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.

Where's the beef?

I don't know about you, but good sliders always put me in the mood for an adult-sized hamburger. This was especially true at Farmers & Fishers (3000 K St. NW), in the Georgetown waterfront, the other day, after munching on a pair of baby cheeseburgers assembled with ground-to-order, grass-fed beef, a thin blanket of Tillamook cheddar and a homemade butter bun, and served alongside homemade French fries. So you can imagine my dismay when my "Farmer’s Daughter" burger ($12) arrived (as provocatively named as Tryst) piled high with greens but with no burger in sight. The fact that this surreptitiously vegetarian entree was also missing its promised avocado, and that sliced Havarti was playing the role of the advertised brie, was just insult to injury. The lesson? Order carefully at Farmers & Fishers, or better yet, just stick to its sister restaurant, Founding Fathers (1924 Pennsylvania Ave. NW), because after sampling Farmers & Fishers and its neighbor, Tony and Joe's (3000 K St. NW), I've decided the best strategy for grabbing a meal while gazing at the Potomac River and Kennedy Center is to cook your own dinner and picnic on the promenade.


If you simply must go out to eat, try the double-cooked pork (see photo above) at the Great Wall Szechuan House (1527 14th St. NW), a casual and super cheap Chinese joint that has made it impossible for me to ever return to my trusted Oriental Cafe (1636 R Street NW), also in greater Dupont, where the plastic patio furniture had come to feel like home. If you simply must go out and Great Wall will simply not satisfy your Brewster's Millions spendthriftiness, then I recommend The Afghan Grill (2309 Calvert Street NW), in Adams Morgan, where the Badenjan Chalao ($16), eggplant sautéed with onion, garlic and tomato and served with rice and lamb, may leave you hungry, but also hungering for seconds.

Penance

I didn't think S. Africa could make up for all that vuvuzela buzzing; after all, it's been months since the tournament, and I still get nightmares that I'm being chased through Dupont Circle by a cloud of locusts.


But after Sunday night's BBQ, I'm willing to call it even. Once again, my Greek South African-born friend Tanya set up a grill on her balcony and challenged the neighboring steakhouse for the best aromas in the NW. As if the Boerewors were not enough, Tanya also served up some pesto, fresh corn, fruity salad, and a vegetarian chili called chakalaka. (There was also a medley of desserts, but in my excitement to chew the fat with Tanya's Ivorian, Brazilian and Nigerian dinner guests, I may have accidentally refilled my plate one too many times before dessert was served.)

'Charge 'em for the lice, extra for the mice'

Is this the recipe for the inescapable, greasy and scrumptious choripán found at every intersection and outdoor market in Montevideo?

"Food beyond compare, food beyond belief, mix in the mincer and pretend it's beef. Kidney of horse, liver of a cat, filing up the sausages with this and that." - Les Misérables

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.

Top secret microwave

I was fortunate enough to spend a few days in Vail last week at a friend's elegantly appointed duplex, equipped not only with a mountain-view jacuzzi and passenger elevator but also with a giant, modern kitchen with a huge gas range, acres of counter space and a futuristic microwave hidden in a drawer in the kitchen island. As they say in Argentina, aprovechamos a full.




Friday night dinner, "Notisserie" chicken, seasoned and oven roasted, stuffed with garlic, thyme, rosemary and halved lemons and served with a mushroom risotto including porcinis lovingly reconstituted, by chef David Menon, with the hydrating aid of chicken broth and white wine.



For Saturday morning breakfast, I drenched and toasted up some grilled cheese in homemade schmaltz (rendered chicken fat) and served it with a medley of guacamole and spinach-blue cheese-pine nut dip. (Leftover "Notisserie" chicken also went to work in a crunchy chicken salad that we munched on at 10,000 feet.)

Chef David Steinvurzel, swineing around all weekend, skipped the après-ski hot tub on Saturday night to hunt (fruitlessly) for broccoli rabe and prepare (fruitfully) orecchiette (Italian for "little ears," a tiny disk-shaped pasta) with sweet broccolini (eats, shoots and leaves), spicy Italian sausage, shallots, Parmesan and thickly chopped garlic. (Admission: I dig broccolini, and I was kinda hoping he'd come up short on his broccoli rabe odyssey.) Speaking of Steinvurzel, he also shot all the photographs above.

Fredcation

I did a bit of traveling around the region this weekend, mostly in and around Frederick, Md., where my wife grew up and where my in-laws still live. There was some eating out, including a Christmas Eve dinner at Bangkok Thai Kitchen (1031 West Patrick St., Frederick, Md.), where we were the only customers, the TV was tuned in to a prerecorded "Larry King Live" broadcast that had Larry King wearing a safari vest and handling wild animals, the tom ka gai (chicken and coconut soup) artfully balanced sweet and spicy, and the ped krob (stir-fried boneless duck in chili and garlic sauce) was topped with delicate, flavorful, crispy basil, a flourish I'd love to replicate at home.


Sunday night, we grabbed an early dinner downtown at Brewer's Alley Restaurant & Brewery (124 North Market St., Frederick, Md.), a beloved brew pub operating out of Frederick's original City Hall, completed in 1769. If you ever find yourself on Market Street, odds are you'll be heading for the super trendy Volt, made famous when Volt's chef/owner Bryan Voltaggio appeared on "Top Chef" and (spoiler alert) finished second behind his brother, Michael. If you can't get a table, or you're frightened off by Volt's prices, try the winter stew and the oatmeal stout at Brewer's Alley.




A final Market Street tip: Pretzel & Pizza Creations (210 North Market St., Frederick, Md.), a fusion ice cream, sandwich and gourmet pretzel shop.




In a brief interruption of our Fredcation, somewhere between the Thai soup and the oatmeal stout, my wife and I hopped over the border to W. Virginia, staying at the Bavarian Inn, an alpine-style hotel in Shepherdstown along the Potomac River. The Christmas dinner menu ($45) included a wild game terrine of boar, elk and venison and a 7-ounce filet mignon (Hereford beef) served alongside a Cabernet reduction and allegedly accompanied by a "sweet potato dauphinoise," oyster mushrooms and "melted" leeks. (I only detected the mushrooms and some pickled red onions.)

As always, there was also some home cooking in the Fredcation. Sweet pan-seared, Soy Vay-ed salmon for 1 dinner. For 1 breakfast, a vegetarian version of Giada De Laurentiis's "Mini Frittatas," the role of sliced ham played by sauteed broccoli, red onions, sweet potato and red bell peppers.

Providence pork tacos

Continuing my tradition of blogging memorable meals that I can't quite remember (either because I was not invited, unable to attend, or simply gulped one too many glasses of sangria), I'm posting (above and below) photos my wife, Keryn Gedan, shot of our friend Andrew Altieri's pork tacos. They're slow cooked in a crock pot with salsa and seasoning, accessorized with fresh fixings including home-pickled jalapeño peppers and other vegetables, chopped red cabbage, onions and cilantro, shredded cheese, refried beans, yogurt, lime and fresh corn salad, fired up by Chulupa and Marie Sharp's hot sauces and served in either corn or flour tortillas.

I'm not surprised to see the elaborate bounty, even though Andrew has two young daughters; Keryn's biologist buddies know their way around the kitchen, including her thesis adviser, renown for his annual cook-what-you-study gala, the Argentine scientists who have toured every butcher shop in New England looking for the best meat for their regular asados, and Andrew's wife, Sharon, whose Saint Patrick's Day feast makes even the historic O'Rourke's Diner, in Middletown, Conn., seem like an IHOP by comparison.

Bolas del chancho

I discovered tonight that my neighborhood butcher, at Delicias Market (3702 14th St. NW, by Spring Rd.), sells "criadillas de toro," bull testicles, or "bull balls," as the sign translates it. In case you're wondering, they sell for $3.29/lb. And while we're on the topic, here's one of my all-time favorite Uruguayan expressions, for expressing frustration when you're forced to sit by the bathroom on a long bus ride: "Atrás como las bolas del chancho," ("in the back, like the balls on a pig").

North Carolina vinegar, I mean, bbq

Memorable meals I neglected to Pipónerate #2: North Carolina bbq.


I'm not sure why North Carolinians insist on spritzing vinegar on their bbq (I'd say it makes the slow-cooked, pulled pork sandwiches taste just like garden salads, but N.C. is a "swing state," and I might just run for president one day). Still, in Chapel Hill for a wedding in July, I hit up The Barbecue Joint (630 Weaver Dairy Rd.), and frankly, it was exciting just to say the word "hushpuppies." "Hushpuppies." There, I've said it again.








We also stopped by Breadmen's (324 Rosemary St.), where since 1974 they've been making people feel weird about not following UNC football. (They also serve up buckets of fried okra, barbecued chicken and meaty soups into which somehow, someway, it appears some vegetables occasionally sneak in.)

Tiny hot dog buns

I have had neither the time nor disposable income to explore the D.C. restaurant scene, not even the Latin restaurants that line 14th Street by my apartment. (A few exceptions: I've grown to accept Baja Fresh as a serviceable substitute for Chipotle; I was unmoved by La Frontera Cantina, a small Mexican restaurant with pleasant outdoor seating and homemade tortilla chips on 17th Street, by Dupont Circle; I was pleased to find the biodegradable entrees and packaging at Sweet Green, on Connecticut, only slightly overpriced, the mix-your-own greens salad selling for $6; and I enjoyed the curry peanut sauce at Bua, a Thai restaurant on P Street, between 16th and 17th.)

Lately, however, I have managed some good eating, mostly thanks to visits from my wife and in-laws. Outings included a scallops feast during a Bethesda Restaurant Week trip to Grapeseed; an Ethiopian lunch on U Street, around 10th; and a banquet at Founding Fathers, on Pennsylvania Avenue by the IMF, where we ordered, as appetizers, the cornmeal battered fried green tomatoes with herb goat cheese and homemade "green goddess dressing," the homemade potato and cheddar cheese crisps with onion dip and a pimento spread, and the grilled oysters with homemade BBQ sauce (afterward, I meekly attempted to conquer the "Farmhouse Mixed Grill," made up of pork ribs, "Barackwurst" sausage and fried chicken, served alongside watermelon and coleslaw).


All delicious, but I was ready for some home, vegetarian cooking. So the next day, we stopped by Whole Foods and then Keryn whipped up a refreshing salad, with fresh mozzarella, local heirloom tomatoes and arugula.


She also boiled up some, er, I think it's called "Casarecce" (a pasta shaped like "tiny hot dog buns"), with a medley of sauteed mushrooms and Parmesan.

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.

Slow cooking in the Jewelry District

I'm no expert on the Providence barbecue scene. I went to LJ's BBQ once, and I was less than wowed, and not just because it's in a shopping center on the Pawtucket line. (After all, Providence's best Indian restaurant, Rasoi, is next door.) Since then, I haven't even gotten around to trying Wes' Rib House, known mostly for being open until 4 a.m. on weekends, or United BBQ, even though it's a few blocks from my apartment and its delivery vehicle is a hip, little Smart Car.


As of tonight, however, I can say that I have finally hit up Rick’s Roadhouse, at the site of the old Big Fish in the Jewelry District.


It was not life-changing, surely not remarkable enough to set me off replicating the pace of red meat binging I kept up last year while living in Uruguay. But the preposterously large Chicken Grande Nachos appetizer ($9) was tasty and colorful (though the BBQ chicken was more chopped than pulled); the Steak on a Stick skewered, marinated and grilled beef appetizer ($7), served with a homemade bourbon steak sauce, was light and perfectly cooked; and the Texas Beef Brisket & BBQ Pulled Pork plate ($15), served with two sides (I recommend the Cole Slaw and the All World Baked Beans) was super tender and pleasantly sweet.

But don't take my word for any of this. The Providence Journal, my employer, has reviewed all these BBQ joints. Read about Rick's here, United here, LJ's here and Wes' here.

In Providence, R.I., a taste of the Dominican Republic

I've been meaning to post a link to a great food story my colleague, Philip Marcelo, reported in May about the Latin street food scene on Providence's West Side, a growing phenomenon that reflects the city's growing Latino population and the growing demand for cheap eats during the recession.

"Broad Street is also where many of the city’s 'chimi' trucks –– the converted trailer homes and ice-cream trucks serving cheap fried eats, like Perez's –– have made a home. Around dinnertime, anywhere from 10 to 15 of them are lined up along Broad Street, in the few blocks around the nightclubs and bars. It's especially noticeable as the weekend approaches and the weather gets warmer."

The food trucks, with august and boastful names like Con Sabor a Pueblo, La Universidad de Chimi, Johnny's Chimi, and La Casa de Chimi, all serve chimichurri, "a sandwich of seasoned beef, pork or chicken packed with fresh tomatoes and coleslaw on a toasted roll that is a fast-food staple from the Dominican Republic," Marcelo reports. "There's also frituras (morsels of salty fried meats), longaniza (sausage), pastelitos (empanadas), pinchos (kebobs), yuquitas and tostones, not to mention the standard-fare French fries and sugary fruit drinks. Here, five bucks goes a long way."

Read the full story here.

Photo by Ruben W. Perez for The Providence Journal.