Still catching up with old news here….
My Bastille Day celebration continued. I stuck a Tricolour flag in a tab on my knapsack and donned my souvenir baseball cap from the Château de Chenonceau. With those essential signifiers in place, I headed out for lunch, humming a medley of “La Vie en rose“, “Non, je ne regrette rien“, and “La Marseillaise“, occasionally complementing it by singing my kinda loose interpretation of the lyrics.
Another day, another bistro.
Signifiers, used in the hope that strangers might think I was French. It didn’t work.
According to Google Maps, it takes about10 minutes to walk from my condo to a certain little French restaurant on Connecticut Avenue, assuming you don’t stop along the way. But Dupont Circle, aka le cercle de Dupont, looked so lush and green that I couldn’t resist the temptation to spend a few minutes resting on one of the benches, enjoying the pleasantly warm day.
I’ve lived a bit more than a block away from the Circle for almost half my life, and I’ve had more than a few life-changing conversations in the Circle itself. The Washington I moved to years ago is long gone, and much of the city is almost unrecognizable today, but Dupont Circle is a constant.
Bistrot du Coin
In a previous incarnation, Bistrot du Coin was a vegetarian-friendly, hippy-ish restaurant/bar that often hosted performances by local musicians. It was called Food for Thought, and it was one of my frequent DC hangouts. Now it’s a popular bistro, serving all the popular bistro standards. Conveniently, the site’s evolution mirrors my own changing tastes.
Casserole de Lapin à la Moutarde
Lunch was rabbit stew with carrots, onions, and mushrooms, in light creamy mustard sauce. It was served with “Croes pasta”, and I have no idea what that means.
A very good meal.
Lately I’ve found that many American restaurant serving sizes are just too big for me. The thought of leaving half of this fine stew uneaten was unthinkable, if you can have an unthinkable thought. I took it home, where it made a delightful dinner. My Presbyterian Morrison ancestors would have approved.
Postscript: And with lunch, my Bastille Day celebration came to a close, one day early. When 14 July, the actual Bastille Day, arrived, I was too tired to celebrate and not hungry enough to go out to eat. I blame the late-night leftover Casserole de Lapin à la Moutarde, and maybe the two glasses of Chardonnay I drank with it.
*Or “another bistrot”. Both spellings are correct.