Kelly H.
Google
This place was aggressively mid, which is wild considering the cult-level resurrection hype. Everyone at the bar was acting like it was the second coming of carbs just because it “reopened,” as if DC doesn’t have 47 better spots within a 10-minute Uber. The whole vibe felt like a dusty 2016 meme that refuses to log off.
The menus? Trying so hard to convince us that espresso martinis are groundbreaking. Babe. We’ve been there. The owner kept orbiting the room like a confused NPC, chatting up anyone who made eye contact. Meanwhile, half the crowd looked personally honored to be breathing the same air - or breathing at all.
The aesthetic was very Capitol Hill-core: suits, stiff energy, old fashioneds and martinis clutched like personality traits. You could practically hear the LinkedIn notifications.
And the “iconic” blueberry filet? Cloyingly sweet and fully committed to turning my teeth Smurf. At that price, it should come with complimentary whitening strips and a warning label for first dates. The pastas were fine. Not life-changing. Not even life-adjacent. Just tiny, overpriced bowls of “okay” that think they’re the main character.
Overall: big nostalgia bait, small portions, zero sparkle. I wanted a comeback story. I got a reboot nobody asked for. Total letdown.
