Editor’s note: To commemorate the momentous event known as DC Restaurant Week, the editors of the Washington Post sent our resident food critic to places that serve food that average, hard-working DC-ers might actually be able to afford. His first stop: The VC, or “Verizon Center,” as it’s known by the average DC working stiff.
The VC
601 F Street, NW
202-628-3200
When you’ve had such illustrious visitors like Gilbert Arenas and Michael Jordan, you know you must be serving up exquisite cuisine. However, a visit to the VC revealed vittles that were vexing and atmosphere that was angering.
Upon first visit, I noticed the VC doesn’t make one feel like a regular. The throngs of diners seem rude and poorly dressed. The welcoming host at the ticket booth tore my ticket and then almost tore me a new one when I inquired as to what the evening’s specials would be.
Nevertheless I trudged on. The massive volume this place does convince me there must be something truly original here.
Sadly, I found it necessary to mime my way through dinner. The music was always loud in the foreground. And on a busy Saturday night, the diners were quite noisy – one would say boisterous, even. Yet their ecstatic cheers — which must have been for their entrees, one assumes — emboldened me to tempt my palette with some newfound dishes.
A cozy snack stand on one of the levels stood just near an impossibly huge restroom and under some gauche recessed lighting. It looked the perfect retreat for an after-work bite. The look was uncivilized and yet happily quaint.
Sadly, my first bite of food did not result in any epiphanies. The Verizon Center’s appetizers were quite routine. A confection I later learned was called a “pretzel” was overcooked and doused with flaky white crystals ostensibly named after the trendy Baltimore dining spot Salt. The delicacies known as “French fries” were greasy. Yet they were plentiful and people seemed to enjoy them. How to explain this cookery conundrum?
For the main course, I was expecting a pleasant skewer of bologna embedded within a round bread roll. Yet what I received was an oddly-shaped concoction called a “hot dog.” Worse, it was slathered in an oddly fluorescent yellowish substance (a phone call to the venue later revealed the exotic matter was called “mustard”
.
Burgers may be the Verizon Center’s ticket to acclaim. I’d never tried one, but was pleasantly surprised at the restorative mounds of meat that greeted my mouth. My “cheeseburger deluxe” came enriched with a dusting of a whimsical red substance I later learned was called “ketchup.”
A “Center?” Not quite. There’s no central focus here. I’d rate the food so-so, but the ambiance very poorly. With all that shouting and screaming, you’d almost think there was some kind of sporting event was going on or something.
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Whine, whine, whine. He got potato salad instead of the coleslaw he craved. His onions weren’t cooked. The carrots were old.