Admittedly, Restaurant Week probably isn't the best time to visit a restaurant for the first time. Dining rooms are packed, kitchens are slammed and servers bounce from table to table without a second to spare. But if a restaurant can deliver under that kind of pressure, it says far more about its character than a quiet Thursday night ever could.
I visited The Local this past Restaurant Week with four of my dearest friends. Nestled in the heart of the historic Belmont district, the restaurant offers a variety of farm-to-table dishes that highlight Virginia's agricultural abundance. Even on one of its busiest days of the year, The Local made us five newcomers feel like beloved regulars, earning its titular distinction.
This upscale gastropub is open from 5 – 9 p.m. every day of the week — aside from Friday and Saturday when they stay open until 10.
We checked in for our reservation and were promptly led through the restaurant. Eclectic artwork hung on weathered brick walls, and the old wooden bar buzzed with conversation. A wall blanketed with wine corks sat adjacent to a peephole into the kitchen, where chefs bantered and moved with tactical precision. The dim lighting and lived-in charm gave the space a palpable sense of charisma.
Following our hostess, we meandered through the first-floor of the restaurant until we reached a large white tent tucked into the patio. The tent was both loud and lively, set to the soundtrack of clinking glasses and alluring conversation.
While the pace of the service reflected the chock full restaurant, our jolly server remained warm and attentive, happily walking us through the Restaurant Week menu — $35 for a starter, entrée and dessert.
After some deliberation, my council of trusted dining companions and I came to a consensus. Four of us chose to start with the Mixed Green Salad, while one of us boldly requested the Bison Empanada.
After about 25 minutes, our appetizers arrived. At first glance, the salad appeared quite modest — a handful of baby greens decorated with a sparing amount of goat cheese, cucumbers, pickled onions and cherry tomatoes. Yet each component carried through every bite and provided a crisp freshness and a pop of color to the verdure.
The surprise star of the dish was the grilled watermelon — the smoky char from the grill stopped the melon from being overly sweet. A similar note can be said of the dressing. Far too often, I find that salads drown in dressing. However, this one allowed its local ingredients to shine, and was accented — not overpowered — by a bright citrus vinaigrette.
My friend Molly ordered the Bison Empanada. The palm-sized meat pocket arrived on a bed of crema, accompanied by a small side salad. Its crust shattered into crisp, buttery flakes, revealing a filling generously packed with well-seasoned local bison. The empanada balanced spice and acidity beautifully. The crema added a fold of sweetness into a dish that was otherwise replete with spice and layered flavors. Every person at the table eagerly accepted a bite, and by the time it was all said and done, not a crumb remained.
The wait between courses was noticeable, though hardly unexpected on one of Restaurant Week's busiest evenings. Fortunately, The Local has cultivated the sort of atmosphere where conversation naturally caulks the gaps. Between swapping bites, sharing stories and watching the organized chaos of service unfold around us, the evening never felt stalled.
When our entrees arrived, we all sat up a little straighter in our seats. My order, the Pan Roasted Chicken Breast, boasted beautifully crisp skin and remarkably juicy meat. Because I’m gluten-free, the chicken came on a bed of mashed potatoes as opposed to its typical bed of faro risotto — a change I ultimately considered a massive upgrade. These mashed potatoes were impossibly creamy and buttery, punctuated by small pieces of potato skin that added just enough texture.
The dish was missing the cucumber yogurt sauce that was advertised on the menu — but after overhearing they had run out of fries on a Friday night, it felt more like the inevitable consequence of an exceptionally busy service than a glaring oversight. While another layer of spice or acidity would have behooved the poultry, I really appreciated how The Local lets their regional ingredients shine, rather than hiding quality ingredients beneath elaborate sauces.
The chicken was accompanied by a side salad, featuring feta, olives and tomatoes. Unfortunately — like the chicken — it arrived without dressing, rendering it more as a handful of cheese and produce than a salad.
The Wasabi Pea Crusted Salmon proved to be the unanimous favorite of the evening. The salmon was exceptionally tender and light, flaking off at each pierce with the fork. The wasabi pea and nori crust did not add the spice many were anticipating — instead, it offered a sweet, umami crunch that only spoke of spice as an afterthought.
By its side sat a neatly pressed cake of crispy sticky rice. The crisp exterior gave way to a satisfyingly chewy center that paired beautifully with the light salmon. The dish came with a ramequin of spicy aioli. Sweet and tangy with a soft undercurrent of heat, it was a delicious foil to the salmon and the rice.
The lone misstep was the green beans, which had wilted a bit too much to the heat. Fortunately, when the salmon and crispy rice are this memorable, many did not even seem to notice the overcooked haricots.
Molly’s entree, the Veal Milanese, was the most divisive plate of the evening. Paper-thin veal patties came topped with roasted tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella — buried beneath a mountain of arugula. While I thought the veal tasted vaguely like sausage, Molly thought it tasted like nothing at all. The arugula was well-dressed, but occupied a majority of the plate’s surface area — we both agreed adding a carb to balance the meal would have been much better.
After we finished our entrees, we relished in each other’s company as the sun dipped behind the Belmont horizon, unconcerned with the passing time. About 20 minutes went by before our dessert made its way out of the kitchen, but the wait felt fitting. My four friends all ordered the Creme Brulee Cheesecake, while I went rogue with the Flourless Chocolate Cake.
This lava cake-shaped delicacy arrived alongside a colossal dollop of whipped cream and a drizzle of raspberry coulis. The cake itself was incredibly dense and decadent, and its smooth, fudgy texture bordered on molten in the center. The fresh vanilla whipped cream cut through the richness of the warm cake, balancing its richness, while the raspberry coulis added a fold of brightness — though it leaned a touch too sweet.
If there was one thing that everyone agreed on that evening, it was the cheesecake.
It was decadent and rich without becoming heavy, and sweet without becoming cloying. A whisper of citrus brightened the creamy filling, while a thick, buttery crust provided the perfect contrast in texture. We all agreed it tasted unmistakably homemade, and my friend Natalie even went as far as declaring it "the best cheesecake of my life." No one at the table argued.
My friends and I sat around the table long after our plates were clear, a page we took from the playbook of the patrons around us. I took a moment to marvel at my fortune — I had the privilege to sit with wonderful women in a wonderful space, eating wonderful food for a wonderful price.
And while there are countless things to love about the women who have made me who I am, my trusted council of dining companions, I think what I value most is the sense of authenticity that each and every one of them brings to the table.
They never pretend to be someone who they aren’t. And neither does The Local.
It doesn't chase trends or rely on gimmicks to stand out. It doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel. Instead, it leans into what it is — a lively neighborhood restaurant filled with character and the fruits of local farmers’ labor. The Local doesn’t just use “farm to table” as a marketing slogan — it lives it in each dish it fires.
As with people, there are imperfections, but they never distract from the restaurant's sense of identity. As a matter of fact, it intensifies it.
In an era where so many people and restaurants are dead-set on becoming the next viral phenomenon, there is something so special about an eatery — and a group of young women — who know exactly who they are.
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