Few phrases can evoke the body into unconscious acts, rendering us less human and more automaton, operating on pure emotion. Of these phrases, most invoke love and major life announcements. “Will you marry me?” “I’m pregnant.” “All-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse.”
I have done my best to avoid hearing two of those phrases and the accompanying emotional response, but “All-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse” spoke to my soul like a classic Spenserian sonnet or a well-edited blooper compilation on YouTube. I took the Five Paragraph Bitter Food Family to Fogo de Chao recently, reveling in the poetry that only fire-grilled meat can write.
After perusing a wine list specializing in South American malbecs, diners are given a disc, one side red and the other green. If you don’t want any meat, keep the disk showing red. Flipping that disk to the green side gives the serving gauchos carte blanche to bring out scores of skewers of perfectly-charred meats to your table, and you’re free to take as much or as little as you’d like, and at your desired level of doneness. Prime rib, various types of sirloins, bacon-wrapped filets, chicken, pork ribs, lamb chops, each bite perfectly seasoned and prepared. It’s like Dr. Atkins’ dream restaurant – all meat, all the time, with none of those pesky starches to get in the way.
That disk, with the red and green, reminded me of the Omni from the early `80s TV show Voyagers – the green side was good, red was bad. All that was missing was Jon-Erik Hexum as Phineas Bogg saying “Great job, kid!” The green side meant the meat kept coming, and like a lonely man in the presence of a beautiful woman, I couldn’t say no. I started to revert to primal instincts. I couldn’t pronounce polysyllabic words. The gauchos brought out pincanha, a salt-seasoned sirloin. I ate that with glee. Bacon-wrapped chicken medallions. I pointed and grunted in approval. Alcatra, another form or sirloin? I am told by my mother than I actually drooled. Linguica, a type of sausage – by that point in the evening, things were becoming cloudy, fuzzy. I must have blacked out. I vaguely remember somebody at the table offering me a bite of cheesecake, and somebody shoving a piece delicious key lime pie in my mouth while I looked at the skewer of beef ribs like Mark Foley at a Congressional Page.
The veritable orgy of meats does not diminish the surprisingly good salad bar, featuring not only the usual lettuce and carrot mixes, but a mix of local and South American vegetables, peppers , chilies and dressings. The salad bar also has more meat, thinly sliced prosciutto and smoked salmon served cold, as though you didn’t get enough dead animal already. Once I awoke from my food coma, I found the desserts were efficient and tasty, and the coffee – usually a weak spot in many restaurants – was incredibly delicious. I can’t imagine eating there too often; it’s easily 70 dollars or more per person for dinner between drinks, the meal, dessert and DC tax, while lunch is about half that. But, somewhere in that Big Diet Book in the Sky, Dr. Atkins is looking down, smiling at Fogo de Chao.
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Fogo De Chao earned 19 out of 20 possible Whammies! One Whammy! for each type of meat served (14 that day), one Whammy! for the coffee, two Whammies! for the salad bar that didn’t suck, one Whammy! for the extensive wine list, one Whammy! for the Key Lime Pie, one Whammy! for the incredibly gracious service. One Whammy was not earned for them not allowing me to live there. I promised I’d be clean. Stupid health department.
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The Five Paragraph Bitter Food Critic has been hitting the gym almost as hard as Presidential candidates are hitting the campaign trail. The past few weeks have been spent eating healthier foods, avoiding sweets, riding my bike to work, and getting to the weight room more often than I went to the buffet. The result? As of April 23rd, I weighed less than 200 pounds for the first time since moving back to Washington in mid-2005. Heart rate’s lower, blood pressure’s good, and only 10 more pounds to go before I’m back to “normal.” I celebrated this wonderful occasion not with more sit-ups and cardio, but by eating an ungodly amount of sumptuous, decadent tortellini at La Perla, a gem nestled between Pennsylvania Avenue and the Rock Creek Parkway near Georgetown.
This was for a good reason – the fine folks of the Washington Post’s Datelab series set me up on blind date at La Perla. While I won’t spoil the surprise of the details of the date (check www.washingtonpost.com or buy the Sunday papers), I will gladly dish about the restaurant. Pictures of famous guests to the restaurant line the entrance, surrounding a formal document from Pope John Paul II. The dessert case then casts an enticing glare, chock full of pastry, tortes and cheesecakes. This sugar-laden minx rests in front of a wall of wine bottles, surrounded by flowers, Italian artifacts and plaster carvings, while a replication of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus stands guard over the dining room.
I had been warned that the portions at La Perla were generous, and that leaving hungry would not be an option. Chef and owner Vittorio Testa did not disappoint – my plate of tortellini alla panna was full of delicious meat-stuffed shells covered in a glorious marscapone cream sauce, and my fellow Datelabber’s Piatto Di Mastro Geppetto was a massive cornucopia of shellfish served over linguine. Every mussel, clam, scallop and shrimp at the Waterfront fish markets had been kidnapped and held for ransom on her plate. This dish will taste even better later this year as more fresh sea scallops are shipped down from the New England waters. Still, that tortellini was star of the show; each bite a reminder of why I love Italian cuisine. If I ever become the male Oprah, this dish gets prime billing on my “Favorite Things” list, somewhere between TiVo and world peace.
They brought out a slice of tiramisu with some limoncello liqueur for us to share. Now, the restaurant knew who we were and who we were representing, so it is possible that’s why we received special treatment. But while good service can be faked, a genuine spirit of hospitality can’t. The server, the maitre’d, bus staff, even Chef Testa himself made sure we were welcome guests, and none of that felt like it was an act to get good press (and I doubt they knew I was a humble food blogger, either).
So, La Perla has earned a future visit from me. This meal was every bit as good as my usual standard for Italian in D.C., Al Tiramisu, and though Al Tiramisu’s cozy interior could be considered more romantic, it’s a fine line between “intimate” and “cramped.” There’s something to be said for elbow room. Palena is still my favorite Italian dining experience in the city, but these are not comparable restaurants. Chef Ruta’s adventurous dishes at Palena win you over using non-traditional ingredients and inventive presentation whereas Chef Testa’s La Perla is more of a classical spot that honors traditional fare and hospitality. The city is lucky to have such quality.
La Perla
2600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, DC 20037
202-333-1767.
Valet service available
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La Perla earned 6 Whammies! out of a potential 7 Whammies!, the only deduction coming from the just-ever-so-slightly too salty sea scallops, which will quickly not be an issue later in the seafood season, and that they wouldn’t let me swim in that marscapone cream sauce. Something about health code standards and sanitation. Hmph.
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Upper Crust Gourmet is a new cafe in Ballston. Upper Crust Gourmet is open for breakfast and lunch Monday through Saturday, and serves Illy Coffee with a small tasty madeleine cookie on the side. The coissants are good as well. I have not been there for lunch, so have not tried most of their sandwiches. I have tried their one breakfast sandwich, the cheddar omellete, which is served on a croissant. It would probably have been better if the cheese had not all oozed out of the sandwich, but the omelette was still enjoyable.
Upper Crust Gourmet has free wireless internet and two terminals where the internet can be accessed for free. They have a bookcase of interesting books that you can read while enjoying your cup of Illy coffee.
Upper Crust Gourmet
1000 N. Randolph Street
Arlington, VA 22201
703 243-7000

Honestly people, with the emotional outpouring caused by my negative review of Montsouris the other month, you’d think I came to your house and ate your dog. I mean, nervous encouragement is all very well when you’re trying to make yummy sounds at your five-year-old’s mud pies, but is that treatment really necessary for an upscale French bistro? Surely not; and if the phrase ‘…but they worked so hard’ was an acceptable excuse for failure, Rumsfeld might still be employed (tho I might not be).
But just to set the record straight, this weekend saw me return to the scene of the crime. I’d promised I wouldn’t, but circumstances and visiting Midwesterners prevailed. My one stipulation – insist on a seat at the cozy and elegant front instead of the rather pathetic back area when making the reservation.
It began on a low note – On arrival the front-seat promise was haughtily disavowed. Instead of walking out or, say, bursting into tears, we agreed to an awkward table wedged next to the reception desk. Really, anything is better than the back at Montsouris , even the disapproving sniffs of a maitre D.
But the tone was soon improved with witty French banter from our server, and some surprisingly tasty food. The Pate de Campagne was that charming combo of meat and pure grease that only French and Chinese food can get away with. The frites were slim and crunchy, the rib-eye thick and juicy. The Kobe beef, while not reminiscent of all that beer-fed cow can be, was acceptably flavorful. I didn’t try The pork special but I hear it was more than alright.
Am I withdrawing my previous scorn? Must I admit that Montsouris should have been given the benefit of the doubt on my first painful visit? Alas no. The proof came four hours later when all three of us who’d eaten steaks became violently ill, a rather delicate situation in a single-bathroom apartment. No meal should have to end with half your party needing to find the locker room in your building’s gym because both of your own drains are already occupied.
Too much info? It’s tough to tell after a meal like that. Perhaps it is as my critics insist, that the staff at Montsouris carefully lies in wait for my reservation before they break out the scary. But I’m really really not going back; I mean it this time. Really.