When I told the kids I was taking them to an historic restaurant that former presidents had dined in they said, “Okay.”
It was kind of a mellow “Okay.” I was hoping to sense more excitement, to be honest. Whatever.
Loved the atmosphere. Reminded me of Keen’s Chop House in New York City, one of my favorite restaurants in the whole wide world.
Like many relationships, the waiter and I started off great and then suffered the strain of him being busy and me needing more attention than he seemed willing to give.
I got a mixed dozen oysters. They were great but I wish I knew whence they came. I waved down a manager who was able to show me which one came from the West coast and which one was “possibly” from Cape Cod, but the others were anyone’s guess. I enjoyed you, oysters of undetermined geographic origin.
Older son got the Pork Bahn Mi – a sandwich that is a direct result of the French colonization of Vietnam, so Imperialism isn’t always bad thing. He loved it.
Younger son was upset that his cannelloni did not meet his preconceived notion of what pasta should look like. He feels all pasta should look like either tubes or noodles. I told him not to be a pasta racist. He rallied and ate it because it was delicious.
My pork chop looked great on the outside but was a shade of you’ll-be-sorry-pink on the inside. Sent it back and they righted the wrong.
Drink delivery was disappointingly slow. My glass of wine arrived toward the end of my entree. This terrible tragedy was mitigated by the fact that the waiter failed to charge me for it. Normally I would have pointed that out to him, but I came to believe that it was a divinely-inspired suffering tax for his having neglected my beverage needs.
From Brian’s review of Old Ebbitt Grill on Yelp.