Beaten by Montsouris

A bad dinner affects humans differently than a bad movie or a bad day at work. We feel the same outrage that might be inspired by a factory poisoning the air, or the realization that last night's hookup isn't going to call: we took something in, into our very bodies, and trusted it and made it part of ourselves. There's a deep feeling of betrayal and hurt to go along with the disappointment; we needed the comfort and sustenance of a good meal and now we won't have another chance until tomorrow. Perhaps eating is just too basic to the human condition to risk messing up.

Are you listening to me, you people at Montsouris? I wrote a note to all my writers yesterday about how we should try to approach every restaurant positively. You're making me look bad!

Taking over for Johnny's Half Shell in Dupont, Montsouris comes to us from the owners of the very pleasant Montmartre over in Capitol Hill. With two solid restaurants as forbears, how is it things could have gone so wrong? While the few tables at the front of the restaurant look rather nice, most of the clientele is crammed into a bizarre row of cheap, diner-style seats facing the kitchen. It's knee-to-knee and elbow-to-wine glass as diners struggle not to eavesdrop on each other, and there's the collective feeling of confused faux pas. What could be wrong with my hair today? Perhaps I should have worn my pearls? Why oh why have we alone been consigned to this nasty and impersonal galley, when such lovely tables are visible off in the distance?

Now, in the eighties it was considered a mark of distinction have your French server hate you. Their prime purpose was to aggressively lounge near the kitchen, arms crossed and eyes glaring, cursing under their very French breath. But today that form of bizarre sadism lives on only in the very low-confidence, or the very out-of-business. I'm not sure which category Montsouris falls into yet, but I can say this: each sneer, each forgotten wine order, each ignored attempt to flag down fork, water glass, or menu, are small bruises to my soul. It wasn't that big to begin with, and now it's black and blue. Thank you very much.

And now I could spend a page writing about the food, but you know it's going to be bad. Should I even bother? Assume that a good meal would have vindicated everything else, and draw your conclusions from there. The appetizers were by turns boring or inedible, the steaks grainy and cold.

I emerged from Montsouris a beaten woman; practically in tears, and with that odd combination of hunger, nausea, and leaden depression that only the a truly bad dining experience can provide. And so it was that, a few minutes later and with my stomach still churning over the catastrophe across the street, I crept into the bar at Urbana and ordered two appetizers, a glass of wine and a desert. They were lovely.

Montsouris
2002 P St. NW,
Washington, DC
20036
202-833-4180