Fab day plus a new bar (Sotto) and restaurant review (Le Dip)

Yesterday was an absolutely wonderful birthday; the best I've had in years! Thank you so much to everyone who reached out via phone, email, Facebook and good old-fashioned card. Thank you for the flowers and warm messages of love and friendship.  Thank you for the hugs and compliments. 

coffee at Leopold's Kafe

two pals wearing springy shoes (CF, thanks for putting on your pinks for me!)

After seeing friends, spending some time in the garden, playing with the kids and getting a massage, I put on a dress and heels, and T took me out for drinks and then dinner.

We started at Sotto, the new bar/smokery under Ghibellina on 14th Street. If you've read Em-i-lis for a while, you surely know  how much I love Ghibellina (full disclosure: I am friends with one of its founders/managers, but I would feel exactly the same way even if I weren't), so I was thrilled T and I were able to leave early enough to enjoy an aperitif before our 7:30 dinner reservations.

Sotto, which means 'below' in Italian, feels as hip and warm and welcoming as does Ghib even though its aesthetics are different.  It's a long, narrow space, a generous shotgun really, with a lengthy bar, cozy tables and a room at the rear for live music and private parties. The hooks under the bar and parts of the light fixtures and cabinetry are custom iron-work. It's not remotely heavy feeling and lends a extra layer of masculinity to the rough-hewn wooden bar (polished smooth but the shape is wonderfully organic), minimalist lights and doors behind which sit bottles of liquor and spirits aging in old wooden barrels.

As at Ghibellina, the wine, beer and cocktail lists are unique and inspired. I get so excited by a drinks menu that is so obviously well-considered and created by someone who cares. T had the Right Away cocktail, a blend of Rye and two different Amaros, and I had a flute of Brut Rosé which is always celebratory.

We wished we had room to try a few things, but I have been looking forward to dining at Le Diplomate for many months so vetoed the idea of ordering anything. That said, the menu looked fantastic, and I'm eager to return. Heavy on smoked meats, roasted vegetables and small snacks, the offerings are trim but sound heavenly.

Bravo to the Ghibellina/Sotto crew. I can't wait to return.

On to Le Diplomate, a popular French bistro on the corner of 14th and Q. The looks of the place are such that you can't walk by and not want to go inside immediately. It has great energy, and overall, the style is charming. 

I didn't expect it to be small inside, but I was surprised by how cavernous Le Dip is. There are several dining rooms as well as an extensive outdoor eating area, and, as I always do, I loved that the windows and doors could be thrown open to the elements on pretty days. The whole place was packed, with what seemed to be a mix of first-timers and neighborhood regulars. Despite the crowd, the acoustics are pretty good so we never felt we were front row at an AC/DC concert.*

My enthusiasm for Le Dip started to wane when I saw the wholly uninspired wines-by-the-glass list. Tom often wants beer with dinner (not Coors, people; good Belgian stuff!) so I tend to take the opportunity to try different wines. The options for bottles were solid, but by the glass? Forget about it. I started with a Burgundian white and later moved on to a Pinot which I didn't finish. I know, right?!

We started with a half-dozen raw oysters because, generally speaking, I love them. Two of the three tasted like seaweed, straight up. I like my oysters briny and OF the sea, but I don't order pricey bivalves to eat salty kelp, you know? And the mignonette was way too strong for the delicate oysters; vinegar gone mad I tell you, and I tend to love me some vinegar.

At this point, my interest in ordering anything but standard French fare had been completely tamped. Instead, I chose the mushroom tart and the warm shrimp salad with lemon beurre blanc and avocado, while T opted for the steak frites.

He was very pleased with his steak which did have a gorgeous, shellacky-looking exterior and a perfect (for Tom) medium-rare interior. The fries I stole from him were undersalted but he said I must have just gotten unlucky because his were fine.

My mushroom tart was beautiful to look at, but I was disappointed by the crust which was both slightly overcooked on the bottom and a bit more leaden than a good butter-based tart crust should be. The topping was nice, though I did add salt.

I beseech you to not order the $20 warm shrimp salad. I swear to you it tasted like something Red Lobster would serve. There is nothing wrong with Red Lobster, but I was not at Red Lobster and was also paying twenty damn dollars for a salad. You feel me?

There were five, not-Gulf shrimp sitting in a pool of warm'ish beurre blanc. The salad was cold, overdressed and desperately needed a zing. It literally cried out for some lemon and love. If this shrimp weren't your average Joe farmed guys, you could have fooled me. 

I wanted a birthday dessert in a serious way, but by this point, even T said, "Babe, let's stick with simple." Indeed. I chose the crème brûlée. Although it came with a dry madeleine, the reason for this pairing I cannot fathom, the crème brûlée itself was wonderful. The burned sugar shell was perfect -I could taste both almost-too-much caramelization and sweetness- and the chef did not skimp while scraping vanilla beans into the custard. Our waiter also brought some almond-based cakes with a candle. The cakes were tiny rounds, about the size of a quarter, and puffy. They were scrumptious. Truly sublime.

It's a surprise when dessert is the best course at a restaurant but it was a good way to go out last night.

The service at Le Dip left something to be desired. Or at least our waiter did. He was an odd combo of overly affected and absent, qualities which are not optimal alone but are certainly no good when paired. I have heard Le Dip's brunch is spectacular, so I'd go back to try it, but I'm in no hurry for now. 

T went to get the car because I had on these awesome babies, a gift from my sis, which are not made for distance strolling. And we came home and kissed the boys and called it a happy done day.

*No, I do not know if AC/DC even still performs live, but their volume is what I think of when I think LOUD! Spare me, I'm 39 now. 

(Yet another) great night at Ghibellina: needed

Yesterday was utterly pooey, y'all. Just sucky to the nth for a whole host of reasons. I felt blue and sad and tired and busy and found that I have early-stage frozen shoulder and need to go gangbusters at physical therapy for a while. Three times a week: who, pray tell, has time for that? And I have to abstain from raking which is not only one of my favorite activities but also exceedingly necessary as our Sugar Maple has just commenced its annual arboreal depilation. Observe.

It also rained all day, and I felt as if the Earth and I were so soggy we might slither through a storm drain to some nether-abyss. As is perhaps obvious, this is not an optimal mood to be mired in when you have plans to head out on the town with girlfriends you've been trying to see for a long while. But often, a night out laughing is just what's needed. So I gussied myself up, Ubered myself out and met my pals - as I did Shawn several weeks back - at Ghibellina where we quickly made ourselves at home at one of the bars.

I am coming to believe that no bad mood can persist when sitting at a great bar in a great pair of heels laughing and nursing a glass of great wine (last night, the Lucente, a merlot-heavy Super Tuscan-style that was at once smooth, spicy and warm).

Plus, can I just make your mouth water by telling you about what we ate? I arrived first and a cursory glance at the menu illumined the word burrata. I don't believe I've ever not ordered a dish that included burrata, and if I have, I should sue myself for idiocy. Last night was no exception as I placed an executive decision order immediately for the burrata with marinated rapini, calabrian chilies and toasted bread. Not a mistake.

We then received two additional, wonderful dishes: stewed lentils with root veggies and Tuscan kale; and the spectacular, stuff-of-my-dreams fagioli e zucca al forno, or oven-roasted pumpkin with white beans. For this dish you should run, not walk, to Ghibellina as soon as possible so that you can indulge before it leaves the menu.

The pumpkin was perfectly cooked: easily cut with the slightest pressure applied to the side of a fork, but not mushy. The consistency of the beans was equally pleasing, expertly treading the line between too-firm and overdone. Dressed with balsamic, olive oil, toasted almonds and a bit of allspice, each bite caused me to shut my eyes, slow my chewing and savor the marriage of flavors for as long as possible. It's a steal at $8. I did not get a photo. I have pretty-please asked for the recipe.

We ordered the chocolate-hazelnut tart but also got to taste the sublime Meyer lemon sorbet and the delicate panna cotta with saba, a balsamic like nectar. The sorbet shocked with its exact-replica taste. We were eating sugar-coated Meyers, yes?

As always, the service was wonderful: friendly, generous, unobtrusive. The bluster outside subsided, but no one seemed in any sort of hurry to leave Ghibellina's warmth.

I realized, as we finally all hugged and parted ways, how truly restorative friendship and laughter are. That they are some of the last things that should be sacrificed on the altar of busyness. That sometimes Tired is really just a need for fun and light escape masked as fatigue.

My cab coasted up to my house, and as I opened the car door, I saw a beautiful doe standing peacefully on the sidewalk not ten feet away. She was really in the wrong neck of her woods, and I tried to woo her towards me, but she declined. At 3am, Oliver woke up and I got in bed with him and told him about the deer. "She was gawding [guarding] the house until you got home, Mom." I think my heart melted a bit then.

Today the sun came out, and I went to PT for the first time and thought how absolutely lovely it was to be tended to, and to have to lay down for fifteen minutes with a warm pack wrapped around my shoulder, the electrical currents running under it easy enough to tune 0ut as I read my magazine and just was. Three times a week will be great!

A perfect night, an unforgettable story

I have not had as much fun as I did last night in a long time, at least as long as my 38-year-old-after-3-glasses-of-wine brain recalls (I'm vague today; let's just say that.) But I am clear on how seriously I enjoyed my hours with Shawn last night. Stoli, you're the best. We met at Ghibellina, grabbed the last two seats at the window looking out onto 14th Street and basked in the crisp air of a gorgeous evening. Shawn and I both believe that restaurant designers who make their establishments' front facades able to open -via huge windows, garage-type doors, etc- are the best.

My friend, Ralph, co-owner of Ghib was shocked to see my out on a Thursday. I know, it's rare. I'm livin' large. I even splurged for a cab there and back (actually, because I hate 90% of DC's cabs with the fire of 1,000 suns, I took an Uber on the way down which was so pleasant and cheap, and then, because three glasses of wine, I got all confused about pinning my position and so took a cab home, and I wondered the entire way if the driver had just moved to DC five minutes before picking me up. He literally seemed to have no idea where we were or where we were going).

But I digress.

One of my favorite of Shawn's peccadilloes is that he can't eat and drink at the same time. I mean, he can, but he does not in any way enjoy doing so. His palate gets all confused, and it's just no good. So, he drinks his beer(s) (peccadillo 2: he only drinks beer) before taking even a bite. I, myself, do not want to do this nor do I feel it would ever be a smart decision for me unless I wished to immediately be drunk and unable to taste the food I ordered.

And I really wanted to taste it because I was starving and had chosen the olive & artichoke pizza that I love at Ghib. I started in as soon as mine arrived. Meanwhile, Shawn's Margherita just sat there staring up at him, surely thinking, "What the eff is wrong with that guy?" Indeed, both our waitress and Ralph came over at different points to subtly ask just what was the matter.

"I told y'all he cannot eat and drink at the same time," I said as Shawn ordered another beer. Translation: that pizza would have to keep on waiting.

The waitress looked slightly sad (because really, the pizza was getting cold) but was supportive in saying "I mean, I do eat our pizza cold all the time, but it's better hot."

"But just wait until I do finish my beers," said Shawn. "I will WOLF that pizza down like you have never seen."

That happened, and it was with unprecedented speed and efficiency. He could be a competitive eater.

Now, I'm going to tell you a story that I feel is the sad sister of my Cat That Once Was tale. Shawn gave me his permission, even though his emotions are still a bit raw. Head's up, a beloved dog dies. But, get that out of the way and steel yourself because, as with the aforementioned cat, elements of the story are hysterical.

Three years ago, Shawn decided to get a dog. He'd never had a pet but always wanted one. He mentioned this plan to a friend who then showed up with a dog approximately 20 minutes later. The pup, a Boxer-Boston terrier mix, was about 18 months old and had been rescued from an abusive home. Shawn took to him like white on rice (he sort of had to what with the immediacy of the delivery and all), and he and Macho were inseparable. Shawn even let Macho put his "dirty, NY paws" on his pillows. The magnitude of that cannot be overstated.

As Shawn came to find, Macho had a heart condition and also a manic love of the doorbell. He went positively apeshit when the doorbell rang, quivering with glee and suspense. Who would it be? A new friend? The anticipation was equal parts exciting and awful.

"Macho, calm down! You're gonna kill yourself one day."

Friends, I fear you know where this is going.

One day came. Shawn was flying home from LA and checked his messages when he landed. A 911 from the dog sitter: "Shawn, please call me ASAP."

Because they weren't phone friends, Shawn called immediately and with dread.

The doorbell had rung, Macho thrilled with delight and then, like those fainting goats, he froze, keeled over and was no more. Legs straight out, stiff as a board.

Obviously this story is heartbreaking and tragic, and Shawn is in serious mourning. But we did have to share a series of guffaws over the repeated warnings to Macho and his fortune of dying suddenly in the midst of sheer happiness.

I offered to give Percy to Shawn, but he turned me down.