Busboy

What, no pinot noir? "Half of my life I spent doin' time for some other f***er's crime Other half found me stumbling around drunk on Burgundy wine" Garcia/Hunter "Wharf Rat"

D.C. - those within the beltway - are infamous for screwing up whatever they apply their efforts to. Au contraire! it's the bozos you people keep sending into my lovely town that screw things up. Senator Santorum, hah! Anyway, to the best of my knowledge Trios has been serving cheesesteaks and warmish, flatish pitchers of beer for nigh on 50 years, and surely has as much street cred as any South Philly tourist trap. (Sorry, the tourist thing was a cheap shot)

Agree, Gabe, hots are key.

I don't want to get to effete, but a place in DC, Trio's, makes a fine cheesesteak using Provolone instead of Cheeze-whiz that I find modestly superior to the Philly versions I've tried. Despite its cheesy pretensions, it is otherwise a proper gooey mess (bread is not as good as, say, Pat's) using not rib-eye but (I believe) some variation on top round, which is tenderized by whacking it with the side of a metal spatula while you fry it. The also drizzle Worcestershire on top, which I feel as though I've tasted in Philly but cannot confirm. Given the religious devotion Philly cheesesteaks inspire, I feel certain that someone on this board will be able to deliver a detailed analysis not only of the generic Philly-style sandwich, but an impassioned discussion of the difference between Pat's and Jim's.

We did get some "fast food". I'm not sure the locals dip socca in harissa, but we did and it made a memorable breakfast. Sadly, my wife, after deciding to smuggle some into the country, forgot it at one of the many security checks. We also had pissaladiere several times, but did not nearly have enough time to try the many other local snacks. Damn you, work and responsibility! Bux, I didn't make it clear, but once I got some sleep and the sun came out the next morning, what seemed a grim neighborhood was a quite pleasant location for coffee and the Nice Matin every morning and spontaneous pastisse degustations at night. I would like to have spent more time just hanging out, everyone I met was pleasant, in a good mood and tolerant of my French. Regarding the Sofitel, unfortunately, a rainstorm flooded the hotel and, though our room escaped damage, the hallways had a significant mildew funk by the time we left. The Gounod seems to have become a Novotel, FYI. One the subject of hotels, I meant to second Menton1's earlier recommendation of the Frisia in Beaulieu Sur Mer, where I stayed last year. In fact, I enjoyed that whole little town, though it does lock down at 11PM - tough if you're still on US time. Restaurant Les Agaves there did a great job, and I was sorry to see that they weren't open when I dropped by for lunch. Robert, now I'm nervous. Given my relatively few posts here, especially restaurant reviews, not sure if my credibility (a la earlier Bux post) is sufficiently established for you to spend good money on my recommendation. PS: Anybody have any light to shed on Bellet wines and those mysterious violets?

Nor do they qualify as food. They tend to be gassy, and I often find they give me indigestion.

Good grief, that's long. My apologies. I hope some of it is informative, as well.

Thanks to all who helped make the first trip with Mrs. Busboy and no children in years a smashing success, with their timely and accurate information. In hopes of adding further value to this thread, I will add a few notes of my own. We arrived Wednesday afternoon and checked into the sterile Sofitel in what seemed, on a rainy day after a sleepless night, a grim little quartier, but which turned out to pleasant and convenient place to sleep. Air France had scheduled a later arrival for our luggage, so we slouched towards the Vielle Ville in travel clothes in hopes of getting a table at La Merenda. We arrived about 5:45 and the place was shut up tight, but when we went to the olive oil shop next door – where we bought some truly wonderful, fruity Italian oil, brand name “Fructuse” – he said someone would open up soon. We set up at a café down the street and once someone arrived to open it up we ducked a head in and were offered seats for either the 7:00 or 8:30 seating. We chose the 7, and by 7:15 had tucked into a great and – no one had mentioned this, but it was a pleasant surprise for our limited budget – very reasonably priced meal. I had the courgette beignets – fine, if unexceptional -- and the oxtail and polenta, a wonderful, hearty plate on a rainy day made exceptional by the braising liquid, which seemed to have been reduced and strained into rich, winy sauce. My wife had nicely executed stuffed sardines, and the pasta with pesto, which drove us both a little crazy – having made pesto at home many times with basil literally minutes from the garden, why can’t we get our to taste like his? After, the waiter brought over a round of goat cheese of such power that the entire side of the restaurant smelled like a fromagerie for the brief seconds between the time the leaves in which it had been stored were unwrapped , and the time we finished wolfing the runny, gooey stuff down. The sight of two Americans eating it seemed to warm Franco-American relations, drawing approving smiles from the French couple to our left and a comment from the owner as he bid us good-by. We were too full for try dessert. Thursday Universal Christian Plumail, a Michelin one-star on the edge of the old city, delivered a night of fresh, creative cooking. Stephanie maintains that the terrine of sweetbread and tongue of veal appetizer was the best dish we had in our four days on the Cote d’Azure, delicately spiced and textured, a refined variation on mousse, spiced up a touch with what appeared to be sun-dried tomatoes. Stephanie’s rougets were whole, tiny fish about the size of a goldfish, lashed sushi-like to an undercoating of fennel compote and accompanied by fava beans and a squid-ink sauce arranged into an art nouveau scroll across the plate. The whole dish was light and fresh, the texture of the beans and the crisp little fish complementing one another and tasting of Spring. My main course was a monkfish tian with Sichuan peppercorns and diced pancetta, resting on a tasty, if mysterious, saffron cream (?) sauce about the density of pudding. As an aside, the waiter turned us on to what he called “the white wine of Nice” AOC Bellet. Our Domaine de Toasc was rich, floral, crisp and reminded and, perhaps not surprisingly, somewhat reminiscent of a viogner or rousanne. I loved it, and was eager to seek it out at Robert Bessi, which was, alas, closed Saturday afternoon when we finally got by. For Friday dinner, we were wise enough to follow Menton1’s advice and head to Villefranche to watch the sun set over the Mediterranean. We were also, however, dumb enough to forget his advice to visit Le Nautic for dinner. Of my meal at L’Oursin Bleu, I will say only that it was an expensive parody of French cooking. Fortunately, the sunset was stunning. Finally, Saturday, though we went no place of note, was an incredibly satisfying day, food-wise, and a reminder that a region’s cooking isn’t just fine restaurants, it’s cafes and pizza joints, as well. We started with a little wine degustation at Cave de la Tour, Rue de la Tour, on the West edge of the old town. Like everything else that day, it was simple, inexpensive and charming. No grand crues were listed on the chalk board, but there were 10 or 15 selections at two Euros or under. The patron was friendly and we had a long Frenglish conversation about heat, local wines and the tipsy old guy who kept dancing through the store. Never having eaten a sea urchin, we decided headed to Place Garibaldi, where we’d noticed a couple of cafés that seemed to move through fresh shellfish at a rapid clip each night. The sea urchins at Chez Pistol were delicious, I look forward to more. The oysters, however, were a revelation. Years ago, when Maine Belons were just finding their way to restaurant kitchens, I waited tables at Le Pavilon. Chef Cam spoke of them approvingly, but said they were not as good as those of his native Brittany – French Belons, he announced with great passion and a faraway look, “taste of the sea.” Last Saturday night, I found out what he meant. Finally, we had something called a “violet.” The waiter maintained that it was a “sea potato” and that it is not an animal. It looks like the base, or root, of one of those odd sponge-like things that grows on the sea floor, about the size of a woman’s fist and the color of something that’s washed in with the tide. It arrives sliced in half, the grey/green skin concealing an off-white, cartaliginous interior which in turn shelters a molten center the color and consistency of egg yolks whipped with a bit of cream. This, you spoon into your mouth, so that you can taste something like seawater boiled down into a demi-glace and chilled. Even oysters that taste like the sea also taste like oysters. These guys didn’t taste like anything I’d ever had, briny, gooey, very vaguely fishy -- like a flavor intensifier that you’d add to another dish, almost too strong to eat by itself. It singlehandedly reduced my wife, myself and the six Japanese at the next table (who had also bought a round of tviolets) to perplexed concentration. Obviously, a return trip to Nice and further investigation is in order. After the violets, we had a couple perfectly delightful wood oven-cooked pizzas, drizzled with spicy olive oil and washed down with that addictive local rosé, at La Petit Romarin in Place Rosetti. The waiter told us about his trip to the States in 1976 and charmed the local 4-year-old at the next table. The ice cream store next door had 100 flavors of ice cream, we tried six. Don’t get lavender; everything we tried was wonderful, though admittedly we did not try the beer, rosemary or tomato parfumes. Since it was our last night in France, we closed with a brief pastisse degustation at the café across from the hotel, prolonging the feeling as long as we could. If the Viking crew needs a bag-carrier, I’m available.

Forced to stay at the Sofitel - due to my colleagues preference for business facilities over charm. No matter, we will seek charm in the streets and hillsides of the Cote d'Azure -- not to mention the wine. Thanks.

Robert -- I find myself in the happy position of having to travel to Nice for business, leaving tonight, and will be staying over a couple of days for fun. I wonder if you'd reveal the name and location of the of the wine shop to which you referred in your very helpful post. And, since we are rather budget-minded, any suggestions you had on a moderately priced place with an outdoor view of the sea would be much appreciated.

I just emerged from the P Street Whole Foods in DC. It's an utter mob scene, tempers are already flairing, lines are backed up for miles. I expect violence and looting at any moment: Well-dressed gay men carrying off armloads of goat cheese; bike couriers smashing glass and filling their pouches with vegan frozen pizza; flannel-draped lesbians brawling over the last of the fresh produce; yuppie couples emerging from the rubble with organic baby food and liters of Evian.... Seriously, a woman with an otherwise charming Jamaican accent threatened to take her umbrella "upside your head" to the guy in front of me, who objected to her cutting in line (for four items, I don't do violence, myself), and the manager warned the bagger to help re-position the lines "it's backed up into the produce section and they're just about to start fighting." Pretty surreal.

Note that Iowa is also home to the Amana colonies -- religious commune-ish communities, that eventually gave birth to the other Iowa appliance empire.

American Bud is a fine breakfast beer, particularly when paired with cold pizza.

Our favorite way to serve duck is...with guests and leftovers. We invite a couple of couples over and buy enough duck to give everyone a breast. Cut the ducks up, render the carcasses for fat and then roast the bones for stock. We slowly pan-roast the breasts to medium rare, with a nice wine-stock-fruit reduction sauce -- maybe setting atop lightly braised leeks in buerre monte. Then the leftover legs and fat get turned into confit. The effort turns out to be pretty small, in return for one fancy dinner for six and three wonderful bistro meals for two. One good suggestion for roasting the breast: cut the skin and fat of and fry them up as cracklings, and sprinkle over the pan seared breasts when they are finished, to get your crunch and fat back. It's not quite as good, but it's a lot less tricky in terms of timing.

I dined once at Chez Panisse and it was extraordinary. As I recall: Blonde Lillet -- just forced on me as an hors d'oevre. Luscious. An omlette-thingy encircling a variety of vegerabled including eggplant, onion, green pepper and others, each vegetable very lightly cooked in a slightly different style, so the flaver overlapped and cascaded. Fish served in a wonderful broth with a puree of fresh cilantro. Roasted duck leg Wonderful peaches -- could have been served without accompaniment (except for the Hungarian Tokay we had ordered) but instead has a little champaign gelee going. It was wonderful. Of course, Alice wasn't in the kitchen. (Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More). So, I find Alice a little irritating, too, but I cut her some slack for owning, if not running, a good joint.

Still trying to master the art of crisping fish skin, so we had pan-roasted halibut filets resting atop some leftover summer ratatouille. A little lemon buerre blanc, in case the meal was too healthy, and haricots blanched and then warmed with butter and shallot. The whole thing took 20 minutes and turned into a fab little cafe meal. Still haven't got the skin right, but we're getting closer.

Might be pushing it the price a bit (their wine list is very short on reasonable wine IMO), but I'm extremely partial to Marcel's, on Pennsylvania Avenue and 25th.

I googled a couple websites and it appears that Sociando is a well made and well-respected wine, with a long life. When I bring something old enough to be dubious, I ususally bring a spare, which I produce if the wine is shot or, in the case of Chernogyl-year wines, glows eerily. A bit about the wine

Apparently its Alice who's become the old crank. Probably still in a bad mood over the Jeremiah Towers book.

Surprised nobody has recommended has recommended flavor-of-the-month Nectar. I have been there once, and found the food very, very good (and I recall, reasonabley priced -- there was a lot of wine), the atmosphere upscale but relaxed (some exposed pipes are more equal than others) and the staff extremely congenial, on up to the maitre d'/sommelier/co-owner, whose name eludes me this morning. Small but wonderful wine list, with every selection available by the glass, half bottle or bottle so you can mix 'n' match. Try the Uruguayan white.

Last week's dishes. Pasturized process cheese food.

Live on junk food for a while. Chicken wings, Big Macs, bad Chinese. You don't feel like cooking, nothing tastes good, you have other worries. You need a bender. Eventually, probably sooner than later, you'll find yourself drifting into a farmer's market or driving over to Le Gourmet and buying something tasty, healthy and simple to prepare. You'll make an omlette with fresh arugula and mangoes on the side or a linguini with chopped fresh tomatos and basil, and thick slab of home-made garlic bread, and the recovery will have begun. Avoid gin and Neil Young.

Denver's Colfax Avenue is one long strip of some of the foulest dives ever seen outside of Lower Manhatten. It's been a coupe of years and the names escape me but the images are there -- the bar where no one had all their teeth and everyone paid for the Coors with small change. The bar where someone bought a round and when I went to say "thanks" he was passed out on the bar top (at 11AM). The bar where the guy kept a bucket next to his stool so he could puke without getting up. My local dive in DC, The Raven, is positively upscale in comparison. Or maybe in reality, what with the neighborhood changing...

On my one visit to SF my wife and I stumbled across this street (on our way home from Chez Panisse) but didn't have a chance to sample the food. It seemed quite lively, even at a late hour, and rather strange -- "France Town" about 10 blocks from Chinatown. Apparently a lot of the people live nearby - the Catholic Church in the neighborhood celebrated mass in French. To tell you the truth, none of the restaurants looked particularly great, but it appears to be a fun place to head for the evening. Bring a sweater!

My impression has been that the kitchen/cellar tables are the "hot" tables. Of course, my experience is largely limited to advising my wife when she's been asked to put something together for clients and conference attendees. Maybe they're just getting booked up when there's a big event in town, and the locals are still dining out front.