Todd Kliman

Probably a good thing--been to Rosa Mexicano? I don't get the sense Montgomery County is that tapped into food, Danny, it's even more of an uphill battle there than it is in the Virginia burbs. I'd love for that situation to change, but even the better restaurants clustered in Bethesda are a little more conservative than they'd probably like to be because their clientele is that much more conservative. As I've said on other threads about TS, I think Tom is in a tough spot, if he doesn't get out into the burbs he'll get criticized for being too DC-centric and when he does, to deliver a one star review, he'll get criticized by other folks. I'd sooner go to Pazo in B-more. He also doesn't have the luxury like Todd at the City Paper to be a critic when he feels like it one week--visit a place but once and then write a "review"--and then morph into feature food writer mode the next week, and file a column. Tom's the Post restaurant critic, he carries that baggage and tradition, and he has to adhere to tougher standards, visiting all these places repeatedly over time, plus he's limited by that strict Magazine review form and word count week in and week out, probably to his long term detriment. He has to go to so many places he'll never write about and never be able work into a column like, say, Todd's roundups of local chefs using goat or shad roe. ← To clear up some misinformation -- I ordinarily visit a restaurant three times, sometimes four, occasionally five, before writing a review. One of the reasons I shift from the critic's role to the feature writer's role is because often that's the best way to tell a particular story. The story of The Red Heifer, in Bethesda, for instance, is not the food; the story is the great difficulty of running a kosher restaurant.

I'm defining a destination restaurant as a temple of gastronomy, a place you go to worship at the altar of the chef. Being good, and personable, doesn't make a place a destination restaurant; it makes it a worthy place to go a few times a year, if you can afford it. Destination restaurants are those places that, unless you're a pro and you've got a job to do, you hit at most a couple of times a year. Citronelle, Maestro, the Inn. Eve is trying to do what a lot of places are trying to do these days. Actually, I had a line in a column a few weeks back, on Bistro des Celestines -- something to the effect of "it used to be that good restaurants were happy with your business a few times a year; nowadays they want to see you a few times a week." What's different, here, is that Eve is not content simply to be a casual drop by. It's got ambition. It wants to be your special occasion place too. It wants to be considered among, or near, the T of G someday. We'll see. It's got a long, long ways to go. As I wrote this week, I like Eve as a bistro. I think it does very well by itself as a bistro. As for Eve being a neighborhood restaurant, it's funny. Strictly speaking, I don't consider it to be a neighborhood restaurant. For one thing, it's too expensive, too refined, too too. Franklin's Restaurant and Brewpub is a neighborhood restaurant. A relaxed place you can slip into like a warm bath and be comforted by -- even on those nights when it's off. You don't have to wonder where the owner is -- he's making the rounds, in his old wool sweater and ponytail (hey, Mike!) The customers are familiar, the staff knows even before you do that you're here for the Bombshell Blond microbrew, a cheeseburger with bacon, and a side of the beer-battered, Old Bay-dusted onion rings, and when you're a no-show for weeks on end you hear about it when you finally return. Eve isn't that. But look at what it does have going for it -- there's warmth, there's (legitimate) charm, there's an attentive, caring staff, all the owners are present and accounted for. What's more, it gives you a very real sense that it's not just in a neighborhood but of it, too. Combine all that with the good bistro cooking and what you have is a place that comes about as close as any place at those prices can to being a neighborhood restaurant.

Not so. Tom Sietsema: "Vegetarians are welcomed with two big ravioli stuffed with fresh ricotta and nettle (an edible weed) and displayed atop a bright broth of sweet corn. (Much better than the raviolo, oddly dense with lobster, that accompanies an entree of Alaskan black cod.)"

I don't find it condescending, personally. And I'm not sure hostility is the right word to describe the response to this. Shrill, maybe. A certain kind of shrillness -- evocative of a certain class and age and demographic. Nor do I see what's "offensive." What is offensive, to me, is people who might talk a good, strong game where matters of class and race are concerned but who don't back it up. Who don't venture beyond the limitations of their own neighborhoods. Who presume that it is possible to speak for a greater good, to speak for everyone. I think the name is sly and funny and rich in association. And sure -- there's a lot of daring behind it. It's tailor-made to stir debate. What, I wonder, is the worry, though? Is it that she's "degrading" herself, as whites are forever suggesting that blacks who utter the word "nigger" are degrading themselves? That she's being too "irreverent" -- because, of course, matters of race can be discussed only in the most reverent and sober of terms? I suspect that some of us are troubled by this because the name is a bold assertion of a kind of blackness that, aside from some videos and some TV shows -- easily dismissed by the elite class, which, of course, doesn't watch TV anyway -- is rarely seen in public life in this post-Integration age. It's not sanitized for white sensibilities. Because, well -- it's not FOR whites. And, well -- everything but everything else IS. I think it's awfully dangerous to point the finger and shout, pathology!, at something that -- as I see it -- is in no way symptomatic of depravity or hopelessness or shamefulness but is, on the contrary, a product of cultural richness and hearty good humor.

Overrated, in my book, doesn't mean lousy. It doesn't mean mediocre. It just means overrated -- over-talked, over-analyzed, over focused-upon. There are places in town that I think could be doing (and, at that level, should be doing) more. ... I haven't been to Obelisk in a while, but my last meal there was a bit of a disappointment -- not the really wonderful experience I'd remembered.

No dining-as-metaphor, it's not one of those kinds of books, but there are a number of scenes that revolve around the dinner table. I'm still working on it. Which, by the way, I despise hearing myself say whenever a waiter or waitress asks the hated (and by now obligatory) question.

What is this, junior high gym class? My apologies, Professor Kilman. I'll try again. In a recent thread, some of us got to discussing 'neighborhood restaurants,' the value/meaningfulness or lack thereof of such a title, and why there's been a recent surge in their popularity (there's some disagreement over whether such a surge has occured in DC, or just in other cities). I'd be curious to hear your take on this. I noticed that one of the restaurants on your 'overrated' list is Cashion's---a place I've heard called a 'neighborhood joint' more than once. Thanks, Professor Sara Kilman? (Now you're really sounding like one of my students ...) The neighborhood restaurant, I think, is, in a lot of ways, a kind of fiction. It's a safe harbor for the customers it serves, and for a lot of people that's very appealing -- they know what to expect, everybody knows their na-a-ame, they're willing to overlook its faults (faults they might otherwise rip a place for) because, well, it's THEIR disappointing place, and it's close by. What you're seeing now is a lot of places trying to huddle under the umbrella of a "neighborhood restaurant" but which aren't, in fact, neighborhood restaurants. So, really, it's a kind of safe harbor for the owner and chef, too. What I expect from a real neighborhood restaurant is an uncommon degree of warmth, solicitousness and cheer, and a lot of places, no matter how good the food, simply can't deliver on this count.

I've written a good number of short reviews over the course of the last year -- more, probably, than what you might get from a dining guide. Though I wouldn't say they were written in a dining guide style. It was a terrific experience -- you've heard of immersion programs for students trying to immerse themselves in a new culture and a new language? It was not unlike that. Exhilarating, and essential. An awful lot of ideas grew out of that period. The thinking all along (PTB thinking, as apart from TK thinking) was that these short reviews would run alongside the column, as a way of expanding the breadth and depth of restaurant coverage. And that they would be thematically linked -- in one way or another -- with the thrust of the column. Also, on the weeks that I go the essay route, for example, readers would still get some of the stuff they're presumably looking for -- where to go, where not to go, what to get, what not to get. These are up now, on the CP's website, along with however many restaurant rater reports are currently in the database. All in all, a format not unlike the WP's own restaurant website. And the short reviews, the PTB tell me, should be in the paper in a month or so.

What is this, junior high gym class?

My picks for most underrated would include: Woodlands, Makoto, Myanmar, Montmartre, Charlie Palmer Steak, Corduroy, Melrose, Jerry's Seafood, Mendocino Grille, Huong Viet, The Reef, The Majestic Cafe. ... and for most overrated would include: Tosca, Equinox, Kinkead's, Yanyu, Taberna del Alabardero, Tavira, TenPenh, Galileo, Cashion's, Rockland's.

What, the Puffy story wasn't enough? To get gossip, you've gotta ask the questions that elicit gossip. And how do you know I don't already regret something I've said?

Hey, I'm a cancer too! Does she know what you are making or is it a surprise? So, what does the finalized menu look like? Speaking of entertaining, do think people (like, old friends or whoever you might have over) have different expectations of your cooking, etc., now that you write about food and service detail for a living? And I'm a Cancer, too. But yeah ... nobody cooks for me anymore. Except my (fearless) mother, a terrific cook. It's a little like how some people, on finding out that I taught English, would become all knotted up, precious and formal whenever they sent me email. Except my students, some of whom could have used a little knotting up in the things they sometimes sent. And no, she doesn't know what I'm making. And won't know, right on up until the very first bite ...

It’s not easy. A lot of the dishing about our days takes place during what is, for me, "work." And no matter how much I might appear to be enjoying myself – and sometimes not even that; not every meal is a gem, or even most meals – I’m still conscious of the task at hand. The whole time, phrases or entire sentences will be running through my head, I’ll be memorizing stray bits of conversation, and at least once, sometimes twice, I’ll interrupt things to duck into the bathroom to make notes. I can’ t really complain, since I know how good I have it, yet all the same we’re often in the situation of having to hit a place when we might otherwise – in a former life, that is – have caught a movie or gone to a play or met with friends. Then there’s the "problem" of my eating out at places, alone or with others, that she’s always wanted to visit. She’s very busy herself, with a raft of students and singing gigs, and it’s difficult, sometimes, to bring everything into alignment.

I can tell you this: The section will be expanding. This was the plan all along, even before I arrived. Some of you probably know about the reader participation angle, the website that’s on the verge of going live with several hundreds – nay, thousands – of reader reports. When my column debuted, the idea was to have a dozen or more short reviews accompany my piece. But there were, ahem, technical snafus. (This is a big, big project, years in the making.) In a month or so, those blurbs – short reviews that I’ve been writing over the past year – will finally run alongside the column … Success to me? Freedom, absolutely, you’re right on with that. Freedom to write what I want, to go where I want, to keep exploring and refining what I do. That, and piles and piles of cash. Extrinsically? I’ve gotten some very, very nice emails and letters from people, saying some very, very kind things. But I don’t know that I would call that reinforcement. It’s wonderful, it is, but every week, there is that same horror – the horror of the blank page. And no matter how many times you’ve done it, until you do it again you somehow doubt that it’s at all possible.

Three, huh? I wasn’t aware of my (apparent) Cho obsession. She’s funny – or was funny, anyway. Can’t say I’m as much a fan of her stuff these days. She’s become strident, too conscious of her audience.

Being a writer is an identity. I’ve been writing professionally since I was 15. It’s how I see the world, and how I view myself within that world. Now, loving food, thinking about food, driving for food, building entire days around food, savoring the specific, sensual details of meals, strategizing a weekends’ worth of eating – this is nothing new to me. I’ve been obsessed with food since as long as I can remember, going back well, well before my first byline. I wrote a food column for my high school paper. In college, it wasn’t beer or anything else that got me going – it was the prospect of finding a great sandwich, or a great slice, or a great piece of pie. And whenever I got a check from a magazine for a piece I did (this was how – perilously, but gratifyingly, too – I put myself through school) I invariably went out and blew a portion of that on a few restaurants. In grad school, a friend of mine would do an impression that began, "There’s this place with really great sandwiches … " That’s not what you’re getting at, though. I can tell you that the writing I value most is one that’s highly subjective and personal. It’s not that I don’t believe it’s possible to aim for objectivity, because I do, but I think there’s something a little cold about the put-upon of neutrality. Howard was a profound experience for me, and there’s still an awful lot in there for me to continue to sort through and unpack. I think I was always aware of the degree to which culture and identity is shaped by race and class – teaching at Howard wouldn’t have been the attraction it was, otherwise – but being there for seven years as I was honed that awareness to a terrifically thin edge. I went in, drawn by my interest in black thought and culture, ready to immerse myself in a kind of parallel world, and almost naïve to the degree that I would begin to question my whiteness, the privilege of skin, to wonder about the meaning of whiteness itself. There were days, literally, where my reflection in the bathroom mirror was the only white face I saw. I had always known this city was segregated, but now, at Howard, I was living the contradictions, going from the black world to the white and back again. A lot of whites didn’t know what to make of my being there, didn’t know how to talk to me about what they really wanted to talk about. I was surprised by the soft racism of these supposedly well-intentioned, well-educated whites. Around blacks off-campus, I was regarded as down, as a member of the club – a standing that changed, utterly, the moment I walked on campus and became Every(white)man. It’s hard for me to say how that’s influenced the writing you see in my column. But I will say that, having been there, I’m more disposed than ever to think that noticing, in whatever form it happens to take, is not the problem. Not noticing is the problem. Indifference is the problem. Pretending there is no problem is the problem. Claims of colorblindness, claims of innocence, claims of our mutual commonality … these seem, if not empty to me, then certainly dubious. Noticing is not judging. I’m more interested than ever, I think, in the ways that things are not alike, in the ways that difference drives culture, neighborhoods, etc. And food to me is about so much more than what is set down before you on the plate. I'm interested in where it's coming from, and why. I'm interested in who's making it, and why. Who's eating it, and why. The processes, the economics, the politics, the cultural implications, these things all interest me a great deal. Critics in their reviews will generally take in the décor, the setting, the mood of a place, and this kind of notation can be important, depending, of course, on the restaurant. (Sometimes it’s not important. Sometimes it just amounts to a lot of empty, tasteful description.) I would say that I’m equally as interested in going out to eat as a social and a cultural function. Now, that doesn’t mean I’m only interested in that, or that this is what drives my reviews or essay-reviews. Nor does it mean I see the column as a kind of pulpit from which to pontificate. Sometimes, it’s very simple. When I first dropped by Adega sometime last Fall, I knew that not only would I have to describe the physical space itself, but I would have to contextualize the restaurant within its rapidly changing neighborhood. Without that contextualization, the meaning of that place is essentially lost.

I'm not sure a single catch-all fits. What I consider myself to be, is a writer. And I don't mean that flippantly. When I'm working, I'm not consciously thinking of what my role should or shouldn't be. I'm trying to write as well as I possibly can each and every time out, and satisfy myself, and hope that others, maybe, are satisfied, too. A student of mine at Howard once came up to me after class and said: "I think I get it. You're up there, just trying to have fun, and if we can pick up on anything, then that's great, too." In all the writing I do, and have done, I like the bending and blurring of form. At one time, I think, especially in my creative writing, it was a deliberate choice, a sense of I-have-settled-on-a-style. It's not now. And anyway, having to produce a column every week means relying heavily on instincts, on learned (writing) behavior, whether good or bad. Now, I'm sure it's going to come off sounding to some as if I'm suggesting that this is the absolute best way of doing this, but that's not my intention. It's the absolute best way for me. At this time and place, anyway.

I have multiple gym memberships, for the sake of flexibility. (Subsidized – that’s a good one.) I’ve also been playing basketball with a friend of mine once a week in a much-more-competitive-league than I’d bargained for. The first week we played, I was still recovering at game-time from a five-course lunch with wine. I used to go at least once a week, sometimes more, to a friend’s home gym – she and her husband live in a three-story townhouse in the city. But that didn’t last for more than a few months, the arrangement just sort of dying out, in that way that things between busy, urban, neurotic people sometimes do. It dawned on me, later, that it might not look so good – showing up at her house at noon, staying for an hour, and then, soaking with sweat, waving goodbye and calling out, "Next week?" Foods I prefer not to eat? I can’t think of any. I’ll eat anything. And I’m open to anything. And actually, of all the people I know, I think I have the smallest list of Things I Don’t Care For. I credit my mother and father for that – for cultivating that openness. I ate smoked fish as a baby. I was regularly going out to eat with my parents when I was just a kid – Chinatown for dim sum, Mexican dives, creperies in Georgetown. I won’t say which area restaurant I’d splurge on – I don’t think it’d be fair, and again, I’m wary of the words carrying more empress than I want. There are a few I could mention off the top of my head, both here and not-here. But really, I think she’d be just as thrilled to have me cook for her. Whenever we’re home, I do the cooking, and I take it seriously. I love it. And I love entertaining. Her birthday’s coming up, and she’s already requested that we eat at home. I’m fine-tuning the menu as we speak.

I’m going to take exception here to the whole Puritanical notion that pleasure is sinful or decadent. It’s sinful only when it’s wasteful, or inedible. I don’t feel guilty about food. I love what I love. So to answer your question – no, there’s nothing I’m embarrassed to admit to. Not even: Moonpies. Corn Pops. Applejacks. Froot Loops. (I’ve always loved this shtuff, even though I don’t eat it anymore. Nowadays, it’s oatmeal with lots of fruit and nuts for breakfast – a practical, scrub-the-system consideration as much as anything. OK, I confess – there IS a box of Corn Pops sitting in my kitchen cabinet at the moment. But – ha – I don’t eat them for breakfast. I eat them as a snack, thank you very much – something to munch on while I’m watching the game.) Popeye’s (it’s been years, but still … ). Greasy, thick burgers dunked into a pool of ketchup (this is odd to me, because I’m otherwise a mustard freak.) Gray’s Papaya hot dogs. I have weird, inexplicable peanut butter cravings. Straight out of the jar, with a spoon or with a finger. Little Debbie peanut butter bars (I simply don’t buy them anymore; out of sight, out of mind). The old, beloved Henckel’s foot-high ham or roast beef sandwich "through the garden"; ditto the Chenckelburger. (Does anybody on here remember this place? Sad, so sad). Should I go on?

It’s a balance, and actually, that’s the way I like to eat, anyway. So it’s as much a function of aesthetics as it is of necessity. And yeah, the last time I was at Citronelle, for dinner, I followed up with lunch at a taqueria. My feeling about drinks is that anymore than two and I’m not really focusing on the task at hand – the gathering of detail about each and every dish, the eavesdropping that is an absolute professional necessity, the subtle testing of the waitstaff. If I’m having more than two drinks, I’m indulging in my own pleasure. I’ve taken out as many as four guests at a time, but I find that four is sometimes too many, it’s a party, and you’re always playing cruise director and trying to assure people’s happiness. Four is a party. And as a result, my ability to concentrate suffers, though I might also be having a very, very good time. There’s so much more to manage with four – this one doesn’t like lentils, that one has some mystery allergy that she just read about in some magazine, someone must – MUST – have the one chocolate dessert that’s on the menu … Of the three visits I make to a place I’m reviewing, I try to set aside one of those for just my lonesome. Eating alone isn’t easy, and some of my happiest moments on this planet have involved breaking bread with a bunch of people and drinking until there’s no more left to be drunk. But I’m a writer, I’m working, and just as with any other piece I’ve ever done, I work best when I work alone, when I can observe and ruminate in private.

Somebody’s a Napaphile. As I said before, I don’t like lists. Nor am I a fan of norming exercises. And having been burned before – seeing something I’d written (in private, and off the cuff) ending up in print as though it had been offered up as an endorsement, I’m going to have to beg off certain of these questions. But, yeah, I like Keller, I like Sambuca, I like Russian River, I like backgammon … And women with glasses, absolutely. Minor Threat’s a homegrown thing, and I like that, but I’ve never been much for the adolescent whiteboy rage thing.

The nom de manger that my good friend Matt proposed for my real AMEX card, which is also my fake AMEX card, if you catch my drift, was: Gus Tattori. I rejected it, but I’ve gotta say – people are a lot more tone deaf than I gave them credit for. As for this business about disguises … The role I’ve created for myself – being a critic but also being out and about – is obviously a tricky one, practically speaking. I’m not sure I’ll be able to manage that, say, a year from now, but at the same time, if I can’t wear both hats it’s not going to be the same, I’m not going to have the freedom I want and need. And freedom is the thing. Being recognized, and it’s only happened a few times in my case, so far as I can tell, is only ever an issue when it comes to service. In other words, there is just SOOOO much more of it than there might be otherwise. And that’s telling. And awkard. And – sometimes – laughable. I don’t think that, for the most part, the dishes themselves are going to be affected. A kitchen just doesn’t shed its ingrained habits like that. And if you ever were to sit in on a media event or some other p.r.-driven occasion, where the kitchen has been instructed well in advance to prepare a multi-course feast for a bunch of highly discriminating palates, you’d be surprised, I think, to find just how much of the food is middling. When I eat out, I eat anonymously. It’s funny to me, actually, how I can go from being fussed over at a press function one week and then, a week or two or three later, be ignored or dismissed as if I had wandered in off the street to some private, members-only club. Re: the get-up … I couldn’t see myself going somewhere in disguise, but not because I think it’s silly. In fact, I’ve got a number of things going through my head that are just as silly, if not sillier, that I’m planning to spring in the coming months. Silliness, mind you, in the service of seriousness.

No biz lunches. Those seminars were strictly work, work, work. But since we’re talking about celebs … I was at Blue Ribbon in New York this past weekend – marrow bones with oxtail marmalade, what could be better? -- and sitting across from me, with a honey to his left and a cellphone plastered to his ear, dining on pu-pu, was none other than P. Diddy. Puffy and pu-pu. Keepin’ it real.

Editors? For obvious reasons, I’d love to. On my own dime, I travel as much as I can manage with the weekly deadlines – four cities in just the past six months, and a helluva lot of eating, to boot – in order to keep up with what’s going on nationally. But so long as I’m writing a column for the CityPaper, I doubt very seriously that anything that doesn’t directly touch upon D.C. or surroundings is going to be in my immediate, reviewing future. Is there maybe a benefactor in my future?

I was thinking more along the lines of Trattoria Alberto. But here's a better question: what are your musings, your random thoughts, your impulsive ramblings, your general philosophies on area expansionist restauranteurs and their offerings, in particular the chef-driven (Ceiba, Ten Penh), the recipe-driven (Jaleo, Zaytinya), the absentee-driven (Olives), the premise-driven (front room at Palena, tasting room at Eve), the name-driven (Clyde's), the cookie-cutter-driven (Artie's, Sweetwater Tavern)? I’d better watch my impulsive ramblings. Let me just say that I’m not a big fan of expansionism. It’s almost always about ego, and money, and only in rare instances does the discerning diner benefit. The undiscerning diner? For the most part -- not always but for the most part -- he eats where he’s told and is susceptible to hype and image and conventional wisdom, so an offshoot of the original begins to look like something more than merely a second location – it begins to look as though a restaurant is gaining critical mass.