Busboy

Well, one can interact perfectly well with the family at a restaurant. Better, sometimes; if they don't like the pork you don't take it personally. Ignoring the time/money relationship is absurd, failing to consider it ignores reality and makes one's argument irrelevant. People trade money for time every day, in ways big and small: when we take a cab instwead of the bus; when we hit the corner grocer instead of the market, when we pay someone else to wallboard the ceiling instead of doing it ourselves. Growing incomes relative to the cost of food versus shrinking available time to prepare and eat it is the major cause of death of the family dinner. PS We should all remember that someone else may get the same pleasure from woodworking -- or just TV-watching, if we're being strictly neutral -- as we do from cooking and eating; trading a few extra food dollars for a few extra hours of lathe-time is perfectly legitimate.

We were first offered a seat in the bar - -which was populated by (regular) Galileo dressy types. I felt a little uncomfortable in Levis and a button-down. After we asked, they moved us outside, where our jeans-and-nice-shirt were unnoticed (because there were no other tables). Unless it's warm enough for the patio, I'd err on the side of trousers/jacket/open collar. But that's just me.

Yep.

Fuck our sensibilities. I want to see how he behaves for the Dames d'Escoffier in Atlanta.

This is Mrs. Busboy's excellent idea, btw. I confess I'm not wildly enthusiastic about the dinners -- aside from whether they will be worth $80 (Press Club) or $100 (Les Halles) -- because I figure they'll be crammed with normal people and there will be a lot of VIP groping and clutching with Rocks and his crowd ("Michel, ca va Bistro du Coin?) that I won't be party to. And I'm not convinced I need another set of bistro recipes, though I haven't checked the book out yet. On the other hand, I'm a drunkard, a total groupie and live walking distance from one of DC's Last Great Dives, so I'll do whatever heavy lifting I can.

My guess is that, demographically speaking, you may not be in the fat part of the bell curve on this one. I think the original post is a little labored, but the fact is that home cooking is in decline and that the trade off is, more or less, an economic one. I expect it's a "value of time" thing, though, more than a straight dollar trade-off -- that people factor the cost of an outside meal against the amount of time and effort saved by not cooking at home. The question I might ask of our Doctoral thesis random sample is: if you were given $50/day -- in addition to your income -- that could only be spent feeding your family, how many meals would you cook at home, and how many would you eat out? I think that would give an accurate view of whether people cook at home because they like it or because the have to.

So, how does DC get one of these? I'll buy the first round. Hell, maybe I'll even by the book.

That's good to know.

Actually, I can't think of any place that has a variety of drinkable wines available for $4-6 a glass. I just didn't want to get into a dogfight with partisans of any of the town's other, pricier, wine bars

On a recent the trip to Osteria the place had a whiff of doom about it -- limited menu (much smaller than the website), very few tables, and a kitchen that was clearly unconcerned with getting Osteria food out the door. Nonetheless, the waiter warmed up a bit, when the food finally arrived it was very good, and I especially enjoyed tasting my way through one of the very few reasonably priced by-the-glass wine lists in town. I will, I hope, be camping this weekend, but I hope you guys can spark a reversal of fortune in the place -- or at least keep them from pulling the plug, for now -- and I'll catch you next time.

Actually, Zagat's NYC has been roundly trashed on eG and in the NYT. On a different subject: Last Saturday I sliced leftover RTS ribeye into a pile of Best Buy cheddar and a couple of spoonfulls of Old El Paso spicy taco sauce and fired the stuff until the cheese got little crusties around the edges but the meat was still pink. The resulting mess, scooped into a flour tortilla was spectacular, even though I wasn't hungover. My first reaction was surprise and joy and the way the meat helds its own against its aggressivbe and less refined tortilla-mates; it was actually kind of an "oh wow," moment. My second reaction was that the ill-dressed burrito utterly overwhelmed the wine I was drinking. In this case, that was a good thing. But sometimes I spend more than six bucks for a wine and, given your affection for diablos and similar, high-spice preparations, I thought you might have a suggestion for the kind of butch reds that can fight back when confronted with a sauce more potent than a Bernaise (besides Zinfandel, Zinfandel and Zinfandel).

You should consider Ethiopian, if your feeling adventurous, as it is a DC specialty. Dukem at 11th and U and Addis Abbaba on 18th Street in Adams-Morgan are two of many good options. I'm a Sala Thai partisan, 21st and P, and like Mei Wah for chinese,21st and M. Heritage of India in Glover Park (Not dar from GU) is worth a splurge.

The only our family ever goes to eat in Georgetown are Bistro Francais (mid-level French on 31st and M); Cafe La Ruche (pate sandwiches, omlettes and the like, sit in the garden if it's warm); Clydes (burgers everyday fare in a saloon atmosphere); and the Georgetown Bagle Bakery. Georgetown restaurants are widely dissed in this forum. At the edge of Georgetown, walking distance, are the beloved Nectar whose co-owner is regular poster Hooligan; Mendocino Grill, run by the dedicated JRage, and the respected (beloved by me) Marcel's. Personally, if I were coming into town I'd avoide the hassles of Georgetown and stay at the Carlysle Suites in Dupont Circle. It's more centrally located and walking distance to a Adams-Morgan, U Street and Dupont Circle, and many, many restaurants including Firefly, owned by JohnW of this board, and the legendary Bistro du Coin. PS, if cost is no object, Michel Richard's Citronelle is the best French in the area, MarkSommelier, their Sommelier posts here, and the Lanthham Hotel in which it is located is very nice (they say). Many of these restaurants have threads and all have reviews in the Washington Post and Washintonian Magazine. edited to give JRage and Hooligan their proper restaurants back.

I've heard of chocolate being used in chili before but, like you, assumed it would be unsweetened. I can kind of see it, since in Mexican cooking chocolate is found moles and other savory dishes. Maybe Chicago's large Mexican population made the connection? Maybe your friend just ran into a tailgater with strange tastes?

It felt as though the crust had some type of oil in it -- it had that same kind of texture that you get woth "Italian" bread that's had olive oil added. It was chewy, in a good sense, with a little density and heft to it even though it had bee rolled out very thin. Hard to tell if it was leavened, but I'd guess no. And it was definitley baked. Looking forward to trying the sweet ones!

Having the diner's delight with the entire dining experience -- rather than your ego, profit, or busy schedule -- as your first priority helps. As does creating a welcoming atmosphere at every step. The way you feel about the room you're sitting in affects the experience as well.

I was thinking of people you run into in clubs sometimes who seem far more interested in proving how well they can dance, than dancing with their partner -- the whole "ain't I cool?" thing -- or those ballroom dancing contests where everybody moves so fluidly and precisely, but no one seems to be having fun -- it's like a mathematical equation on legs. Not, mind you, that you can't be both.

Actually, I heard that June was something of a wild thing in the sack. Not that I'm a Don Rocks or anything, but... Heart isn't just what's on the plate, it's the whole restaurant -- whether the waiters are trying to welcome and even teach you, or whether they're showing off; whether the sommlier is selecting and pricing wine to provide value and broaden your horizons, or to show off trophy wines and enjoy ridiculous profits; whether the cook took the time to get the grit out of the sea urchins and actually tasted the sauce before he sent the dish off, or cooked-by-numbers with eye towards getting out early tonight. It's why meals with family and friends are almost always good, even if the food is forgettable; it's why some dishes taste like their ingredients and why some transcend them. It's the difference between being a good dancer and a good lover. You don't have to eat at a high-end restaurant to taste the difference, you probably recognize it now.

PS: Crete I wish I had more to write about Crete; I have never been so viscerally seized by any place I have ever been. I went there because every Greek I asked, when they heard that I had just three days to travel and could only see one islands, said "go to Crete." And having taken there advice, I wanted to pass it along to you, with whatever value I could add. Crete is magical, you should go.[some non-food shots here] For excellent advice from a respected professional food journalist who speaks Greek and knows the island well, start with this New York Time piece. (For something completely different, read on.) **** After catching an early flight out, renting a car and screwing around Chania (aka Hania, aka Xania) for a few hours I decided to drive out to backcountry for dinner. Once I finally put the over-developed seacoast behind me, I was simply overwhelmed by the peace and beauty of the countryside. There’s something about the light and the villages and the millions of olive trees and occasional vineyard that produces an almost trance-like state. The gift of Athena. According to one guidebook I read, there are 25 million olive trees in Crete – 50 for every Cretan (stop snickering at the word “Cretan”!). I don’t know why they strike me so powerfully – as opposed to apple trees or oaks – but staring across the valley at the groves felt like watching history unfold or seeing into the lives of the people who grew them. Unfortunately, I was hurrying to get to the restored village of Milia before sunset, and had to end my roadside reverie and hurry on. The drive up the mountainside to Milia was one marked by extraordinary views, terrifying switchbacks, ethereal light and random stops to give the jaw time to undrop before maneuvering the next curve. Between the gawking and the many wrong turns I’d made earlier in the trip, however, I arrived just after sunset; too late, really, to tour the village. The dinner was a bit of a disappointment, too, though that may be my fault. Friends whom I trust and who recommended the place very highly tell me that Milia is a daylight trip, so you can sit on the balcony and see the chestnut trees whose nuts contribute to your dessert and the olive groves from which your oil was pressed. But, as the village has limited electricity, I found myself dining alone, by candlelight, in a room with no music, facing a trip back whose length and difficulty precluded any serious drinking. Nonetheless, I’d give it another shot. I’d make a day of hiking the spectacular Topolia Gorge and exploring the Agia Sofia Cave, both beside the road to Milia, and get there early with a few friends. The food is organic and traditional, a little austere but very good. I had the dakos and roast lamb from the limited menu. The dakos was perfect, stale bread topped with chopped local tomatoes and artisanal cheese, garnished with olives at hot peppers; the lamb was a mix of cuts – I recognized chops, shank and blade on my plate – perfectly roasted and served virtually unadorned. The wine was strong and rustic, dessert was a pear. It was a meal that Kazantsakis’ Captain Michalis might have eaten the night before he led his rebels into battle against the Turks, in a town where he might have laid up (as Greek partisans did in World War II) while planning the attack. All we lacked was raki and the loyal Veduso to pluck out a patriotic tune on his lyre. Eating simply and traditionally Milia. On the way out, I picked up an 8.50€ bottle of excellent organic olive oil, produce in the village. It’s almost worth the trip just for the dense, spicy oil. The next morning, I blew off breakfast at the hotel to head over to the food market and to begin my quest for sweet -- as opposed to the more common savory -- kalitsounia, inspired by a conversation with DC’s best boulangière, eG’s own mkyte. Sadly, in my brief time in Crete, I did not discover any sweet kalitsounia. But did develop a taste for this Cretan variation on a cheese pie – a turnover topped with sesame seeds and stuffed with a tangy soft cheese. Tasty savouries. The market, despite the fact that its pastries are probably not as good as mkyte’s, was a pretty swell spot. About half serious market and half tourist trap, it’s a nice place to have a traditional Greek breakfast, get your souvenir shopping done, and check out the local produce. Artisanal cheese, tacky t-shirts; haggling housewives, and hungry tourists: it's all at the market. Breakfast, of course, should be either Greek coffee and a pastry, or raki and a snack. “Greek coffee” used to be “Turkish coffee” until, during World War I (I seem to recall), the name was changed, à la “victory cabbage” or “freedom fries.” If you forget this, you will remember the instant you turn the cup back for that last strong, sweet, bitter drop, and a quantity of finely-ground coffee sludge begins oozing into your mouth. You’ll see more than the occasional old-timer knocking back a thimbleful of raki for breakfast. It's all part of a balanced breakfast. The raki is the small glass. The waiter seemed pleased when I ordered mine (after dispatching the coffee and the kalitsounia; we Americans need our big breakfasts), his smile was almost as big as the one I got when the raki and the caffeine began working their magic together. What was it Jack Nicholson said in Easy Rider? “It gives you a whole new way of looking at the day.” As much fun as breakfast in Chania Market can be, the stroll by the fishmonger is the morning's highlight. Anyone visiting Chania should consider abandoning the charms of old-city hotels for what the Brits call a “self-catering flat," just so they can cook these fish. Never have I seen eyes so clear or scales so radiant. And, of course, varieties I’ve never seen laid out on ice before. Photgenic fish (though this photo does not do them justice). I gave a moment’s thought to buying one and asking one of the nearby restaurants to cook it up but – even happily buzzed on raki and coffee -- I knew that my Greek was not up to the task. After touring the rest of the market I wandered into AMALIA MAVROGENNI, a shop specializing in tourist-friendly Cretan foods. There are a couple places like this in the Hall, but Amalia was the only person actually offering samples of the olive oils and the rakis, so I ducked in. I found an “every day” oil for 6€ a liter can (better to fly with) that tastes – I wish I could describe it better – exactly like being in Greece. I will horde the last drops for stewed eggplant with lemon, tomato and feta and maybe a grilled fish one cold winter night. Drinking her raki after dinner now, and marveling at its brutish taste and strange appeal, I am surprised how smooth Amelia’s brew seemed that morning, almost liqueur-like. This gives you some idea of the stuff they serve a low-rent bars in Greece. I didn’t really want to try it – well, just the herbed raki, to see if it was the same as the stuff they serve at Jimmy and the Fish in Athens -- but Amalia is a very persuasive woman in Greek, English and German. Anyway, I picked up two bottles at 4.50€ each and, if I had any sense, that would be a lifetime supply. AMALIA MAVROGENNI Agora Market Hall, Chania, 28210.52209 After briefly considering hunting up a beach frequented by beautiful people, naked tourist chicks and international high-rollers, I decided instead to head up the Akrotiri peninsula to Stavros and enjoy a little peace and quite. After a month in Athens, one needs calm. Sunset beach is about 20 minutes away from the Old City or, if you drive like me, 45 minutes away. (Cretan roadways make French roadways look well-marked – except for the National Highway, they don’t even pretend to give the roads names you call follow or assign them route numbers you can reference on a map. Plan extra time.) As you get within range of Stavros – I never spotted an actual village, but there were signs – you will see hand-lettered signs directing you to Sunset Beach, where you will find lounges and umbrellas set out at 2€/per, and the Sunset Beach Bar. The beach is calm and pretty, the water is warm and clear, and the bar is a delight. Set up on a low deck, topped with palm fronds and seemingly operated on electricity bootlegged from a nearby power line, I could have spent a week there. The music ranged from new age to Tracy Chapman; the woman who runs it seems to be some kind of ex-hippie who went to ground in Crete and started up a joint. You could spend a week within sight of this place, and have a very fine vacation. If the accent hadn’t tipped me off that she was French, the shallots (first I'd seen in a long time) mixed into the excellent octopus salad and the fleur du sel sprinkled atop might done the trick. She also managed to cook up a tasty plate of baked aubergine with tomato sauce in what looked like a kitchen salvaged from a mid-60’s flat-block kitchen and installed behind the bar. Don’t look at the menu, just ask her what she’s got today. By the way, if you're every considering taking the kids to Crete, take 'em here. Toys, games, complete tolerance, shallow water and easy waves. SUNSET BEACH BAR; Stavros, Akitori, Crete. That evening I had a wonderful time watching the city and the cliffs transformed by the sunset into an almost inexplicable beautiful tableau and then the moon rise over the harbor from the otherwise deserted balcony of the Amphora Hotel. That's what you call "good light." Eat your heart out, Provence. The Amphora is a beautiful restored house built in the 13th century by, one assumes, one of the Venetian merchants then currently running Crete. The rooms are Euro – small but charming – and mine had a great view of the lighthouse. The speed with which they offered a rate substantially below that quoted on the website (from 105€ -- as I recall -- to 65€, for a double room) makes me think that, if you’re not traveling in high season, a little negotiating might save you substantial pocket change here or anywhere in the somewhat glutted Chania hotel market. There is an argument to be made that the best place to see Chania is from a hotel balcony. The beautiful harbor and twisting pedestrian backstreets are pretty much overrun with tourists, largely British and German, and both the souvenir shops and restaurants seem to cater to a least-common-denominator taste. Late at night, the club scene seems to thrive on the kind of eurotechodisco that just sends me around the bend. Each light is another restaurant with a barker out front and a fish and two veg special inside. I wandered around looking for dinner and, for the first time in ages, my radar completely deserted me. One restaurant I tried had no free space, and some promising other spots seemed to be closing up very early. I walked out of two places without ordering because, once I was hustled in, the food those around me were eating just didn’t look appealing. There's a strong argument to be made that in a city catering to tourists -- German and British tourists, at that -- with a spectacular surplus of charm and history, the bar is set pretty low when it comes to actually putting food on the table. More light than (culinary) magic. I ended up in an awful, but not unfriendly, taverna on a tiny pedestrian street near the hotel talking to an older couple from Michigan who had just finished attending their fourth Olympic Games, and eating very bad steak. Oh, well. The guidebooks have some recommendations, Chania seems to be a good city in which to follow them. The next morning I decided to point the car south and just drive until I ran out of road, somewhere about half-way up the White Mountains. I guess there were more productive or educational things to do than to zoom around Crete playing the Grateful Dead and the North Mississippi All-Stars loud, but I still can’t think of them. The back-country was once again spectacular and, at a small taverna in Zourba (how perfect, eh?) I found the perfect Greek Salad. It wasn’t much, just fresh tomatoes, a soft cheese that probably came from a neighbor’s goat, and brilliant olive oil. The one. I had some lamb sausages, too, with fried potatoes, and that sour local wine and sweet Greek coffee and I walked around the village looking at olive groves and beehives – there seems to be a handwritten sign offering “meli” – honey – every couple of kilometers in Crete – and was about as happy as I could have been. I rolled down the mountains and headed back to the airport, via Sunset Beach, where I has a last swim and a Mythos beer and put my sandy ass on the place to Athens. The next night we had an excellent meal at Arrestria-Dexia, and the next day I flew home, but that was epilogue. The perfect end to my Greek adventure came on that hillside in Crete, eating sausage and salad with the old guys from the village, being served by an old lady in black. TAVERNA AIMILIA; Zourba, Kydonias (28210) 67470, 67060 Thanks to all who read these rambling and indulgent notes, I hope they were useful and amusing, and that other eGulleters will have the opportunity to correct, expand and update them on their own trips to Greece -- and that I'll get back some day.

This pork with whisky sauce and warm cabbage recipe got me on a televised cooking contest, but I made the sauce in a youth hostel kitchen once, and cabbage is indestructable, so it can't be too hard. I don't have the precise recipe any more, but you can pretty much do the whole thing by taste and personal preference. Slice up half a head of red cabbage, add a sliced granny smith or two and a sliced red onion, throw them in a pot with a cup of decent beef stock, a quarter cup of cheap balsamic, maybe a splash of cider, salt, and enough sugar so that you know it's there but nobody else notices. Think warm cole slaw, only richer. Cook on medium, taste incessantly and adjust flavoring as you see fit, and cook until most of the liquid evaporates or is absorbed. It will take about 45 minutes, but the stuff doesn't get mushy if you need to keep cooking or want to just leave it on the stove to stay warm. This makes timing easy. Throw your chops on, using the good advice you've found on this thread. While the chops sit in a warm place, retaining their juices, cook down at least a half cup of scotch, bourbon or whatever, and a shallot into a glaze. It takes more whisky than you think to get a strong flavor, so leave the bottle nearby as you cook, and taste as you go along (the bottle and the reduction, cooking should be fun). Once you get the glaze where you want it, put the pan over very low heat or a double boiler and whisk in about a stick of butter. If you've ever made a buerre blanc, it's the same thing. If not, the idea is to keep the sauce warm enough so that the butter melt, but cool enough that it doesn't separate. Taste, adjust, throw the cabbage in a bowl, throw the chop on the cabbage, pour the sauce through a strainer onto the chop and open a chilled Alsatian gewurtztraminer. Very tasty.

My family and I stayed at Auberge St Pierre (02 33 60 14 03) on the island last summer and, while my parents and children slept, my wife and I scrambled over the whole deserted, moonlit island, fueled by red wine and a brisk sea breeze. The next morning I woke up just after sunrise -- not difficult as bells begin ringing and delivery carts begin rumbling up the cobblestones at an early hour -- and did the same trip with my parents, in search of the perfect photograph (not found) and a hassle-free place at the front of the line for a tour of the abbey and an uncrowded tour (found). We had arrived just as the tour busses were leaving and departed just as the next wave was washing up on the island the next morning, dodging sheep along the causway as we left. In case I haven't gushed enough, I highly recommend staying on the island for at least one nigh, it's simply magical. Auberge St. Pierre is perfectly fine hotel and, while not cheap, is not usurious either. ViaMichelin has them charging 90-125€ night. You may want to request a sea view to avoid the early morning rush hour (or see the sea). They do have parking spaces close in; it's a bit of a hike, but you won't have to roll your bags from the mainland, either. The food situation is, indeed, dire. Since my visit, however, chef Michel Bruneau has left Caen's La Bourride -- where he won two Michelin stars and served my wife and I a wonderful meal -- for La Mere Poulard on Mont-Saint-Michel. Perhaps someone on the board has an update on that transition. My French is not entirely reliable, but this article appears to be encouraging. Have fun! Eat some lamb (pre-sale, bien sur) for me.

Another long one. Gah. Went through my wallet for crumbled euro notes, credit card receipts and the other detritus of a long trip and stumbled across a clutch of business card representing establishments ranging from an all-night joint famed for selling tripe soup to drunks, to a refined Michelin 1-star. As many of my notes have turned up missing, I thought I’d get a last post in before my memory deserted me. And, if I don’t have a detailed description of ever dish, well, I’ll be steal a page from the hated Frank Bruni and talk about atmosphere, which is really what the Greeks do best, anyway. First, a couple of notes and corrections. In an earlier posting, I wrote that the Monastiraki neighborhood has only recently become hip. Technically speaking, I was not completely wrong – the stretch along the new pedestrian walkway is newish and recently upscaled. But, if you approach the neighborhood from the north – from downtown, rather than the Acropolis -- you will find that the other, larger, section of the hood is old, always fun, often funky and occasionally a bit ratty. Monastiraki, by the way, is ground zero for souvlaki. To make sure you get the version you're thinking of (the rolled sandwich), ask for a "souvlaki gyro." Don't worry, it doesn't appear to be as redundant or contradictory in Greek as it sounds in English: "gyro" means "wrapped," and keeps you from getting the type where they pile the meat on top of a flat pita. Souvlakis really are better in Greece. Much better. I went back to Café Avisinia (reviewed above) twice on my most recent trip; the woman with the extraordinary voice was singing again and I was again entranced. If I had just one night to spend and wanted to spend it in a traditional Greek Taverna, I think I’d spend it there, eating decent food and clapping along with the locals – even though the service on the last visit was comically inept (the waiter redeemed himself by giving us all the orders he mixed up for free). It’s also a good hit for late lunch after antiquing in the neighborhood. Other places I really want to see again: Aristera-Dexia, Kollias and Gefseis. OINI-TYRO, in Exarchia, is touted as Athens’ secret source of great wines. Unfortunately, the woman working there the afternoon I dropped in neither spoke English nor seemed particularly interested in the wine. Well, it was August. And somebody with an eye to good Greek and French wine is looming behind the curtain, though, based on the bottles lining the cellar. Most interesting feature, though: a row of barrels set up along one wall; if you’re sick of that overpriced Santorinian Asyrtiko – and who isn’t? – you can buy hearty peasant stuff by the liter (or more). OINI-TYRO; Xap. Trikoypi 98, Exarchia, 010 3616 274 And finally, just because I got hooked on these things, I wanted to let you know that the national drink of Greece, is not ouzo, it is frappé. If you want to look like a local, or at least and expat, frappé is your beverage of choice. A frothy mixture of Nescafe, sugar and water, whipped up in a milkshake blender and finished with a splash of milk and a couple of ice cubes, it is the overwhelming drink of choice in sidewalk cafés anytime before 8PM, and gives Greeks the energy to dance all night. A frappé with a view. They are an acquired taste. But, if you go, you should have at least one; specify “sweet” or “medium,” and they’ll adjust the sugar accordingly. ******** If you roll out of the Monastiraki subway stop, cut right, towards the Parthenon, veer left past the Roman Agora and continue past the Tower of the Winds, you will pass an almost oppressive quantity of restaurant tables lined up along millennia-old historic sites or arranged artfully under trees and grape arbors. The narrow streets are crowded, loud with energy and laughter, and overhung with strung lights. Here and there live music spills out from a rooftop café or trickles out of an open door, and every corner and niche is filled with tables which waiters struggled to keep filled with food and frappés and wine supplied by kitchens often many doors away from their customers. “Why should our customers eat inside,” the restauranteurs seem to be thinking, “when there’s a view of the ruins just around the corner, and the sidewalk is wide enough for a long string of tables?” But pass all this by! You want the legend: SHOLARHIO OUZERI, aka KOUKLAS. An ouzeri is below a taverna or an esteatorio in the food hierarchy, traditionally a place to sip coffee or ouzo that may offer a bite of this or that, as well. Sholario/Kouklas offers a slightly more varied menu and, unlike most Athenian ouzeria, which tend to be places for older men to watch football and play backgammon under fluorescent lights, it is lively place for the whole family. But it’s still kind of a dive. Though the patio appears to be a little more welcoming, you should think bright lights, cheap flatware and plastic plates on plastic tables shared, when busy, with strangers. But it’s a dive with funk – a patina of cigarette smoke and old pictures on the walls; handwritten notices that no one’s bothered to translate from the Greek, conversation in Greek, English and who-the-hell-knows. Deep in the heart of Plaka. I went upstairs, hoping to score one of the deuces on Kouklas’ tiny balcony, but ended up on one of the communal tables. Every few minutes, a waiter who’d been there 40 years if he’d been there a day would haul a huge tray of food up a tiny spiral staircase, and lay it out before a table. The diners pulled what they wanted from the tray and the waiter would haul it back down again, only to clamber back up a moment later with a carafe of wine or a small battle of ouzo, pausing only to catch their breath and maybe wipe off a little perspiration before heading back down. These men should be permitted to retire. At Kouklas, what you see is what you get. When it was my turn, I had the famous flaming sausages. The first guy to pour cheap fruit brandy on the serving plate and light it up made Kouklas’ fortune, adding the final note to the décor and attitude that has drawn aging locals and young tourists from around the world for many years. The rest of my food – fried eggplant, broad beans and tzaziki -- was fine, though not as compelling as the sausage which, admittedly, was largely compelling for the presentation. Sholari/Kouklas bills itself as “The most traditional family restaurant in Plaka” which may be true, assuming that traditional Plaka family restaurants are so cosmopolitan that the offer business cards in five languages. I’d bill it as “the perfect place to have an ouzo tasting with five of your closest friends.” Just keep your glass away from the sausages. SHOLARHIO OUZERI KOUKLAS Tripodin 14, Plaka; 210 32 47 205 After playing the guidebook game, it’s good to get somewhere that people who read Let’s Go don’t go. KOLLIAS FISH TAVERNA in Piraeus isn’t exactly undiscovered; proprietor Tassos Kollias has a U.S.-style wall of fame in the entryway, though his consists of modest snapshots of Greek celebrities – the only one I recognized was former Prime Minister Simites – rather than framed, glossy, 8x10s. And it got a write up in the Financial Times, too, which Tassos likes to show off, though it, too is unframed and getting a little ragged. Nonetheless, it is undiscovered by the likes of us, by which I mean any Americans and the majority of Brits who don’t read the Financial Times for their restaurant reviews. The competition from the endless stretches of harbor-view fish tavernas (tavernae?) in nearby Microlimano and Piraeus draws tourists and casual visitors away from Kollias’ slightly dingy quarter; the hordes of Greeks who roll off the ferries after a weekend on Chios or Mykanos are looking for one more beautiful view, not a side-street taverna. All the better for me. After a particularly interesting cab ride, my partner and I walked the last five blocks to the restaurant. The wild cheering from flatblock balconies on either side signaled Fani Halkia’s gold medal performance in the 400-meter hurdles, not my success in asking directions in Greek. But no matter, we were in a good mood as we met up with a friend, a reporter for the Athens daily, Ta Nea, and were escorted by Tassos to the second-floor rooftop balcony. And then it began raining fishes. Let’s see if I can remember them all. There was the little orange fish, hardly larger than a business card, that arrived with a small tin cup of tsipouro as we sat down. It was served fried then chilled with a sweet and tangy – one guesses honey and vinegar – olive oil dressing, from which we each carved a single bite to accompany the dram of tsipouro that arrived, apparently as a matter of custom. Then, there were the raw clams and scallops – the scallops with their tasty roe intact, a rare find in the US. Then the excellent fried squid – Kalamari in Greek, a good fallback if you get lost on a menu and can’t figure out what to order and the waiter doesn’t speak English. Then smelts, deep-fried as well. Then the parrot fish, sautéed in batter and served hot and crisp, Wish an assertive taste for a delicate fish. There were cold sardines in there somewhere, and a salad, and grilled vegetables. And then another one of those large fish whose name no one knows in English, but was not John Dory or Red Snapper -- though they were available -- a kilo of Mediterranean goodness not, thank goodness, overcooked this time but perhaps overwhelming. Each dish was simply prepared, more rustic than refined, and served when ready, sometimes stumbling up against the previous plates. There was lemon and olive oil on the table, but the main spice came from Tassos himself, who dropped by several times to chat with Maria and, with her as interpreter, to us. Rumpled and paunchy and sporting the classic Mediterranean 5-o’clock shadow – gone a little snowy – he’d turn a chair around and wrap his arms around the back, raconteur-style, fire up a smoke a smoke, and talk about fish. Tassos is clearly a man who loves fish. Every plate seemed to knock another nugget of information out of him. “These sardines are from Lesbos” (no comments, Al Dente!). “The parrot fish is hard to catch because it hides in the coral.” “There are better fish in the fall and winter,” when fishing restrictions in the Mediterranean are lifted (God timing, Pastramionrye!). And all the time watching your plate to see if his fish are getting the preparation and the presentation they deserved. At first, when he led me into the kitchen to choose the evening’s food, I had wondered if he was upselling, hustling the tourist by throwing more fish onto the scale than any threesome could possibly eat, despite my occasional protests of “ohi para poli” -- not too much. But, by the end of the night it seemed clear – and not just because he comped a substantial dessert and the bottle of wine we drank with it -- that the volume and variety of fish was rooted in more innocent motives. First, Greek diners appear to expect that Greek tavernas will put out servings of almost-Cheesecake Factory proportions. Wrote one Brit expat now working for the Athens News: “the only reason Jesus was able to feed five thousand people with a few loaves and fishes was that there were no Greeks in the crowd.” And, second, Tassos appears to have strong convictions regarding what constitutes a “proper” dinner at his restaurant and, with a regular customer looking to show two Americans what a proper fish taverna dinner was, he was making damn sure we got one. Now, our fish was not the freshest I have ever seen waiting on ice to become my dinner. Perhaps slow business on August weekdays slows turnover, though not the worst, either. At ant rate, though, any doubts I may have harbored after seeing the fish were resolved after eating them. It was good stuff. After the Main Fish we asked for a small dessert to split. An ekmek cake or a scoop of ice cream, perhaps. And, of course, dessert came out with as much gusto as the fish had arrived: a platter full of ekmek (a sponge cake with brio) topped with mastic ice cream; an orange peel in which orange sorbet had been cunningly frozen; hanoum’s breasts (another cake, topped with whipped cream), pistachios…. And for all the fish we’d eaten, we ate damn near all the dessert, as well. Tassos called us a cab and we waddled into the nigh, full, happy, and confident that we had finally eaten a proper Greek fish dinner. KOLLIAS FISH TAVERNA, Kalokerinou & Dramas, Pireaus; 210 46 29 620; www.kollias.gr (in Greek, but an upgrade promised). Your cabbie will likely not know where this is. Tell him or her to head towards Piraeus Harbor, and then take Agios Dimitriou into the Tampouria section of town. Odos Dramas is about 14 small, dark blocks down Agios Dimitriou from the harbor. Take a left and Odos Kalokerinou is five blocks down. About 225€ for three, with substantial wine. ALTAMIRA is a truly exquisite room with utterly forgettable cuisine. Laminated menus are always a bad sign. Laminated menus that mix Mexican, Indian, Asian and Arab cuisine are always a really bad sign. Eating here is like joining your friends to sample the “authentic” offerings at the mall food court and trading plates over by the fountain. OK, for all I know, it offers the best Indian, Mexican and Asian cooking in Athens – I know there is better Middle Eastern fare – but this restaurant is to be shunned unless you have a bad, bad jones for mediocre Mexican. God, it’s a beautiful setting, though. ALTAMIRA Tsakaloph 36A, Kolonaki 210 36 14 695 210€ All right, I won’t bullshit you on this one. I lost my notes, and the evening was something of a blur, being my last night in Athens and all and my buddies eager to send me off well and, oh yeah, dine on the corporate card one last time. So, no detailed descriptions of this squid dish or that cheese (but don’t get the saganaki tempura, that was something of a low point). Just some advice from an old Athens hand: get yourself over to Gazi and into ARRISTERA-DEXIA. Gazi gets its name from the gasworks that used to anchor the neighborhood. Now it is hip, artsy and home to many gay clubs. The gasworks have been turned into an art installation and, and one of the many industrial buildings that have been turned into nightclubs or restaurants has become one of Athens best restaurants. A-D makes industrial chic Greek, with a sound stage-like dining room consisting largely of painted cement, high ceilings and a series of low-hanging rectangular lamps, which divide the room into right and left sections -- “aristera” and “dexia” in Greek. The patio, where you eat on Athens’ many clement summer evenings, is more of the same – a cement slab surrounded by a cement wall with abstract designs painted on it and bare lightbulbs strung above – I was reminded of a Christmas Tree sales lot. Somehow the furnishings make both spaces work, the wooden chairs and tables lending a little organic feel and the tablecloths softening the place up just enough. The bathroom, by the way, is New York-level hip. The food is chic Greek as well, toothsome twists on traditional cooking that never takes itself or its avant-garde status so seriously that the essential warmth of Greek cuisine is lost. Stuffed, deep-fried eggplants, shrimp and octopus, lamb, all the old standards were there, but dressed up in spiffy new clothes, energized and refreshed. Look for cardamom, allspice, or cinnamon in places you’d never expect; go there, take notes and report back. I understand that, when the restaurant moves inside in winter, the menu becomes more sophisticated and the prices rise. In summer, however, the kitchen served only mezzedes, tapas-like small dishes, mostly in the €6.99-€9.99 range. ARISTERA-DEXIA; B. Tzaferi 11 & P. Ralli, Gazi, 210 342 2606 155€ I ended up getting to two of the restaurants John Talbott pointed out upthread out as having been looked over by Le Monde’s critic, (To Ouzadiko was closed for August and 48 The Restaurant was booked the night I tried). Poetically enough, Papandreou and Spondi mark the extreme ends of dining in Athens – refined Michelin-starred dining on a calm, hidden terrace at Spondi, or tripe soup as they unload lamb carcasses around you at Papandreou. That Spondi has become only the third restaurant in Athens to earn a Michelin star likely says more about it than I can. It is elegant, without being stiff, it is an island of calm in a frenetic city; and it is more French than Greek, though arguably more Mediterranean than either. I knew I was getting my Athens legs when I came down from my hotel room with my cellphone ready and the restauran’ts number written down. Of course, the cabbie wouldn’t recognize the address. In most cities, other people ask cabbies for directions; in Athens, cabbies ask other people for direction. Upon belated arrival, we walked through the restaurant’s winter quarters onto a large, multi-tiered terrace that seemed to be lit only by candlelight and stars. Tables were well-spaced and the people at them were well-dressed. As with every nook of Athens, every cranny of space was filled with something green. And both the waiters and the functional areas of the space – bar, prep tables – seemed relics of a more gentil age, Cote d’Azure, 1955, say. After a brief discussion, our enthusiastic sommeliere recommended an appropriately oaked, if not particularly surprising, (white) Asyrtiko from the Island of Santorini and a slightly over-the-hill but tasty 1990 Xinomavro, produced by Greece’s answer to the Mondavi Tribe, the House of Boutari. The first taste of the chef’s abilities was an amuse of watermelon (a Greek favorite) and lemon topped with pepper and basil, which I appreciated, more than I enjoyed. I not only appreciated, but truly enjoyed the next course, a millefeuille variation featuring potatoes in the puff-pastry role, squab as the pastry cream and mushrooms as, I don’t know, more pastry cream. The frosting was, of course, a decadent reduction sauce and in its mix of textures and its perfect cooking the whole thing was a delight simply to chew on, much less taste. Truly extraordinary squab. [Any home chef looking for an easy way increase the swank factor of their next soiree, by the way, should note the little “salad in a cucumber canoe” in the back of the picture. Amateurs “borrow”. Professionals steal.] If the squab was almost too rich for a first course, the rabbit was almost too austere as the main course. One thing I like about these one-stars is that they almost lways get the meat off the bone for you, particularly important if you’re eating small birds or bony mammals. So the braised rabbit arrived looking a bit generic – “the other other white meat,” whatever that is. Rabbit: run out and get some. But, not only did it taste like rabbit, it tasted like rabbit that had been braised by someone who knew their job very, very well: still moist, pleasingly tender and just gamey enough to give it personality. Served with its broth and braising vegetables, spiked up with a little tomato, and accompanied by baked aubergine sprinkled with pistachio, it was a rustic dish prepared by a refined hand. My friends’ fish and filet were equally well-turned, but, as not everyone is an eGulleter and accepts dinner-time note-taking and spontaneous food photography as normal behavior, I do not have a detailed report beyond my own plate. With dessert, we split a bottle of vinsanto (sic), again from that Italianized island, Santorini, and then accepted a check, which my friend reported to be well above what had been expected – in the neighborhood of 1000€. With main courses under 30€, first courses under 20€, and the dinner wines well under 100€ we had expected an expensive but not brutally expensive meal. Unfortunately my friend was so taken aback – as well as being one who dreads looking “wrong” in restaurants -- that he did not go through the check in detail and, to this day, we do not know if there was an error made or if things just somehow got out of hand. The vinsanto is the prime suspect. It’s a wonderful restaurant, but proceed with caution. SPONDI 5 Pyronos, off Varnava Sq; GR - 116 36 Athína(210) 7564 021; (210) 7564 021 One good place to end up when you haven’t been proceeding with caution, and you feel as though maybe something in your stomach would give you the fortitude to face down the smirking front desk clerk (so, the sun is up. what about it?) is Papandreou. If Edward Hopper were Greek, he would have painted Papandreou, but the nighthawks gathered there would have looked less existentially numb. If Tom Waits lived in Athens he would go there after shows and chain smoke amongst the truck drivers and the club kids. World traveler Anthony Bourdaine has probably already scratched his name into the bathroom wall after a long conversation in broken English about butchering lamb. (There’s Parthenon view from the ladies room, but you have to stand up. Of course, there’s no place to sit.) (There was a line for the gents, that’s what I was doing there.) Nighthawks at the taverna. Essentially a very Greek take on an all-night diner, Papandreou is located on the edge Athens meat market, a reasonably quick stagger from the late-night neighborhoods of Monastiraki, Psyrri and Plaka. The clientele is diverse, but reaches its most surreal mix in the pre-dawn hours when the late night crowd overlaps with butchers preparing to clock in. The food? Big bowls of boiled stuff: soups and stews and spaghetti ladled out of big pots set behind Plexiglas screens. It’s see-food. Since the menu is only available in Greek, your affable waiter will walk you down the line, so you can see what looks good. The first time I went there, on my way to meet friends at some despicable dance club called BEE (bee-ware!), a stew consisting of lamb chops and a chard-like green, flavored with lemon and egg-white looked good. I’d never seen a triple cut lamb chop just thrown into a stew pot, whole, but it seemed to work. The bitter greens and lemon balanced the rich broth and tender meat – one of those happy peasant pairings – the egg white added a novel texture, and the serving was, as they say, substantial. The blue plate special, 14€ with wine, tax and tip. You will not leave hungry Now, make no mistake, this was truck stop eating. There is no subtlety to this food, no unexpected spice or grace note you might find in, say, Provence. The wine was fairly uncommon shade of red, and not a little sour. But I was hungry and the place hit the spot. The second time I want to Papandreou, six hours later on the same night, I was determined to try the patsas, tripe soup. Papandreou’s patsas is widely reputed to have curative powers, particularly if one is experiencing or anticipating a hangover; it is a popular dish at 5AM. WARNING: PAPANDREOU’S PATSAS DOES NOT IN FACT PREVENT HANGOVERS. In retrospect, finding an establishment that served bracing cups of black coffee, rather than one offering cheap carafes of white wine -- noticably more appealing than the red, would have been more appropriate. And the distraction of a market preparing for business – the low rumble of delivery trucks, the chatter and yells of workers as they off-load whole pigs and lambs, and the visual delight of the old market renewing itself in the pre-dawn gray – were compelling. Thus, my notes on the patsas are incomplete. Tart, meaty, chewy: like the early stew, it felt like it should have curative powers. Sadly, it has to succeed on its taste alone. Fortunately, it does. PAPANDREOU, Kendriki Agora, 010-32-19-47

As a former employee of the Little Tavern on the corner of Wisconsin and N, I can assure that Little Tavern Burgers were slightly easoned with salt, pepper and reconstituted dehydrated onions. The fact that you ate there at all suggests that you were too impaired to be able to make a reliable report at this late date.

I agree with you, but there are more than a few high-end restaurants and chefs that disagree, leave both salt and pepper off the table and even include a brief eye-roll from the waiter if you request them. I used to think that having the waiter bring the pepper grinder to the table was something mid-level restaurants (including places I worked) did to fool the rubes into thinking they were getting table-side service. But I read somewhere that many restaurants offer "pepper service" because customers steal on-table pepper mills at such alarming rates. When I worked at a swank French joint (we did not put salt and pepper on the tables, but I did not roll my eyes) they used to steal the little spoons from the salt-cellars, of all things (maybe it was a coke thing).

I like free-rangers because I think the white meat cooks up juicier -- and gives you a little margin or error when roasting a whole bird. I think they taste better, too, but I'm not so convinced that I'd wager money on it. Could be that we just became better chicken-cookers at about the same time we started buying better chickens. (Come to think of it, that is when my wife learned the magic spatchcock trick).