Sep. 30th, 2009 10:26 pm
Wicked Wednesday
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monshu's and my date for picking up the pictures which we didn't want to lug home after Sunday's dual massages. I'd floated a couple of ideas for eating out without any real conviction and then, as I was passing Farragut's, one with real legs popped into my head: It was still early on a Wednesday night. Why not see if we could get a table at Hopleaf?
We did. It did involve some waiting at what may be the worst-located hostess stand I've ever stood around at (where kitchen traffic, restroom traffic, and all dining room traffic cross and converge) but our reward was to be ushered up to a mezzanine I didn't realise existed just as the setting sun was casting its dying light all about us. And a good thing, too, because it's the only illumination up there apart from a pitiful candle. It was quieter and less crowded than the main floor and--despite the fact that it was at least five minutes before a server appeared--I think I would ask to be seated up there anyway.
I felt a bit boring ordering the pork chop, but apart from the brisket it was the dish with the most appealing sides andmonshu had already ordered that. One bite banished any regret: It was perfectly cooked and outrageously juicy. The huckleberry-blackberry sauce wasn't too sweet, the squash-cauliflower custard tasted too good to be good for me, and the side of brussel sprouts ensured that I didn't miss out on my bacon. The St Feuillien Brune proved a bit too bitter to make a flawless accompaniment but I was glad to try yet another selection from their tremendous draught menu.
Just when I thought things could get no better, they brought dessert. Now, when I hear "apple fritters", I think "lotta dough, not much apple". Their version, however, consisted of fat tender wedges of fresh apple enveloped in slightly sweetened perfectly crisp batter and served with a vanilla-caramel dipping sauce. If ever I needed proof that Jesus loves me, I have it right there. Afterwards I was--as I confided to my man--"so happy I could spunk myself." So rare to find the hard-to-get-into place that's really worthy trying hard to get into.
monshu's and my date for picking up the pictures which we didn't want to lug home after Sunday's dual massages. I'd floated a couple of ideas for eating out without any real conviction and then, as I was passing Farragut's, one with real legs popped into my head: It was still early on a Wednesday night. Why not see if we could get a table at Hopleaf?We did. It did involve some waiting at what may be the worst-located hostess stand I've ever stood around at (where kitchen traffic, restroom traffic, and all dining room traffic cross and converge) but our reward was to be ushered up to a mezzanine I didn't realise existed just as the setting sun was casting its dying light all about us. And a good thing, too, because it's the only illumination up there apart from a pitiful candle. It was quieter and less crowded than the main floor and--despite the fact that it was at least five minutes before a server appeared--I think I would ask to be seated up there anyway.
I felt a bit boring ordering the pork chop, but apart from the brisket it was the dish with the most appealing sides and
monshu had already ordered that. One bite banished any regret: It was perfectly cooked and outrageously juicy. The huckleberry-blackberry sauce wasn't too sweet, the squash-cauliflower custard tasted too good to be good for me, and the side of brussel sprouts ensured that I didn't miss out on my bacon. The St Feuillien Brune proved a bit too bitter to make a flawless accompaniment but I was glad to try yet another selection from their tremendous draught menu.Just when I thought things could get no better, they brought dessert. Now, when I hear "apple fritters", I think "lotta dough, not much apple". Their version, however, consisted of fat tender wedges of fresh apple enveloped in slightly sweetened perfectly crisp batter and served with a vanilla-caramel dipping sauce. If ever I needed proof that Jesus loves me, I have it right there. Afterwards I was--as I confided to my man--"so happy I could spunk myself." So rare to find the hard-to-get-into place that's really worthy trying hard to get into.