Willow at Rest


(Tracy “O’Grady and Husband Brian. Photo Socotra.)

I ordered flowers for Raven’s birthday as I waited for the factory whistle to blow at the office high above North Glebe Road. I want there to be something delivered to him on his 89th birthday. I scheduled the delivery for Saturday, two days before the actual day, so he will have time to look at it. Not that it matters, now that Big Mama has become unstuck in time.

I have to turn my attention to the Little Village by the Bay again; Anook is out of the loop, working on a film in Alaska, and so if anything is to get done I have to do it. The Rambler that Spike bought in tribute to Raven- the last car whose design he participated in at American Motors- needs to be towed out of the garage and restored or dumped in the Bay. I don’t know which.

I was puzzling over that and a couple other minor issues that amount to about thirty grand as I walked from the office to the Willow. The House was still considering whether to extend the national mortgage. I had hope they would do something not insane, which I did not think was an unreasonable desire to have in our legislators, though they have been doing their best of late to disabuse me of that notion.

I was un-nerved that there was no one at the bar.

That is not quite true. My buddy Holly was bustling around, and Elisabeth-with-an-S was in residence behind the bar. A Happy Hour white showed up unbidden as I checked my Crackberry for the messages that had arrived since I left the desk five minutes before.

No Jon-no-H. No John with one, either. Old Jim, I recalled, was in Kansas City for the week, teaching one of his seminars. No short-Hair Mike, or Jarhead Ray. None of my associates from the office. The only people present were a self-important Washington-type reading the Post five stools down, and some low-key well-coiffed ladies in conference at one of the little tables.

I was re-thinking my options. The thunderstorms that had blown through were not done. I timed my stroll over to miss one of the black cells, and that meant that the pool at Big Pink would be closed. Martin the Polish Life Guard would be down in the break room, the gate locked until twenty minutes after the last crack of thunder.

So I relaxed, toggled between email accounts and sipped wine.

A lady strolled past me and I looked up to see Willow’s owner, Tracy O’Grady, slide gracefully to the bar. She looked different, and I suddenly realized she was not working. A graceful necklace encircled her neck, and she had on make-up.

“You look great, Tracy!” I said, raising my tulip glass in tribute. “What’s up? Are you going out tonight?”

She smiled, looking relaxed. “Yep. I am going to eat in the dining room tonight with Brian. It would only be the fourth time in the history of Willow we have eaten here like customers.”

“I imagine the service is going to be pretty good.”

Tracy laughed. “We are all a little punchy. Did you know that we did 380 dinners on Saturday?”

“Good God,” I said in amazement. “That must be a record. That is incredible.”

Tracey nodded. “It was the end of the GroupOn promotion. All of the people who bought coupons were trying to use them all at once.”

“So, you turned July from the slowest month of the year to the busiest? Did you run out of anything?”

“Yes. The tuna was gone by nine. We barely broke even. People paid $25 for a $50 coupon. You can see that eats the profit margin almost completely.” She frowned. “Did you know that some people who spent $55 on dinner only tipped on the $5 bucks over the coupon’s face value.”

“Cheap screws. Not likely to be repeat customers.”

“No, some were just culinary tourists. But not many short-sheeted the wait staff.  But it is still irritating.”

“At least the business let you keep the staff on, rather than having to give them an involuntary summer vacation.”

Tracy smiled broadly. “There is that. And it is better to be busy.” We talked for a while about re-cycling programs, and trash disposal when the Willow is doing a volume business. I marveled at the complixity of running a place that looks effortless on the surface, and her business partner Kate’s plans to open a high-end pastry counter in the middle of the rich wood paneled reception area.

Her husband Brian arrived in a blue sport-coat and an open-neck oxford shirt. He sports a short ginger beard and euro-framed glasses. Tracy had some glossy magazines with her, and she pushed one across to him.

“We were recognized in NorthernVirginia magazine,” she said. “They featured the cut of pork I cooked at the Bucuse D’or in Geneva.”

Brian grabbed the article and began to scan it.

“Mind if I get a picture?” They agreed to smile for the camera.

“Tracy, what was the first thing you learned to cook?” I asked, taking a sip of wine. “How long did it take? Do you still make it today?”

She smiled, thoroughly enjoying herself away from the kitchen. “French onion soup, twice, and yes, it is on the Willow menu as you well know.”

“What’s the most challenging dish you’ve ever attempted? Would you make it again?

“Easy. That would  be the Moroccan Mishwe for the Bocuce d’Or. And no! It took two years to develop, was very complicated and I did not feel as though I perfected it even then.”

I was getting hungry, but didn’t feel like eating at the bar by myself. “Tracy, what is the  easiest and quickest meal you actually make for yourself? I mean a satisfying one.”

She pursed her lips for a moment and took a sip of her white wine, which I did not think was the same as my Happy Hour White. “I think it would be the Lemon and Thyme Roasted Chicken, with Crispy Herb Potatoes and Brussels Sprouts.” She looked over at Brian. “You like that, right?”

Brian smiled right back at her. “Never better, Tracy, but let’s go sit down and enjoy the evening. The promotion is over, we only have 28 reservations tonight, and Restaurant Week doesn’t start until the 16th.” Tracy made a face at him.

“Stop by tomorrow and I will give you the recipe, Vic. Have a great evening.” She waved as they walked around the wooden partition and into the dining room proper.

I waved back and Said: “Like I wouldn’t be here anyway! Enjoy the down-time, Tracy. And thanks for running the greatest little restaurant in Northern Virginia.” Then I signaled to Elisabeth-with-an-S that I could use another couple fingers of wine and the check. I wanted to stop at the Whole Foods on the way home and do some shopping.

You might want to as well. Check it out:

Lemon Roasted Free Range Chicken – Serves 6
3 chickens
3 tablespoons thyme
3 tablespoons lemon zest
½ cup olive oil, plus extra for drizzling over chicken
Salt and pepper
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons chicken stock
12 Tracy’s Potatoes (see below)
3 cups Orange & Herb Glazed Carrots (see below)
3 cups chicken jus (recipe below)

Procedure
Combine thyme, lemon zest, olive oil and a little salt and rub under the skin of the breast of the chickens. Truss chickens. Rub outside of chickens with a little olive oil, salt and pepper.
Roast at 450 degrees Fahrenheit about 12 minutes and then at 350 degrees for about 8-10 minutes more.
Let the chickens cool down and then breakdown by cutting the breasts off with the wings attached. Detach thigh.
When you are ready to serve, place chicken on a sizzle platter with about ½ tbsp each butter and chicken stock. Put in 450 degree oven until the meat is cooked through and then broil a couple of minutes to crisp the skin. Serve with Tracy’s Potatoes, Orange & Herb Glazed Carrots and Roast Chicken Jus.
Tracy’s Potatoes
3 potatoes (2 orders per potato)
3 garlic cloves
3 rosemary sprigs

Procedure
Cover whole potatoes in their skins with cold salted water and bring to a boil.
Simmer gently until potatoes are tender but not falling apart.
Cut potatoes in quarters.
Sauté in clarified butter with garlic and rosemary until golden and crispy.
Orange & Herb Glazed Carrots
3 cups carrots (cut in pieces on the bias)
1/8 cup butter


(Chef Tracy O’Grady. Photo O’Grady.)

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra and Tracy O’Grady
www.vicsocotra.com

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