Forgive Me, Waistline, For I Know Not What I Do
You know when you've made a meal out of a cup and a half of cottage cheese and go out for a jog that leaves you wincing and wondering if you have any knee cartilage remaining that you're on one hell of a guilt trip.
Such was the case on Sunday, when I plead my case to the Weekend Food Gods, asking for amnesty despite the last two days of food gluttony. It was gonna take more than some fat-free dairy products and sweaty poundin' of pavement to undo what I'd done.
Scott and I hosted his dad visiting from GA and well, those men like to eat. Put fresh cocktails in their hands and full plates of good food in front of them and they're all kinds of congenial. I can't say I'm not partial to their ways. Who can blame them?
On Friday evening, after Scott's dad learned the joys of navigating the streets of D.C., we set out for a place I found on UrbanSpoon.com. {US is a handy site - considering the recent controversy over the legitimacy of Yelp.com business reviews, I'd go with Urban Spoon.}
The review of Granville Moores said to go for mussels, high end Belgian brew, and frites - you know, the fancy word for french fries. So we did. We ordered scallops on a rosemary skewer with candied butternut squash to start, then two orders of mussels, one with blue cheese, shallots, spinach, white wine and lemon juice, and another with white wine and herb butter. Of course we had to have frites, which came with our selected dipping sauces of truffle aioli, horseradish, and chipotle mayo.
My God above, the meal was fantastic - the simple sharing of steamed mussels, their broth just begging to be sopped up with bread. The frites were hot and sprinkled with a secret ingredient, the perfect conduit for all the interesting sauces. The food was fresh and warm and the beer was chilled and heady and we had a patio table all to ourselves. It was the kind of meal that just can't go wrong.
Our waitress was a card; she told us all about the interesting bathroom habits of the crackheads who hang out behind the restaurant. It's located on H Street in a "transitional" neighborhood. A couple doors down is a dive called The Red and The Black Bar, which Scott refers to as "that Metal bar." The music was a little hard-core but they had National Bohemian cans for cheap and a cat that walks all over the bar counter, so it was fine by us to pass the time while we waited an hour and a half for our table at Granville Moores - yes, we're learning that wait times for restaurants are all kinds of crazy in D.C.
{Granville Moore was a doctor; the esteemed M.D. who practiced in his office until just a few years ago. His neon sign still hangs in an upper window of the renovated townhouse.}
Such was the case on Sunday, when I plead my case to the Weekend Food Gods, asking for amnesty despite the last two days of food gluttony. It was gonna take more than some fat-free dairy products and sweaty poundin' of pavement to undo what I'd done.
Scott and I hosted his dad visiting from GA and well, those men like to eat. Put fresh cocktails in their hands and full plates of good food in front of them and they're all kinds of congenial. I can't say I'm not partial to their ways. Who can blame them?
On Friday evening, after Scott's dad learned the joys of navigating the streets of D.C., we set out for a place I found on UrbanSpoon.com. {US is a handy site - considering the recent controversy over the legitimacy of Yelp.com business reviews, I'd go with Urban Spoon.}
The review of Granville Moores said to go for mussels, high end Belgian brew, and frites - you know, the fancy word for french fries. So we did. We ordered scallops on a rosemary skewer with candied butternut squash to start, then two orders of mussels, one with blue cheese, shallots, spinach, white wine and lemon juice, and another with white wine and herb butter. Of course we had to have frites, which came with our selected dipping sauces of truffle aioli, horseradish, and chipotle mayo.
My God above, the meal was fantastic - the simple sharing of steamed mussels, their broth just begging to be sopped up with bread. The frites were hot and sprinkled with a secret ingredient, the perfect conduit for all the interesting sauces. The food was fresh and warm and the beer was chilled and heady and we had a patio table all to ourselves. It was the kind of meal that just can't go wrong.
Our waitress was a card; she told us all about the interesting bathroom habits of the crackheads who hang out behind the restaurant. It's located on H Street in a "transitional" neighborhood. A couple doors down is a dive called The Red and The Black Bar, which Scott refers to as "that Metal bar." The music was a little hard-core but they had National Bohemian cans for cheap and a cat that walks all over the bar counter, so it was fine by us to pass the time while we waited an hour and a half for our table at Granville Moores - yes, we're learning that wait times for restaurants are all kinds of crazy in D.C.
{Granville Moore was a doctor; the esteemed M.D. who practiced in his office until just a few years ago. His neon sign still hangs in an upper window of the renovated townhouse.}
To be continued...too much luscious food recollection for just one blog post.
Lord above Dr. Granville is TOTALLY worth the wait. ;)
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