DonRocks

An article in today's Post Metro section about the upcoming opening this weekend: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/artic...-2004Feb25.html

I wonder how they're celebrating Ash Wednesday.

I suspect Tom's not doing this chat to be charitable; almost surely, it's part of his job description at the Post. Speaking of Post, he posts what he wants to post, meaning that it's his decision to air dissenting or hostile viewpoints. In doing so, he comes across as utterly fair and balanced, perhaps to a fault because it's clear that he lets the dogs get him down on occasion. But my impression is that he's a man of high self-confidence, and this is why he's perfectly comfortable (if sometimes cranky) opening up the doors to public criticism. I also think he generally enjoys these chats and takes them quite seriously, and that he's not just showing up waiting for the closing bell to ring.

Hor Nee Yan Pho Ming

I want to add something: in no way am I trying to single out Café Atlantico with this thread. Quite the contrary, Café Atlantico is one of the places in Washington that's trying to do things the right way. For example, when I ordered a glass of Torrontes, the bartender poured me what I thought was a normal-sized fill, but then apologized because this was the last of it, and then recommended and offered me a glass of Pinot Gris instead. In essence, he poured me a full glass of each wine, and comped one of them. A refill on the Pinot Gris was also comped (and he was tipped well for his kindness, too). It's touches like this that take good service, and make it great service. The sommelier was readily at hand to answer a question I had about a wine, and the charismatic manager has been courteous and professional the last two times I went - he even remembered me from several weeks ago. I repeat: I have nothing but good things to say about Café Atlantico. This single glass of warm red wine is merely a launching point for a much broader topic - a topic that has raised my hackles for years. Cheers, Rocks.

Joe, I do expect it, but I don't accept it. (Hence, this thread.) Think about it: I order a $10 bowl of seafood bisque, and it arrives cold. Is it worth a mention, or should I save it for the $140 ounce of Beluga with toast points? Cheers, Rocks.

Restaurants need to stop serving their red wines at room temperature - often as high as 75 or 80 degrees. My glass of Argentine Malbec was defiled tonight at Café Atlantico because it was so hot that all I could taste was seering alcohol and tannins. (The conscientious and friendly bartender remedied this by sticking the glass in the white wine cooler for ten minutes.) Unfortunately, this type of thing can ruin an otherwise excellent winelist. For the time being, I would bypass the reds by the glass, and take your chances with an unfamiliar white varietal at Café Atlantico, and hopefully the sommelier will get this message and begin lowering the temperature of his reds. The list has serious depth in certain areas, the sommelier is talented (I've talked with him twice now, and he knows his game), but the glass of red I had was served fully ten degrees too warm. I had the same problem recently at Cashion's Eat Place: an excellent wine was compromised in a big way as it came out snorting alcohol it was so warm. I've experienced many other examples of the same thing throughout the city, and I think they're worth spotlighting here from this point forward, in the hopes that people in charge of the wine programs begin to get it. Don't you guys see that serving young, tannic red wines at room temperature basically takes half your list, and renders it worthless? I think this tawdry situation has been the status quo for a long time (like forever), but maybe now is a good time to begin tending to it. Cheers, Rocks. P.S. I'm well aware that architectural constraints and pre-built storage conditions can make this a real challenge, but still....

Tonight was Café Atlantico, followed by a terrific dessert, followed by a late-night check-in at Rumba Café (perhaps more on the fine Rumba Café in an upcoming post). The guacamole at Atlantico is the best I've had in Washington, the conch fritters (discussed earlier in this thread) are as good as you could possibly imagine, the scallops in a coconut crispy rice with ginger squid and squid-ink oil were disappointing, the scallops being overcooked and the sauce being too monolithic and dull, the foie gras in Torrontes with brioche is quite good but not special, the marinated quail with mango/anchovy raviolis and balsamic reduction is superb, and an incredible value at nine dollars. All dishes ordered as small plates, and I'm reminded once again what a terrific place this is to catch an early dinner at the bar. The wine program is one of the best in Washington, but has a fatal flaw. Francisco Astudillo is a talented young sommelier who has assembled the single most interesting list of South American wines I have ever seen. Witness: 37 Chilean Cabernet Sauvignons, 16 Argentine Cabernet Sauvignons, 27 Argentine Malbecs, not to mention 30 sparkling wines (most of them Champagne including interesting pulls such as the LaSalle Chigny-Les-Roses Premier Cru for sixty dollars. Then there are the wines by the glass: 18 different varietals offered, almost all of them having at least two selections apiece - even unusual stuff by the glass such as Godello, Tokai-Furmint, Verdehlo, Torrontes, a German Pinot Gris. Nothing by the glass is priced at more than $10.00 - it's a fabulous by-the-glass list accompanying an interesting list in general, and the sommelier is engaging, knowledgable and eager to please, so what's the fatal flaw? Well, you'll just have to read the next thread, because in this one, I'm not going to say anything but praise about Café Atlantico, so there! Cheers, Rocks!

Hey man, how can anyone possibly live in a town named "Chantilly" and not appreciate fine pastry? (or at least a cream horn from Kroger.)

Steve, I'm not sure that's true, because when I tick through the list of Virginia restaurants in the genre you describe, one thing comes to mind: they're all still open and thriving, with the notable exception of Le Relais. Colvin Run Tavern, 2941, Inn at Little Washington, L'Auberge Provençal, Ray's The Steaks, Harry's Tap Room, Bombay Bistro, even L'Auberge Chez François was considered creative in its day. Todd Gray is opening a new place out in Middleburg which will undoubtedly be popular, at least at first. Granted, most of these are newish, but they're all packed with customers. A few days ago, I had lunch at Caravan Grill which is next door to Lauriol Plaza. There were three people in the restaurant, yet Lauriol Plaza seemed bustling when I walked by. Witness also that Wazuri (across the street) went out of business a month ago, and that 88 seems to be struggling a bit although there's a lot of construction going on there. There seems to be a pretty high level of doltitude within the city limits as well, but my main point is that there may indeed be a longing out in the Virginia burbs for something other than Fuddruckers. It may take some time for the masses to get up to speed - if you had shown Louis XIV a light bulb, he would have had no idea what to do with it. Cheers, Rocks.

I bleated out like a sheep when I read this. Mark is a dear friend and for that reason alone I try not to show too much bias in supporting him here. Nevertheless, let me share this anecdote. Once when I was dining in the bar area, there was an impossibly difficult couple at the table next to me. In particular, the gentleman was impatient and being rude with the staff: "Bring her a plate of vegetables!" he demanded, even though there was no such thing on the bar menu. This was primetime on a weekend night, and the restaurant was slammed downstairs. About ten minutes later, fifteen at the most, Mark had come up to say hello and pour me a glass of wine. At the same time, this most unpleasant man says to one of the servers, in a loud and pompous voice, "I ordered a vegetable plate an hour ago! What's taking so long?" The server, and I can't remember who it was, was taken off-guard, but Mark immediately intervened and apologized to the customer, even managing somehow to call him 'sir,' and told the server to go back downstairs and get it right away. That's it, no fanfare, not a snide word about the customer, not even in private to me after they had left. Just plain, old-fashioned politeness and professionalism. I seriously doubt Mark even remembers this since we never discussed it, but I do.

Perhaps he was being allegorical. And what are you doing reading this?

He wanted KFC; I wanted CFK. The decision was made by fiat. My son got in the car and said: "It smells like Play-Doh in here." "I think it's more like Socrates." "Huh?" "Never mind." (*) We ordered bacon and eggs, and I asked if they could fix the plates so I'd have four eggs and he'd have two. The server replied, "I don't think she's going to do that," and so the request never went past our table. But the chef fries her eggs in a tiny frying pan, a perfect size for three, and both orders came out perfectly cooked and shaped. Two eggs were sitting in a frying pan. One egg says to the other egg, "Whew! Sure is getting hot in here!" The other egg goes, "AAAAAHHHHH!!!!! A TALKING EGG!!!!!" Have you ever been anywhere rural, possibly in a mountainous area, thinking you have finally found a place that will have The Ultimate Homestyle Breakfast, and then you order the pancakes and they smell like Crisco? Well, Colorado Kitchen is that rural diner you dream of, right here in Washington, but without any of that Crisco-nastiness: the food is honest, clean and delicious. But perhaps the next logical step should be to remove the salt, pepper and ketchup from the tables, and maybe even the sugar and the cream because the coffee should be presented just as the chef wants it to be, damn it! I love Colorado Kitchen, and I love Gillian Clark's chutzpah and craftsmans pride. The Washington area could (no, should!) support twenty neighborhood restaurants like this. And may they all be reincarnated as nematodes for not having liquor licenses. Cheers, Rocks. (*) It runs in the family. My brother told his daughter for her birthday that there was going to be a new Toyota sitting in the garage. On the morning of her birthday, she woke up and sprinted down to the garage, opened the door, turned on the light, and sitting there on a chair was ... a new toy Yoda! I don't think it went over very well. P.S. Try the shrimp and grits!

No, I'm done with all that nonsense. Last year I got my Valentine what I thought was a perfectly decent gift certificate to Jenny Craig, and I could just see it didn't go over that well. So I returned it and got this really, really nice dust mop, and I mean this thing was seriously high-tech and even came with its own cover, but I never heard from the person again.

Go to Colvin Run Tavern, park in one of the Retail Only spaces (they'll never know), and sally around the crowded barfront to the back-right hinterlands. Take a seat at the bar. If you're questioned about why you're sitting at the bar, mutter something about it being trendy. Open the wine list like you know what you're doing, leaf through it for awhile, occasionally nodding and saying "hmmm...," and then order the Tavel Rosé, currently bin #210 (hint: look chic by knowing that Tavel rhymes with Ma Bell, not (Vaclav) Havel). It's said that you should never order the cheapest wine on the list because it's always plonk, but this is the exception: at $20 (twenty dollars!), you'll get a 2000-vintage co-op bottling from Les Vignerons de Tavel which is probably $5 ex-cellar, but nobody needs to know this. The wine, on first pour, will taste a little bit 'red' for a presumedly bone-dry rosé from the south of France, and if your date tastes it and begins some subtle throat-clearing action, smile confidently and say, "Wait for the scallops. Trust me." Order two each of the Sautéed Maine Scallops with Fennel Tart, Blood-Orange Vinaigrette and 'Black Olive' Olive Oil ($11) and the Stewed Lobster in a Green Curry Coconut Milk Broth, with Sweet Potatoes, Scallions and Crispy Spring Roll ($16). When the scallops arrive, the wine, heretofore middling, will soar (speaking of sores, I'm still waiting for the test results), and both wine and food will instantly grab hold of one-another, sending each other in an upward vortex towards synergy, and making you look like Einstein. The lobster is more Thai than southern French, and yet it too will work brilliantly with the Tavel. At this point in the meal, you simply won't believe that you're going to get out with a $20 liquor bill. These are ample portions; yet if you're questioned by your date on why you didn't order a main course, rehash your excuse for sitting at the bar and say it's trendy. If you're a hearty eater, the problem of quantity is easily solved by delving into the excellent bread, or by having gone and scarfed a cheeseburger one hour before the meal. Dining au style de Jabba the Hut, i.e. bellying up to the bar solo, will cause an uptick in the IDI (individual dining index), assigning the entire cost of the wine to one person, but with two people, you can easily leave having paid less than $50 each including tax and a generous tip. On my nickel, Rocks.

John is a friend of mine, and I hesitate to post anything much about Firefly at this point, but I want to at least mention the, gulp, chicken. I've now had the Roast Half Chicken with Bacon, Cabbage and Prunes three times. It's the least expensive main course at Firefly, and is something I can recommend with confidence. Try it with the cream of turnip soup which Morela wrote about here: http://forums.egullet.org/index.php?showtopic=29675&st=30, and you'll have one heckuva one-two-punch meal for about $25. Cheers, Rocks.

An excerpt from today's Wall Street Journal: ------------------------------------------------------- Sex Is on the Menu This Valentine's Day --- Normally Staid Restaurants Dish Out Some Spicy Offerings; Adult Pudding for Two By Katy McLaughlin and Lauren Lipton ... Firefly in Washington, D.C., will host a four-course "feed each other" dinner during which patrons, shelling out $125 a couple, are instructed to spoon dishes like "Adult Chocolate Pudding" into each others' mouths. Many of these restaurants tend to be pretty staid outfits the rest of the year. "I'm a very conservative type," says Firefly chef John Wabeck, who usually serves straightforward American food like roast Amish chicken. ....

Well I went for a walk And I walked around the block And I walked into The doughnut shop I pulled two doughnuts Out of the grease And I gave the man A five-cent piece He looked at the nickel And he looked at me And he said this nickel’s No good you see It has a hole in the middle And it’s all the way through I said there’s a hole In the doughnut too! During a recent 48-hour binge, I blimped my way through the Hole-y Trinity of DC Doughnuts: Amernick, Komi and Colorado Kitchen. Amernick offers raised versions, a cinnamon-sugar coated and a honey-glazed. These big, bad yeasty boys are a dollar each, and a well-balanced accompaniment to the outstanding, breathtaking rosemary and goat-cheese focaccia offered on weekends (the rosemary qualifies as a vegetable). Amernick’s olive-pizza focaccia is a medalist for best pizza in the city as well (don’t bother with the perfectly adequate slices from Vace next door when you can get this far superior item instead). But my last visit featured an extremely disappointing “cream cheese” focaccia instead of the sublime goat-cheese version. Don’t confuse one with the other: the former is not worth ordering; the latter is one of the single best food items in the city. P.S. don’t miss the caramels and the small almond cookies she calls “macaroons.” I’m not a big fan of the chocolate-chip cookies, but the “black and white” cookies are quite good, and are delicious even straight out of your freezer where they will keep indefinitely if wrapped well. Komi was slammed last week as you might imagine after Tom’s review. I had never been before, and was surprised at just how much I liked it despite my horror at them not having valet parking. After twenty minutes, I bit the bullet and headed due east, parking on 14th and Q, before sprinting through an arctic wind back to the restaurant. I can see why people would consider Komi a poor-man’s Nectar: the portions are smallish (which helps keep the prices reasonable), the place is hip and young, and it’s a very real attempt at fine dining, basically an oasis in a culinary dessert (the only other restaurant I’ve tried in this strip is Sushi Taro which I found to be really bad). They feature homemade doughnuts as an item on the dessert menu, served with “Mexican cocoa.” It’s two fresh raised cinnamon-sugar doughnuts (like Amernick’s, but smaller and a bit denser), served piping hot with a little tureen of warm cocoa and freshly whipped cream for dunking. This is the ultimate cure for “I’ve had a bad day,” and even if you think you don’t want doughnuts for a dessert after a full meal, I advise you to try this anyway: I simply don’t see how I could have enjoyed this dessert any more than I did. Colorado kitchen offers the only cake doughnuts of the three. A sampler platter will get you three small, hot, freshly made beauties, each with a different topping (only on the top part): one had almond bits (lending literal credence to the term “dough nuts”), one had a milk-chocolate glaze (perhaps a touch too subtle) and the third had powdered sugar. Can there be a better way to begin a weekend brunch? Well, yes: the coffee they serve is just plain bad, tasting like something you’d get at a hotel. But! Colorado Kitchen gets a big, positive recommendation from me, with so many good things to like about the cooking. Man, can this lady fry! The doughnuts? Killer. Fried chicken wings with a lemon sauce? Great (and a gutsy-but-dazzling use of zest, too). Fried catfish? As well as you could ever hope for. The catfish arrived, and my friend stuck her fork into my little tin of sauce, and immediately said, “this is the best tartar sauce I have ever had in my life.” This person’s last name has three letters, begins with a “C”, and rhymes with “ham,” so it goes without saying that she knows what she’s doing. Skeptical, I then tried it too just as the waitress was arriving, and I turned to her and said, “this is the best tartar sauce I’ve ever had in my life.” Shrimp and grits? Man, as good as it gets. How much did I like this place? I went back for dinner the next day. I could quibble about certain individual items, but I won’t; instead I’ll say that it qualifies as a legitimate crime against humanity that Colorado Kitchen doesn’t serve alcohol. Gillian Clark is one hell of a homestyle cook, but I also saw some glimpses of real refinement, and her food screams for a decent glass of wine.

On the menu at Rosa Mexicano, there are two items listed by themselves on the top, clearly intended as grabbers: the pomegranate margarita, and the guacamole. The pomegranate margarita is dispensed soft-serve style out of the wall behind the bar. Almost magically, it seems to keep flowing and flowing, seemingly at the rate of ten gallons per second. Question: where do you think it comes from? Do you think the conscientious Tequila-master is sitting there behind the wall, thoughtfully mixing crystal shot glasses full of Patron Anejo into the swirling machine? Think the pomegranate juice is from the farmers market? At least Fat Tuesday’s has more than one flavor. The guacamole is fabulous, wonderful and a bargain at ten dollars. It’s a cleverly crafted strategy, having this as the signature dish. Are you going to go to Rosa Mexicano, next to the MCI Center with $15 valet parking, and order a guacamole with a glass of ice water? If you do, your food will be a terrific value. If you don’t … Washington DC is the third outlet for this chain restaurant. Atlanta, Georgia is soon to be the fourth. Any guesses for number five? Six? Seven? Get the picture? Let’s call a spade a spade: this factory serves processed-tasting food intended for the masses who naively think they’re getting something more meaningful than they would at Cheesecake Factory. Even the tortilla chips taste like they came from the bulk food section at Shoppers Food Warehouse (as opposed to Rio Grande and Cactus Cantina, two high-volume operations that get the chips right). Rosa Mexicano sucks. It sucks! How much does it suck? It sucks, that’s how much it sucks. It sucks ducks, bucks, monster trucks, hockey pucks, guys named Chuck, migrant workers that shuck, lightning bolts that struck, sewage workers wallowing in muck, rear-wheel drive cars that are stuck, vagrants who are down on their luck, babys who taste spinach for the first time and say yuck, and don’t think for a moment I’ve forgotten about the word fuck. There!

Have you seen that giant piece of public art on the corner of Randolph Road and Rockville Pike? Profound not for it's artistic merits, but for its commentary on bureaucracy, and what surely must be decision by committee. My evil twin has fantasized about sneaking up to it in the middle of the night and affixing something large and phallic to one of the figures so it can be on display for morning rush hour. How bad can bad art be? Look! http://www.glyphs.com/moba/deardorf.html scroll down and look at "Red Figure With Braids," and then click on it to view the close-up.

Yikes! Enjoy your meal (he says nervously, with a sense of responsibility). ----- With less than ten hours remaining in the year, I had my most horrific restaurant experience of 2003. It was worse than seeing a rat. This afternoon after a beautiful walk along Rock Creek, I got some takeout pizza from a little hole-in-the-wall I sometimes frequent, and asked if I could wash my hands in their restroom (employees only). The restroom is a clean-but-decrepit little rectangular cube, in the back of the building, which couldn't be much larger than 6-feet by 3-feet. Against the back wall is a unisex toilet, and sticking in the front wall is a sink. There is virtually no room on either side, and not much room in the middle. As I leaned down to turn on the faucet, I saw a handwritten sign over the sink: Please Do Not Sit. http://www.francis-bacon.cx/figures/nurse.html

Ask the famous chefs in Washington to list the great underrated cooks in this town, ask them to count the top underpublicized talents on their fingers, and also ask them to stick one of their hands in a meat grinder before they do it: Tom Power of Corduroy will still make the list. So many great things to say about this wonderful restaurant. Location be damned, I like the interior very much. The restaurant is chef-owned. The staff is honest and caring if a bit green. The wine list is excellently chosen and bargain-priced. The chef is not only in the restaurant, but also in the kitchen - the last time I was there, he was busting his ass on the line. From start-to-finish, this was one of the best meals I've had in a long, long time. Tom Power is a major talent. Nobody would accuse him of being a marketing genius, but can anyone out there say he can't deliver a fabulous meal on the plate? Earth to everyone: Saturday night, there was one - and only one - cover served in the bar portion at Corduroy: me. A couple people were there drinking, but nobody was dining at all. Tired of overpriced, indifferent restaurants? Go to Corduroy. Sick of celebrity chefs that "work the room" but don't sweat it out by the stove? Go to Corduroy. Want multiple interesting small courses for under $15 each? Go to Corduroy. Want terrific wines for under $35 a bottle? Go to Corduroy. Corduroy is the most unsung fine-dining establishment in Washington DC. Think Palena falls under the radar? Lower your radar screen about 30 degrees and you'll see Corduroy flying that much lower. This place needs to be supported. It's brilliant I tell you, absolutely brilliant. If you go and sit at the bar, and order off the menu, and give the merest hint of caring about your meal, then you'll be treated like royalty. The food is terrific. It sickens me that on a Saturday night, I was the ONLY PERSON in the bar having dinner, and down the street, the Cheesecake Factory was filled with a bunch of indifferent, couch-dwelling, bon-bon-dropping, Wonderbread-buying mall-shopping minivan-driving hell-hags and rednecks who were spending THE SAME AMOUNT on their fettucine al Crisco that I was spending on my lobster carpaccio. This is a sin, and it sickens me that this city cannot support a restaurant with as much brilliance and talent as Corduroy. Tom Power is a great technical cook, and he'll serve you a great meal if you go. Corduroy needs the support of people who care about food. The location is horrible and it's simply too good to be empty. Yes, I'm pumping this restaurant with this post, but it's for a reason: I want places like this to succeed, and you should too. Okay, I've said what I wanted to say, and here are the obligatory specifics which will undoubtedly be slightly different the evening you go ... and I hope you do go. The carpaccio of lobster with mizuma and citrus is an impossibly thin, elegantly presented raw lobster with the barest hint of citrus and mizuma greens. Parsnip soup is overnight-roasted parsnips thickened with foie gras (!) and enlightened by tarragon. The veal cheeks are lovingly enhanced with tomatoes, thyme, orange peel, veal stock and celery. Two chocolate desserts are head-on, unabashed, temples of chocolate: the chocolate tart with caramelized banana is worthy of awe, and the caramelized banana is as brilliantly executed as any I've ever tried (with apologies to the brilliant version with foie gras at Nectar). Baked chocolate 'Sabayon' is another example of Tom Power's rock-solid ability to work this important medium: no kitchen in all of Washington is going to turn out two better chocolate desserts on any given evening than these brilliant testaments. Cheers, Rocks.

The grandmother had been fooling around on the piano all afternoon, singing the songs of her times to herself in a falsetto, and she had stains of musk and tears on her eyelids. But when she lay down on her bed in her muslin nightgown, the bitterness of fond memories returned. “Take advantage of tomorrow to wash the living room rug too,” she told Eréndira. “It hasn’t seen the sun since the days of all the noise.” “Yes, Grandmother,” the girl answered. She picked up a feather fan and began to fan the implacable matron, who recited the list of nighttime orders to her as she sank into sleep. “Iron all the clothes before you go to bed so you can sleep with a clear conscience.” “Yes, Grandmother.” “Check the clothes closets carefully, because moths get hungrier on windy nights.” “Yes, Grandmother.” “With the time you have left, take the flowers out into the courtyard so they can get a breath of air.” “Yes, Grandmother.” “And feed the ostrich.” She had fallen asleep but she was still giving orders, for it was from her that the granddaughter had inherited the ability to be alive still while sleeping. Eréndira left the room without making any noise and did the final chores of the night, still replying to the sleeping grandmother’s orders. “Give the graves some water.” “Yes, Grandmother.” “And if the Amadises arrive, tell them not to come in,” the grandmother said, “because Porfirio Galan’s gang is waiting to kill them.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez (from “The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and her Heartless Grandmother”) Andale was an afterthought on a night when all I wanted was beer, pizza and sleep. I was hell-bent on “eatin’ fer free” at Ella’s, taking advantage of their happy-hour special of free pizza, and getting home at a reasonable hour. So I walked into the bar around 6:45, a little over an hour before the Cheapskate Special was supposed to end, and there were about a half-dozen people sitting around. I ordered a beer, and after a few minutes, asked, “is there still happy hour pizza?” “The happy hour pizza? Yes, right behind you,” the bartender chirped. I turned around and looked at a small table with three 10-inch pizza serving plates on it, two of which were completely empty, and the third having a half of a cheese pizza on it. So I walked up, took a little plate the size of my hand, and scooped up three matchbox-sized pieces of cheese pizza, very much to my taste, which was ¼ of a pie. The cold cheese pizza at Ella’s is still much better than the piping-hot pizza at Matchbox (see below). I love it, and will happily order it again - I’ll be back, and I do hope that their freshly ordered pizza is better than the experience I had tonight. Over the next fifteen minutes, I nursed my three Lilliputian-sized pieces of cold pizza while drinking my beer, then a second pint of Yeungling ($3 at happy hour), all the while waiting for something fresh to arrive. Finally, after nothing happened, I asked for a menu and ordered a bruschetta with smoked salmon and ricotta (out of sheer courtesy for the house). After about 20 more minutes, I ordered a third beer and the bruschetta finally arrived, and it was simply awful. I won’t go into the details, but I ate one piece out of three and gently pushed it aside. I finished my third beer about 45 minutes into the “meal,” and quietly asked for the check as the bartender finally noticed that I didn’t eat my bruschetta despite the fact that there were only 3-4 people left at the bar. “You didn’t like it?” he asked. “Not so much,” I replied, desperately hoping he’d comp it or do something – anything so I could justify leaving him some extra money. It didn’t happen. This bartender was miserable: while I was there, the patrons were touristy, loud, obnoxious and rude, and for every false smile he gave to his customers, he’d turn around and scowl immediately afterwards (note to Ella’s: this is a small drawback of having mirrors behind your bar). Bottom line: the “happy hour” pizza at Ella’s is a promotion I suspect they either can’t or don’t want to honor. It’s false, and you shouldn’t even think of going there with the notion that you’ll chow down on the cheap. Fuming, I made a beeline to Matchbox for miniburgers. I ordered six, along with a Chimay, and then out of a spirit of protest, decided to order pizza instead. I asked the bartender if I was too late to change my order, and he replied, ‘it’s been put in – do you want to change it?’ “If it isn’t any trouble,” I replied. He nodded politely and then sprinted up two flights of stairs. I apologized profusely when he came back down, saying I had no idea he’d have to do a manual cancel, and he was cool about it. While waiting for my pizza, I overheard someone at the end of the bar muttering something about being unfairly wedged in the corner at the bar at Citronelle earlier this evening. He then started talking about their talented chef, “Michael Herzig.” I said hello and chatted with him briefly - he was a line dog from Caucus Room, formerly the, erm, Executive Chef at Bourbon. He was a nice guy, I liked him, and he was the highlight of the evening up until this point. Having had scarfed my pizza, I headed back down 7th Street and passed Andale. I thought to myself, mmmm, okay, one drink. I walked in and ordered a beer, then a glass of Arneis, and asked for a fried calamari because, well, why not. It arrived, and I was like, huh? Did you ever see The Tigger Movie, where Tigger was spending the entire time running around looking for his family, and at the end of the movie it turns out that Pooh and company were his real family, and he was with them the whole time? Well that’s exactly how I felt when the calamari came. Crusted in blue cornmeal, served with a serious mixed-green salad, man, it was good, and stopped me in my tracks. “Who is the chef here,” I asked. “Allison Swope,” the bartender (Chris) replied. “Allison Swope? I remember her from Santa Fe East.” It turns out that Efrain Velasco, a manager there, was at the bar with his charming friend, and they started noticing that I was caring about the food. I then asked for another small dish, whatever the kitchen felt like making, and they brought out a Coctel de Mariscos which is shrimp and scallops, steamed and tossed on three tortilla chips with tomatoes, chilies, lime, onion, cilantro and guacamole. After a Mezcal (from their impressive list), I asked for a dessert of their choice, and was brought a delicious pineapple upside-down cake with vanilla-coconut ice cream and lightly drizzled caramel sauce. It sounds busy, but it isn’t, and it was a terrific dessert – take my word on this one and try it. I thanked everyone, said my goodbyes, and continued homeward, happy and content. ------------- Next-day thought: I hit Ella's during the last hour of the last day of a week filled with tourists and other people coming in to order ice water and mooch pizza. I suspect they were really looking forward to this week's happy hour being over, and I can't say I blame them. Cheers, Rocks. P.S. A kind thought towards morela - I hope you feel better.

Bilrus, you asked about Equinox during Restaurant Week. I was there two years ago in what turned out to be an unforgettable meal. We didn't even know it was restaurant week when we arrived, but decided to take the $20 (or whatever) menu because there was no reason not to. Well, wow. It seems a lot of places do a token menu for Restaurant Week, or perhaps try and pull off something rather lame. Not Equinox - Todd Gray offered up what he does best: honest, satisfying no-bullshit food that will have you leaving wth a smile on your face. How could they possibly pull this off? The obvious answer is that they couldn't: they were almost certainly losing money on each menu served, hoping to make it up on drinks and tips. Equinox also has an excellent pastry chef in Lisa Scruggs - an added bonus, as the dessert course is often a key component in the Restaurant Week offerings. Go on a Monday or Wednesday night, sit at the bar, and introduce yourself to one of the very best bartenders in all of Washington, Tony Allen. Try the excellent William Fèvre Chablis by the glass, and tell Tony I said hello. Cheers, Rocks.