Gypsy Kitchen: Unfailingly Delicious
A promising date turned sour at a delightful restaurant in DC
It wasn’t anything serious: we had been on a few dates, I found him witty (if a little pretentious), and although he often cut short our time together to run off to Quaker meetings, we were for the most part getting along well. We went to drinks a few times, a party here and there. At one of them, I pretended to be his friend from high school and everyone bought it: I called him by a nickname I invented on the spot and he smiled wide. I wasn’t obsessed with him, but I was hopeful — maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something great.
Then, I made the mistake of taking him to Gypsy Kitchen.
Gypsy Kitchen (1825 14th St NW) is a marvelous restaurant by U Street corridor that brands itself as pan-Mediterranean, which basically just means that the chefs have the freedom to come up with dishes that blend together any cuisines under the sun. They (somewhat melodramatically) refer to their menu as “a celebration of the romance of travel.” They’re right.
When we arrived at Gypsy Kitchen’s door, I was starving; my date had refused to go to several restaurants in a row (picky eater, red flag) and only was convinced to give this one a chance after significant coaxing. We sat at the bar and he told me to take charge of ordering our share plates. I did so gladly.
The first thing that came was the flatbread. Gypsy Kitchen’s flatbread is the fluffiest I’ve ever eaten. It comes to the table smoking hot: when you tear into it a volcano of steam erupts, scalding your fingers along the way. It’s seasoned with some light garlic, and it’s so tasty that I would honestly just order it on its own, no sauce, no other dishes, just the flatbread — that would be dinner enough for me. (Gypsy Kitchen insists that it come with hummus, which is also extremely delectable, but it’s the flatbread that’s doing the heavy lifting here.)
“So,” my date said, tearing into the flatbread, “tell me what happened to you today at work. Every second, start to finish, go.” He took half of the flatbread onto his plate. I took a tiny rip and put it in my mouth before answering, just to have the taste on my tongue.
“Well, okay, I got there fifteen minutes late but I still beat my boss,” I began, watching him scarf down his piece. It smelled so good, so warm. I tore another tiny piece off the bread, but couldn’t even stuff it in my mouth; he was asking follow-ups, and follow-ups to the follow-ups. Then, horror of horrors, he asked another question about my stupid daily routine, reached across the table, and took the rest of the flatbread.
It was all I could do not to gasp aloud. I take you to my favorite restaurant, and you HOG the FLATBREAD?
Thankfully, the next dish arrived before I short-circuited — and it came in four distinct pieces, so each of us could eat two without getting confused. (At this point, I was still hopeful that I could chalk the flatbread issue up to confusion on his part.) Gypsy Kitchen’s tirokroketes are an elevated version of the classic Greek cheese balls: stuffed with three types of cheese, they arrive at the table lazing on a carpet of romesco, topped with a zesty dollop of pepper relish, and sweetened by Greek honey.
My date took his tirokroketes onto his plate and I returned his fire, asking him about his own day. He managed to shove all that fried cheese in his mouth while he spoke, a feat I hadn’t been able to bring myself to attempt. Mouth full, he turned the spotlight back on me, asking me to recount a story about my roommate. I sighed and began.
“And then I found her playing with this little toe-squeezing thingy — “
“Sorry, are you going to eat that?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Eat what?”
“The rest of that cheese ball.”
There was still half a tirokrokete on my plate. I looked at him, then looked down, and then back up at him, stunned. “I think we each got two,” I said, with as much finality in my tone as I could muster.
“Ah, okay,” he said, and the moment didn’t linger in the air because just then the next dish arrived: the chicken kapama. This Greek braised chicken is served on top of a bed of truffled orzo, spinach, crispy potatoes. Can you imagine a more beatific trio? The smell was so tantalizing that I could have cried. Having learned my lesson from our prior courses, I served myself first, and then passed my date the serving spoon.
That chicken was divine. Each piece of meat was so tender that it fell apart when you tried to stick a fork through it. The truffle was just strong enough to make its presence known, while also letting the more shy flavors shine through. It was buttery and gooey in all the right ways. Later, I would dream about it.
My date served himself double the amount that I had taken, leaving just two or so bites left in the bowl, and asked, “Hannah, how do you feel about religion?”
I may be a Jew, but right then I felt like taking someone else’s God’s name in vain. I started to respond, sensing my chicken cooling with every second that passed, my eyes following his fork as it traveled back and forth from his plate to his mouth. He used that poor thing like a shovel, dragging it through the mass on his plate without even looking to see what he was picking up, then dumping it all unceremoniously in his mouth, barely even chewing before swallowing. It went against my code of conduct, but I felt like I had to do the same — I spoke hurriedly, I took a bite between each sentence. I’m ashamed to admit it, but in that moment, I disrespected my chicken kapama.
“And how about you, what’s your stance on religion?” I finally parried.
“Oh, well…” he began, and I was foolish enough to sit back in my chair, to let down my guard. Then, of course, as he spoke, he picked up the serving dish and scooped the last two bites onto his plate.
Game over. Without even asking, he finished the dish. No more chicken kapama for me. I felt the ocean in my ears.
After I suspiciously refused to order dessert despite having suggested we go to the restaurant specifically for their baklava cast iron pie, I suggested it was getting late. As we walked out of the restaurant, I said to my date, “I’ve never met anyone who eats food just as… voraciously as me.”
“Sounds like you’ve met your match,” he replied.
Three days later, he texted me saying that he had figured out he was in love with someone else and simply needed to see where things would go with her. I was a great person, it had been lovely getting to know me, etc etc. Thank God. I responded with the most genuine “haha, no worries” that I have ever sent, went online, and booked a reservation at Gypsy Kitchen for the following week. At least I have good taste in restaurants, I thought.
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