For someone who grew up wrestling tourists and pigeons just to get a pepperoni pizza bagel from the Finagle-A-Bagel stall in Quincy Market during the early '90s, Eastern Market is a MELLOW setting for this eatery. The entrance is a near-empty gym peppered by children who play without restriction on the shiny basketball court. The tail end of a long line extends into this area. In any other city, a line like this could be for something as mundane as a bathroom or an information booth. But no, this huge line is IT in DC - this becomes obvious when you see that the rest of the market is devoid of the choking madness of crowds in shabbier environs.
The sky lit space is somehow spotless despite all the food and tourists. Those waiting in line take turns strolling past the edible amusements. This is what my friend and I elected to do, after a skeptics' conversation about whether or not a line really signifies quality. One of the most exciting yet melancholy spectacles was a catch of puffer fish under glass; some puffed up in full terror and some deflated, caught off guard at the moment of their demise. We also occupied ourselves by taking turns going to the bathroom and reading rave reviews of the Market Lunch on the walls.
About 25 minutes into our 45 minute wait, a man with white hair and glasses came out and set up a chalkboard marking the cutoff line for the breakfast menu. We JUST made it., but we hadn't even seen the full menus yet, and had no idea how lucky we were (not that lunch didn't look awesome too).
The white-haired man looked awfully familiar, and as he started jiving with anyone in everyone in line, his authority on the menu revealed him as Tom Glasgow, the owner. Feeling suddenly and unecessarily starstruck, I shyly sidled up to him and asked him where he procured the oysters for the po' boy sandwiches (with the Gulf Coast disaster in mind). He wasn't annoyed by my question, and even seemed pleased that someone gave a crap about where he was getting his ingredients. He delivered a fascinating overview of the oyster farming industry, and assured me that when the farm beds were not at a sustainable rate of production, buyers would be cut off, just like that.
Then, he asked, "Where are you from?" When I told him, he said, "Because this is really peak crab season. In a month or two, they hibernate." He made a gesture that made it possible for me to imagine crabs snoring under the sea floor in the Chesapeake Bay. "Get the crab," he said. Awesome; a forceful recommendation that I was relieved to take. The scene from the Wedding Crashers scene sprung to mind (the asshole boyfriend at the family football game screaming "Football and Crabcakes, that's what Maryland DOES!!!!")...
Guess what, ladies and gentlemen, crabcakes apparently ARE what MD and surrounding area do. When I walked up to the counter, Tom himself jumped behind it. "Do you know these people?" The cashier asked him. "Of course, don't you recognize 'em?" He boomed, winking at us. Mind you, I didn't just get the crabcake, I got the crabcake breakfast (two poached eggs, a country biscuit, green chile cheese grits), along with fried green tomatoes and like a gallon of sweet borderline Southern tea wobbling in a ginormous waxen cup. At first, the single crabcake (sandwich orders are blessed with two) looked lonely on the styrofoam plate, but by the end of the meal, I was thanking my lucky stars that I hadn't taken things to excess.
The one crabcake I had bested every other crabcake I've had in my life (and being an addict of seafood and fried things, I've had many). It was the best because there were actually huge chunks of visible, intact crab MEAT in the thing. Every other crabcake from here on out will taste just like the stuffing of a stuffed mushroom by comparison.
The tea, of course, was outstanding, but the real surprise was the fried green tomatoes, which were thinly breaded and TART enough to cut through the Thousand Island sauce and wake up our taste buds.
My friend had a stack of three "Blue Bucks" blueberry buckwheat pancakes with the blueberries still whole in the middle. She only finished half, and I was too damn full to even help out - the worst feeling of futility ever felt.
The 30-seat long wooden table might fool you into thinking that this is just a hyped out counter lunch place. So, it initially seems ridiculous to spend $20...until you realize you got like $40 worth of indgredients and priceless quality. The best thing is that the people sitting at the table miraculously rotate so that no one ever has to stand there waiting for a stool with their trays of food in hand.
Waddling out of there, I called out, "Tom! Thanks!" Probably already 100 customers after me, he still remembered what I'd ordered, and shouted that he was glad that I'd enjoyed it. You really can't go wrong with a kitchen run by such a happy man. I'd come back to DC specifically to revisit this gastronomical voyage. read more