Busboy

He's a mouse. A mouse that eats cheese. An evil mouse, who has created a special kind of hell and franchised it to strip mall owners across America. A mouse who must die.

Caviar. I mean, the stuff is OK, but at $50/oz, I think I'd rather spend my money on something a little more memorable.

I loathed California Pinots for years, perhaps because they were so different from and to my taste, dramatically inferior to Burgundies. Lately, though, I've tasted a couple that weren't bad, and may be forced to reconsider. I find red Burgundies to be expensive heartbreakers more often then not, but like a lovesick fool I keep coming back.

Pinot Noir Chardonnay Cabernet Sauvignon Nebbiolo Reisling Man, not including Syrah, Sangiovese, Semillion - I don't think Merlot would make my top ten. Duckhorn and Newton don't do it for me. I'd buy Newton Claret unfiltered out of a sale bin but that's about it. Well, I'm sure you're still a fine human being. And that leaves more Merlot for the rest of us. Although, if you find domestic merlot tasteless and the French stuff outrageously priced, I'd suggest that much the same could be said about your first place grape, pinot noir. To each his own...

Okay, okay, I confess - I've never HAD a Montrachet! Up until two or three years ago, I didn't even drink WHITE WINE AT ALL! ('cept bubbly). I'm trying to fix that and will promptly go get a Montrachet - care to recommend a good producer for me? A nice bottle of DRC Le Montrachet should probably only set you back $1500 or so.

I had to serve a Grande Marnier souffle with orange/cinnamon creme anglaise and fresh blood orange sections Saturday, so I made a practice version for home consumption that came out pretty well. And on Sunday my 11-year-old daughter and I made our favorite, chocolate mousse, from Particial Wells "Bistro Cuisine." It wasn't rich enough so I made a caramel/cream sauce to go with it.

So, what are the five varietels you'd keep? Also, can we assume that you've tried and dismissed Newton and Duckhorn, two winemakers whose merlots I like a great deal.

Possibly the best banana-oriented writing in postmodern literature, from Pynchon's "Gravity's Rainbow." "Pirate, driven to despair by the wartime banana shortage, decided to build a glass hothouse on the roof, and persuade a friend who flew the Rio-to-Ascension-to-Fort-Lamy run to pinch him a sapling banana tree or two, in exchange for a German camera, should Pirate happen across one on his next mission by parachute. Pirate has become famous for his Banana Breakfasts. Messmates throng here from all over England, even some who are allergic or outright hostile to bananas, just to watch--for the politics of bacteria, the soil's stringing of rings and chains in nets only God can tell the meshes of, have seen the fruit thrive often to lengths of a foot and a half, yes amazing but true.... Black market marshmallows slide languid into syrup, and the sweet, fragile, musaceous odour of breakfast permeates Prentice's flat. There is a giant glazed crock where bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild honey and muscat raisins to create (yes!) Banana Mead..... With a clattering of chairs, upended shell cases, benches, and ottomans, Pirate's mob gather at the shores of the great refectory table, a southern island well across a tropic or two from chill Corydon Throsp's mediaeval fantasies, crowded now over the swirling dark grain of its walnut uplands with banana omelets, banana sandwiches, banana casseroles, mashed bananas molded into the shape of a British lion rampant, blended with eggs into batter for French toast squeezed out a pastry nozzle across the quivering creamy reaches of a banana blancmange to spell out the words C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre (attributed to a French observer during the Charge of the Light Brigade) which Pirate has appropriated as his motto ... tall cruets of pale banana syrup to pour oozing over banana waffles, a giant glazed crock where diced bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild honey and muscat raisins, up out of which, this winter morning, one now dips foam mugsfull of banana mead ... banana croissants and banana kreplach, and banana oatmeal and banana jam and banana bread, and bananas flamed in ancient brandy Pirate brought back last year from a cellar in the Pyrenees also containing a clandestine radio transmitter ..." In "V." Pynchon introduces a painter named Slab who paints only cheese Danishes.

Usually get the wine list since I'm a) the male and b) often the person in whose name the reservation is or who first accosts the host in search of a table. If it's my wife's "turn," as it often is, to choose or taste the wine I just tell the waiter to present her with the list, or that "she'll be tasting this evening." The waiter switches gears, my wife chooses and tastes a wine and life goes on without anyone getting heartburn before the meal even begins. I think its a mistake to turn what is, after all, a relatively minor service error -- and still a reflection on the most common, if far from universal, dining practices -- into a major issue.

So there is this huge, giant thing in the Midwest called Lake Michigan... they grow fish there and even eat them. Not only that but there are other lakes too, lots of them, and they have fish. I didn't mean to imply otherwise -- I was referring to, seafood from the sea, not seafood from fresh waters (is trout seafood?). And even then, grocery store selection was pretty slim - very different from, say, heading up to the local Safeway in Oregon. And I specifically excepted families with active fisher-persons from any commentary about fresh fish availability. I love flyover country. I always wave to it as I fly over But it's still hard to get good oysters and fresh tuna there, outside the major cities.

Wow, the Zoo Bar in Lincoln, Nebraska, has the same issue with various drunken college students accosting vehicles. It's a blues bar, too. Are you sure you don't live down the street from me? I love a bar where the old retired guys sit around all day nursing warm beers and old grudges, while the tourists families look inside and then beat a hasty retreat. Never saw a bad band there, either. One drawback: they seem to vent the deep fryer directly into the elevator, which makes riding up to the fourth floor after a long night smell pretty disgusting.

My friend from Connecticut (now from Mass) maintains that grinder is a New Engkand term, and if I haven't seen "grinder" listed in every sub place in New England, I've never seen it anywhere else. Mrs. Busboy has a recipe for an absolutely inauthentic Italian sub that is utterly addictive, passed down from her mom. The bun should be, ideally, Pepperidge Farm Club Rolls -- hard dinner rolls -- fried, crust side up in butter and garlic powder. Then add white American cheese, provolone, proscuitto, thin-sliced hard salami, red onion, tomatoe, lettuce and Wishbone Italian dressing. The rolls should be hard enough that your gums are shredded by the time you finish, and there should be enough cured meet that you're dehydrated for a week. Sadly, Pepperidge Farm no longer makes the "long" rolls, (4" or so) so we've had to start using lesser bread. But they still make a spectacular meal, especially washed back with a couple of bottles of cheap chianti while watching a Robert DiNero movie.

I wouldn't go so far to say "no holds barred" by I think putting people of the defensive for stating their opinions simply and forcefully is equally damaging to the quality of the exchange. He said, simply and forcefully.

At the risk of sounding insensitive, I have to wonder how angry or hurt (barring utter brutality or deletion-level personal attacks) someone should get, over what someone they've never met writes on an Internet bulletin board. There are plenty of humorous, informative or otherwise non-controversial topics on eGullet -- though, with this crowd, one never knows what's going to get a discussion going -- but if you wade into a controversial topic, sombody is going to take issue with you: passionately, articulately (usually), and without necessarily a great deal of concern for your psychic well-being. And, as long as they stay within the boudaries of the site, it's not their job to worry about other peoples responses. People get carried away, usually they apologize. If they don't, the mods will make a decision. In the mean time, those who can't stand the heat...

If you're still looking for an apartment, try the big place directly opposite the National Zoo. Old hardwood floors, big rooms (at least the one we sublet for the summer a couple of years back), high ceilings....and in the same building as the Zoo Bar. If you haven't been, go.

Anybody seen a fish market where you can get fresh sardines in DC? It's my new craving.

The original American Cafe opened in Georgetown just before I moved from the suburbs to DC to attend (if that's not too strong a statement) GWU. Over the years, the scattered a few more around town -- the Hill location mentioned earlier, and uptown -- so your location may indeed have been new when you discovered it. I don't think that the Hill location opened before the early '80's. Can't remember much further than that. Anyone remember the sushi bar that was in the same shopping strip as Joe's Noodle House? My earliest memories of sushi are there. I can't remember the name The Hill location was open by 1983, which is when I started hanging out in that neighborhood, but it strikes me that it had opened only recently. On a more upscale note, anyone remember the old line French places around town? La Rive Gauche, in Georgetown -- the first really fancy French meal I ever ate, as a college sophmore with new girlfriend in tow...and parents picking up the tab. I don't remember a thing about the food, but I remember being very impressed at the swarms of waiters, and the mechanical crumber they used to clear the tablecloth before dessert. Was it Seagrams that used to hide the case of Whiskey and put the clues in their ads? The Rive Gauche was the key to the one they hid in DC -- you had to find a streetcorner with 3 banks. On the corner of Wisconsin and M were two financial institutions, and "The Left Bank." Now it's a Banana Republic. Parent visits provided funding for most of those early adventures. The girfriend's father paid for the night at Lyon d'Or, where I encountered lobster bisque for the first time. He had a Georgia accent that would have made Rhett Butler feel like riff-raff, and he'd spent two years as a mining engineer in St. Emilion. When he got a snootful, he argued (affably) with the waiter in strangely accented French about whether the wine glasses were authentically St. Emilion-ish. Too bad his daughter was a psychopath. Just before it closed, my parents took me -- sans petite amie -- to Sans Souci, the restaurant made famous by those glamorous Kennedy Administration folks. Sadly, it had than near-death feel that restaurants get just before the make that transformation from business to memory, but I enjoyed myself anyway. We asked the chef to make potatoe souffles for mom, potatoe slices cut and twice-fried, so they turn into little crisp puffs, that you are allowed to eat with your fingers. Finally, the parents of the future Mrs. Busboy took us to Le Pavillon, the night before she graduated, for my first expereince with nouvelle cuisine. Eight courses, the bill so staggering her dad's hands almost trembled as he pulled out the American Express card. Little did I know that in just over a year, I'd be working there myself. Save for le Pavillon, I can't say if the food was better or worse than restaurant food is today. Certainly, it was less creative than the food available at top restaurants now, although it was all new and fascinating to me back then. On the other hand, they were so damn civilized, you can't help but wish there was still one place left in town where a gentleman in a tuxedo finished your filet bernaise tableside, and the lady was given the menu without the prices. PS also Dominiques.

The original American Cafe opened in Georgetown just before I moved from the suburbs to DC to attend (if that's not too strong a statement) GWU. Over the years, the scattered a few more around town -- the Hill location mentioned earlier, and uptown -- so your location may indeed have been new when you discovered it.

My first political job was up there on what we locals call "The Senate Side" and my good friend supported her campaign habit with a waitress job at the Hill AmCaf. I did some hard time in Bob's, too, during those long days with no real money coming in.

Booeys is still great. But when we were feeling upscale, it was time to head over to the original American Cafe, on Wisconsin Avenue, just off M. It seems a little quaint now, but it was a breakthrough in 1975. Pizza at Gunchers, anyone? Or beer at Old Mac's? And, though the Bonne Appetite, AKA "the Bone" still puts out a decent burger, the thrill is gone. Of course, it's been a couple of decades since I ate a bone burger properly stoned. I liked #6, the William.

Lead item from this week's Plain Ol' Pearson's [wine and liquors] e-mail newsletter. (This issue just came out --it's not posted yet.) "'Ask the famous chefs in Washington to list the great underrated cooks in this town, ask them to count the top underpublicized talents on their fingers, and also ask them to stick one of their hands in a meat grinder before they do it: Tom Power of Corduroy will still make the list. So many great things to say about this wonderful restaurant . . . " --posted by DonRocks on eGullet.com December 30, 2003." [egullet.com describes itself as "the leading online food discussion forum in the world."] Now I don't know who DonRocks is . . . but I know high praise when I hear it. So I did what any other inquiring lover of fine food and wine would do once presented with such tantalizing information . . . I asked around. Which is how I learned about the underground, almost secretive cult of "foodies" who eat there. My scientific poll (which consisted of browbeating millions of people I know who eat food) left me with the distinct impression that the tiny minority who has been exposed to Chef Power's talent is trying desperately to keep their keen discovery to themselves."

I lived in Denver for two years and never found a good Chinese place -- the chain thing in LoDo (Charlie Chiang's?) was actually the best Chinese I ate there. There is, however, great Vietnamese on South Federal if you're hankering for Asian but not in a country-specific way.

Freezing wine works great; I even drink the thawed stuff every now and again, and it actually tastes better than if I'd left it corked in the fridge for a couple of days -- not that I usually freeze anything that costs more than $8.99 a bottle. To the larger point, I've never had wine-in-a-box that wasn't borderline undrinkable. It would be great if someone boxed up something above their foulest swill and sold it-- the equivalent of a good cafe wine -- so that I could drink a decent weeknight plonk during dinner for a couple of bucks, rather than spending three times that just to get something that doesn't wreck the meal.

I remeber my first trip to Iowa in the early 80's (for Gary Hart -- the General Clark of his day) and even though I was not much of a cook back then, it was clear that distance from the coast dictated frozen or god-awful "fresh" seafood. One restaurant in Des Moines advertised its lobster dinner a couple weeks in advance -- you signed up early and they ordered the lobsters flown in for the dinner. No fresh crustaceans in the state, as far as I could tell. I don't know how things are now, but I suspect if you grew up in the Midwest before 1990 -- unless dad was a fisherman -- you didn't taste much good fish growing up. Even these days, in Denver, good fish is harder to find than it is on the coasts. And, of all things, I think freshness is most important to seafood.

Why? I happen to like both the tartar and the pozole, petit pois and greens. I'm able to say "no thanks" politely to the glandular matter so no need to belittle their choice. I'm not big on conflict, personally. According to the dessert poll, I'm a custard and not much ruffles my feathers. Or something like that. Why expend all that energy on angst? I could be having dessert instead I'm a flan, too. Go figure. If you're not angst-ridden, no need to tussle. Just that some people do seem to be a little angst-ridden...as though food discussions bring out self-esteem problems. I was playing off your observation that you got "the slight impression from some posters that if you prefered pozole to steak tartar then you were just not *quite* worthy," and suggesting that people who detect that should battle back -- and enjoy it. Not that every thread need to turn into an argument. What's for dessert?