¡Creepy crawlers!

I thought I was courageous when I braved lunch lakeside at Honduras's Lago de Yojoa, a beautiful body of water where the fresh catch is said to be seasoned by heavy metals. (I was not brave enough for the pescado entero, however, so the fish you see below, beside the fried plantains, was picked clean by my driver and lunch companion.)

The real fearless eater? My buddy Nicole Firment, who crunched on some cucarachas (grasshoppers, actually) in Mexico in December. Photo (above) and video (below) by Julia Oliver.



Looking for bugs closer to home? I remember that La Laiterie, in Providence's Wayland Square, used to serve up some insects every Halloween.

For still creative but not creepy-crawly fare, I recommend the "lamb slider trio" ($18), with curry and coconut organic lamb, lime yogurt crème and rosemary and Parmesan fries, paired with any dessert, at Co Co. Sala (929 F St. NW) in DC's Chinatown, and the Cascade Cafe (6th/Constitution NW) in the National Gallery of Art (10 percent discount for federal employees, free view of the cascade waterfall for all comers). Avoid maoz (1817 M Street NW), in Dupont, where the grammatical errors in the mission statement hint at the carelessness in the food preparation. Amsterdam Falafelshop (2425 18th Street NW), in Adams Morgan, and even the Old City Cafe (1773 Columbia Rd. NW) and Shawarma King (1654 Columbia Rd. NW), are better options.

New Jack Hustler

To clean up a sizable Pipón backlog, I say a few more Darts & Laurels (h/t to CJR) are in order.

Laurels:

The salmon tartare at Poste (555 8th St. NW), served in an ice cream cone, over crème fraiche, is so inventive and refreshing (and the Summer Selection of Farmstead Cheese, with thinly cut raisin-walnut toast is so lovingly assembled) that I have forgotten all about the whole mustard-ice-cream-in-the-gazpacho incident.

The remarkable beer list, scrumptious fries (with a highly recommendable chipotle mayo dip) and general just-hip-enough vibe at Granville Moore’s (1238 H St. NW) more than make up for the eye-popping price tag on the humble bison burger.

The traditional triumvirate in New Orleans: beignets at Cafe Du Monde (see photo), the red beans and rice at Mother's (see photo of hot sauces), and the Bananas Foster at Brennan's, a highly unoriginal, yet hard to resist culinary itinerary.


Darts:

The supremely lame, albeit understandable, no Wi-Fi on weekends policy at Tryst (2459 18th St. NW), from the same penny-pinching philosophy that leads Chef Geoff's (1301 Pennsylvania Ave. NW) to corral its happy hour crowd in a cramped quadrant by the bar.

The general laziness at Dos Gringos (3116 Mount Pleasant St. NW), a self-consciously quirky lunch spot that never offers Wi-Fi (social engineering), regularly runs out of ingredients (a supposed sign of freshness), and uses the microwave like it's going out of style. 

Have fruit, will freeze

I'm typing quickly. For now, Pleasant Pops is generating buzz and brain freeze in equal measure, but it is still inches below the foodie radar, hyped by the DCist and Prince of Petworth but unsung by the good ol' mainstream media. Apparently, however, The Washington Post, Washingtonian and others have started sniffing around the Pleasant Pops bike cart, parked on Saturdays at the Mount Pleasant Farmers’ Market. So just so Pipón can say it is in the frozen desserts vanguard, here are a few shots of the Pleasant Pops action this morning at the farmers’ market, where the good people from Pleasant Pops, founded in March 2009 by a friend's brother, Roger, offered up a handful of their 60 original flavors ($2.50 a pop, literally) including strawberries-and-cream and watermelon-and-cucumber, and hunted-and-gathered for ingredients for next week, including fresh basil, blackberries and peaches. (I had the strawberry pop, and it was delicious, even if I had to eat it in 30 seconds before it melted.)






UPDATE: MSM has found Pleasant Pops indeed, http://n.pr/cwtJiU, http://bit.ly/akSIUN.

Red faced, not from the marinara

As if my unsophisticated palate, low food budget and amateur cooking skills did not make me insecure enough about publishing Pipón, I heard a great Marketplace segment the other day about the "food paparazzi" and the restaurateurs who, er, do not exactly love them. (Apparently, we food bloggers are famous for publishing photos that are "under-exposed, or taken mid-meal, bite marks and all" and for critiquing food "without really knowing what they're talking about.") And yet, here I go again, with a few Darts & Laurels (h/t to CJR) for some Washington restaurants.


Laurels

The toppings at The Pita Pit (616 23rd St. NW), in Foggy Bottom, including feta, avocado and tzatziki sauce.
Pretty much everything at the Thornton River Grille, in Sperryville, Va., in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, just off the Shenandoah National Park's Skyline Drive, one of the best thought-I'd-come-to-a-greasy-spoon surprises I've ever encountered, where the eggs benedict is served on a homemade baguette, the vegetable omelet special (there it is above) involves, count 'em, five eggs and all dishes get a pick-me-up of fresh fruit and the option of a few drops of the local pepper sauce, Chileman's.
The name (I didn't actually try the food, since the beer alone is bankrupting) of The Star and The Shamrock (1341 H St. NE), an Irish-Jewish pub.
The sauteed beef and onions at El Rincon Espanol (1826 Columbia Rd. NW) in Adams Snorgan (any chance that will catch on?), so tender you (almost, sometimes, when the door is mercifully closed) forget about the booming nightclub upstairs.




The "Sloppiest Joe" ($13) at Ted's Bulletin (505 8th St. SE) (see it above), part of the cloying home-style trend but way more exciting than an overpriced grilled cheese, so much so that it makes up for the poor service at this new restaurant and its odd decision to write "Breakfast Anytime" in large letters on the menu, followed by a small print advisory, "coming soon, we'll keep you posted." On the other hand, the $3 homemade strawberry pop tarts (see one below) are already on offer, as are a great $4 side of blue cheese Brussels sprouts (see one above) and TVs playing classics such as The Wizard of Oz and Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Finally, Laurels for the sliders at Bar Dupont (1500 New Hampshire Av. NW); the Five Guys at Nationals Park, where they do inflate the price a bit but still honor their all toppings free pledge (including the grilled onions, grilled mushrooms and jalapeno peppers); and the $12 "Tacos de Borrego" (slow roasted lamb with garlic and Oaxacan peppers) at Casa Oaxaca (2106 18th St. NW) in Adams Snorgan, where the menu inspires so much confidence, in its refreshingly small size and multicolored mole offerings, that I might actually one day, given enough mezcal, try the "Cazuela de Chapulines," the Oaxacan cheese fondu and grasshoppers appetizer.





Darts

The burgers (see one above) at Nellie's (900 U St. NW) are no joke, with free caramelized onions and only a $1 charge for blue cheese. Still, given the $10 price tag, you'd think they could afford to serve their mimosas in something other than a plastic cup.
The large chili con carne ($5.40) at Ben's Chili Bowl (1213 U St. NW) is good, no doubt, but it does not quite live up to the hype, or the description "large" for that matter. (Why does criticizing Ben's feel like blaspheme and a culinary conventional wisdom echo chamber at the same time?)

Mercat de la Boqueria

The Boqueria, in Barcelona, is not exactly obscure, so there is plenty of information out there to help you navigate its stalls, sniffing out the raw fish spreads, fried rabas, nuts and candy piles and Technicolor fruit salads, while marveling at how the market failure of imperfect information lets identical packages of freshly chopped watermelon sell for radically different prices.




So I'll leave it at this: If you're stopping by Bar Pinotxo, do it early, before the market-supplied, deep-but-traditional menu is whittled down to just tripe and teeny-weeny rabbit ribs. (If you do show up late, however, still stop by Bar Pinotxo; the rabbit is pretty tasty, especially if washed down with Catalan cava.)

En brodo

I owe Pipón capsule reviews of a handful of restaurants we've visited lately, including El Rincón Español (1826 Columbia Rd. NW), a great tapas joint in Adams Morgan; Mama Ayesha's (1967 Calvert St. NW), a popular Middle Eastern restaurant in Woodley Park; and Thaiphoon (2011 S St. NW), a mediocre local Thai chain that competes with Thaitanic (locations in Columbia Heights and Logan Circle) for the most clever Thai pun. (kg has promised some penitent guest blogging after ditching me for great meals at The Diner (2453 18th St. NW), run 24 hours a day by the good people at Tryst, and Volt (228 N. Market St., Frederick, Md), that most talked about of Frederick attractions.)

In the meantime, we've done a bit of cooking. Above, my new 30 Minute Meal, cheese tortellini, sauteed mushrooms and onions and baby spinach served in vegetable broth (en brodo) instead of red sauce.


To get people to drink some wine with us up on the roof, our Argentine friend Lara mashed up some gnocchi and kg whipped up some crème brûlée. Below, proof that Lara has not become too American to make make gnocchi, at least on the 29th, and kg's newest pizza eccentricity, toppings underneath.

Home of the Sweet Potato Pie

I suppose I should have been ready for the question, "hot or cold?" Henry's Soul Cafe (1704 U St. NW) is the "Home of the Sweet Potato Pie," and apparently the hot or cold dilemma is an age old debate, and your answer depends in part on whether you're in an à la mode kind of mode, er, mood. Anyway, the place is the type of greasy spoon Jane and Michael Stern would (rightly) go on about. I just sampled the pie today (hot, and delicious), but I predict I'll be back soon. The $5 weekday lunch special, 10:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., comes with cornbread and two sides, such as fried okra or candied yams. Henry's opened in 1968. How have I not been there until today?

Saints Preserve Us

Above, Saturday night's couscous with roasted sweet potato and carrots, and butternut squash pasta with gorgonzola. Below, Toll House cookies, the quickest path between hunger and sweet-toothed bliss.


If any of that sounds at all appetizing, try it out on the night you had planned to go to Saint-Ex.

It'd be way too generous to say that Saint-Ex (1847 14th Street NW) suffers, à la Obama, from unfairly high expectations. It is simply overpriced, overhyped and overrated. I'm not sure why it's so in demand, other then inertia and the long lines created by its frustrating policy of not accepting reservations. It's certainly not the "charming" ambiance. The basement is a shadowy bar; the main level, lacking a coat rack and adequate lighting, gets packed like a rush hour Metrobus. I tried the $36 prix fixe menu, sampling a special tortilla appetizer that showcased chopped, soggy chicken, and an overcooked steak. One of the fish entrees looked enticing, but our Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch app recommended "avoid." I'd say the same about Saint-Ex.

Braai rules

I am beginning to take this personally. First, my Greek South African-born friend Tanya (in photo below, at left) invited me over for a "peasant stew," telling me that the lamb and orzo medley, however delicious it may taste, is a strictly plebeian platter. Then last night, just as I arrived back at Tanya's, I was instructed not to remove my coat but rather to proceed directly to the balcony to help Tanya's brother, George, keep an eye on the Boerewors, South African sausage served on rolls and favored by drunk clubgoers after last call.


As if that was not enough of an indignity, Tanya also served chakalaka, a vegetarian chili that, she explained, is a staple for impoverished Johannesburg gold miners.

Tanya is just lucky that all this low-class cuisine is so highly tasty, otherwise I'd have to start boycotting these dinners, lest I end up complimenting an entree only to have Tanya explain, "This is what we feed our cattle."






Sides included Iwisa-brand, mielie-meal pap (the word actually means "gruel," and I'm not making this up); a South African beef jerky known as biltong; potato salad; dried mango; and for dessert, milk tart.

I could tell you more about cooking up Boerewors (hint: for Tanya, the process starts by getting The South African Food Shop to FedEx enormous coils of raw meat), but according to this hilarious instructional video that George passed along, it seems like you have to earn entrance into the Boerewors fraternity in a process that resembles a cross between Freemasonry initiation and an episode of Top Chef.

Please pass the Colonel Mustard

I'm hardly a Super Bowl traditionalist. (I only learned who was playing on Friday on line at the Safeway on Columbia Road when I asked the woman in front of me whether she considered a jar of cocktail onions a key part of her pre-storm food supplies.) Still, I was surprised to hear that my friend Rob Margetta, of Congressional Quarterly fame, was planning to make tacos for his Super Bowl party, provided he could hire a "dog sled team" to transport him from Alexandria. From a native of Fall River, Mass., I would've expected fried chicken, cold cuts and sour cream and onion dip.




The menu sounded similarly atypical at Julia Schiff's Super Bowl gathering in Adam's Morgan, highlighted by homemade pork and beansprout Thai egg rolls, made by Art Jirut, whose love for Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy and Compassion, means she just-says-no to beef.


In a nod to more standard Super Bowl fare, however, Art also whipped up (in addition to a pistachio cake) a pot of turkey chili with scallions, kidney beans and Fritos. The hostess, meanwhile, balled some peanut butter and dipped it delicately in chocolate, and also sprinkled Americana throughout her sitting room, including a hard cover copy of David McCullough's 1776, published volumes of her father's photographs of Cincinnati and even a DVD of the 1985 movie Clue, an American classic even if Wadsworth does have a British accent.

UPDATE: My old roommate, Brian Chelcun, reminded me that the peanut butter treats are called "buckeyes," an Ohio specialty apparently designed to resemble the nut of an Ohio Buckeye tree.

Zakuski

Let me preface this post by saying that I in no way blame Lynne Rossetto Kasper for my many missteps on New Year's Eve. For the most part, the problems were, as ever, those of execution. That said, I'm really not sure what I could possibly have been thinking when I listened to an interview with food writer Diana Henry on The Splendid Table and decided to make Zakuski, or Russian small plates, for our New Year's Eve party. After all, I had no cayenne pepper, a surprisingly common ingredient in the recipes I dug up; I had no experience preparing Eastern European eats; and I had no idea how unforgiving these dishes could be.


I'll spare you the gruesome details and offer only the learned-it-the-hard-way lessons:

1. If you're skipping the sour cream, dill and sauteed mushrooms and scallions are better served hot. (Saddled with fridge-cramping leftovers, I resuscitated the mushrooms the next evening in a risotto.)
2. Smoked fish is too expensive to buy for 25 people.
3. Not even the most refreshing squirt of lemon juice can induce guests to dig into cold, partially mashed kidney beans served with stewed prunes, red wine vinegar, mint and cilantro.

In the end, even the platters of canned sauerkraut and pickled beets sat mostly untouched. (My brother, in town for New Year's Eve, referred to the entire spread as condiments in search of a hot dog.) Fortunately, I had bought cheese and pita, whipped up some spinach-and-artichoke dip and brown-sugared roasted sweet potato slices, persuaded a friend to bake a few pecan pies and received homemade rugelach from an adventurous South Asian guest. Those snacks, washed down with my wife's fruity champagne punch and my sister-in-law's Puerto Rican coquitos, managed to keep spirits high all night. But I'll say this: No one was begging me for recipes as they headed out the door.

To celebrate Halloween, try chewing a thrupenny bit

I invited a friend tonight to an "Irish Halloween" dinner, and though his official excuse was being out of town, I'm not sure he'd have come if he'd been home and dying of hunger. "It is actually kind," he replied, "even if the two English words that scare me most are probably 'Irish' and 'Halloween,' and I've never even seen them in such proximity to one another."


I have also taken a few cheap shots at Irish cuisine in the weeks leading up to this dinner, hosted by my friend Iseult Fitzgerald, an Irish diplomat who seemed so worried about feeding guests Irish cooking that she nearly put together a Georgian menu instead.


Oddly, Halloween inspired some Irish national pride in Iseult, who not only insists the Irish invented the sweetest and spookiest of holidays, but she says there are traditional Irish dishes (not candy corn) cooked but once a year in October. No, it's not brown bread, though Iseult did bake a tasty loaf and served it with slices of smoked salmon. No, it's not beef stew, either, though I was happy to find that Iseult had filled her cast iron pot with red wine-stained onions, carrots, celery and meat.


Courtesy of the Irish pagans, the Halloween specialties we sampled were colcannon, a floury potato casserole with curly kale, and melted cheddar cheese; barmbrack, a raisin loaf flavored with cloves and allspice; and a sweet Irish crumble fruit pie.


Nothing sounds particularly crunchy, right? But be careful as you chew. In another Irish Halloween tradition (would it be so hard to simply dress up and trick-or-treat in Dublin?), the host hides coins and trinkets in the brown bread and colcannon. Your teeth are not the only thing at risk. Sure, a coin is good luck, a ring means you'll marry in a year and a piece of miraculous medal could win you a spot at a nunnery or seminary. But be careful not to spit up a pea, or you'll be doomed to a life of bachelorhood, or a piece of rag, a harbinger of poverty.

That's pretty heavy stuff from the people who brought us green beer, parades and kiss-me-I'm-Irish pins.

Artisanal birthday desserts, Brooklyn style

Locally made, artisanal desserts at my nephew Ariel's Brooklyn birthday party included cup cakes and a firetruck cake almost too intricate to eat (well, Ari didn't seem to mind carving it up!).

Christmas in August

I'm still not sure why my friends Susie and Andi hosted Christmas dinner in August (something about enjoying the holiday sans "the bother of capitalist appropriation"), or for that matter, why "dinner" commenced at 3 p.m. EST. I am sure that it was the most regal feast I've enjoyed since starting graduate school in D.C., where I've mainly subsisted on canned Goya products from the Panam Latin grocery on 14th Street NW.

There was Susie's pumpkin soup, hot, smooth and gingery, served with croutons and a glass of refreshingly cool, creamy, nutmeg-sprinkled eggnog.


There was pork tenderloin, peppercorned by the good people of Trader Joe's, sliced and served beside peas; mashed russet potatoes with roasted garlic, milk and Italian seasonings; and a robust vegetarian lasagna, constructed of home-roasted red peppers, stewed tomatoes, zucchini, sauteed baby bella mushrooms, spinach and fresh garlic, and basil grown on a windowsill in Columbia Heights.

Sadly, I only had time to pick up a baguette and some frosted cupcakes from the Whole Foods on P Street, indisputably lame contributions. Fortunately, Stephanie, another guest, was more ambitious. She rolled in with quinoa, the hippest grain around, mixed with kale, roasted shallots and halved cherry tomatoes, and seasoned with brown sugar because, she explained, "it's Christmas."




The mashed sweet potatoes side, fortified with eggs and gussied up with vanilla extract, butter, milk and (of course) brown sugar, and covered in chopped pecans, was plenty sweet. But there was dessert, too: gingerbread cookies (one was decapitated, but most wore handsome neckties) and pears, peeled and roasted by another guest, Sara.

Medford feast

The last time I had a meal in Medford, Mass., it was at the Carmichael dining hall at Tufts University, an all-you-care-to-eat affair that most likely involved pizza, lasagna and soft-serve ice cream memorable more for the quantity than the presentations or flavors. Needless to say, the feast prepared by our friends Randi and Jeff the other night made me feel like I may have grown up a bit after all.


The vegetable soup was garnished by sage, oregano and parsley plucked from their Medford garden; the peas in the baby spinach and goat cheese salad, grown at Verrill Farm in Concord, Mass., had that energizing crunchiness their frozen cousins simply can't deliver; the ricotta ravioli, served alongside roasted asparagus, tomatoes and black olives from Whole Foods (Rt. 16, Medford), was baked at Bella Ravioli (369 Main Street, Medford).




The ground sole, served with a homemade Parmesan and pine nut pesto, swam in from Captain Boston Fish (377 Main St., Medford). (I wish I could say the bananas in the bananas foster, halved atop heaping portions of vanilla bean-flecked ice cream, also grew in a Medford backyard rather than Honduras, and you know what, maybe they did. Randi and Jeff would not disclose the secret recipe!)