Romancing Au Pied de Cochon

Fellow old school District dwellers, do you recall that lovely Georgetown bistro, Au Pied de Cochon? Those who remember knew it well, I imagine cause they don't make them like this anymore. It was a rare breed and unfortunately, extinct. While DC plays host to many a stellar bistro, this one really seemed as authentic a bistro as one would find on any street in Paris. Open late into the night, Au Pied de Cochon was often packed with a motley crew of DC-ers. Loud. Bustling. Warm. Wonderful. And the waitstaff, clad in black T-shirts and pants hurried about the marble table tops delivering croque monsieurs, cassoulets, French onion soups, pate de maison and canard a l'orange with amazing efficiency. Framed black and white snapshots lined the walls -- a photo album exposed for all to see. Above, a tin ceiling and copper pots below a mural of chefs chasing after a sqealing pig. All of this -- from the cuisine to the service was handles with not an ounce of pretense and unlike many of the ones we have to choose from now, the prices were startling fair -- inexpensive, really.

I found myself a regular patron around the time I turned 18. Frightening how long I've been a card-carrying member of the bourgeoisie (gastronomically, speaking). But c'mon -- good coffee, excellent frites and allowance to light up smoke after smoke? No discussion. I loved it so much, I wasted no time in introducing it to my friends. But unlike the neighborhood Denny's, this wasn't a place I felt okay bringing folks who didn't know how to eat. So instead, I started reserving it for dates, intimate ocassions in which I could carry on a quiet (and hopefully, effortless) conversation over brie almandine.

I think the first date I took ordered a Spanish omelette while I ordered the French onion soup. For this, I got a bit of a tongue lashing cause it made her look bad for ordering the larger dish while I ate like a bird. Little did she know that my soup probably had more fat and calories than her two eggs. Sadly, I never took her back there. She didn't like her omelette nor the vibe. Alas...

Another date didn't order anything. She watched me eat. That's not entirely true. She asked for refills of water, smoked cigarettes and ate the entire bread basket -- which proved incredibly inconvenient since I ordered the pate de maison. What does one eat with pate when there is no more bread left? She said she really dug the place. Well, that sucks to be her because she was never invited back.

The next date was one of those "is it really a date" dates. A friend of mine had just moved into town, a friend of mine whom I happened to have a giant crush on. But right off the bat, you could tell it wasn't meant to be as I picked her up three hours later than I intended and drove her all the way from Chantilly to my favorite bistro. One of those rose peddlers came by the table and like a gentleman I bought her one. But a flower and a delicious croque madame doesn't make up for such ridiculous tardiness. She soon moved again and we fell out of touch.

Now the last of my dates, I took the girl's parents along. We sat at the table in front of the large store window looking out onto Wisconsin Avenue. I had crepes with mushrooms and chicken. Her parents played 20 questions over glasses of wine and gin and tonic. Good food, good conversation and good company. I must have done well by all because I moved in with her soon after (and would eventually marry her).

The last date was September 12, 2001 -- my birthday and the day after the planes struck NYC and DC. While no one wanted to go anywhere, we moved ourselves to eat out that evening and the only place I could think of that would provide me with any comfort was my beloved Au Pied de Cochon. The place was empty. CNN was on the tube and one customer was parked at the bar. I ordered cassoulet and a glass of the house red. Our conversation was sparse and quiet. We finished my birthday dinner at a leisurely pace and left.

We moved away soon after that and by the time we returned to DC, Au Pied de Cochon had closed its doors for good. It's now a Five Guys location. As much as I love me a good Five Guys bacon cheeseburger, I find it hard to accept that burgers are being slung at what used to be a DC institution -- where Russian spys escaped their handlers, where the servers could be as courteous as they were hot, where bread baskets hit the table before you could remove your coat, where an early bird three-course dinner cost only $11 and where one poor surburban boy could play out his Parisian dreams a little closer to home and take a chance on romance.

Ah... those were the days.