45. 1789
On the rare occasion where I actually get myself together to go running, actually make it far enough away from my house to be in Georgetown and actually don’t pass out from heat stroke mid-run, I find myself jogging past 1789. And without fail, there’s always an uncomfortable-looking dude with his parents and grandparents making their way to a 5pm seating at 1789. And every time I think to myself, “ooh that sucks.” All I can imagine is a rotating circle of Five Guys burgers and Bud heavy cans in a thought bubble over his head. I sigh then feel bad for him long enough to forget that exploding feeling in my chest.
Though the website says it has already expired, 1789 still has their $40 3-course menu. It’s quite a deal. The portions are a tad smaller (we snooped the table next to us) but the price of all three courses was just a few dollars more than a single main course. Not everything on the menu is available under the deal, but about half of them are.
For apps, we tried the pappardelle served with wild boar ragu and the pear salad with endive, blue cheese and prosciutto. The pappardelle was homemade and hearty—great for a fall evening. The pear salad was really delicious too, and I thought the prosciutto balanced out the endive to my liking. For my main course I had the seared red snapper—great over a slightly sweet creamy sauce with sunchokes. My mom had the poussin—perfectly cooked and quite tasty. Since desserts were being forced upon us we ordered the honey fritters and fig gratin. I thought honey fritters would look like those lace cookie thingies that always get stuck in my teeth, but they actually turned out to be donut-like. Neither Mom nor I are big ice cream people, but their rendition was especially delicious. I’m assuming it’s because the ice cream was made with 200% buttermilk or something, but I’ll just play dumb on this one. The fig gratin was really flavorful, but the bulk of it was rice pudding, and I can only eat so much rice pudding.
Admittedly, the only impression I have of 1789 comes from a story my parents tell about taking my grandparents there sometime in the mid-70s and force-feeding them snails. Not exactly the stuff of dreams. Having finally eaten there myself, it is significantly more impressive than I thought it would be. I know that probably isn’t the response the owners were going for, but it’s all I’ve got. Before I ate there, in my head the food was frenchy French, and the feel was incredibly stuffy. Instead of frenchy, the cuisine is more classic American and the feel is more cozy. And cozy is better than stuffy any day.
