Thursday, November 20

Charleston in Baltimore

It would be my contention that Baltimore's restaurant scene does not begin to touch Washington's. While DC still has far to go to become a true restaurant town, and many restaurants there suffer from too much trendy and not enough good, it is far beyond what Baltimore offers in terms of innovation.

There is, however, one restaurant in Baltimore that is so head and shoulders above the rest that I would never decline an offer to dine there. That restaurant is Charleston, headed by chef Cindy Wolf and her partner-in-crime Tony Foreman. (Ms. Wolf does the food; Mr. Foreman manages the bulky and accomplished wine list.)

This past week I was offered just that opportunity and jumped on it. Our party of four planned on arriving early enough at the restaurant to have a drink before being seated. As we drove separately, I was the last to arrive, after being accosted by someone who swore he was "from Easton" and that his car had broken down and required only $4.00 to fix. Huh.

I felt that a Champagne cocktail was in order. The rendition I received was delicious - just enough lemon, just enough sugar, just enough bitters, a good-quality wine - and wiped out the memory of the Four Dollar Man From Easton. Then, we could eat.

We were seated at a lovely table in the middle of the main dining room. Heavy menus and wine lists were opened and perused. All was set for a lovely evening until each of us took an unfortunate glance to the right of our table, where two (married?) men were canoodling with two (unmarried and possibly professional?) "ladies." Graphic description is not necessary, but I will tell you that there was groping, slobbering and very loud innuendo.

Since we hadn't expected to be treated to soft porn with our dinner, we murmured amongst ourselves while listening to the Slobber Party's server trying to make herself heard over their drunken cackling. By some miracle of good servership, that same server overheard us and came to our table, offering to move us as soon as another table opened. We gratefully accepted her offer and prepared to order starters to tide us over to our new table.

I was shocked at the clarity of flavor in my wilted spinach salad. A little pitcher's mound of barely wilted, naked-looking spinach came presented in a soup plate. It was not naked. One bite revealed just-cooked spinach, tiny cubes of salty bacon, and equally tiny cubes of pungent blue cheese. Salty sweet bitter, and sour from lemon. Perfect.

Next up? Roasted breast of guinea hen served with picholine olive sauce, tiny green beans and a "grit cake." The table had quite a debate about what exactly guinea hen would taste like, but it turns out to taste like the best chicken ever. Moist and juicy but crisp-skinned, the taste was gamier than chicken but far less gamy than, say, pheasant. The meat was just neutral enough to provide an excellent background for the spiky olive sauce. I sensed a large amount of butter involved in the roasting.

The green beans were crisp. The grit cake was questionable; while an interesting experiment, the taste and texture didn't quite jibe with the rest of the plate. I would even daresay that the grits had been undercooked before being patted into the cake. The plate cried out for some mashed potatoes, or even some good rice.

On to dessert: banana rum caramel pecan cake. This was the only part of my meal that was somewhat disappointing. The cake was squat, like an upside-down cake, and cold. The "caramel" had been overcooked - it was really more like toffee - and was impossible to get through with a fork. While the flavors were good, the cake was a stout reminder of how much difference serving at the appropriate temperature can make.

When one of our party (my dad) decided to skip dessert in order to sample some cheeses from Charleston's extensive selection, we all applauded. (It is a well-known fact that he has a small appetite.) Of the four cheeses on his plate, the Doddington from Great Britain was the clear favorite; the self-appointed fromager in the restaurant told us that only eight wheels get into the United States each year. I wanted to eat the whole wheel, right there.

The joy of eating with other people is not just good conversation. You get to sample their plates. I myself got to taste superlative butternut squash and white bean soup, crab and lobster "hash" sandwiched between fried green tomatoes, deliciously rare duck and a fantastic cheese pie that bore little resemblance to the standard restaurant cheesecake.

Not to mention that cheese cart! Baltimore, you have some catching up to do.