No. 54: David Craig Bethesda

The back room looks like a rec room, the stereo plays Mingus and Marvin Gaye, and the chef wears not a toque but a baseball cap. The menu doesn’t mince words. MANCHEGO. TOASTED WALNUTS. SHERRY VINAIGRETTE, reads a listing for one salad.

This is an assertively masculine place, a gastropub gesturing in the direction of fine dining. Craig shows little interest in outward finery or finish, but he’s an attentive, often passionate cook, and his dishes, which emphasize big, bold flavors, are generous of spirit. Duck Three Ways brings together a liver flan the texture of whipped butter, knobby duck-sausage links, and thick carvings of duck breast. Chicken Two Ways—the leg is stuffed, the breast turned into a saltimbocca—is ultimately less about artful engineering than soulful comfort. The pastas are all handmade (and handcut, in the case of the excellent fettuccine) and a point of pride for Craig.

The food can get overrich—the risotto is a creamy, caloric monster. And the restaurant’s great strength, that it’s an intimate one-man show, can be a weakness when Craig takes the night off: A recent herb-crusted loup de mar was done in by oversalting, and a dish of overgarlicky braised veal cheeks with squishy semolina gnocchi needed recalibrating.