Dinner at Masseria

Recently, in search of some special new restaurants to try, I came across a jazzy review by the Washington Post's Tom Sietsema of Masseria. Written in the spring of 2016 and then seconded last October, Sietsema claimed that Masseria, which opened in August of 2015, was "one of the most alluring restaurants in the city," a rich experience in which "the food lives up to its looks." 

Twice has Masseria, by chef Nicholas Stefanelli (previously at Bibiana on New York Ave NW), placed on Sietsema's Top Ten lists, and a March 2017 article on the Huffington Post was positively orgasmic. The restaurant has also earned a Michelin star.

With all the enthusiasm surrounding this hot-spot testament to Stefanelli's Puglian heritage -"a temple to those pilgrims in search of the city’s best food" for pete's sakes- I was thrilled to score a reservation at the chef's counter. It would be the perfect place to celebrate my and Tom's 13th wedding anniversary.

Last night, after an interminable 45-minute Lyft ride down, down, down to 4th St NE, just around the corner from hip Union Market, during which I learned more about Uber vs Lyft and Bitcoin that I ever imagined, I finally, and only by calling Tom in desperation, found Masseria. It hides in an industrial park behind a nondescript wall, its name rendered in a small, subtle script that was hard to see on a drizzly, dim evening.

I toddled in on cute heels that I rarely get to wear, excited for a midweek night out of the house. Masseria's interior is welcoming, cozy, and chic in a thoughtfully eclectic way. Everyone is friendly, pendant and overhead lights are perfectly set so that you're neither in a fitting room nor in dire need of a flashlight to read the menu, and the open kitchen and sizeable bar whet your appetites for food, drink, and conviviality. 

Tom and I were seated on the middle stools of the six-top chef's counter. He started with a dry-hopped saison from Italy's Lombardy region. I was glad he enjoyed it so much because at $15 for a standard bottle, it seriously tipped the scale. I opted for the "punch on tap," an Aperol Spritz made with sauvignon blanc and lime. Unfortunately, it was the first of many average things I was to have over the next three hours. 

We both chose to splurge on the 5-course tasting menu, and because I wasn't driving home, I opted for the wine pairing too. 

As memories of the ardent reviews danced through my mind, I savored one of our caciocavallo-stuffed bomboloni, shrugged my nose at the tomato fondue that was too reminiscent of canned tomato paste, returned the squid ink and sesame seed breadstick to its osso buco bone home, snapped up a few pickled veggies, and perused the menu.

I chose quickly, deciding to start with the vignarola, a plate of gently prepared artichoke hearts, ramps, fava beans, english peas (both whole and in puree), wilted escarole, and mint. I could not locate the mint, and the dish would have benefited by a dusting of finishing salt, but it was a lovely presentation that allowed the vegetables' flavors to shine.

Tom kicked things off with a bowl of the king crab and lobster mezzaluna pasta nestled in a tomato sauce that lacked that off-putting tinny acidity so many tomato sauces suffer from. I don't tend to love seafood and tomatoes together, but as far as frutti di mare goes, this one was solid albeit not memorable.

Next out came a bowl of paccheri (one of my favorite pastas) with cauliflower, golden raisins, pine nuts, oregano, and pecorino for me, and a dish of fleshy orecchiette with rabbit ragu, and parmigiano for Tom. Having made homemade orecchiette myself, I was impressed with the size of these but even more so by the lightness they maintained despite apparent heft. Tom loves rabbit ragu and enjoyed this version; I was less jazzed. My paccheri was lovely but slightly too al dente and again I felt salt would have brightened the lot.

So many great Italian cooks, both home and professional ones, have such correctly generous hands with added salt, so I was surprised by how often I found myself wishing I'd brought my travel tin of Maldon or that someone, anyone, would offer me some. The sous chef at the meat station, based at our one o'clock, looked like Putin's nephew but nicer and boy did he love salt. Too bad he didn't season the whole kitchen.

As I headed into my second bowl of pasta, this one the chick pea casoncelli with artichoke, olive oil, and mint, Tom moved to fish, the Mediterranean stone bass, with fennel, cherry tomatoes, cucumber, and basil.

As ambivalently as I ate my previous dishes, I truly enjoyed the casoncelli. They were like delicate boats full of various textures and flavors. Meanwhile, Tom meandered through his fish which he thought was ok but which I found shockingly, distastefully fishy. What, pray tell, is worse than fishy fish? 

With each round of pasta came slices of a Puglian semolina bread nestled in a wooden box. It was cute enough (although after a couple I wondered, why boxes?), and thank god Puglians have tasty, interesting bread unlike their Tuscan friends. Don't get me wrong- Tuscany can do great things with pane, but their basic loaf is a boring, hard, white, saltless weight. So, go Puglia, but...

I was, at this point, becoming exceedingly full, but I'd chosen to close dinner out with the bue, a 30-day dry-aged beef ribeye with cheese fonduta, olive oil, crushed potatoes, and wild spring onions. Tom awaited the piccione al mattone with rhubarb, duck fat pastry, english peas, and lavender.

Putin's nephew was in charge of both, and we'd been watching him flatten squab between two pans and brown filets of beef in absurd mounds of butter all night. I had high hopes. He and the sous chef next to him, a stoic, lovely man who managed vegetables, had a great rapport, managing printed orders with a shared Sharpie and few words. I love watching kitchen folks, but that is a tribute for another post, and will be.

Out came my beef which was, sadly, not at all what early plates of it looked like. This one was slightly cold, the browned exterior an illusion that didn't hold up; it was a limp round sitting next to limp mashed potatoes and surrounded by unsightly drizzles of cheese sauce and some sort of brown liquid. I enjoyed the grilled onions the most. I did not like the Super Tuscan paired with the course but did like the white pairings with my vignarola and pastas.

Tom's squab was fine. The duck fat pastry was exceptionally flaky but T has come to realize that he prefers rhubarb in sweet versus savory form. That foot leaves something to be desired.

On to dessert. I had a cheese plate, and Tom had the baked chocolate mousse with dulce de leche, mascarpone cream, and tiramisu gelato. The cheeses were inaccurately described as "briny, briny, mortadella," an error I was grateful for because really, I love pungent stink, but mortadella?? The wine pairing with my cheese was a cider than can only be described as kombucha. No thank you.

On the flip side, our chocolate dessert was a showstopper. Mamma mia was each bite a wonder. I could easily have eaten another.

All in all, this was a stunningly expensive, stunningly average meal. The service was great, the restaurant is appealing, but I didn't taste any magic last night. And that's a shame on many fronts. 

Spring, grilled cheese, and the birthday ball starts rolling

I have meant to write each of the past two nights, but y'all, my yard. I can't even get out of it because spring has sprung and the sun, it has been a'shining.

Tulips turn their heads to the bright sky every morning and open their arms wide to receive the light and warmth. The phlox perks up and stands at attention, the poor hydrangeas dare to bud for the third time since spring started hinting at its coming, and the hostas start their cheerfully aggressive takeover of valued garden space. 

The chosen ones aren't the only things bursting from torpor to life. The weeds and I have been engaged in a full scale battle for a week now- hairy bittercress, clover, the one I never can identify but which sprouts with wild and initially pleasing abandon. I am quite certain that my neighbors must think me obsessive at best, for there I am again, crouched in a yogic squat and tossing uprooted weeds into Oliver's orange plastic sand pail with glee. 

As always, I commune with the worms and roly polys, welcome the birds into the spray from my hose, attempt to save neighborhood bunnies from Nutmeg's innate predatory instincts, and lose all sense of time and other responsibilities. 

Yesterday was National Grilled Cheese Day, and I took a break from gardening to speak to MacKenzie Smith, sandwich expert for About.com and founder of the blog, Grilled Cheese Social. Sara Lee had asked her to concoct some special sandwiches for the day, and I wanted to ask about her favorite cheese combos that Tom and I may not have yet tried as well as to seek advice about convincing my boys that a good grilled cheese sandwich is hard to beat. So far, they are not fans, and to be honest, I cannot understand. 

Anyway, during our brief chat, MacKenzie shared her favorite grilled cheese trio -young goat cheese, muenster, and taleggio (all of which I bought today)- and we waxed rhapsodic about the importance of using full-fat salty butter liberally on a good grilled cheese. She swears by any salty European butter while I go even more specific and vote for Kerrygold. #ofthegods

MacKenzie's three Bs for a winning sandwich include, of course, butter, but also base (a good, thick bread that can withstand heat and melting cheese; she likes Sara Lee Artesano, and I like brioche) and blend (the best grilled cheeses benefit from a blend of cheeses with varying melt points, salt contents, and flavor profiles). 

I know what I'll be having for lunch tomorrow, thank you!

For lunch today, my dear friend, C, took me to the Iron Gate to get my birthday ball rolling. 41 happens Sunday, y'all. 

It was a beautiful day, and we sat in the courtyard, shaded in a perfectly mottled way by a large canopy of established wisteria. Despite a ludicrous drive downtown which culminated in me climbing a ladder OUT of a parking garage WHILE in heeled sandals and then skirting a delivery truck in the drive pad to exit, it was a perfect, lovely, relaxed date.

Heading into the Iron Gate which is mysterious and charming and I want to go back because the interior spaces are even more inviting than the front.

Heading into the Iron Gate which is mysterious and charming and I want to go back because the interior spaces are even more inviting than the front.

The menu is gorgeous and intensely seasonal. Though I had a hard time choosing, we ultimately shared two dishes -the spring pea bruschetta (OMG) and the beet, black walnut, dill, and yogurt salad- before branching into the gemelli with chiles and swiss chard pesto (C) and the farro, dried cherries, feta, pine nut, and red wine vinaigrette salad for moi. For dessert, lemon curd with meringue two ways, candied almonds, and cardamom ice cream. Perfection!

Happy weekend, friends!

A weekend away on Maryland's Eastern Shore

Ah me, three nights and four days away with just T was just what we needed. And the perfect birthday present for him, to boot! I am so grateful to my in-laws for keeping the boys and letting us escape to the Eastern Shore.

We took off late last Friday morning, aiming for St. Michael's, MD. Lunchtime found us near Annapolis, and hunger and a quick Yelp search directed us to Giolitti, an authentic, delicious Italian delicatessen over which I went bananas. Italian radio streamed in the background, and my tonno Italiano sandwich was so good that I not only stopped talking while eating but also, fast forward, made Tom bring me by for another on our way home yesterday. 

sicilian-style tuna, balsamic, provolone, lettuce, and perfect bread

sicilian-style tuna, balsamic, provolone, lettuce, and perfect bread

T had a muffaletta on our first pass, and a meatball sub on our second. We also discovered Poppies chocolate-coconut macaroons, an import from Belgium that are like high-brow Girl Scout cookies (the Samoas, aka Caramel D'lights). We ate one box on Friday and now have another in our pantry, as well as some fab pastas, and one ball each of mozzarella di bufala and burrata and a large bag of speck, all imported from Italy, in the fridge. Winning! 

Happy guy who, at the time this was snapped, was still 38. We found this a fitting memorial. Today he's 39. 

Happy guy who, at the time this was snapped, was still 38. We found this a fitting memorial. Today he's 39. 

If ever you are near Annapolis, haul ass to Giolitti! The only disappointment was their tiramisu which had some sort of flavored cream that neither T nor I liked at all. Like, I refused to take a second bite. Blech. The cannoli, on the other hand, utilized the freshest, crispiest, yummiest shell I've enjoyed in ages. While I am a purist and do not like chocolate in my cream filling, it didn't distract too terribly from this delicacy!

Once checked in to the Inn at Perry Cabin (a very lovely, comfortable, friendly place; we highly recommend if you get a good rate, as did we; too pricey on the regular, in our opinion, unless that matters not, in which case, go forth and enjoy.), we walked the main drag of St. Michael's, putzing and 'sploring (our old-as-we-are nickname for how we like to explore new places) and remembering what it's like to be nothing more than a couple. 

It is so important to take this time for each other, to reconnect in unrushed, unscheduled ways. We played backgammon atop our bed, spontaneously attended the Cava cocktail event being hosted in the library (and met a young couple that happens to know one of our friends who was a groomsman in our wedding; SUCH a small world), went out to eat, napped, watched a movie, read, and got massages.  

a hearty breakfast of quinoa, warm veggies, micro greens, balsamic drizzle, and a fried egg; at the Bartlett Pear Inn

a hearty breakfast of quinoa, warm veggies, micro greens, balsamic drizzle, and a fried egg; at the Bartlett Pear Inn

It didn't matter that it drizzled and chilled Saturday as we 'splored the nearby (and charming) town of Easton, for we both fit under one umbrella and could pop into cozy bookstores and galleries and antique shops whenever a storefront caught our eye. 

We could simply roll as if peacefully and purposefully atop a wave, and it was heavenly. 

(The writer critic in me notices that there are three adverbs in the above sentence and not a few in this piece, is exceedingLY vexed about them, but is going ahead anyway.)

steamers and grilled bread; at t at the General Store

steamers and grilled bread; at t at the General Store

Even after fifteen years together, T had no idea that I love scarabs until we came across an ages-old soapstone one in a pop-up antiques market whose name now escapes me. You can't know how perfectly smooth and weighted that little treasure was. I wish I'd bought it. Over brunch, I read to T about scarab symbology and meaning. Funny and delightful to learn new things about someone you've known and been with for so long.

Yesterday, we headed home, stopping a couple times just because we felt like it and for a quick second pass through Giolitti, and then the boys tumbled in, and Nutmeg stretched and purred, and yay for gumbo in the freezer.

I'll head east to the Shore anytime!

Places to stay:
Inn at Perry Cabin, St. Michael's
Bartlett Pear Inn, Easton

Places to eat:
Giolitti Delicatessen, Annapolis
Bartlett Pear Inn, Easton (love the ambiance and food! Tom had a lamb burger that he said was superb)
Stars, Inn at Perry Cabin, St. Michael's (I had a stellar breakfast of Anson Mills grits with rhubarb and raspberry compotes and honey; off the chart good; T had a very solid eggs Benedict on cheddar biscuits)
t at the General Store, Easton (love the atmosphere, food was all presented in artistic but unfussy fashion but ranged from excellent-those steamers-to just OK; I would go back though!)
Ava's Pizzeria, St. Michael's (pizza was better than average but not outstanding, casual/jovial atmo)
Rise Up coffee, St. Michael's and Easton (a job well done)