Tasty Places :: RPM Italian

It’s been awhile – I know. More than four months since my last post. I won’t bore you with excuses.

That is, unless you find these excuses boring: I started a new job. Home repairs. My friend introduced me to the gin and tonic (often mixed together on weeknights at home, causing me to pass out early). Training for my next half marathon. My food pictures suck (because I need a new DSLR camera and the IPhone 7). I’ve not been very adventurous with trying new restaurants. My manuscript is priority (maybe I’ll finish by 2022). I started working with a personal trainer (who leaves me too sore to lift a fork or to type – yet I can still cup my hand around a glass of wine). My witty writing muscle has atrophied from lack of use. One of my kids moved back home (though technically, a different kid moved out – but the whole experience perhaps left me frazzled).

And most of all, NOTHING has inspired me to write. Not my weekend eating-getaway to Seattle, nor recent Ladies Who Dine outings (though I did enjoy quite a few dishes with the Ladies which I’ll eventually share). While I’ve enjoyed quite a few scrumptious and photogenic meals, I just haven’t supped an item that simply required me to log in to Dianderthal and post

Until last week (I’m certain you did not see that coming). A work conference took me to our nation’s capitol and a vast land of new menus to explore. My first evening there, I took a risk, navigating the pre-dusk streets of DC’s Mount Vernon Square area alone in search of Chicago plant RMD Italian, fabled as one of the city’s “hottest” tables of late. As a single, my confidence rested on my odds of securing a table for one, or at least a seat at the bar.

I brought with me a book and my writing pages to pull out in case my lone-diner insecurity (LDI) syndrome kicked in. But, once settled in nicely on a prime stool, a greater fear crept in, one of me ratcheting down points on the restaurant’s coolness meter (yes, the place proved both hot and cool) should I treat it like a library or a Coffee Bean. So instead, I let my phone occupy me, only needing it between frequent visits from the bartender and loose chats every now and then with nearby parties.

By the way, it’s been months so this post is going to be lengthier than usual. Maybe I should have started with this disclaimer. You’re this far, though, so why not stay to hear about the food?

Yes, the food. And the drinks! While many of the cocktail offerings spoke to me (really, don’t they all?), the bartender’s tease of their off-menu rosé was appealing. So I ordered one. And by meal’s end, I’d ordered (and finished) another. And I didn’t say no when, post-bill, I was offered a comp glass of sparkling rosé they were getting rid of (who would do such a thing!). One woman’s trash is another’s alcoholic sweet spot.

All this wine did not unduly influence the love for my selected entrée, the Sweet Corn Stuffed Pasta. House-made pasta typically delights, but the light-handed touch of corn and mascarpone with the noodles left me wanting more. The tender pasta sang to me from my fork, dewy from bathing in its rich, succulent sauce. Each bite left me a little lightheaded. I’m sorry to say that, as of this week, it’s no longer available – I’m guessing there’s the matter of the dish being topped with summer truffles, my outing occurring on the very last day of summer? Perhaps serving summer truffles in the fall is akin to East Coasters wearing white after Labor Day. I only hope these truffles (and this dish) will make an early return if I’m able to make it out to D.C. next spring.

Since I couldn’t justify shelling out second entrée dollars for more pasta, I instead agreed to dessert, another item not on their menu but recommended by the bartender (my trust in her so wide by then, I’d probably have sent her my life’s savings if she’d emailed me about her Nigerian fiancé’s urgent need for funds to help him secure a large, difficult to access inheritance). She offered up a steamy set of sugar-sprinkled doughnuts served alongside a Chantilly lemon cream. I’m normally not a lemon-in-my-dessert kind of gal, but the rosé made me brave. Thankfully, the doughy puffs were made greater than they already were with a slight swim in the citrusy cream. Just the ending needed for my first night in D.C. and my last summer day of 2016.

It’s so great to be back. Back to Long Beach, and back to Dianderthal. Can’t wait to tell you about the next dish that so inspires me. And I’m sure I’ll make time – now that I’ve returned – to school you on a few other spots found these last few months.

Peace, love, and Dianderthal. (Better photos next time – I promise)

RPM Italian in Washington, D.C.
650 K Street NW