A Table Down the Street: Rye on Rye in Alexandria

Howie Southworth visits Matt + Tony's in Del Ray.

by

Food & Dining

“A Table Down The Street” follows Howie Southworth, author of "A Taste of Alexandria," one local barstool at a time. No reviews. Only encounters. The bartender chasing perfection, the chef with a story, the regular who swears this place was better before you found it. Food and drink may be the excuse. People are the point. A corner seat can tell you everything.

If you can make bread, you don’t go hungry. I’ve said that to my kids more than once. Not as poetry or prose. As a life lesson. Learn this, and you’ll be fine. I walk into Matt & Tony’s with that in mind. Not chasing the next great meal. Just checking whether a place like this feels built on that same idea. 

It’s just before 4. The hinge hour. Families are still holding the tables, but only just. At the bar, it’s mostly pairs. Not dates. Not yet. Too early for that, too late for anything that might pretend to be lunch. A couple of solo stools off to one side, spaced in a way that feels intentional. Not lonely. A good perch for watching.

I take one. “Ever been asked what to pair with rye bread?” I ask Kyla behind the bar. She pauses. Not confused. Just calculating. “Old Fashioned,” she says with purpose. It leans sweet, she confirms. I nod. Then go straight to a Manhattan. I don’t lean sweet and dry rye on rye feels less like a pairing and more like a way to live.

The Manhattan arrives dark and clear, the kind of red that doesn’t ask for attention, it just gets it. The bread comes out without ceremony. No speech. No spotlight. Just placed, like it knows what it stands for. It lands on a wooden board, still warm, sliced politely, with small cups of things that give options once you’ve had the first bite.

There’s gravity to it. A crust that holds. A smell that does most of the talking. Joined by honey ricotta, citrus butter and a cherry balsamic compote from a kitchen crew that couldn’t help themselves. I try them all. Then go back to butter. Bread. Butter. Rye whiskey. Not a meal. Something bigger.

Next to me, a guy is scribbling in a notebook. Pauses. Writes. Sips wine. I tap at a screen, but the rhythm is the same. He notices my vintage cocktail glass. “Nice,” he says. “Equal parts class and whimsy,” I tell him. He laughs, quickly writes something down. Maybe I’m in his story now. He’s certainly in mine.

Behind the bar, a small Godzilla stands guard over the whiskey shelf, which feels about right. The bread demands my attention for a second bite. That’s the real test. Not the first bite. The second. The third. The casual nibble when the drink needs grounding or the conversation dips. This loaf passes the test easily. It holds center stage without asking for it.

There’s a story behind it, of course. There always is. Matt Sloan’s great-grandfather, Tony Schabas, jumped ship in New York Harbor in 1909. An Austrian pastry chef starting over. Found his way to the Waldorf. Made rye bread that people still talk about. Family lore says JFK had it delivered to the White House and called it the best he’d ever had.

Maybe that exact loaf has changed. Recipes drift. Kitchens revolve. But the idea holds. Bread not as vehicle. Bread as foundation. Something carried across an ocean, a couple generations, landing quietly here on a bar in Del Ray.

By 4:45, the room shifts. The families thin out. The bar fills in. A woman at the far end seems to know everyone who walks through the door. A nod here. A laugh there. An unofficial welcome committee for a neighborhood that likes to see itself reflected back. The front windows pull the street inside. The patio doesn’t feel like an extension so much as home. People sit out there like they never really left their block.

There’s a TV behind the bar. Sports are on. They usually are. But it feels like a concession, not a focus. No one’s really watching. Christian the other barkeep checks in. We talk bread for a moment. “Nobody around here gives you rye,” he says. He’s right. There’s something about it. The density. The honesty. It doesn’t try to charm you. It just shows up and does its thing.

Around 4:50, another board of rye passes behind me. Then another. Same weight. Same purpose. No announcement. Just part of the rhythm. At 5:05, dinners begin to land. Same room. Adjusted vibe. And the bread stays. The menu shifts. The light changes. People move through their own small transitions from day to night, from family to solitude to something in between. The bread is still there.

I finish the Manhattan at pace. The last piece of rye goes with it. Not to tidy up the plate. Because it is the perfect last bite. Around me, people settle in or drift out. Some stay longer than planned. Some heed the call home. Fine either way. In a room that changes this much over the course of a day, it’s this elemental loaf that holds it together.

Rye smeared with butter. Rye in the glass. It’s not a pairing. It’s the right choice. And if you can make bread, you don’t go hungry. Sitting here, these feels less like advice and more like design. My scribbling friend should write that down.

Howie Southworth is a seasoned denizen of Old Town Alexandria and the best-selling author behind "A Taste of Alexandria: Modern Restaurant Recipes That Echo Our City's Past," published by Alexandria Living Magazine.

Southworth is also the author of a new book, Hemingway’s Spanish Table (Insight Editions), released March 17. 

Past works include "Chinese Street Food," "One Pan to Rule Them All," "Kiss My Casserole!" and "How to Cook Anything in Your Dutch Oven." Howie is also a regular essayist for Salon.com.

Advertisement