Not Worth the Wait: Granville Moore's in D.C.

So I've always wanted to check out a Gastropub, because I love beer, I love the cozy feeling of a good pub, and I'm clearly obsessed with food. Finally given my chance to try one out, I ate at Granville Moore's in Northeast D.C. on Friday night.

I was excited for Granville Moore's for three reasons. One, it's close to my friend C's house and it meant not having to take the bloody metro. Two, Granville Moore's serves Belgian food, which meant a French menu, which I knew would allow me to put my ludicrously expensive degree in French to use for about three minutes (which, let's be honest, is more than it's been used all year). Three, I was so hungry that I was seriously contemplating stopping into the H Street Rite Aid to hit up the crackheads inside for a packet of peanuts.

Despite my excitement, I have to say that I wasn't impressed by Granville Moore's. Walking through a doorway that felt like it was leading to a crack den (these doorways are common on H street), we were greeted by Hipster Barbie: a faux-tan, faux-fur vested, faux hipster who looked us up and down and told us the wait would be "an hour, at least." Now it's true that I don't wear skinny jeans and Keds. But I'm also no slob (especially when I get the chance to escape the suburbs of Richmond for a real city), so it pissed me off to be treated like a soccer mom just because I wasn't dressed in a black hoodie and denim leggings. Also, one of my friends WAS wearing hipster clothes, so that should have given us street cred right there.

Enough about clothing and bitchy hostesses. After a longggggg wait, Hipster Barbie (oops, there she is again) deigned to offer us three seats at the upstairs bar. We said yes, hunger winning out over pride. I thanked her so much, and we went upstairs to meet...I'll call her...Fluffy, our bartender.

Fluffy did the "I'm so cool and relaxed, I'ma straight memorize your orders" thing. And then came back to clarify what we had ordered. Twice. And still messed it up. Well before the food arrived, Fluffy put out our dipping sauces, and I got so desperate for nourishment (other than Chimay Rouge) that I started eating it with my dirty, D.C.-covered fingers. That's right. I am class.

When our food came (a chicken sandwich for K, a bison burger for moi, and mussels champignon for C), I was psyched to finally eat something, and attacked the burger. I had never tried bison, and was equally excited to write to you, my little apricots, about the experience. I got about halfway through before I realized that the only difference between this bison burger and a plain old pub patty was about $5. C's mussels tasted pretty good, I admit, but then I crunched down on fifty bazillion grains of sand and got cranky.

Granville Moore's fries are worth noting. They're like ten milliseconds overcooked, so each one is crispy and delightful. They're also sprinkled with rosemary and sea salt, and they come with yummy dipping sauces like Horseradish Creme and Truffle Aioli.

All in all, I wouldn't go back to Granville Moore's unless it were really late at night, I had lost some of my decision making skills, and they were handing out samples of fries and Horseradish Creme sauce. Their staff is weak, their beer is overpriced, and their food just wasn't worth the wait or the interaction with Hipster Barbie and her friend Fluffy.

I'm sure defenders of GM's will tell me that I should have stuck to the mussels, their specialty, and shut my face. But my thought is: shouldn't everything you serve be good, and not just your "specialty?" That's like going to a plastic surgeon who cuts off your boob by accident and then being told, "well, he really specializes in Botox injections."