It’s a blustery Sunday night on Harbor Point on the last day of February—usually a quiet month for restaurants—but even after opening only seven weeks ago, Josefina is humming.

Dressed in his bright white chef’s jacket, owner-chef David Zamudio stands behind the gleaming pass of his tricked-out open kitchen. There’s an intensity to his gaze as he dresses oxtail dumplings with truffle caviar, spoons a pool of romesco sauce onto a gold-patterned porcelain plate as an accompaniment for violet cauliflower, and gently jabs a meat thermometer into the center of the bone-in ribeye rubbed with sweet, smoked, and spicy paprika, among other spices.

During dinner service, he’s in the zone—and watching him work is like watching an Olympic-level athlete. With purity and precision, he makes it look effortless as he slides his plates of edible abstract art toward the edge of the pass, where they’re whisked away to the dining room to feed hungry patrons.

Without question, opening your own restaurant is anything but easy, even if you’re a culinary virtuoso. After working around the world, including his native Venezuela, the 32-year-old chef made his mark in Baltimore at Alma Cocina Latina, where he earned a James Beard semifinalist nod for cooking fare from his home country.

For his own restaurant, Zamudio set his sights on Spain, a country where he’s worked in the past (including the Michelin-starred Martín Berasategui) and a place he visits family often. Also driving the decision was the influence that Spanish cuisine has had on his homeland.

“A lot of the food we eat in Latin America came from the Spanish who conquered us,” he says, “so that felt like a great place to start.”

It’s a cuisine he’s drawn to for its bold, simple flavors, iconic rice dishes, tapas, smoky seafood, abundance of vegetables, and ingredients like pimentón (smoked paprika), saffron, and sherry. He’s also interested in modifying those elements in a more modern, approachable way.

“I wanted to tweak some of the most recognized dishes from Spain,” he says, “while respecting the country’s tastes and traditions. For other plates, I just wanted them to be well-executed.”

Josefina is an homage not only to his maternal grandmother and the generations of matriarchs in the family who carry that name but to Spain itself. This is evident in its matador red walls, bottles of sherry fino and vermut dramatically displayed on the soaring glass shelves behind the bar, and the single red carnations—the country’s national flower—that grace every table.

The elegant setting is all a backdrop, of course, for the carefully crafted food. The oxtail dumplings are a play on a more classic oxtail stew served to celebrate the running of the bulls. Zamudio’s tapa features succulent pieces of oxtail tucked into dumplings resting in broth and served with truffle “caviar” (pearls of juice extracted from the fungus).

Also featured among the tapas are the more traditional Gilda, a perfect pairing of plump green olives, anchovies, boquerones, roasted red peppers, and mildly sweet green pippara peppers—think Spain on a skewer. Another traditional tapa is the pan de tomate—a blissful bite-sized piece of crystal bread, so named for the sea salt that glitters across its surface—smeared with mashed tomatoes, garlic anchovies, and boquerones draped across the top.

The César Ibérico salad is a clever nod to the wonderful cheeses and cured meats of the country. Here, leafy greens get showered with shavings of Manchego and strands of acorn-fed jamon Ibérico de bellota, the prized pork of the region procured from black pigs who are raised along the Iberian Peninsula. And then there’s Spain’s signature bacalao frito, essentially their answer to fish and chips—two crispy hunks of salted cod cured in kombu seaweed, then tempura-fried and served with a pickly tartar sauce to cut the richness of the dish.

Of course, rice, first introduced to the Iberian Peninsula by the Moors in the 8th century, reigns here as a menu staple. There’s a version made with duck magret and carrot cream and a Valencian-style paella with an entire Cornish hen. The saffron-scented seafood rice, piled with prawns, scallops, baby octopus, and two delicate head-on langoustines, is a terrific rendition of more traditional paella which usually marries seafood with chicken or rabbit and chorizo. Like all the rice dishes, it arrives in a dramatic, two-handled circular paella pan. It’s fantastically flavored with saffron and smoked paprika and sits on a bed of black squid ink Calasparra rice, which deepens the umami.

Even if you’re not a sweets lover, executive pastry chef Maria Alejandra Cobarrubia’s desserts are impossible to ignore. Look for the heart shaped churros and a creamy, caramelized Basque cheesecake, which, says Zamudio, boasts a “secret ingredient.” (He later reveals that it’s blue cheese, which adds depth to the flavor.)

But even in this sea of standouts, it was the subtly sweet, French toast-like Torrija—brioche soaked in eggs, heavy cream, and vanilla before being pan-seared in butter then torched and topped with hazelnut chocolate sauce—that left us longing for more.

If you’ve ever spent time in Spain, a trip to Josefina will transport you right back there—and if you’ve never been, well, this will whet your appetite in more ways than one.

JOSEFINA 1409 Point St., 667-260-2521. HOURS: Sun.-Thurs. 5-10 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 5-11 p.m. PRICES: Snacks, tapas, salads: $6-30; rice and mains: $38-148 (for 36-ounce ribeye); desserts: $8-16. AMBIANCE: Minimalist modern.

Baltimore has always been a seafood town, thanks to our generations-long love affair with crab cakes and coddies, soft-shells and crab boils, oysters, and lake trout. But it’s never had a lot of options for good sushi, which means that the January opening of Hana Sushi in Hampden came as terrific news.

Hana is the second sushi restaurant from owner Tina Chen, who opened Yama Sushi in Ellicott City in 2019 with her husband, Denny. It brings not only excellent sushi to Hampden’s 36th Street restaurant row, but also a menu of superlative ramen and yakitori, as well as an outstanding bar and cocktail program.

A pale-colored, light-filled restaurant in the corner spot that was once the late, lamented Souvlaki, Hana is the kind of one-stop Japanese restaurant this city needs. The dining room is anchored by a big, open sushi bar filled with beautiful fish shipped daily from Tokyo and helmed by veteran sushi chef Jackie Nakazima Eizi.

In addition to nigiri, sashimi, and rolls, the menu includes tonkotsu ramen made by Denny, as well as yakitori (the grilled meat skewers popularized in izakaya restaurants), gyoza, tempura, tofu, and Hana “tacos,” which are flour tortillas filled with raw fish or tofu.

There is also a little market corner, stocked with Japanese items like Pocky, instant ramen, and matcha Kit Kats, which is not only seriously adorable but means we don’t have to trek to Catonsville’s H-Mart for candy runs.

Having helmed her Ellicott City restaurant for seven years before opening Hana, Chen knows what she’s doing. The fish is the most important aspect of a good sushi place, and she gets hers—toro, yellowtail, salmon, eel, Hokkaido scallops and uni, octopus, and mackerel—daily via Jessup seafood supplier True World Foods, which flies it directly from Tokyo.

And then there’s the necessity of a sushi chef who knows what to do with all this lovely stuff. Nakazima Eizi, born, bred, and trained in Tokyo, has 45 years of experience as a sushi chef, and ran Yama Sushi’s sushi bar before moving over to open Hana. With a white chef’s cap and a welcoming smile, he operates his new sushi bar with precision, artistry, and grace.

Hana’s offerings are wide-ranging and include many tricked-out rolls, like the Edgar Allan Roe, composed of shrimp, burdock root, roe, avocado, yuzu, and chile oil, as well as others featuring crab, spicy tuna, shrimp tempura, eel, shiso and even truffled soy sauce.

Though these are fun and gorgeous, it’s the simpler nigiri sushi that allows Nakazima Eizi’s skills to shine. The eel nigiri is a succulent combination of broiled eel atop perfectly articulated rice, wrapped with a ribbon of nori, dusted with sesame seeds and a bit of sauce. And the seared salmon belly nigiri is a masterful rendition, a curl of fatty salmon draped over a nub of rice that Nakajima Eizi fires with a culinary torch so that it partially melts.

All this can be washed down with a small cup of green tea, but that would mean that you’d miss out on the excellent, highly creative cocktail program. As one would expect, there’s a large sake section, as well as Japanese beers, but there’s also an impressive whiskey list of both the American and Japanese varieties (spelled without the “e”), including bottles from Nikka and Yamazaki distillers, as well as Suntory (see: Bill Murray’s booze commercials in Lost In Translation).

And then there are those cocktails, an inventive collection that makes use of not only all the available spirits, but also ingredients like shiso, lychee, ginger, and nori. Nothing like A Night in Shinjuku—Nikka whisky, cognac, dry vermouth, amaro, maraschino, and angustura—to help wash down your double toro roll (maybe the best roll on the menu) and pork belly yakitori.

Tina and Denny are both Chinese, not Japanese, but their love of Japanese cuisine is a long and storied one. They met in Japan, where Denny was studying and where Gina lived for seven years and where they both came to love the food of the country.

While Tina runs the front of house at both restaurants, Denny is at home in the kitchen, making all the sauces and the broth for the ramen, a 10-hour-long production for the tonkotsu (there are also miso and shoyu versions).

And the ramen is terrific: milky, luscious soup paired with twisty noodles, thick slabs of pork, small mounds of grilled corn, and crucially, a perfectly cooked jammy egg. Because for lovers of ramen, there is nothing as telling as that egg, seemingly one of the easiest components of a good bowl of ramen, but often bafflingly overlooked. (The bowl of tonkotsu I recently had at one Baltimore ramen-ya came with a hard-boiled egg, something that almost made me cry.)

Discovering Hana’s ramen, as well as its fantastic sushi, has restored both my palate and my faith that if you build great sushi, Baltimore’s seafood lovers will come.

HANA SUSHI: 1103 W. 36th St., Hampden, 443-869-2503. HOURS: Tues.-Sun., 11 a.m.-10 p.m. PRICES: Starters, sides, yakitori: $4-18; ramen: $20; sushi, sashimi, and rolls: $7-32. AMBIANCE: Cozy, light-filled neighborhood spot.

A quick look at Oleum’s menu and you might not realize you’re at a vegan restaurant: There are no Impossible burgers or seitan bowls or sandwiches with wacky trademarked names.

Instead, there’s an extensive list of creative, compelling, admirably constructed dishes highlighting spices and international flavors, like charred red-pepper risotto with Aleppo eggplant and smoked paprika; ricotta ravioli sauced with romesco; and pizzas topped with harissa-marinated mushrooms, lacinato kale, tahini and hummus, and roasted artichokes.

A closer read, however, makes clear that everything here—including a variety of cheeses, sausages, and salumi—is made entirely with plants.

Oleum is currently one of the few dedicated vegan restaurants in Baltimore, certainly of this caliber and ambition, especially since troubled celebrity chef Matthew Kenney shuttered Liora two years ago. Open since June in the building that previously housed Bondhouse Kitchen, Oleum had both a circuitous and accelerated journey to its Fells Point corner rowhouse.

Seven years ago, Oleum’s chef-owner, Alisha Adibe, was a personal trainer who wasn’t vegan, didn’t really cook, and, unless you count a long-ago stint at an Applebee’s in her hometown of Leavenworth, Kansas, hadn’t worked in a restaurant kitchen. When her doctor suggested that she go vegan to address some health issues, her first thought was, “That’s crazy.” Her second thought was, “I’m going to show him.”

So she not only became vegan, but started cooking all her own food from scratch. This was not just because she’s admittedly competitive, but because at the time she and her husband, Gabriel, were stationed in San Diego. Soon she was cooking not only for herself and her husband, but for his co-workers and her clients. Over the next few years, the couple moved to Arizona, back to San Diego, and then to Okinawa, Japan, where, again, she found a demand for her cooking, especially when the pandemic hit. Soon she had seven employees in her home kitchen, all of whom were military spouses.

“That all happened really fast, and I enjoyed it,” she says one morning, sitting at the long bar in Oleum’s cozy dining room. “But I did not enjoy the dishes, because we still didn’t have a commercial dishwasher. My staff would leave and I’d just stay there and wash dishes for hours.”

When her husband was transferred to Maryland, where he has family, Adibe decided to find a bigger space—and a dishwasher. “I was like, well, let’s see what I need to do to open a restaurant, to see if people want my food outside of a little island.”

First, in the spring of 2024, she opened a ghost kitchen in Little Italy, then, when demand grew, a full-fledged restaurant in Harborplace. Less than a year later, as demand continued to increase, she moved to Fells Point. (Adibe picked the restaurant’s name after doing a Google-translate search for “olive oil”; oleum is Latin for oil.)

Early on a weekday evening, only six weeks after she opened, the 64-seat place is packed, the clientele is diverse—young and old, vegan and not—the servers are deftly managing the crowd, and Adibe is roaming the floor, chatting with diners. Many tables have pizzas, made with flour sourced from Italy, which arrive on round metal trays, beautifully appointed with a variety of vegan cheeses, including a special blend made in-house, as well as an array of colorful vegetables, spices, fresh herbs, and plant based meats.

The Gabriel, named for Adibe’s husband, has a rich pesto sauce under generous layers of cheeses, vegan Italian sausage, red onions, and Calabrian chiles. A dish of imported Italian bucatini comes threaded around sauteed mushrooms in a marvelously creamy sauce of white wine, thyme, soy cream, Parmesan, and white miso—a nod to Adibe’s time in Japan. One of the seasonal salads, the Salatat Marakech is a towering marvel—both gorgeous and deeply flavorful—built from greens, avocado, fennel, watermelon radish, snap peas, and mint, all doused in a preserved-lemon vinaigrette and sprinkled with pistachios.

Happily—and fittingly for a restaurant that caters to a clientele wishing to avoid ingredients some consider unhealthful—the cocktail menu has as many drinks made alcohol-free as with booze, and they’re as pretty and enticing as the food.

And then there are the desserts: a towering slice of carrot cake, tiramisu made with tofu mascarpone, sticky toffee pudding, chocolate-chip cookies. Made to-order (chocolate chunks, coconut yogurt) and thus arriving warm and gooey from the oven, they’re a perfect end to a generous meal.

“When I went vegan,” says Adibe, “I was like, ‘I have to learn how to make chocolate chip cookies, because I’m going to miss them.’”

She didn’t have to go without and, thankfully, neither do we.

OLEUM: 701 S. Bond St., 410-231-3102. HOURS: Tues.-Thurs. 11 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat. 1 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-11 p.m.; Sun. 1 a.m.-3 p.m., 4-9 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $8-30; pizzas, $16-28; mains: $14-32; desserts, $7-23. AMBIANCE: Sophisticated rowhome.

When Luca Useli arrived in Baltimore from the island of Sardinia, he was 18 years old, spoke no English, and worked as a dishwasher at his aunt’s restaurant, Daniela Pasta & Pastries, in Hampden. Eventually, he moved from the kitchen to the front of house and managing roles. Today, Useli is 31, has mastered the language barrier, and is the owner of La Tavola in Little Italy.

He took over the restaurant two years ago when former chef Carlo Vignotto retired after more than two decades. Useli says he misses the country where he was born and raised but has no regrets about the move. “I was meant to be here,” he says.

Useli calls himself an entrepreneur, not a chef, though he is responsible for the menu’s lineup, which features many family recipes.

“It’s a work in progress,” he says, as he slowly introduces Sardinian food and wine to the menu’s more traditional Southern Italian offerings. Useli wants to provide the same quality food from his homeland that led to the island being designated one of the world’s Blue Zones, where residents live long, productive lives, many to age 100.

A simple diet is considered a contributor. As such, you’ll find dishes like a regional preparation of linguine vongole, featuring a mound of bottarga, which Useli calls Sardinian caviar. Tangles of fresh-made pasta, glistening in a white wine sauce and surrounded by castanet-sized clams, get a salty kick from the dried fish roe.

On the more traditional front, tomato-sauce lovers will find many dishes to satisfy, from veal scallopini to rigatoni puttanesca. We lapped up the lasagna Bolognese, which weaved a stew of red meat sauce and a subtle bechamel sauce amid the ribbons of noodles.

But before diners indulge in the big plates, there are antipasti and salads to consider. The fritto misto takes a light-handed approach with flash-fried calamari and shrimp delivered to the table with, yes, more red sauce. The rounds of squid and tentacles were tender, and the shrimp was juicy. We just wish there had been more of the shrimp, instead of the two buried in the pile. We appreciated the well-portioned eggplant appetizer. Rounds of aubergine are fried before being layered with tomatoes and mozzarella and then baked in a pomodoro sauce.

Salads range from field-greens to a lush burrata presentation, showcasing a tennis-ball heap of the creamy cheese atop strips of roasted red bell peppers and arugula splashed with balsamic vinaigrette.

If you haven’t had your fill of cheese, the formaggi misti is a satisfying finish to a meal. Our platter was laden with goat cheese, Taleggio, Gorgonzola, pecorino, and semistagionato. La Tavola’s house-made cannoli gets full marks in a town where the pastry is a mainstay on many menus. A pizzelle shell bundles ricotta cream studded with pistachios, almonds, and dried fruit for a dreamy melding of texture and flavor.

Useli, who has been remodeling the interior of the restaurant himself, is just getting started. His goal: “I want a beautiful restaurant filled with people who are having a good time.”

LA TAVOLA: 248 Albemarle St., Little Italy, 410-685-1859. HOURS: Wed. 4-10 p.m.; Thurs., Fri., Sun. 11:30 a.m.-10 p.m. Sat. 11:30 a.m.-10:30 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $8-22; salads, $12-18; entrees: $22-36.

The Shops at Kenilworth—a compact mall in Towson—doesn’t have a food court. But it houses several locally owned restaurants, including Absolute Thai-Sushi. The restaurant’s current proprietors, Narissara “Narissa” Johnson and Theerayut Kesornjampa, took over the sleek, modern spot from its previous owners in March 2024.

The business partners, who hail from Thailand—Johnson from Pathumthani, a town near Bangkok; Kesornjampa from Chiang Rai in the northern provinces—can also be found in the restaurant kitchen, preparing their country’s traditional dishes. Johnson turned to cooking when she couldn’t find decent Thai food near her home. “Why don’t I cook it myself?” she decided. “We can make it as we like it and share it with other people.”

She and Kesornjampa focus on an array of traditional Thai food (the previous owners sold sushi, hence the restaurant’s name), including classics like pad Thai and drunken noodles, a popular choice at the restaurant. The colorful bowl features a base of soft rice noodles and crisp-tender vegetables like green beans, broccoli, and flower-shaped carrot slices in a tangy chile-garlic sauce that, despite its kick, feels like comfort food. Diners can also add proteins like chicken and pork or, my favorite, shrimp.

As is true of most restaurants, it’s always worth paying attention to the chef’s recommendations. Here, the crispy Kapraow chicken balances fried chicken nuggets and fried Thai basil in a pleasantly sweet garlicky sauce paired with steamed broccoli florets. A classic street noodle entrée is another success, with shrimp and ground chicken tossed with red bell pepper slices and slicked with a gentle coating with a hint of fish sauce.

If you feel like sampling a lot of different things, the selection of appetizers and soups could become full meals. The Thai dumplings showcase a steamed bundle of minced chicken, shrimp, and water chestnuts encircled by delicate wonton wrappers to be swiped in a thick plum sauce. The chicken satay still has me smiling. The four strips of grilled, marinated chicken on skewers are wonderfully satisfying by themselves, but they get a boost from the accompanying peanut sauce and cucumber sauce.

I’m a big fan of tom yum soup, especially Absolute Thai-Sushi’s version. It is a comfort dish with a soothing lemongrass broth bobbing with tender straw mushrooms and tomatoes. I like the plug of fresh ginger buried in its depths for flavor. You can also enhance the soup with additions like chicken, tofu, shrimp, or a veggie medley.

A crunchy papaya salad could be a beginning or an ending. A gorgeous mound of shredded green papaya, atop crisp lettuce leaves, is interspersed with green beans, tomatoes, and a toss of peanuts in a piquant lime dressing that is refreshing and spicy. Or you can end with a simple dessert of freshly sliced mangoes over sweet sticky rice.

A cart stationed in the restaurant also serves Baltimore’s Taharka Brothers ice cream. Johnson tried many brands before picking Taharka, saying, “We want to support local brands.”

ABSOLUTE THAI-SUSHI: The Shops at Kenilworth, 800 Kenilworth Dr., Suite No. 816, lower level, Towson, 410-881-9100 HOURS: Daily, 11 a.m.-8:30 p.m. PRICES: Appetizers: $5.95-11.95; entrees, $15.95-
21.95; BYOB, $7 corkage fee.

On a sunny Easter day, people in their Sunday best sit at an altar, with its richly colored stained glass, white marble angels, and Italian oil painting of Mary and Joseph presenting young Jesus to St. Simeon. Beneath the cathedral ceiling, with its pipe organ on the top floor and flickering candelabras on the first, everyone is gathered for a kind of kinship.

But this is dinner service, not a church service, inside Frederick’s Wye Oak Tavern, a deconsecrated church converted into a modern American tavern from brothers Bryan and Michael Voltaggio. The church was once part of the Visitation Academy, a former convent and Catholic girls’ school now transformed into the Visitation Hotel Frederick, which opened last December.

Given that sharing, celebration, and community are at the heart of dining, it’s an apt metamorphosis for the 1852 historic church that has not been a place of prayer since 2016. The church theme décor is well-executed without being overwrought—the altar is now a well-stocked bar with a top-tier list of spirits including a selection of creative martinis (the aptly named Garden martini with its vegetal St. George Basil Eau de Vie Brandy was a standout); the nave is now a striking dining room with teal textiles and original stained glass by noted German craftsman Franz Mayer.

In the adjacent dining room, forest-green walls and an almost ghostly arboreal wallpaper are meant to invoke the restaurant’s namesake—at nearly 500 years, the Wye Oak in Talbot County was once the oldest white oak tree in the nation until it was felled by a summer storm in 2002.

The Voltaggios are, of course, Frederick’s celebrity chef brothers, who became household names after competing on Bravo’s Top Chef. Bryan famously came in second place to his younger brother on the cooking competition. With restaurants on both coasts, this is their fourth spot together, the first in their hometown—and their most exciting project to date.

Michael says that while they initially pursued their own projects, they’ve finally hit their stride as a team. “I drive a lot of the creative ideas and Bryan, who has an unrivaled work ethic and is one of the best technicians I’ve ever seen, brings them to life.”

As with many of their projects, the brothers’ bent is toward sourcing ingredients that are as sustainable, organic, and regionally rooted as possible. But unlike past projects, Bryan says, “We are less of a multi-course, big-commitment, celebratory experience and more of an everyday restaurant.” Everyday maybe, but hardly ordinary.

Wye Oak focuses on steaks—be it a filet mignon, a New York strip, a 45-day aged Roseda rib-eye, or a signature slow-roasted prime rib encrusted with garlic and mayonnaise and served with a lofty cheddar popover. (The protein is familiar territory, thanks to their Voltaggio Brothers’ Steakhouse at MGM National Harbor.) The meat is enlivened with a slew of creative sauces, like the pit-beef-inspired Tiger Sauce and a selection of steakhouse-style sides that are stars in their own right (the spiced sweet potatoes are among them).

As we’ve come to expect from the Voltaggios, the food is imbued with a boundless sense of playfulness—but never at the sacrifice of taste. That spirit of friskiness and fun is most evident in the appetizers, which arrive with unexpected elements that push the palate—and the imagination.

The smoked beet pastrami—sliced, pastrami-spiced beets, doused with Thousand Island dressing, and lacy squiggles of funnel cake—imparts the slightly sweet and tangy flavors of a Reuben. A fish and chips special features beer-battered puffer fish tails sourced from the Chesapeake, and coddies get coated in crushed Saltines before being fried, then arrive speared on popsicle sticks alongside a cauliflower tartar and mustardy giardiniera garnish to complete the flavor profile.

My favorite appetizer was the shrimp and grits cocktail, featuring four plump Gulf poached shrimp dusted in Old Bay and served alongside a side of shrimp toast made with grits and shrimp mousse. A spicy green cocktail sauce, made with tomatillos and green tomatoes and spiked with horseradish and cracked pepper, provides delicious dipping opportunities for both preparations.

As for the entrees, there’s plenty to accommodate non-steak-eaters, like a swordfish piccata, a clever riff on chicken piccata and a nod to the Voltaggios’ Italian roots. The brown butter, lemon, sage, and caper sauce hits all the right notes: nutty, acidic, sweet, and salty.

Several weeks later, another visit yielded new discoveries, like a refreshing fluke crudo appetizer dotted with blood orange sections, showered with benne seeds, and served with salt and vinegar sweet potato chips for mopping; and a crisp-edged smashburger.

Desserts are also worthy of consideration. The Wye Oak Cake—a sort of tree with log-shaped chocolate mousse cake and chocolate bark that fans out like branches—was an edible work of art, and an apple dumpling, inspired by the annual Apple Dumpling Day tradition at the former all-girls’ school, recalls the cinnamon toast of childhood.

On both visits, service was calm and confident. Our table servers made excellent suggestions, ably answering our questions. (One briefly looked alarmed when we asked, “Isn’t puffer fish toxic?” But after consulting the chef—or Wikipedia—she was quick to reply that the variety from the Bay are safe.)

Wye Oak Tavern is a fitting homage to an important piece of Maryland history. In fact, the State Forest Service still grows seedlings from the ancient oak to preserve its DNA.

Like its namesake, my guess is that the tavern will be here for many years to come

A distinct sense of style permeates almost all aspects of The Royal Blue, the popular new bar with an old soul in Station North.

It starts with the space, a former club that had a funky feel of its own. While renovating it, co-owner Randy Coffren and his partners tried to preserve as much of the building’s spirit as possible.

“We liked what was here, we actually left one of the murals,” he says. “It was important to us that people come in and can’t tell whether it was redone or if they are walking in [and it’s] 1980.”

Named for a midcentury train (a nod to the bar’s location near Penn Station), The Royal Blue manages to simultaneously appear retro and completely of the moment. Work from local artists hangs on the walls. Beth-Ann Wilson, whose Night Owl Gallery is on the building’s second floor, curates the displays. The contemporary pieces are joined by kitsch like a pay phone and an old-school slot machine that add to the aesthetic.

A large disco ball looms over the dance floor in the back, which is where a deejay spins tunes on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. The rest of the week, loudish music permeates the front bar and small lounge area, above which a neon sign helpfully reads “the party.”

It all makes for a good-time vibe that has been attracting big crowds since the bar opened last Halloween. But as it approaches its first anniversary, it’s clear that there’s plenty of substance behind The Royal Blue’s style.

Coffren and his partners also operate Johnny Rad’s in Fells Point and Highlandtown’s Snake Hill, so they had a distinct vision for the cocktail program here. Coffren
describes it as “’70s-esque.”

Among the most popular drinks is the Fuego Fuego, a twisted take on a traditional Tequila Sunrise. The Royal Blue’s version uses habanero-infused tequila, orange juice, blood orange, and Tajín. The Oaxacan Colada is made with mezcal, coconut rum cream, lime, pineapple, and blue Curaçao. It’s a party in a glass. We wanted to dish out a high five to our bartender after downing a Hi-Five, a refreshing mixture of cucumber vodka, melon liqueur, lime, pineapple, and soda.

Cocktails also flow from taps, including a trendy nitro espresso martini, red sangria, and a house negroni. Plenty of local, craft, and macro brews are available, including Miller Lite for $4. We’re fans of that “retro” pricing.

Devotees of the owners’ other establishments might recognize some of the items on the food menu, including mac and cheese and a vegan BBQ sandwich. Smashburgers are ubiquitous these days, and The Royal Blue’s version holds up to others in the city. In addition to the quality of the meat and the gooeyness of the cheese, the bun is an often-overlooked component of a burger. Not here. The sesame seed variety we had was terrific.

After a fulfilling dinner, we opted for classic nightcaps: Old-Fashioneds. One of the well-made drinks contained a large ice cube in the shape of the letter R. The other had a B. You can even sip the style at The Royal Blue.

When Village Square Café in Cross Keys closed in 2021, loyal diners mourned the loss of a beloved neighborhood spot, turning to social media to share memories of good will and good food. Now, with a charming redo and a creative American breakfast, brunch, and lunch menu, Easy Like Sunday is hoping to re-create that sense of bonhomie.

If recent visits are any indication, the family-owned restaurant—named to capture the vibe of laid-back meals with dear ones and friends—is a welcome addition to Baltimore’s breakfast scene. While sipping everything from espressos to morning cocktails, diners can sit back and relax inside or outside and sample eggs Benedict, stuffed French toast, crab melts, and more.

The cafe’s owners—Sean MacCuish, who is the chef; his wife, Anna MacCuish, who handles the social media and marketing; and Antonios Kokolis, Anna’s cousin and the front-of-house face—are no strangers to the hospitality business. They opened their Village of Cross Keys location in March after running a similarly named operation in Charlotte, North Carolina.

The couple was drawn to Baltimore because Anna grew up here. (Her parents, Andy and Alexia Farantos, operate the long-running G&A Restaurant, now in White Marsh.) And when she and Sean started having children (Kingston, 2 ½, and Alexia, 1), they realized they wanted to be closer to family, so why not bring their brunch concept to Maryland?

The restaurant doesn’t take reservations, and on sunny days, the umbrella-shaded tables on the patio are sought-after. But the serene, pale-pink-and-cream interior has its own pluses. One wall is covered with dried flower bouquets, and elsewhere in the space, baskets of ivy and a trellis of greenery create a verdant feel. A dazzling chandelier from a second-hand shop is a stately presence over the bar area. Sean, who is also an artist, fashioned the resin tables by hand.

If you’re not in a hurry and can take the Easy Like Sunday name to heart, start your meal with a mimosa flight—a bottle of sparkling wine presented with three purées: Hawaiian (a mix of guava, passion fruit, and orange juices), passion fruit, and peach-lavender. Each flavor has its own seductions, though if you decide to order only a single mimosa, choose the Hawaiian one for its refreshing tropical flair.

Sean, 38, who started working in kitchens as a dishwasher when he was around 18, learned his craft at various restaurants around the country. Since he and Anna often worked evenings, they enjoyed going out to brunch in their free time, eventually deciding to focus on daytime fare at Easy Like Sunday.

Their version has many high points. The succulent beef in the short-rib hash, which also showcases two eggs cooked however you want, pickled Fresno hot peppers, crème fraîche, and home fries, was so good, we couldn’t wait to try the short-rib grilled cheese. It was a mouthwatering sandwich, with the slow-braised beef tangling with cheddar and goat cheeses in the best way.

If you’re not into beef, at the other end of the menu spectrum, the vegan hash is quite satisfying, with sautéed vegetables, including mushroom, onion, zucchini, and spinach, over roasted red pepper potatoes and crowned with a tangy vegan cilantro-lime aioli and avocado wedges.

Another menu highlight is several eggs Benedicts, including a classic version with Canadian bacon. Baltimoreans will feel a visceral connection to the crab-cake Benedict on first bite. Two English muffin halves were lay ered with spinach, tomatoes, hefty crab cakes, and topped with poached eggs and a delicate hollandaise sauce. The Florentine Benedict, which had a nice amount of spinach and a touch of avocado, was lovely.

We didn’t expect to be so captivated by a hunk of ground beef, but we succumbed to the brunch burger like a convert to a new religion. The juicy patty wooed us with its cowboy bacon (strips cooked with maple syrup and sprinkled with red peppers flakes and brown sugar), over-easy egg, white cheddar cheese, and avocado chipotle slaw on a brioche bun.

There’s also a lovely twist on chicken and waffles. Here, it’s been reconfigured into buttermilk-fried chicken tenders and cornmeal pancakes. Peach-habanero jam, maple-cinnamon butter, and maple syrup give it a sweet-heat kick.

Not everything was up to par. The shrimp and grits was a soupy mess. The Cajun shrimp dish was overcooked, and the cheddar grits were drowning in sauce, though generous coins of andouille sausage were a saving grace. We had that dish on an afternoon when the restaurant was slammed, and it took almost 45 minutes for our food to arrive. We’re chalking it up to growing pains, because service on several other visits was seamless.

But even on the restaurant’s busiest days, the staff makes you feel relaxed and comfortable. Just like its name says.

EASY LIKE SUNDAY: 5102 Falls Road, Suite 66, courtyard, Village of Cross Keys, 410-701-9840. HOURS: Daily, 8 a.m.-3 p.m.; reservations not accepted. PRICES: Breakfast: $6.95-18.95 (crabcake Benedict, market price); brunch, $9.95-28.95; lunch, $12.95-17.95 (crab melt, market price). AMBIANCE: Charming, relaxed indoor and outdoor seating.

The three tween best friends at the center of Good Boys refer to themselves as “The Bean Bag Club” (an endearingly literal-minded nickname based on their affection for bean bags) so many times, I began to wonder if that was an early title of the film. If so, I’m glad they went with the slightly generic alternative. It fits. The most charming thing about Good Boys is that the three buds are, indeed, good boys. Their parents only exist in the margins of the film, but in some ways, they are front and center, having instilled their sons with sound liberal values. The boys hate drugs (“they destroy lives and communities” they recite solemnly), they respect authority (almost to a fault), and, most significantly, they consider sexual consent a sacred trust.

This is particularly important because our hero Max (Jacob Tremblay) is suddenly interested in girls—one girl, in fact, a pretty skater named Brixlee (Millie Davis), whom Max stares at, in slack-jawed admiration, whenever he encounters her. Because this is the beginning of sixth grade, they negotiate through intermediaries: If Max admits he has a crush on Brixlee, her best friend reports, she might admit that she has a crush back. (This detail tugged at a long dormant memory of my own sixth grade deal making.) And now, looming in the near future: a basement kissing party that both Max and his buds, Lucas (Keith L. Williams) and Thor (Brady Noon), and Brixlee have been invited to. They have to learn how to kiss—and fast.

Good Boys is about that particular developmental time when a trio of best friends might be at completely different levels of maturity. One brags that he has “six pubes.” They all think beer tastes gross. Lucas is extremely attached to his parents, cheerfully telling them every (sometimes outrageously sordid) detail of his young life. They wisely talk about things they only partially understand (“a nymphomaniac is someone who has sex on both land and sea,” Max reports). But only Max has truly become sex obsessed.

Because this film is brought to you by the Seth Rogen-led production team that created Superbad, Sausage Party, and Neighbors, you know there’s going to be plenty of raunchiness and drug-related mischief ahead. One of the film’s ongoing gags is that Thor’s parents have a very, um, robust sex life, so the kids are constantly misidentifying sex toys for things they are not. Most amusingly, they mistake a sex doll for a CPR doll. They decide to practice kissing on the doll, and this is the first time we encounter their consent evangelism. “Wait! You didn’t ask for consent!” Lucas says earnestly, as Max leans in for a pucker.

Good Boys is the kind of film where the “plot” is merely an excuse to put the characters in increasingly absurd situations, but even by those loose standards, it’s a bit flimsy. Basically, the boys use a drone belonging to Max’s father (Will Forte) to spy on a teenage girl (Molly Gordon) whom they think must be a kissing expert; the drone crashes; she ends up with the drone and they somehow manage to steal the molly she and her friend (Midori Francis) were planning on taking for a wild night out on the town. An elaborate cat and mouse game ensues.

Although Good Boys largely plays like a tween version of Superbad—with an explicit nod to Stranger Things and even a touch of Stand By Me—it’s clear that writers Lee Eisenberg and Gene Stupnitsky (who also directs) are fans of the great old Tom Cruise vehicle, Risky Business, too. Just as Cruise’s Joel Goodson was racing against the clock to retrieve his parents’ precious crystal egg, Max is determined to get the drone back before his father knows he took it.

There are lots of laughs in Good Boys and the trio of young actors are top notch. Tremblay, with his “sad eyes” and tossled hair, has already established himself as a pint-sized movie star, but Williams is particularly funny as the sweetest of them all, a nervous tween narc (“we have drugs!” he blurts out to an indifferent cop), who has the misfortune of looking like an 18 year old. Noon nails the “theater kid who desperately wants to be cool” vibe.

As outrageous as the jokes and scenarios get—a drug deal at a frat house, a death defying sprint across a crowded highway—the film never loses sight of the fact that these are really nice boys. (On top of all the sex jokes, there’s a family-friendly joke about the boys battling the scourge of child-proof drug caps.) And, as in Superbad, there’s a poignance here as well. Childhood friendships are wonderful, magical—and, yes, generally ephemeral. Good Boys knows this. It adds a slightly bittersweet undertone to all the mayhem. For all its stupid fun, Good Boys is pretty darn smart.

We’re not going to lie: Pulling up to the Sagamore Pendry Baltimore and seeing the beautiful people step out of Maseratis and Porsches at the valet station can feel a touch, well, intimidating. But if you walk past the hotel’s luxe lobby and stylish whiskey bar, then through the airy courtyard built on historic Recreation Pier, there’s a welcoming space for all: the pool bar.

Many locals don’t realize that the swanky patio at the Pendry is open to non-guests from Memorial Day Weekend through October 4, though the actual pool is off-limits. The main attraction is a shipping-container-turned-bar that cranks out a menu of tropical and frozen drinks and equally delicious snacks.

While the prices skew more upscale ($13 cocktails, $12-15 wine, $7 beer), the drinks pack a punch and the views—both of the harbor and ample people watching—can’t be beat. There are a number of seating options: Grab a stool at the marble-topped bar, waterside two-tops, or cushy couches to make believe you’re on vacation.

Pendry bar manager Kat Webster assembled a fun menu for the season, adding the playfully named Tropic Like It’s Hot, a mix of Casamigos Reposado Tequila, crème de banana liqueur, lime, and coconut that’s an earthy take on a piña colada. When in a Kevin Plank-owned property, one must try something with his locally distilled rye whiskey, so we indulged in the Sagamore Crush. Though not made with signature crushed ice, we loved the use of blood orange juice as opposed to the more acidic orange or bitter grapefruit. And the picturesque flower garnish was a nice touch.

Thanks to newly appointed Rec Pier Chop House chef Robert McGrattan, an Asheville native who is eager to show off Maryland seafood, the menu at this pool is much more elevated than snack-shack fare. Don’t miss the flavorful and chipotle-laced Thames Street Tacos with tequila-marinated rockfish, charred pineapple slaw, and cotija cheese. For something a bit lighter, try the tuna poke with spicy aioli, which is served with some of the best house-made, Old Bay-dusted chips we’ve ever had. (Sorry, Utz.)

And the fun doesn’t end there. This summer, the outdoor pool will feature Champagne spritzers on Mondays, live music every Thursday, and end the week with tableside oyster-shucking on Fridays. But, if the sun’s out, anyone can enjoy the perks of hanging at the Pendry without the hefty price tag.

Like most big cities and their suburbs, Baltimore’s restaurant scene has been graced with staunchly traditional places that have resisted trends over the years. There’s Tio Pepe and The Prime Rib in the city, and The Oregon Grille in leafy Baltimore County.

Recently, we made our way to Hunt Valley to check in on this war horse of country dining. Upon arriving, we were swiftly shown to our table, greeted by our cheery server, and sat down just as the piano player settled into his bench. While waiting for our menus, we took in our surroundings, imbued with Maryland’s rich equestrian history. The leather tack, saddles, and prints of famous horses of yore combine with wood accents to lend an air of gentrified, traditional comfort. (We challenge you to find a trendy touch here.) A quick perusal of the cocktail menu revealed a program heavy on sugary drinks, few of which appealed as aperitifs. Oddly, a full wine list wasn’t initially provided, so our server politely granted our request for one.

Our meal got off to a promising start with oysters on the half shell. We appreciated the creative flourish of the yuzu cucumber mignonette. It lacked acid, but the flavors popped, and we happily polished them off, seaweed salad garnish and all. Next arrived foie gras that was perfectly seared, and here the pickled blackberries did have enough acid to balance the fat.

While waiting for our mains, we patrolled the wine list. Good thing we had something to do, because that wait lasted nearly 30 minutes. Europhiles are not likely to swoon, as the USA sections of the list are the most dominant, if pricey. Our server came over to apologize for the wait and assured us our mains were on the way. Was it worth the wait? A Berkshire Pork Porterhouse was just right. It was lustily salted and coated in a heady bourbon pan gravy. The chop was paired with sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts, a safe combination. The Cut of the Day, a boneless Prime Rib Eye, was rubbed with whiskey barrel-aged Shozu, another spark of creativity that we enjoyed. But at $65, it was overpriced. We should have stuck with something off the regular selection of prime cuts.

Moving to dessert, the Key Lime pie was classic—it balanced sweet and tang, with a firm crust and house-made whipped cream. The night’s dessert special was less successful: a moon pie of Chambord-infused mascarpone that had no detectable Chambord and was entombed in a faintly flavored chocolate shell so hard we were unable to crack it initially. We wished for a second slice of that succulent pie!

Familiar flavors, traditional surroundings, and deferential service define The Oregon Grille, and “comfort food for carnivores” best sums up our experience. It’s the perfect upscale, date-night destination for anyone averse to global cuisine, intimidating ingredients, or fly-by-night trends.

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THE OREGON GRILLE 1201 Shawan Rd., Hunt Valley, 410-771-0505. HOURS: Sun. 11 a.m.-11 p.m.; Mon.-Sat. 11:30 a.m.-midnight. PRICES: Appetizers: $11-22; steaks, chops, lobsters: $38-market prices: entrees: $30-market price. AMBIANCE: Horse-country chic.

There was a moment in our meal at Flamant when, suddenly, everything made sense. It came after several starters. The herb-crusted potato cakes looked so much like scallops—did we actually order these, we asked? And then there were the Maryland Blue crab rolls. We knew we had ordered those, but as we consulted the menu, we wondered, what was that unexpected floral flavor? Oh, it was a splash of gin mixed with Old Bay and ketchup in the dipping sauce.

Despite our ongoing confusion, clarity came just as our server put down a plate of what was listed as “Peas-Shrimp” on the menu, which he’d described as “salad,” but, in reality, looked nothing like any greens we’d seen. “You’re never going to get what you expect here,” our server explained. Strangely, this helped clear up the confusion.

Indeed, this “salad,” an edible homage to spring, featured a custard-like pea jelly (peas mixed with gelatin) ringed by pickled shrimp, whole snap peas, red shiso micro greens, and a warm, still-runny poached egg, which lent a silken texture. It was beautiful and delicious, which is pretty much all you need to know.

Everything about Flamant (the French word for “flaming,” a nod to the fireplace in one of the dramatic dining rooms), situated along West Annapolis Street in a quaint, 65-seat cedar bungalow, takes you by surprise, including the structure itself. The restaurant is not what you might expect in this suburban stretch of Anne Arundel County, where chains and nautically themed restaurants rule. On the site of a former children’s clothing store, Flamant has been transformed into a stylish dining den, with its sculptural mid-century Cherner chairs, black flatware, light woods, blue Spanish floor tiles, and airy, light-filled rooms.

Owner-chef Frederik De Pue hails from Flanders, Belgium, and honed his culinary craft working with Michelin-starred chefs including Alain Ducasse in Monte Carlo and Alain Chapel in Lyon, France. After coming stateside, he owned several restaurants in D.C., then opened this seasonally driven, chef-forward spot in the spring of 2017.

The peas-shrimp starter; the dining room. -Kate Grewal

The dinner menu, with ingredients sourced from local farms and fishermen, is concise (a sure sign that all ingredients are up-to-the-minute fresh—pulled from the sea and just arrived from field and farm), with six mains and about the same number of shareable snacks and starters. De Pue’s dishes—innovative, flavorful, even celestial—are unlike anything you’ll find on other area menus.

“Good food is the foundation of genuine happiness,” the top of the menu reads. When you’re quoting the father of modern French cooking, Auguste Escoffier, the bar is automatically set high.

Fortunately, De Pue delivers.

Flamant features classic, but edgy, European fare. His presentations are always artistic, which is not surprising given that De Pue draws his dishes on paper when he is developing recipes to help him visualize not only what’s on the plate, but what flavors his combinations will yield.

Among the appetizers, something that might appear as charcuterie or a cheese plate on any other menu is listed as ricotta-feta custard here and turns up as crisp prosciutto “cups” served with a dollop of house-made ricotta and feta cheese and ripe cherry tomatoes exploding with flavor. A bowl of mussels swimming in white wine broth appears as if it rolled through a tangle of seaweed—actually threads of leeks and rosemary sprigs—on its way up the beach.

Entrees are equally appealing, both visually and from the standpoint of flavor. Among the most noteworthy on our visit was the luxurious riff on a burger. De Pue’s version is a slightly sweet duck confit patty blanketed by the pungent addition of orange-blue cheese sauce. A slice of green tomato and arugula add, respectively, tangy and nutty notes. As with most of the menu, no detail is missed. De Pue pan sears the potato bun with butter and then steams it, which helps all of the ingredients stick together, thus ensuring perfection in every bite. The tarragon chicken schnitzel—thinly sliced cutlets stuffed with capers, parsley, lemon zest, breadcrumbs, and almonds and paired with potatoes and mushroom mousseline—is a delightfully deconstructed take on a German classic.

Even if you don’t usually indulge, hold out for dessert. The turnover-shaped seasonal doughnuts, more like Belgian beignets, can count as a fruit serving here.

Ours were stuffed with local strawberries and rhubarb and accompanied by a dollop of house-made fromage blanc gelato, a satisfying way to end the meal. After cleaning the plate, we settled our check and headed out into the night, feeling fortified—genuinely happy, even. Somewhere, Escoffier is smiling.

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FLAMANT 17 Annapolis St., 410-267-0274. HOURS: Tues.-Fri. 11:30 a.m.-2 p.m., 4:30 p.m.-10 p.m., Sat. 4:30 p.m.-10 p.m. PRICES: Snacks and appetizers: $9-20; mains: $20-35; desserts: $9-11. AMBIANCE: Cottage chic.

You’ve got to hand it to Seth Rogen. Several years ago, he caught some flak for appearing with Katherine Heigl in the rom-com Knocked Up. The film became something of a poster child for the “schlubby guy is paired with beautiful woman” trope. So now, years later, he’s doubling down by starring in a romantic comedy with none other than Charlize Freaking Theron.

But here’s the thing, the pairing works, partly because they lean into the unlikeliness of the romance, partly because the film is feminist in many other ways, and partly because Theron and Rogen have charm and chemistry to burn.

It’s been a while since we’ve had an old-fashioned rom-com like this, albeit one that makes several nods to current events. Rogen plays Fred Flarsky, a journalist with perhaps too much personal integrity for his own good. When a Rupert Murdoch-like figure buys the indie newspaper Fred works for, he quits. He drowns his sorrows in the company of his best friend Lance (O’Shea Jackson Jr.), a successful tech entrepreneur, who takes him to a swanky party. There, Fred locks eyes with Secretary of State Charlotte Field (Theron). Turns out, she babysat for him when he was a kid—and he’s been crushing on her since puberty. He’s shocked when she actually remembers him.

Charlotte is about to launch a presidential bid and, while voters find her polished and competent, they don’t find her particularly funny or relatable. (They also disapprove of her hella awkward wave.) Charlotte decides to bring on Fred to help humanize her speeches, much to the mortification of her buttoned-down personal assistant, Maggie (June Diane Raphael), who disapproves of Fred’s slovenly, stoner ways.

The supporting cast might be the secret MVPs of this film, and Raphael is a particular revelation as Maggie, who hates Fred and isn’t shy about letting him know it. (With their quick, cutting banter, the two of them almost have their own mini rom-com happening on the sidelines.) Jackson, who was so charming in Ingrid Goes West, again proves that he’s a sneaky scene stealer. His Lance is great ally for his pal Fred who also teaches Fred a great lesson about the limits of his own self-righteousness. Bob Odenkirk as the bumbling President Chambers, a former TV actor who wants to make the transition from TV to the White House to film, is predictably funny, as is Alexander Skarsgård as the dreamy Canadian Prime Minister who is actually a bit of a twit.

The film’s politics are not quite as sophisticated as I might’ve hoped (it has nothing on the gold standard political love story, The American President), but they get the job done. Basically, Charlotte has to keep compromising her values to win President Chambers’ endorsement. She argues for the ends (her election) justifying the means. Fred is all about never compromising. It echoes a debate we’ve seen over and over again on Twitter and elsewhere.

One of my favorite ongoing gags involves periodic cut-ins to a Fox News-like morning show, where a female anchor, a constipated smile frozen on her face, enables the sexist banter of her male cohosts. (This bit resolves in a satisfying way.) Another great bit has Charlotte negotiating a hostage release from the Situation Room, while high on molly.

But as I said, none of this would work if Rogen and Theron weren’t so winning and if Fred and Charlotte didn’t seem to genuinely like each other so much. They very accurately recreate the giddy early stages of a relationship where all you want to do is hang out, have sex, and vibe off each other. Sure, Charlotte might be a Duchess Catherine type and Fred might be a Danny DeVito (to use one of the film’s analogies). But when it works, it works.

Oh man, Little could’ve been big. All the components are there: a truly stellar cast, led by Regina Hall, Issa Rae, and the preternaturally precocious Marsai Martin. A cute concept: Boss from hell gets magically turned back into her 13-year-old self, and must come to terms with why she became such a jerk in the first place. Fun fashion, cheery sets, beautiful people. Even a feel-good real life origin story: It was young Martin who pitched the concept—a clever reverse take on the Tom Hanks vehicle Big—to the studio and serves as one of the film’s executive producers.

But I’m afraid to say that Little is something of a hot mess. Granted, an intermittently entertaining mess, but a mess all the same. Storylines are introduced and go nowhere, conspicuous continuity errors abound, bad jokes land with a thud, and character motivations are sketchy at best. I sense this is one of those films that was taken apart and entirely stitched back together in an editing room, which happens more often than you might think. The thing is, we’re not supposed to notice the seams.

When we first meet Jordan (Martin), she’s enthusiastically showcasing a science project at a middle school assembly. A mean girl heckles, then humiliates her. Jordan ends up both injured and mortified—and vows to never allow herself to be vulnerable again.

Fast forward 25 years and Jordan (Hall) is now the millionaire owner of an app development company who makes Miranda Priestly seems like the boss of the year. She’s bullying, demanding, and committed to making her workplace a joy free zone (she doesn’t even allow carbs in the office). Her employees, including her put-upon personal assistant April (Rae), fear and loathe her. One day, she’s mean to a little girl who’s a budding magician and the child puts a spell on her: “I wish you were little!” she shouts.

Suddenly, our glamorous, Ferrari-driving Jordan is a geeky tweenage girl with messy hair, glasses, and bad fashion. She also must rely on April—the only person who knows what happened—to help her navigate her new identity.

So far so good, right? But here’s where the movie goes wrong. A visit from child social services means Jordan must go back to school—the horror!—where she inappropriately flirts with a dreamy teacher (Justin Hartley) and meets three sweet, nerdy kids, who embrace her into their band of cafeteria outcasts. But the school scenes—essentially the crux of the whole film—are woefully underwritten. “Young” Jordan has no arc. She likes the nerdy kids and they like her right back. Even once she goes on a shopping spree and comes back to school looking fierce and fabulous, gaining the approval of this generation’s mean girl, she doesn’t dump her new squad, as you might expect. Instead, she takes them back to her fabulous apartment and they have a party, with lots of fashion changes, silly poses, and Instagram selfies. Fun, yes. But who is this person? The adult Jordan we met was never this fun or this kind. It seems that Jordan internalized the important lesson of the film—that you can be both successful and good without dimming your shine—through osmosis.

The film’s most cringy moment occurs when April takes Jordan to a restaurant. April is guzzling rosé, which Jordan wants to drink but April tells her she can’t, for obvious reasons. The next thing you know, Jordan is on the bar singing karaoke, obviously drunk. My first guess, which many others speculated about on Twitter, was that the MPAA ratings board wouldn’t allow us to see a 13 year old drink in a PG-13 rated film—hence the herky jerky editing. There had to be a better way around this.

That scene is directly followed by another one that is nearly as cringy. Jordan’s sexy boy toy (Luke James) breaks into her condo and does an erotic dance as April and young Jordan watch with a mixture of amusement and shock. When the boy toy discovers Jordan, he assumes she’s Jordan’s daughter and promises to be a devoted father figure to her to prove his love to her mother. It’s awkward to say the least.

I could go on with the missteps, but I do want to take a few minutes to praise the performances. Hall commits thoroughly, and hilariously, to her HBIC persona. (Jordan’s horribleness is a way over the top caricature, even for a film this broad, but Hall has fun leaning into the awful.) As she proves on her Showtimes series Insecure, Issa Rae is a born rom-com heroine—funky, funny, and relatable (April actually does have a tiny romantic subplot but it’s—shocker—underdeveloped.) But the movie belongs to Martin, who is almost uncannily good as a 36 year old trapped in a 13-year-old’s body. Every withering comeback, every knowing glare, and every uncomfortably come-hither look she gives her hot teacher is delivered to perfection. You truly believe this child is 36. It’s enough to make me guardedly recommend the film. But, nonetheless, Little is no Big.

Alison Klayman’s The Brink starts with former White House chief strategist Steve Bannon talking about Nazis. But he’s not praising Nazis, as one might expect. He’s talking about the horrific paradox that Nazis were regular people who didn’t realize they were monsters. By day, they made plans for brutally efficient murder camps; by night, they went to parties and had dinner with their families.

Of course, this is a sly way to open a documentary on Steve Bannon, because in some ways his own analogy applies to him. No, Steve Bannon isn’t an actual Nazi, but he is certainly spreading a vile brand of far-right “populism” around the globe.

Oh, and here’s the other paradox: Bannon also happens to be a pretty charming guy.

As I watched the documentary, which follows Bannon after Trump cut ties with him in the aftermath of the Charlottesville “Unite the Right” rally, I found his charm positively disarming. He’s self-deprecating and affable; he has a winking, “c’mon, admit it—you’re having the time of your life” style of discourse that lures audiences into a kind of secret partnership with him. “It’s not that serious, it’s politics—and it’s fun,” seems to be his mantra, which is pretty damn cynical when you consider that what he’s advocating for is so dangerous.

And here’s something that will annoy you to no end (it certainly annoyed me): After he was fired by Trump and given the boot by Breitbart, the far-right website he edited, he didn’t miss a beat. He kept giving keynote speeches and jetting around the world in private planes, huddling with world leaders, and doing meet and greets with adoring fans.

Indeed, at one point in the film, he flies to Venice to promote yet another documentary about him, Errol Morris’s American Dharma, but doesn’t attend the film festival at which the film is premiering. Instead, he holes up in his posh hotel room, meeting with white nationalists and making plans to start a global anti-immigration movement.

Klayman humanizes Bannon—with his big belly (he swears he’s trying to lose it), pock-marked face, constant supply of Red Bulls, and unkempt appearance, it’s not that difficult. But she is also very clear-eyed about who he really is. There’s a telling moment late in the film where Bannon is talking to a reporter for The Guardian who accuses him of using anti-Semitic dog whistles when he describes George Soros as leading a globalist conspiracy.

“You don’t really think that’s anti-Semitic!” cracks Bannon, performatively shocked.

“Yes, I do,” says the reporter.

“C’mon, you don’t really,” Bannon tries again, but the reporter stands firm. In fact, he says, he’s offended that Bannon is joking about a subject so serious. He’s one of the first in the film who is not swayed by Bannon’s back-slapping bonhomie and it’s both cathartic and clarifying.

The film ends right after the 2018 midterms, when a diverse group of Democratic congresspeople­—many women of color—have won their districts. Bannon, who consulted for a few of the losing Republicans, is dismayed. It’s a blow for him and the movement he’s trying to lead—and in that sense a relatively optimistic note on which to end an otherwise depressing film. But if we’ve been paying close enough attention, we know the good vibes are temporary. There’s no kicking Bannon out of polite society because he’s so damn good at negotiating it. The moral of the film might very well be this: Beware of affable nationalists in rumpled shirts.

The Brink opens this Friday at the Charles Theatre

Mild spoilers ahead!

Good horror films generally do one of two things: They tap into a nightmare you already have or they create a whole new nightmare to haunt your dreams going forward. Unsettlingly, Us falls somewhere between the two. Watching it, it felt like a nightmare I’d once had but couldn’t quite access, a prospect so disturbing, my conscious mind refused to process it.

There was a bit of controversy over the labeling of Jordan Peele’s game-changing debut, Get Out—was it a comedy? A horror film? A scathing commentary on race in America? (Yes, yes, and yes). Us’s genre is much easier to identify: It’s a straight-up horror film. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have a goodly amount of humor and a lot to say about America’s sins of “othering” people—both past and present.

When we first meet Adelaide (played by Madison Curry as a little girl) she’s at a boardwalk amusement park with her squabbling parents. She wanders away—the blood red candy apple she’s nibbling on shows that Peele is much a visual director as he is a cerebral one—and comes across a house of mirrors: “Find Yourself” the sign on the door beckons. Once inside, the power goes down. She searches desperately for an exit, but keeps bumping into mirrors. Then she is confronted with something so horrifying, she stops dead in her tracks: her identical twin, staring back at her with a rictus grin.

Cut to present day: Adelaide (now played by Lupita Nyong’o) is heading to her childhood home with her gregarious husband, Gabe (Winston Duke), and her two children. Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) is a typical teenager, interested in borrowing the car and getting into college. Jason (Evan Alex) is shy and a little weird: He wears a plastic monster mask propped on his head at all times.

Being back in her childhood home triggers memories for Adelaide, and when Gabe suggests that she returns to the same beach where her trauma occurred she resists— until she relents.

At the beach, they meet up with their ostentatiously wealthy friends Kitty (Elizabeth Moss) and Josh (Tim Heidecker), who have a pair of spoiled, insipid twin daughters. At one point, Jason wanders off, scaring Adelaide to near death. He doesn’t tell his mother that he saw the back of hulking figure with what appeared to be blood dripping from his fingertips on the boardwalk. Not good.

That night, Adelaide tells Gabe about her childhood trauma. He believes her in an indulgent, slightly patronizing way, and promises to protect her. Then she looks out the window: Staring at the foot of the driveway is a family of four, holding hands like spectral paper dolls, and wearing red jumpsuits. Neighbors? Intruders? Pranksters? Gabe goes out to investigate—the creepy family breaks into the home and a horrible discovery is made: “It’s us,” Jason says, staring at the family dumbly. Four perfect doppelgängers. Both them—and not them.

Adelaide’s doppelgänger speaks in deep, raspy voice, slightly mealy-mouthed, like the voice of someone who hasn’t heard speech in a while. The alternate Gabe seems larger, his beard is fuller, he doesn’t speak but emits menacing yawps. The double of Zora has the same malicious grin as the girl Adelaide stumbled upon in the fun house. And instead of having a child’s mask propped on his head, Jason’s double wears a ski mask that cover his entire face.

So yes, I get a chill down my spine just describing these characters. (And don’t get me started on their fingerless leather gloves and the scissors they all wield.)

But what do they want? Where do they come from? And what does any of this have to do with rabbits, Hands Across America (Google it), and underground tunnels?

Us is much scarier than Get Out, but less funny. Peele occasionally disrupts the tension with a few jokes (a gag with an Alexa-like device is ingenious) but he wants to keep you freaked out, not laughing. The performances are all great—Winston Duke could not be more loveable—but Nyong’o steals the show, creating two indelible personas here, both mama bears, one who has been living in light, the other in darkness.

Gloria Bell is Chilean director Sebastián Lelio’s adaptation of his own critically acclaimed film, Gloria (which I didn’t see). This time it takes place in America and stars Oscar-winning actress Julianne Moore. The pedigree is certainly there. But for me, something got very lost in translation.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I will share that Gloria Bell is currently sitting with a gaudy 96 percent Fresh on Rotten Tomatoes. So I’m clearly on an island here, but I found the film mystifying and even off-putting.

In theory I should love a film about the sex life of a middle-aged divorcee. Honestly, any film that acknowledges that female sexuality doesn’t shrivel up and die after the age of 50 should be cause for celebration. But after spending roughly 110 minutes in Gloria’s company, I still don’t know how I was supposed to feel about her. I couldn’t even describe her character’s arc. If Gloria went on an emotional journey, someone forgot to give me the GPS.

I’m generally a huge fan of Julianne Moore, but I didn’t understand her choices here. She plays Gloria as gauzy, wishy-washy, muted. In some senses, Gloria is that overlooked middle-aged woman we’ve seen in films before: “It’s your mother,” she adds hastily at the end of voicemails she leaves her grown daughter and son. (She’s so insecure she’s not sure they would recognize her voice.) But there’s little sense that she’s belittled or overlooked in life. She works for an insurance company, and although we see very little of her professional life, there’s no condescending boss, no obnoxiously flirty coworker. Instead, she has a best friend at work who is being forced into early retirement. She shouts “You go, girl” affirmations with her friend out the window.

Gloria seems to have a deep streak of melancholy about her, but she’s no wallflower. She goes to a dance club that caters to the 50-plus set—the music is mostly disco with some early New Wave thrown in—and drinks martinis and dances with randy older men. Her children, in fact, don’t ignore her—they love her and are reasonably involved in her life. They have problems of their own. Peter (Michael Cera) has been abandoned by his wife and left to raise their baby by himself. Anne (Caren Pistorius) is in love with a Swedish big wave surfer who seems unlikely to put down roots. Gloria also has good friends—she goes to dinner parties; attends weddings—and is still close to her glamorous, if somewhat death-obsessed mother (Holland Taylor).

She’s pretty—and she knows it. At a bar one night, a woman asks if she’s had work done. “No,” she replies with a laugh, flattered.

So no, she’s not a loser. Not really a pushover or a mouse—although Moore plays her so tentatively she seems like maybe we’re supposed to think she’s those things.

Into this equation comes Arnold (John Turturro), a recently divorced man who makes eyes at Gloria at the over-age disco. They dance, hook up, and start dating each other. Arnold seems nice enough. He’s apparently a conservative—in one scene, he argues that everything is cyclical and climate change is overhyped. I thought this might be a bone of contention. Will Gloria argue with him? Challenge his assumptions? Nope. This is one of many random details dropped into the film that amount to nothing.

Another: Gloria has an upstairs neighbor, a young man who seems to be having a breakdown of some sort. He yells at the walls. Gloria calls the landlord, who happens to be the neighbor’s father, and gently informs him his son isn’t well. At one point, the neighbor accidentally drops a bag of weed in front of Gloria’s door. She smokes it. That’s it. That’s the guy’s entire function in the film.

There’s also a stray cat that keeps sneaking into Gloria’s house. But not any old cat: A Sphynx cat, which is absurd. There’s no such thing as stray Sphynx cat, only Sphynx cats that have escaped from the home of a rich person. But I digress. The cat is supposed to represent . . .death, maybe? Because its form is so skeletal? (In another scene, Gloria literally watches a street puppeteer with a skeleton marionette.) Or maybe it’s supposed to represent our human need to connect with other living creatures? At first, Gloria hates the cat. Later, she warms up to it. Your guess is as good as mine.

So back to Arnold. He also has grown adult daughters who are completely dependent on him. They keep calling him and he’s expected to dote on them, accommodate their every whim, which he does. He’s not a bad guy but he has issues—possibly too many to overcome.

At one point, Arnold says that his children never worry about him. His job is to worry about them. This is a sort of interesting point that the film flirts with: The idea that parenthood changes us in a such a way we lose a bit of our own agency, our own personhood. The idea isn’t really explored, but it’s there, it’s something. And that’s kind of it. I was discussing the film with my film critic pal Tomris and she suggested that what I was looking for—meek middle aged woman finds her own voice and power—is a cliché. That what this film gives us—woman lives her life, we simply get to observe it—is more profound, more unusual, more challenging. Fair enough. But I never felt like I got to know Gloria well enough to even care about her journey from A to A, as it were. What was I supposed to want for her? Is wanting to want things for my heroine too pedestrian? Am I hopelessly bourgeois to want a character arc? In a final scene, as she sings along to the song Gloria—natch—the woman getting her groove on on the screen in front of me might as well have been a complete stranger.

How to properly describe the Icelandic film Woman At War? On the one hand, it’s a serious film about environmental activism and the scourge of climate change. But it’s also an action film, filled with actual scenes of dodging helicopters and drones and ducking in caves and crevices. It’s a feminist clarion call, with a middle-aged (!) female heroine who genuinely warrants the designation “badass.” It’s a realistic film that nonetheless flirts with elements of magic realism, absurdism, and whimsy. And oh yeah, if you squint hard enough, it even has a little romance.

That director Benedikt Erlingsson manages to balance all these elements in a way that is both wildly entertaining, light on its feet, and cohesive is a testament to his unique voice and skills. It also helps that his leading lady is the extraordinary Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir, who perfectly embodies the spirit of this hearty, no-nonsense, vigilante do-gooder.

Halla certainly doesn’t look like your typical eco-warrior. She’s a mild-mannered choir teacher who lives alone in an airy, plant-filled apartment. But look more closely and you’ll see clues—her walls are festooned with portraits of her heroes, including Nelson Mandela and Gandhi.

Some international manufacturing plant has opened in the quiet Icelandic village where she lives, belching toxic fumes out into the environment. Halla’s plan is simple: She’ll destroy power lines, cutting off electricity to the plant. She works stealthily and mostly alone: She has a rather twitchy and paranoid mole inside the Icelandic government who assists her. And she is also aided by a kindly farmer who takes a shining to her and even loans her a car (a teal blue vintage Volvo that I need in my life.)

The government and local media has spun the mysterious vigilante as a scary terrorist who is trying to sabotage Iceland’s economy. (In a running gag that is both funny and telling: an innocent Hispanic backpacker is constantly being mistaken for the terrorist.) Suddenly, she is being pursued by the police. But her bravery, ingenuity, and knowledge of the rugged terrain keeps her one step ahead of the law.

Everything changes—or potentially changes—when Halla finds out that an adoption form she filled out four years ago (and had long given up on) has come through: A tiny orphaned Ukrainian girl—in a picture, she looks up with sad, trusting eyes and clutches a bouquet of flowers—will soon be ready to become her daughter. Now she has a true dilemma: Keep up her underground work and risk going to jail or stop what she’s doing and allow her potential daughter to grow up in a world that is uninhabitable.

There are wonderful twists and surprises along the way, none of which I will spoil here. Suffice it to say, Woman at War had me gripped and delighted all the way through. And when it was over, I wanted to see more of Erlingsson and Geirharðsdóttir’s work—and immediately began planning a trip to Iceland.

Woman At War is now playing in D.C. and Bethesda and opens next week (3/22) in Baltimore.

Captain Marvel is just like all the other Avenger origin films. Which is to say, it’s exactly the same and also a little bit different. It follows the same general formula—CGI-heavy action, well-timed wisecracks, winking pop culture references, a certain degree of world-building, a skosh of sentimentality—but has a few defining features of its own. In this case, our superhero is a woman; the film is also a prequel—the ur-Avengers origin story, if you will.

Look, all of the Avengers films are fine. Seriously. Some, like Black Panther and Captain America, are better than fine. But I find the whole enterprise a bit wearying. And all the ’90s references (right in my wheelhouse) and girl power shout-outs (also in my wheelhouse) in Captain Marvel didn’t markedly improve the experience for me. I enjoyed it well enough. It felt…familiar.

When we first meet Carol Danvers/Captain Marvel (Brie Larson), she’s an elite fighter going by the name Vers who believes herself to be a native of the Kree intergalactic empire. She has superpowers—supercharged electric energy coming out of her hands and possibly more—that she can’t quite harness yet, and is being trained in hand-to-hand combat by her mentor Yon-Rogg (Jude Law). She also keeps having nightmares and flashbacks to a memory she can’t fully access. Annette Bening is there.

Early in the film, a mission goes wrong, she is captured by the shape-shifting Skrulls, then escapes, and finds herself on Planet C-53—aka Earth (a real “shithole” we are told). She lands in a Blockbuster Video store—in a funny gag, she nervously shoots at a cardboard cutout of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies—and blows the place up. Did I mention that it’s the ’90s? Expect the likes of TLC, Nirvana, and Hole on the soundtrack. (At one point, Captain Marvel steals an outfit off a mannequin and ends up sporting a classic NIN tee-shirt—the pop culture nostalgia is strong with this one.)

After the Blockbuster snafu, she finds herself tracked by Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson, CGIed to look younger) and Agent Coulson (Clark Gregg, ditto), in the pre-Avengers days of S.H.I.E.L.D.

The more time Vers spends on Earth, the more confused she is by her own origin story. Flashes of hazy memory keep coming back: go-cart races, little league, basic training, a close friendship with another female fighter pilot (Lashana Lynch), and, yes, more Annette Bening, playing an aerospace engineer. Is it possible Vers is human?

I won’t spoil things further, but you basically know the drill: acquire powers, learn to master powers, beat the bad guys, save the world. There are a few clever wrinkles: The shapeshifting adversaries can literally turn into any creature or person they want to (Captain Marvel kicking the crap out of an “old lady” on a train, much to the mortification of her fellow passengers, is a good bit), and Ben Mendelsohn is aces as their garrulous leader. There’s a frisky and cute (and slightly terrifying, to be honest) cat that becomes the film’s de facto mascot. Samuel L. Jackson gets something to do, which is a nice change of pace for the great actor, who is generally wasted in Marvel films. As for Brie Larson, I enjoyed the Oscar winner’s droll, unflappably cool take on Captain Marvel. We’ve established that she gives good superhero. Can she go back to making real movies now?

It’s an odd time to do a send-up of romantic comedies. The genre is out of fashion—in fact, I’m racking my brain to think of the last traditional rom-com to appear in movie theaters. (Crazy Rich Asians comes close, although it’s really more of a rollicking ensemble piece; the wonderful The Big Sick is definitely a rom-com, but hardly a traditional one.) For the most part, the rom-com genre has landed on TV (think Netflix’s To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and Set It Up or even the delightful TV Land sitcom Younger.)

It’s no wonder then, that when Isn’t It Romantic wants to cite the rom-coms that our jaded, unlucky-in-love heroine (Rebel Wilson) has had it up to here with, they have to dip into the wayback machine: Pretty Woman, Sweet Home Alabama, Notting Hill, The Wedding Singer.

In the office where Wilson’s Natalie works as a junior architect, she rattles off all the things she hates about rom-coms: The cliched gay bestie; the makeover montages; the way it pits women against each other in the workplace; the way the heroine’s clumsiness is considered endearing instead of annoying; the slow-motion runs at the end to catch a plane or break up a wedding.

Then she gets mugged in the subway, knocks her head on a pole, and wakes up in a rom-com herself. New York is suddenly shiny and clean and smells of lavender. Her apartment is twice its size and filled with great furniture and designer shoes. She has that gay bestie (Brandon Scott Jones), who is only around to give “you go, girl!” affirmations and, for the most part, has no inner life of his own. There are spontaneous dance numbers.

At work, her old assistant and best friend Whitney (Betty Gilpin) is suddenly a competitive power-bitch gunning for Natalie’s job. Her doting guy pal Josh (Adam Devine) is still sweet on her, but now he’s dating a supermodel and “yoga ambassador” (“That’s not a thing,” mutters Natalie), played by Priyanka Chopra. And a hunky billionaire hotel owner, Blake (Liam Hemsworth), thinks Natalie is “beguiling.”

The whole film goes down smoothly, thanks to a cute (if rarely laugh-out-loud) script and a winning performance by Rebel Wilson, who effortlessly displays her movie star chops. Wilson has always been funny when she’s done gross-out humor, exaggerated come hithers, and pratfalls, but she’s relatively dialed down here—and still, well, beguiling. Hemsworth is great as the smooth-talking cad, proving that both the Hemsworth boys have comedic chops to go along with their preternatural good looks (damn them!). And truth be told, this is the first time I’ve actually liked Adam Devine, probably because he’s playing a sweetheart instead of his usual smarmy frat boy type.

So yeah, Isn’t It Romantic is unnecessary but it is diverting all the same and even has some wise things to say about regressive rom-com tropes. (Hint: The person who really completes you was staring back at you in the mirror all along.)

A restaurant’s menu can be minimalist without being simple. Proof of this can be found in Station North, where the charming new European-style bistro Le Comptoir du Vin has been impressing sophisticated diners since it opened in November. Generally, just seven to 10 dishes are scrawled in white chalk on a blackboard in the tiny dining room, but each of them offers a gateway to the best attributes of French-inspired cuisine.

Take for example a relatively mundane-sounding bowl of lentils. Here, chef and coowner Will Mester demonstrates the depth of his skill. When combined with vadouvan, a French spice that is a derivative of masala, and labneh, a thick Greek yogurt that has been strained to remove most of its whey, the dish sparkles. Bread is a key component of any European meal, and the soft, lightly charred grilled flatbread paired perfectly with the concoction.

It’s terrific, but it’s not even the best bread in the place. Mester’s girlfriend, coowner Rosemary Liss, calls pastry chef Kelsey Martin their “secret weapon.” She won’t be a secret for long. Her wheat sourdough, made with spelt and red wheat flour, is the kind of bread that makes even the thought of succumbing to a low-carb diet preposterous. It’s served warm, slightly crisp, and topped with Japanese katsuobushi butter. Two thick pieces accompanied an outstanding order of pork pâté. We assume most people smear it on the bread, but each slice was so tasty on its own that we savored them individually.

Mester and Liss met three years ago while working at Bottega, the revered neo-Italian restaurant that occupied Le Comptoir du Vin’s space until it moved a block away in 2017. His Baltimore culinary journey includes stops at Woodberry Kitchen and the late Parts & Labor. She did fermentation and tended bar at Clavel. They’d been looking for the right location to open their own restaurant for nearly two years when the Maryland Avenue venue became available.

“Travelling together in Europe and seeing these small wine bars, we knew that was what we wanted,” Liss says. “Something intimate that could be a neighborhood spot.”

Co-owners Will Mester and Rosemary Liss met three years ago while working at Bottega.

They did some minor remodeling to their former home away from home, most significantly adding a small, four-seat bar that overlooks the kitchen. During our visits in December, most of the eight tables were occupied. Le Comptoir du Vin means “the wine counter” in French, and it was the name of a bistro Mester frequented often when he lived in Lyon, France. “The chef was a very charismatic older guy who was addicted to horse gambling and lovingly screaming at his customers,” says Mester, whom we didn’t hear yell once. “I am very much rooted in the market-driven cuisine that has a great history in France.”

Mester and Liss have spent time in Osaka (where his mother is from), Tokyo, and Kyoto, so Japanese flavors play a large role at Le Comptoir du Vin as well. Orion, a light lager from Okinawa, was the only beer selection on the nights we were there. When it comes to libations, here, too, Mester and Liss are judicious but nuanced with their selections. Two reds, two whites, and one skin-contact wine were available by the glass, with six others sold by the bottle only (most are French). Sake, Campari, whiskey and ginger ale, and gin and tonic were also available.

During our first meal, we drank Côtes du Rhône, which paired well with our pici pasta and swordfish served with large corona beans and salsa verde. The pici pasta, essentially fat spaghetti, was served with duck ragout and olives and was complex and well executed. In keeping with European sensibilities, both entrees were on the smaller side, but appropriately priced at $16 and $18 respectively. That left plenty of room (in our stomachs and our wallets) for a slice of Martin’s signature Japanese yuzu cheesecake, which managed to be rich and light at the same time.

The star of our second dinneralong with that sourdough breadwas the steak tartare. Masterfully seasoned and topped with a raw egg yolk, it was accompanied by decadent potatoes simmered in water and then fried in duck fat and tossed with the classic herb-parsley mix persillade. The menu will change on a seasonal, weekly, and even daily basis, Mester and Liss say, but stalwarts such as the sourdough (and steak tartare, we hope) aren’t going anywhere.

Opening their own restaurant has been a whirlwind, the couple says. The key, according to Mester, is “finding a balance between work and the rest of your life. It’s a lot, but when it’s yours, it’s really gratifying and exciting.” They’re serving outstanding, worldly food in a lovely, warm space—and they’re still doing it together. What more could we ask for? That’s simply magnifique.

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LE COMPTOIR DU VIN 1729 Maryland Ave., 443-297-7384. HOURS: Tues.-Sat. 5:30-10 p.m. PRICES: $8-18. AMBIANCE: Casual.

Even the most mediocre biopics—which, I’m afraid, Bohemian Rhapsody is—can provide certain pleasures. Much of that enjoyment hinges on the lead performance and Rami Malek, as Queen lead singer Freddie Mercury, is uncannily good in this film, capturing the artist in all of his high-stepping, glammed up, hairy-chested glory. Then it can be fun, in a comfort food sort of way, to watch the tried-and-true formula play out: band is formed, briefly struggle, rise to wild heights, excessively indulge in the spoils of their success, break up—rinse and repeat.

But Bohemian Rhapsody has a secret weapon, one that shoots directly to the biopic pleasure centers, and that’s the irresistible arena rock of Queen, which the film obtained full rights to (and wisely doesn’t mess with much, except for a few careful dubs—no one can sing like Freddie).

Critics have been known to disparage these sorts of movies as filmed Wikipedia pages, and Bohemian Rhapsody, which is directed with generic competence by Bryan Singer, is guilty as charged. It insists on showing us all the major touchstones of Freddie’s rise to fame: Freddie does an impromptu audition for the band that will soon be Queen in a parking lot; he explains his name change—he was born Farrokh Bulsara—to his stunned parents at a family dinner; he pitches the extravagant concept for his rock opera to a skeptical studio head played by Mike Myers; and so on.

There was some fear, based on the trailer, that the film wouldn’t show Freddie’s queerness, but that concern was unwarranted. Yes, Freddie is gay in this film—although as a young man he did live with a woman, Mary Austin (Lucy Boynton), and she remained his most treasured friend for life—and he does get diagnosed with AIDS. At the same time, the film feels pretty tentative about displaying Freddie’s gayness—while it alludes to his promiscuity, it shows only a few relatively chaste kisses with men. What’s more, Bohemian Rhapsody features a real-life character— Freddie’s agent, Paul Prenter (Allen Leech)—and his depiction is downright homophobic. Prenter, who was in love with Freddie, is shown as a predatory figure who manages to estrange Freddie from the people who love him most, ply him with drugs, and, ultimately betray his trust in a salacious, tell-all interview. It’s pretty grim stuff.

Equally grim is the way the film messes with the timeline. Bohemian Rhapsody’s smartest and boldest move is recreating Queen’s iconic Live-Aid performance, nearly in its entirety. That’s an awesome opportunity for Malek, who rose to fame on USA’s Mr. Robot, to strut his stuff—and he’s nothing short of mesmerizing. Still, the scene has an extra poignance in the film because Freddie is performing after he’s been diagnosed with AIDS. I watched the scene, in awe of Freddie’s embrace of life and joyful, primal sexuality in the face of death, and it moved me to tears. Turns out, Mercury was diagnosed two years after that concert. I’m not a stickler for total accuracy in biopics, but yeesh.

Bohemian Rhapsody may be shallow and manipulative, but Malek’s performance is the real deal (although I confess it took me a while to adjust to the impossibly large set of prosthetic teeth they shoved in his mouth, approximating Mercury’s own famous chompers). Between Malek and the incredible music, the film gets the job done—but just barely.

The following review contains mild spoilers.

Good romantic comedies are often described as confections, but Jon M. Chu’s Crazy Rich Asians feels more like a whole feast. It’s laugh-out-loud funny, swooningly romantic, deliciously decadent, and deeply touching. Oh, and it also provides enough “You go, girl” moments to wear out the snapping fingers on both of your hands.

The first of those moments comes right away. It’s 1995. A Chinese family arrives at a hotel late night in London. It’s raining and the kids have muddy shoes, making a mess on the floor. The elegant young matriarch (Michelle Yeoh) glides up to the desk and says that she has a reservation for a suite. The two hotel workers look her up and down with some disdain. They tell her no rooms are available. (“Have you tried Chinatown,” one sneers.) The matriarch runs to a phonebooth to make a call in the rain—they wouldn’t even afford her the courtesy of letting her use the hotel phone—and a few minutes later there’s a flurry of activity. The owner of the hotel comes downstairs in his pajamas, greets the matriarch, whose name is Eleanor Young, like an old friend and announces that the Young family has bought the hotel.

Mic. Drop.

This scene is brilliant in many ways. It provides the audience with immediate gratification, in a film that is positively dripping with satisfying moments. It establishes how rich the Youngs are. And it gives a chance to root for Eleanor Young, but also see how formidable she is. This is a woman who is NOT to be trifled with.

Cut to present day. Rachel Chu (Constance Wu), a self-possessed and thoroughly modern young Asian woman, is teaching game theory to a class at NYU. From the wings of the classroom, her dishy boyfriend (Henry Golding) walks in—beaming. He’s totally smitten.

Later, the two grab a drink and he asks if she’ll go East with him. “The East Village?” she asks. No, he says, Singapore. Turns out, he’s the best man in his friend’s wedding and he thinks it’s the perfect opportunity for Rachel to finally meet his family. She hesitates, consults with her beloved mother (Tan Kheng Hua), and ultimately decides to go, at least partly because her college bestie, Peik Lin Goh (a scene-stealing Awkwafina, giving us Asian Thelma Ritter realness), lives there. It’s decided.

On the plane, they get first class, which Rachel at first thinks is a mistake. Her boyfriend modestly mentions that his father does some business with the airline. She’s beginning to sense that he’s rich. But she has no idea.

In Singapore, she heads to Peik Lin’s house, which is opulent by any measure. The family, including father Wye Mun (Ken Jeong), is loud and warm and nouveau riche. (Let’s just say the décor is Trump Tower chic.) Peik Lin’s frumpy younger brother mouths the words “I love you” to Rachel across the table. Her adorable twin sisters giggle over how skinny Rachel is. There’s lots of familial laughter.

But they are silenced when they find out the name of Rachel’s beau: Nick Young. The Youngs are the richest family in Asia, they explain. Not just rich, but crazy rich. And Nick is their precious eldest son.

You can guess where the film goes from there. Eleanor is Nick’s mom and she does not approve of Rachel. Yes, partly because Rachel doesn’t come from wealth (much to the bafflement of Nick’s cousins: “Do you hail from the packing peanut Chus?” asks one, trying to make sense of things), but also because she sees her as a threat to Nick’s return to Singapore and inevitable takeover of the family business. (In Eleanor’s mind, all Americans are shallow and selfish, always pursuing happiness over duty.) What’s more, a lot of the women in Nick’s Singapore social circle are mean girls, who see Rachel as some sort of American gold digger.

The film is ultimately about Rachel finding her power, staying true to who she is, and standing up to Nick’s imperious mother and grandmother. It’s also about the balance between family sacrifice and self-fulfillment. Along the way, the film gives us everything we could possibly want: beautiful clothing, outrageous parties, Asian food porn, gorgeous men and women, and acid-dipped one liners. In the end, though, it would all be for naught if the film didn’t have heart and it does. We care deeply about these characters—and the film does, too.

All hail director Chu, who keeps the thing gliding along like it’s on ice, making the whole swirling, delectable enterprise look easy. Trust me, people, rom-com perfection like this is earned.