Busboy

Just hanging out and found this, FWIW.

For which I apologize. So how about a place that say, specializes in Virginia ham, like we have in Pomze, Rouge Tomate, Coco & Co, JGo + Meating which respectively focus on Apples, Tomatoes, Eggs, Lamb and Beef? Not all great but not bad either. ← Let me be rephrase -- it was the wrong question in a larger, philosophical sense, not a question that it was wrong of your to ask. DC is just too small and new to have a distinctive cuisine all its own, but if you think of it as part of a larger region, you might be on to something. No need to apologize. A place that specializes in Virginia ham might be great, but, sadly, I don't know of any. Just for fun, though, you might look into the restaurants that buys pork from Eco-Friendly. . The have a national reputation and their pigs are raise locally, and the Tabard Inn is usually a decent place to eat a meal, and distinctively DC (check out the painting by the hostess stand if you go) though they recently changed chefs and I have heard little.

This is a question that has often been asked and debated and I think it's essentially the wrong question. DC was -- until earlier this century -- was a modest-sized city (half the size of Baltimore) in the middle of a sleepy little region. Rather than drawing unskilled workers drawn to the employment possibilities of local industry and supported by welcoming immigrant communities, we drew random clerks, scientists, curators and soldiers who intermingled and intermarried, leaving us with a kind of a homogenized bourgeois mix that didn't have the clout to put any particular ethnic stamp on the culinary scene or any single tradition to define it. And it was hardly the kind of city -- like Paris or New York -- to draw famed chefs who might perfect some variation of haute cuisine. DC shouldn't really be thought of as a distinct spot. Culinarily-speaking, it's where the Chesapeake Bay meets the Shenadoah Vally and the Great Migration, which makes it mostly the south, with a side of fish. Ham, soul food, oysters and crabs, anything with the extraordinary fruit that Virginia and Pennsylvania produce....it's a great mix. Unfortunately, it's a mix more easily enjoyed by farmers market shoppers and fish-market customers than expense account diners in fancy restaurants. I think Vidalia has been doing a good job capturing that mix, in an upscale sort of way (I had truffle on macaroni and cheese last time I was there). The Hitching Post serves up fired chicken, greens and the like and has a great soul/jazz jukebox, but service can be trying -- it's run by an older woman who does all the cooking herself. Georgia Brown's has a decidedly mixed reputation. The Florida Avenue Grill is essentially a diner; some say it's lost a step. And, of course, if we mostly missed out on the "old wave" immigrants -- and what was left of Chinatown -- we have some excellent Ethiopian food and a number of small Salvadoran places.. Not fine dining, but often quite tasty.

Hipster/ethnic stuff nearby, too, if I recall?

Personally? That place creeps me out. But there's that little strip of restaurants on 23rd St. that's pretty decent, it's close to the Harris Teeter and it has both Jaleo and Bebo, and it's minutes from downtown or Alexandria.

How many anchovies? Sounds good. ← Personal taste, but I usually put in a lot -- 6 0r 8, anyway. If you get a tube of anchovy paste you can adjust it pretty precisely.

Note that whole Monovano is correct, Northern Virginia is a big place and Eden Center (where a had a decent but slightly disappointing meal at Viet Royale yesterday) and Annandale are not exactly just around the corner from the Pentagon. What is just around the corner from the Pentagon is a huge mall and a chance to eat at the California Pizza Kitchen or the Frank&Stein. My first thought would be to check out the area around Courthouse and Clarendon, which moves you a little closer to Annandale/Eden Center without pulling you too far from Alexandria. A quick shot into the city, as well, and the Arlington/Courthouse farmers market is one of the best in the area. There's a Whole Foods right there, too. I can't imagine anything that would persuade me to move near the new stadium, btw. That neighborhood was a hellhole before construction (with the exception of a few warehouse-sized bars that could be fun if you didn't get killed walking back to your car) and they ain't exactly planning to include ethnic charm in the post-construction plans. You might look up Columbia Heights way, a lot of condo projects going bust, maybe you can get a deal, and you're always close to a pupuseria and one of the last in-town Vietnamese markets. I'm psyched about a pizza place that's coming in. And it's a quick Metro shot to the Pentagon, with stops at some of the better restaurant neighborhoods between CH and the Pentagon.

Who else matches hanger steaks with plantains?

Since you're going with the plantain thing, when I get home from work I'll try to dig up the tamarind "bbq sauce" recipe we use when we're getting our Latin fusion thing going. We live in a heavily Salvadoran neighborhood, so tamarind bars (or whatever they're called) are readily available and we prefer red beans, but any legume will sit well with the steak and plantains. A little crema centroamericana on the side works well, too. Edited to add: This is based on a Gray Kunz recipe, if you have access to The Elements of Taste We use about half a package of tamarind paste (about a cup), two or three whole canned tomatoes a handful of rough-cut ginger, honey to taste and roasted, ground coriander and cumin (you can just use regular old C&C, but if you can roast and grinf it, it's worth the effort). You can also add in a touch of hot pepper flakes and a handful of chopped fresh cilanto. Basically, you throw everything in a pot, with enough warm water to loosen up the tamarind paste and simmer it until it reduces to a glaze, checking the flavors every now and then straining the whole mess and doing a final flavor adjustment. I assume that Kunz got into it because of Tamarind's Asian overtones, but I always think of it as Latin.

This is far from a refined sauce, but it has a visceral appeal that's pretty unbeatable. Get yourself some anchovies and roast maybe half a head of garlic until brown and smushy. Using a mortar and pestle of foos processor, grind the garlic and the anchovy into a paste. In the mean time, boil down a good bit of demi glace and a big slug of red wine. Add about 2/3 of the garlic anchovy paste, taste and adjust as needed -- adding more demi-glace, or paste or whatever seems good. Drizzle in a little red wine vinegar and finish with butter. Make more than you need...this stuff is also great when it comes in contact with fried potatoes of any sort.

Keep in mind that the fat is very different in Kobe beef than in a Rib-eye, very integrated into the meat rather than existing as a parallel entity. Even barely cooked (admittedly, I've only had it once, but it was A9 or 10 and cooked by a Beard Award Winner) it has a texture like a slowwwww-roasted bit of pork belly that melts in your mouth, rather than a properly grilled rib-eye. Verry fatty, but very different. Maybe you should see how it goes at the tables before you decide but if all goes even reasonably well, I'm with your first thought. "you only live once."

I think that Pti is right -- there are too many to map. And very different. Uzes is compact and mostly food, Isle-sur-la-Sorgue is immense and has everything from African music CDs to sensible underwear, in addition to antiques and food... But, long as you're making a list, don't forget the Wednesday local/biologique market in Uzes, and I have heard Vaison la Romain (Tuesdays) is Patricia Wells' favorite in all of France -- and quite cool market it is -- and Orange (Thursday) is not without it's charms. Markets in Languedoc. Larger Markets in Provence.

(I believe the old rule of thumb in journalism is that one occurrence in a phenomenon, two equals a trend…) Way back in the day, a pizza shop looking to assert authenticity would claim the mantle “New York-style pizzeria.” Then, here in Washington, anyway, that doughy stuff Chicagoans pretend to like -- the same way they pretend to like the eternally-lame Chicago Cubs -- was all the rage, kind of like hair bands. Sometime in the 90s, it was decreed that no pie was worthy unless it was cooked in a wood-fired oven by someone called a "pizzaiolo" who bowed thrice daily in the direction of Naples – excuse me, Napoli – and produced a pie that was as simple and/or boring as possible. Fortunately, though, pizza seems to be coming home, back to the New World: New York and, far hipper than that, New Haven. And, even hipper, in my opinion (especially since we’re talking East of the Park) East Haven. MT. Pleasant/Columbia Heights/Petworth: get ready for Pete’s Apizza. First thing: it’s pronounced “uh-BEETS.” If you say the name of this place and you sound like a Little Caesar’s commercial from 1993, you’re saying it wrong, and you will likely annoy – both for the pronunciation and for the allusion -- front man Mike Wilkinson, with whom I spoke yesterday. Mike’s day job gives him enough insight into the ways of developers, DC inspectors and other bureaucrats and profiteers that the power trio behind the restaurant have given him a little slice of the pie in return for his helping them move the restaurant from the drawing board to opening day and taking calls from curious neighbors and foodboarders. The power trio are locals: Mike’s sister Alicia and brother-in-law Joel Mehr, who live in Petworth, and Tom Marr, of Fairfax. Their restaurant experience includes everything “from hauling the trash down the back stairs” to Joel and Tom’s most recent gig, running the kitchen at the National Gallery. And, together, they’re trying to open a 50 seat place that will eventually serve Italian wine, domestic and Italian beers, pannini, soup, pasta (what, no grinders?) and, most of all, New Haven pizza. Mike -- who speaks with a heartening passion about the finer points of a proper New Haven crust -- points out that you can’t really duplicate the more famous of the New Haven joints, like Pepe’s or Sally’s, because you can’t put a coal oven in a DC apartment building. But, regardless of what the gastrotourists who never get far from Wooster Street might believe, New Haven has a lot of great apizzarias that use a more environmentally friendly heat sources and which are as esteemed by the locals as the ones in the guidebooks. The PA crew is channeling memories from two such spots from Mike and Alicia's idyllic youth off the Long Island Sound: Apizza Grande in East Haven and Rossini’s, in Cheshire. Mike also name-checked Totonno’s, in Brooklyn, which is a good sign, and Joel both managed a pizza place and drove a cab in New York City, which makes him an expert himself. I’ll ask him which Patsy’s he prefers if I see him. Rather than selling the now popular personal-sized pies, Pete’s will sell family size apizzas at a family-friendly price – and slices, too. Given that I’ll practically be able to smell the ovens when the wind is right, or have my daughter call in an order and pick it up on the way home from school (if she ever finds her cell phone) I’m a pretty happy guy. The location is right next to the metro escalator on the SW corner of 14th and Irving, hours are yet to be determined and, although things are moving forward as planned, I won’t jinx the place by predicting an opening date. The space has, however, been roughed out and Mike hopes that the ovens will arrive in March. Between now and then, the chefly-types will spend time up in Connecticut learning the secrets from the guy running Apizza Grande, no doubt trading free labor for a promise not to open up within 400 miles of his place. And then, in the time between the ovens’ installation and the granting of the C of O by the wise ones of the District Government, they’ll be perfecting their craft on their home ovens, making practice pizzas by the gross. Might be a good spring to be a homeless guy in Columbia Heights. Oh, and there is a Pete. There are two, in fact, (which means they could have called the place “2 Petes” and gone toe-to-toe with Pastan’s place, which would have been fun), Mike and Alicia's dad, who's still munching the original pies up in New Haven, and his grandson, who attends elementary school in the same building where Fugazi made its bones (if I remember my punk history correctly). Nothing against 2 Amy’s or Red Rocks or Bebo (well, something against Bebo), but if I had to chose between Naples and New Haven for a pizza dinner, I’d take the latter, in a New York minute. I’m psyched.

New Chef Tony Conte has been getting good press since his arrival from Jean-George's kitchen and the Oval Room is a force for the first time in many years -- hitting 13 (up from 49) on Washingtonian's Top 100. But I wasn't necessarily feeling the luv the other night. Four of us went through the tasting menu and I thought there were as many misses as hits. An amuse of some alarmingly fresh fish whose name I had never heard of and which I can't remember now, served with a shot glass of sunchoke soup started things off pretty well. But the first course, a kind of deconstructed fish taco -- raw tuna, chipotle gelee, avocado and a shell made of crunchy tapioca -- was kind of meh, though we all agreed that the gelee was pretty cool. Then the kitchen all went on a smoke break or something leaving me with the kind of pissiness that comes from deep hunger and wine on a nearly empty-stomach. Finally, after we'd finished the bottle of wine which we'd hoped would last for the first three courses (we'd started with a sparking Alsatian so it wasn't entirely wishful thinking), they brought out another conceptual course that was too high-concept for us. In retrospect I assume that the "coffee soil" beneath the quenelle of chocolate ice cream was meant to reflect the earthiness of the pickled beet, a strip of which has been tied into a knot. At the time, though, we were mystified, and even now I remain unconvinced. The three small scoops of foie gras that followed lacked flavor but looked cute. By then, though, the kitchen was back from their smoke break and if I wasn't blown away by the food, the pacing had improved considerably, as had my mood. And, I should point out that the floor staff was wonderful all night. The dish of the meal, for me, was the striped bass on a fennel puree. I do love it when a place cooks fish well, and puree -- and a little bit of oil with fennel pollen (?) in it -- was an inspired match. The beef on what I'll call candied mushrooms (think futomaki) but which they called something else was excellent, as well. Dessert was coconut, which is against my religion, but the rest of the table finished it up with alacrity. I should have asked if they had any ice cream and soil left. The chef was out that night, whether that affected the performance or not I cannot say. But, as much as I enjoyed some of the food, I was far from blown away. My wife had a more favorable impression than I, so maybe I was just pissed at turning [another year older]. The wine thing is problematic -- and not. If these guys really are going to play in the bigs, they need a serious upgrade on the wine list. It's just short and obvious, though we were pleased with the Alsatian and would have been delighted if the Italian Gewurztraminer -- what else is going to match chipotle gelee, beets and foir gras ? -- has lasted through the three courses. On the other hand, Saturday nights are free corkage nights, up to two bottles, so we brought a stellar and brutally expensive Batard Montrachet and my friend had them decant an '82 Margaux (not the Chateau M. but from the region) that was quite lovely.

Drove through Georgetown and stopped at the Georgetown Bagel Bakery, pleased to see that it was still open, hoping against hope that maybe the financing for its replacement had fallen through or the historical commission had ordered it preserved or something. Ordered half a dozen bagels and asked the guy when they were closing. "Tomorrow. Today is our last day." Damn. "Make it a dozen. And some bialys too, if you got any." It's not just that they've made the best bagels in Washington, ever since they've been open. It's not just that one of my favorite pieces of (decades-old) gossip is that the original owner was so frugal that even after a friend of mine spent a couple of nights with him, he made her pay for her bagels. It's not just the grim charm of the place and its status as one of the few storefronts in Georgetown not yet chained to a national brand or upscaled to the point of affluent blandness. Like so many of the places I really like, it offered a kind of funky excellence, inarguably "best in town," but framed by cracked wall tile and faded posters, accessible to Georgetowners -- residents and visitors -- of every stripe, from the virtually homeless to those who wouldn't leave the house at 8AM for coffee without cashmere and and linen. Despite bagels' proud ethnic heritage, I doubt any Jew ever worked in the place, although the original owner -- an Arab-American (Moroccan?) -- learned his trade in New York from a Jewish Bagel makers, according to framed, faded Post article behind the glass of the display case. As will happen with people who couple a commitment to quality with entrepreneurial spirit, he seems to have done well for himself since passing ownership on. And the string of Africans and Latins who seem have staffed and run the place continuously for many years have carried on the tradition of excellence. Of course, it was my kids who lifted me from preferring the place, to loving it. First the boy, now in college, who would walk with me the two blocks with from his preschool to the Italian Deli (Prego) run by the two buff dudes that got a shipment in every morning, for an after school snack. We didn't have a car, then, so we'd walk home, munching bagels and hiding from the sphinxes that menaced 16th street from the steps of the Masonic Temple and exploring the alleys for treasure and trash. And then, in the recent years, it's been a destination on Saturday mornings with my daughter, us being the only two up at eight on a Saturday morning, while mom and the boy slept in. Maybe a stop at the Starbucks for a Mocha, maybe a dash across the bridge the Arlington farmer's market, but always a stop for bagels. Summers we'd go in for breakfast once a week, before Arts Camp just up the road. As I saw her older brother drifting into the normal pursuits of a late teen, and striking out -- mentally and emotionally -- on his own, the weekly hour spent (I knew how to drag this out) with my other child on a project that was only ours was a rare delight. Well, she's 15 now, so the trips have become less frequent. Fish gotta swim. But the bagels were still damn good, and I'm glad I have a few in the freezer. The shop is slated to become a yuppie oyster shack -- as though I need someone shuck my oysters for me and sell me marked-up Muscadet. More oysters every day in washington. No place left that can make a bagel. I saw the offending chef out buying organic arugula at the market the other morning, and I thought about grabbing him by his hip little sideburns and giving him what for. But I hear he's a good cook and he's probably a nice guy and I guess it could be worse. It could be a Potbelly. After I paid for the bagels I went across the street for some salmon, and rallied my car from its space a block away, and headed back past the Bagel Bakery, depressed and bitter. On a whim, double parked in front, there on M Street despite the cops and the traffic, and dashed in to throw a twenty into the tip bucket. What else are you gonna do?

I use Pam "Amateur" but only for making omelettes, which I have never consistently been able to get wholly unstuck out of the pan, despite trying many different techniques. I don't use non-stick pans, btw, because I'm worried that the frantic stirring will loosen the teflon, causing my eggs to taste funny or my alimentary canal to become non-stick, as well.

Domaso has been flying under the radar. It's been getting good notes here and there, but the Washingtonian didn't like it too much. Heck, if you're going to Rosslyn, you may as well go into Georgetown and eat at Hook, it's just across the river. You may want to avoid prime time unless your guests enjoy "high energy" scenes." 6:30 reservations are great because that's when rush hour parking ends and you can always get a spot (but traffic in the Alexandria/Rosslyn/Georgetown area is miserable, so plan extra time if you're traveling by car).

In the U.S. one should look carefully at a truffle labeled "winter truffle" because that term is sometimes used to describe truffles that are grown during winter truffle season (summer truffles are not as good) but are from Burgundy, China, Oregon or someplace not either Perigord or Provence and are not true Tuber Melansporum. Sometimes they are, so just look twice. I was talking to a chef the other day and he was talking about $1000/lb wholesale (or was it kilo?) so you got a decent deal. (He was also kind enough to shave a pretty huge quantity onto my macaroni and cheese for a low, low price, bless the boy). Always smell truffles. They should smell strong and nasty. Also look for soft spots and bits of rot which would show that they're on their last legs. I wouldn't keep them much more than a week, especiall if they're as small as yours must be (a third of an ounce) Old stale truffles taste like cardboard. Brushing is fine or a quick wash. Shave lots on. Very thin. Better to get one extra-truffle-y dish eaten than two that make you wonder what the fuss is about. My new best friend made sure that my mac and cheese was pretty well covered with a little bit of overlap. I am with you, btw, if finding that truffles not exposed to a little warmth and moisture can disappoint. I also think this is one reason for shaving them so thin -- almost translucent: the natural heat and moisture of the dish you're serving can help the truffles "release" without having to treat them too harshly.

Actually it's a cappuccino semifreddo unless I'm mistaken. The hot donuts with the cold semifreddo is a great combo, and I don't even like coffee most of the time! ← When I ate there I did the dumb thing of picking up the coffee cup and trying to drink the semifreddo. Fortunately I was was eating alone and nobody saw.

Do you have any stats on this? I'm sure heavily-unionized Las Vegas isn't getting much competitive advantage over San Francisco due to the latter's health care policies. On the off chance that San Francisco is losing ground because of this, it seems like a good opportunity to outflank gfron on the left and suggest that a decent national health care plan would eliminate the advantages gained in regions where poor treatment of low-wage workers is more commonplace, and possibly address a host of other ills. I'm just sayin'. Finding a way to help dishwashers and busboys move up the ranks, as many already do -- a tricky proposition, and politically fraught -- would also minimize the problem by allowing 18-year-old dishwashers to move into a better-compensated positions by the time they're older and supporting families. Finally, my inner cheapskate has to ask this question: Since California mandates that even tipped employees receive minimum wage, can I go back to tipping 15% when I go out West?

Of all the laces mentioned, only Eve is actually in Alexandria. But don't go to the Bistro, go to the tasting room.

What's the point? You gotta have the true experience or none at all. I join those now suddenly craving deep fat fried fish.

You have actually told your server, before service, that you don't tip?

You construct a straw man and blow it down. As you well know, a tip, in America, today, is part of the price of doing business, however much you may pretend otherwise. Not legally binding, but assumed. You are committing a scam on a person who delivers a service to you on the good faith that he or she will be compensated appropriately. Had you real convictions, you would tell the server up front that you do not tip (it's for their own good, after all, right?), and then let the meal play out as it will. Instead, you slink away after, confident that the mark will never see you again. Not so much a jackal as a weasel.

I'm touched by your concern for the staff, too bad it doesn't extend to paying the portion of their livelihood that you have informally contracted to pay when you sat down to eat. In fact, for all your feigned outrage -- or do you really care about waitress notes? -- you do nothing to change the traditional arrangement that doesn't benefit yourself and only yourself. Again, a crass rationalization for boorish (at best) behavior.