Chinatown, overachieving

In another installment in an occasional series of Pipón posts about the national Chinatown exceeding its high sodium, low quality expectations, I recommend the Mee Goreng noodles ($14), a "famous Malay–Indo style noodle dish" of stir–fried egg noodles, chicken, scallions and bean sprouts in a curry and peanut sauce, at Asian Spice (717 H. St. NW). Be prepared to fend off (or surrender to) a hard sell for the "Filipino Caramelized Fried Banana" ($6), fried fresh bananas coated in cinnamon and brown sugar and topped with honey and sesame seeds, but keep in mind that the marauding manager will generally be satisfied if you agree to a bowl of the creamy, crunchy, "tropical coconut" ice cream.

Nexus of the universe

I realized that the Times's potato leek gratin and The Argula Files's tortilla española had virtually the same ingredients, and that revelation gave me a taste of the serendipitous thrill Kramer experiences when he ventures to Lower Manhattan. "Hey, I'm on First and First. How can the same street intersect with itself? I must be at the nexus of the universe!"

Above, roasted eggplant and red pepper with melted Gruyere and locally pickled vegetables from Delicias Market (3702 14th St. NW, by Spring Rd.) on a toasted baguette. Below, Kramer.

Fruiting body

I blame smart phones. I had convinced myself to order "The Wellington" (deep roasted mushrooms, caramelized onions, garlic, black truffles, with mustard seed, blue cheese and "mojo sauce" on a fresh toasted buttery brioche bun) at bgr (1514 Connecticut Ave. NW) in Dupont, grumpy that Rogue States (1300 Connecticut Ave.) still had not reopened and so eager to pamper myself a bit with some fancy forest treats. (Originally, I was going to settle for the standard burger, and double it for $2.) Then the iPhone at the other side of the table had to announce that the uber-haute truffle is actually just "the fruiting body of an underground mushroom," and after that, the whole burger kinda tasted like mud.

¡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.

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.

Public noodling

You're supposed to accept as an article of faith that the 7th Street Chipotle has got the only decent grub in Chinatown. I thought so for a while, after sampling some forgettable tofu at the mediocre (but descriptively named) Kanlaya Thai Cuisine (740 6th St. NW), and spending a few late-nights slurping the hot and sour soup at New Big Wong (610 H St. NW). But thanks to that voyeuristic, siren song, display window exhibition kitchen at Chinatown Express (746 6th St. NW), I can now recommend skipping Fuddruckers the next time you're hungry after a Gallery Place double feature. The fresh, "made on the spot" noodles, fried or in irresistibly gulpable broth, sell for just $6.50.

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.

Walter's style

I thought I was all high brow/low browing around when I had lunch at the soup's-up-when-the-microwave-beeps Dos Gringos (3116 Mount Pleasant St. NW) in Mount Pleasant, followed by dinner at Poste (555 8th St. NW) downtown by Chinatown.


I topped that tonight, however, when I got hungry while blending a pistachio pesto (recipe from The Splendid Table), and ended up eating for dinner a Hebrew National hot dog, boiled and then sauteed, all hometown Walter's style.

Comfort food, fryalated

From the start, I had a bad attitude about Teak Wood (1323 14th St NW), in Logan Circle. I mean, given the delightful wordplaying at Thai Tanic, just across the street (and in Columbia Heights), and Thaiphoon, in Dupont Circle, I just couldn't imagine that Teak Wood would be all that creative in its menu either. It isn't. But neither is turkey and Brussels sprouts at Thanksgiving dinner.

I learned that lesson the other day when I helped two Canadian friends whip up and serve up poutine (French fries swaddled by brown gravy and topped by cheese curds) and I was chided for calling the dish, a classic Canadian comfort food, a "Montreal delicacy." A year ago, Calvin Trillin, in The New Yorker, wrote about the poutine phenomenon, noting that the dish, invented five decades ago in rural Quebec, may be "gross," disconcertingly squeaky and the go-to snack for late-night bar-hoppers, but it's also irresistible and rightly becoming a "national dish," arguably a bigger cultural force than even canoeing or moose spotting, and potentially an even more iconic Canadian foodstuff than maple syrup and Tim Hortons. (It's already so popular in Quebec that shopkeepers sell bags of cheese curds beside the cash register, and there's a restaurant in Toronto, Smoke's Poutinerie, that concocts 20 varieties of the dish.)

All this is to say that Teak Wood seems to offer a lot of familiar Thai curries, and that's good enough for me.

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.)