Arak Star

When I first checked out the sample menu posted at 100 King in the weeks prior to its opening, I figured that I probably wouldn’t bother with a restaurant serving high priced mezze when I could get something of equal or better quality for a cheaper price at Lebanese Taverna. But when the Washington Post’s Tom Sietsema mentioned that 100 King is actually owned and operated by the family behind Lebanese Taverna, I realized that it was worth trying at least once.

But the setting is hardly welcoming, the sort of tragedy of interior design that occurs when Washingtonian restauranteurs strive for a touch of what they feel is representative of New York chic, but turns out looking instead like the captain’s lounge onboard the spaceship of some corny show like Babylon 5. You know, spare minimalist design, lots of white, frosted chair backs, and an anteroom between the two sets of double doors at the entrance that shifts its neon glow from pink to blue as the evening progresses.

We split a cocktail at the bar, a “peartini,” while we waited for our table. Sadly, it was not nearly as remarkable as its description: stoli vodka with pear nectar and rosemary syrup. In fact, the vodka was mixed in with a heavy hand, something that we might have otherwise appreciated if our goal was to get loaded on a $10 cocktail. But, we were disappointed that the vodka overpowered the pear nectar, and the rosemary syrup was not in evidence at all, as the sprig of rosemary floating on top seemed to be doing solo rosemary duty.

The main problem with 100 King’s small plates bistro is that Lebanese Taverna already performs at such a high level of execution that it’s well nigh impossible for 100 King to outperform the very restaurants whose success made its existence possible. The chef is actually French, and has incorporated a number of non-Lebanese dishes into the mix, but none of them seemed sufficiently interesting or complementary to the traditional mezze to be worth ordering. In fact, that may have been our mistake, as we only ordered the Lebanese dishes eschewing nearly all of the menu’s Western influences, so items like the duck confit may better showcase his passions.

Our goat cheese pizza featured smooth and creamy rounds of goat cheese, greek olives, tomato slices, and zaatar. Unfortunately, I’m used to pita being absolutely encrusted with zaatar, and was hardly satisfied by the coy sprinkling that the kitchen deemed sufficient.

The baba ghanouj was surprisingly thick and garlicky, and though enjoyable, had none of the smokiness that separates the great renditions of this dish from the merely pedestrian.

The Moroccan merguez sausage was wonderfully spicy, two links nestled among a delicate puree of mashed potatoes and a pool of paprika sauce, but the casings lacked any sort of snap. I demand snappy casings.

And the fattoush salad was just an absolutely bizzare interpretation of this classic, so much so that it was just about impossable to incorporate more than one of any of its several elements into a single forkload. The cucumber was clearly prepared with a melon baller, which made for a unique presentation, but repeatedly thwarted our efforts to spear them with our forks. And the crispy, herbed pita that is usually crumbled over the salad, instead appeared as dainty herbed pita breadsticks. Instead of “fattoush,” they had me thinking “Hospitaliano!”

The Turkish green zucchini cakes were lightly fried and stuffed with tons of bright green minced zucchini, although they didn’t pair very well with the yogurt sauce.

The lamb kofta was nicely charred on the outside, juicy on the inside, and with the right amount of spice.

But the true superstar of this meal turned out to be the sauteed shrimp arak. The shrimp were succulent and perfectly infused with the sweet and bitter anise of the arak, and the tartness of the lemon juice. The sauce was so amazing that we greedily sopped it up with our pita.

Nearly all of the desserts are French, and surprisingly, the apple galette trumped the cherry clafoutis. While the galette’s pastry was crisp and buttery, the ball of apple cider sorbet that crowned it had us all flipping out- and we rarely flip out over sorbet. The cherry clafoutis was an underachiever, a thin and boring baked custard whose tart cherries were unable to overcome its bland taste and wan presentation.

Despite the restaurant’s numerous shortcomings, we can still see ourselves occasionally stopping in at their bar for a beer or two along with the sauteed shrimp arak as a respite from our dockside perambulations. -AC

Unfulfilled Falafel Lust

In recent years, I’ve had no love for falafel. This may have been the result, in part, of the role falafel assumed in my becoming an outlier on the freshman year college weight gain bell curve. Instead of the “Freshman 15”, I created a new category of shame known as the “Freshman 45”. I was a freshman at NYU, and as any college student in New York will attest, the two cheapest and most obvious non-meal plan options are rubbery slices of pizza or falafel sandwiches. I also occasionally went for the two cheeseburgers combo meal at McDonald’s, supersized, of course, with a sundae for dessert. But that meal only ever followed 40 ounces of Old English “800”. And don’t even get me started on those nights when I was ill-advised enough to stumble over to Sixth Avenue for two slices of pizza, typically opting for at least one that had baked ziti on top, and then shuffling to the diner next door for a stale 2 a.m. donut chaser. But it was Mamoun’s Falafel that figured the most prominently in my freshman year weight gain. For some reason, one falafel sandwich with four falafel slathered in tahini was never sufficient. I always ordered two falafel sandwiches, which may have been marginally healthier, but were nevertheless the middle eastern approximation of the 2 cheeseburgers meal at McDonald’s. And Mamoun’s was open until 5 a.m. every night which was perfect when studying late into the evening. As a result, I ate myself sick with falafel more than I care to remember.

But last week, I had a sudden hankering for falafel and I knew my father, arguably the world’s greatest falafel enthusiast, would be down. We tried to hit the Alexandria branch of Georgetown’s George’s King of Falafel, but it was inexplicably closed. My father was not keen on The Pita House, so I suggested that we check out Lebanese Village on Restaurant Row on 23rd Street in Crystal City. Since returning to Northern Virginia just over two years ago, we’ve been slowly working our way through 23rd Street’s various offerings. Given that Lebanese Taverna manages to be among the very best Middle Eastern restaurants in the area despite being a chain, we’ve never felt compelled to risk a less than excellent meal anywhere else. But I didn’t feel like grubbing falafel amidst the outdoor mall atmosphere of Pentagon Row this time.

Unfortunately, Lebanese Village’s halfhearted efforts failed to sate our lust for falafel. This may have been partially due to the fact that we ordered the Lebanese equivalent of the pu pu platter, a plate with various piles of tabbouleh, moujadarah, foul, hummus, baba ghanouj, tahini, and falafel. I’ve often found that the pu pu platter at even the best establishments is poorly executed. Perhaps the folks in the kitchen figure that anyone ordering a sampler is a novice undeserving of the attention lavished on other dishes. But since most of the items on this platter were likely made well in advance, and the fact that items that are typically distinct at other establishments all blandly ran together at Lebanese Village is a sign that something is truly wrong. The baba ghanouj lacked the smoky taste that baba ghanouj should have in nearly all instances. The hummus was a weak caulking paste. And the falafel were mostly dry, lukewarm, and brittle, rather than piping hot, crunchy on the outside, and moist within. Even liberal applications of tahini could not rescue the platter from its lack of savor.

In addition, the beveraging at Lebanese Village is equally poor. The jallab, a date syrup and rosewater drink inexplicably sprinkled with pine nuts, was cloying even for a drink that is supposed to be supersweet. And the housemade lemonade had plenty of tart but only the faintest hint of the rosewater that makes the Lebanese lemonade at places like The Pita House and Lebanese Taverna among the greatest versions of lemonade in the world.

Fortunately, the Lamb Fatteh somewhat made up for the other shortcomings: Chunks of lamb sit in a yoghurt based stew, strewn with toasted pita pieces, sprinkled with sumac, and drizzled with butter. Still, even though we enjoyed the Fatteh, we couldn’t shake the feeling that a superior version of this dish could surely be enjoyed at Lebanese Taverna. There were a number of other interesting items on the menu, but we won’t be back ever again. --AC