Busboy

You have to be pretty out of shape not to be able to walk the 15 minutes from either Foggy Bottom or Roslyn to Georgetown. But if the kids are that out of shape you can take them to Dupont Circle (north exit) where there is also a Five Guys. And a Johnny Rockets. And a Subway. And a Buco de Beppo. (And way too many other places of little note) Although I know how hard it is to get teenagers to eat anything "different", it nonetheless seems a shame to fly 75 kids all the way here from wherever they're coming from, trundle them around town and then cat-heard them on and off the subway (I spent a few months doing this for a living; it's a pain) just to have them eat the same junk they could get back home (my experiences with Five Guys have been uncompelling).

Uh-oh -- a blogger doing his homework instead of just spewing. I hope it's not a trend!

I'm on the record as being pretty immune to the charms of charming little Kountry Korner places, and went into Ben & Mary's with the danger goggles in place. We simply has a very different meal than you, evidently -- steaks properly cooked, no kitsch, and canned green beans successfully avoided. As I said, not a "fine dining" experience but, in our experience, a fine place to dine after a day in the country. Oh, and by my math, the potato couldn't have been as bad as you said -- they've only been open since the Eisenhower administration.

What Mayhaw implied but didn't say outright is that Ann Cashion is one of the best chefs in the city, so the chance to get hold of some of her cooking at a low price is one to be seized if at all possible. Another though is to let the kids run loose in the Adam's-Morgan neighborhood -- probably an interesting 15 minute walk from the Dupont Circle metro stop. and let them choose among the falafel shop, the "gourmet" hot dogs, the pupuseria, Indian, Ethiopian.... the big slice pizza place and so on. This neighborhood also offers adults, if they are inclined, a vast array of options as well, (including the excellent Cashion's Eat Place) and, if your timing is right, the chance to have a beer at a sidewalk cafe. I'm not sure where you're coming in from or how much time you and the kids will have for "fun" as opposed to playing music and doing "educational" stuff, but my teenagers love hanging out in Adams-Morgan which, despite the best effort of high-income yuppies to make it boring (and obnoxious partyers to make it unlivable, but that's another story) retains a strong mix of used music stores, funky clothing shops, and a generally hip attitude.

A lot of good suggestions in this topic. I hesitate to suggest these as they are, at one level, loathsome, but there are food courts in Union Station (near the Capitol Building); the The Old Post Office Pavilion (near some of the Smithsonian); the National Press Club (14th and F, Near the White House) and the Regan Building (14th and Constitution, near the White House, Lincoln Memorial etc).

Ben & Mary's Steakhouse Rt. 17, southbound side, 1.5 mi north of RT 211intersection/downtown Warrenton, VA 540-347-4100 Home of the "Fabulous Filet Mignon" It's not always all about the food. Take Ben and Mary's Steakhouse, on U.S. 17 just north of the godawful sprawl that has overwhelmed whatever charm Warrenton probably had before it became bedroom community for commuters working downtown or in the Dulles High Tech corridor. Ben & Mary's reminds you that Warrenton is indeed out there at the edge of Horse Country; a civilized but friendly place where they set iced tea spoons on the table along with your knife and fork and, while the desserts aren't usually homemade, every now and again the waitress brings in a cake she's made, and if you're lucky there might be a slice or two left when you get there (we weren't, alas). Ben and Mary have gone to the great steakhouse in the sky, but their oil portraits hang behind the hostess stand and the new owners have kept it a family operation. And, while I don't know about the rest of the staff, our waitress had been their 29 years. Ben & Mary's feels a lot like a place your grandparents might have taken you for a "nice" dinner any time between 1950 and whenever the chains drove family restaurants out of business. No decor to speak of and paper placemats on Formica wood-grain tables. But the steaks are pretty good: they're cooked right and -- at $12-25 with two sides -- they're priced right, too. We had the strip and the porterhouse and devoured both. It's possible that the highlight, or least the big surprise, was the boiled shrimp. From the back of my father-in-law's Pensacola condominium, you can see the shrimp boats delivering fresh to the legendary Joe Patti's Seafood,, my wife grew up on shrimp that had been in the Gulf 24 hours before she ate it. So, when she took a bite and said "wow," I new we were in for some serious stuff. Just delicious. Sandwiches are available and, as you might expect from a place that sets out iced tea spoons -- a lot of the menu veers towards southern-style cooking; I plan to sample the fried chicken on the next visit. And the service couldn't have been friendlier, from the waitress who made us feel like long-time regulars to the guy who seemed positively delighted to wipe the table down for us before we were seated. It was a pleasantly diverse crowd, speaking softly in southern accents and enjoying Sunday dinner with their families, still dressed from church or maybe just dressed up a little bit for Ben & Mary's because its the kind of place where you want to look proper and mind your manners. I was hoping for a glimpse of The Gentry -- that part of Virginia does Gentry very well -- but no luck. This isn't Ray's the Steaks or the Prime Rib, and the wine you get comes from a jug, but at prices comparable to an Outback, it's a great spot for the family. And it is always a delight to be someplace that really is someplace, rather than being a mass-produced economic device or an attitude-charged attempt at contemporary culinary design. We're looking forward to going back.

My experience is that most sommeliers are not tipped out of the pool. I don't tip the sommelier (or feel a need to) for a basic "I'd go with the Puligny" recommendation, but if I spend significant time in "consultation" I will try to hit them with a twenty or something, through the usual method of the hand-shake bill pass (aka "the happy handshake"). Not bothering to tip, when tipping is warranted, because "they should be able to do with my tip as it is" strikes me as churlish. Plus, being on the sommelier's good side can have many benefits. Any sommelier trying to catch a buzz off my leftovers would be dooming himself to a very dry evening.

I'd be surprised if your blossoms last until Wednesday, but maybe you'll get lucky. My wife and I make a wash of egg whites and a dribble of milk, and dredge the blossoms in flour, then the wash, then corn meal, before frying. Put a little baking soda and salt in both the flour and the meal. Sometimes my wife wraps a basil leaf around a little goat cheese and stuffs the blossoms with that before she fries them. These are inspired. In Nice, France, where fried zucchini blossoms seem to be a source of fierce local pride and an anchor of "cuisine nissarde" they use a batter dip and the blossoms are often referred to as "beignets." This recipe looks pretty good for that type of preparation (though I haven't tried it) (though I will). I spotted the chef of Nice's legendary -- if not universally beloved -- La Merenda buying squash blossoms from this lady in the market one morning. They grow 'em bigger over there.

You're 21. You've worked in some incredible places. You're a kid. Why the hell would you worry what your parents think? OK, we all worry about what our parents think. But, you know, the heck with them. As a former fucked up 21-year-old and parent of a current (relatively normal, in his own way) 18-year-old I can assure you that every parent on earth is concerned when their child takes an odd turn and that almost every parent on earth will still love you regardless of the path you chose. Personally, they all thought I was insane when I spent my last dime on a Greyhound to Iowa to work in politics. 20 years later, they're still not sure how I make a living, but they're too happy with my wife and their grandkids and the fact that I am relatively successful in my own field to ask questions. There's an argument to be made that if you're doing something at 21 that you're parents approve of, you're doing something wrong (and I say this with a son about to leave home). Just keep cooking and - if you're as good as you say you are -- it will all fall into place.

Not sure how you locals would rank this source among the pantheon on NYC cured pork vendors, but mine came from Biancardi's Meats, up on Arther Avenue in da Bronx. A friend of mine has a daughter who went off to Fordham last year and he's taken to dropping by AA whenever he goes up. Last time, he called me from his cell and said "what's that stuff you keep tellng me to get when I'm up here?" He says the butchers look at him with greater respect now that he asks for the hard stuff.

How many grease stains? (Those scratching their heads over this question should consult Holly's website by clicking beneath his sig.)

If you are a wine drinker, the three wine towns of Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes de Venice are within about 8 kilometers of one another, about (if I recall correctly) an hour's drive from Gordes. There are a series cooperatives in the area -- one being in "downtown" Gigondas, which also has a very helpful tourism office that can guide you to the others. There's also a delightful restaurant just outside the town called Les Florets, if you are interested in making a day of it. You may find this site and its listing of market days helpful.

I am flattered by Heather's shout out for my pommes. To the other suggestions already out there, I would Pommes Anna, only baked with a layer of black truffle in the center. Very nice.

Someone wrote to our local critic on his weekly chat about a meal during which his dining partner discovered a hair in one one of the dishes. This sensitive soul was so put off that he sent back the rest of the meal, turned down a free dessert and called for the check (further fodder for discussion: the restaurant comped the dish but not the entire meal). Personally, I'm an insensitive lout and a hair in my food is call for a loud round of "ewwwwws" from the table and a quick word with the waiter, assuming he or she is nearby. Of course, I used to work in a place where you had to knock the box of cannoli shells a couple of times to get the roaches to scurry out so you could stuff them. I've heard tell of some people so put off by lipstick on a wine glass that they could hardly continue, others who become personally outraged if the busboy touches the tines of their fork. (Excluding the habits or appearance of your fellow diners) what puts you off your feed? Does the bug actually have to be in the salad, or is spotting one on the other side of the room enough? And what if a rat should dash across the patio (yeah, that was another place I worked. Wasn't our fault but, you know, city living...).

Not to denigrate all fast food employees, but a very high percentage of them are either young and scatterbrained, barely employable, newly immigrated or just stoned (or a combination of the four). Here in DC, we have a very tight labor market and thus anyone who possibly can has moved to a job further removed from deep fat fryers and polyester uniforms, I try not to order more than four items at once, even if it means swinging through the drive through several times just to get the family fed. . I find things work better better out in Carrot Top's country, where a less booming rural economy forces actual adults and retirees to man the microphones and grills, but perhaps that's just relative to the challenges of urban fast-fooding.

I would think you could use it in many dishes that call for sauteed bacon or pancetta as a seasoning ingredient. I used it in a spring pea and lettuce soup I made and it was delicious. ← I'd be delighted if you'd supply an additional detail or two...

I haven't eaten there so I can't say too much about it, but the thought of a perfectly good seafood shack turning into a spot that spells "Grill" with a phony "le" tacked onto then end saddens me.

Any further suggestions suggestions on how to put guanciale to use? Just treat it like extra special pancetta?

I was going to suggest this, only I prefer a damp dish towel. The advantage to this is that if it's a reasonably presentable towel, you can bring them to the table still wrapped and they stay warm.

See -- that's why mine's so small. Not that running my family in the restaurant trade would be everyone's fantasy. But at least the people I fired would be less likely to sue. PS: where? Which one?

Are you listening, Philadelphians? ← We're listening, but the likelihood of something like that finding investors is slim. The amount of space you'd need, the swanky address, big staff/big payroll, the cost of ingredients, etc. makes a liquor license revenue stream de rigeur. Remember when the tiny little space that now houses Snackbar tried to function without a liquor license? Opened and closed in a virtual nanosecond. ← Oh, I was just thinking of a place like about the size of RX, or (the slightly larger and excellent) Ray's the Steaks here in DC. Not the Whole Grand Steakhouse Experience, but a limited menu of the kind of beef it's virtually impossible for the home chef to find, properly grilled, and served alongside (as I believe adegiulio implied) a bottle of Screaming Eagle from your home cellar.

Are you listening, Philadelphians?

Amateur Gourmet seriously compromised his credibility when he allowed Sirio to have him back to Le Cirque to make up for the alleged slight that occurred when AG brought his parents to the restaurant the first time. You can't wrap yourself in a cloak of journalistic credibility and then act like a shakedown artist. On a larger sense, the same applies to blogs and message boards like eG. If I/ we/they/whomever are going to pretentiously take credit for democratizing food criticism -- and, given the way most Americans eat, God help us if that ever really happens -- we have to act like grown-ups. We have to do our homework. We have to stop speculating and make a phone call or two, just like the real reporters whom some take so much joy in slagging as "yesterday's papers". One example, from another food site: A review appeared in the Washington Post which mentioned --almost, but not quite, as an aside -- that a hostess had committed the faux pas of telling two gay men on a date that they liked to hold one particular table "for couples." The young woman may not have have recognized the men as a couple (not everyone is that sophisticated, even today), or she might have been virulently homophobic. Or she might have been hungover. At any rate, soon a gang of posters had whipped themselves into a frenzy over the restaurant in question's hiring homophobic staff. There was talk of boycotts and all sorts of outrage, based on one sentence in a review. It wasn't my problem but I knew the mod of the other board, and sent him an e-mail, he contacted the restaurant, the owner sent word that a) the restaurant loves everyone and b) the faux pas was one of several and the hostess in question had been fired already and c) y'all come. The point being that no one bothered to spend the 90 seconds it would have taken to get the facts before mouthing off on-line -- an all-to-common occurrence. So, though I am the voice of food criticism for the masses, I think Mario has a point and one that is oft-overlooked. And PS: what percentage of food blogs rise beyond recycled press releases and overlong reviews, anyway?

The Rusty Spoon Aficionados of post-war, postmodern literature will recognize this as the name of the diner where the Whole Sick Crew often ended up after a long night of bop at The V-Note. The rest of the customers will be drawn in by the eight-foot cast-iron spoon I'll have some local artist hammer out for me and hang above the front door, proudly perpendicular to the building like some deranged ferrous flag in lieu of traditional signage or even spelling out the name of the place. Oh yeah, you got to be in the know to get into the 'Spoon. Except for the spoon, it's all DIY. Gotta find a friend with an eye for cheap chic to buy the tables and chairs and mis-matched plates and forks and some starving artists to put paint on the wall. I'm sure it will be dark (but warm) and almost windowless in a neighborhood that that many people still don't feel comfortable walking around at night. Me? Cooking lessons and stages with friends in professional kitchens. My wife, who fears chaos, will sit quietly in the corner keeping an eye on the books and the service and her day job with health insurance. My daughter, who causes chaos, will run the front. Maybe a young dishwasher/runner/jack of all trades in the back and the front, depending where he's needed most. 30 seats in a small space. One menu. One turn. It's not that I'm in love with mismatched glasses as a fashion statement or hate the idea of offering guests a full menu with vegan options. But my place is dedicated to feeding excellent food to the masses at the lowest possible tariff -- 3 courses and a smattering of hors d'oeuvres (and optional cheese course, of course) for a single, non-negotiable price. You're in or you're out: no half-price specials, children's menus or a la carte. And not that we don't try to accommodate requests, but it's a small kitchen, and it's me behind the line, fer chrissake, not Thomas Keller. And if you don't like what we have tonight, check back tomorrow -- we change every night. But if you check the website or the chalkboard out front (or maybe we'll hang the day's menu from the spoon) and it looks good, it's going to be the best damn meal deal going. Pan-Med, I think, the kind of cooking that transforms inexpensive but high-quality ingredients -- tete de couchon, anyone? -- into delicacies, with a special nod to Greece and North Africa because we don't just want to be another Provence/Italian joint. A wood grill might be nice, too. The kind of cooking that reminds you more of folk art than abstract expressionism and makes you wonder how come when your ma put a bowl of braised beef in front of you it didn't catch your breath in just the same way ours will. We know the farmers and we'll get to know the fishmongers, too: When a special comes along, we make it special for you, as well. Didn't know you liked mackerel, did you? And we'll be curing things in the basement. Lardo, for all my friends! Guanciale! Confit by the bucketfull! Service that's homey but ridiculously professional, as though it's being handled by some Italian grandma that had been running the family trattoria for 40 years and now not only has eyes on the back of her head but also a kind of preternatural radar that allows her to sense every patron's needs almost immediately. A wine list that doesn't tax your mind or your wallet because it's only a single bottle of red, white and rose each (at least when we start) with a little something hidden behind the bar for dessert or a special occasion. We'll draw a line on the bottle and then charge you by the inch -- drink what you want and if you're the last customer of the night and not driving we'll split what's left in the open bottles when my family and I sit down to eat. ***** So, who among us doesn't have a place in the back of our minds -- whether the best hot dog stand on earth or a three-star temple -- just waiting for the day we hit the lottery or quite this damn soul-sucking job and get to culinary school? Above is mine, a modest little effort but -- knowing the hours and pay restaurateurs live with and the cost of my teenagers' educations, not one likely to be realized soon. But, as I walk to work and the see the couple washing down the sidewalk in front of La Fourchette, as they've been doing every day for decades, I daydream. What do others daydream about. (And how does it reflect what you don't think you can find where you live)? What are some others? Or, if you don't want to run one, what's the restaurant where you think about having a reserved table every night like?

We ended up at Vaselka's in Greenwich Village about 4AM one night after a Grateful Dead show at The Garden ("must have latkes"). We're seated at the counter when my girlfriend starts giggling and tugging at my sleeve. There behind the counter were stacked probably 60 loaves of white bread, each bearing the unlikely slogan "Fink means good bread."