By Tom Sietsema
Washington Post Magazine
Sunday, December 8,   2002

He gave us Asian-style dumplings at Topaz Bar followed by hanger   steak with cumin-scented potatoes at Bar Rouge. Now John Wabeck, a chef who   helped inject some pizazz into the Washington hotel and restaurant scene, finds himself where he wanted to be all along: in a spot more his own, serving   American food to a neighborhood crowd.

Firefly is the name of his new   roost off Dupont Circle, and its theme, inviting and reassuring, surfaces   everywhere you set your eyes, beginning with a pair of glowing orange box   lights near the sidewalk and moving inside, with a tree whose branches dangle   tiny copper lanterns. (A knock on its trunk tells you it's faux, but even a   foot away, it sure looks like the real deal.) Birch logs nicely break up   yellow walls, and a half-wall of gray stone frames the windowed kitchen, where   the 34-year-old chef can see and be seen.

Holding a mere 40 seats, the   main dining room is snug, with low ceilings that reinforce its compactness. If   you've failed to book a table in advance, you may well find yourself getting   acquainted with an ostrich leather stool at the bar or a pillow-strewn couch   in the lounge. Both are cozy quarters for gathering with friends over drinks   and snacks, and graced with autumnal colors designed to bring the outdoors in.   More intimate still is the private Backwoods Room, with space for 16 guests.   Aglow with decorative amber glass torches, it is a calming spot to dine on a   cold and rainy evening.

Like Firefly's design, much of Wabeck's food   has "comfort" written all over it. His wine-braised short ribs, accompanied by   soft carrot chunks and velvety pearl onions, appear to be lifted from a Norman   Rockwell illustration, and a thick grilled pork chop gets partnered with   luscious, caraway seed-flecked cabbage and quartered roast potatoes. Roast   chicken is like a lot of birds around town: tame in flavor and unevenly   cooked. But it gets an assist from some grilled leeks and a deep red chili   gravy.

Not everything here is so homespun; plenty of style finds its   way into the script. Celery root soup, for instance, is sweet yet earthy, its   surface elegantly set off with droplets of herbed oil and vegetable   matchsticks. In another opening act, crisp fried oysters are scattered with   fried parsley and made more tempting with a zippy chipotle-fueled dip.   Risotto, available as a first course or entree, achieves just the right loose,   creamy texture; knobs of buffalo mozzarella melt into the grains, enriching   the eating. Another fine vegetarian option comes by way of smoky portobello   slices arranged with soft white beans, diced tomato and aioli (a number of   Wabeck's dishes can be adjusted to accommodate non-meat eaters).

Not surprisingly, Wabeck tucks a few hotel menu regulars into the format, too,   including an appetizer of garlicky steamed mussels; an entree of roseate   sliced steak with fries and nicely dressed watercress; and creme brulee, silken and delicately flavored with pumpkin.

Lovely little details pop up in meal after meal, from thick house-made potato chips that accompany a turkey sandwich at lunch to a malt-rich chocolate shake, served in a Mini   Me-size pitcher on a decadent plate of chocolate confections for dessert. But   why not serve those good chips warm instead of cold, as I encountered them? As   much fun as that chocolate treat is, with its truffles and intense sorbet, why detract from it with the inclusion of dry chocolate bread pudding?   

Other dishes at Firefly also suffer from a lack of attention. Gnocchi   splashed with sage butter are unpleasantly dense and thick, and an entree of   roasted monkfish with the vegetable darling of the moment, cauliflower, has   almost no flavor save for a glimmer of curry oil on the rim of the plate (even   that needs salt to make it more than a single note on the tongue). And the   cranberry bean soup, afloat with bites of ham, needs fine-tuning. "Liquid   refried beans," a pal remarked after tasting the bowl, and I agreed.   

On the other hand, a few things I dismissed early on have improved   over time. An ultra-thin tart heaped with caramelized onions and chunks of   chorizo is no longer too sweet, and the service has grown more confident and   helpful.
"May I take your coat?" "Is the wine at the right temperature?"   Firefly makes guests feel at home -- right down to presenting the check in a   Mason jar with a perforated lid, the kind you might have used as a child to   capture lightning bugs.

For brunch, Wabeck sticks to the standards,   trotting out the expected French toast, omelets and sandwiches. Each gets a   welcome twist, however. That French toast comes with a drift of cardamom   whipped cream and genuine maple syrup, the eggs are perfumed ever so subtly   with white truffle oil, and the hamburger is loose and juicy, flanked by   full-flavored fries.

Wabeck has done a superb job of finding some   unusual wines from small producers in California, his old stomping grounds.   (Following 18 months at New Heights in the District, he worked about the same   amount of time at Brix in Yountville in Napa Valley.) The gems include a   zinfandel from Elyse and a barbera from Renwood, but also embrace the likes of   a smooth merlot from Barnard Griffin in Washington state's Columbia Valley.   And it's a pleasure to see eight wines served by the half-bottle.   

While Firefly is a work in progress, it is also a place to watch. And   lounge. And nest. Count me among the crowd vying for one of the friendly   restaurant's seats.