Lunch with power.
The places for Power Lunch in Washington aren’t that many; the ritual is indeed super exclusive.
Washington is not America, but it is here that the nation’s destiny is decided. Power rests in the hands of politicians, senators, lobbyists, and tycoons—few determined individuals living very particular lives. Lives where little remains private and fundamental activities like eating take a back seat. The stereotype that powerful people eat poorly and quickly is a common one that is rarely disputed. It is well known that Churchill was a gourmet who loved to dedicate ample time to meals, while Nixon was a connoisseur of rare French wines that he had served in unmarked carafes so as not to humiliate (or entice) his guests, who were served mediocre California wines in similarly unmarked carafes. However, since Reagan, the lifestyle of American political and economic elites has undergone a significant acceleration. In this context, time for lunch has become exceedingly precious, and the ritual of eating at noon has transformed into a quick and anonymous snack, leading to the proliferation of Power Lunch spots in Washington.
Businessmen have long used the lunch break for meetings and negotiations, often taking advantage of the convivial atmosphere that helps to approach even delicate topics with a certain lightness.
It was at the Four Seasons in New York that the term “power lunch” was born. In past years, its restaurant was increasingly used for meetings among the greats of finance, fashion, and publishing. The same has happened at the restaurant of the St. Regis on 16th Street at the corner of K Street, just two blocks from the White House. This historic hotel, inaugurated in 1926, has hosted visiting monarchs and presidents, almost as if it were an annex of the presidential residence. The Louis XVI candelabras, damask curtains, marble, polished brass, and paneling have witnessed much Washingtonian life, and recently, also the most prestigious power lunches in the city. The restaurant’s director, Daniel Mahdavian, sunk into the burgundy leather armchairs of the Library Lounge, does not reveal names but suggests that it is not a matter of political allegiance but of institutional position. Here, the power lunch begins with an appetizer while waiting for their preferred table to become available, and among the culinary choices, the sea bass with young vegetables stands out. The secret seems to be the mint-flavored butter that the chef prepares specially. The St. Regis has the most elegant room chosen for power lunches and undoubtedly represents an exception.
The phrase is so well-known that a board game company, Mayfair Games, even produced a social game created by two event planners from Washington, Carrol Habit and Jeff Dailey, both great connoisseurs of the private vices and public virtues of the star system and the diverse fauna of the capital.
Yes, the fauna. In the bar of the Caucus Room, one of the temples of Washington’s power lunches, hangs a painting by William Woodward depicting a group of animals sitting around a table sharing a typical American pie. Among them are a donkey, an elephant, a bear, and a bull, representing Democrats, Republicans, and Wall Street financiers, accompanied by trained monkeys and rapacious vultures—effective allegories of the insatiable media circus. This is a jovial yet precise metaphor for the power Washington, a singular universe cohesive with money, power, social relations, and the instinct for self-preservation. It is no coincidence that the scene unfolds around the pie, as it is right in front of a laid table that certain characters give their best (or worst, depending on the case). On the morning of September 11, the director of the CIA was at the tables of the St. Regis restaurant with some Republican senators, buttering a warm croissant when he received the news of the first crash. Because the power lunch can also be a power breakfast; indeed, the hotel’s general manager explains that his restaurant is one of the few to offer opportunities for convivial meetings even at breakfast. The location on the ground floor with an elegant independent entrance certainly helps.
But if you think that power lunches only take place in cushioned oases of exclusivity, you are very much mistaken.
Forget about suites, caviar, and champagne, and legions of starched waiters, white-gloved sommeliers, and everything else the iconography of luxury has accustomed us to. For a power lunch to work, it must be an almost casual meeting in a context where nothing is truly casual. Not even the lobbyist’s tie, known for matching the dominant colors of the restaurants they choose. It would be disastrous to appear as a discordant note; it would be equivalent to presenting oneself as an outsider. It is known that green predominates at La Colline, so nothing is better than a green and blue regimental tie, since the glass partitions are indeed that color. We mentioned the apparent casualness, a fundamental yet unspoken rule. The lobbyist invites the politician to guide (or rather, persuade) them toward certain choices. This activity of more or less covert persuasion must begin at a distance and follow a path of approach, with continuous references to positions already taken by the politician. It is a concentration job that must occur with great lightness, in a calm environment and in a meeting that appears merely convivial.
Thus, the restaurants chosen for power lunches must meet certain requirements.
First and foremost is the location, near centers of power such as the Capitol and the White House. Generally, they do not have large windows facing the street, or if they do, they are screened. The restaurants themselves are not particularly impressive; take The Monocle, for example, which is as simple and almost ordinary as one could imagine, and we might even add a bit stale. Yet, it is by far the most frequented by senators.
Service is a defining aspect for restaurants of this type. It must be impeccable yet discreet. The waiter should have the gift of transparency, seeing without being seen. But above all, it must be personalized. Customers are greeted by name, their preferences memorized, so that their favorite table, preferred wines, vintages, and how they like their steak cooked are remembered.
At the St. Regis, for example, raspberry jelly with cherry is always on the menu, a preparation by the chef that the CIA director enjoys and seems to please the bodyguards even more, who often make an informal visit to the kitchens. The tables for power lunches must also be well spaced, and the menu must feature meat, perhaps the famous porterhouse steaks aged for two or three weeks that Americans of all backgrounds love. Once again, those expecting sublime creations of haute cuisine will be disappointed. Those who truly hold power at lunch eat steaks three fingers high or crab cakes shaped like burgers.
And among these temples of meat, a true, American steakhouse could not be missing: Bobby Van’s on 15th Street, just a block from the White House.
If you think the waiters aren’t the usual Latin macho types, you’re still off track; perhaps you thought you would be spared the clichéd décor of mounted heads, horns, and leather upholstery. Not a chance. Bobby Van’s has all of this. Yet, it is precisely the steakhouse favored by Bill Clinton, who used to frequent it with Democratic senators. The wives were excluded from the ritual, thus sparing them from crude jokes and the transgression of good dietary intentions. His porterhouse steak was to be ample, aged for six weeks (as all those served should be), cooked medium rare, with a light crust but an intense red inside, juicy enough. The Democrat John Kerry, another enthusiastic customer, prefers his steak decidedly rare and bloody. John Simkins, the general manager, claims that this is the best way to enjoy it, adding that this is what straightforward and decisive people want. The first restaurant in the chain opened in New York and became famous in the 1970s, where the greats of literature, starting with Truman Capote, would gather. Bobby Van was the pianist who, in the early days, entertained the patrons. But this is definitely a masculine restaurant.
First ladies generally prefer The Monocle on D Street, just a stone’s throw from the Capitol.
It is here that Hillary Clinton held her periodic meetings with the women senators, always in the Wine Room, the small upstairs lounge. A tiny jewel box of glass and mirrors with creaky wooden floors, it features a large circular table in the center and a couple of sideboards against the walls. The waiters hardly pass through, but for Hillary, it was “so cozy”; they served her the Crab Conrad on a bed of crispy bacon and spinach puree. It’s a tasty dish but not refined. Perhaps it’s the influence of her husband, who, if he could have, would occasionally have fed himself at McDonald’s, or perhaps a good dose of politically correct understatement. The Monocle is about forty years old (and shows every bit of it), founded by the parents of John Valanos, the current owner, who has never changed the menu. This is where the young senators Kennedy, John and Bob, would stop on their way to elections, and they were so fond of it that they didn’t abandon it even after their nominations. It is well known that the president would send his driver with the “limo” to have crabcakes delivered to him and his brother during work meetings. It was John’s father who would climb into the immense Cadillac holding two domes in his hands. On the walls are their photos with dedications, along with those of about a hundred politicians who have made American history since the post-war period to today. They are “mobile” presences, the owner confides. The portraits move to reflect the political affiliations of the diners, 90 percent of whom are senators. Here, the phone rings continuously to alert the representatives of the American people, busy eating, that a vote is imminent in the chamber. And it is always the senators who take precedence in ordering. People know this and accept it willingly. After all, it’s not every day that you have lunch with at least ten senators around, and this is the price for people-watching, the second most practiced sport in the capital after jogging.
La Colline is another of the “senator” restaurants located near Capitol Hill.
It was opened twenty years ago by Paolo Zucconi (the namesake of the journalist), who infused his Italian experience into the restaurant. The menu changes daily; when we visited, they were serving a perfect, traditional *ossobuco alla romana*, and it is considered the best food in the area. One should not imagine diet or low-calorie preparations; the menus for power lunches are rich and not well-suited to the lifestyle of the diners. Here, too, photos of presidents and senators adorn the walls, although in a more discreet manner than elsewhere. La Colline, along with The Monocle, is regarded as the “mess hall” of Capitol Hill. It is bustling during the day and semi-deserted in the evenings, except when Senate sessions run late.
Then there is the Caucus Room.
By far the most refined and welcoming, the Caucus Room is strictly windowless from the street, with cherry panels on the walls, marble floors, and softly lit, skillfully oriented lighting. It is a creation born from a pool of investors linked to both parties. The menu has been crafted by chef Richard Beckel, who believes that all Americans descend from something else; therefore, he studies the cuisines of the world, taking recipes, ideas, and techniques and, through a cosmic “copy & paste,” creates new dishes. Here, the patrons are more lobbyists than politicians; they are the titans of finance rather than those of the political establishment. But above all, they are younger. They choose sea bass and crab cakes, sip San Pellegrino, and finish with Illy espresso. The Caucus Room has no portraits on the walls, as its clientele has a relatively short history. Director Ed D’Alessandro (with distant Italian roots) proudly notes that it is one of the most elegant restaurants in the city, alongside that of the St. Regis. It is dedicated to the new class of emerging powers—cultured and open to self-irony (it is here that Woodward’s caricature of Washingtonian power is prominently displayed), always in search of new dishes that are beautiful but, above all, tasty and safe. This is the generation of forty-somethings who sweat in the Senate gym, run along the banks of the Potomac, and choose food based on calories (and improbable zen considerations). We do not know if their convivial noon meetings yield good results, but they are certainly digestible.
