If you know me you’ll know that it is my solemn and most fervent view that French cooking is the finest in the world. British, obviously I adore, Indian holds a dear spot, but French, yes French, is my passion. Butter, garlic, cheese- dirty, filthy, slutty things like that, mmm. Set me asides a table in heaven, the French Quarter.
Upon my arrival in Washington DC I had undergone a vicious regime of strict Americana dining. BBQ, grits, fried chicken, lots and lots of burgers. I had loved it, loved every minute, but there was something in me, some minute little goblin that after 2 months was calling out for something old, something European. I tried to stifle it in Salem, Virginia – a tiny town off the Blue Ridge Parkway, remarkable for no reason in particular. We took a break from Southern comfort food and popped out to an Italian. It was awful, disgusting beyond belief – a butchery of the Italian cooking that is most surely a religion. In my eyes anyway. My itch remained unscratched, chafing.
And then, a revelation. News whispered to my ears of a small bistro deep in DC, French in genre, excellent in repute: Bistro du Coin. Its menu flirted with me, coyly suggesting authenticity. We booked. Queues out the door boded well and the smell of garlic wafted down the street, seductive to the extreme. The atmosphere of the restaurant carried an air of structured chaos: waiters rushing around like headless chickens, every inch of floor space crammed with rickety tables, elegant chairs. Mussels, offal, tarts – ahh, Paris.
Upon my arrival in Washington DC I had undergone a vicious regime of strict Americana dining. BBQ, grits, fried chicken, lots and lots of burgers. I had loved it, loved every minute, but there was something in me, some minute little goblin that after 2 months was calling out for something old, something European. I tried to stifle it in Salem, Virginia – a tiny town off the Blue Ridge Parkway, remarkable for no reason in particular. We took a break from Southern comfort food and popped out to an Italian. It was awful, disgusting beyond belief – a butchery of the Italian cooking that is most surely a religion. In my eyes anyway. My itch remained unscratched, chafing.
And then, a revelation. News whispered to my ears of a small bistro deep in DC, French in genre, excellent in repute: Bistro du Coin. Its menu flirted with me, coyly suggesting authenticity. We booked. Queues out the door boded well and the smell of garlic wafted down the street, seductive to the extreme. The atmosphere of the restaurant carried an air of structured chaos: waiters rushing around like headless chickens, every inch of floor space crammed with rickety tables, elegant chairs. Mussels, offal, tarts – ahh, Paris.
What next? Oh yes the food. To write about it, even now, feels like an invasion of my privacy. The consumption of it was a deeply intimate, personal experience, akin to….well, we won’t go there. First; a foreplay of sautéed Foie Gras served with barley risotto and….a truffle sauce. Could you get more sexual than that? A study in absolute seduction – in my world anyway. Food writers like to use almost personifications when describing food, ascribing physical and human characteristics to it – one of the most common being things cooked ‘beautifully’. However, when you eat a dish like this, no other literary device will do. It simply was, was only and could only be, beautiful. Sautéed artfully, producing a crust on the outside while remaining gelatinous, melting within. A mouthful released a flood of rich, so rich, fatty salt onto the tongue. The truffle sauce was equally rich, high in butter, deep in mushroom, floating off with truffle, white truffle, which did not overpower the Foie Gras but interacted with it elegantly. On mixing this sauce into the risotto, things were just great. Jussssst great.
The rest of the appetisers looked good too – varied, authentic and appetising. A friend had a baby artichoke, grilled asparagus and parmesan salad which was fresh and tasty.
Next came a pan seared pave steak, a cheaper cut, equally tasty and sort of like a poor man’s filet mignon. This came served blue and with a Roquefort sauce and frites. The steak was cooked perfectly, tender – difficult in a more muscly cut – and charred on the outside, providing oodles of beefy flavour. The sauce was creamy and pungent and the steak also came with a Roquefort butter on top which was even more pungent than the sauce. Frites: crisp, very skinny, sponges for the excellent sauce.
Their steak tartare was noteworthy too – well seasoned, sharp with capers and onion, slippery and succulent. The baguettes that came with the food were less good but, then again, we’re not in France. I’m not sure French baking artistry, honed over centuries, has quite made it over the pond.
I left the bistro satisfied, enthused once more for American fare, ready to take on Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwiches and New York pizza. Bistro du Coin was spectacular – and very well priced. Entrees were around 16-25 dollars and there were bottles of wine on the menu selling for under 20 dollars, always an important indicator. My hunger for French lingers on still, smouldering in the back of my mind, slowly building up until my next indulgence in butter, garlic and cheese.
www.bistrotducoin.com/
1738 Connecticut Avenue Northwest, Washington, DC 20009
(202) 234-6969
www.bistrotducoin.com/
1738 Connecticut Avenue Northwest, Washington, DC 20009
(202) 234-6969
