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Night 27: Tower Oaks Lodge
The Clyde's Restaurant Group, as it is called, has grown
from its first venue, the still-robust Georgetown pub,
to almost a dozen high-profile eateries, including the
Old Ebbitt Grill and 1789 Restaurant. The 11th member
is Tower Oaks Lodge, and, on the long approach through
the towering outside balustrade of winky white lights
and button-busting virility of the building itself,
I didn't know if I was about to sit down with Clyde
Beatty or Clyde Barrow.
The Wow factor is pretty high inside, if Wow is your
thing. And well it might be when you've got a bunch
of cousins in town, a business birthday or a happy family
occasion. This place is styled and stuffed, from the
rugs to the rafters, with more Buffalo Bill-Eddie Bauer-L.L.
Beaniana than is probably under any other roof on the
face of the earth. This is one pitch-forked, long-oared,
Bowie-knifed, tommy-hawked, gold rush, silver bullet,
brass balls experience, folks, and that doesn't even
include the menu. If you can pull your gaze away from
the moose-headed, leather-stockinged, snowshoed interior
and read the bill of fare, there are plenty of reasons
to break your stare.
I start with what promises to be the Paul Bunyan of
shrimp cocktails and, at $7.50 for three pieces of bottom-feeder,
it better be. It is! These are shrimp but they sure
ain't shrimpy. Each one is the size of the chick-lobster
tail. And they are served exactly right: chilled but
not icy, firm but not tough, toothy, sweet and tasty
to boot. The cocktail sauce comes with a plop of horseradish
on top, and, mixed together with a spritz of lemon,
they really are, hands down, the great American appetizer.
(Did you ever have to share your shrimp cocktail with
your sister or brother? Didn't you hate to?)
I only have several more nights to go, so I order the
crab cakes — I'm only human! Would they be anything
other than jumbo lump? Of course not. Not at Tower Oak
Lodge! These two babies are broiled (thank you), so
heavy with hunks of crab they are falling apart on the
plate from their own weight and lack of a cheater binding.
This is bliss.
But ... my stomach. My poor stomach, the internal organ
I've larded with almost a month of rich and decadent
cooking. Uh — my heart! My reliable little fist-sized
squeezebox with its subtle thump, my organ of life that
has survived several breaks and astounding recoveries,
what am I doing to you? My hips! My sturdy, perfect-for-childbearing,
size 8 hips, you are in there still, somewhere, but
you were a totally incognito size 12 at the beginning
of this month. Has this month added more padding?!
I think I'll have the strawberry-rhubarb crisp with
vanilla ice cream. How can I resist? Do I want to sit
at home next week, finished with this assignment, and
regret the crisps, tortes and soufflés I didn't
eat? But hold the caramel sauce, please. Even if I am
at Tower Oaks Lodge, I don't want to overdo it.
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