food, and other musings: Corduroy (Washington DC)

My love affair with CityZen was like Dante's with Beatrice -- unrequited, conducted from afar and never meant to be. Mr. Food Musings and I had planned a romantic dinner there in between Christmas with my family and New Year's Eve with my friend L. To say it is the only place in DC I wanted to eat would be a lie (yet might better ally mine with Dante's ferocious passion), but it certainly was the one at the top of my list. Chef Eric Ziebold worked with Thomas Keller at The French Laundry for 8 years, leaving his post as chef de cuisine in 2004 to open CityZen. Over the years, I've eaten at several of the other well-loved DC area restaurants from Citronelle to Kinkead's to L'Auberge chez Francois, and of those that remained, this was the one that I most wanted to visit.

And so I made a reservation several weeks in advance. The reservationist inquired if we were celebrating a special occasion; I replied that we were coming all the way from San Francisco to eat there. A small bit of spin on the truth, but nevertheless factually accurate. She seemed pleased, and assured me that Chef Ziebold would be in the kitchen that night.

Mr. Food Musings' suit was packed, I was giddy with excitement, our tastebuds were ready, and our wallet was frightened but had steeled itself for the onslaught. And then, right after Christmas, Mr. FM got sick.

With non-operational tastebuds and a lack of energy, Mr. FM wasn't up for a 5-course tasting, or tying a tie for that matter. And me, well, I figure if you're going to spend lots of time and money on a meal, you should both be able to enjoy it. A lesser woman than I might have considered going alone while her beloved rested in the hotel. She would only have considered it for a moment, of course, before erasing the silly thought from her mind.

Instead, we went to the next place on my list. Corduroy had been ringing up praise on a DC-based food forum, and F. remembered it fondly. Besides, chef/owner Tom Power had cooked for Michel Richard at Citronelle for years and that was the best recommendation of all.

Though I don't have CityZen to compare it to, after our meal at Corduroy it's hard to feel that we ended up at a lesser place. To borrow a phrase from Len Goodman, it knocked my socks off. We started the evening at Firefly, adjacent to our hotel, with pomegranate margaritas and flash-fried oysters with chipotle tartar sauce before heading off into the night to hail a taxi. As I stood outside, the frigid eastern wind whipped my shawl up like juice in a blender, reminding me that, despite my east coast upbringing, I am a California girl at heart.

Corduroy hides on the second floor of the Four Points Sheraton. The host led us to our table, and fear immediately clutched my heart. The table was the kind that is so long, you wonder where the other ten people are who should be sharing it with you. Mr. FM shaded his eyes with his hand, straining to see me across the miles. I sighed. This would never do.

I worried that our waiter was annoyed by my plea to rearrange the table, but with a quick flick of the wrist soon had the table turned sideways, plates and glasses reset, and moved on to tell us about the night's specials. We each ordered a glass of wine, which was poured å table from the bottle -- two different, but equally excellent burgundies from the more than 5,000 bottles in the cellar -- and we sat back to peruse the menu. Predictably it was backed in corduroy, but since that was the only nod to the restaurant's name I was willing to overlook its corniness. Unfortunately, the menu looked dull. Dull, dull, dull. I thought maybe we'd made a mistake.

But then I saw the words "Niman Ranch pork belly" in sequential order under the entrées, and the chorus of angels on my shoulder started to hum. When our first courses came, their hum changed to a majestic hallelujah chorus. My buffalo mozzarella was swept up in a net of kataifi, thin shards of shredded phyllo dough, and the whole concoction was deep-fried. Biting through the kataifi to the warm but not quite oozing cheese inside offered a satisfying contrast of crunchiness and pillowy softness, and the tomato flavor bursting forth from the coulis underneath was so pure and intense it reminded me of David Kinch's "tomato soup, barely cooked," which I described just after eating it as "Southern summer caught in a glass." Indeed.

Meanwhile, Mr. FM was happily tucking into a generous leg of duck confit served with tarbais beans, meaty white beans from Tarbes, France of the sort you find in cassoulet. And this is what his confit was, cassoulet minus the sausage. A word on duck: I do not care for it, but I can't help but hope I will someday, so I almost always take a taste when Mr. FM orders some. So trimphant was this duck that I loved it. LOVED it. Had several bites, begged for a few more. Hands down it is the best duck confit I've ever had, which is either saying a lot or nothing at all.

Our entrées were equally sensational. My Niman Ranch pork belly was unctuous and fork-tender after four hours of braising, and the crisp glaze on top punctuated the fatty pork to perfection. Underneath, a shred or two of carrots and delicate savoy cabbage were the sweet and sour foil. Mr. FM's lamb sirloin, not a cut you see very often, hovered near garnet at its middle and slowly turned to a rich chocolate brown at its edges. Set on the side was a pile of mini-raviolis stuffed with airy goat cheese. What I would give for a bowlful of those ravioli right now...and it's 9:25 in the morning.

The wine we drank with dinner did Corduroy proud. Mr. FM had chosen two contenders, a Tignanello from Italy and a 1997 Spottswoode Cabernet we drank on our first New Year's Eve together. Both hovered near the $100 mark. When asked, our waiter redirected us to a considerably less expensive bottle of 1999 Hermitage by E. Guigal. It was a small appellation, hence the recommendation, and excellent (apologies but my tasting notes are illegible. Or absent. It's hard to tell.) Moreover, I was duly impressed, as I always am, when a restaurant recommends a substantially cheaper bottle than the one we're considering. To me, that means they're passionate about their wine and want us to enjoy ourselves rather than just spend like the frivolous post- (pre?) apocalyptic Americans we are.

Dessert was an apple torte of some sort, and though I enjoyed it, I can't help feeling another choice might have been better. Research shows that Corduory is know for its desserts, but since my sudden allergy to eggs, I have to be careful with creme brulées and such. My only criticism is a fine point: the menu needs to be rewritten. It just doesn't convey any sense of excitement or do justice to the incredible ingredients on each plate, and if I'd seen it online before phoning for a reservation, there's a good chance I would have changed my mind. Thus is the power of the written word. It can, and should, tease, tantalize, and most of all make you feel like you're on the cusp something special. Unlike Dante and Beatrice, in Corduroy's case it's merely a case of underpromising -- and far, far overdelivering.

Corduroy, Washington DC, 1201 K Street, 202.589.0699

Comments

Oh, I'm SOOO glad you loved Corduroy! Isn't it amazing what an incredible value that place is?

Re: the menu. Don't forget that it's attached to a FOUR POINTS... which although in the heart of the burgeoning yuppie hi-rise condo district, is still a FOUR POINTS. The guests are probably not used to seeing menus like Corduroy's, and much more amplification of that fact would probably drive them away.

Since they are the bread and butter of the restaurant, it could be a dangerous business move... Just my $.02.

Posted by: Fatemeh | January 11, 2006 at 03:14 PM