Couple of bookies

The multitalentosa Julia Oliver is a virtuoso no doubt, but when it comes to swine, I figured she might be able to predict the direction of pork belly futures (Efficient Market Theory skeptic that she is), but not cook a pork loin to save her life. Fortunately, not only was I not punished for my underestimating, I finagled not one but two slices of Julia's lemon and ginger pork loin, basted in white wine and seasoned with chopped rosemary, ginger and lemon marmalade, as attractive carved on a serving platter as glistening in its roasting pan, harpooned by a footlong meat thermometer.

Ice fishing for pickled herring

"You don't think there are guys in Nepal who are, like, 'What should I do? Should I carry packs of heavy shit for Westerners to the top of the base camp of Everest? Or should I stay down here in Kathmandu and chant all day and check out chicks and pretend to be holy?' Why is everything cooler when it happens in a foreign country?" - Tao Of Steve

I've realized lately how vulnerable I am to this commonplace traveler's affliction. Particularly when it comes to food. When I was traveling in Southern France and Spain last May, I started wolfing down baguettes filled with  jamón ibérico as if the ingredients were not available at any decent market in DC.

Even less exotic travel can bring on a case of cooler-abroad-itis. I spent New Year's in northern Minnesota, and I would not say an unflattering word about the pickled herring my hosts generously dished out upon my arrival, let alone critique the delightful "stoup" ("soup" + "stew") of patiently simmered pheasant shotgunned by our host the previous fall; the tall stacks of Swedish pancakes at the Maplelag cross country skiing resort; or the "Lowden Zpecial" pizza at Zorbaz in downtown Detroit Lakes, slathered in peanut butter and crowned with pepperoni, jalapeños and cheese. ("Often Imitated, Never Duplicated.") Still, was Maplelag's creamy beef Strogonoff as heavenly as I remember it, or might I have been just a bit hungry from skiing the Sukkerbusk trail? Was the salsa at Juano's, in downtown Fargo, as sublime as it seemed at the time, or was I just overjoyed that the temperature was above freezing when we landed? Were the Knights of Columbus's French toast and breakfast sausages truly a religious experience, or was I just won over by the $3.50 price tag? (For the record, I stand by my awe over the deployment of cabbage in the minestrone at Capisce in Zephyr Cove, Nevada, a casual Italian joint I visited recently near Lake Tahoe that is run by a former Orioles prospect.)

This exercise in reconsideration has me second-guessing my excitement about a variety of recent out-of-town dining, in Boston and Austin (no relation). Specifically, my deep regret over every meal I've had at Baja Fresh in Dupont made me irrationally exuberant about a quick stop at the Anna's Taqueria in Coolidge Corner last October. Meanwhile, DC's underachieving Chinatown made me highly vulnerable to the charming waitress, brightly painted walls and bountiful amuse-bouche at Color, a Korean restaurant in Allston.

Similarly, I might have graded Austin on a curve (though I'm not the only one to be won over by its food scene). The chicken-fried sirloin, topped by creamy gravy, and fried okra at Threadgill's tasted a little less chewy and greasy thanks to the Sunday gospel brunch musical accompaniment and all the quirky memorabilia rescued from the historic Armadillo World Headquarters concert venue that once stood next door in the South Congress neighborhood. The migas and chorizo at Annies Cafe & Bar was a welcome break from an eggs Benedict brunch, but I'll admit I was predisposed to compliment the carne guisada at Guero's Taco Bar after a Texan friend, Grace, promised me that in Austin, "There are TONS of Mexican restaurants. In general they should all be like a 1000x better than anything on the east coast." The Peached Tortilla food truck serves its tacos with crunchy catfish (in a creamy, jalapeño slaw with bacon braised mustard greens) and vietnamese braised pork belly (pickled daikon and carrot salad, Sriracha mayo and cilantro) that puts to shame the local equivalent. But the best sidewalk bratwurst does not hold a candle to any decent choripán in the Southern Cone.

The lesson of all this rambling reconsideration? To show more love for local grub. Like the Heidenberger at the Mad Hatter (1321 Connecticut Ave. NW); the views of Woodley Park from the second floor window seats at Ipoh (2625 Connecticut Ave. NW); the small plates at Zaytinya (701 9th St. NW), good enough to ignore the tragic diversion of extra virgin olive oil into tall vases, and the Jamón Ibérico at Zatinya's sister restaurant, Jaleo (480 7th Street NW), cured ham from acorn-fed, black-footed, Spanish Ibérico pig; the patio at Hank's Oyster Bar (1624 Q St. NW), though I sat indoors on my only visit and somehow was hoodwinked into paying $23 for a lobster roll, more than even the Red Hook Lobster Pound gets away with charging; pretty much anything with raw fish at Raku (1900 Q St. NW); the entire menu at Indique (3518 Connecticut Ave. NW) and Sorriso (3512 Connecticut Ave. NW), which are good enough to convince me to move to Cleveland Park; brunch at Napoleon Bistro (1847 Columbia Rd. NW); dinner at Meskerem (2434 18th St. NW); and even though I was deprived of a partner for the whole fried fish at Bangkok 54 (2919 Columbia pike, Arlington, Va.), I can't hold that against the chef, who eased my pain with some crispy catfish curry and spicy roasted duck.

Swarmesan

It just didn't seem possible that Pasta Mia (1790 Columbia Rd. NW) could live up to its lines-on-the-sidewalk hype, and after all that queuing with nary a greeting from a hostess (not to mention the cash-only policy, the home-style presentation and the owner snaking through the crowded dining area hawking an iPhone puzzle app), I was in no condition to be won over by an $18 plate of spaghetti. After all, the first time I saw that line by the Christian Science Reading Room, I wondered aloud (digitally), if there was "crack in the marinara." Amazingly, Pasta Mia is worth the wait. Absurdly large plates of homemade pasta swimming in perfectly seasoned sauces topped by a pile of Parmesan. I had the fusilli with sausage in a spicy (drug-free) marinara for dinner. And thanks to the universal doggy bag request atmosphere, I can't remember the last time I was this excited for a leftovers breakfast and lunch.

Veggie bomb

Jane & Michael Stern inspired me to raise my game this morning, after I heard their Splendid Table account of a meal at Nick Tahou Hots in Rochester, NY, where they bravely dived into a "garbage plate," including Texas hot wieners, hamburgers, Italian sausage (or steak) served alongside baked beans and home-fried potatoes, cool macaroni salad, spicy chili sauce, mustard and chopped raw onions. I'm not nearly as hard-core, but I did up the ante on my Saturday morning "double burger," typically a MorningStar black bean patty topped by a MorningStar veggie sausage patty and doused in Sriracha, peanut satay sauce, and either Olde Cape Cod honey mustard or hummus. Today, inspired by the "garbage plate" (a distant cousin of the Uruguayan chivito?), I inaugurated the "veggie bomb," a MorningStar black bean patty crowned by a fried egg and drowned in Heinz vegetarian baked beans and mashed avocado.

By the way, I'm glad to see mainstream media love for Sriracha, but given its high profile these days, is it still truly the "underground king of condiment"? As I've said before, Sriracha is about as underground as Jarritos, whereas Marie Sharp's is the unsung hero of imported hot sauce.

Vacuum cleaner

"Devotion" is arguably the greatest comedy short of all time, rivaled only by Will Ferrell's George W. Bush Crawford ranch send-up.