Despite its many mega-mansions and Range Rovers, Potomac doesn’t have much in the way of restaurants. At this five-year-old French-American place, the food, although expensive, shows promise. We used every crust of bread to soak up the broth of a calamari fricassee, and a hefty veal chop was well cooked. But service ranged from odd—“Are you a cop?” a bartender said when one young woman ordered wine—to harried, prompting one in our party to ask, “Did this place open last night?”
This article appears in the June 2011 issue of The Washingtonian.