Etete, 9th & U Street, NW

I should note that my grasp of English, at the moment, is seriously decreased due to an impending migraine. I’ll edit it up later, but for now I just need to get this post out of the way.

We decided to go to Meskerem, (since we had a gift certificate,) so we headed out to Adams Morgan – Monkey, I and Local Jurisdiction. Among the rude things people do, I really hate it when a group of college-aged jerks, who obviously think they are the most important people in the world, shove past you and as luck would have it, end up being the same jerks standing in line in front of you when you enter the restaurant to put your name on the list. This happened on our way to Meskerem, but when we got there, it wasn’t the anorexic girls in their uggs and their be-school-sweatshirt-ed boys that turned us away, it was the fact that the line was spilling out into the street. On. A. Thursday.

Instead, we decided to go ahead and go to Etete, gift certificate be damned. Because we were too lazy to walk back to the Woodley Park metro, (and here is where the logic gets fuzzy,) we instead decided to WALK to Etete. That’s right, Etete at 9th and U. On the other hand, it gave us a real opportunity to work up an appetite, and we almost wavered and went to Ben’s Chill Bowl instead.

I like Ethiopian, and I like MEAT. And, I have to admit, the Yebeg Wat isn’t so bad; however, for some reason, the fastening food is the most AMAZING thing ever, and I’m perfectly happy to go meatless. Monkey and I had a little adventure a while back with the Kitfo, so we know to get it cooked, but for some reason, we keep ordering the Special Etete’s Kitfo and are always disappointed. This is why: the special comes with special cottage cheese that we don’t like. The non-special Kitfo is basically the same thing sans the green cottage cheese, so from now on, we really need to remember not to order the special.

Regardless, on this night, I got the fastening food, a collection of veggies and beans of varying savor; Monkey got the Special Kitfo, which is generally a rather savory, sour-ish meat dish, and LJ got the Yeawaze Tibs, which, from the menu description, should be strips of beef. In case you haven’t had Ethiopian before, it’s family style, with a large platter covered in a pancakey bread. The entrees get spooned onto the serving dish, then you use pieces of bread to scoop up the food and eat with your hands. When you are done, if you are really a piggy, you can eat the platebread too. As LJ’s dish got spooned into the center of the platter, I could immediately see that this was not as expected. For example, I saw articulating facets. As in, vertebra intermingled in the meat. I could have said nothing, since it wasn’t my meal, and maybe LJ knew what he was doing, but I realized that Monkey would really appreciate knowing what was sharing his plate, so in the most diplomatic way, I ask, as if I didn’t really know, “hmmm... is that spine?” A look of fear crossed both boys’ faces. Apparently neither had noticed and both had been grateful for the heads up. Needless to say, the three of us spent the evening sharing the Kitfo and the fastening food, but again, it is a LOT of food. Also, the cook noticed that I had taken a shine to the yellow beans, which were exceedingly tasty that night, and kept plying me with more, and all three of us were charging headlong into the berbere and cheese. For some reason, the waitresses always warn us that the berbere is hot. I think, actually, that it is their way of warning American folk that it is spicy, since Americans don’t really make a distinction between hot and spicy, but cuisines such as Ethiopian and Indian most definitely do.

Anyhow, we ate around the cow back, but thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal. Because we got a late start, it was getting into the evening and at one point, we got the feeling that everyone in the restaurant was family, which was nice. I don’t mind eating at restaurants where the cooks are willing to feed their families from the same kitchen.

We came out under $40 for the three of us, and that was including LJ’s pineapple juice.*

Also, something I should note, at least for Monkey’s sake, is that ALL of the women at Etete are GORGEOUS. Monkey would say “smoking,” but that’s why I give him the opportunity to be a guest writer and he never takes me up on it.

Ireland's Four Provinces, Cleveland Park

After a rough day, sometimes the best thing in the world comes in the form of comfort food, regardless of whether that food derives from your own ethnic background or not. This was the case as LocalJurisdiction stopped by to pick me up for mid-week-night dinner. Monkey, just back (earlier than we thought) from trying family requirements, was in no mood to leave the house again, so we toddled off on our own to Ireland’s Four Provinces.

(This tidbit is a result of experience and syllogism, rather than knowledge, so please correct me if you know otherwise.) I4P has a cover after 8pm, and not a chance at all to sit and eat on Friday and Saturday nights (which is why we chose to go on Wednesday.) We got in fine but noticed that after a little while, someone started manning the door, checking IDs and taking monies. This may only be the case on nights when there are live performers, but it is also my experience that I4P strives to have live performers most nights.

The thing I particularly like about I4P is the affordable beer. At first, you may shirk at the thought of $5.25 for a beer, BUT! Oh, but, my friend. First of all, I4P serves Imperial Pints. For those unfamiliar with the unit of measure, an imperial is 20 oz of goodness and bells out at the top, different from a straight-sided pint. In some ways, similar to a CocaCola fountain glass, but at the same time, much less benign-looking. It’s basically the glass you always see the Guinness served in on old BBC reruns, though I have to say, Crate and Barrel makes a rather elegant, lightweight hand-friendly one for home use. Right, so now that I’m done fantasizing about glassware, I should mention the beer you can get in such comely glasses. I4P serves Smithwick’s and Boddington’s, but why bother when you can get a perfectpint* of Guinness (and besides, Smithwick nor Boddington neither make particularly good versions of their signature brews, so even if you don’t like Guinness, you should go for it anyway.)

So, $5.25 for 20 oz of Guinness… sounds a lot better than $5 for your regular 11.5oz American brew, right? *Wink*

The first time Monkey and I went to I4P, I decided I would get the Cottage Pie and Monkey settled on the Beef and Guinness Stew.

Monkey won that night.

Mine was good, but Monkey won.

So, when LocalJurisdiction and I settled in, I didn’t even need to check the menu to know I was getting the Beef and Guinness Stew. LJ decided on the Cottage Pie, and I told him he was losing, and he didn’t believe me. We decided to split a plate of potato skins, too. I forgot that skins are always slow out of the kitchen, and you’ve barely got them down before dinner arrives, and when you pair that with two ipints of Guinness, you’re beyond full for the night. Skins were good though.

When dinner finally arrived, I insisted LJ taste my dinner. He admitted I won, and declared that next time he would get the Stew.

---

*A perfect pint keeps a smiley-face all the way to the bottom of the glass. There are certifications given out for this. I4P has one, I believe.

Breaktime.

This is an ex post facto notification of hiatus. (Apparently, it is also a Latin quiz.)

Initially, Ophelia had planned to visit family over the holiday, and took a five-day weekend. Soon though, it was clear that actually planning the trip itself would be enough of a stressful experience to make oneself crack, so Monkey convinced me to actually use my time off to REST, mygodwhatanovelthought.

It turned out for the best, I suppose, as Monkey and I got in some good quality time together – because little did we know that due to unforeseen circumstances, I’ll actually not be able to see him much this week.

We went a few places to eat, but none of much consequence – to the point that I really don’t remember, so I guess that means that none of it was bad, at least, so this update really has no culinary value, except to mention that I forgot how good it is staying in all day eating ramen and how I needneedneed a 24-oz cappuccino mug for microwaving that stuff. (I had a friend once who ate it RAW and sprinkled it with the seasoning packet. That is totally nasty.)

Despite the extended laziness, we did however, get in some serious gaming. (Oh god! She said it! She’s a gamer!) Stop right there, my friend. Don’t be so judgmental. You too know that you cannot deny the awesomeness that is Mario. (In fact, my term paper for my Japanese Culture class [back when I had an Asian Studies minor] was “My love affair with Nintendo.” [If you think that’s bad, my friend Josh wrote about the nihilism of Final Fantasy and how it was an emotional experience for him.])

We played through both Bros. 2 and 3, and now Monkey is working on FFV while I’m making some serious progress on FFII/IV-Easy, which I’ve been sitting on for a year and a half. After that, I may move on to another FF, but I think Monkey has this weekend’s sights set on playing through Bros. Lost Levels. Also, this should serve to remind me to get a copy of ChronoTrigger.

I think I am entitled to this interlude of dorkiness, since I really only get the video gaming bug but once or twice a year. If we had an arcade machine, it would be different, because I would so be up in Puzzle Bauble, Gem Fighter and MoneyIdolPuzzleExchanger ALL the time and never sleep, but as is currently, sometimes you get tired of opening boxes just to find: “Monsters!”

Really, though, gaming all day is the perfect thing for the winter up here, and especially for rainy days such as the weekend we just experienced. For one, it gets us out in the living room, where the windows have to stay wide open to sunlight – as opposed to moping all day in the bedroom where we might or might not get around to opening the blinds. Second, it’s something either of us can actively watch and play – as opposed to active playing and passive watching over Monkey’s shoulder when he plays on the computer, and last, the children, er, I mean, Chickens love it because we spend time with them too, even though we don’t really have to pay attention to them.

In fact, it’s rather a good option for a light-sensitive, rain-shy, inter-species family on a dreary weekend.

Also, on Monday, for the first time in AGES, I got Monkey out of the house to go to a museum with me. Actually, it was his idea. I took him to see Brown v. Board, and he wondered why he hadn’t bothered to see it earlier (I’ve been on his case to see it since the installation went in.) The rest of the museum is a waste of time though. History is really selective, and you can select any theater in which to tell your tale, but the Smithsonian somehow does a craptacular job of it. I mean, trains, Julia Child, dresses and toys? There are SO many better ways to couch history, and I honestly think that the American History museum is just the repository for all the “a serious donor just gave us this and wants it on display” acquisitions. That’s like, the first thing NOT to do that you learn at the beginning of ANY museology class. Get with it, Smithsonian.

Anyhow, after Bv.B, which is actually an exceptional exhibit (except on the last wall where it loses its focus and starts talking about women’s, Indian and migrant rights – these have their own seminal cases and because of that it doesn’t really fit with the rest of the exhibit and feels like a spastic afterthought), we headed over to Natural History. LocalJurisdiction and I were over there in the mammal hall a couple of weekends ago, so Monkey and I didn’t check that one, but we did check out the dinosaur hall, paid homage to our myriad mammal predecessors, marveled that the Giant Sloth is so freakin’ giant (Monkey only – apparently he skipped that room as a child), and then headed to the second floor. There was the obligatory ogling of the Hope Diamond (Monkey only – I don’t like it anyway, especially as it’s only bilaterally symmetric), and then attempted to begin the transit of Gems. I suspected that it would be too crowded, and it was. It was far too warm a day, meaning tourists were out in full force, so we agreed to come back on a bitter cold day to check the gems, especially considering that you can’t do gems without doing minerals, and when you add minerals, you’ve got an entire day’s worth of looking. Moving on, we decided to check the ORKIN insect zoo (Monkey got a kick out of this, and I, too, thought it was pretty funny) as well as the bone collection. Insect zoo was ok, except for the spiders. Monkey tried to make me look at a Brown Recluse, and I should have smacked him for that, but that would have meant turning around to see the thing. There was a Smithsonian employee holding some plump little caterpillars, and I wanted to hold one, but I realized that this insect zoo, where children reigned supreme, was not really interested in letting my adult self have some learning fun. The bone collection, though, was where I had the most fun. Of course.

Also, we got to see some parrot skeletons, and while this freaked Monkey out a bit, I wanted to keep looking, but we had to move on. Lots of awesomeness in there. Check it out. Also, Natural History has a free 25-cent coatcheck, which is always good to know.

Despite my raving about my days off, though, I really can’t wait to get back into a routine that allows for the eating of food other than ramen and seeing Monkey during lunches. Sadly, that also includes the reemergence of work routine. It can’t be helped.

On that note, this is now notice of a hiatus. Ophelia will again be out to lunch this Friday through Monday. Though posts might occur between now and Monday, don’t bank on it.

PS: Sunday night dinner was at Chinatown Garden. Had the shrimp in lobster sauce. Wicked good.

New Year's Resolution

This coming year, and starting now, actually, I resolve not to post a comment on someone's blog which I read about via DCBlogs without FIRST reading some previous posts to determine how much I like them as a person.

I'm getting into this nasty habit of commenting, only to find that the poster is abominable, self-righteous and in general a disagreeable human being. I don't want these people finding their way back to my blog, because that may mean having to abide THEIR comments, which are likely to be snotty, disagreeable and self-righteous. As well, there's this whole cult of personality among blogging, and that means I might also incur their butt-kissers too. I don't want that. I just want to talk about some good food and have people appreciate that I am kind enough to spend my own money to test the epicurean waters for others.

Also, I resolve to buy a sweater shaver. Pilling is nasty.

If you don't want to miss posts, or, subverting my stupidity

Occasionally, I rack up a few posts in a row. I like to post these according to when they occurred, and not when they are written. Sometimes, I accidentally write, post or remember posts out of order, meaning that occasionally, I will make a new post that comes *before* my "newest" post, such as the new Brickskeller post, further below.

If you do not want to miss these quirky postings, let me know and I'll set up a "mail-to:" to alert you to new posts.

If you really don't care then, well, that's fine too.

Hard Times Cafe, Clarendon

Hard Times has been able to recreate the type of seediness you expect in a chili/barbeque joint, much in the same way that Sonny’s Real Pit BBQ does. I think a lot of it comes from over-stained pinewood booths and being a cheap chain, but that’s just me.

The menu itself is pretty spartan. Monkey decided on a chilimac 5 way, and I went with the treyftastic Frito chili pie. From here, we had the option to choose one of 4 different chilis ranging from traditional to hot, mild, or vegetarian. Monkey went with hot; I went with mild, only because the spices sounded more interesting. If not for that and the fact that the beef is finely-ground, I would have opted traditional.

Service was quick, and only after we both proclaimed “that was fast” did it occur to us the sort of idiots that we are. Of course it would be fast. The chili’s already made, so it was just a matter of putting it on top of something and garnishing it with cheese, tomatoes, onions, sour cream, etc. I was a little disappointed by the size, but soon found myself struggling to eat the last of my pie. Fritos are filling, and in conjunction with some tasty, heavy chili, I found I filled up fast. Because of the fritos, it was pretty salty, but I had expected that, knowing the nature of Frito-Lay’s signature scoop. Monkey’s seemed to suit him, his only real complaint being that the hot wasn’t hot ENOUGH, even with the addition of hot sauces on the table, but he could not deny the comfort-food-factor. The next time, though, Monk will bring his powdered habanero.

The consensus seems to be that we will return whenever we get our butts out to Clarendon again – or when Monk finds himself craving some barbecue. For chili cravings, we’ll most likely keep going to good ole’ Ben’s, but I should point out that Ben’s is a brown chili, while Hard Times has a tomato-based chili, and these are usually my favorite. We might occasionally head over when I find myself thinking about the merits of a frito chili pie, too.

I don’t really have a lot to say about this experience other than the food was good. We ate a late lunch, but it was still early – not late enough to start tapping into the regulars and characters. Because the service was so fast, we also didn’t really have a lot of time to take in the décor or settle in. We were so hungry that we ate quickly and split. I did notice however, that they frequently have drink specials and happy hours. Also, the music was some indiscriminate country, which, as Monkey pointed out, gave it the feeling of a jukebox. (Or maybe they DID have a jukebox.) This did however, provide a fun game for about three minutes, where we would listen to a few bars and then try to be the first to name the pop song that was being ripped off.

Fun times.

Er, I mean, Hard Times.

Misadventures at Pottery Barn, Clarendon

Ophelia has been on a quest for a while now to find an attractive, affordably-priced and appropriately formal menorah. I mean, it’s my first one, but it’s also the one I will share with Monkey, and I kinda plan on using it for a while, so it was important that this wouldn’t be a) ugly b) a piece of crap c) hard to clean d) more expensive than I could afford. When last I was out with LocalJursidiction, I bought [an ugly] one at Linens-N-Things and some candles to go with, just so I would have one just-in-case, with the intent to hopefully find a nicer one in the meantime and then be able to return the LNT one. Finally, this weekend, I spotted one online at PotteryBarn in brass and bronze. Not too terribly pretty, but lightyears better than the disgusting one I got at LNT, with the added perk of being the same price. I figured it would be a fair enough tradeoff if I could get it, so we tromped off to Clarendon to see if they had one in stock. I convinced Monkey to come with me with the promise of Ben&Jerry’s. That caused him to proclaim me the most conniving, sneaky woman on Earth, and this I could not deny.

When we finally got into PB, I was immediately able to find the one I was looking for – it was a little uglier than I had hoped, but then, I’ve never been a fan of “rustic.” We invented air conditioning for a reason and man has never had real reason to look back, but that’s another story all together. I wasn’t smitten, but I wasn’t disgusted either. The problem though, was that there was only one, as part of a display. I decided to check around to see if perhaps there were others, in boxes, since I could just imaging trying to bring it home, tripping, and impaling myself on it. As I wandered toward the other side of the store, I suddenly saw IT: beautiful, sleek, silver, dignified (this is important), resembling something easy to clean, and most of all, small enough to put in the freezer! (For easy wax removal.) Behind it was a box, and we weren’t sure if this box went with the menorah on display, or if it was another box containing a second menorah, but it was wrapped nicely in a fancy-tied festive ribbon. Also, we could not find a price, so we decided to ask a helpful sales clerk. Let me preface by saying that the menorah is somewhere between “heavy” and “not-heavy”, and the box is a weird weight where it *could* contain a menorah, or it could merely contain packing materials. The clerk lets us know that it is only slightly more expensive than the one I had been considering, so I decide, “why not?” It wasn’t like I was honestly going to be able to find a nicer or cheaper one with the big H only a week away. What next ensued is almost unbelievable. I pick up the box. “Is it in here?” I ask. It feels like it might be, but I can’t be sure – it’s been previously opened, so one indeed cannot be sure. The clerk picks up the menorah and weighs it in her hands and says “hmmm…”, so I lift it too and lift the box, and Monkey looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Is it in there?” He asks a little impatiently. “I dunno, it’s a weird weight” is all I can manage. So he lifts the box too, lifts the menorah, and then in head-scratching language, also says, “I dunno, it is a weird weight.”

“Well,” I say “Can we open it to be sure?”

The Clerk, I can tell, does not like this. I am not sure why she is so adverse, other than perhaps a desire not to be on the re-tying end of this exploration, but she says, quickly changing her assessment, “Oh, it’s in there.”

“But can we check?”

“It’s in there. Do you need candles?” she asks, holding up an overpriced box of white candles.

“No, we have candles.” (Remember that I purchased these at LNT, and know better than to buy $9 menorah candles from PB and return the $4.50 ones to LNT.)

“Yes, but these are SPECIAL candles.” I look at her, thinking that she’s more shikse than I am and what does she know from hannukkah candles, but she continues: “These are made especially for this menorah.”

O.
M.
G.

“No, these are menorah candles. All menorah candles are this size.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well what color are your candles? Are they different colors?”

“No. They’re white and blue.”

“But they’re different colors.”

“They can be. They can be any color you want. Ours are blue and white.”

“But are they red?”

“Nopewehavecandlesthanksbye.” To Monkey: “Bring the loose menorah.” Fortunately for me, he knows what I was thinking.

We get to checkout, explain that the box is a weird weight, and we would like a clerk to “justcheckthebox” before vending so we can be sure not to be walking out with an empty menorah box. Unfortunately for us, our cashier, a native English-speaker, speaks doublefast, but somehow understands NO English. At all.

“Wha?”

We’re not sure if there’s a menorah in the box, so we brought the loose one. Can you just check please?”

“Wha?”

Her boss comes over. “But don’t you want to give it as a gift?” (What does this have to do with it? When is it appropriate to give unwrapped industrial boxes as gifts just because PB puts a ribbon on it? Furthermore, what does this have to do with it? I've every right to receive the merchandise for which you charge me, so I've every right to ask you to check your trussed-up box for me.)

“No, it’s for us, could you please check?”

“Oh no, it’s in there.” Boss leaves.

“It’s in there,” asserts the chipmunk-who-does-not-hear-English.

“Okay”, I say, a little strained.

“Soyouwantedbothright?”

I am not sure what she’s said because she speaks so fast, but I think she’s assuming I want both menorahs. “No, only one,” I say.

“Didyouwanttheoneinthebox?”

I cannot be hearing this. I get snippy. “YES, I want the one in the box!”

“Yourtotalis sdfsdkdfgkhdg.” (I inserted gibberish here because I honestly could not hear what she said, didn’t feel like arguing, and really didn’t care as long as I bought myself a menorah.)

“Arrgh.” I hand over my credit card. “But…” Monkey starts. Don’t worry I tell him, I’m checking it as soon as we get out of this abominable place.
When we do get outside, to my delight, it does contain a menorah, which means I don’t have to go back in and deal with it, but this is not through virtue of these three nitwits somehow being able to ascertain the contents of a sealed box better than I. This is just through sheer luck, and secretly, I wish that their hair gets stuck in their too-shiny, too-shellacked lipgloss.
All.
Day.
Long.

I made the point to get out of the way and be polite and do my package opening on a nearby bench, but I SHOULD have done it right in the middle of the front door. At least, the seething, snarky Me wished that after the fact.*

At this point, realizing that I had not eaten in the last 5 hours, Monkey and I decided food would be better than ice cream. Our first thought was to go to the cheesecake factory, but we quickly remembered Hard Times Café around the corner – a place we’d been meaning to try and which had been recommended to us for both its BBQ and chili multiple times in the past, but hadn’t had a chance to try as we’re almost never in Clarendon.
And that

Is the NEXT story.

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* Monkey later told me how uncomfortable he had felt the whole time in PB, partially because we were buying a menorah, partly because we had the ordeal over the contents-of-the-box as well as the candles, but also, he felt that perhaps the clerk was thinking we were being cheapskates by not buying the candles.

I thought about this, and decided that first of all, it was stupidity that caused our ordeal. Second, we already HAD candles, so we weren’t being consumer whores by bending to buy the over-priced “name-brand-boutique” candles. I wouldn’t call that being cheapskate. Cheapskate is buying your candles at CVS and then haggling because they’re not all perfectly tapered.

On the other hand, I realized that really it was a larger statement on being Jewish. Monkey has grown up in Fl, where it is ok to be Jewish in some places and definitely not ok to be Jewish elsewhere. I, on the other hand, have never had to be Jewish. So suddenly, finding ourselves in metro DC, to me it seems an exceedingly ok area to be Jewish, and to Monkey, it is still a place to be wary. I decided that it probably comes down to this: converts, soon-to-be converts and one-day-to-be converts are probably a lot more brazen about being Jewish not only because we have had to deal with less discrimination, but probably also because a good deal of discrimination just goes over our heads or under our radar.

Ignorance truly IS bliss.

The Brickskeller, Dupont

To celebrate Monkey’s end of finals, LocalJurisdiction’s first paycheck, and I guess in my case, it being Friday, we all three decided to go to the Brickskeller*. Now, when it comes to just a night out drinking, Monkey and I have our own favorites, because you can’t go wrong with a $5 pint of Guinness, but when a celebration is called for, we always rely on the Brick.

For those of you not familiar with the Brick, it’s a rather seedy den of nostalgia, stale cigarette smoke and the repository of a large collection of bottled and canned beer, plus some gems on tap – large enough, in fact, to garner the Guinness Record.

There are four things you should expect when visiting:
1) You will spend too much
2) You will experience some seriously good beer as long as you KNOW BETTER than to order off the freaking AMERICAN BREWS MENU in an attempt to subvert “1”, above
3) Service will normally be sub-par
4) You will ALWAYS be seated next to an inane couple that just order wine, think they are being novel for it, and will query the waiter/waitress to AFFIRM that they are being novel, resulting in anyone in a 50 foot radius squelching the urge to dropkick said couple

Something that we seem to experience averaging two out of every three visits is a repeated lack of having the requested beer on hand. (Seriously, Guinness World Records should audit, for the good of mankind and beer drinkers everywhere.) This seems to be uncorrelated to any day of the week or time of the day, so I think we need to ask when shipments arrive, but as Brick stocks beer that is often unknown in the US *except* for the Brick, it’s more likely probable that there isn’t a regional distributor for much other than the American swill*** and that shipments come in all random sorts.

Back in the day, the Brick offered a po-boy, and that was what I usually ordered. Not-so-recently though, they introduced the Louisiana Uptown Richgirl. I usually get this because it is least often out-of-stock, and it’s rather tasty. Monkey occasionally gets the same. The problem with this, however, is that you need more food than that to sustain drinking. The cheeseboard is never a good option. Instead, choose the loaf of bread as an affordable supplement. (Why bother with a half? If you’re that broke, you shouldn’t be drinking at the Brick anyway.) If you find that still more food is required, I heartily recommend the peirogies. Fried, not boiled, for maximum tastiness.

Because of the sheer volume of beer to choose from, and the pointlessness of remembering what I drank or what others drank, here, for you, I give a rundown of my favorites.

• My absolute favorite of all beers is the Gouden Carolus D’Or. Be sure to get it in a 750ml and split with a friend, because size DOES change taste when you’re dealing with a double-fermented beer (fermentation continues after bottling). Be prepared for a rich, complex, almost red-wine taste. Even non-beer fans tend to warm up to this one. A little sweet though, so consider that when determining what beer to order first and what beer to order last.
  
• Also, Rodenbach Grand Cru. Just as complex as the Carolus, this is a Belgian sour. Be sure ONLY to order this one from the tap. (The Brick is currently the only place in the US that has this on tap and it makes all the difference.)
  
• Anything else off the Belgian menu, except for anything by De Dolle and Stella Artois. (When Belgian beers are well beyond affordable, doesn’t that just scream “The Tequiza of Belgium” !?) Particularly, definitely try anything with the trappist certification. Ask your server. Monkey and Ophelia are fans of Chimay in particular and like each of the three varieties to different degrees.
  
• Hitachino Nest LactoStout (Japan) instead of the usual sugar added to the fermentation process, this one uses lactose, resulting in a deep stout with a hint of lactose taste, if you know what this tastes like (it does not taste like milk, btw.)
  
• Young’s Double Chocolate Stout. (England) This one is also available in WholeFoods. Make SURE to order it in the bottle and not the can. It DOES NOT taste like candy. It DOES taste like chocolate, but you'd never know this unless you've chewed on the bitter seeds of the Theobroma cacao.
  
• St. Peter’s Cream Stout (England) Don’t, please don’t order this one at the end of the night. It comes in a medicine bottle, so it’s a little more than you might be used to in a regular single serving size, and ending with this one is a sure way to get trashed. (I’ve made the mistake twice.) It’s name says everything. It’s heavier but smoother than a Guinness.
  
• Lambics – this is a type of beer, much like porters or pilsners. The fruits are good for when you only want to drink light but don’t mind a quick buzz. Read on:
  
  
  
  • Lindeman’s Peche (Peach, Belgium) Yes, it’s fruity and sweet, but I really only drink it when I’m in the mood for sweet, or I want something like champagne.
    
  • Lindeman’s Framboise (Raspberry, Belgium) Same as above, only a richer, heavier flavor. Banal couples should order this instead of wine, as it makes a nice substitute. In fact, Monkey and I frequently bring bottles of Lindeman’s Lambic to parties because we know more about beer than wine, and these are just as drinkable.
    
  • Liepziger Gose (Germany) Gose is the German form of Geuze, which is a double-fermented lambic without the fruit addition. This one is a Monkey favorite, but we’ve only been able to hit it once after the initial first tasting, as it’s usually out of stock. It’s actually brewed with salt and coriander which simultaneously accentuates and mellows the beer’s own taste. Definitely attempt to try it if you’re feeling adventurous.
    
  
  
• Bass (England) England’s first registered trademark, a true IPA and a smooth hop to boot. How can you not love this as an old standby? I much prefer to buy it and drink it at home though, as there’s no real point spending that much at Brick.
  
• Harar (Ethiopia) I had to put this honey beer on here to prove I’m not a Belgian snob (even though I am). Don’t bother spending money on this at the Brick, but definitely have it with some spicy lamb next time you eat Ethiopian.
  

I’ll update as I remember, but at the moment, the mind is fuzzy… and it’s always good to keep a running list of your favorite beers.

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*The name of the establishment is NOT “Brickskeller’s.” The owner’s name is BeerGuy Dave. A skeller is an underground pub. A brick is a brick. So, you should be calling it “BeerGuy Dave’s Brickskeller” or “That underground pub in that brick building place.” STOP calling it otherwise. You sound like a nimrod.**

**Nimrod, is in fact a biblical king and a mighty hunter. When Bugs Bunny calls Elmer Fudd “the mighty nimrod” (working from memory here) it’s a sarcastic observation on Elmer’s hunting skills, and this is why we associate it with being a twit. This is not to say that when I liken people who say “Brickskeller’s” to a nimrod, I am paying them a compliment.

*** Before I get attacked for my thoughts on American Beers, I’ll say this: a few American breweries know how to get it right. Sam Adams is not one of them, but merely a bearable one. There's a reason we call him "Patriot Brewer" and not "Brewer, Patriot." Yuengling is not one of these. Just because you’re old does not mean you are good. Budweiser is not one; “clean” is not a taste that should actively be sought after. If I want clean, I’ll drink Lysol. Generally, American beers are too wet, watery, acidic and green. They seem intent on infusing a “hoppy taste” but don’t bother to take the time to determine what that is and instead produce something that tastes like pine sap mingled with ash and dissolved in rainwater. Rolling rock, in fact, tastes EXACTLY like this. Most American beers that end up being good are small breweries and in particular, ones that for some reason have a problem with distributing on the East coast. Also, Blue Moon does NOT taste like blueberries and NEVER HAS. You only want it to for reasons known only to you, but most likely as a result of a) suggestion b) your own aversion to beer which you are trying to mask or convince yourself to get over or c) an attempt to seem cool. I offer remedies for these: a) be my drinking buddy instead and I’ll school you, b) drink real beer and you’ll find it doesn’t taste awful, and c) go to the brick and let the waitress pick your beer based on what you’d like to taste that night; expanding your fermented horizons is instant coolpoints, at least in my book.

Au Bon Pain and Holiday Parties, among other things.

Aargh. Ophelia is feeling conflicted. And sad. And hungry.

I ate lunch at Au Bon Pain because I had intended to go get soup-in-a-bread-bowl, but it wasn’t worth the hassle, so I got one of their hot parchment-baked sandwiches instead. It was awful. I’m not even going to talk on the ABP experience except to say this: just because you make it into a cute crescent shape does not negate the fact that it is ciabatta. Further, ciabatta bread is tough and chewy TO BEGIN WITH, so please, explain to me why on Earth it would be a good idea to bake bread, let it cool enough to stuff it, bake it again with the goodies inside, and then leave it in a hotbox all day? A hotbox that you refuse to keep humid, no less! Further, what has possessed EVERY bread-like-substance vendor on Earth to assume that ciabatta bread is PALATABLE and that EVERYONE loves it?! My TMJ flare-up says otherwise.

Right, so that leaves me with this throbbing at my temples, and ultimately means that the next time I yawn, the entire office will jump at the perceived sound of a gunshot, which is in actuality, my jaw echoing through the building. Monkey can attest to the loudness of my jawpops.

It is rainy and scuzzy out, (skuzzy being accepted by M$ Word, though not actually a word, I will further defy it by using a word I know is a word).

In case you didn’t know, I’ve begun dealing with SAD since moving up to DC. I should probably do something about it, but I just haven’t gotten around to it. (If that’s not indicative, I don’t know what is.) I’ve been trying to make myself go outside every day, but it’s an awful effort, and today was definitely no picnic. I couldn’t wait to get back inside after getting my food, and I know I’ll suffer for it later.

Which brings me to a small corner of other problems, which involves the fact that everyone I know seems to be involved in some sort of life-affirming event, or at least, their lives are changing drastically toward a positive end.

Today, I found out that a friend, who has been dating XYZ for less time than Monkey and I have been in DC, married SOMEOME last Friday (probably XYZ, but since it was out of the blue, who knows.) After my initial reaction of dumbfoundment, I started to feel really angry and jealous.

This friend’s exgirlfriend is also engaged and should be marrying ABC, ANOTHER friend of ours (who incidentally, she met through Monkey and Ophelia), sometime in the Spring (?). So it feels kinda like everyone I know is getting married at the drop of a hat.

I feel jealous because I feel like that should be ME getting engaged and getting married, and then I feel angry with myself for feeling that way because I am NOT ready to be married, and don’t even WANT to be married yet, but somehow I feel pressured like I, too, should be doing that ring thang. Reasons in favor of not being engaged or even married: myriad. Reasons in favor of being engaged or married: I wanna feel like a princess, too. I’m not financially or professionally in a situation to take that big step. Neither is Monkey. But at the same time, I feel I’ve been with him so long that sometimes I just want to get it over with. I think part of me is buying into that myth that our lives won’t really start until we’re a couple in the eyes of G-d and under the sexually-discriminating marriage laws of OurGreatNation. Part of me thinks that once that happens, the happily-ever-after starts, and I keep trying to bludgeon that part of me over the head with a 2x4. It’s not working, and I only seem to be suffering more emotional-brain-damage.

So there’s that.

And there’s more.

Of all the people I met in college, only two would I ever apply the word “sister” to. And no, not in that artificial sorority sense. There are only two women who I know have always got my back, and who I’d give some liver to, if called upon, because while I have a lot of “friends”, only those two were there when we all three went from wide-eyed girls to fragile adults. They were my rocks when I went through my first real heartbreak, and now, they’re experiencing some themselves. So, when Ms. H called to tell me that she had broken up with her soulmate and was in the process of trekking her life in Syracuse back to Florida all over again, I tried to be the best shoulder I could.

When I talked to her a few days later, things looked brighter. She had a plan. Sometimes bad things happen only for the perpetuation of bad, and sometimes they only happen to happen. When a by-chance badness comes into your life, this is when you get a do-over. So, Ms. H’s plan is now to return “home” (a stick-on term at this point – for both of us), and will take her stab at going back to school. I love her, and I am proud of her, and I will always stick by her,
But
This
Made
Me
SO
JEALOUS.

I can feel the envy poking me in the back of my sternum. It’s making a little bubble of ire about the size of a pea stick in my throat as I try to keep the frogs down… Even as I type.
Or perhaps that’s the guilt, because I feel overwhelmed – almost consumed – by this guilt and the aforementioned guilt, and really, anything at all that will make me feel guilty.
I almost hate myself for feeling jealous over something which she really has no control over, especially as it is her only current recourse after such a personally destructive event. I have no right to envy her that.
And I do, and I feel like it makes me a worse person.

Note that I say worse, because I already feel like a pretty bad person these days.

Even when I go to do my volunteering, I leave feeling beaten. I used to come home exhausted but enlivened. These days, I feel like I’ve done someone some horrible wrong so that I don’t want to even be around people anymore.

The worst, though, is that I keep forcing myself to go do things and try and have fun even when I don’t want to in hopes that I won’t feel so awful about me… In hopes that I’ll meet the right person who can put it all in perspective. I keep hoping to meet Avalokiteshvara.

I keep coming home feeling confused, tired, and pawed-at.


I can’t wait for the holidays – and winter – to be over.

So old I still own LPs

I’m having a smidgen of a crisis. After reviewing my list of blogs I check daily, I realized a scary trend.

I think punk-anti-establishment me is disappearing.

This is the breakdown:
1 Life-Approaching-Marriage
1 office-appropriate humor
1 Starbucks trawling (blame this one on Monkey)
1 CROCHET blog (what am I thinking?)
DCBlogs, of course
2 Gaylife issues
3 professional drudgery
4 adult politics (as opposed to sophomoric idealism)
1 Crazy Friend in Israel (whose emails I get anyway and so don’t really need to check the blog)
1 Early 20-something forum (which ends up being mostly political and professional drudgery anyway)

For some reason, this strikes me as disproportionately behaving myself and conforming. I mean seriously, only 0.125% DO NOT regularly deal with domesticity and tedium.

Will someone please tell Peter Pan I’m looking for him? Chipper comments and suggestions for a less adult life very much appreciated.

The peril! The horror! The Beltway!

LocalJurisdiction finally has a home! After an extended stay, my partner-in-crime-as-of-late has finally moved into his own apartment. Everyone is happy about this, except, perhaps, for the intrepid Mz., who I assume is missing him already, especially as she was taking a shine to him and was definitely interested in getting the kisses and the belly-workings from an extra gentleman.

However, the moving-in-ness was sobered by the fact that LJ would now need his own laundry-preparation accoutrements and inflatable mattress until which time he should return to NoFl in that epic journey known as “U-Haulin’ Crap Up.”

Adventure was in the air.

We decided to head up to Rockville, since it has a nice conjunction of LNT, BBB and craft stores, but first we decided to swing by LJ’s place so he could grab his LNT card for increased buying-ease. I didn’t know quite where we were going, since it’s a part of town that we don’t frequently venture, and when we do, most certainly do not make use of automobiles, so I was trusting LJ’s judgment. Mistake the first. As LJ started telling me an animated story about an ex, we somehow lost track of Mass Ave. I wasn’t paying attention, and apparently neither was he, so when we suddenly found ourselves driving past the FedEx hub on New York Avenue, (I was to later discover this was the road we were on), I asked “Are you sure this is the most efficient way to get to your apartment?” “No,” he replies. I start to realize we are way off target, since I recognized the FedEx building from riding the metro past it frequently, but this chain of thought is immediately interrupted by the wail of about 500 sirens. Cars are swerving all over, trying to avoid the oncoming path of DC’s finest, coming from every imaginable direction. As we begin approaching an extended woody area, I think “this is strange for the middle of DC” – thinking about the untouched real estate – but this thought is quickly overshadowed by the understanding that police cars parked every 500 feet along the roadway is not usual. I jokingly ask if LJ lives anywhere near a prison, and then pause to rephrase, this time in all seriousness, if LJ lives anywhere near a prison. About this time, we come up on an entrance sign to the wooded area, and I realize exactly where we are – the northern perimeter of the Arboretum. I feel like a bit of a dolt for not having thought of it sooner, but in retrospect, my sense of direction has always been largely governed by my orientation in a vehicle. Walk a distance and I’ll be lucky to find my way back. Drive a distance, and I’ll always know exactly where everything is, even – and especially – on foot. Apparently my mental map does not have a zoom-in feature, so my sense of location is on a slightly grander scale that most. Also, I still haven’t been to the Arboretum – even from its southern approach – because Monkey has been far too busy to accompany me.

In any event, at this point, I knew how far off target we were, and if we turned around at that moment, we would at most be 7 miles away from our destination. (I love you, Pythagoras.) We found our way onto the Beltway, and I have to say, I am thankful that LJ has experience being a Florida driver, because not many people can handle the craziness that is the beltway after an intense episode of “which-way-do-I-go!?” in conjunction with a blue-and-red seizure-inducing run-in with the po-po. (Okay, I maximized for hyphens at the end there.)

(As a side note, you always hear that the Beltway is in the top three when counting worst roadways in the US. The other two are usually that one in DFW and I-4 on Orlando. I don’t know who does these studies, but I-4 is a cakewalk. Now, I say this as a seasoned I-4 driver, and it’s probably people who are used to leisurely 35mph driving that take offence at I-4, but still, I-4 is Not That Bad. Further though, the BELTWAY is not that bad. By far, the worst road I have EVER been on is the Sawgrass Expressway, followed by the Florida Turnpike in the 10 miles north or south of its approach to the Sawgrass, and then perhaps I-95 anywhere south of about Lake Worth, where you’ve got about 2’ clearance in any direction but up and still have to flow with traffic at about 95mph. Multiply any of these by a factor of 10 if you’re driving after 11 pm, and you might be able to understand when I say that the Beltway is for wussies. So, when I say that I am glad that LJ has experience being a Florida driver, it has nothing to do with actual skill in driving or attention to detail [though it should]; it instead tends more toward a lauding similar to “I’m sure glad X went to Jeff Gordon Racing School.” In my experience, taking on the beltway only needs three things: nerves of steel, quick reflexes, and the understanding that flooring it is ALWAYS necessary. Florida prepares you for all three.)

Digressions aside, this was a teachable moment. I taught LJ that no matter where you get lost, just find the Beltway. If you stay on it long enough, you’ll either find a road you’re familiar with, or find where you got lost so you can backtrack. In our case, it was Penn, and we soon found ourselves driving toward the familiar colors of Eastern Market… At least in my case; LJ is still too new to fully appreciate subtle landmarks, so as we made our way to his apartment, and then later made our way out to Rockville, I made a point of mentioning landmarks he would be familiar with, as well as pointing out metro exits. The one thing that I wish someone had helped me with when I first moved to DC was explaining what the Metro exits look like aboveground, and what treasures each one leads to – I’d never know I wanted to exit in Cleveland Park if I didn’t know that the exit puts me right in front of Petsmart. Stuff like that is invaluable for the new townie, especially since haphazard adventuring to see what lies just beyond the surface can be dangerous, or at least can deplete you of $1.35. Perhaps my new project will be an interactive metro map explaining what retail and dining can be found in the immediate vicinity of metro stops, or directions to malls, etc from said stops – much like directions to Ikea. Thoughts? Suggestions?

I don’t really feel like going into the rest of the day, because I was motion-sick for most of it, but I was able to do a follow-up on the goings on at the Arboretum. Apparently, some guy abducted a woman on Saturday, and when the police hunted him down at a hotel on Sunday, he fled into the Arboretum. Part of me would commend this guy for choosing such a maze-like and Fugitive-esque escape route, but I won’t because this guy was obviously an idiot to run into the ARBORETUM, where only two likely outcomes exist with great probability – you get caught or you get lost.

(I think last I heard he was in a standoff over on Q street, and if so, that means that he *did* get out of the arboretum, but is *still* gonna get caught.)

As a side note, an officer was shot during all this, so I mean no disrespect; I am merely commenting on the dramatic nature of running into 446 acres of Federal property for the sake of eluding a squadron of DC and Maryland police officers.

Lambasting.

Who said this was only a food blog?

I had to note the following headlines that appeared together on CNN.com this morning. For once, I am unsure whether this is ironic or apropos. Either way, it’s humorous.
• Valerie Bertinelli, Eddie Van Halen divorcing
• Eminem and ex-wife 'probably going to remarry'

So, now on to what I really wanted to talk about: Maureen Dowd.

I saw her on a rerun of the Colbert Report last night and I just had to speak out. Living in DC makes you political, polarizing, and strongly opinionated.

I am a post-modern feminist, but I am APPALLED that anyone as stupid and inane as Maureen Dowd should EVER represent ANYONE in public, especially as a voice and representative of the majority of the population. Give me Sell-out Gloria any day, because while I don’t agree with her militancy, at least she’s educated, astute, and well-spoken. (And I envy her those glasses.)

I do not base my opinion upon Dowd’s writings – I have not read them, and there are indeed wonders that a good draft-reader and copy editor can do. I base my opinion SOLELY on her appearance on theCR. It showed her aptitude to be about as lackluster as Nelly Furtado’s forays into late night television. Dowd comes off as – and even resembles -- a dumber, more genuinely inept space cadet than Jennifer Coolidge’s character in Best in Show*.

It boggles the mind that people felt this woman was worth publishing – she must have a ghost writer, I’m convinced. I kinda wonder, also, what made Colbert want to have her on his show. She’s not even facile enough to make fun of, so I suppose it must have been the book itself that he wanted to torpedo.

The appearance left me blinking. It wasn’t even funny, because Colbert was struggling, trying to banter with someone more straight-faced himself not through wit, but probably through lobotomy. He’s had better repartee with Appalachian Farmers.

I will have to ask Panda-Fanatic how the ratings fared on that episode.

*Shakes head*

If I ever write an autobiography, I’m totally titling it “Thank You, Margaret Sanger.” DO NOT STEAL MY TITLE.

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* I actually like Jennifer Coolidge. Aside from when she's playing Stiffler's Mom, she's a pretty funny lady, and I appreciate her for taking roles that don't necessarily edify the soul and/or make the big bucks but do result in some serious funny.

Lauriol Plaza, 18 and T, NW

Lauriol Plaza has become a madhouse since Southern Living, (and subsequently, CNN.com) mentioned its merits. Now, I don’t wish financial destitution on anyone, (except maybe Pinochet; I will not go into my tirade against Riggs Bank at this time,) and I would not wish to detract from the Plaza’s owner’s new-found success, but JEEZ, when a THREE-STORY restaurant is overflowing with people, it’s just kinda a turn-off.

Okay, so snarking aside, Monkey and I took LocalJurisdiction to dine there because Monkey is frequently in the mood for Mexican, Ophelia never is, and when she does crave el Mexicano, you brave wet and cold and possible snow to eat chips and salsa, get slightly blotto on fermented cactus and snark on the other diners. Okay, so maybe snarking is not aside, but then, it’s never completely aside, really, is it?

My favorite thing at LP is the shrimp and crab quesadilla. Unfortunately, it’s not on the regular menu, but I’ve had the good fortune to hit it 66% of the time. The low point though, is that this is not nearly enough to sustain a night of drinking. Be prepared to eat lots of freshly-made chips that come with a smoky-chipotle salsa. We average a basket-point-five per person. Monkey is a fan of the ceviche; I am not, but I normally order it and split it with him anyway because, like I said, Need. Food. To. Sustain. Drinking. (M$ Word thinks that Sustain is ok to be a sentence, but that Food is not. Further, that DRINKING is not. What is wrong with it?)

I will interject here with a relevant point. Either my alcohol tolerance has become pretty low, or LP makes some mean margaritas. Back in G’ville, we’d go to Ashley’s Pub with some frequency, and at my debauchest, I was able to take care of 69 ounces of limey-cactus goodness. That’s one and a half 46ers, which either Monkey or Money* would finish the other half of,(depending on whether Monkey was in SoFL at the time.) So, when Monkey and I cannot handle two pitchers WITH the help of a third, I figure something’s got to be up.**

Normally, (if the quesadilla is not on the menu) Monkey and I order the Reynosa Grande. It’s a nice mix of everything you like about Mexican, it’s filling, and you don’t have to make your own food, like with fajitas (though that will never stop me from ordering them.) Sadly though, I cannot remember what Monkey or Local ordered.

It was a good night ;)

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*Sadly, Money will never take part in Monkey-Ophelia adventures in DC. He is being held hostage by Life, which lies to him and says it loves him and that G'ville is good for his career. Stupid Life. And yes, it is purely coincidental that Monkey and Money differ by only one letter.

** Monkey and Ophelia ONLY order margs on the rocks, and only with salted glasses. Ophelia would just do shots of tequila alone, but Monkey fears for her salt intake.

Chinatown Garden, Chinatown

While Monkey and I have found our favorite Chinese delivery, occasionally you want to go out to eat Chinese. After some searching and disappointment in Chinatown, we ended up finding Chinatown Garden. (CG is located next to Tai Shan Chinese, and I keep finding myself wanting to pose for a picture under Tai Shan’s awning, just to send to my favorite panda-fanatic friend.)

CG reminds me of a cheaper version of my favorite Chinese restaurant back in Gainesville, in that it serves ‘polynesian’ mixed drinks and it makes Chinese food. CG is not, however, a nightclub that has hosted the likes of George Burns. I will not hold it against the Garden.

They usually have pretty good egg drop soup, but that’s about the extent of my dallying with appetizers there. On most visits, I get the peking duck, chicken lo mein or mu shu chicken. Monkey usually lacks creativity and goes with the peking duck too, or orders the General Tso. Sadly, and it is strange to say this, CG is heavy on the meat and super light on the veggies. Keep this in mind if you like your tso choc-full-o’ broccoli. The duck is fairly moist, which is definitely a plus, and on this visit, Monk and I split a duck. I was full and he was pushing to finish. That seems to be the theme at CG – "we give you too much food."

I’ve never finished a chicken lo mein or a mu shu chicken at CG, and really, the goal is to pig out. Here’s why: you don’t get all your leftovers. Of your leftovers, you only get what will fit into a small 1-cup takeout box. I know; I feel cheated; and I know I should be indignant, and I don’t want to think about what they do with the rest of the food, so stop making me think about it!

Anyhow, what I mean to say is this: eat up. The food’s good enough and the prices are good enough and the location is accessible enough – the Gallery Place metro, of course. (I pity you if you couldn’t figure that one out.)

The one thing that I will say about CG that I can never take back is this: they are helluva efficient there. You have water and hot tea before you’ve even had a chance to settle yourself and look at the menu. And they keep it coming. It’s truly a marvel of over-staffedness, and for that reason I usually feel guilty and over-tip just a little. I mean, people have to get pizaid, right?

Dupont Italian Kitchen, 17th Street Corridor

Dupont Italian Kitchen, on the 17th Street corridor, is frequently referred to as “DIK.” Even by its staff.

Monkey and I discovered this place some months back (April?) and have made it our “neighborhood Italian” place. Back in SoFla, Monkey and his parents had a neighborhood Italian place where they’d go for the earlybird special, and get a soup/salad, meal and spumoni for ridiculously cheap. They even had entertainment, if you want to count old people and karaoke. Both were entertaining in their own way. So, when we came to DC, we were a little sad that default Italian was something we had to give up. For a while, we went to Café Odeon, but the waiters were snotty, especially when you ordered tap water instead of bottled. A few of the other places in DC are a little on the expensive side to eat at regularly, so we had resigned to eating where we could get pseudo-italian. Happily, one of my best friends, a local to the core, introduced me to DIK one afternoon after a hard day on the mall. I was smitten and took Monkey back the next night.

Since that day, we’ve almost become regulars (not as of late though, just because one can get burned out on Italian). This summer, our favorite waiter was a young guy named Luigi, who looked mostly like Secret-Window-Johnny-Depp, had a thick accent, and accompanied every gesture with “Cheers!”, only it came out more like “chrrs’.” We liked him a lot, so we were sad when we found out he was leaving for Berlin. The current lament, while waiting for the bread to arrive, goes a little like this:
Monkey: “Where’s LUIGI!?”
Ophelia: *Almost wistful* “…Berlin.”

So, I should probably make a mention of the food and drink. Notice I say “drink.” Most meals are accompanied by at least a half-carafe, if not a whole carafe of red wine. (White gives me migraines.) Monkey’s old stand-by is the calamari on linguini, and mine is the meat ravioli alfredo. Usually, though, they have some tasty specials, and we try and order from that when applicable. In particular, I enjoy things with a saffron-cream or sun-dried-tomato-cream sauce -- especially, but not necessarily in conjunction with crabmeat. The thing to be careful of though, is to carefully note the presence of the word “CREAM.” I once ordered the grilled chicken with the sun-tom sauce and was reduced to tears when I saw that through my bad, I had ordered a red sauce with sun-dried tomatoes that ALSO included the over-abundance of olives. (Ophelia WILL NOT abide olives.) So be careful.

Their caesar almost never disappoints, as they do you proud on the romaine. The dressing they tend to overdo, though, and we always ask them to go easy on it, but they never do. (For a while, we asked for “light dressing” as in “go light on the dressing,” until I pointed out that that might mean something totally different to them.)

Even if it did, I don’t think we ever got a “lite” dressing or a low-cal anything. During the summer, the proscuitto and melon appetizer is pretty good – I’m a huge fan of salty-and-sweet, and this is an especially good appetizer for eating alfresco. I should probably mention that you have the option of dining alfresco from late spring through late fall.

Dessert-wise, we have never tried anything but the tiramisu, and it is among the better tiramisu that I have had in DC. Better than I Ricchi, and better than Vaccaro’s, at least. (It does not, however, stack up to RFD’s Bieramisu, but then, that’s just not fair.) I should probably find out if they make it on site or outsource it.*

Things of note:
1) DIK has drink specials most every day, but we rarely get there before they are over.
2) Also, DIK hosts some ear-splitting karaoke. I don’t remember what night this is, but if you go early, you are usually lucky enough to miss most of it.
3) Finally, plan to potty before or after. I mentioned that they host karaoke, and I have mentioned the location. You can figure out the clientele. All I’m saying is, if the plumbing still WORKS like a man, don’t usurp the women’s toilet. That’s just messy and rude. And, as I’m sure Monkey will appreciate this being said, if you use the men’s toilet, don’t be a loathsome slob.

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* If you are at all familiar with the grocery chain Publix, then you will know that they also make a tiramisu. While I can’t be sure because I haven’t had it in a while**, I think Pubmisu beats out DIK any day. But then, bakery items and deli subs from Publix are never fair to the competition.

** If you are going to be visiting Florida, you are morally obliged to bring me either tiramisu or sheet cake with buttercream icing from Publix. Comment me for dropoff and money exchange locations, or the bagel gets it. Get it?