A New Old Flame

A love letter to Little Donna’s.

When I moved to Baltimore a decade ago, it felt like I’d arrived at the party too late. Martick’s had closed. The Cultured Pearl and Gampy’s were shuttered. That strawberry pie at Haussner’s was a distant memory.

Our city had once been dotted with dining establishments that bottled its eccentric everyman spirit—where artists, factory workers, newspapermen, and country-club types could rub elbows amidst eclectic décor, over unexpectedly delightful food and drink. And so I thanked goodness for Henninger’s Tavern, one of the last of its kind in Upper Fells Point.

Here, on the corner of Bank and Durham Streets, the clientele was local, the barkeeps surly, the walls strewn with Colts pennants and Orioles bobbleheads and JFK paintings and leopard print—a Blaze Starr headshot hanging above the bar like some patron saint. You could order a house-made TV dinner along with white-tablecloth crab cakes and a dangerously perfect dirty martini. It was a dogeared slice of Old Baltimore.

Alas, after more than three decades, Henninger’s closed in 2021, too. But when I walked into that same rowhome restaurant last summer, after it had reopened as a new spot named Little Donna’s, I let out an audible cheer.

The place was cleaned up a bit, yes—new menu, fresh coat of paint, some outdoor seating—but with a hat tip to its beloved predecessor, and the quirky yet quality hospitality that came before.

Chef-owner Robbie Tutlewski is a Midwest native who clearly gets the downhome charm of our Rust Belt cities. As used to be custom in the corner-bar business, he lives upstairs with his family and dogs. Downstairs, in the small kitchen, he turns out some of the most delicious and distinctive food in town, if not the entire East Coast.

That’s no surprise, once you hear Tutlewski’s credentials—from Chicago’s Le Cordon Bleu, Phoenix’s Pizzeria Bianco, D.C.’s Tail Up Goat—and yet, there’s not a single air in the place, besides the Pavlov’s dog-worthy smell of his tavern-style tomato and cheese pies. The dishes are a hodgepodge of influences, be it his culinary training or his newfound neighborhood or his Yugoslavian grandmother—the restaurant’s namesake—each a playful, prodigious iteration of some classic you’ve known and loved.

I could spend most nights knuckles deep in a plate of house pierogies, floating in a pool of smokey chili oil beneath the brightness of sour cream and chives (which should absolutely be ordered with the suggested side of sausage and kraut).

On every occasion, the cacophony of texture and taste that is the crispy cabbage pancake has left my fellow diners fighting for the last bite. And the pan-fried pork schnitzel—stuffed with Ostrowski’s kielbasa from down the street, then topped with pickled fennel and celery—is so decadent, it’s almost indecent, helping to earn them a nod on The New York Times “Best Restaurants” list last year.

Here’s what I know: Always, the taco pizza. Always, at least one “Dad’s Beer on Ice,” aka a michelada-ed Zadie’s lager from Union Craft. Always, a trip to see the Hindenburg mural above the urinal, left over from Henninger’s days.

Go solo, on a first date, or fiftieth, and alongside a gaggle of good friends, with Tutlewski personally looking into any last pantry stash of maraschino cherries for your toddler’s Shirley Temple. Maybe you’ll see Bud and Karin Tiffany there, too, nearby neighbors behind the cult-classic Peter’s Inn, who recommend the place to regulars on their own nights off. They must also see in it what I do.

Which is: Somehow, Little Donna’s feels like it’s always been here. Like a part of Old Baltimore that I thought was long gone had never left. Like maybe it never will. And thank goodness for that

This is one of five deeply personal Love Letters—reflections on restaurants that hold a special spot in our hearts—from our 2024 Best Restaurants list. View more of our picks, here.

The World Is My Oyster

A love letter to Dylan’s Oyster Cellar.

It wasn’t until my late 20s that I tasted my first oyster. In fact, until then, I don’t think I even knew that people ate raw oysters. When I was a kid, the most suspect seafood I grudgingly consumed was gefilte fish, top-heavy with an almost iridescent red horseradish and served at the end of a toothpick every Passover.

Finally, when I graduated college—and I was free to make my own choices as a full-fledged adult with my own income—I began to realize there was so much more seafood out there just waiting for me. And while I can’t recall the exact first time that someone pried open a half-shell for me to slurp down, I do remember traveling to New Orleans in 2002 with my sister, who was interviewing at Tulane.

Over that long weekend, we ate all the things (read: stuff our parents never ate), including far too many oysters the night before we flew home. I’m not sure how I made it back, I was so sick from those mollusks. And understandably, there was a long hiatus after that, though I wasn’t ready to completely swear them off. (Food is the one place in my life where I’m completely forgiving.)

My first good oysters were eaten a decade later, at a temporary pop-up space in Mt. Vernon called Dylan’s Oyster Cellar. It really was a cellar, with a short flight of steps down the subterranean sidewalk of Madison Street, now home to the lovely Sugarvale.

There, I worked up the courage to slurp again, and this time was a revelation. Not only were they delicious, but I marveled at the different flavor profiles (salty, briny, meaty, sweet), as well as the accoutrements (lemon juice, cocktail sauce, mignonette). It was a whole new world for me.

So, when Dylan’s moved permanently to the corner of 36th and Chestnut in Hampden, I dutifully followed. I have since eaten coddies, smoked trout, scallops, and anchovies perched on a baguette with butter and a squirt of lemon, washed down with cold, white wine—sometimes all in the same night.

I’ve also consumed heirloom tomato salad, crispy, potato skins with a huge dollop of chive-y sour cream sauce, and stick-to-your-ribs bowls of beans, best eaten on a cold winter night.

It’s where I had my first meal out in August 2020, as we emerged from COVID restrictions. I’ve celebrated birthdays and anniversaries there. And many times, I’ve gone in for no reason at all. (Okay, it was for the cheeseburger.) Who knew that an oyster house would become my favorite place in Baltimore City?

But it’s more than just that. I love knowing that co-owner Irene Salmon (yes, salmon) is working the host stand in her no-nonsense way. I love knowing that her husband, Dylan Salmon, is going to wander out of the kitchen to pop by our table with a sense of ease. I love the space’s special coziness, with its original brick walls and penny tile, and its simplicity, with old-school desk chairs and bud vases on the tables—probably made by Irene, a part-time ceramicist.

And now, after all these years, I love working my way through a plate of oysters, trying to remember which ones are which, savoring the flavors, and flipping those ice-cold shells over one at a time, triumphantly.

This is one of five deeply personal Love Letters—reflections on restaurants that hold a special spot in our hearts—from our 2024 Best Restaurants list. View more of our picks, here.

Tojours L’amore

A love letter to Petit Louis Bistro.

Just before the world shut down, I was on assignment at Petit Louis. Although I’d eaten at the beloved Roland Park bistro for many years, it was my first time seeing the compact kitchen, whose “walk-in” refrigerator is located outside the building.

Housed in an 1897-era building, it had its limitations, for sure, but you’d certainly never know that from eating there. And now I had the urge to do so right away—that night, with the pandemic looming, as pressing a matter as any.

All around Baltimore in March 2020, restaurants were closing for who knew how long. So, I turned off my tape recorder, put down my reporter’s notebook, settled into a red velvet banquette, and placed my favorite order: a gin martini with olives, a mesclun salad, a plate of trout amandine, and a ramekin of crème brûlée for dessert.

With so much uncertainty, in the quiet of a near-empty dining room, sitting there somehow centered me. It was a last meal of sorts.

Louis is where I go when I need a reset. It’s where I celebrate most milestones—from birthday lunches to New Year’s Eve (with gratis glasses of Champagne at 6 p.m. as the clock turns to midnight in Paris). It’s where I went for steak frites with a dozen friends after my adult bat mitzvah. It’s where I watched my once-teenage, now-married son devour the signature roasted chicken for two—by himself.

In other words, Louis is my go-to, a place where I’m greeted with a cheek-to-cheek kiss and where the food is…well, chef’s kiss.

French food was a source of curiosity for me as a child. I was fascinated by Laroussse Gastronomique, the 1,098-page culinary bible that sat on my mother’s shelf, though I can’t recall her ever cooking anything in it.

Larousse made me something of an expert on its country’s storied cuisine, if only for the wrong reasons. I knew that rabbit, snails, and frog legs were a fixture of their diet—and that I wanted no part of it—though the onion soup and the pastel macarons sure captured my imagination.

Traveling to France for the first time after high school, I felt a mixture of fear and excitement. Though I was too young to appreciate it, a trip to Paris with my parents meant late-night dinners at the then-Michelin-starred Maxim’s and a field trip to the vaunted Paul Bocuse in Lyon, where our 10 p.m. reservation had me dreaming of sleep more than the St. Jacques coquilles I’d just ordered.

Later that week, in the Latin Quarter, when my mother mistakenly ordered couscous with cheval—that’s horse meat—not even a trip to the famed Fauchon for a mug of chocolat chaud could keep me from swearing off French food just as my true culinary education was beginning.

But the years passed and along the way, my palate was awakened. After all, tastebuds change with life’s seasons: For me, it was pizza parlors, Jewish delis, and Chinese food as a kid; cheap pub grub, food trucks, and greasy spoons to nurse hangovers in college; neighborhood spots, food halls, and cafes while raising three children.

Now at 61, I’m looking for a place to sit with my family and friends over a glass of red wine and something to eat that’s delicious, homemade, and soul satisfying. And, yes, with my dad now gone and my mom waning at 91, to remind me of where I’ve been now that the photos have long faded.

This life’s journey has led me to Louis. With its chipped marble bistro tables, bordeaux velvet curtains, real Frenchmen and Frenchwomen on staff, and light that filters in through old leaded-glass windows, it casts a spell that still holds sway all these years later.

Maybe because it takes me right back to the City of Lights in 1981, when the world was ripe with possibility, and my life had more questions than answers—before I knew how it was all going to turn out, and that it would soon be my actual job to eat at a French bistro, of all things, and in Baltimore, of all places.

Gone is the girl who once feared foie gras. In her place is a wiser woman, someone who understands that when you’re in good hands, and with people you love, mostly anything coming out of the kitchen is worth eating. Especially at Louis.

This is one of five deeply personal Love Letters—reflections on restaurants that hold a special spot in our hearts—from our 2024 Best Restaurants list. View more of our picks, here.

A Leopard (Carpet) Never Changes Its Spots

A love letter to The Prime Rib.

When I walked into The Prime Rib last November, I was delighted by what I didn’t see: change.

It was my first visit to the nearly 60-year-old steakhouse since it reopened after a renovation, and in the days leading up to my meal, I worried about it losing its timeless sense of cool.

I opened the familiar glass front doors, and before my eyes could even adjust from the brightness of the street, my ears relieved my fears. I could hear the gentle notes of the piano, situated as always in the middle of the dining room, somehow not overpowering or drowning out the chatter of diners ranging in age from their 30s to…I won’t even hazard a guess.

The familiar dark walls, leopard-print carpet, and dim lighting offered more promise. And when our party was seated, another good omen: Our server was Aaron Day, who started bussing tables here in 1973. He, like the restaurant itself, is an institution.

Brothers Buzz and Nick Beler opened on the ground floor of this apartment building at Chase and Calvert streets in 1965, and The Prime Rib has remained a swanky destination even as societal sensibilities have shifted. Men are no longer required to wear jackets; these days, business casual seems to be the preferred dress code, and you’re as likely to see someone sporting a golf shirt as you are a tie.

Nick died in 1995, but I was fortunate enough to meet his brother, Buzz, for a story a few years back. As I wrote at the time, “Spend five minutes with the man and it’s clear why his restaurants have managed to thrive virtually unchanged while the world around them has transformed.”

That The Prime Rib has maintained its relevance is a credit to the Belers’ cousin, Rebecca Dolan, and her mother, Brenda, who now own it. A few years ago, devotees worried when the pair flirted with relocating to the Village of Cross Keys on Falls Road, sparking fear that it would sap the restaurant’s spirit and soul. But in February 2023, they signed a 15-year lease on the old space, hence the renovation.

None of this has anything to do with food, of course. My simple truth is that there’s nowhere in the city you can get anything like a Prime Rib prime rib. What originally cost $4.95 now goes for $72—and it’s worth every cent.

I always order mine medium-rare, and the kitchen here knows exactly what that means: red and runny. I’ve tried other entrees, too, and while many are quite good—shrimp stuffed with jumbo lump crab comes to mind—the namesake prime rib is a no-brainer. I always start with an expertly made Old-Fashioned and an order of the celebrated potato skins.

Day and the other servers have an innate sense of timing, never interrupting but appearing when a drink needs to be ordered. Each course arrives not a second too early or late. Other restaurants should take note.

One recent meal lasted more than two hours. After dinner, I walked toward the bathrooms, which are new, and noted the extension of the bar and recently added intimate dining area in the back. These were the major renovations, and thankfully they feel much more like a small touch-up than a full-blown facelift.

That’s all this old gem needed. We should all be so lucky.

This is one of five deeply personal Love Letters—reflections on restaurants that hold a special spot in our hearts—from our 2024 Best Restaurants list. View more of our picks, here.

Home Again

A love letter to Clavel.

My true love affair with food began while sitting on a sunburnt East Los Angeles sidewalk next to a taco truck—a paper plate of tacos on my knees.

Of course, I loved eating, cooking, and dining out long before that; I went to cooking school and became a food writer. But there was a magic to those tacos, constructed just before delivery and consumption, that stitched me perfectly to that moment. It was a composition of place and dinner that was utterly sublime.

So, when I moved to Baltimore, my mother’s hometown, the first thing I sought out was a taco truck. And after finding that—Tacos Jalisco, parked outside a Catholic church in Fells Point—I looked for a place to stay awhile, which led me pretty quickly to Clavel, Lane Harlan and Carlos Raba’s phenomenal Remington taquería.

Clavel is a Mexican food palace—a taquería, mezcaleria, and nixtamaleria (where corn is traditionally processed for masa) all under one roof. It is as close to driving to Mexico (which I once did, driving from L.A. to Tijuana for chicken-neck tacos and then down the coast to Ensenada, just for a raw clam and uni tostada) as you can get within the confines of this city.

At Clavel, first you will wait in line, not unlike one does at the best street taco stands, talking to the people waiting with you about tacos, itself a kind of appetizer. Then you’ll be seated in the lovely, lofty space, strung with lights like a rowhome alley.

The aquachile, raw seafood torqued with lime and chiles, is transcendent, as is the ooey queso fundido, melted into its own cast-iron pan.

But you’re here for the tacos, so order as many as you can. They come in many iterations: cochinta pibil, carnitas, barbacoa, lengua,  chiles and corn, sirloin tips, mushrooms and huitlacoche, fried cod, and a pile of shrimp and cheese and Anaheim chiles dubbed an al gobernadora. It’s worth filling a table—with people, with plates—so you can try them all.

Sitting inside Clavel—lifting warm, just-made tortillas from a basket, spooning cured fish from a pool of chile-spiked broth, forking up bites of esquites, and then digging into a plate loaded with lamb barbacoa tacos—it feels like the sunburnt sidewalks and beaches where I became obsessed with Mexican food are just outside the front door, metaphorically if not actually.

Of course, outside is not East L.A. or Raba’s home state of Sinaloa, but Remington, where my cousins have lived for two decades. And thus Baltimore, where I chose to live, where my father now also lives, where my great-grandparents came to live over a century ago, and which is now more home than California ever was.

Somehow, eating cochinita pibil tacos while my family orders another round from the mezcaleria, I always seem to fall in love, again, with both food and place. And the tres leches cake doesn’t hurt either.

This is one of five deeply personal Love Letters—reflections on restaurants that hold a special spot in our hearts—from our 2024 Best Restaurants list. View more of our picks, here.