2008 Fall Dining Guide
By Tom Sietsema
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, Oct. 12, 2008

"Summer is my favorite time to cook," says Anthony Chittum, whose menu a few months back read like an ode to the season, stocked as it was with soft-shell crabs, heirloom tomatoes, peaches from Virginia and scallops from the Eastern Shore. While other chefs also featured those ingredients, Chittum found some interesting and delicious ways of showing them off. Those sweet scallops were tweaked with red onion and basil pesto and perched on toasted, olive oil-brushed caps of sliced parkerhouse rolls to create a very American "panzanella." And one of the most eye-catching plates I encountered all year was Vermilion's ocean trout decorated with a morel-flavored froth and presented in an emerald frame of shell beans and more mushrooms. The chef does robust as well as he does subtle. Super-moist blackened pork loin also features pulled pork on the plate, and while the barbecue sauce could use more tang, there's plenty of pleasure in the entree's shards of grilled cornbread and creamy, crunchy shaved fennel. I ate dozens of fruit crisps over summer, but only one trifle built from angel food and candied rhubarb. Try to sit upstairs near a window and the wine display. The ground floor looks dark and dated these days, in stark contrast to Chittum's cooking and service that always makes you feel like a neighbor.

Sublime Simplicity
Vermilion's chef resists the urge to call attention to his artistry

By Tom Sietsema
The Washington Post Magazine
Sunday, June 3, 2007

Years ago, a veteran editor at a food conference I attended was asked if he could tell, without looking at a byline, if a man or a woman had penned a story. The wordsmith thought for a minute and concluded that one of the few things that separated male and female writers was the way women described colors. Possibly because a lot of women use makeup, he explained, they tend to have a much richer vocabulary when it comes to hues. A man's plain old "red" might be a woman's "scarlet," "crimson," "magenta" or even "vermilion."

The discussion made me think about cooking and gender. Looking back over the thousands of restaurant meals I've put away over two decades of serious eating, was there any sign that the dishes were created by a man or a woman? What leapt to my mind, especially with regard to young cooks, is a guy's need to show off, to strut, to pile on when he should hold his punches. Men tend to play with their food, often erecting fortresses and skyscrapers from their ingredients. Women, on the other hand, tend to edit themselves better. Neatness and focus are their general hallmarks.

Which brings me to my point: Anthony Chittum cooks like a girl.

That's great news for patrons of Vermilion, which earlier this year lured the 30-year-old chef from Washington's Notti Bianche and Dish restaurants to ply his craft in Old Town. In his new roost, Chittum raises the bar for King Street. His ideas are fresh, his ingredients speak to the calendar, and, more often than not, his cooking makes me reconsider joining the Clean Plate Club (my membership having lapsed around the time I realized that two restaurant meals a day and a 34-inch waist were mutually exclusive).

Eating at Vermilion is like attending a culinary fashion show, with the plates as models. A delicate squash blossom is bound in a beer batter and fried so that its skin shatters upon contact with your fork, revealing a molten core of tangy goat cheese. Dressing up the centerpiece are some sharp accessories: a green fluff of arugula and pink matchsticks of rhubarb. The ubiquitous calamari appetizer is rethought as cornmeal-dusted tentacles and tender bands, warmed by the grill and gilded with a not-too-sweet barbecue sauce. Chittum gives the snack more heft by framing it with an oniony potato hash. Order the pasta-less "minestrone," and out comes a white bowl with an island of chopped baby squash, tiny onions and verdant pesto, followed by a pitcher of golden chicken broth that a server pours around the garnish. The soup, treated to a thin piece of garlic toast on its rim, is at once light and restorative. A rabbit terrine, on the other hand, is just a big tease with its three bent spoons holding three different mustards and softly crunchy fiddlehead ferns for garnish. The pale slab of rabbit and pork (fat and shoulder) itself is oddly mute.

Chittum has a solid sense of what looks good and how to show ingredients to best advantage. Pieces of roast chicken gather next to a dark pool of balsamic-infused demi-glace and an elegant cake of snow peas, sweet currants and crumbles of feta cheese that nearly upstages the chicken. Thick and savory lamb is balanced with flossy greens and a bed of fava beans and snow peas. Even the gratis relish plate shows thought: Pickled carrots and a tiny pot of chicken liver pt whet the appetite with their tang and richness, respectively.

One of my frequent dining companions who avoids meat is used to going out for meals with me and filling up on side dishes and garnishes, in part because even though it's the 21st century, a lot of restaurants still don't offer substantial vegetarian offerings. At Vermilion, my friend's eyes widened with pleasure when an order of pasta was set before him. House-made spinach ravioli plumped with four white cheeses and teamed with golden coins of sliced beet was an immensely pleasing chorus line of color and flavor, dappled with walnut "foam" and staged with a swab of red beets. "Save some for me!" I was tempted to say and remind him that my job involved tasting everyone's meals. When I finally got a sample, I understood his reaction. Some things are so good, you want them all to yourself. (He asked for his plate back.)

No matter the day of the week, there's admirable consistency in the kitchen, something I discovered at a recent Sunday brunch, where I ordered the soft-shell BLT. When it arrived, I wished that Anthony Bourdain, who famously dismissed brunch as one of the worst times to eat in a restaurant in Kitchen Confidential, was there to share it with me. The dish is more salad than sandwich, arranged as it is without any bread but as upright slices of fried green tomato alternating with crisp bites of soft-shell crab and frisee. Bacon adds texture and smoke, while dabs of pureed avocado and lime contribute heat and creaminess to the free-form composition. I bit into Chittum's shrimp po' boy and was transported to New Orleans: Tucked into a glossy brioche bun that almost floated, the cornmeal-sprinkled shrimp were moist and nicely springy, and spicy potato salad proved the perfect foil. On the sweet side, a stack of saucer-shaped pancakes was bested by its bursting-with-juices pork sausage.

Occasionally, reality intervenes, and small cracks are exposed. One evening's mustard-spiked cobia was left on the grill too long, and the meaty fish's promised side of "caramelized" fingerling potatoes only showed signs of having been smashed, rather than having been cooked so that its sugar browned. I'm not a fan of super-sweet desserts, but the pale panna cotta was restrained even by my standards. Yet every time I looked around the dining room, I noticed a lot of happy faces, of all ages, and I have to imagine they were pleased by more than their company.

The smart and attentive service helps. So does the setting. Beginning with its cheery facade and continuing inside, Vermilion provides plenty of visual satisfaction. The downstairs offers a warm welcome, a cool bar and two of the best window seats for blocks. The second floor expands on the theme, with a large display of wine and lanterns that flicker against brick walls that are set off with empty gold frames. (The lone drawback is the smell of cigarette smoke in the lounge. "It reminds me I'm in Virginia," where patrons can still light up, a friend says on our way to fresher air upstairs.)

In three short months, Chittum has turned a handsome but uneven restaurant into an address worthy of a food lover's little black book.