxury not because it’s overly complex—it’s not, it’s just potatoes—but because of the craftsmanship and the time and effort that goes into making it. The potato is sliced thin and then stacked into sheets, pressed down hard, and left to chill. It’s then sliced up into cubes and fried up. So you get a ton of layers of potatoes that are crispy on the outside and a bit creamier towards the middle. Excuse me for saying it, but it’s a huge pain in the ass and a gigantic waste of time. But I’m glad they did because it was delicious and I would have gladly taken more off their hands. 

The final dish was exactly what I needed and it really recentered the meal. Yes, there was the halibut misstep. That could easily have been rectified and if the rest of the meal is any indication, that is not their standard. I’m very glad the main part of the meal ended on such a better high note. All that was left was dessert. 

A mascarpone semolina crumble. And wouldn’t you know it, the corn made a return. This was a nice way to satiate the sweet tooth while staying true to the roots of the restaurant. Not overly indulgent. Centered and balanced. A wonderful, poignant end to the meal. 

I’m sad to see a restaurant like Tail Up Goat go. I can’t speak to their situation prior to that night, but there was a palpable energy in that room that will surely be missed. It’s an approachable environment that does a lot of good for dispelling the notion that fine dining has to be white tablecloths and silver cutlery. Tail Up Goat was offering elevated food in an unpretentious way and I respect them for that. 

I hope truly that whatever the owners of Tail Up Goat decide to do next, they approach it with the same kind of grounded passion and conviction they seemed to with this restaurant. 

I’m very glad I got to visit before they shut down later this year, and participate in the celebration of a restaurant that truly earned its keep. Cheers to Tail Up Goat!

Series: The Fancy Fork
Restaurant: Tail Up Goat
City: Washington, DC
Cuisine: American

Inside the patisserie is a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare: a sprawl of tables and chairs and people and a large load-bearing column right in the middle of the room (also: a short couch on which a man was feverishly teaching a woman phrases in Italian) that makes navigating the room a high-wire challenge. I was able to contort my typically uncoordinated body towards the last remaining seat in the restaurant and stake my claim. 

On the other side of the store was the only reason anybody was here in the first place: a beautiful display of pastries that offers a choose-your-own-adventure style of infinite possibilities. The choice was not easy, because everything looked and smelled incredible. I opted for a butter croissant and an apple tart. But deep in my heart I know I will be back to try the éclair. And the pain au chocolat. And the meringue. And the almond croissant. And honestly, I’m not upset that the bench is so deep. 

The butter croissant and apple tart are presented in a wicker style basket lined with a newspaper parchment—a striking modern take on the classic Parisian patisserie. The butter croissant is flaky with light streaks of butter threaded among the layers of the croissant giving attention to the effort involved in its preparation. The apple tart was even better: structured and riveted on the outside with a subtle intermingle of sweet and tart from the apple mix. The tart compacted on crunch with a satisfying bounce as I tore bits apart. 

I also ordered a Marocchino caldo which is described as a “thick chocolate topped with espresso and frothed milk”. I give this description directly from the menu, because it should be noted that I’m a Neanderthal still trying to find his way out of the caves when it comes to coffee. I actively do not understand it and I don’t typically even like it. I give this disclosure, because I didn’t like it. I don’t feel particularly qualified to explain what I didn’t like about it, but it reminds me of how I also just don’t get wine. My ignorance on both of these is not a brag; it’s simply a statement of fact. Everyone around me had coffee and they were all still there and in pleasant spirits and the pastries were delicious, so my imagination tells me the coffee is considered good. I apologize for being an ignoramus. 

I’ll be back. There’s many stones to unturn in this cramped store and I love that it lets me pretend—if even just for a second—that I’m in a cozy café on the Rue Cler. And I promise I’ll keep trying to understand what people like about that dog water called coffee. But that’s my own personal journey. 

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Un je ne sais quoi…
City: Washington, DC
Cuisine: Coffee Shop

I was lucky enough to get to dine at one of the final services of the famed Georgetown restaurant, experiencing a menu that felt like a celebration—or at least a silent reflection—of the elements that made Reverie such a marked mainstay in the DC and Georgetown dining scene. 

While Chef Spero has not elucidated the exact reasons for the abrupt closure of his Michelin star restaurant, I do cheekily wonder if its obfuscated entrance did it any favors. A carefully placed sign on Grace Street leads customers on a scavenger hunt down a dank alleyway. And at the back of the alley is the Reverie marking that leads into a covered patio with a stone walkway and a bench occupied by a very tranquil cat named Poppy who had claimed full dominion over the space. 

(I have it on good authority that Chef Spero has reached a covenant with this neighborhood cat to keep all manner of vermin at bay in exchange for Reverie nibblings—a very balanced exchange.)

We were greeted on the patio and ushered into the restaurant—a slight room divided into two halves: an open kitchen where staff silently bustled around a large island tending to their preparatory work, and a small dining room with about ten tables starkly facing the kitchen. It was an intimate affair. 

Our reservation was early and the arrival of the guests at the other tables was staggered throughout the night, so for at least half the meal we were one of only two tables seated. That coupled with the lack of a boundary between the kitchen and the dining room created an unsettling feeling that I was being closely watched by the staff. 

The service was adequate. This was admittedly the part of the experience I was most anxious about leading up to the reservation. The cold reality of a restaurant closing means staff will soon find themselves out of a job. With an abrupt closure of—at least publicly—a lead time of about eight weeks, I was curious to see if the staffing felt strained. To that I would posit that I wouldn’t necessarily say I felt doted on. Dishes arrived orderly and glasses stayed filled but there lacked an energy to the presentation. The script was recited for each dish, and then the waiter was gone.

Chef Spero dropped a few of the dishes himself throughout the night and in those courses we felt the passion and the influence; a chapter of the menu’s story was told. But beyond that the service was clinical. 

As far as the food is concerned, a starkly different picture was painted. The menu was a collection of some of the greatest hits at Reverie and on full display with Chef Spero’s innovation and creativity. Every dish was art, constructed to weave a narrative—purposeful ingredients designed to elevate the seafood components and pack a punch. 

To start off the meal, we were given a small cup of amazake: a Japanese drink that was fermented from koji and Carolina gold rice. Koji breaks down the starch of the rice into sugar to give the drink a simple, sweet flavor reminiscent of yellow corn. This was a nice dish to awaken the palate. 

Next we received a plate of three bites served on a bed of shells and some greenery. The standout here was a king crab tart; buttery, smooth, with a rewarding crunch from the shell of the tart. There was also a lamb liver donut, and a strikingly beautiful monkfish liver rosette topped with salmon roe. All three bites were loud and punchy. If I wasn’t awake before, I was certainly at attention after that course. 

The next dish was a clam gazpacho with pickled garlic. I’m going to at some point in this review start to sound like a broken record so it might as well start here: this dish was beautiful, as are all of the dishes. This is certainly one of Reverie's strengths. The clam was hidden underneath a bundle of foliage on the upper edge of the shell it was served on, lapping against the shoreline of the brothy gazpacho. In practice I had more difficulty eating the dish than the good fortune I had looking at it. It was difficult to navigate the shell to get equal tastes of the clam and the broth. I finally just committed first to the clam/foliage combo, and then very quickly and discreetly slurped the broth out of the shell. I don’t think anyone saw me, but I can’t say for sure. The vibes from the wait staff weren’t altered so I think I was safe. 

After this dish we were served hiramasa—a thick, firm piece of yellowtail kingfish peppered in an allium powder—that was served in an epazote sauce that clung beautifully to the fish. A rich, earthy, peppery combination. This plate sat heavy in the middle of the menu: a load-bearing course surrounded by softer, lighter seafood options. 

The scallop in the next dish was cooked beautifully. It may have been the best cooked scallop I’ve ever had. But the shortcoming of this dish was the sauce. The scallop was coated in a thick, milky dredge derived from sidra blanc and salted berries that did not do a whole lot for me. It was served deep into the bottom of a rather tall bowl, trapping the otherwise excellent scallop beneath the weight of the sauce.

Taking a detour from a dish I did not particularly love, we arrive at one that mystified me: a savory ice cream with sunchoke and caviar. Putting aside my visceral reaction to ever receiving ice cream in the middle of a meal (read: please every chef reading this, do this more), there was something so beautifully elegant about the intersection of the caviar with the creaminess of the miso-infused ice cream. I’ve said it before and I’ll continue to say it, this time with an out of place and hamfisted sports analogy: caviar is not the leading goal scorer many in the world of luxuriant food want it so badly to be. It is an assist machine though. And on this dish it pairs perfectly with the savory notes throughout, as well as a sharp citrusy backnote that felt present for only a fleeting moment. 

The next dish that was dropped at the table was dropped by Chef Spero himself. He wanted to articulate to us that he has come to colloquially call it a “hug in a cup” because “that’s exactly what it is”. There were a lot of elements to this dish, but the main takeaway he wanted us to have was that it was his idea of comfort. This dish felt woven into the tapestry of the restaurant; I was able to find iterations and versions of this dish dating years back into its history: a hug in a cup stays on the menu because it grounds the whole experience. 

Starting on top of the cup was a fermented egg yolk which was rich and glassy. Underneath the egg was a porridge of rice. If I’m not mistaken it was a return of the Carolina gold rice featured in the amazake. Mixed into the rice was a combination of nori and eel and a healthy amount of mussels and clams. Digging deep into the cup and extracting a spoonful from the bottom-upwards yielded a medley of heavy flavors that lived up to the namesake: a hug in a cup. 

Up to this point in the meal there was a heaviness that had kept things grounded. But with the cod au poivre it was finally ready to take flight. A foamy dish complemented gorgeously by a saucy mixture of Szechuan peppercorns and confit garlic and topped with crispy shreds of battera kombu—a kelp product that provides a textural contrast to the flaky cod. It was here in this dish where the symphonies rang out. The cod was cooked immaculately. My only complaint, truly, was that I wish I had more. 

We were provided with a sourdough from a bakery in Maryland called Manifest Bread. It was served with urfa butter, and we were strongly encouraged to sop up the remnants of the au poivre sauce with the bread. From what I understand this particular bakery is a supplier of a lot of DC restaurants and for very good reason. It was excellent bread. And they were right: a little bit of leftover au poivre sauce made it even better. 

The final major component of the meal was our dessert. No less creative than the rest of the menu, the dessert was a birch bark ice cream derived exclusively from the parts of a birch tree—everything but the leaves. The honey and pollen infusion drizzled on top. Candied pine cone. I simply don’t know where something like this comes from but I’m glad it did. It was a highlight of the night for me. And I learned about myself that birch tree is my jam (well, everything except the leaves of the birch which were not featured in this dish).

To round out the meal was a final series of mignardises: a shell-shaped madeleine, a frosted geranium leaf, a candied salsify, and “cherry”—an espelette pepper made to resemble a cherry. The standout for me was the cherry. It had a hit of sweetness to it with a backnote of encouraging spiciness. The other three served their minimum purposes: a filler in the meantime while we settled the checks. Not offensive but not particularly memorable. 

To put a bow on all of this, I was extraordinarily happy that I got to experience Reverie before it closed for good. The menu was bold and inventive, and now I wait eagerly to see what’s next for Chef Spero—an obviously talented chef with an endlessly depressing string of bad luck. 

It’s sad when a good thing ends and we can only pontificate on why we think this particular thing has ended, but in all of it there is something beautiful about what Reverie set out to achieve: it found a way in spite of the challenges it faced to make a mark in the Georgetown community that I don’t think will soon be forgotten. And that’s as good a legacy as any to leave behind. Cheers to Reverie!

Series: The Fancy Fork
Restaurant: Reverie
City: Washington, DC
Cuisine: American

And then there’s Arby’s. Arby’s is a chain I think most people don’t know how to fully reconcile with. It’s one of those restaurant chains that you either really love or find disgusting. I rarely find anyone with a more middle ground opinion. And I think in part it has to do with the way they boxed themselves into a corner with their We Have the Meats campaign and slogan. Food prices go up and yet Arby’s is still serving mountainous piles of sliced roast beef for seemingly the same price as any other chain sells their marquee items. Is it good? It’s hard to say. I personally love it but in a way I’m not in love with (if that makes any sense). 

As an extension of the We Have the Meats campaign, their new limited time offerings are usually some offshoot of that. For example, recently they’ve been advertising burgers—an item they did not typically have before, which feels shocking for a fast food concept that prides itself on having the meats. And I think that’s the whole point of public confusion. They have some of the meats.

Without derailing this review too much, I think it's important to get into the subject matter of today. Arby’s has released with great fanfare a new meat-based item that they’re calling steak nuggets. The name is an abomination meant to capitalize on the public’s love for chicken nuggets while also one-upping the old, boring same-old, same-old that every other chain does with chicken nuggets. No!, because at Arby’s we have the meats and the meats must excite. Thus steak nuggets—the next evolution in nugget technology. 

And as exciting as that sounds, that’s about where it ends. Steak nuggets are—deep down on the inside—a fast food chain’s attempt at essentially burnt ends. I ordered a five piece of steak nuggets. What I received was five roughly one-inch cubes of beef coated in a thin amount of barbeque sauce. These were burnt ends and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Although to be fair to burnt ends, burnt ends are delicious and these were a fast food cosplay of burnt ends, so really we might as well go back to calling them steak nuggets. It fits the whole façade better anyway. 

The steak nuggets are inconsistent. A few were plump and juicy. The runts of the bunch were dry and jerky-like. Not particularly surprising other than truth be told I thought they’d all be dry and jerky-like, so I’ll take a few being decent as a win. 

I don’t think I can particularly recommend them. They are not cheap. And that amount of consistency doesn’t work for an item of their price point. Five steak nuggets were a little over five dollars. I commend the effort, and I appreciate they’re swinging for the fences. But the steak nuggets at Arby’s are not Lunch Break Approved. 

Series: The Lunch Break
Restaurant: Arby’s
Item: Steak Nuggets
Verdict: Not Lunch Break Approved

And for the longest time this philosophy of fewer choices has worked well for Chipotle. While other fast food restaurants have more prolific R&D departments (I’m thinking specifically of Taco Bell with their incessant brand collaborations), Chipotle has not been a company that has featured too many new innovations—at least not until about the last decade. 

Chipotle’s foray into limited time offerings have been methodical. Most of the time they unveil a new meat option, such as the carne asada or chicken al pastor that give customers a chance to try a slightly new option for a few months. Other times they experiment with more permanent options, such as the Chipotle queso or even their sofritas further back. But there’s always a deliberate attempt to add items that fit into the brand’s ethos of fresh, sustainable ingredients. And while they’ve collaborated with celebrities similar to, say, McDonald’s, it’s more often than not been an advertisement of that individual’s favorite Chipotle order, nothing more. 

Their latest offering that I’ll be reviewing today is their red chimichurri. It’s a simple side item with a short list of ingredients: sunflower oil, roasted garlic, cilantro, lime juice, chile peppers, and red wine vinegar. It’s made in house every day and can be purchased for a dollar. 

I have had it a few times since it launched. I wanted to try it with the carne asada as that seems to be the recommendation from Chipotle for the ideal pairing (which aligns with any typical chimichurri recipe anyway). I also wanted to try it with my Chipotle protein of choice—their chicken. 

First impression of the red chimichurri is that it’s quite oily. The contents of the sauce have both times been suspended in a fair bit of sunflower oil. One could argue the correct proportionality of a typical chimichurri. But for my own preferences I would have preferred a tighter sauce with about half as much oil. It would make for an easier pour if I knew I wasn’t pouring straight up oil into my burrito. I was able to get around this by scooping the chimichurri suspension on to my burrito instead, leaving most of the oil behind in the plastic container.

I’ll tell you what. That’s not a bad approach. The chimichurri is potent. I found that when I had a full fork’s scoop worth smeared on, the next bite of my burrito lit up like fireworks with the intense flavor of the chimichurri. Ultimately, I settled on a light smear to allow the flavors of the burrito itself to still shine through. 

My immediate takeaway is that it’s a pretty good offering. The most forward flavors are the peppers and the roasted garlic. It’s not overly spicy but it does pack a bit of a kick. And I think it brings the burrito to life. The back notes I was getting with the chimichurri were mostly the lime juice and the red wine vinegar. I found it to be a bit sour on the back of my tongue. I couldn’t really determine if I liked that. After each bite my mind was debating whether I wanted to keep going but my hand kept instinctually reaching for more. I would chalk that up as a point for the chimichurri. 

I found that I appreciate the chimichurri more with the carne asada than I did with the chicken. While I can’t particularly compliment the carne asada itself (I very much think Chipotle’s steak options are overcooked and dry), there is still a meatiness that the oil clings to and amplifies. This phenomenon was less present with the chicken. In fact, I found the flavor of the chicken more or less subdued by the profile of the chimichurri. 

On the whole I appreciate its complexity. It adds a funkiness to the burrito that livens it up. The pitfall of a restaurant that rarely adds new ingredients is that the experience can become stale. I think most of all that’s what I found I liked about the red chimichurri. It slotted in nicely into the flavor profile and elevated the experience without setting off alarms that something was amiss. It belonged. 

I don’t fully expect this to become a permanent fixture on Chipotle’s menu. I reckon it’s not a hugely laborious task to assemble the recipe every day, but it’s not the modus operandi of this company to permanently affix ingredients to the lineup. I suggest you try it while its here, because the Chipotle Red Chimichurri is Lunch Break Approved. 

Series: The Lunch Break
Restaurant: Chipotle
Item: Red Chimichurri
Verdict: Lunch Break Approved

The interior is a bit dingy and run down with shaky tables and the old-style backlit plastic menu board that lists their two main exports: pizza and subs. Collegiate pennants line the walls of the restaurant—a few of which were acknowledged to be nearly as old as the restaurant itself during my visit. It’s a no-frills establishment, and honestly who would want it any other way? 

The matriarch of Bernie’s is Susan: a kind elderly woman who runs the front of house and who seemingly has an already-established rapport with just about every customer who finds themselves in the restaurant. It became exceedingly clear to me that Susan is the backbone of this establishment and that her loyal customer base comes in equal parts for the food that courses childhood nostalgia through their bloodstream, but also to catch up with Susan.

And almost as if it’s a bit of a performance art (or maybe a slight pilgrimage), nearly every customer that walks in feels obliged to mention how much Bernie’s has meant to them over the years. One man, for example, recalled riding bikes with his friend’s up to the store when they were kids fifty years ago. Another remarked his fondness for how the interior carpet has remained the same for decades. Susan was quick to point out that the carpets were replaced not too long ago, but that they had replaced them with the same type of carpet. Regardless, the man felt comforted by at least one thing in his life not changing, and there’s real poetry in that. 

The only negative charge worth addressing in Bernie’s insistence on capturing its essence in a time capsule is its enduring resolve in only accepting cash or check. As someone who has completely enveloped himself in the digital age, the cash requirement can be a frustrating roadblock, especially on a day where my hankering for a Bernie’s sub came alongside the aftermath of a storm that left much of the Greater Richmond area (including several branches of my personal bank) without power. 

It’s not the most fun thing in the world to have to go on a quixotic odyssey to find cash simply because a restaurant refuses to just raise their prices to account for the traditional credit card charge. That last thought is pure conjecture on my part. There could be other reasons for Bernie’s cash or cash adjacent only policy, but in my opinion, it creates unnecessary friction in this day and age. 

Note to the reader: I was a student at the University of Richmond’s MBA program a few years back and I found myself at Bernie’s a few times before. I generally knew what to expect but I have been there so infrequently that it felt best to just wipe the prior experiences from my brain and walk in with fresh eyes. And that leads me to my visit.  

I ordered a whole Italian sub with hot peppers (and no onions) and a Coke. I saw a shirt hanging behind the counter that read “Italian with hot peppers; extra soggy”. I had a quick second of thought where I figured maybe I should dive headfirst into the Bernie’s subculture and order my Italian “extra soggy”, but a cooler head prevailed and I allowed myself to play it safe for the review. Maybe next time when I have the wind at my back, I’ll be a little more adventurous. 

Because I have a strong dislike for raw onions, I often find myself asking for the contents of a sub before ordering. For me it’s typically proved to be the quickest way to getting to the point of my question (that I don’t want onions) without having to create confusion by saying I don’t want onions upfront and then the employee wondering what in the world I meant because the sub doesn’t come with onions in the first place. I hear you from the other side of your screen wondering why I’m overthinking it. I just do. I’m sorry. 

In doing so, Susan pegged me for a new customer. I told her I’d been a few times and tried to meekly explain about the onion thing. That didn’t seem to compute so we moved on. I told her I had been a student at the University of Richmond. She told me she had an Accounting professor at the school who was a regular customer and who would offer extra credits to his students if they would come eat at Bernie’s. I thought that was an incredible marketing strategy, and I think more sub shops should be employing those same tactics. The heart of success is through university professors bribing their students with extra credit. 

After our short conversation ended and I swelled with pride feeling like I had entered the inner sanctum of Susan’s friendship, I took a seat and waited for my food. Everything at Bernie’s is made to order, so the sub took about ten to fifteen minutes to arrive. In that time I got to do a little eavesdropping. 

It was at this point that some of the earlier anecdotes about bicycling and carpets emerged as customers came through to pick up their food. At one point the cook came up from the back and was chatting with Susan about Game 6 of the Pacers-Thunders game, and how much they appreciated that the Pacers had a woman on their coaching staff. They couldn’t remember the coach’s name, but they loved her enthusiasm on the bench and liked that she was hailed from the University of Virginia (for any curious minds out there, they were talking about Jenny Boucek).

Finally, the sub arrived. The food at Bernie’s dutifully lives up to the hype of its institutional reputation. The bread was nice and toasty, and the cheese formed a beautiful melty blanket over top the deli meats. The real star of the dish is the intermingling flavors of the hot peppers with the oil and vinegar blend—an enveloping mouth feel that either burrows deep into the crunchy bread or finds its way into a dripping salad on the plate. That has to be the marker of a good Italian: is there a second meal that you can sop up with your fingers off of the plate? In Bernie’s case, you can nearly lick the plate clean. 

Ravenously hungry and not minding my manners as I dug into the sub, I realized I scarfed down the whole thing within an ungodly short amount of time. I choose to believe that’s a sign of the quality of the food rather than my own tendencies. It could be a mixture of both, but I will say the sub was on point. 

Because Bernie’s only takes cash and I’m often on the other side of town, it’s not really a place I find myself coming back to a whole lot. But I find that when I step out of there having ravaged my way through my Italian sub, I do often wonder why that is. Maybe I’ll need to make a point to visit more often. After all, how can I expect to remain in Susan’s inner sanctum if I don’t make more of an effort on my side to value the friendship? 

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Bernie’s Sub & Pizza Shop
City: Richmond, VA
Cuisine: Subs

The Inn at Little Washington was opened in 1978 by Chef Patrick O’Connell and his partner Reinhardt Lynch, turning the seedlings of an audacious vision into the fruit-bearing reality The Inn exists in today. The Inn is a converted car repair garage and gas station that Chef O’Connell and company have managed to turn into one of the most revered restaurants and inns in the entire United States: a five-star hotel and a three-star Michelin restaurant. And in doing so, the group behind this endeavor have managed to transform this sleepy town into an engine that runs on the good fortune of its mainstay. For all intents and purposes, the community of Little Washington is The Inn and The Inn is Little Washington. 

And behind it is the man who loomed larger than life my entire time spent in the township. Every person we had the good fortune of having an interaction with had some story to tell about Chef, as they admiringly referred to him as. The tales were spun about his good nature, his affability, his creativity, his process, whipping up the expectation that we were in for a treat that night when we finally got to dine at his acclaimed restaurant. 

Early in the day, we poked our heads into The Inn to snoop around. The staff was hard at work, walking with buzzing purpose and attending to the affairs needed to prepare for the onslaught of guests that were to arrive for dinner service later that evening. We were assured it would be okay for us to walk around through the space for a few minutes. There’s something strange about getting to see a stage before it has a chance to transform. It's empty and it's quiet and the only thing you can think about is stepping carefully as to not disturb its slumber. 

But the beauty of the various dining rooms, and the bar room, and the tea room cannot be understated, looking both meticulously thought out and chaotically asunder. It evoked a temporal experience of walking through a small corner of Versailles mixed with the pleasure dens of ancient China and the tobacco parlors of colonial Americana. Every inch of the space was covered with something new and exciting, and I could have spent hours toiling around looking for new pockets of intrigue. But at some point you feel you’ve overstayed your welcome and should leave well enough alone. 

Later in the day we arrive back for our reservation to find a restaurant transformed. Guests fill the seats and the rooms have become something new: the show has begun and the buzzing performances of the wait staff dance around the space, elegantly coordinated to the heartbeat of the kitchen. We were led to our table; a beautiful corner giving a wonderful vantage point to see into the greenhouse and out into the Koi fish garden. Our seats were a plush bench with lavish throw pillows that one could sink into with calming assurance. Maybe a tad impractical for an entire meal, but it felt like a lap of luxury compared to other offerings in the restaurant, so I felt enamored with our draw.  

Several times throughout this review I will be singing the praises of our head waiter, Gerson. His service was impeccable, and he made us feel welcomed and accommodated. And he cleaned up some of the messes that we’ll get to shortly. 

The meal began with Gerson explaining the choice ahead of us: The Inn was offering three menus that night—a vegetarian offering, a classic menu filled with some of Chef O’Connell’s most famous dishes, and a modern version with some newer offerings. We were not all that interested in the vegetarian menu (being avid meat eaters certainly predetermined that for us), and the modern menu sounded like it featured less hits pound for pound. I’m sure the modern menu is great, but the value proposition of the caviar dish was too strong a draw for myself and the rest of my dinner companions (who I will introduce as my mother and my sister; the latter of which had never been to a Michelin star restaurant before this night; I know, what a way to get the hooks in!). 

It’s at this point that I should mention the first slip up of the night. Probably more accurately it was a slip up that happened prior to my arrival in Little Washington. We were each presented with the menu which included a message of warm welcome to the three of us, called out by first name. The only problem was my name was not spelled correctly. I do not have a particularly difficult first name to spell. In fact, it’s a shorter version of my Christian name, and a common one at that. I did mention it to Gerson. And Gerson took care of it. By the end of the meal, the menus were presented back to us with no typographical errors. In retrospect though, maybe it would have been worth keeping a copy of the menu with the misspelling—a keepsake of a great night that can never be fully perfect. I do have a picture of it that I’ll keep in the vault, but that primary source probably found itself in a fire somewhere out back. 

With that misstep behind us, it was time to start the main attraction: the food. The first round of amuse bouche—amuse bouches? Amuses bouche?—arrived at our table: a potato chip cannolo filled with pimento cheese and a rice chip with a smear of foie gras and a sliver of some kind of fish. In this duel of chips as it was called, the cannolo reigned supreme. Creamy, oniony, crunchy; it reminded me of a sour cream and onion flavored chip. The other chip was fine. A bit forgettable. And I’m not just saying that because I can’t remember what type of fish it had on top of it. 

Next up was a beautiful, complicated, layered egg dish, served in the shell of the egg. I lost track of all of the components of the dish, but the main layers were a roasted garlic custard, with parmesan and chopped asparagus, turnips, and breadcrumbs on top. This dish was light and airy. We were instructed to dig down to the bottom and come back up to get an orchestra of flavors; and oh did the symphony ring for us at once. This was a delightful way to fully open the palate for the rest of the meal to come. 

Before we get into the main dishes, I think its worth mentioning that at this point we have struck up a solid rapport with Gerson about his aspirations in his career, his background, and some of the Michelin star restaurants we both have been blessed to visit. For example, the staff was sent to Per Se up in New York. I’m extraordinarily jealous of that perk of his job. I’ll note my employer has never once offered to send me to Per Se in New York. 

We also talked briefly about the documentary about Chef O’Connell and The Inn at Little Washington (admittedly, we had all missed it before the trip so I got around to watching it before tucking into writing this review) and then we got on to the subject of their famous pawpaw posset dish—an homage to George Washington that was to be featured on the Enduring Classics menu we had ordered. More on this later. It’s just important that I mention now that this conversation occurred with Gerson around this point in the meal. 

Throughout the night, Sam the bread expert for the restaurant (this restaurant seemingly has a person for everything. More on that later) would come around with freshly baked bread offerings. The French baguette was unbelievable. It was warm to the touch, fresh out of the oven and coated in toasted sesame seeds. Sam also informed us that he had prepared unsalted butter for the night and slapped a dollop of it on to an onyx marble butter plate with a garnish of coarse salt lining the brim. A smooth touch that added just that extra little bit of weight to his area of expertise. Because we were in tight quarters where we were sitting he would only have room to come around with a tray of bread, but later in the night we witnessed him moving around with a full cart in more open spaces. Believe me when I say: the mound of unsalted butter this man had on his cart could have put the entire township of Little Washington into a coma. 

Next up was one of the main attractions of the entire night: the Tin of Sin—a tin of Imperial Ossetra caviar atop a bed of peekytoe crab and cucumber rillette. The main appeal for us was that a week prior this was featured on the menu as a $65 supplement. Now getting to try this dish as an inclusive course felt like a real win. Thank God for the summer solstice bringing in the tidings of a new menu at The Inn. The dish was decent. Imperial Ossetra caviar is nothing to put your nose up to, but caviar atop crab is not necessarily the most inspired offering. 

The caviar had a beautiful golden hue and a pleasant salty brine, but its main assignment was adding some heft to the rillette mixture below it. Having had caviar before, at this point I just find it to be luxury for the sake of luxury unless it finds utility in its presence in a dish. On this occasion, the former rings true. My main enjoyment during this course was getting to watch my sister try real caviar for the first time. I think her takeaway was roughly the same, but she hadn’t yet had a chance to have caviar shine as a featured role player of a dish instead of the lights, camera, action star many try to make it out to be. That would change later on in the meal. 

The next course is a staple of Chef O’Connell’s repertoire and embodies his sensibilities of all of his food being “fun loving, elevated”. This is the lamb carpaccio with a deconstructed Caesar salad ice cream. The lamb was sliced thin, beautiful, peppery, succulent. But on top was where the magic really happens. Tiny little dollops of ice cream that tasted exactly like Caesar salad dressing. A pesto smear, craggly homemade croutons, and a shard of lettuce brimming with shaved parmesan complete the dish and allow for a build-your-own experience (or if you’re like my sister you’ll just eat the lettuce and parmesan like a taco like some kind of lunatic). And who can say no to something so inventive. Caesar salad and ice cream are two things I would never in a full lifetime consider putting together and somehow it worked. And somehow it hasn’t left my thoughts ever since that night. I like to cook (I like to eat more), but some people were meant to cook. 

         A chartreuse of savoy cabbage and lobster were next. Gerson informs us that Chef O’Connell prepares this dish by turning the lobster into a mousse and wrapping it tightly within a softened cabbage wrap. The plate is boring as presented, that is until we see Gerson pull out the connective tissue of the course: a lemon and black caviar beurre blanc that is ladled around and on top of the chartreuse to create a beautifully resonant presentation with contrasting colors of the beurre blanc sauce against the black caviar pearls. Hands down this was the highlight of the night. The cabbage was fork tender without falling apart. The lobster mousse was creamy and evocative and the bounce of the beurre blanc gave the dish a rolling hill shape—layered and complicated and unending. 

         By this point we’ve been seated for about ninety minutes and everything has been a parade of hits. It's an enduring onslaught that is really only just beginning. Next up is the last main course of the night: a veal tenderloin wrapped in prosciutto with a tallegio raviolo, served in a tomato cream sauce. This dish was the dish that I think unfortunately breaks the hit streak. It was fine. It tasted fine. Nothing against the taste. It just wasn’t inspiring. And it was hard to gain access to with my knife because of the depth of the bowl and the differing textures of the prosciutto and the veal. I ended up having to hack my way through all the components of the dish first with my knife at an awkward angle before I could switch to my fork and consume it in more manageable bites.

         None of the components of the dish seemed to harmonize for me. It felt like the dish was constructed for its presentation over its cohesion of taste. We all noted that the duck three-ways dish off of the Here and Now menu would have been a superior option to sub out, and would have likely made the Enduring Classics menu a perfect menu. 

         With that lame note of an ending to the main dishes on the Enduring Classics menu, it was time to pivot to dessert and to the end of the meal. Or so we thought. This was the point of the meal where things started to get bumpy. 

         Gerson came by to give us our dessert menu and talk us through the options. I was unfortunately disappointed to see that the Apparently a Pear option was not available that night. This was a dish I was looking forward to for dessert—a cheesecake shaped and painted to look like a pear. But we can’t always get what we want in life and that’s okay. 

For $32 more, there was a cheese supplement. Tale has spread far and wide about the famed cheese cart at The Inn at Little Washington as well as the residential cheese sommelier, Cameron, as it were. What we were really interested in was being able to have our cake and eat it too. This was a point of emphasis for our group for months leading up to the night of the reservation. We wanted both the cheese and the dessert! 

So we assigned roles for this point in the night to humbly ask if it would be okay if we could do both. We ran lines on the drive up, so we were prepared. The gameplan was that my sister (a Michelin star novice) would be the sacrificial lamb to ask such a silly question and to take the brunt of the ridicule when they laughed in her face and told her no. She was prepared for the big moment. She knew that no matter what happened out there, it was all just part of the act. Composure is key! So she stepped up and gave her line, “Is it possible for us to do the cheese supplement AND a dessert?”. Without skipping a beat and maybe even a hint of bemusement, “Yeah of course.” With that tense moment behind us, having gotten exactly what we wanted out of this exchange we all ordered our separate desserts. It would be a while until we saw these dishes. More on that in a bit.

The cheese cart came around a few minutes later. Cameron, who also serves as the certified tea master and water sommelier for the restaurant (a man of many talents) began his show. I will note that in my research I found that Cameron is often struck with cow and dairy puns galore to spice up the cheese cart experience. Unfortunately, on our night he couldn’t have seemed more off; like he was simply going through the motions of it all. I don’t expect anyone to sing and dance for us, and I can’t begin to know where anyone else’s head is at on any given day, but to hear so many people rave about what he brought to the table in his special brand of showmanship and then for us to get a very different and much colder experience was a bit jarring. For what that is worth, I guess. 

We received a plate of five different cheeses to share, hand selected by Cameron, as well as an accompaniment of apricots, and toasted almonds, jam and honey. The cheeses were all quite good. The standout for me was a soft blue cheese, but we got a good range of different textures and hardness with our selections. All in all, I was glad we were able to do it, but I was not overly impressed with the paid experience of it. 

After the cheese course was finished and cleared away, a curious thing happened: a new dish was placed in front of us by a few members of the wait staff. Gerson was not present to explain the dish, so they told us it was a blackberry and vanilla dreamsicle and then walked away. At this point we didn’t really know what this was about, because we expected the pawpaw posset dish we had chatted with Gerson about earlier. But we ate it because we figured this must be a surprise dish? It was unclear but we didn’t have our menus in front of us to follow along because they were busy being corrected for the typo. Errors compound confusion. 

We were pretty dead set on having the pawpaw dish, because of its rarity and because it’s a staple of The Inn. So the next time Gerson was to come around we were going to check in with him. For anyone that cares, the dreamsicle was good—it did its job of cleansing the palate, but we ate it in shame, knowing that likely somehow a mistake was made. 

         At this point I exited to go on an odyssey to the restroom. Very clean, well maintained. For some reason, the speaker in the bathroom was playing the Julia Child SNL skit where Dan Aykroyd slices his finger open and blood spews everywhere. An interesting choice that I found amusing. At the sink were some prepackaged toothbrushes and Chef O’Connell’s personal favorite cologne. A bit strange but I indulged (I later learned that the women’s bathroom had a similar set up with perfume and the same toothbrushes). 

         Arriving back at the table, I learned that Gerson had come around and taken responsibility for the dreamsicle mistake. It was erroneously dropped at our table and he was taking care to provide the pawpaw dish as we had wanted. I don’t know where the disconnect occurred and who was ultimately responsible, but I have to say I really respect the level of commitment to ensuring it was corrected without us needing to ask. The man was a rockstar. 

         The pawpaw posset dish arrived with a note with some background on the fruit and George Washington’s predilection towards it. It was custardy and sweet. It tasted like a mix of things: a banana, a mango, notes of pineapple. It was complex and unlike anything I had ever had. I was glad we got to try it. And now with the dreamsicle and the pawpaw posset behind us, consider my palate fully cleansed. An hour after ordering the desserts, they finally arrived. 

         At this point I should note that we’re all in various stages of full. I’m contentedly full and my mother and my sister are starting to approach their limits. But dessert is here and everyone knows there’s a second stomach for dessert. So we muster through. 

         My sister got a lemon meringue tart. It was served in the middle of a spiral of crushed pistachios. A bit too tart for our liking. Easily our least favorite dessert. I ordered a chocolate and butterscotch bar with hazelnut ice cream. Tasty. Uninventive, a bit boring. The safe option from the dessert menu for sure. I was content with my choice. Boring is not always bad when it comes to dessert. 

My mother on the other hand got the dish called Good Clean Fun—a coconut and passionfruit Bavarian with angel food cake. What came out was another example of “fun loving, elevated”: the Bavarian was shaped like a bar of soap with a sudsy foam and the angel food cake was shaped like a sponge off to the side. The waitress comes around with a soap dispenser and squirts on some white chocolate on to the dish. Good Clean Fun! I didn’t get too much of a taste of that dish but the presentation was lovely and exactly what a dessert should be. It was fun and inviting and seriously left an impressionable mark on my mom’s experience. 

The dessert was finally behind us, and the three of us were ready to wrap up the meal and hit the road home (an exhausting two-hour drive awaited us). Dessert was the final nail in the coffin. We are stuffed. I’m still content but I don’t want any more food, dessert or otherwise. The other two are making moaning and wailing sounds that I feel are turning heads in the restaurant. Or maybe one step below that. 

         Gerson comes back around with what we expect to be the check. It’s not. It’s somehow more food. “Chef believes the last bite of any meal should be chocolate”, he says as he pulls out a thin sheet of dark chocolate and a mallet. He beats the chocolate into bite-sized pieces with the same intensity Gallagher affords those watermelons. We dutifully eat our last remaining bites of the meal like dogs eating scraps.

         My mother and my sister are given a basket of petit fours to take home. We settle up the bill, looking forward to putting distance between us and Little Washington, and then it dawns on us: in our less hazy state of minds at the beginning of the meal we had asked Gerson if we could arrange a tour of the kitchen. To which he, of course, obliged. The preparations were being finalized, and we just needed to wait for someone to come get us. 

         For as full as we all were, I think we did find it in ourselves to muster up the appropriate level of appreciation for what came before us. The kitchen at The Inn at Little Washington is a sight to behold. A hallway opens up into a big, beautiful room lined with windows to let the light in—a farcry from the traditional kitchen image one would conjure in their head of a claustrophobic prison of stainless steel. There was an elegance to this room. Like it was arranged in a golden spiral orientation reminiscent of something one would find in nature: the intersection of beauty and perfection. 

         Standing at his post at the pass to greet us is none other than Chef Patrick O’Connell himself. His wide toothy smile meets us where we are, and we do what anyone would do in the presence of the Pope of American Cuisine: we shower him with compliments he’s probably heard a billion times before about how good his food is. He politely asks us where we’re from and makes some quick conversation before we take a picture with the man and allow him to get back to his business at hand.

         One thing that strikes me walking back to my car as I work through the whole experience in my head was the persistent effortlessness of it all. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve described in excruciating detail all of the highs and the lows, but there seemed to be something majestic and magical about how it all worked together. Like a self-sustaining colony that moves as one. And having gotten to peek behind the curtain, it’s clear that we can only begin to surmise the depths a restaurant as historically successful as this one has had to go to in order to retain its sense of awe and wonder among the hundreds and thousands of guests that come through its hallowed halls. And underneath it all I’m reminded of something Chef O’Connell said in the PBS documentary: the torture and the suffering is hidden. And that’s the magic. 

Series: The Fancy Fork
Restaurant: The Inn at Little Washington
City: Washington, VA
Cuisine: American

On approach its hard to envision how the building used to be a gas station. Where the gas pumps would have been is now replaced with a beautiful outdoor seating area with giant billowy umbrellas to shade patrons from the sun. I thank our lucky stars that we had the forethought to book a reservation in advance for a spot in the dining room inside, because while the experience of eating outside on the patio seems lovely in practice on a cool and breezy day, our day of visit was anything but cool and breezy. 

Immediately inside the restaurant is a gorgeously outfitted bar with ornate decorations lining the walls and the ceilings. In the next room was a more laid back, subtle dining room. Knick knacks still lined the walls, but the thick wooden trusses that stretched across the ceiling, the cool hardwood floors, and the thick engulfing chairs gave the impression of a quiet hunting lodge or a base camp of a ski resport. Maybe a ski resort in the French Alps. 

Our service was adequate. Nothing spectacular or anything to write home about. However, seeing as I am writing something about it, I should probably say it pales in comparison to the service we received at the sister restaurant across the street: a missed opportunity to create a cohesive synergy between the two restaurants by having both locations provide unconditionally excellent service. But I guess that’s not totally fair considering one of those restaurants has three Michelin stars and has been a mecca for foodie pilgrimages for decades. 

Walking around the outskirts of The Inn before our lunch reservation at Patty O’s afforded us the opportunity to get the inside scoop from an intrepid valet on how we should be approaching our lunch: the shrimp and grits and/or the Reuben. The shrimp and grits were a lock; my sister already had her eyes on that dish from the start. The Reuben was a game time decision for my mother who was waffling back and forth between that and something “lighter” like the curried chicken salad croissant to save her appetite for The Inn later that evening. The latter won out. As for me, I ordered the wagyu beef burger—a surprisingly bold choice as I typically do not love the overindulgence of ground wagyu for the purpose of a burger. 

Additionally, the latter two meals came with a side of our choice. To accompany my mother’s chicken salad croissant, she went with the fries: a neutral choice that was sure to not ruffle any feathers. As is classic with someone with severe indecision and a fear of missing out, I also ordered the fries but immediately corrected myself to the waitress and clarified that I now wanted the carrots glazed in root beer. A more inspired choice if I do say so myself.

I’ll start with the easiest to review: the curried chicken salad on a croissant with currants and Virginian pecans with a side of fries that my mother ordered. She housed half her sandwich and conveniently forgot to offer any up to anyone else, so I have no comments on the quality of her dish. The rest was packaged up and sent home to my father. It looked incredible though. The fries were excellent. Hot, crispy, salty. She seemed to enjoy her meal and that’s all that matters. 

I had a quick bite of my sister’s dish. The shrimp and grits were excellent. The grits were perfectly creamy with a nice peppery bite. The shrimp was bouncy and delicious. Our inside source did not let us down. He did stress the fact, though, that the portion size of the shrimp and grits were smaller than one might want. I respectfully want to push back on that. The portion was generous for lunch; enough to sate someone’s appetite, especially if there is an expectation of going to The Inn for dinner in much the same way we did later that night. Especially in that situation, trust me: it’s plenty. 

The carrots glazed in root beer was a fun side dish. I’m partial to Coca Cola as a cooking ingredient, especially when it comes to braising. I find the flavors of the Coke meld into a dish a bit better than the root beer did. For better or for worse, the root beer flavor was quite aggressive. For my sensibilities I quite enjoyed it. The carrots were fork tender and the vanilla-y, anise-y flavor of the root beer added a nice note of saccharine sweetness. I was a fan. The other members of my table were not as impressed. But it was a side dish after all and next up was my wagyu burger. 

The burger was topped with comté cheese, crispy onions, and what appeared to be a variation on ketchup (there is a tomato jam listed on the black bean and beet burger, on the menu so I’m guessing that’s what was on this dish too and that’s how I’m going to refer to it for the rest of this review). Underneath the burger were a couple briny pickles and a slice of lettuce. The bun was extremely buttery and covered in sesame seeds.

I have to say: I went through trials with my burger. First and foremost, the sesame seeds shed something awful whenever I handled the burger. I had to resort at one point to cutting it up with a fork and knife because my hands became a buttery, sesame seeded mess. The bun was also too thick. The overall structure of the burger can summarily be characterized as “too bready”. But it may have ultimately been a good thing that there was so much bun. As is often the case with a wagyu burger, the patty was drippingly moist. I think that contributed partly to the mess I had on my hands, but a lot of that juice sogged the bun. 

Do not get me wrong. The flavors of the burger were incredible. My burger was cooked appropriately and the sweetness of the tomato jam and the brininess of the pickles worked beautifully to cut through the fattiness of the beef. I just struggled to eat the damn thing. By the end of it when the patty was consumed and there were still large pieces of jam-dampened bread remaining on the plate, I waved the white flag to signal my surrender. 

Onwards and upwards to dessert! Attached to the dining room of the café is the bakery of Patty O’s Café and Bakery. After our lunch we popped in there for a quick sampler of dessert offerings. An assortment of goodies, including traditional cookies and desserts as well as crusty breads for sale. This is a full bakery worthy of one’s full attention. 

The chocolate mousse was a star—light and airy, smooth as butter as the spoon skated across to scrape it out of its glass container. Our next favorite was the pecan pie. The pecans were full-bodied and crunchy and covered in the sweet glaze of the pie filling. This was the second favorite, but for me only just. The last dessert we sampled was a lemon bar. It was thick and cakey with the exact right amount of lemon. It’s a delicate balance to be sure as too much lemon can send a lemon bar into a tart spiral, but this one walked the tightrope immaculately. 

Patty O’s served as a wonderful opener to our day in Little Washington, but I think it’d be wrong to not point out that it couldn’t be more than that. It’s open for dinner as a much cheaper alternative to The Inn at Little Washington, and if our lunch experience is anything to go off of, dinner is sure to carry its weight. 

And for future visitors: keep your eyes open at Patty O’s. You never know what famous politician and his wife might find their way to being seated at the table right next to yours.

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Patty O’s
City: Washington, VA
Cuisine: American

I was entranced by the intersection of something as deeply Southern as fried chicken with the bold, aromatic soul of Ethiopian cooking. And that is exactly the magic behind Chef Elias Taddesse’s restaurant, now occupying space alongside a sister concept also by Taddesse called Mélange (while Mélange’s menu was indeed enticing, I was singularly focused on Doro Soul Food’s offerings, so this review will henceforth focus on that food experience alone despite the fact that both concepts cohabitate the same kitchen). 

First Looks

Just to ensure you’re aware of the level of sophistication I’m working with inside my own brain, I immediately clocked upon approach that there was a window for Doro Soul Food’s takeout service and then just assumed that the door right next to it labeled Doro Soul Food would absolutely lead me to their dining room. 

I instead found myself fully in their kitchen. An honest mistake I’m sure, but it did leave me feeling bashful: like a little kid who saw something they know they’re not allowed to see. I quickly got my bearings and realized the proper door for hungry patrons like myself was further down the block. Admittedly, the open garage door looking into an eclectic dining room should have been my tip off, but I didn’t catch the hint. But with the universe back on its tilt and no more customers storming the kitchen, I could resume with the business at hand. 

I took a seat and almost immediately was greeted with a much needed glass of water. Our nation’s Capitol is in a muggy swamp and my temperament for dealing with heat and humidity is embarrassingly absent. This is becoming a theme in all of my DC reviews (see: Albi review)—someone should really do something about this miserable bog. 

I don’t love to share this fact necessarily but full transparency with my audience: I’m a bit of a cheat when it comes to experiencing a new restaurant; I nearly always read through the menu if I can. That is to say that the path I would take for this meal was preordained by an earlier version of myself: three pieces of dark meat (which comes with a biscuit muffin), a side of mac and cheese, two cans of Coke (more on that in a second), and a slice of their buttermilk ayib pie. 

An Unexpected Disturbance

At Doro Soul Food the customer is expected to order through a QR code at the table. There is a wait staff that came around and checked up on myself and the other patrons of the restaurant, and I believe one table did directly order from one of the waiters but the vibe I got was that the QR code ran the operations. I have mixed feelings about this practice. I could make another post at some point about this topic; I’m sure I have a few hundred—or, thousand—words to say about it, but I will say on topic that it created what I believe to be unnecessary friction in my experience: I ordered what I thought would be two cans of Coke and received much, much more! 

The menu through the QR code listed Coke products with pictures of cans of soda (in my defense, nearly every other item on the menu was accompanied by a picture of the actual item, so it shouldn’t be a logical stretch that this restaurant serves cans of soda). I selected two cans of Coke. What arrived at my table were two glasses of Coke. My waiter then informed me as if I was a simpleton who’s never been in a restaurant before that Coke comes as an unlimited refill so I didn’t need to order two. I tried to explain that I thought I was ordering cans of Coke, not glasses. The waiter then became extremely and unexpectedly confused and arrived back with two cans of Coke and then walked away. So now I look like a deranged lunatic who’s hoarding the entire supply of this restaurant’s Coca Cola. Unnecessary friction, and I will note that I paid for two Cokes when I really should have paid for one with unlimited refills; and I don’t know if it was my shame or theirs at how this chain of events unfolded, but the subject of rectifying this overpayment never came up. 

The Things That Matter

My diabetic war chest aside, the food came out in short order. The first impression of the fried chicken was that it had a beautiful reddish-brown hue with a tremendous amount of craggliness. I had ordered mine with the berbere level of spiciness—translation on their scale: hot, but not very hot— so the chicken was flash fried and then dunked in a sauce with a combination of berbere, kibbeh, and sugar. I also opted for a side of their mitmita sauce (the hottest of their three offerings) to experience both flavor profiles. 

One major takeaway I had from Chef Taddesse’s conversation with Eater was that the crunchiness of the chicken and, as an offshoot, the ability to sustain that crunchiness without the chicken turning soggy was a guiding light in the formation of the recipe. That video offers a detailed dive into his process for those that are interested. 

In practice, the thesis definitely holds up. The chicken was texturally magnificent. At the time of this review I was sporting a relatively full beard, so I spent a decent amount of time wiping down the area around my face—a necessary habit for someone who doesn’t want to look like a child with a bowl of spaghetti. Because of this, three pieces of chicken got stretched longer than I would say is typical for me to eat chicken, and the third piece of chicken was just as crunchy and well maintained as the first. 

The berbere sauce did not speak to me too much. It was earthy and warm and layered with a medley of spices, but it lacked the heat I was looking for. Truth be told the only reason I ordered it was because I’m always scared to go too heavy on the spice at a new restaurant lest it overpower the meal. Which is why I opted to order a side of the mitmita sauce. A pragmatic coward’s move. I’m glad I did because if you can handle some spiciness, it was the star attraction for the fried chicken with bird’s eye chilis as a key ingredient of the sauce and the key differentiator from the berbere option. 

The real throughline of this restaurant is, in my opinion, the kibbeh—a clarified butter mixed with several Ethiopian spices—that makes an appearance in nearly all of its dishes (potentially all of them?).

Think of how you would use butter in your cooking. Now think about how much better it could taste if the butter were less of an ingredient in your cooking and more of a structural foundation given immediacy and forethought in the construction of a dish. That’s the influence we find in Doro Soul Food’s kibbeh. Whether it’s used to symphonize the aromatics in the Doro Wat used in the béchamel of the mac and cheese, or to add harmony to the dance between the citrusy notes of the whipped cream and the nutty flavors of the ayib in the buttermilk ayib pie, the kibbeh is a foundational pillar of Doro Soul Food’s success as a concept. 

The latter of the aforementioned dishes was excellent. A true highlight of the meal. It brought me back to my grandma’s rigot pie, a similar dish that hit on some of the same classic notes. The beautiful crimped crust provided a firm texture to offset the creaminess of the buttermilk ayib filling. The light airiness of the chantilly cream brings the whole experience together into one cohesive bite. It was like transporting myself to the coziness of a small town diner where pie reigns supreme. If I ever find myself back at Doro Soul Food, the pie will be first on my mind. 

The mac and cheese was an ambitious side, featuring an impossibly creamy Doro Wat béchamel and topped with injera crumbs, but I fear it became a slave to its own weight. There didn’t feel like a cohesive lilt to the dish. It’s creaminess and its spiciness were just there. The shape of the dish’s taste was amorphous. It didn’t feel like any component helped to lift up the others as if the unifying component was missing. The good news is that there are a number of other side options to explore that may better suit my interests, especially the collard greens. 

Final Thoughts

The most important aspect of a restaurant experience is undoubtedly going to be the food. I’m not surprised that the chicken was so flavorful and juicy. I was, however, disappointed that the mac and cheese could not deliver the same intensity. But on the whole the meal was satisfying. 

However, the frictions in the service were enough to mar the overall experience. I can’t say that I believe there’s a systemic problem with the way Chef Taddesse’s operations are ran, but it doesn’t help the restaurant’s case that I still experienced such awkwardness while being the only customer in the restaurant for a good chunk of the ordering process. Chalk up another victim to the pitfalls of QR code ordering. 

That being said, I would not be shocked to find myself back at Doro Soul Food. Overall the food was tasty and service hiccups could always be one-off problems. My biggest regret from this experience was that I did not get the mixed chicken option, so I missed out on trying any white meat varietals. Again, I played it safe and got what I know and love: dark meat chicken; but next time those chicken tenders are calling my name. 

Series: Bread and Butter
Restaurant: Doro Soul Food
City: Washington, DC
Cuisine: Ethiopian

I, myself, did not become privy to this news until the end of June because I had all but written off Jimmy John’s in my book so this change wasn’t even on my radar. I’m not one to typically keep rankings, because I think that’s a complicated order, but I have found myself loosely crafting an unofficial national chain sub shop power ranking in my head from time to time. At the top it has always been Jersey Mike’s, and the two spot is usually occupied by a Potbelly’s or a Publix Deli (if that counts). But beyond that it’s a bit of a mess other than to say that Jimmy John’s would have to be pretty consistently low ranked when I think of head to head matchups with other chains. That being said, as a self-proclaimed toasted sub guy, when I found out they were offering toasted versions of their classic menu I knew I had to give it a go. 

I ordered the Ultimate Italian which as far as I can tell is a sub that was rolled out with the new toasted sub marketing campaign. Again, you can order basically any sub toasted. Think toasted Billy Club or a toasted Club Lulu if that’s more your speed than the Ultimate Italian. It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill standard Italian sandwich with gabagool, salami, ham, and provolone. It also features bacon and a dusting of parmesan. To put it lightly, it’s a proper sandwich. 

The main takeaway of this experience was that the toasting of the sub elevated the flavors to an entirely new place. The bread was crunchy on the outside, making a noticeable scrapping sound when I dragged a fork across the back of it. That’s the good stuff. While the exterior got a good even tan, the interior of the bread remained relatively untoasted which allowed for some of the oils of the toasted meats to get sopped up and provide a subtle extra pocket of flavor. 

On the inside, some of the Italian meats that were exposed to the heat of the broiler got crispy on the edges, and the provolone had some beautiful char marks—the kind of thing that imparts flavor into a sub. It’s why our cave-dwelling ancestors ever invented fire: to char up their hoagies! 

Point blank: the sub was delicious. It really made me reevaluate where I think Jimmy John’s belongs in the pecking order. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, truly. I went back and got it again just to see if maybe I was just in a proper headspace that day. I wasn’t. It still hit the same the second time. With these toasted subs I may be elevating Jimmy John’s to a top three spot. Who knows? It may even have the juice to contend for #1. The toasted Ultimate Italian (and by extension all toasted subs at Jimmy John’s) are absolutely Lunch Break Approved. 

Series: The Lunch Break
Restaurant: Jimmy John’s
Item: The Ultimate Toasted Italian Sub
Verdict: Lunch Break Approved

Located in the beautiful, waterside Navy Yard district of Washington, D.C., Albi has spent the last five years building up an impressive resume that has culminated in a complete overhaul of their space and a redesign of their menu that they have been affectionately referring to as Albi 2.0, debuting in April 2025.

I was fortunate enough to have had the chance to stop by and get to experience Chef Rafidi’s vision for this next evolution in Albi’s life, and to say I was not disappointed would be putting it mildly. 

(A note to the reader: I never had the chance to experience Albi prior to the renovations but I did do some digging on Yelp and have found the changes as far as I can tell to be a wonderfully evocative way to more closely align the decor of the restaurant to Chef Rafidi’s love letter to his Palestinian roots)

First Looks

We arrived at the restaurant about fifteen minutes earlier than our reservation—a common occurrence for me when my stomach is put in control of the command center. The hostess graciously pointed us to take a seat in their relaxed candlelit lounge in the front room of the lobby and had some glasses of water poured for us while we waited for our table. As someone who had just spent most of the day aimlessly wandering around the city catching the sights (I will gladly take the reins on being the one to point out the hill on Capitol Hill is just honestly too much hill), I may be a little biased about how much I appreciated the water in that moment. 

I was in a party of three and when we had set up the reservations we were a little disheartened to learn that the Hearth Table was only available for parties of 2. Not really knowing anything about the construct of the space, we were slightly disappointed that we weren’t going to have a view of the kitchen at work. That concern was immediately dashed when we were taken to our table. While it is true that the Hearth Tables will have the best seats in the house for seeing the chefs in action, unless you are the unfortunate diner at your table who’s back may face the kitchen, everyone should get a near front-row experience to the madness. 

I say madness but truly I’ve never seen a more organic display of synchronicity. Everyone in the kitchen had a part to play as the dishes migrated through the bright flames of the hearth all the way through to plating and into the hands of the wait staff. If beats were missed, I certainly didn’t catch them. There was a real sense that emanating all the way from the top through to every member of the staff, we were watching professionals at their craft—a symphonic display of call and response that kept the orders flowing and the buzz of the kitchen humming. 

We were presented with two options: an a la carte menu or Albi’s five-course Sofra (sofra means table in Arabic—fitting for a family style tasting menu). We elected for the Sofra menu and if it’s your first time at Albi I’m going to strongly urge that you should too. Though there were some delicious-sounding a la carte options that I would not mind exploring in the future—a slow-cooked beef rib and Maqluba, an upside-down crab and rice dish, were a couple of sirens singing their sweet songs trying to lure me from the ship. 

After a short conversation with our waiter about dietary restrictions and food preferences that I think ultimately cost us the chance at an oyster dish that I only got to indulge in by proxy as it passed by our table on the way to a more appreciative home, the meal was set to begin! Oh, and if it is at all important, I’ve ceaselessly expressed my ire and disappointment to the guy in our party who put up the oyster blockade for the table because he “doesn’t like the texture”. 

Normally I would not feel the need to go course by course to give a review but there was so much atmosphere in this meal and was so meticulously designed that I don’t feel that it would have done Albi’s story justice to just hit the highlights. Strap in if you want or proceed to the end where I’ll hit those highlights (and lowlights) a lot more succinctly. 

The Sofra Experience

For starters we were brought a small bowl of pantry items: olives and sumac beets. The olives were smoky and delicious, and the beets had a satisfying crunch that transformed me to a world in which I actually do like beets; it’s amazing what a mastery of ingredient can do to reform one’s opinions. During this course we were instructed to pick at the food with our hands and that the first few items would be similarly handled. It was not until ninety mins into the meal, by the way, that I received a fork. 

Next up was a delightfully crunchy lamb pie served with toum—a white, creamy, garlicky spread—and a fresh squeeze of lemon. It reminded me of a boat of minced lamb, and I was more than happy to deliver it safe passage into my belly. Alongside the lamb pie was a triplet of arayes: a pita filled with sunchokes and a green shatta lebnah and topped with some briny Persian cucumbers. Both were delicious but I was partial to the lamb pie. The creaminess of the toum laid spread atop the rich fatty flavor of the lamb cut perfectly for a complete bite. 

Following this was a dish called kibbeh naya. We were presented with a plate that was divided in half—one half was a minced lamb tartare, and the other half was a smoked English pea concept—and were instructed to use the accoutrements of a bowl of greenery, fermentations, and pickled onions to construct a vessel for a delicious bite. One could think of this dish almost like a lettuce wrap construction station. The waiter that dropped the dish off at our table explicitly told us that we could do no wrong, and I believe on this dish we tested the bounds of that statement. But even through the various experimentations I ran on different combinations of this preparation, I came up short on finding any flavor profile that did not work for me. I was especially taken with the peas and how well that complimented with the mint. After the remnants of our kibbeh naya experiments were cleaned up and disposed of, we were told that the first course had finished. 

I would be remiss if I didn’t take this moment to remind you that we were told this menu was five courses. Five! Either Albi has a counting problem, or they have a very loose relationship with the word “course”. Please do not take this as a complaint. It’s not one. I just want to stress the fact that you are not going to leave this restaurant hungry. 

From here on out in this review each time the wait staff arrived with a set of plates; it would align with each of the four remaining courses. So, the funny business was officially over, and it was time for us to lock in—kind of: each course still came with multiple components. 

Next up was a duo of very rich and creamy dishes that tested my appetite for indulgent affairs. The first that caught my eye when they were placed on the table resembled mozzarella balls. In fact, I remember unconsciously exclaiming, “Mozzarella balls, Hell yeah”. They were not mozzarella balls. The waiter looked at me and then just dove straight into his script, choosing to ignore my outburst. This was labne tabat, which I’ve since learned is not mozzarella but is a strained yogurt product similar to cream cheese, so close enough. This dish was not my greatest fancy of the night. Again, it felt slightly too indulgent in the moment. 

The second dish was a maitake mushroom with a confit egg yolk, and black garlic, topped with black truffle. This dish was beautiful. Once you split open the egg yolk and mixed it up with the nutty, savory mushroom and the earthy funkiness of the truffle it made for an engaging and memorably complex bite. 

I recognize the irony in saying this after calling the labne tabat overindulgent, but I would have been over the moon if this dish is all we got for this course. The two in tandem were a bit of a punch in the face as evidenced by the fact that I haven’t even gotten to the giant airy pita football that served as the utensils for this course. Several burnt fingertips later I can report that the pita was perfect—and fresh! 

It was at about this point that the sun was setting outside, and the mood of the restaurant was starting to shift. These beautiful curtains that stretched nearly ceiling to floor were drawn to give the room a darker and much more intimate feel. The natural lighting dimmed, and the overhead music floated away to the background. Almost as if to signal that the real order of business was set to begin. Also, we finally got forks and knives!

The third course was my absolute favorite of the night. Another duo of dishes was presented to the table: batata harra and a Maryland crab malfouf. The batata harra is a long log of crispy potato cut sectionally and served with a dollop of toum. I think since the dawn of time man has searched for the reasons behind why we have fallen so deeply and madly in love with a solid crunch; I found no answers on that front tonight, but those primal instincts were reinforced in the batata harra. If only to serve as a frame of reference for someone who previously had never heard of the dish and not meant insulting at all, batata harra reminded me of the crispy baked potato chips my Italian grandmother would make us growing up. It felt like love, and more importantly, it felt home. 

More distant to my own home though was the Maryland crab malfouf—a cabbage roll stuffed with Egyptian rice and crab fat labneh. I appreciate the local seasonality that Chef Rafidi is bringing to this menu by featuring the Maryland crab in this dish but truly the star of this dish was the cabbage itself. I think when most people think of cabbage, images of steamed cabbage and corned beef enter their head. It’s hearty and it’s filling but it’s not transcendent by any measure. All of that changed for me on the first bite of that malfouf. I don’t know what kind of black magic was used to transform the cabbage into something so light and supple. I probably drove my table to the edge of mania with how many times I repeated it: that the cabbage somehow had the lightness of phyllo dough. And I certainly don’t want to entertain the idea that the other components of the dish weren’t pulling their weight. I merely want to emphasize that I fully expect to have dreams for months about this dish that wake me up in a drenching sweat. And the cabbage—a surprise to me—led the way. 

The main course of the meal had multiple components as well. The first and most audaciously presented was a lamb kebab presented on a rather large skewer that consisted of lamb belly and lamb loin marinated in a dill yogurt. Traditionally excellent—succulent, moist pieces of meat that paired nicely with the accompanying bok choy. Additionally, there was a lamb kefta wrapped around a cinnamon stick. A nifty presentation but it didn’t necessarily feel like it had a place on the plate. Finally, we also received a plate of Fattoush which was a salad consisting of pears, smoked feta, and a shatta vinaigrette, among other things. Admittedly I was starting to merely pick at this part of the meal. I was full and things were brimming.

Our sixth and final course was dessert. Our waiter asked us if we wanted to go towards a lighter dessert or a heavy dessert. Look, at this point I’m full. We’re all full. But it’s dessert and we all know there’s a second compartment in our stomachs for dessert. That’s just an anatomical fact. So, I suggested we go heavy. We’re here! Let’s go shot for shot! I was overruled. I’m a slave to cordiality in a group setting, so I acquiesced. We went for the dainty light dessert. 

As an aside: have you ever seen a street musician performing a card trick. Do you know how they always successfully reveal the card you had picked out of a random deck of cards? It’s not magic after all. They forced a card on you and your dumb, lizard brain did what it was told. I feel that that’s what happened with the desserts. Heavy had a way better description. Light was the wrong choice. I could see it in the waiter’s eyes who had to stand there while we resolved this internal struggle. He knew we messed up. I knew we messed up. My friends were just too full to know what was best for them. The heavy dessert will just have to be the one that got away. 

The light dessert was again a duo. I don’t know if they just don’t know what the number five means in our nation’s capital or what the deal was. But it was a pomegranate ice cream with a hint of olive oil and sea salt. I don’t love fruity desserts, but the combination of the salty and the sweet hit the spot. In the middle of the table to share was what is called a mahalabiya: a milk pudding with strawberries, a pomegranate granita, and a coconut milk sorbet, topped with a rose meringue. The meringue was satisfying to break apart with the back of a spoon, but the dish did not yield much of a wow factor from the table beyond that. It largely went uneaten. It looked beautiful but it missed the audience. 

Final Thoughts

Overall, the food was excellent. It’s a meal that I will be stewing on for weeks to come. Chef Rafidi has truly struck gold with his meticulously crafted menu. My only complaint lies in the storytelling (or lack thereof). I wish we had gotten more of a peel back behind the scenes on what inspired the menu to look and feel and taste the way it did. The flavors were not lacking but unfortunately the connective tissue was. I needed the so what of it all. And I just did not receive that at all throughout the night. It’s a shame because all of the other components of the experience were so well designed for the purpose of having a purpose, but the restaurant missed on the final few feet from plating to table. 

Ultimately this doesn’t ruin my experience at Albi. I had a fantastic time and had some truly unique flavors that I never had before. This has been by all accounts the buzziest restaurant in D.C. for at least the past year and now having been its clear why that’s the case. I’m always impressed by a restaurant that is constantly on the prowl for ways to innovate and iterate upon itself. Albi 2.0 delivered in spades. If it is their ambition, I profoundly wish them luck on a conquest for a second Michelin star. And I would not be disappointed in the slightest if that came to pass. It would certainly give me another excuse to come back for another round of that malfouf. 

***

Special considerations to the woman whose name I did not catch but who was gracious enough to step away from the middle of a busy dinner service at the buzziest restaurant in D.C. to type up and print out a copy of the menu of all the things we ate that night (made more difficult by the fact that one of my table mates got the oyster dish blocked from our table so we probably deviated from the norm; yes! I’m still on that). 

Series: The Fancy Fork
Restaurant: Albi
City: Washington, DC
Cuisine: Middle Eastern