There are places in DC that require a special occasion, and places that require an ID. There are places that require you to know someone to get in. And then there are the places that require a certain something, a particular je ne sais quoi, places that need…
To be blunt, there are places in DC that absolutely require an expense account. There are certainly more expensive restaurants in the city than Charlie Palmer Steak, but it would be difficult to find one with more people dining on someone else’s bill. Lobbyists come to prove that they know how to scratch-a-back. Hill staffers come to blow off steam on dad’s credit card. Bosses bring their new employees, retiring employees, and once in a while, a secretary. Is anyone here actually paying for themselves?
I surely wasn’t. The occasion was a visit from Uncle Bill. Not my uncle per se, but certainly an uncle, in from Minnesota to sell paper. He already had a drink in hand when we met him at the minimalist bar that fronts the famed view of the capitol. A lady had bought it for him.
A recent Chowhound post described Charlie Palmers as ‘Hotel-lobby chic’ – the large, white dining room, the loud crowd stuffed into serious suits, and the waiters in slim, wire-rimmed glasses. At any moment you expect to see a potted plant. But while these are the usual at a DC steak house, the menu is more original. The required chops, steaks, and fries are joined by more exciting fare like a Ricotta Ravioli with Peekytoe Crab and Brown Butter Basted Skate Wing. It’s a combination that relies heavily on the quality of the ingredients but doesn’t mind giving them a hand when necessary; a more grounded version of Corduroy.
One bottle of excellent Pinot Noir later we were feeling appropriately political. I slurped my way through a squash soup, smooth and rich, with chewy apple dumplings. I gave one to amg and wished I hadn’t. Brussel sprouts and chestnuts were perfect for a sprout lover like me, a tender baked parmesan gnocchi was a very close second. The truffle basted rib-eye for two arrived as a huge slab of protein, presented for inspection and then whisked away to be broken down into more manageable anatomy. Reports say that it was a bit overwhelmingly meaty, but I was more interested in my New Hampshire ringneck pheasant, stuffed with foie gras and crusted in rosemary cured bacon. It was truly outstanding; simple and salty and tender and I almost cried when I realized I couldn’t possibly eat another bite of it.
After such heavy indulgence, it was a relief to find the crème brulee trio to be more like a caramelized mousse. I’d like to think that the lighter desert selection is a commentary on the kitchen’s careful forethought, but who knows. In any case, it was a perfect finish to a meal on someone else’s dime, and there was nothing left to do but to lean back in the warm glow of conspicuous consumption and port and play ‘spot the hooker’.