Marcel's

A big-time, sharply run restaurant intent on evoking the sort of place that used to define the Washington of old, when classical French cooking predominated, every man was tied and jacketed, and a stately formality governed relations between waiter and customer. Yes, the �70s are alive and well at Robert Wiedmaier�s elegant time capsule of a place�Dover sole served tableside, chocolate crepes on the dessert menu, and a dining room packed nightly by the swarms that used to descend on the Watergate (travelling dignitaries, nipped-and-tucked Euros, and moldy, old-money types). Wiedmaier�s cooking is rooted in classicism but not shackled by it. His signature is the terrific boudin blanc, an unaccountably airy light-meat sausage, which on a recent visit was napped by a smooth garlic potato puree and a delicately sweet onion confit. (In cooler weather, it�s often paired with cannellini beans and smoked bacon.) His chicken is a marvel: The bird is not merely supermoist, but, because it hasn�t been brined, it�s also not the least bit salty; the accompanying potato cake, however, is tough and dry. Interestingly, summer poses something of a challenge for Wiedmaier, who must turn his attention from his beloved game and fowl toward fish. A mustard-crusted halibut perched atop a potato puree is disappointingly dull, the mustard too muted to really register, the fillet slightly overdone. The crispy skate wing is a much better bet: blessedly free of any acridity and actually crispy. You should expect to pay a pretty penny to come here�several thousand pretty pennies, in fact; the majority of the entrees have shattered the 30-buck barrier, and the appetizers are now squatting comfortably in the mid-teens. That�s unfortunate. Great as the cooking can be, it isn�t so unfailing excellent as to warrant such steep prices.
—Todd Kliman, April 5, 2005