This much I can promise: No one goes home hungry after dinner at Obelisk.
The antipasti alone at the Italian standard-bearer is as filling as entire meals are at some of the competition.
Dinner in the narrow townhouse in Dupont Circle, so discreet it doesn’t bother with a sign outside, begins subtly enough. A little bowl of herbed olives materializes while you’re perusing the five-course, handwritten menu. Once your order is taken, a plate of burrata shows up, along with skinny housemade breadsticks from a wooden buffet in the center of the dining room. You take a taste of the cheese from Puglia, glistening with fruity Ligurian olive oil and sparked with cracked pepper, and it’s as if you’re eating the combination for the first time. Except, burrata has been the introduction here since I started reviewing for The Post, which says something about the enduring appeal of premium ingredients and the comfort of routine.
