Busboy

Depending how adventurous and patient the kids are, Sabang restaurant in Silver Spring/Wheaton might be a charming change of pace. If nothing else, its would seem an easier place to relax in than the more frenetic Austin Grill or 2 Amy's (where my wife and I got the bum's rush the other night and what was meant to be a leisurely meal became borderline fast food). It's not, on the other hand, so formal that the children would be frowned at. Also, since it serves everything from egg rolls to many-course rijsttaffle, your ability to calibrate a reasonable price and his ability to enjoy a longer or a shorter meal is enhanced.

Chicken with 40 cloves of garlic Duck confit Thomas Keller's Braised short ribs Desser souffles Carnitas and red beans Anything that makes the windows in the kitchen steam up

The last couple times I've whacked off a fingertip I've been damn near sober. It seems so unfair: first, you have no excuse except your own clutziness and, second, it hurts like hell. On the other hand, my knifework is improving.

I had a pigs ear as part of a tete du couchon at Clos des Gourmands in Paris. It, and the accompanying cheek (removed from the bone), appeared to have been roasted, and roasted in such a way as to combine an exquisite fatty "crunch" with a rich meat flavor. Truly, a silk purse had been created. I also had a pigs head in Greece where appeared they had spit-roasted the whole pig and just served up the head split open but otherwise unadorned. Again, another siumple and excellent preparation. Tell me, CB, is eating the cartilage inside the ear mandatory, or are we allowed just to strip off the flesh? I find the texture off-putting (as I do with soft-shell crabs and other cartaliginous delicacies).

I love to cook with a little -- ok, a lot -- of wine in the systemtand I find that a modest level of inebriation actually aids the cooking process. When cooking dinner for, say, six or seven dishes for service to eight people, a modest buzz gets me the rhythm of the meal, moving quickly and efficiently to finish everything up properly and on time without really thinking about it. It's like entering "the zone," everything is done by instinct, and it really makes making dinner a lot of fun. Of course, If I'm trying to follow a recipe, a good buzz tends to be something of a drawback. And there have been those occasions where, upon cleaning up later that night, we had one of those "hey, we forgot to serve the broccoli moments." It's all in the pacing.

Three Sisters restaurant in Eden Center gets a lot of press, but I prefer the restaurant next door, which I believe is called Viet Royale. Get the Vitenamese "fondue" and the lime soda. Get the lime soda even if you're drinking beer or wine wirth dinner, it's ridiculously good. In town, I like Pho 79 in Cleveland Park quite a bit, but prefer the carry-out as the service there is rather abrupt. Match the squid curry with a decent Alsatian Gewurtzraminer and you're half-way to heaven, if not Eden (Center). Recent forays to Arlingon's "Little Saigon," out Wilson Boulevard, have been disappointing, but perhaps someone else can point out a good restaurant I have missed. A recent trip to Dalat -- once considered one of the finest Vietnamese restaurants in the area -- was bad beyond words.

I'm not 100% sure you have to study too much to master the Bron, as we have one and -- unlike our wonderful $25 Asion market number -- I have yet to take a fingertip off with it. That aside, we picked the Bron when we lost the blades for the cheep-o madolin. It cost about $100 and, while I can't say it is four times better than the inexpensive version, it was much cheaper than other "professional" mandolins and a delight to cook with.

The Mrs and I went there Thursday night, after the rain and humidity broke, and got waitlisted for a table on the patio, perhaps a bad choice, as we shall see. While sitting at the bar, we enjoyed a delightful Sicilian white -- though, after a month in Greece, paying the same for a 250 ml caraffe as I grew used to paying for a full liter of wine doesn't strike me as a bargain -- and I decided that I liked the look of the non-pizza items better than the pizza. After we were seated, we ordered a variety of small plates and, against my will, a pizza marinara. I like 2 Amy's pizza fine, but they've never rocked my world in the way other pies have. We'd looked over the pizzas on the way in and, authentic though they may be, we decided we wanted a little more sauce than the smear they were coming out with, and so we requested extra sauce. In addition, we asked for the pizza well-done. The result was the first 2 Amy's pizza to really get me thinking, "now, that's a hell of a pie." Crusty, just-burnt, with a light but tangy saucing, topped only with slices of garlic. I was a very happy man. The telefonos, which had arrived earlier, were disappointing: the cheese nugget inside lacked the bulk needed to string out properly between mouth and savoury, and was overwhelmed by the rice. Tasty enough, I suppose, but not quite there. The ricotta with olive oil, meant to overcome the cheese deficit cause by the cheeseless pizza, was bland beyond words. I liked the bread, though, especially when it was sopping up the toothsome remnants of the other plates. The fennel with blue cheese and dill was fantastic, the speck spectacular and cross-section of mackeral with olive oil and a tomato relish a revelation -- fishy goodness cut with the acid tomatoes and served in just the right quantity to get the tastebuds dancing. If the pizza hadn't been the best I'd had there, my initial observation would have been correct. If you haven't done so, I suggest you sit at the bar and watch as the bartender (Scott?) handles the cold plates with affectionate precision: sizing, shaving, drizzling and finishing the various meats, legumes, salads and cheeses, and order whatever looks most peasanty-good to you that night. Unfortunately, as we were drifting into post-dinner bliss, the waiter, obviously eager to get the hell out, began dragging chairs and tables across the wooden patio. Soon, he was joined by a busboy (one of my own!) who began dumping silver into a tray at a volume roughly equivalent to that of a minor car accident. "Stay as long as you want," the waiter lied, and dragged another table across the boards. It was all of 9:45. It was quite a buzzkill. We had a chat with our friendly bartender about it and he promised to have a conversation, but the bum's rush soured an otherwise delightful evening.

Here's more than you need to know about Full Kee, an excellent restaurant in Chinatown. No liquor, but plenty of other options to wet your whistle in the neighborhood. [skip to page 5 to avoid the endless negotiations over dates and times and get to the pics] Otherwise, though, Chinatown is a neighborhood increasingly like those suburbs with names like "Cherry Ridge" and "Mill House Estates": the name reflects what they tore down to house the current inhabitents. Not a bad walk from, say, the National Gallery, though, and close to the Red Line back to your hotel. In Dupont, Mei Wah at M and Connecticut is considered the go-to joint.

Gah, what wimps. In Crete, where Men are Men and Women are Strong, raki is considered a wholesome part of a nutritious breakfast. I can only add my thanks to CK'ers and my appreciation to my fellow DCeG-ers for a wonderful evening. How 'bout those crabcakes?

Beware this potable -- it is more addictive than crack. Sadly, people keep bringing into my house, causing me irreperable liver and brain damage. Use it for martinis, diluting it with tonic would be wrong, very wrong.

Granting that there are good restaurants in the suburbs and bad restaurants downtown, I'd suggest that the dividing line between the two styles -- for purposes of this discussion -- is the spirit of confidence and innovation that seem to define good urban cooking, and the tendancy to focus-group, smooth over and play all-things-to-all-people in suburban dining. The best urban dining seems to be personality driven, distinctive and experimental (or at least new to the area), put out with the idea that there are enough people searching for new experiences, cheap thrills, innovative cooking or just the comfort of being part of the trend, that a "different" kind of restaurant can survive. The standard suburban dining is corporate driven -- even the non-chains offer the same dishes and preparations as the chains -- and fear that if even one member of the family thinks the menu is too exotic or the blackened chicken salad too spicy, no one's coming back. It's not just the food, it's the attitude, the willingness to take a chance and walk that "fine line between clever and stupid," that separates the two approaches.

I worked at two restaurants which pooled tips and never had or heard a complaint about it. In each case, tips were pooled only with other servers on the same shift, with a modest tip-out to the service bartender and the busboy. At Le Pavillon, a formal French place, new waiters were gradually promoted to a full share in the tips, giving management and experienced servers time to bring the newbies up top speed as they passed from 25% to 50% to 75% to 100% share over 2-4 months. Most nights there were eight servers on the floor, four front-waiters and four back-waiters. At 100%, a server was expected to be able to captain a table, although, of course, not every "captain" worked the front every night. At Nora, where there were seldom more than four servers on the floor, everyone pooled a full share once training was over. Management kept a close eye on whether each server was pulling his or her own weight and at least one server -- me -- was fired at least in part for not keeping up his end of the bargain (not that I was lazy, just inept). In both cases the system worked because there were small staffs of experienced professionals who trusted each other's judgement and abilities. And, in both cases, the the system was in place because each server was expected to help other servers whenever it was appropriate. If you were in the kitchen and another server's order came up, you served it. You got drinks and cleared plates -- whatever it took - succeeding as a team and being rewarded as a team.

What - the yougurt, cheese pies and spanokopita weren't enough? That's the only stuff I would even attempt to force down when I was at a venue. I can't remember the name of the caterer, but you are correct, it is a big multinational. I'm pretty sure the organizers are aware of the complaints, despite your challenge getting through. Heck -- this whole country is tough for vegetarians. If you're still here, have you tried Eden restaurant in the Plaka? I haven't eaten there but I was planning to include it as an FYI in a wrap-up post, because I've noticed how little vegetarian food is available. If you found any restaurants that worked for you, please post or PM me with whatever info you can remember (check those credit card receipts to jog the memory) and, hopefully, it will be a little easier for the next eGV in Athens.

According to legend, Athena and Poseidon were competing to become the patron deity of the city that became Athens. Poseidon offered a well, but it produced sea-water rather than fresh water. Athens, goddess of wisdom as well as war (these things shifted over tome) offered the olive tree and thus became the patron of Athens. The olive branches being used come from a memorial grove near Athens, in which the president of each of the national Olympic committees planted a tree.

Look familiar? Details to follow.

That bastard of a waiter threw me off the rooftop. Greeks like a good afternoon in the sun, but they like an evening with a cocktail or a frappe better, so the pool was being converted to a cafe. The sun was sliding down towards the top of Lycabettus hill and the meltemi winds had come up, strong enough that with the Stones playing "Can't You Hear Me Knockin'" (hear me ringin, big bells toll/hear me singin' soft and low/I been beggin' on my knees/I been kickin', help me please) and the ouzo I'd knocked back dancing through my head, it almost felt like I was flying. The smooth operation of the Games so far means my life has been relatively calm and occasionally delightful, as when hanging out with 400 of my closest friends -- including two rowers from the British heavyweight four and an epidemiologist from Atlanta -- in a sleazy bar off Monasteraki Square. Nonetheless, as the following essay will show, I have suffered, too. Despite the sudden shock of below-deck exile, I am in an expansive mood. And so I offer the inside skinny on Olympic dining. Before you read this, though, click on to this well-crafted little article on life in Athens this week. Nicely done, and an excuse to post a picture of one corner of the exquisitely crafted Calatrava roof. Well, the Olympic Games are drawing rapidly to a close and (cross fingers, knock on wood) none of the disasters predicted by the global media and various high-profile nay-sayers (I’m talking about you, Spitz) has come to pass. But, in the midst of the well-earned relief Olympic Organizers, athletes and ticket-holders are feeling (everybody else owes Athens and apology), it must be acknowledged that the Games of the XXVIII Olympiad are well short -- nay, disastrously short -- of world-class in one respect: the food. The food is awful. In the organizing committee headquarters, in the Main Press Center, in the venues – even at receptions catered by non-sponsors and held off-campus – the food is almost utterly bereft of redeeming value. How bad is it? IOC members have taken to complaining about food in the “Olympic Family” section of the venues. At a press briefing the other morning, a reporter complained vehemently about the spinach pie. The McDonalds in the Main Press Center is packed. Why is this? I’m not sure. Part of it is the monopoly status granted the caterer and Olympic Sponsors; if it’s not made by Coke or Heineken, you ain’t drinking it. In a city where high-quality souvlakis are cheap and plentiful, snack bars sell pizza and hot dogs, two foods that the Greeks clearly do not “get.” And the Greek dishes seem to be manufactured en masse at an undisclosed location, where deranged alchemists have discovered a philosopher’s stone that turns cheese and spinach into phylo, ensuring that eating an Olympic cheese pie is a lot like opening an onion: once you get through all the layers, there’s no there there. I saw the warning signs: I’ve been lunching for almost two years at the organizing committee’s headquarters, where I’ve given up on eating anything other than the Greek Salad. Imagine Bart Simpson’s cafeteria in Greece, and you have a good idea of the food: limp pasta, steamed frozen vegetables, frightening octopus, all served up by workers who looks like they’re on a work-release program. Like a bad flashback to junior high Downstairs, the sandwich counter serves up sandwiches that are at least edible, but heavily mayonnaise-reliant. You can get a decent pastry if you’re in the mood, too. The only real standout is the coffee bar, where espressos and a variety of foam –oriented (foamed with a milkshake maker, not steam) coffee drinks are available. But man cannot live on frappés alone, so I usually pick up some pies at a neighborhood bakery on my way to work. I spend a lot of time at the Main Press Center, a huge building full of offices for reporters and staff from papers around the world. Whoever set up the cafeterias here –one for press and staff, one for staff only -- is clearly unaware of the first rule of getting good press: keep the journos well-fed. In a city where violent crime is almost unheard of, just walking into these places is an assault on certain key senses. It seems to be the same crew behind these operations as the HQ, which marry bad food to ugly design and fluorescent lighting in ways that seem guaranteed to repel customers, but still people go in. I can only comment on the moussaka and the tortellini with cream sauce: they were vile. I will never go back. Happiest meal in the MPC The place to hang in the MPC is the Heineken Bar on the roof. I think it has another name – the Samos café or the Aphrodite lounge or something from the Holiday Inn Banquet Room Naming Style Guide (Greek edition) – but no one has ever referred to it by that name. It doesn’t serve food, but one can get beer and coffee drinks and even mixed drinks, it’s got a decent views and someone – surely not the people who designed the other facilities – put in a few plants. Evenings, the cream of the Greek sporting press are there, as well as a mélange of other reporters, officials, volunteers and staff. Greek reporters trading notes at the Heinekin Bar. "In Greece, we raise two things high: our glasses, and our flag." The guy in the red said that at a press confrerence and I just wanted to pass it along. All venues have cookie-cutter snack bars specializing in the savory pastries, hot dogs and pizzas mentioned above; some have ice cream in a cup and – in a nod to Greek tastes – yogurt. The unflavored yogurt comes with a smaller cup of honey attached and ready to be emptied into larger cup. It is almost heartbreaking how wonderful the ranks of café tables lined up in the common domain would be at sunset as the excited, international crowd walks through (yes, they have arrived) and the lighting changes the color of Calatrava’s spectacular architecture every minute. Except the food. A grand opportunity has been missed. Even away from school, the cafeteria flavor remains. I’ve commented on the press reception I attended elsewhere, but the food at a truly fab Sports Illustrated reception was almost more disappointing for sounding so much better on paper. This was a hot ticket – Ian Thorpe pushed his way past me going one direction, I was elbowed out of the way by what appeared to be the infield of the women’s softball team going the other. Beach Volleyball fans (ie, Al Dente) would have recognized the Fun Girls; HillValley would have recognized the men’s swim team. SI had clearly dumped a boatload of cash on this reception, at another of the outdoor nightclubs that line the Greek coast. But the oysters, “from Normandie” as French-accented shucker behind the line proudly informed me, seemed to have been transported to Greece by mule rather than air. I’m not going to complain that the (rock? – the warm water type) lobster tail was overcooked – free lobster is free lobster – but there are dozens of delis in the average New York City neighborhood that lay out better sushi than this reception did. Not as good as it looks. I did end up picking bits of flesh, piranha-like, from the carcass of a lamb that had been skewered and grilled, but otherwise it was a good night for drinking, not eating. A lot of buzz circles around the houses set up by various countries, where they entertain VIPs, schmooze journalists and take care of high-roller Olympic supporters and even the occasional athlete. I had a chance to crash a fashion show at the Italian house -- after seeing all those healthy volleyball players and swimmers, fashion models look particularly wrong -- and eat there. I suspect no one was fooled into thinking they were in Italy, which was a little depressing. If the Italians can't make the taste buds cream, what chance does the Dutch House have? But they did come up with a fine barbera d'Asti for dinner, and having unlimited access an entire wheel of parmesan is not a bad thing. Vino, per favore. The Greek landmass being so intimately wed to the sea, and water being a recurring theme in Greek life, it is no surprise that the swimming venue was the exception to the bad food rule. What is surprising it that this treat was not seafood. Rather, the swimming venue offered what can only be described as prime beefcake – appropriately dressed, and ready to go. Choice. Prime. It’s too bad that a country that treasures food the way the Greeks do lost an opportunity to show the world an often-overlooked cuisine. A heartening trend in the U.S. has been the elevation of ballpark food from execrable to at least mediocre (if God-awful expensive) at many venues, I’m sure that Greek sports fans look forward to that trend reaching the Aegean as soon as possible. Not that one expects brilliant cooking at a footrace, but certainly a little pressure on the caterers to improve performance, a means of working with sponsors to bring a little variety to the menu (I’m beginning to loathe Heineken) while protecting the interests of companies whose support is critical to the Games; and a focus of food that Greeks do well (Lamb, not sushi) would have been well rewarded. Fortunately, in Greece, there are plenty of places to dine after the Games have closed for the day.

Breasts seems to be an ongoing theme -- perhaps patissiers spend too much time with their craft and not enough with their wives. I had a traditional dessert in Athens a couple of nights ago called, roughly "Turkish woman's small breasts." I have no idea what the original Greek was.

My Florentine friends would insist it's not the same unless grilled over vine cuttings. :whatever: Vine cuttings seem to impart a partiucularly smokey flavor to the meat -- when we were in Provence the bistro in our village (Vacqueyras) grilled with them and we cooked with them at the house, as well -- vine clippings piled by the side of the road being rather common in that neighborhood. My wife found the effect overwhelming -- much stronger than, say, adding mesquite chips to the grill -- and disliked it, I thought it added a wonderful flavor to what might have otherwise been undistinguished beef. I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you get hold some vine clippings, go easy. Also, the recipe for the beef I use finishes the steak with a little chopped parsley atop the olive oil and lemon.

Greetings from Athens! I actually figured at least one eGulleter would make it over for the Games. I hope no one avoided them because of (what I thought was) the very unfair press coverage over the last couple of years. You're missing a good party. After a slow start, the buzz is building, and the city is simply more liveable and friendly than it has ever been (old-timers tell me). And, you can get reservations at the top spots. Anyway, more of my hopefully helpful and/or amusing tour through the dining rooms of Athens. A long one, maybe you should get a cup of coffee... EXARCHIA, VICTORIA and OMONIA Omonia square is an Athens’ crossroads, the local equivalent to Times Square. It’s where 400,000 Greeks gathered to celebrate Greece’s Euro Cup victory. The square itself is surrounded by tall, modern hotels and office buildings, and the neighborhood is a shopping and government district, a pleasant, lively and uncommonly well-lit part of town and, consequently, of little interest to me. A couple blocks south and you hit the old part of the city. First the central market, then the hookers and narrow streets at north end of Psyrri; then immigrants and their restaurants, shops and sweatshops; then club kids and their clubs; then tourists and middle-class Greeks and Athenian mall rats as Psyrri bumps up against Monastiraki, the Plaka and, inevitably and delightfully, the Acropolis. Of at one angle is Kolonaki, where the shopping tilts decidedly upscale and where I hope to spend some time in later this trip -- if my friends will stop going to the same lame tavernas for dinner every night. Due north of Omonia is Εξαρχια (Greek keyboards are fun) or Exarchia (ex ARK ee a). There’s a fine line between gritty and chic these days and Exarchia – well, I’d be lying if I said Exarchia even got close chic very often. You could see it as a grim little neighborhood crammed with five story concrete flatblocks centered around a square populated by stray dogs and metalhead drunks. But Exarchia takes its dominant cue from the Polytechnica, where the murder of demonstrating students sparked the overthrow of the colonels in 1974. There’s a funk to it, the quarter is full of used record stores, book shops and handcrafted goods. The open-air movie theater was showing Godard’s “Pierrot le Fou,” Keaton’s “The General” and, bizarrely, "What Did You do in the War, Daddy?" The food is cheap, and some of it is good. It’s my home until September and to me it feels like a second-hand leather jacket that fits just right, and I enjoy wrapping it around me and heading out to the tavernas to learn Greek one poutiri krassi [glass of wine] at a time. Exarchia The neighborhood of Victoria is, apparently, down at the heels once you penetrate it very deeply. Much of it is immigrant blocks populated by Albanians, Africans and Arabs drawn by Greece’s growing economy – the most robust in the EU since 2000, and stoked by Olympic construction projects thirsty for unskilled labor – but not yet fully a part of it. The area around the subway stop is pleasant – moreso as renovation of the area winds down. I haven’t had a chance to explore it fully yet, but I have stumbled across a couple of places of note. I don’t know who to thank, but the three best restaurants I’ve found since moving to Athens for the month have all been curled up in my little corner of Exarchia/Victoria, where Alexandras Avenue meets 28 Oktovriou Street across from the park and around the corner from the (great) National Archeological Museum. The first, "best," and –initially -- least interesting restaurant is in my hotel, the Park Hotel. Their top floor has been given over to a fine dining spot called ST’ASTRA, which I believe means “the stars.” To actually see the stars, you have to go up to the rooftop, which does not have the fine dining menu, but which does have an all-the-ouzo-you-can-drink-plus-mezedes (tapas) twice a week. I’m surprised I haven’t been there yet. If you can’t see the stars from from St’Astra, you can see damn near everything else. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer spectacular views of Athens’ ivory flat-blocks rolling up the local hillsides like sea foam climbing the rocks. My favorite view is of Lycabettus Hill, which hasn’t the Acropolis’ history but, perhaps because of that, seems to have a stronger hold on the local’s heart as a landmark and navigation aid. The interior designer wisely decided that the view was the St’ Astra’s astra, and framed it with clean lines, a wooden floor and some bizarre and beautiful art glass chandeliers. If you can see this view, you're two hours early for dinner (Greek time). Don't worry, it sparkles at night, too. Though it advertises itself as kind of French-Med fusion, it’s really more French than Med. You don’t find much veal in the local tavernas, and cream sauce is not native to these latitudes. That’s one reason I didn’t give the perfectly cooked veal loin with girolles and that cream sauce the respect it deserved, at first. I found fault, too, with the “Mediterranean” portion of that meal: a tossed salad with a lime-ish dressing and langoustines. On the one hand, it was woefully overdressed. On the other, the langoustines were sweet, fresh and impeccably cooked – another sign of sure hands behind the line. And, though a dining-companion’s duck, in a honey-red wine sauce, was compelling both before and after I risked the raised eyebrow to ask for a piece (some share food, some don’t), I was looking for something more Greek that night and I came away from St’Astra vaguely disappointed. But the other night, after a run of mediocre taverna food, I was ready for something fresh and in the neighborhood, so we ended up at St’Astra. Again, the main course seemed more “continental” than Greek, lamb tenderloin with a simple but well-turned reduction sauce. But, after three weeks ion Greece, I didn’t mind taking a field trip to France, at least for dinner. My friends both had fish – one pronounced his John Dory the best dish he’d had at the hotel. The revelation of the night, however was prawns served in a kind of orange-spiked tomato soup, with stewed aubergine providing an excellent excuse for finishing the broth once the prawns were gone. The wine list is in Greek, which can be troubling, but most bottles are under 30 €, a pleasant contrast to most American restaurants of similar caliber. Don’t expect a great deal of guidance from the servers, who are attentive and attractive – one half suspects they were chosen by the interior designer to match the décor -- but are most certainly not sommeliers-in-training. Both times I’ve been there, the manager has dropped by to gather our opinion of the place. My friends have looked at me, horrified at the thought that I would say anything other than “it was wonderful,” and leave, so I haven’t. But if I’d had, I would have thanked him for an excellent meal, asked for a more help with the wine, and suggested that the kitchens’ strength may lie in pursuing local attitudes and ingredients a little more aggressively . St’Astra: in the Park Hotel; 10, Alexandras Ave., 10682; 1/8832711-19, 0030/1/8832811-14 http://www.parkhotel.gr/htmlsite/stastra.html Apps: 10-15 €, Main Courses in the 25-30 € range. Once you get the need for sauce out of your system, you can walk a block from St’Astra for a little spice at the, sadly, closed-for-vacation, ALEXANDRIA restaurant. Alexandria is all about spice. Winters, when dinner is served inside, the restaurant smells like a thriller set in The Casbah – roast cumin and cardamom and blended aromatics rushing up to greet you as the plate is set down, accumulating in your system until you feel that you have been as thoroughly spiced – even if you are not as well stewed – as the lamb. The food ranges from familiar Middle Eastern Fare to Greek, with a solid core of Egyptian foods (so I am told – don’t hold me to this). In addition to the cunningly and assertively deployed spices, fruits are strewn about liberally and one finds yogurt everywhere. Now that tomatoes are in season you can begin with a fattoush salad just like you get in the U.S., but more muscular and tart with garlic and vinegar. The owner describes ads – a lentil soup – as one of her favorite dishes, and it is easy to see why. The pureed lentils and the roast cumin weave themselves together seamlessly, each complementing the other and seeming to gather flavor as you eat, until by the end you’re obsessively wiping invisible molecules out of the bowl with your pita, hoping for one last hit. Ads: lentils done right. Vegetarians might follow the ads with the aubergine moussaka I had one night, two slabs – no other word is accurate – of eggplant topped with a tomato sauce that was almost more onion than tomato and dusted with cardamom (?), topped with a dollop of that great Greek yogurt. Lamb stewed with fruit and almonds was simply spectacular. The first taste grabs your attention – succulent lamb and dried fruit laying down a solid baseline – and then the spices begin to play wild scales on your palate like a night with Diz in Tunisia. I’m a pretty good French/Italian/New (and old) American cook around the house, but this is a whole different language. Another favorite: kebap hala. If you’ve eaten a gyro in the US, you have a basic idea of the dish – spicy ground lamb, yougurt, pita. But every aspect of the dish is executed simultaneously at greater volume, and with greater delicacy. The lamb is richer, but with a lighter texture; the spicing more nuanced, but added with a more determined hand. The yougurt gets some tomato, for brightness. And pita, here on its home turf, is just better. Yum. Summers, the tables are spread out into an airy passageway between two buildings with large black and white tiles below and fabric umbrellas above. Given the informal – but reasonably efficient -- service, and the owner’s propensity to have a smoke or a glass of wine with her regulars (while her husband cooks), dining at Alexandria is a lot like being invited to eat on someone’s rather elegant patio. Alexandria: Metsovou 13 - Mouseio (Museum) Tel. 30 1 8210004. First courses under 5 €, main courses 8-12 €. Wines 15-22 €/bottle. PATCUTE is a little one-note esteatorio right on Victoria Square, but its one hell of a note: roast meat, served quickly, simply and deliciously. This is an Atkins-dieters dream – I know, because the ones I am traveling with are now addicts. The first night I was there they were out of the lamb’s head, so I got, of course, the pig’s head. Now, at Clos des Gourmands, in Paris, where I first ate pig's head they remove the meat before serving it up. At Patcute, they turn the head upside down on the chopping block and cleave the thing in half, leaving you to pick the meat from the bones and fragments on your plate. If you’ve picked crab, you have a rough idea of trials and rich rewards of eating pig's head this way. At one point, I thought I had speared a particularly large and tender morsel but when I looked at it; it looked back at me and I said to myself, “I ain’t eating no eyeballs.” These days, I like to go up to the glass – one of those warming things that keeps ducks in Chinese restaurants warm without drying them out – and ask “tee inay” – what is it? Of course, the answer is always the name of a dish, not a descriptor, so I just get whatever looks most likely to leave a greasy smile on my face. One day it was kokoretsi – lamb flank wrapped around chunks of liver and a layer of fat, then roasted to a salty, herby, crusty perfection. Another day it was exochito – pork treated similarly, but wrapped around red bell peppers. And, finally, I had the pansetta. Not the round Italian style, but rectangular chunks of pork belly, fat and meat almost melting inside a smoky crust. I doesn't get any better than this. Note the whole lamb. You don’t have to get the meat – there’s sausage, as well as the usual openers – a decent tzaziki, an indifferent fried cheese, assorted forgettable salads. They also put out a decent souvlaki, and their roast chicken is first rate. There is a language barrier, but one we have overcome through our obvious affection for their food and their apparent delight at the three clown-suited (our alarmingly bright Olympic uniforms) regulars with credentials who come by -- in some combination – almost every day. Patcute: Plattia Victoria (Victoria Square) 14 at Aristtelous 90; 8836355, 8836326. Lunch for three – salad and main course -- with a liter of (decent) wine: 34 €. Note: directly next door there’s a small café whose atmosphere I find inexplicably delightful – I don’t know if it’s the lace tablecloths or the heaping saucer of meatballs, sausage and cucumbers that comes with a glass of wine – that’s well worth putting your head in, too. Unfortunately, other ventures into this part of town have been less satisfying. Giandes, which is mentioned in all the guidebooks, certainly offers up a setting that stands out even in a city full of delightful spaces. Here, you pass through a doorway off a busy pedestrian street to find yourself in a beautiful courtyard. Walls painted Mediterranean blue and burnt orange surround low-raised decking which flank, one step down, a tiled patio. Tiles and planking have been laid carefully around the trees growing up around you and the lighting is left at the lowest possible level. The feeling is open and intimate at the same time, and it is so pleasurable that the kitchen’s performance seems to be overlooked by its customers. The chicken myma is a good idea marred by overcooking – chicken stewed with vinegar and raisons, served over rice spiced with cumin seeds that crunch delightfully in your mouth at every bite. Byzantine pork, too, was overcooked. Appetizers ranged from the common to the banal. It’s a pity that such a delightful setting is the scene of so much mediocre cooking, but the house wine is good and cheap. [As an aside, I’d suggest that you are a fool to drink anything other than the house wine, often drawn directly from the barrel – at 75% of the restaurants in Greece. At most restaurants, the jump from the 8€ liter of house to the 18 €750 ml bottle is simply not justified. Of course, at some restaurants, the house wine is pretty much undrinkable, so there’s a risk either way. ] One interesting note: after dinner one night, the house sent over a shot of something to settle our stomachs – not raki, not tsipourou, and not ouzo. Nope, it was mastika. Mastic, you may recall from an earlier post, is a flavoring/herbal remedy from the islands and mastika is a clear liquor made with the bark and root of this plant. Imagine the fresh, earthy, smell of dirt scooped up from the forest floor. Delightful – but imagine your drink smelt like that. Then imagine someone finished the drink with a drop or two of turpentine. Yammas! To your health. At Giandes, you can eat with the kitties. GIANDES, Valtetsiou 44 (Two blocks from Exarchia Square), Exarchia 20 €/person with wine ROZALIA is another guidebook staple and another disappointment, noted here so you won’t be misled. Maybe I’m bitter – the waiter didn’t bring the tray of appetizers and allow me to select my own, as promised in the blizzard of tourist tip sheets blowing through Athens this summer. In fact, he didn’t bring anything for a long time. Perhaps you get that bit of showmanship inside the courtyard, but it was practically floodlit, so I chose a table actually in the street – just down the street from Giandes -- rather than tolerate the glare. The squid I ordered turned out to be cuttlefish, but that’s a nuance I don’t expect always to make it through translation. If the cuttlefish is an example, nuance is not a Rozalia hallmark, anyway. In the same vein the spinach risotto, was boiled rice with spinach rather tham what you might expect. In either case, the meal was redeemed only by one of the many micro karafs [small caraffe, sometimes 250 ml, sometimes, 500 ml) of red house wine I’ve enjoyed in Athens, half a liter of fine plonk for 4 euros. ROSALIA Valtetsiou 58 (just off the square) Exarchia 010/33 02 933 About 20€ with wine Finally, IDEAL, which earned a “three-strikes and you’re out” ban for my otherwise helpful Rough Guide (taking food advice from Brits – what was I thinking?), is a businessmen’s-looking place just off Omonia Square. Uncommonly bright for a Greek restaurant, it has the virtue of a friendly and strangely efficient staff. This complements, on assumes, the Viennese feel, which is accomplished through liberal use of aprons and green jackets, and an interior design that Klimt might have thrown up if he’d come back as a decorator circa 1975: all art nouveau curls and flips, in bright yellow and contrasting orange and green. As much as I wanted to like the place, I couldn’t. My pork cutlet was dry and the mushrooms canned. The only highlight was the ekmek cake, kind of dense spongecake, topped a sugar-honey syrup, mastic ice cream – much more delicate than the mastika – and pistachios. A nice way to close a forgettable meal. IDEAL; Panepistimiou 46, Omonia, 010/33 03 000; 25€/person with wine If you find yourself in the neighborhood and have a kitchen at your disposal, there’s a nice little market Saturdays in Exarchia, roughly at Eressou and Benaki. Trying to take pictures there will make you very unpopular, very fast. Why, I don’t know, the only thing I understood was the security guard saying “don’t photographs” and the grape-seller yelling “FBI, FBI.” The produce looks good, if not quite up to a lot here in the US – no heirloom tomatoes, for example, and not nearly the variety you get here. On the other hand, the fish was as fresh as I have ever seen, and much less expensive than Greek restaurants ask. A courgette blooms in Exarxhia. And the courgettes look beautiful. Southerners should be advised that okra is widely available (and warned that the men’s room at Alexandria restaurant seems to have a picture of General Sherman on it. Why, I don’t know.)

The night we ate at Milos, the waiter was bragging that a French couple had sampled the Greek oysters. After the meal the couple told the waiter: "we always thought that France had the best oysters in the world. Now we think Greece does." Their taste was distinctive enough that surely some who like oysters would like other oysters better -- just as some prefer Jonathans and some prefer McIntosh (to keep it an apples-to-apples comparison). And they were certainly helped by the fact that, like everything at Milos, they were spectacularly fresh. Without getting too off-topic, let me just say this about women's beach volleyball: if the Chinese women are playing, tune in. They ain't wearing Mao Suits any more. The Austrian was for HillValley.

You think that was eye candy -- you should have been at Women's Beach Volleyball yesterday. I shared a cab back to town from the venue with a 6'4" (+) blond Austrian Beach Volley competitor, but felt that asking him to partially disrobe for a picture might have been misinterpreted. We skipped the softshells and other imported fish in favor of the local stuff. Aside from Milos, I haven't seen any oysters around, but I am keeping my eyes open. The big day-to-day seafood is tentacled creatures -- had some cuttlefish last night, and barely a day goes by without squid or octopus. A lot of roast meats, too; I know just the place if you've got a taste for pig's head, and I'll be sure and post as soon as I find a little photogenic beefcake, as well.

From this week's Wash Post chat with Tom Sietsema - we had some more than respectable apps. there. "Alexandria, Va.: Tom: With the Olympics starting on Friday, what are some fun Greek restaurants in Northern Virginia or D.C.? I am looking for inexpensive/moderate price and authentic flavor so I can pretend that I am actually there celebrating! Thanks. Tom Sietsema: I like newish Mourayo myself. It's on Connecticut Ave. "

THE COAST AND SEAFOOD All you oyster snobs – I got you beat. You can have your drab Blue Points and your fey Kumimotos, your effete Belons and your good ol’ Appalachicolas. For I have been to MILOS, in Athens, and now I dream only of Peloponnese: fist-sized oysters covered with barnacles and wrestled by divers from their beds in 10 meters of water, that taste of seaweed and bright colors. Or maybe the monsters from the coast of Evia, near Attika, where the size and beefy taste of the local bivalves almost makes one call for a red wine and a carving knife. I posted somewhere that Greeks seem to like to accompany seafood with more seafood. At Milos, aside from the unavoidable Greek salad, a fine one, that’s what they did. From oysters and clams, on to octopus – my new favorite version, tasting of char, lemon and olive oil – and then fried calamari. Both, like the oysters, were exquisitely fresh, simply prepared, and delicious. If only we had stopped then. As in may Greek restaurants, we had been led to the kitchen to select our entrée, a delightful little red snapper, nestled in with dorade, Maryland soft-shells, sardines and a whole little multicultural fish school of other potential entrees from all over the world. It was sad that our fish had to leave such exotic company only to be thrown on a cold part of the grill and served up skin under-charred and flesh overcooked. At 63€ a kilo, it was sad for us, too. The service deserves a mention for its enthusiasm and competence, and the sommelier – the understudy, actually – turned us on to some excellent Greek stuff, including a truly spectacular Syrah from Thrakia/Macedonia in Northeastern Greece. At 9€ a glass, it went down like velvet and perfectly accompanied the robust seafood Milos turns out – and seemed like the only bargain of the night. MILOS Athens Hilton, Vassilisis Sofias 46, Athens, tel: 00 30 210 724 4416. Open for lunch daily and dinner Monday to Saturday 225 € for two, and we didn’t have that much wine. I once mentioned that I enjoyed the seafood in Athens to Greek friend and he said “oh, you have to go down to the coast to get good fish.” A funny statement, given that you can see the ocean from the Acropolis. So, we retraced the steps taken by Socrates and his disciples during the discussion that became The Republic (when your co-worker is a St. John’s – Annapolis – graduate, every meal risks becoming a lesson) and headed down to the coast for a traditionally Greek 4:30 “Sunday lunch.” JIMMY AND THE FISH is about 15 minutes from downtown, next to Piraeus in the town of Microlimano. Once you get onto Microlimano’s main drag, you run a gauntlet of dozens of restaurants, each with kitchen/dining room/bathroom on the shore side of the street and outdoor dining rooms built over the water on the harbor side, with the waiters dodging traffic top bring you your meal. Rather than select the fish itself, my friend merely suggested a weight and left it to the waiters. He then ordered the rest of the meal on our behalf and the usual suspects were rounded up – calamari, huge shrimp, a tasty risotto, octopus in red wine sauce – all of it good B-level seafood -- by Greek standards -- B+ or A- in the U.S. Interestingly, you see a lot of tartar sauce over here – tastes pretty good, too, as it’s apparently made with real mayonnaise and is heavily spiked with lemon. It goes down very well with fresh langoustines. The wine was a tasty, if pricey, oaked white from Santorini and it flowed freely as we waited for the fish – a three kilo beast that no one seemed to know the English name for and I couldn’t identify. Sadly, the fish was again overdone. Fortunately, it was a big enough thing to shake off the overcooking with only a modest loss of flavor. The waiter presented the fish and then tok it to a sideboard and parcelled out. Not Jimmy, but certainly a fish. Greek restaurants will often send out a digestif or a glass of sweet wine after dinner, on the house, to regulars and free-spenders. At Jimmy’s, they send six chilled bottles -- I recall grappa, Jagermeister, Limoncella among them -- and a cluster of thimble-sized shot glasses to the table. And, as the sun set and the harbor lights began to blink on (did I mention that the setting was beautiful, with cliffs on one side and the crowded harbor before?) I discovered a new vice: Jimmy’s raki. Raki is Cretan moonshine, distilled, like grappa, from what’s leftover after you press grapes from wine. Like grappa, the taste varies with the quality of the product: from undrinkable to merely bad, but strangely compelling. At Jimmy’s, they flavor it up with honey and digestive herbs and serve it up in thin rectangular bottles holding maybe 200 ml. We went through three of them before we lurched into the night. JIMMY AND THE FISH 46 A. Koumoundourou Str., Microlimano, Piraeus 210 41 24 417. Expensive (I didn’t pay the check, but the fish was 63€/kilo and the wine 50€/bottle, though I know that cheaper and possibly even better bottles are to be had). ISLAND CLUB AND RESTAURANT is a hot ticket. The Guardian newspaper called Island "the finest sea view in the capital" and one of Athens’ top celebrity magnets, along with the rooftop deck at the Grande Bretagne. I'm glad we had chance to eat there before we had to fight Jack Nicholson and Leonardo di Caprio to get a reservation. The restaurant is in another suburb, Vougliagmeni (sp?), that also bears exploring for the undeveloped stretches of seashore, where the locals apparently picnic on the beach until all hours of the morning. The cab ride was endless, but inexpensive – 15€ or so. It may be cheaper to ride cabs around Athens all night than to book a decent hotel room during the Games. The restaurant is immense – it’s really a complex, with a dance floor, cocktail lounge and – I assume, but it was too dark to confirm – lounge chairs set up along the beach. All set up on decking under the stars, natch. The meal was very good; marinated rouget filleted and served up rich, oily and standing like little fishy tents, tail up, atop paper-thin courgette cross-sections that cut the richness just enough. The main course was a braised lamb shank served atop a credible mushroom risotto, a nice meaty contrast to all the fish I’d been eating. By 12:30 or so, the music was getting loud and the place was beginning to move into a higher gear, so we left the restaurant to those who like that sort of thing, and headed back into the city – 20 minutes now that the traffic was calm. The food was good, and Greek, but I’ll remember Island for something else. Just before the main course went down, a burnt-pumpkin moon began to rise from behind the hills across the bay, huge and ghostly translucent on the horizon – and continued to rise, gaining heft, changing slowly from pumpkin- to butter-colored and throwing a bright band of light across the waves as we finished our meal. It was like watching a sonnet being written. “Finest sea view in the capitol,” indeed. ISLAND CLUB AND RESTAURANT; Limanakia Vougliameni 16672; 210 9653 563-564. Expensive. I had the chance to show the flag for my company at a posh reception at another seaside restaurant/club, Balux. Sadly, it was a press reception and – journalists being journalists – nobody got far enough from the bar to sit down for a formal dinner. The buffet was execrable. But someone had shipped in a gaggle of models, who spent the whole time together in protective knots that no reporter could penetrate, drinking club soda and taking pictures of each other with their cell phones. Eye candy can be hazardous to your teeth (if your wife reads your posts) Avoid the hot food here, but look for the sweets.

UPDATE Athens has become an Olympic City, and the Greeks are in a great mood. Beneath the surface, there’s a bitterness about the way their country was portrayed in the international press during the run-up to the Games. Fortunately, the excitement of the moment, a belated press recognition that the Athens Games have the potential to be truly spectacular, and the opportunity to throw – and attend -- one hell of a party seem to be sweeping the bad karma aside. Old-timers tell me that the city is cleaner and more livable than it has ever been, traffic is moving, the locals are friendly, and the tavernas recently received official permission to stay open 22-and-a-half hours a day…and all night Friday, Saturday and the eves of saints days. The Greek government is trying to monitor price gouging at hotels and restaurants, and turned up widespread inflation in the tourist areas around Plaka. My spies report that swell restaurant Pillpull (sp?) has hiked prices to ridiculous levels – 40€ entrees, 20€ salads. The quarters I’ve been in have held the line, though. Further from downtown, most of their customers are Greek and I expect that words would be exchanged if prices suddenly shot up. This is my fifth trip to Athens in the last year-and-a-half, and I’m coming to think of Athens as a merely good food town, but a great place to eat. Hearty, well-prepared fare, accompanied by decent wine and low checks is widely available. Dining is done outdoors whenever possible, in spaces that are artfully assembled and carefully maintained. People eat in families – and are served family-style -- or in groups, and linger, unhurried, as long as they like. And the servers seem genuinely pleased to be entertaining out-of-town guests, if occasionally baffled by our early dining habits and need to rush away from the table after a good meal. It’s not Paris. But I’ll eat out in Athens any time. GURU Update: A second visit to Guru (see post above) reveals that it is, in fact, a Thai restaurant, though all agree that it does have a vaguely French Quarter vibe to it. I still haven’t eaten there, as I tend to show up after the tables have been shoved aside in favor of the dance floor, but friends say it’s “pretty good Thai for Athens.” YOU NEED THIS WEBSITE The Athens Survival Guide if you are going to Greece. This guy covers a lot of ground – including non-food advice, as though that were important -- with affection, wit and enthusiasm. In fact, after you read Mr. Barrett’s work, you may never need this thread again. Mr. Talbot: thanks for the Le Monde link. The restaurants in the meat market are legend, there are several and each apparently has its own partisans. I have yet to find myself in a position to see any of them in their best light – at 4AM, either coming in from a club or going to work in the market – but am eager to do so soon.