Ophelia's Kitchen, Somewhere in DC

Ophelia has been cooking in lately, in large part due to the fact that a friend from Florida -- we'll call him LocalJuridsiction -- has finally fallen victim to the siren song of DC, gotten and job and moved up, and is now in the process of trying to find an apartment while spending his nights on Ophelia-and-Monkey's under-used futon.

As a fair hostess, I realize that $$ is tight when slumming it between apartments and paychecks, so I make the effort to cook in so my guest doesn't have to spend for his supper. Also, it means I cook a lot better than normal so as to perpetuate the image of me as domestic goddess, and ultimately, that means Monkey eats a lot better too. He's getting rather fond of it.

Two nights ago, in particular, I tried a luttle somfinsomfin different with salmon. Usually I make a honey-dijon-soy glaze and bake it, but I had a half cup of pecans left over from TG pecan pie makings, and what can you really do with that other than munch? It inspired me a little, so here, I relate the recipe I prepared, as much for your use as for my own memory. It needs some tweaking, so I'll mention my thoughts on that too.

PER 1LB SALMON FILLET:
1c honey (I prefer clover)
2TB ground ginger

Blend thoroughly and glaze fish. Cover with crushed pecans. Bake in preheated 350deg oven until cooked through but moist, basting occasionally.

Problems with this recipe: I found it a little sweet. Next time I may try a mix of honey and corn syrup, mitigated with a 1/2 tsp of salt, and see how that turns out. Other thoughts, inspired by pecan pie, were to use less honey and/or corn syrup and add an egg or two for runniness necessary to basting an entire piece of fish. Also, I'm feeling that more ginger can't be a bad thing, and I may even add some chopped candied ginger slices.

I'll update on how future incarnations turn out.

Titan Arum, USBG

The titan arum, Amorphophallus titanium bloomed during the night. That makes me a little sad, because I was there yesterday and it didn’t look so ready to bloom, even though the Smithsonian folks put the bloomtime at Saturday –Sunday night. The USBG was open late last night too, and Monkey and I wanted to go, but just never got around to it. They’ll be open late tonight and I can’t go either. I am sad that I won’t get around to seeing it until this coming Saturday afternoon, when it may or may not be spent. We seriously should have more titan arums in the US so that I can get to see at least one. I keep missing them.

Thai Chili Update the umpteenth

Monkey wanted me to inform you that the Pad Thai J is a lot better than the Pad Thai. It costs about the same and does not come in an egg envelope, but is vegetarian, (comes with tofu?) and is the complete hookup in terms of vegetables. Monkey likes being the best supporting actor of my blog. I think he should get his own so he can update on his own starlet moments.

Au Pied Bistro, Georgetown

When Monkey and I are feeling kind of cavalier, (sorry, I had to), we sometimes use Google to help us find a new place to eat. Usually, it consists of “Best X in DC” and seeing what we get.

On this day, we decided we were in the mood for brunch, so we tried “best brunch.” We got a couple of hits, and of the few that seemed to pan out, only one actually offered breakfast as opposed to light lunch fare. This turned out to be Au Pied Bistro, in Georgetown. What ultimately sold us was the repeated reference to their “lobster-half-bottle-of-champagne-breakfast-bar” prix fixe special on Sundays. After assuring ourselves that it was Sunday and that we were willing to spend a significant sum on brunch, (it basically counts as two meals, since you do a later dinner anyway,) we got suited up for a nice brisk autumn walk to Georgetown.

On the way there, Monkey and I got into a bit of a fight. I was being snarky about the people we would see, and basically, generally truthful about the outrageous and other-world-ness that Georgetown sometimes exudes. (Monkey had never ventured before.) He felt I would embarrass him, because I am psychotically liberal and still a little punk at heart (pay no attention to the normal colored hair and the 40-hour-a-week job), and he is serenely liberal and still rather straight-laced, albeit easy-going. (Lord knows what we see in one another.) This hurt my feelings a bit, because I took it as a jab at my maturity and not an observation on my understanding of appropriateness, so I was rather infuriated with him for the beginning of and halfway through our breakfast. (More on this later.)

That anger only seethed more as we sat down to find that there is no such lobster-gorging breakfast. Perhaps there once was, but there is no sign of it now. As I looked and looked to find something I was interested in, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of just-not-wanting-to-be-there. (Perhaps it was the fact that Monk and I got dirty glasses while everyone around us did not, and while this was almost surely accidental, in my raging state, it was a direct stab at my indignant little heart.) Eventually, I decided to get a mushroom omelette, disappointed that the prospect of a mushroom omelette was nowhere near the amount of food necessary to sating the hunger I had saved up for brunch.

The food came rather quickly, so much of our time was filled with silence rather than pleasantries, and then we able to indulge in the “can’t-talk-mouth-full” understanding that long-running couples are able to master together.

Surprise! Pretty much everything at APB comes with French fries. I do not understand this, and I don’t think the French will either, especially as there is no mayonnaise offered. My omelette, to my surprise was somewhere in between the size of a 3-4-egg-omelette. I was sad that my mushrooms were simple button mushrooms, but there was further surprise. The omelette came with a chunky tomato-vegetable sauce, which actually was particularly tasty, and exactly what the omelette needed. (I don’t understand this either, but having given it a try, the chef obviously knew something I didn’t.) I ended up eating only part of my fries for two reasons: first, the omelette was so big that I shared a third of it with Monkey; and second, the waitress was too busy having her time monopolized by the couple next to us for me to be able to ask for malt vinegar, which Monkey cautioned against to begin with.

Which brings me to a small discussion of why I am always right. We were seated next to the most uncouth, abominable nouveau-riche EVAR. The woman, who surely would give Jocelyn Wildenstein a run for her plastic-surgery budget (and who I cannot bring myself to link to, but feel free to Google her,) was so inane it hurt my brain. She kept going on about how God would surely bless her for [insert some trivial thing one does to edify oneself here, such as donating an old coat or bringing a sick friend a cake.] Apparently also, the sudden encounter of lots of money in one’s bank account does not fine graces give. Nobody told her that no amount of snootyness towards one’s dining neighbors will forgive that it is always déclassé and rude to apply lipstick at table. Her husband, a gruff, bulldog version of herself, wasn’t much better. As Monkey and I conveyed our true thoughts about the couple next to us via glances and eyebrows and head-tilts (a language we speak with deadly skill), he leaned in to tell me, “remind me to apologize later.”

Apparently, he realized that there was a grain of truth to my snarking on the “Place Where Metro Dare Not Go.” Who would have thought?

A final thought on APB: the food was fairly good, and definitely filling. We are sad that the prices are extraordinarily good and incomparable to prices where we normally seek out breakfast. If the experience had not been so uncomfortable (and the walk a little longer than we’d like), we would go back in a heartbeat. If, however, you find yourself in Georgetown and you’re wearing a pink or green polo with your collar appropriately popped, definitely stop in.

Open City, Woodley Park-Zoo/Adams Morgan

When Monkey finally convinced me to go out again, we settled on Open City. He had heard of it a few days back, and because it is a venture by the owner of two of Monkey’s favorite places, The Diner (semi-fan) and Tryst (not a fan), we decided to give it a go.

As we were getting on Metro to head up to Adams Morgan, I saw a crazed guy in a GREEN JACKET turning around and growling and mumbling at us. Seriously, crazy people should not be allowed on or near the Metro, and probably should not be allowed green jackets. It freaked me out a bit until I realized that this was a THIRD crazy, green-jacketed person, and not one of the two from earlier in the day. OC is literally steps from the metro, right next to Chipotle. It has an outdoor patio (not in use at the moment for obvious reasons) which should serve to make it amenable to May evening dining, and should help to resolve some issues discussed later.

OC has the same Victorian/Deco blend décor as The Diner, an ambience similar to yet louder (yes, louder) than Tryst. Some TVs are available for your footballgame- or AndersonCooper- viewing pleasure, and it packs a hefty bar and coffee bar. (It was so new that most of the severs were wearing their The Diner tshirts.) Food is very similar to The Diner (henceforth referred to as “TehDiner,” as Monkey and I call it) only it takes a slightly trendy twist. If you took everything about Afterwords that is likeable, only you made it good rather than vaguely disappointing, that is what OC’s menu would look like. In addition to the “I-Just-Failed-My-Contracts-II-Exam-And-Need-Comfort-Food” fare, OC offers some snazzy sammiches and some seriously tasty-lookin’ pizzas, one of which threatens your eternal ability to get a date through its co-mingling of garlic, sausages, hot peppers, anchovies and the like, which Monkey had to caution me against. It did look tasty though. Also, breakfast all day long, just like TehDiner, which is probably why Monkey likes TehDiner so much.

Ultimately, I decided on a chicken philly and Monk got the ribs with a side of spinach. (He didn’t say it, but I could see that in his heart, he had hoped for collards.) We also ordered drinks, because it was nippy out and we were close to the door. …Which got continuously held open for the line of people waiting for a seat. More on that later. I don’t remember what Monk got chimay on tap, and I had a Manhattan. I didn’t have particularly high hopes, because Manhattans are dismal in this city, but it’s always a good dose of alcohol, and so as long as it’s not bottom shelf, it doesn’t really matter. And I do love a nice dry Manhattan. My Manhattan, as hoped, was nice and alcoholic (but did I detect a coke float?) However, the bartender has some training to attend to. Far too much bitters, and an overwhelming amount of sweet vermouth. I should have specified that I wanted it exceptionally dry, I guess, but that’s not really my responsibility. When it doubt, make it midway. I can understand people not wanting a dry one because it takes on a smoky, earthy flavor, but if I want a drink that sweet, I’ll just order a bourbon neat. My philly was tasty, but a little on the small side. It came with fries that I might have gorged on to further fill me, but we were there so soon after opening that OC had not even gotten its malt vinegar shipment in yet. Monk’s ribs were exceptionally good; he gave me one and I even ate it! (I do NOT eat meat off the bone. Unless it’s Mammoth.) The barbecue sauce tasted very much like Heinz, which I mentioned to Monkey, but neither of us really seemed to care as they were good ribs and cooked well, which is really what I think he looks for in his caveman fare. The spinach was rather flavorless (needed salt,) but nevertheless, it complemented Monkey’s meal of meat rather well, and I have to say that I appreciate OC’s approach to offering veggies etc. as ala carte sides. I do wish they’d up the size a little to make them family style though. (I’d even pay extra for it, I promise!)

Dessert was a necessity, because you can’t properly do a place whose parents are TehDiner and Tryst without the dessert. We both got chocolate cake and chais. The chai, of course, is the same mass-market stuff that Tryst uses, but it’s still good and really affordable compared to Starbucks. (And much tastier.) (OC uses the same menus as Tryst, save the availability of the Café Güd Lait, a Monkey favorite.) The chocolate cake though, falls to the same complaint that the desserts at Tryst do: they are too much like tortes. If I want a torte, I should be able to order one; and I never want tortes. I should, on the other hand, be able to order a chocolate cake and expect it to be nice and moist, rather than needing a 15 minute soak in hot water like those towels-in-a-brick that you get from the bank on customer appreciation day. This is not to say that I did not get my chocolate fix for the next two weeks, but all the same, the cake was dry.

Over all, it was a little more than we’d wanted to spend, but it made for a nice evening out. It was almost like a date, even. On a regular night, we would have just done dinner or dessert and probably, but not necessarily, no alcohol.

Potential problems:

1) It’s too small and tries to do too much. You have to decide whether you’re a restaurant or a coffee shop. We saw this problem in action as some people lounged and drank as a line formed to sit and eat dinner (and spend more.)

2) It’s a little too loud. Turn down the music some; just because you can’t make out the words to the song anymore doesn’t mean you should keep turning it up. Music really serves as a filler for when you *don’t* have enough people to make it sound and seem full in a venue of this size.

3) It will be interesting to see how these problems converge, especially in about a week or two from now, as students from all over try and find coffee shops to study in. As friend Albertina pointed out, Adams Morgan and Woodley Park shut down waaay too early. OC is planning on staying open as late as 3am some nights, which begs the question, how will you cater to your patrons who want to drink a princessy coffee and study the Krebs Cycle to the spy-music sounds of Thievery Corp when they are fundamentally at odds with your patrons coming straight from Madam’s Organ, who are trying not to kill their buzz, just want a fried egg sandwich, and insist that Coldplay is the best damn band ever?

As Ahnold said, “I’ll be back.” Just not before I’m sure they have malt vinegar.

Stalking, Franklin Park and McPherson Metro

I was going to write this anyway, but when I came in this morning, I found this relevant and recent article. http://tinyurl.com/9fpqq (tiny-ized to circumvent inadvertent link breakage.)

If you are a resident of DC, you are probably becoming familiar with issues surrounding Metro crime and the handling and reporting of such crime.

First of all, last autumn when it started getting dark earlier, I decided to go to the grocery just after sundown and was followed. Not only was I followed for a good four blocks, but I was followed INTO a store, and up to a mezzanine level, where I was forced to strike up an old-friend conversation with a perfect stranger.

Needless to say, I’ve been a little jumpy about this since then and I don’t go anywhere alone at night if I don’t have to.

So, on Friday, I heard about some muggings going on ON REDLINE TRAINS up around the Cleveland Park area. This morning I was planning on going to Tenleytown, and I forced Monkus to come along with me. It was uneventful, and I think he resented that I was a little freaked out about it.

It gets better.

This afternoon, I was on my way to volunteer and was running a little late. As I got to Franklin Park, I realized that a charity was giving out free food to the homeless, so I assumed that today would be a safe day to cut through the park on my way to the McPherson Metro. What I didn’t think about was that there would be a lot of sketchy people all in one place. It’s cold and I am wearing a hoodie and walking with my hood up when a guy comes up to me, no further than a foot, but more than likely closer, and says menacingly “what you doin’?” I ignore him and keep walking, but he and a friend start tailing me rather closely. I can hear them breathing and their footsteps on the ground. I decide it would be a good time to pull my hood down, for increased visibility, and they fall behind a bit. Also, I realize that I’m carrying a mag-lite and I slip that out of my bag and into my hoodie pocket where I can keep a firm grasp of it if necessary. As I’m crossing the street, I get stuck on the corner with them. I try to ignore them, and they are whispering and snickering in that way that you know someone is talking about you. Now maybe, they are just trying to have some fun with the little white girl by freaking her out a bit, but I am quickly sensing that this is Not-cool. (In retrospect, I should have made eye contact and small talk while waiting for the light to change, because it makes you less of a target, but I’m uncomfortable doing that even in safe situations, and I was distinctly uncomfortable here.) I do know that one of them is wearing a green jacket, as this will be relevant later.

I decide to call Monkey and let him know what’s going on and that I will call him when I get off at my stop. I make my way into the metro, and the whole time, I’m pulling out (and being thankful for) my smartrip card, which means I can just glide through the gate and get away from these guys.

Or so I thought.

The station manager is talking to some tourists while I’m swiping my card. The first guy follows directly behind me in the gate and slips in for free. His friend either follows the woman going through the gate next to me or just hops the gate. I didn’t really see. I make the split-second decision to act like a tourist. I momentarily stop and stare at the sides of the platform and go ask the station manager (who I must interrupt) which side I should be on. In the meantime, the two have gone down to the Vienna/Franconia-Springfield side of the platform. Fortunately for me, I am going in the direction of New Carrollton/Largo. As I descend to a nearly dead platform, I start to tell myself that perhaps they were just trying to get on the metro without paying and it has nothing to do with me. UNTIL THEY GO UP THE ESCALATOR AND SWITCH SIDES. I’m petrified, and I’m staring at the arrival sign to see that I have a 6 minute wait. (This is an anomaly, as I’ve never waited more than 2 minutes for a train at McPherson. I suppose I just have good timing.) They come to stand about 5 feet away from me. I start to walk down the platform. They start to walk. This is NOT-COOL. I’m about halfway down the platform now when I see a man and his two little boys coming down the other end of the platform to take a seat. We reach the bench at the same time, and I sit with this man and his children for the next five minutes. In that time, the men leave. Just that. They leave. I do not know what their intent was, or whether I was being paranoid or not, but I am so thankful that I had a six minute wait and was able to wait with a rather large father and his children. I’m trying not to think about what might have happened if the train had come within the first minute or two and I had to board the train with the two of them only to be stuck in the car with them until Metro center, which always seems to take eons to reach. Would I have waited for the next train? Might they have waited too? Might I have fled? I don’t know and that’s what scares me. Also, I hurt my hand holding on so tightly to my mag-lite. Thinkin’ about pepper spray.

And you think it’s gonna end here, right? Nope.

On my way home that night, I decide to be more proactive about not attracting the crazies. As I’m sitting on the train home, I’m not really looking at people, per se, but I am making an effort to be aware of my surroundings since that’s the first step toward not being a target. I’m in one of those strange cars that have extra seating and glass partitions at the end, and in retrospect, I shouldn’t have cornered myself like that. About halfway home, a man gets on to the train and he’s staring at me through the glass partition, leering and sneering and mumbling to himself. I’m not really looking at him, but as my glance goes past him every time he does this face and this mumble that seem to go together as “I’m gonna git you sucka!” Also, he is wearing a green jacket. That freaks me out more than anything else, and I have to carefully convince myself that this is, in fact, not the same guy. I also tell myself that he is not having an internal monologue with his multiple personalities about whether or not to murder me and will not follow me. I step to the door feeling calmer than before when I get shoved from behind. It’s Mr. Crazy Eyes. Now, when the situation on a train is mishagas or infuriating, my first reaction is to exit and move to the wall to settle down as the herd exits and makes its way to the escalators. Also, I am at the last door of the car, which means I have to swing out further to keep from getting trampled by those coming out of the first door of the next car. So, as I pull myself up to the wall and stop so that everyone can pass and I can take my time leaving the station, Mr. Crazy Eyes is again upon me, has RUN INTO ME in fact, and is screaming at me “I ain’t gonna run into you, sweetheart, KEEP WALKING!” …Even though he has run into me, I am not in the way and am planning not to keep walking. But he’s hovering over me, glaring at me, so I start to head toward the escalator, and the whole time, he’s behind me, breathing on my neck, cursing me. This time as I exit, I get Monkey on the phone and keep him there. At some point, Crazy Eyes leaves, but I don’t really care. The threat is no longer this individual, but the world. I explain everything as I’m walking home, gripping my mag-lite and when I get to the back door of the apartment building, I tell Monkey I’m hanging up because I am home and it is now safe.

Except on the way upstairs, I am stuck in the elevator with the guy who always flirts with me leeringly and asks inappropriate questions and isn’t from a country where that is considered inappropriate.

By the time I get into the apartment, I just want to cry and not go out again, ever, but Monkey convinces me to go out with him to Open City.

And that, children, is the next story.

Legal Seafood, Chinatown

Occasionally, I find myself in the mood for seafood. Being in the mood for seafood does not mean sushi, as they taste totally different, but it does mean choosing between Hank’s or Legal Seafood. I’ll get into a discussion the next time we go to Hank’s, but this post is all about the Legal experience.

Monkey and I like legal for two reasons in particular, and one incidentally.

1) They have oysters, and a better selection than Hank’s; I am new to oysters – as in the last two months – and am quickly becoming a fan. I like them brinier and snottier than Monkey, who likes them sweet and pillowy. Though I have to admit, when you get a nice creamy one, it’s rather a treat.

2) They offer tasting flights. On this night in particular, the losers next to us were on the white wine flight. If we had been in the mood to splurge, we would have gone with the 12/18/25 Macallan flight. (Or is it 18/25/30?)

C) Where else can you cure a last-minute craving for scallops? (Probably in my top 3 favorite foods.) (I would gladly eat them every day for the rest of my life if I were forced to… and if I was forced to, what kind of punishment would that be? Please tell me what crime you have to commit to get that punishment and I will do it.)

About three months ago, I bought this book at Million Noborders. It’s a journal for dining: what was good, what was bad, what to get, price range, local/non-local. That sort of thing. It was a rash and spur-of-the-moment purchase, but I figured if we used it even a little, it would take care of that constantly ordering the same wrong thing problem that we have when we go to certain restaurants infrequently. The last time we went to Legal, we made mental notes of the meal and wrote everything down. Before going to Legal this time, it would have been wise to check this list. We forgot. In a way though, it was serendipity. For one, the last time we went to Legal, I got the stuffed shrimp and they were horrible and tasteless. I wrote that in the book. This time however, not having that handy-dandy note, I ordered it again, and much to my luck, it was tasty and rather flavorful. I’ve learned my lesson as a reviewer – don’t burn your gastronomical bridges until you’ve tried something twice. Okay, okay, so I’ve learned the lesson, but it’s not like I’m actually going to apply it. The American education system never teaches you how to apply your knowledge. ;) I mean, why would I order something bad again intentionally with the hope of giving the chef a redeeming chance? I’m the one stuck eating it.

What we did remember, however, is that the Cioppino is bad. It’s more like a stew that the description would lead you to believe, and while it is full of seafruits, it’s messy to eat and they never give you an extra plate; they only give you the cardboard lobsterwaste basket.

Monkey was in a light mood, so he got the goat cheese salad with scallops. I’m not hugely fond of goat cheese unless it’s in specific circumstances, so I was wary, but he let me try a scallop. (He knew he would live to regret it if he didn’t. See “C”, above.) The goat cheese absolutely does not go with the scallops, but this was partially Monk’s fault, because you can choose your seafood. I can see how it might go with some salmon or ahi, but scallops are too delicate a flavor. Which brings me to my next point. They covered the scallops in schmutz and then over-grilled them. It tasted burn and salty. I couldn’t taste any of the sweetness and grapiness of the scallop. You would think at a place like Legal, that likes to shove in your face their ability to serve you the best, freshest seafood, they would have learned to COOK it at some point in their history. But now I’m just taking it as a personal offence. I’m also saddened for the scallops that had to lose their life for such ignoble causes. As well on this night, we ordered a dozen oysters. There were 4 varieties and we wanted 3 of each, but our waiter was either new or an idiot, so I’m not sure that we got more than 2 varieties, especially as they weren’t all that visually discernable and only two varieties were marked. They serve the oysters with lemons, some type of clear reddish sauce and maror. I mean horseradish.

Moving along though, time to discuss the extras. The mashed potatoes are kinda hit or miss. They were good last time and the time before, but were flavorless this time. Always good though is the seaweed salad. As far as desserts go, there are two types of chocolate cake; one is sure to smother you in chocolate and the other is merely a chocolate cake. I can’t remember the name exactly, but it’s something like warm chocolate pudding cake. That’s the one you want to get. Desserts are big enough for two. Also, if you’re going to get the chocolate cake in all its splendor, you might as well treat it right. Order the scotch flight. If you think chocolate cake and scotch is disgusting, you’ve never tried it. The people who invented port also have never tried it, otherwise they would never have invented a sweet “dessert wine.”

Finally though, proof that our waiter was new or an idiot or both: the manager was coming by to the tables to do damage control.

Tonight’s night with 1 entrée, 1 salad entrée and 12 oysters ran about 70$.

Previous visit, including, 2 entrees, 6 oysters, 2 desserts, a pint of Bass and a Macallan flight: over 100$; it could have been closer to 115$, but I can’t remember.

On an unrelated and titillating note, as we were sitting in Legal looking out the window at Chinatown, we noticed a banner telling us the wonderful news: Bed Bath and Beyond is moving in across the street. Hooray for people without cars!

We do not keep Kosher. Fuddruckers, Connecticut Ave.

Monkey and I have been venturing to Fuddruckers for a bit now, usually when he is able to meet me for lunch and I am in the mood for iron-rich food. However, he always get the original half-pounder, while I spend way too much more to get the mushrooms and cheese, and then add barbecue sauce from the dressing bar.

Today though, I felt like trying something different. I decided to go with Monkey’s plain burger and dress it myself. Because I was still wanting a little more though, we decided to get the chili cheese fries. Also, I got a drink and Monkey ordered a water, since the cups are big enough to split anyway.

(M$ Word says that “a water” is grammatically incorrect. I say M$ Word should shut its 1s and 0s.)

Eating at Fuddruckers is mishagas during the downtown DC lunchtime. Part of the problem is that they always seem to put the person with the least enunciated speech at the announcer microphone, but I think that that is a different, more irritable social commentary.

Anyhow, you think we would have learned by now, but almost every time we do the “1 soda, 1 water” thing, we both end up getting soda cups. Maybe we should start ordering 2 waters and see how that goes.

I have always made fun of Monkey for his propensity to get the fake cheese from the dressing bar, but today I decided to give it a try. While we were waiting for food, Monkey went to get some napkins and utensils for the fries and some ketchup cups – frustrating for him because nobody knows how to queue and there was only 1 of two ketchup dispensers working. I opt to switch out with him and wait for the food while he stews with his coca-cola. This was probably a good idea, because apathetic food servers are more apt to ask what order I’m waiting on if I, a girl, am waiting with puppy-dog face, than if monkey is waiting with his Enraged-because-I-am-least-important-person-in-the-World face.

Anyhow, I got the food faster than he would have and go to dress mine and pick up the fries, and when I get back, he gets to go dress his burger. In the meantime, I have heaped some ketchup onto the top of my burger and start to wonder “what’s that smell?” Suspicions are confirmed when I taste it to find that it is barbecue sauce. I tell this to Monk when he gets back and I can see that the look on his face is near-murderous, so I offer to go get the ketchup instead. As I approach the morphing, un-queued dressing-bar line, I realize that someone has just tried the ketchup on the left to find that it is empty, and as she pumps the “ketchup” on the right, I can see from the color that this is in fact barbecue sauce, and there is no ketchup to be had.

This made Monkey sad, but in retrospect, I ended up enjoying the fake cheese with the barbecue sauce better than I would have enjoyed it with ketchup. As for the fries, they were molten hot. The chili was a little spicier than I was in the mood for, and it was vegetable-heavy; very unlike the Hormel treyf I had been expecting. Monkey enjoyed them though.

Probably the most notable thing about Fuddruckers is the sense of immediacy it gives you. You must immediately eat and escape! Run! Flee!

And when you are done eating and you rush out of that door, oh, what a sense of liberation it gives. Freedom! Unfettered-ness! The ability to breathe! Embrace it.

Thank you, Fuddruckers.

Nooshi, 19th Street NW

Nooshi, Nooshi, Nooshi. Does your mother know how bad you’ve been?

I’ve eaten from Nooshi takeout before, during lunchtime. Their pad thai is fair-to-middling and their peking duck is overcooked. I’d never before eaten at Nooshi’s sit-down side before though, and on this night, we ended up there very much by chance.

First of all, I am stupid. Thursday all afternoon, I kept telling myself to write down the address of the Breakfast I would be going to in the morning and kept reminding myself to put it in my purse. I forgot. I did not realize until I returned home and Monkey and I were debating eatings. So, that kind of steered us for the night. As he walked me back to work, I thought that perhaps it would be a better idea to try and eat downtown-ish instead of heading up to Dupont or Adams Morgan or back to Chinatown. Besides, we had tried a pan-asian place on 19^th street when we first moved here, and perhaps we should give it another try?

Address secured, we made out way on to 19^th Street, but as we approached the little stint of restaurants around the corner (italian, thai, sushi, quiznos, etc.) they looked to be filled with a great many drunken students. Nooshi, on the other hand, just two storefronts down, looked dead and warm so we gave it a try. Originally, I had the intent of getting something hot and maybe stirfried, but was oh-so-tempted by the Unagi chirashi. Unagi is seriously among my favorite things about Japan. Because Nooshi is semi-pan-asian, it also offered a lot of thai and Vietnamese fare, among them the Tom Kha soup, an Ophelia-and-Monkey* favorite. Also, we wanted to drink because, well, it had turned freakin’ cold that night.

Monkey got a sashimi spread and some girl drink plum wine, I got the unagi and warm sake, and we split the Tom Kha.

1) Tom Kha is tasteless. Okay, not tasteless, but not nearly sour enough, not nearly spicy enough, and not nearly coconut milky enough. In short, not tom kha.

2) Monkey was unimpressed with his sashimi, though he did admit that the serving was more than he expected and the price was right.

3) Unagi should have been bigger. I was very pleased with the sticky rice though; it wasn’t spectacular, but I like mine with a lot of rice wine vinegar. I could smell the rwv when we walked in, so I was hoping for some nice sweet and tangy rice, and that’s what I got.

4) Monkey’s drink. I don’t remember this, but I know my sake was better. How do I know? It was cold. I took one sip and told him, “oh no, this is what you want.” The warm goes down so nice.

Prices: monkeys was somewhere between 9$ and 12$, mine was 10$. I don’t remember tom kha, but drinks were 7$-8$ and a jar of sake is 3.50$.** Service was overwhelming and good, but I suspect that was because they were dead.

Final ruling: it’s fair and cheap, and we’ll be going back on those nights when I work late and we meet out for dinner, but we're not rushing back.

---

*Ophelia-and-Monkey doesn’t have the ring I’d like. Because of our penchant for savantness in our respective fields, we had considered becoming “Frank and Ollie.” I’d be Frank. But I mentioned to Monkey that this seemed familiar for some reason, and I realized that Frank and Ollie are two old men who are rather well known for being Frank and Ollie.

**In case you are wondering why I am usually able to give some info on pricing, it’s because I am Monkey’s SugarMama.

Galileo Grill, Galileo, 21 St NW

Monkey and I learned some super secret technology for lunching in the big city. Occasionally, Chef Donna of Galileo decides to bestow on the citizens of Districtville a super-tasty, super-cheap lunch. Thursday was one such day, and I decided to take an early lunch to be able to catch some of the cheap eats. (We still haven’t been to Galileo as part of a real meal, as we’ve been waiting for restaurant week.)

Monkey had been the previous day, and was aware of the craziness that could happen, but nothing could have prepared us for the rash of GW 1Ls that had suddenly found out and descended upon the restaurant like vultures. Chef Donna probably did not have unruly 21-year-olds in mind when he decided to start up this grill venture, especially as you have to traipse through the restaurant proper to get to the line which then snakes its way into the laboratorio kitchen and pools there.

Anyhow, when I mean cheap, it is in fact cheap. Sure you could get it cheaper at Potbelly, but then, it’s Potbelly v. fresh, good food. Drinks are not so cheap though, so plan to get them elsewhere. Food runs about 5$-6$ and you can upgrade for a nominal cost. Dessert is available, so I hear: $2.50 for a cannoli. Payment is interesting – it’s a cash box honor system, but it’s right under the scary visage of Chef Donna himself, so I doubt they’ve ever lost money.

As I say, Monkey had been the day before, and had tried the sausage sandwich. Nothing special, he tells me. On this day, we decided both to try the pork shoulder sandwich, as it looked the hook-up: CD was heaping on the piggy.

At first, Monk was tempted by a meatball sandwich, but I pointed out that he could just as well get one at Potbelly. No, I was not using this opportunity to get a meatball sandwich. With all respect to the Chef’s laurels, I doubt his meatballs are as good as mine, and further, good meatballs are a product of their filler and not the meat. In fact, cheaper, fattier meat makes a tastier ball, and I doubt CD is letting ground chuck into his kitchen.

So, we both get the pork shoulder. It comes on ciabatta, which I am not fond of, but the bread is smeared with a pesto-mayo sort of thing, which comes in handy later (read further). You get a bit of romaine for your trouble, and you have to remember to ask for “red sauce”, which is really Carolina Barbecue sauce. Tasty, indeed.

Eating it is another matter. The Grill is takeout, so you have to find a place to eat, and while you can eat anywhere, an overstuffed pork sandwich really requires a table. I ended up eating mine with a fork because it fell apart. That left me with some schmeared bread to munch on, so I was thankful for the spread, even though I usually don’t like things like mayo on my sandwiches.

You have the benefit of calling ahead, and I’m definitely banking on doing that the next time. The Grill also serves up pizza, homemade hot dogs, and a couple other types of sammich. Also, next time, I’m not waiting until the word has been out for a day; go the first day only to avoid the crush, go early, and above all else, carry something to bludgeon the boorish law students.

What I won’t tell you is how to find out when Galileo is doing the lunchtime grill. I mean, I gotta make you do *some* homework. (And protect my own gastronomic interests.)

Galileo Grill runs from 11am to 1pm or until the food runs out.

A discussion of gentrification, or, why there are pimps throwing down at 2 am outside my window.

I wrote a diatribe about the pros and cons of gentrification and how that relates to me getting woken up at 1:30 by a couple of panderers having a fight outside my window, but I decided I didn't want to be so political.

Instead, I'll talk about cellphones. Remember when they were a status symbol (a la Clueless) and everybody walked around with them out just to show how hip and trendy they were? It's so comforting to see that nobody *really* does that anymore (there are still a few holdouts, but they live in Georgetown.) I was thinking about this as I waited on a busy corner with some other pedestrians and whipped out my phone to check the time and my messages. I thought about how two years ago, everyone would be standing there just pulling out their phones to show how IT they were. I do it secondly because there's no better time than walking home alone to catch up with people, but firstly, so I don't ever have to make eye contact with people waiting on the corner with me. (Yes, I know this makes me a target.)

What I *have* noticed though, is the increased incidence of people talking to themselves. I mean, honestly, are you SO on the go as you saunter down the street that you need a bluetooth headpiece because you are far, far too busy to HOLD A PHONE TO YOUR EAR. Maybe you just didn't realize you do that with empty hands, and didn't realize that your hands, too, are empty! *Gasp* How novel an Idea! Use my EMPTY hands to hold my phone, rather than look like a nimrod running around with a little earpiece! *Sigh*

Southern Living gets it right?

CNN.com had an article from Southern Living today on DC cheap eats. Here's the breakdown:

• The Breadline -- Monkey's tried it but I have not. He seems to be a big fan and, albeit a bit pricey for downtown lunch (and a bit of a walk for me), says the soup-in-a-bread-bowl is more than enough.
  
• Ben's Chili Bowl -- OMG I love Ben's so much I think I'll go tonight.
  
• Lauriol Plaza Restaurant -- Lauriol Plaza has a sister up in Cleveland Park, but this one is just as good -- better because it's walkable, and the one in CP is a bit of a trek unless you cab. Crab quesadillas are stupendous when they're on the specials menu. Rule of thumb: one and a half to two pitchers of margaritas per 2 people. I deny that I am a lush.
  
• Matchbox -- We've never tried this because it's almost always too full to get in the front door. We've also considered its next-door-neighbor...
  
• Capital Q Texas BBQ -- which is never open. In fact, the only time in recent memory I've seen this open was on Wednesday night on the way to headcold-smiting Thai, it was packed, and I didn't want meat anyway.
  
• The Burro -- Monkey swears by the fish tacos. Monkey tells me: "The correct play at The Burro is the GW Special, which is two bean
  soft tacos and rice and a coke for cheap. Baja Fresh is the place to
  get fish tacos." (It's no Burrito Brothers, from my understanding, but then, there are no real Burrito Brotherses in DC. They're all imitations; as anyone with a taste for cumin knows, the real Burrito Brothers is located at the University of Florida.)(I digress.)
  
• Left Bank -- We've been meaning to try this place for probably the last year, but haven't gotten around to it because we've been across the street at...
  
• The Diner -- I recommend the Holiday Platter or the Royale Deluxe. And a vanilla malt. Always the vanilla malt.
  
• Sushi Aoi -- We've never actually tried this, and walk past it a couple of times a week. Jesting aside, I may actually try this one for dinner.
  
• Moby Dick House of Kabob -- I work somewhat around the corner from this and have never had the inclination to try it. Further, having heard interesting Indian underground strip-club stories about the Ascot and having had some sketchy times at Naan and Beyond, I'd prefer to steer clear from the English notion that Indian fastfood/takeaway is a safe and standard incarnation of a meal. And what's with the name? I'll stick with Bombay Club a bit longer, please.

(On a less relevant note, blogger isn't recognizing my markup, so I had to use composer to make my list. It makes me feel like such a noob.)

Ophelia, where HAVE you gone?

I've been sick. In bed, that's where I went. Promise to be up to speed soon.

Thai Iced Tea, Thai Chili, Chinatown

Pad woon sen was delicious. Also, I am pleased to say that it appears we're regulars. Not only did our waitress recognize us, but another waitress on the other side of the room recognized us on our way to be seated. Since TC is in a mall of sorts, does that make us Mallrats or just thaifood rats?

Stupid musings aside, I have come to report that thai iced tea is in fact on a pay-per-refill basis. (Questions arose as the result of a particularly attentive waiter who refilled me for free because our meal was a little slow in coming one night.)

I noticed though, that my PWS was a little less spicy than before, and I've also noticed an increasing penchant for the spicy foods. I think the monkey is finally succeeding in altering my palate/scorching my tastebuds into oblivion. In short, I think the pad woon sen was as spicy as normal and we've been eating thai so often and drinking molten coffee so much that now I'm not tasting the burn as much.

I'll know for sure if I have to double up on my sriracha next time I have pho.

Starbucks kiosk, Crystal Gateway Marriott, Crystal City

Do not ask.

Though, I have to say, if you ever find yourself lost in the logic-less maze that is Crystal City, you can be sure to find a good soy chai at the Starbucks kiosk in the Crystal Gateway Marriott. *NOT* the Crystal Forum Marriott.

Yes, there are two.

Again, do not ask.