Haute Cholesterol

As a general rule, we don’t like to eat straight fat. That is, unless, it’s the fat rendered from an engorged goose liver.

Washington diners (and I use that term in the most derogatory sense possible) and critics (ditto) rave about Restaurant Eve like they were the first to uncover the Dead Sea Scrolls. Specifically, people gush about the tasting menu, which takes place in a room of about eight to ten tables and offers diners the choice of a five- or nine-course meal.

We’d only previously been able to enjoy the fabulous signature cocktails and much-celebrated birthday cake, complete with pink frosting and sprinkles, as our budgets would not allow for the indulgence that is the tasting room.

But on a glorious day last June, we got lucky. A few weeks before our reservation, AC popped the ole question to yours truly, and AC’s dad, DC, who shares our tendency for eating past the state of fullness, treated us to an engagement celebration fit for kings…and people with five stomachs.

It would take me a year to remember every course (DC and I opted for nine, AC, wisely, went for five), many of which were the size of actual entrees, but the epiphany occurred when the seared foie gras on brioche toast with gooseberry jam was placed before me. Though ordering it is a gamble (it’s an extra $20 supplement to the regular menu price), it became immediately clear that I had done the right thing. The presentation was magical: A very buttery, lightly browned toasted brioche cup came in two pieces. The “cup” part was tapered at the end and held the delicate foie gras, which was a neat palm-sized portion, slightly blackened on the top from the cooking, but otherwise fragile, as if one fork tine would cause it to come completely undone.  Another piece of toasted brioche was gingerly balancing atop the fatty liver. Accompanying this elegant display was a small pool of gooseberry jam for dipping.

Each bite of this course was extremely rich; I could feel my arteries grimace with each taste. The foie gras was fatty, yes, but it was more like a salty, meaty butter with only a hint of liver flavor. Because the serving was modest, each bite had to be carefully assembled. A small piece of foie gras, a corner of brioche, and a dab of gooseberry. The combination of salty spread,  buttery crisp toast, and sweet jam resulted in a transcendent amalgam of flavors.

Though I’ve had foie gras in its various forms, nothing comes close to having it prepared expertly seared. And thus, Eve is all right in my book.

—AK

Bubbling Crude Pork Belly

Faithful readers might recall that after the Washington Auto Show, AC and I ventured to Chinatown Express for their celebrated noodles and soup dumplings. We also teased at the end of the post that we might try the pig's belly with preserved mustard green casserole and eggplant with salt fish casserole. I brought down the final ruling that we would be trying these dishes, and that would be that.

We went back the following weekend, as our curiosity got the best of us. We barely even glanced at the menu; we knew what we wanted.

“We’ll take the the fresh dumpling with leek and pork, the pork belly with greens, and the eggplant with salt fish casserole,” AC said with conviction.

“Oh!” said the server, winking at me. “All my favorites! And real Chinese.”

“Yes,” we nodded and agreed.

“People come in here and order Hunan Chicken, Chicken Fried Rice,” she fumed, eschewing the notion. “Not real Chinese food.”

We felt great having pleased the Chinese waitress, but we were still slightly nervous about trying the entrees, for which we had no frame of reference.

The dumplings ended up being among the best we’ve had: slightly doughy and packed with meat and scallions—much better than the soup dumplings we had last time.

But what form would the pork belly assume? Was it going to be like small pieces of salty bacon (which we know comes from the belly of the pig), or would it be slabs of fatty meat?

It turned out to be the latter.

A small steaming cauldron was presented before us, large pieces of meat and fat protruding from the bubbling broth, while tiny minced pieces of mustard green were virtually hidden. We enjoyed the taste of the pork, though it had an oddly soft pliability. It turns out that these slabs of pork belly, ribboned with fat, and sided with a slightly bumpy and muddy red skin, actually came from the roasted pig hanging from the hook up front. As a result, the pork had that sickly sweet taste of Chinese barbecue, the sort of taste that we like for a few bites, but soon find cloying. The pickled mustard greens were minced and boiled into an ineffectual stew. They contributed nothing whatsoever to the taste, and seemed to be present solely to add some modicum of healthful properties that would otherwise be lacking from this fatty dish. In its stead, dozens of thick garlic slices battled with the barbecued flavor of the meat.

In the second dish, the eggplant was the chief component, and the salt fish was barely there, though when it made its presence known, its salty sea essence was powerful. These small pieces of fish were extremely salty and almost crunchy, both qualities offering a perfect complement to the fleshy, mildly flavored eggplant. But we're not entirely sure that they're meant to be eaten. Perhaps like the bay leaf, they're simply meant to provide flavor. Once again, a generous helping of thinly sliced garlic was one of the principal flavor components of the dish, while one of the marquee ingredients, the salty fish, was largely sidelined.

While we are unlikely to order these dishes ever again, we're glad to have had the opportunity to try some authentic Chinese peasant food. In this case, we believe this is exactly the sort of thing that is served up after several hours of tilling the fields. In fact, for a couple of days after the meal, AC lamented the fact that he didn’t properly earn such a hearty meal and perhaps he should retroactively do some field work to make up for it.

Now that we’ve sufficiently tested our strength and constitutions with these Chinese delicacies, we can safely return to the other authentic dishes that we hold dear at Chinatown Express: fresh noodle made on the spot, leek and pork dumplings, and sautéed green leaf with garlic.

Enjoy an adventure at Chinatown Express, located at:

746 Sixth Street NW
Washington, DC
(202) 638-0425

—AK

When High Art Begets Base Impulses

In the opening scene of Neil LaBute’s play Fat Pig, the titular character is contentedly eating a large slice of cheese pizza at a luncheonette. Perhaps LaBute intended for the audience to be horrified that this supremely ample woman is unrepentantly enjoying super fattening food in public, instead of pretending to enjoy a salad topped with grilled chicken at lunch, and then later secretly grubbing on a shameful shoebox stash of Zagnut and Clark Bars.

After the play, however, we realized that this scene, rather than causing any feelings of disgust, actually inspired a powerful hankering for pizza. The actress manages to eat the whole slice of pizza as the scene unfolds, so our animal brains couldn’t help but respond with sympathetic hunger.

So, AK, myself, and our pal KCS decided to make our inaugural visit to Dupont Circle’s Sette Osteria, the cheaper eats offspring of Cafe Milano.

We started off with the Carciofi e Sedano Insalate, a salad comprised of “shaved fennel, celery hearts, and fresh artichoke with a lemon vinaigrette.” While the salad was pleasing enough, $11 is a bit aggressive for salad pricing. Still, there was almost enough for three people to enjoy without getting into a nasty fork fight. I love fennel, but am always disappointed whenever it’s deployed in a salad. It’s anise-like flavor is just barely present in its raw form. The celery made up for this flavor deficiency, as did the two small sheets of parmesan that we broke up over the salad. And anyway, if you’re going to have pizza, it’s always important to start off with a salad. You need to feel just a little bit virtuous after the appetizers to earn the excess of the pizza entrees.

We opted to share three pizzas. Unfortunately, the pizzas were initially presented to us without having been sliced. I was so famished, that my weakened brain convinced me that I could slice all of our pizzas at the table on my own. But my table companions’ good sense prevailed over my futile display of chivalry, and we hailed our waiter to make it happen for us. He actually seemed surprised at our request.

One of my all-time favorite pizza topping combos is the pairing of sausage and broccoli rabe. The bitterness of the broccoli rabe is a wonderful complement to the typically sweet and spicy crumble of Italian Sausage. Sette’s rendition of this classic, however, while appealing to the eye, is ultimately a disappointment. The broccoli rabe barely had any bitterness, tasting more like standard steamed greens. In fact, AK and KCS posited that the broccoli rabe in question might actually have been broccolini. The pork sausage was also surprisingly mild, the sprinkling of calabrese chili peppers likely intended to pick up the slack.

For our second choice, we wanted something toppings intensive, so we chose the Quattro Stagioni, which included tomato, mushrooms, artichokes, and porchetta ham. While we liked the idea in concept, I couldn’t help but feel that the cloud-like bundles of porchetta were a little too mild for my liking. Not exactly having a mastery of hams, I had assumed that porchetta would be a variation on the smoky and salty prosciutto. I guess I require that meat toppings on pizza exhibit some sort of dramatic spicing or curing to merit their presence. It must be the influence of all that pepperoni pizza that I scarfed at Shakey’s as a wee one.

I’m usually dismissive of the Quattro Formaggi pizza at other establishments. I’m not even willing to give it a chance because I always want tomato sauce and at least two toppings. But Sette’s version of this classic is far more complex than I imagined. At first, you experience the saltiness and nuttiness of the blend of grana and pecorino, and then you hit a sweet patch of the gorgonzola. And because you can’t quite determine which section of each slice features the gorgonzola, you’re constantly in a state of surprise as the flavors tilt between salty and sweet.

While Sette Osteria was somewhat underwhelming, I could see us occasionally popping in to share a Quattro Formaggi over a couple of beers. -AC

Them Bones

One Saturday not long ago, our friend KS left a crackling cell phone message on our answering machine, giddily extolling the virtues of some barbecue place out in Woodbridge. At first, we thought it was some sort of prank call because the combination of her excitement and the patchy signal on her phone made it sound like some crazy lady flipping out over “ribs” and “Dixie” and “barbecue” and “Woodbridge.” Those were basically the only words that we could make out. But several playbacks later, and we sort of figured it out. A few weeks later, KS and JS were cool enough to pick us up for an expedition to this mysterious barbecue place: Dixie Bones. And then we finally understood how a barbecue joint at a dumpy shopping center out in Woodbridge could compel someone to leave a crazed answering machine message.

Our second visit was even more revelatory. We decided, being the piglets that we are, that we would each order a “two meat” combo, which comes with two meats, two sides and a choice of bread (cornbread for us—more to come on that one). AC went for the brisket and pulled pork shoulder, as he prefers the piles of chopped barbecue meat, while I opted for the barbecued chicken and ribs, my favorites. The chicken was deliciously tender with a crispy flavorful skin. And the ribs were powerfully smoky, just a touch wet, and dusted lightly with spices, the meat needing only a modest prod to fall right off the bone.

The brisket, cut into very small pieces, was somewhat less smoky with bits of crisp and blackened ends poking out here and there. The pork was wonderfully pink and a bit fattier than most of the pulled pork we’ve had elsewhere, but the extra fat actually enhanced the flavor.

And the sides at Dixie Bones are almost as remarkable as the meat. At Dixie Bones, it’s all about the "Muddy Spuds", both fried and baked potato combined with onions and spices, the baked mash and the fried crisp a nice contrast in textures. Though they appear unsightly, the Muddy Spuds seem to be Dixie Bones’ great contribution to the traditional array of Southern sides.

We also enjoy a helping of just a good ole fashioned straight-up veggie. We got the cabbage, which though stewed in a garlicky broth had nevertheless retained a bit of its crispness. AC enjoyed the liquor from the cabbage so much that he sopped it all up with cornbread crust (for more on AC sopping up strange liquids with starchy products, please read our post on Don Lobo’s).

Mac ‘n’ cheese is a particular vice of mine, so I always order it at barbecue or Southern food joints. Unfortunately, Dixie Bones’ talents don’t lie in the realm of Mac ‘n’ cheese. It was a bit too saucy, and it was topped off last minute with a pile of shredded cheddar—not my idea of a good version of an American classic. We also ordered the collard greens, an AK/AC favorite, and these were perfectly flavored with spices, and appropriately vinegary, requiring no additional dressing with the pepper vinegar.

One of the items that really shines at Dixie Bones is the cornbread. The recipe itself is nothing out of the ordinary, but it’s the preparation—cooked in a cast-iron skillet—that elevates it to stratospheric levels. The crust is nicely charred on the outside, while the dense inside is moist and cakelike.

AC, as per usual, went a big condiment crazy with the sauces. Dixie Bones makes not one, but four different sauces for its barbecue. All four sauces are noteworthy: the first was thin and vinegary in the North Carolina style, the second was sweet, a bit thicker and spicier with flecks of herbs and spices floating around, the third was thicker still and the spiciest overall, and the fourth is a ranch-style dill dressing, which apparently, is a big hit with Alabamans. Though even the waitresses are skeptical about this last sauce, we appreciate the fact that the owners, who are originally from Alabama, feel strongly enough about this Alabaman oddity to include it in their sauce rotation even if no one else seems to understand.

Even after this meat and starch bonanza, we were determined to enjoy dessert, as most barbecue places have a capital selection of pies, and I LOVE pie (I even read a book that was all about a woman’s travels crosscountry and the pies she ate along the way). Ari went for the “fried” (actually baked) apple pie, which was underwhelming. Just a medium-sized baked pie shaped like a fried pie, and filled with mediocre, though clearly homemade, spiced apples. We’re not big fans of pie a la mode, but this pie required ice cream to cut the dryness.

On the other hand, the pecan pie was second to none. Typical recipe: filling and pecans. Though the real ta-da of this dessert is the extra layer of pecans that was added right before baking, creating a supplementary crust of toasted, on just the right side of burnt, pecans.

After this embarassing display of glut, it was definitely time to get the check. As we were waiting, we glanced over at two tables to our right, both housed by patrons digging into what might be the biggest misuse of barbecue meat we’ve ever seen. Picture this: a giant baked potato, topped with your barbecue meat of choice, loaded even more liberally with shredded cheddar, sour cream, butter, onions, and whatever else your misguided heart desires. But these people were plowing into it like it was their final meal request. One woman even opened the levee on one of the barbecue sauces and drowned the meat and potato with it, most likely rendering all meat and barbecue flavor redundant. It was a sad thing to witness.

Still, our hearts will remain loyal to Dixie Bones.

Go there:

13440 Occoquan Road
Woodbridge, Virginia 22191
(703) 492-2205

—AK

Go Take Mofongo for a Walk

I wrote the following account of my experience with mofongo several years ago when I was still living in New York. The greasy spoon described below was called Spanish American Food, and has since closed. One warning- try not to read this while eating lunch, as some of the descriptions are especially foul:

The naked lightbulbs ringing the window of my neighborhood cuchifrito beckoned me to the porcine viscera displayed in its window. The lightbulbs highlighted every stringy tendon and shiny bulge of cartilage. The pig parts festered in yellow pools of oil and animal run-off in steaming hot plates. The interior of the window had a patina of grease and insect debris that formed a smeary halo over the vats.

I grabbed a take-out menu and scanned it hoping for some exotic item to savor. I was baffled by “old hen soup,” avocado milk shakes, octopus salad, and the endless list of fried organ meats. But my eyes were drawn again and again to the word mofongo with the inviting phrase "Try it!" listed beside it in parentheses. It sat all by itself on the menu, with no modifiers and no explanation as to its constituent parts- just that simple exhortation.

I sheepishly ordered a fried plaintain and slinked away ashamed that I lacked the courage to order something less appetizing. As I peeled away the foil around the plaintain, my mind kept fixating on mofongo. I said it aloud to myself. It was a fun word to speak- an almost nonsensical word that I would surely have delighted at as a child. But it did not seem to promise a dish that was the least bit savory.

I thought about mofongo over the next few months. I looked up mofongo recipes on the internet and found that most called for green, unripened plaintains and pork cracklin', or chicharron in a garlic sauce. I imagined this as the sort of peasant food that would fortify the body through an afternoon of sweating through a guayabera, while hacking away at stalks of sugar cane.

As I walked home from work one day, I was finally seized with the desire to have mofongo for dinner. I marched purposefully up the avenue towards the cuchifrito, ignored the window caked with fly wings and antennae and queued up for my order. Most of the customers seemed to be ordering cuban sandwiches and tripe mondongo soup. The sandwich press was constantly becoming more crowded and oily as the swiss cheese melted and rivulets of oil streamed down the sides of each hero roll.

Then it was my turn. "Mofongo, please." The counter man blinked in disbelief. He recovered and then told me that it would take about ten minutes to prepare. He then dispatched one of the countermen into the back to begin the preparation. Another customer, an aged man with gray stubble and leathery skin, sighed through his gums and what remained of his teeth "Aiii, mofongo! You'll sleep for days after eating that!" I laughed quietly and felt my cheeks flush.

During the next five to seven minutes the cuchifrito was filled with the din of pounding. It sounded like metal striking a wooden cutting board repeatedly. I was horrified as I imagined pig snout, pig tails, and pig hooves being manhandled into bacon bits for my mofongo. Later I realized that this was simply the sounds of the green plaintains being rendered into a mash.

Even at this late juncture, I was still grappling with the idea that chicharron, or pork cracklings, were to be a featured part of this dish. I figured that when worked into the plaintain mash, the most disgusting properties of the chicharron would be mellowed.

But then the counterman emerged from the back of the kitchen, sweaty and flushed from his labor, he reached over for one of the vats that contained what I had considered to be the most unholy and mysterious of all the animal parts. The vat was stacked to overflowing with dark brown, almost blackened, bark-like husks of pigskin, that concealed an inch thick layer of what appeared to be bubbly compartments of fat.

Then sounds of hacking followed by intensified pounding echoed throughout the establishment. The two other men behind the counter continued assisting new customers, pressing cuban sandwiches, and blending exotic batidos amidst the clamor. Finally after fifteen minutes a take home container was produced on the counter. Then one of those "we are happy to serve you" Grecian urn coffee cups was filled with a ladle full of a red soupy sauce dotted with slicks of yellow oil. I paid my $3.00 and scurried home anxious to try mofongo before I lost my nerve.

As soon as I got home, I went straight to the kitchen and got a spoon. I cautiously peeled back the light cardboard lid covering the foil container- the odor wafted up and quickly expanded to fill the entire apartment. I gagged slightly and opened the kitchen window to help clear the air. I peered into the container and saw that the mofongo had been shaped into a mini bundt cake mass. I took the cup of oily, garlicky tomato ooze and poured it over the mash. I dipped the very tip of the spoon into the fetid pile for a cautious bite. The plaintains were bland and starchy with no hint of the sweetness that I love in ripe plaintains. The pork crackling was not crunchy at all, but rubbery and unyielding. I had hoped the taste would be a cousin of bacon, but instead it tasted of salt and decay. The garlic sauce provided the strongest flavor, but it was a brutish garlic sauce that tasted of old oil- like oil that had been drained from previous meat-stacked hot plates to be given a second or even third life in soups and sauces.

The smell must have penetrated into the deeper interiors of my apartment. My roommate came bounding down the corridor.

"Dude!” he bellowed, “What is that awful smell?"

"That . . . is the stink of mofongo," I proclaimed, feigning an amused and cavalier attitude. "It's green plaintains with pork cracklings and garlic
sauce. I think it's  either Dominican or Puerto Rican."

"Well, that sounds utterly rank,” he declared. “Is it any good though?"

"No, it's awful- the smell reminds me of Dahmer's apartment."

"That's great, dude. But if it's so awful, then why are you still eating it?"

"I have to have a few more bites before it's condemned."

"Oh, so you think that by the third or fourth bite you might understand why the Dominicans like it?"

"That’s my hope,” I replied as I sighed wearily.

I dug in for three more bites recoiling with each dreaded spoonful. My roommate just laughed at me and walked away. Finally, I closed up the takeout container and triple bagged it. I tipped back some mouthwash and scraped at my tongue with my toothbrush. Then I headed out to the city trashcan on the corner of our block.

I had to take mofongo out for a walk.

Our apartment aired out about forty minutes later.

-AC

An Extra Order of Tortillas

AC and I love to spend the day in Georgetown just eating. But it can be a bit troubling when we’re trying to decide where to have the big meal for the day. We’ll contemplate what we had for breakfast or for dinner the previous night, as if that will help our decision. We’ll discuss pros and cons. We’ll even do the “I don’t care, you decide” back-and-forth routine. Funny thing is, 100 percent of the time, it ends up being Don Lobo's Mexican Grill, an authentic Mexican diner.

We love places like Don Lobo’s. It’s a tiny, dark place, kind of shabby, with probably no more than a dozen tables. And more often than not, we’ll see a few employees kicking back with a sopapilla or plate of tacos shooting the breeze with their peers. Upon entering, the gracious host (who clearly recognizes us, but is too polite to say anything) greets us with a smile and immediately brings out the homemade chips and salsa and a couple waters to start. This kind of warm welcome inspires me to tuck the napkin in my collar, grab my knife in one hand, my fork in the other, and get ready to tie it on.

A meal at Don Lobo’s starts out with one of the tastiest salsas in town. It’s a thick tomatoey puree flecked with bits of the charred coating from the roasted peppers, giving the salsa a powerful smokiness. The chips, largely unremarkable at most places, are made on the premises and are right out of the fryer—crispy, a bit greasy, and tough enough to stand up to the piping hot salsa (the salsa really is served piping hot) and chunky guacamole.

As per usual, we have our standbys, but we always force ourselves to branch out. For the favorite, we always share an order of beef fajitas. The beef is unbelievable. The strips are marinated in some ungodly mixture (Tom Sietsema claims pineapple juice is a key component) that makes for the most tender and tasty strips. The marinade is so flavorful that AC will often take pieces of the tortilla and/or the homemade chips and scoop up the juices straight from the blackened skillet so he might savor them on their own merit. I’ve eaten hundreds of Mexican meals in my lifetime, and I have never seen this bizarre activity take place other than at Don Lobo’s with AC.

But what really makes this meal worth crossing the Key Bridge for are the homemade tortillas. It's amazing that such a seemingly unremarkable sliver of a restaurant can produce what are easily the best tortillas in the DC area. About five inches in diameter, these made-on-the-spot corn tortillas are moist, super thick, almost doughy even, and can withstand the overdose of peppers, onions, and nicely charred beef that we are accustomed to eating in one handful.

Unfortunately, each order of fajitas comes with a measly three of these wonderful creations, so, naturally, we always make sure to ask for an extra order. And if you don't order the extra tortillas at the outset and then decide you require their services later, you'll be stuck with a few sad storebought tortillas. That's right- the real handmade tortillas require about 15 minutes of prep time and can't simply be produced on demand. Trust us. We found out the hard way.

And we always get the chicken enchiladas in a red mole sauce. In my experience, enchiladas can be a gamble. There have been so many mediocre enchiladas in my life that I rarely consider it an option. But there are times when the sauce or preparation will sway me. In this case, it was the red mole sauce. We have enjoyed many a mole at various places in various states, and it’s always different. This one, in particular, ranks very high. The thick sauce has a mild flavor of roasted chilis and blankets tender chicken rolled in yet another homemade tortilla.

If there’s even one tiny cubic inch of space left in our stomachs (and frankly, even if there’s not), we’ll likely order some sopapillas, those delightful fried doughy pillows sprinkled with powder sugar and accompanied by a sauce that seems to be a mix of rum, butter, and honey. It’s hard not to love any kind of fried dough, but the sopapillas at Don Lobo’s are among the best we've had: puffed up with heat, thick at the edges, doughy, and slightly chewy, the perfect medium for absorbing the rum, butter, and honey sauce. It’s a great way to end the day because after this meal, we’re done.

Visit Don Lobo’s Mexican Grill at:

2811 M Street NW
Washington, DC  20007
(202) 333-0137

-AK

A Balkan Bounty

It’s always fascinating to discover that an ethnic group has assumed a sufficient enough density in the suburbs to support their first market and restaurant. And unbeknownst to most residents of Northern Virginia, apparently enough Bosnians have settled here to merit the presence of Plava Laguna European Food Store, a Bosnian food mart, as well as Restaurant Cosmopolitan. Sadly, Restaurant Cosmopolitan, which opened in 2004, has closed temporarily, and will reopen as a smaller scale carry-out rather than the full service restaurant and bar of its previous incarnation. We chatted with one of the proprietors, who hilariously mistook me for one of his fellow countrymen, and he said that their new carry-out, Cosmopolitan Cafe, should open in a few weeks.

Although we were unable to satisfy our craving for cevapi and pljeskavica, we were happy to poke around the two aisles at Plava Laguna, which is well stocked with plenty of adjvar (the preeminent Balkan condiment consisting of a puree of roasted red peppers, eggplant, and chilis), as well as jars of pickled vegetables, and even Macedonian jams, including one jam that offered the unlikely flavor combination of pumpkin, grape, and eggplant.

Candy fetishists should note that Plava Laguna easily has the most extensive array of Milka chocolate bars in the area, a respectable collection of Kinder chocolates, and is the only D.C. area source (that we’re aware of, at least)
offering a nearly complete product line of the Croatian chocolate maker Kras. I first became acquainted with Kras during my final six months in New York, when a Bosnian entrepreneur opened a coffee shop and gourmet chocolatier in a narrow storefront in the Fulton Street subway station.

He proclaimed Kras’ Bajadera to be one of the finest chocolates in the world, and though skeptical, I bought a box and found that he was right. Bajadera are comprised of a thin top and bottom layer of milk chocolate sandwiching a sizable middle layer of almond and hazelnut nougat. If a chocolate is capable of tasting elegant, then this is it: smooth and slightly buttery with a faint taste of the hazelnut and almond blend and a wholesome dairy finish. Thankfully, Plava Laguna has an excess of Bajadera.

We’ve enjoyed several of Kras’ Dorina chocolate bars, and though all of them are worth trying, our favorite is the milk chocolate with puffed rice. Unlike the brittle crunch of American bars like Hershey’s Krackel, Dorina’s puffed rice are full grains puffed to Kashi-like proportions. It sounds off-putting, but it’s so novel to have a chocolate bar with such a fibrous texture, that it works. And the malted taste of the puffed rice perfectly complements the milk chocolate.

The other powerhouse Kras offering is Bananko, a small, banana-shaped confection filled with lightly banana-flavored marshmallow fluff over a thin wafer of biscuit, all of which is covered in chocolate. Though we enjoyed our Bananko at room temperature, they’re apparently  even better when they’re frozen. Plava Laguna offers Bananko both individually and by the case.

Who knew that Croatia is host to one of the world’s great chocolate companies? Hopefully, other chocolate lovers will have the opportunity to discover Kras, so that it can some day enjoy a reputation as widespread as that of Milka, Kinder, Cadbury, and Hershey’s.

We were also stoked to discover that Plava Laguna stocks the Slovenian soda Cockta. Cockta is primarily bitter with a faint citrus sweetness, not entirely dissimilar to the Italian bitter soda Chinotto. It’s worth trying at least once- besides when was the last time you had the opportunity to try a Slovenian soda? And according to the Cockta website, the fact that it’s caffeine free means that Cockta “is good and safe drink for every generation, even for the infants.” So be sure to swap out that formula for some Cockta.

If you’re still intrigued by Cockta then the following passage, which offers a surprising degree of candor about Cockta’s marketing and packaging efforts, should sate your curiosity:

The mystery of a special Cockta flavour lies in the supplement of eleven different herbs. Its basic ingredient is a dog-rose berry offering its specific flavour. Its irresistible freshness is reached, however, by a drop of lemon and orange flavours.

Cockta is a beverage made of completely natural ingredients, suitable for seniors and juniors since it does not contain neither caffeine nor orthophosphoric acid (aggressive ingredient significant for cola drinks).

The outlook and prestige of a beverage is of utmost importance should we wish the young to drink it. Kolinska is completely aware of it so Cockta got a completely new look. New logo and label communicate with younger generation. The colours that are already known and accepted and a new attractive bottle preserve a part of nostalgia respected by all generations.

Check out Plava Laguna European Food Store at:
5900 N. Kings Highway
Alexandria, VA 22303

-AC

Food Media Blackout

In addition to eating a lot of food, we also read about it extensively. There are always those restaurants that get praised by just about every blogger and food critic in the area. Restaurant Eve, Komi, Corduroy. Okay, these are great places, we get it. But what we don’t get is why a place that is packed every night and serves up such fantastic Italian food is largely ignored by the local food media: Trattoria da Franco in Old Town. Others may disagree, but Trattoria is very nearly the equal of A La Lucia, another Alexandria neighborhood Italian that, though only a recent arrival, has already been assigned to double duty on both the Washingtonian's 100 Best Bargains and 100 Very Best lists of Washington area restaurants.

One of the things that surprises me about Trattoria’s virtual absence from the food-obsessed community is that its façade is so distinctive; a food critic should have been inspired to enter just on looks alone. The building is clearly an old colonial vestige, but it’s been done all up Italian villa-style and adorned with loads of ivy and other décor. The romantic outdoor seating and chalkboard specials menu gives diners a first glimpse of what is in store—even more romantic ambiance that is a slightly more elegant and European version of the 1950s neighborhood red sauce Italian. Inside a cozy pair of dining rooms feature low lighting and fabulous wall hangings that include vintage photos of Italy and Asian opera brochures. And we are always met with an extremely friendly staff (who recognized us, even predicted our appetizer after a good half-year of absentia) and live music (this time it was a piano player and a woman singing 1950s standards) including a regular Sunday opera night.

During our visit the other night, as previously mentioned, one of the waiters correctly guessed that we’d be ordering an appetizer of zucchini fritte (zucchini strips very lightly fried, served with a savory marinara sauce). This is hands-down one of our favorite Italian appetizers, and Trattoria does a fantastic job. The strips are fleshy and soft, and, frankly, just the tart essence from a squeeze or two of the lemon provided is all that they require; the marinara sauce actually takes away from the light, buttery fried coating and texture of the zucchini. However, it should be known that the marinara is outstanding in its own right.

We also tried the spinach and mushroom salad, which has become an AC and AK favorite at Italian joints, particularly Café Monti. It's so simple—raw spinach, raw mushrooms, a lemon vinaigrette with a touch of egg— but allows for a healthy starter with a surprising amount of depth, making you ready to dive into the entrees, both of which blew away our lofty expectations.

The penne amatraciana came perfectly al dente (the pasta is homemade), smothered in a sweet tomato sauce, a liberal addition of diced onion, and its smokiness the result of the wonderful pancetta (Italian bacon). This is the kind of pasta dish, that, if I could afford a weekly purchase of pancetta, I would make instead of my standard marinara. And though amatraciana sauce is usually spicy, not sweet, it was a perfect counterpoint to the salty pork.

Our other entrée was a house special: butternut squash ravioli with a pink sauce. Usually those pink sauces are deceiving. You think, “This won’t be heavy, it’s pink!” And then you’re wrong; it coagulates into a brick of fat sitting in your stomach. But this dish was refreshingly light, though I have no illusions about the amount of butterfat involved. The six large homemade ravioli were showstoppers. Each bite was a combination of al dente pasta, squash puree, and an explosion of some kind of fabulous spice—cinnamon, allspice, I have no idea. But it was key to taking this dish from great to excellent.

The Bread
Bread seems to be the main thing that Italian restaurants use to set themselves apart because all of our favorite places offer a bread that has its own genius to it. For us, bread is not just a prelude to a meal, but also a vehicle for scooping and sopping. Trattoria opts for a soft, chewy loaf with a very modest crust accompanied by an olive oil dipping sauce mixed with a bit of pesto, resulting in a cloudy lime-green mixture bursting with flavor.

Old Favorites
During previous visits, we identified a couple of standbys. One is the outstanding eggplant melanzane. See here for details. Also, I became obsessed for a while about the saturated-fat fest that is carbonara sauce (butter, cream, cheese, eggs, pancetta). It started when I saw Mario Batali make it on Martha Stewart’s cooking show (pre-prison). He did it the traditional way, whereby you crack a raw egg on the top, right before sticking your fork in. I believe he said this is basically the Italian eggs and ham and that it is frequently eaten for breakfast. So for several weeks straight I would order the linguine carbonara at Trattoria. Though the egg is incorporated in the sauce behind the scenes, this is still one of the most decadent, fattening, and exciting of Italian pasta dishes for me. Each twirl of pasta is glistening with butter and sheathed in the creamy sauce. The pancetta, for me, just adds needed salt and texture, and the carbonara (referring to the liberal sprinkling of pepper) really brings it on home, as I’m crazy about freshly cracked pepper and suffer from chronic overuse of it at home.

Please visit Trattoria da Franco at:
305 South Washington Street
Alexandria, Virginia
(703) 548-9338

—AK

Arak Star

When I first checked out the sample menu posted at 100 King in the weeks prior to its opening, I figured that I probably wouldn’t bother with a restaurant serving high priced mezze when I could get something of equal or better quality for a cheaper price at Lebanese Taverna. But when the Washington Post’s Tom Sietsema mentioned that 100 King is actually owned and operated by the family behind Lebanese Taverna, I realized that it was worth trying at least once.

But the setting is hardly welcoming, the sort of tragedy of interior design that occurs when Washingtonian restauranteurs strive for a touch of what they feel is representative of New York chic, but turns out looking instead like the captain’s lounge onboard the spaceship of some corny show like Babylon 5. You know, spare minimalist design, lots of white, frosted chair backs, and an anteroom between the two sets of double doors at the entrance that shifts its neon glow from pink to blue as the evening progresses.

We split a cocktail at the bar, a “peartini,” while we waited for our table. Sadly, it was not nearly as remarkable as its description: stoli vodka with pear nectar and rosemary syrup. In fact, the vodka was mixed in with a heavy hand, something that we might have otherwise appreciated if our goal was to get loaded on a $10 cocktail. But, we were disappointed that the vodka overpowered the pear nectar, and the rosemary syrup was not in evidence at all, as the sprig of rosemary floating on top seemed to be doing solo rosemary duty.

The main problem with 100 King’s small plates bistro is that Lebanese Taverna already performs at such a high level of execution that it’s well nigh impossible for 100 King to outperform the very restaurants whose success made its existence possible. The chef is actually French, and has incorporated a number of non-Lebanese dishes into the mix, but none of them seemed sufficiently interesting or complementary to the traditional mezze to be worth ordering. In fact, that may have been our mistake, as we only ordered the Lebanese dishes eschewing nearly all of the menu’s Western influences, so items like the duck confit may better showcase his passions.

Our goat cheese pizza featured smooth and creamy rounds of goat cheese, greek olives, tomato slices, and zaatar. Unfortunately, I’m used to pita being absolutely encrusted with zaatar, and was hardly satisfied by the coy sprinkling that the kitchen deemed sufficient.

The baba ghanouj was surprisingly thick and garlicky, and though enjoyable, had none of the smokiness that separates the great renditions of this dish from the merely pedestrian.

The Moroccan merguez sausage was wonderfully spicy, two links nestled among a delicate puree of mashed potatoes and a pool of paprika sauce, but the casings lacked any sort of snap. I demand snappy casings.

And the fattoush salad was just an absolutely bizzare interpretation of this classic, so much so that it was just about impossable to incorporate more than one of any of its several elements into a single forkload. The cucumber was clearly prepared with a melon baller, which made for a unique presentation, but repeatedly thwarted our efforts to spear them with our forks. And the crispy, herbed pita that is usually crumbled over the salad, instead appeared as dainty herbed pita breadsticks. Instead of “fattoush,” they had me thinking “Hospitaliano!”

The Turkish green zucchini cakes were lightly fried and stuffed with tons of bright green minced zucchini, although they didn’t pair very well with the yogurt sauce.

The lamb kofta was nicely charred on the outside, juicy on the inside, and with the right amount of spice.

But the true superstar of this meal turned out to be the sauteed shrimp arak. The shrimp were succulent and perfectly infused with the sweet and bitter anise of the arak, and the tartness of the lemon juice. The sauce was so amazing that we greedily sopped it up with our pita.

Nearly all of the desserts are French, and surprisingly, the apple galette trumped the cherry clafoutis. While the galette’s pastry was crisp and buttery, the ball of apple cider sorbet that crowned it had us all flipping out- and we rarely flip out over sorbet. The cherry clafoutis was an underachiever, a thin and boring baked custard whose tart cherries were unable to overcome its bland taste and wan presentation.

Despite the restaurant’s numerous shortcomings, we can still see ourselves occasionally stopping in at their bar for a beer or two along with the sauteed shrimp arak as a respite from our dockside perambulations. -AC

Pickled Peppercorn Sprigs

We love Thai food. I’m in the mood for it about 95 percent of the time. This is most likely due to my friends KL and SM, who, no matter where we are, will always support my need to have yet another Thai meal. AC, on the other hand, is only up for Thai about 73 percent of the time. There are times when, even though we’ve eaten Thai several times in the past few weeks, I will still crave it. AC, naturally, will want to switch gears to something crazy like mantu or nasi rames. But if I annoy him enough, he’ll usually buckle.

Anyway, having been Thai enthusiasts for several years, we have discovered a couple trends. For one, the best Thai on the East Coast is in DC, and I’m not just saying that. I lived in the area prior to moving to New York, and found that the Thai joints I sampled in the Big Apple, Philly, and other locations, didn’t even come close to the consistent greatness of area offerings like the small chain Sala Thai, Old Town’s Masaya, and Arlandria’s Po-Siam, to name just a few. However, AC will always remind me that Sripraphai in Queens is much lauded for its genius Thai menu, so I will concede the point that I have not tried what could be the best Thai in NYC. I will certainly seize the opportunity to try it next time I’m in the borough.

Secondly, there are some seriously tried and true items on a Thai menu that we will enjoy meal after meal. Our favorites included Pad Prik King (choice of meat in red curry paste, with kaffir lime leaves, and sautéed string beans), Drunken Noodles (broad cellophane noodles tossed with chicken, vegetables, basil, and sliced chilis in a light garlic sauce), and Yum (a very spicy salad with grilled beef, sliced chilies, crushed rice, fresh mint, cilantro, and lime). In fact, your run-of-the-mill suburban Thai joint rarely offers many options above and beyond the curries, standard noodle dishes, and satays. So while we’re more than satisfied with our Thai standbys, we’re always curious about regional specialties and more exotic menu choices. And this is where Bangkok 54 in Arlington comes in.

Bangkok 54 has received numerous accolades over the years from the local food media, and is perenially listed as one of the top restaurants in the D.C. area. After viewing the menu online, we made the conscious decision to order things that we’d never tried on a Thai menu before. In this case, we chose two entrees from among their specials—"54's Spicy Roasted Duck" and the "Crispy Catfish Curry." Feeling slightly guilty about choosing two fried entrees, we opted for their "Fresh Rolls" appetizer, cold sliced veggies wrapped in rice paper, accompanied with a rich, velvety peanut sauce.

The summer rolls were the best we’ve ever had. Each half of the roll was bursting with avocado and fried tofu, and layered with cucumber, carrots, lettuce, and vermicelli.

Both entrees were delicious, but quite possibly the weirdest things we’ve ever tried at a Thai restaurant. The duck came in small and large pieces deep fried within an inch of their lives and crispy as it gets, the bright red roasted skin practically glowing through the thin fried coating. This dish was hardly saucy at all, just chopped chilis and garlic, and, even better, generously strewn with crispy, fried basil leaves.

The catfish was tender and only lightly fried in a thin curry paste sauce. Its accompaniments, however, were otherworldy, so much so that AC remarked that it looked like it was prepared by aliens from the future. Thai eggplant is about the size of a large cherry tomato, its skin marbled with a two-tone green and milky white swirl, and when halved, its seedy interior almost appeared fig-like. We were also perplexed by the numerous little vines adorned with caper-sized berries. Despite their twigginess, these mystery items easily yielded to fork and mouth, at which point we realized they were pickled peppercorn sprigs.

Now that we have ventured into the unknown of Thai cuisine, we plan to return to Bangkok 54 to make sure our favorites hold up. Stay tuned.

—AK

Aushak Attack

My parents introduced me to Afghan food when I was barely six years old at the Bamiyan Restaurant, which once occupied a prominent corner in Old Town across from the venerable Burke & Herbert Bank. Though I wasn’t a particularly adventurous eater, I would snag a few bites of my dad’s plate of aushak in between bites of my usual kebab-e-murgh (chicken kebab).

The Bamiyan even had a sculpture of the Buddha carved in high relief against the back wall out of some sort of mock sandstone, the significance of which my little boy brain did not grasp until roughly 20 years later when the Taliban destroyed the real life statues of the Buddha in the Bamiyan province of Afghanistan.

Despite having enjoyed Afghan food at a dozen or so other establishments in New York and D.C. over the ensuing decades, I still lament the shuttering of the original Bamiyan. Of course, AK says that I may be the most nostalgic person she’s ever known, so it may not be entirely about the food. Still, I was admittedly stoked when a Chowhounder reported that a new Afghan restaurant called Bamian (different spelling) had recently opened on Leesburg Pike, the chef and owner of which was purportedly the chef at the original Bamiyan.

So my father and I trekked out there, and were surprised to find a sizeable freestanding venue in contrast to the narrow strip mall storefront I was expecting. In fact, the latest rendition of the Bamian is a fairly classy establishment. There’s an actual antechamber with a host who leads you through frosted glass doors, past a small waiting area with loungey chairs, into an expansive dining room of banquet hall proportions. A dramatic chandelier hangs from the center of the room, and even the wall sconces are mock chandeliers. It’s not really tacky or too extravagant, it’s more like a mid-tier hotel restaurant. It’s clear from the scale of the operation that they hope to do a lot of business through weddings and other site rentals. Our waiter confirmed that the chef and owner was indeed the chef at the original Bamiyan. He also added that the same family owns a restaurant on Route 1, which I believe must be the far shabbier, matter of factly titled Afghan Restaurant.

We tried the aush soup ($3.95) for starters. I was disappointed that the noodles were more like the thin and mushy noodles in a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup rather than the thick, homemade noodles that I've enjoyed in aush elsewhere. The soup was saved by the peppery mini lamb meatballs, but I thought it was otherwise unremarkable.

The doogh ($2.50), a yogurt drink with mint and salt, was surprisingly light and refreshing. At other places, it can be like drinking a thick smoothie.

Both my father and I enjoy kebabs, but feel that the true measure of an Afghan restaurant is how it negotiates its mantu and aushak. Bamian's renditions of both their mantu ($12.95), which are Afghan ravioli with minced lamb and onion, and their aushak ($12.95), Afghan ravioli stuffed with finely chopped scallions, are the finest we've ever had. And the presentation was quite elegant, as well, in contrast to some of the homier versions we've had previously. The dumplings in each dish were clearly homemade, thin and delicate, and covered in a meat sauce with lentils and yoghurt sprinkled with dried mint.

I was, however, disappointed that their nan (whole wheat instead of white, by the way), unlike the blistery blanket-sized versions served fresh out of the oven at other establishments, seemed reheated and was cut into user-friendly squares piled into a standard breadbasket. Afghan bread should be torn in between bites of food, but, then again, perhaps that sort of savage struggle is inappropriate in Bamian’s relatively fancy setting.

For dessert, we had a rather serviceable double espresso with our firni ($3.95), an Afghan custard. I've had firni at a number of other places that drown it in rosewater, so much so that you think you're eating custardy perfume. But Bamian's firni was smooth and refreshing with a sprinkling of chopped pistachios, and a faint, but pleasing essence of rosewater. Definitely among the best we've ever had.

Those who are interested in checking out Bamian should know that if they are traveling away from Alexandria on Leesburg Pike, that the turn-off to the service road entrance to Bamian is moments before the exit to Columbia Pike.

Check out Bamian at:
5634 Leesburg Pike
Falls Church, VA 22041
(703) 820-7880

-AC

Fried Green Makeover

As a rule, we steer clear of the ubiquitous grilled chicken sandwich. It bores us to death, and its existence is usually a restaurant’s best effort at appeasing the sort of people who are either utterly indifferent to eating or perpetually dieting—you know, the same folks who always get the salad topped with grilled chicken no matter where they eat. The fact that even a cholesterol-spiking chili parlor like the Hard Times Cafe offers these two options on its menu should indicate the insidious power of this stealth dining constituency. I mean, what's so great about an item that can be found on every Applebee's menu from here to Sacramento?

Chicken sandwich: chicken breast with a few feeble grill marks, wilted lettuce, under-ripe tomato, a bun approaching staleness, and maybe a dollop of mayonnaise, but only if the person ordering it is cavalier enough to forget to demand “No mayo!”

But, as always, there are exceptions.

Once in a blue moon, a very amazing version of a very staid menu item creeps up on us and changes the very foundation upon which we created our pretentious, hard-and-fast opinions on things.

And this time, it's Southside 815's Dixie Chicken Sandwich.

Obviously, the boring components of the sandwich are still there, e.g., the chicken and the bread. But that's it. Lettuce is swapped out for the peppery crunch of watercress, mayonnaise is surrendered for the creaminess and spice of a homemade BBQ ranch dressing, a fresh tomato slice is sidelined for a fried green tomato with a blackened batter coating that’s practically volcanic, and they even manage to throw in some bacon. But we recommend that you nix the bacon. After the fried green tomato and the BBQ ranch dressing, the addition of bacon would just be a vulgar display of power. Although, truth be told, if we both order the sandwich, one of us gets the bacon and we’ll throw a strip or two into the mix just to get a little crazy.

What is most curious about this sandwich is that during the months, even years, of going to Southside and sticking to our favorite Southern specialties (pot roast, chicken fried steak, etc.), we failed to even notice this gem among po-boys and pulled meat platters. It was AC who finally brought the idea to the fore, and we decided, in spite of our abject indifference to the stinky ole grilled chicken sandwich, that this was worth trying. And now it is one of our favorite sandwiches in the Commonwealth. —AK

Scent of a Cumin Seed

A few weeks ago, we seriously considered catching the last quarter of the Redskins vs. Seahawks game at an Ethiopian coffee shop. I was tipped to this worlds collide possibility by a Washington Post article that interviewed several local immigrants, who, though hailing from far-flung corners of the globe, had nevertheless found themselves captivated by American football. We’re not really sports fans, but we figured we could handle a full quarter of football, particularly if we were able to enjoy it along with a cup or two of their presumably excellent coffee, some Ethiopian pastries, and the unusual atmosphere of enthusiastic Ethiopian Redskins fans:

Now his small shop, near the Pentagon, is a haven for Ethiopian fans of the burgundy and gold. On game days, they buy traditional pastries such as deep-fried pasté and spongy teff cakes, then crowd around a television set next to a sign reading "Redskins Zone."

The Post article didn’t actually name the Ethiopian bakery, but some Google sleuthing uncovered the likely candidate: Dama Bakery & Cafe. And intriguingly enough, I happened upon an interview with Dama’s pastry chef, Almaz Dama in Tadias Online, a business and lifestyle magazine for the Ethiopian-American community. It turns out that she not only studied French cuisine and pastry making at L'Academie de Cuisine, but also served as a White House pastry chef.

We ended up ditching those plans that day, but finally made it out to Dama Bakery & Cafe over the weekend. The bakery and cafe are attached to two other Dama enterprises, a market and a restaurant. Though the market and restaurant are somewhat shabby, the cafe has an attractive Starbucks style design. That night, the cafe was unbelievably busy, so we pretty much intended to bust in, snag a few pastries, and skulk away.

Aside from a tray of baklava, the dessert case mostly featured the sort of elaborately buttercreamed cakes that one would expect from a pastry chef with Dama’s pedigree. But since we came for the Ethiopian baked goods, I was not interested in Western style cakes.

When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the Ethiopian pastries, the proprietor, the very same man interviewed in the Post article, gestured with a sweep of his hand to two baskets unceremoniously tucked on a shelf behind him. I asked him for one of each item, so that we could enjoy as broad a survey of Ethiopian baked goods as possible. Unfortunately, I was so flustered by the hive of activity around us, that I didn’t have the presence of mind to sample their coffee.

Of the three pastries, only one was sweet. The first item was a samosa stuffed with lentils and cooked in a dry spice mix. The deep-fried shell of the somosa was chewy instead of flaky like its Indian counterparts. Overall, it was tasty, though fans of Indian somosas are unlikely to be impressed.

The second pastry appeared, at first, akin to an unremarkable French roll, but its considerable heft indicated otherwise. The crunchiness of the outer layer had a quick, deep-fried quality to it, while the inner core of the pastry was baked: dense, moist, and sweet. A perfect accompaniment to a leisurely cup of coffee.

The final item, however, was truly revelatory: deep fried dough, about the size of a hand, dark brown, and crispy on the outside. Inside, the stretchy, chewy dough was interspersed with toasted cumin seeds, the same little black seeds often featured in Afghan bread. The cumin seeds lent the fried dough an exotic savor. Though it was fairly greasy, I ate it with abandon. Later, AK remarked, “You smell like cumin seeds.” She considered this observation for a moment, and then continued, “That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Dama Bakery & Cafe is located at:
1503 Columbia Pike
Arlington, VA
(703) 920-3559

-AC

Extremism in the Pursuit of Trashiness is No Vice

Some folks might be insulted if one of their friends gave them a copy of “White Trash Cooking” for their birthday. But that gift, which was presented to me upon my 23rd birthday, ranks among the most thoughtful birthday gifts that I’ve ever received. For some reason, I felt compelled to bring “White Trash Cooking” into my former workplace in New York, and conduct a cubicle to cubicle version of the old classroom show ‘n’ tell. Among the oddities that I chose to highlight in my presentation to  each of my co-workers was a beverage recipe with the straightforward title “High Calorie Pick-Me-Up” and the following instructions and anecdote:

Pour a small bag of Tom’s peanuts into a cold Pepsi. Turn it up and eat and drink at the same time.

Raenelle told me that this was one of Betty Sue’s concoctions. She said: “But it’s so trashy she won’t own up to it!”

One of the reasons I focused upon this recipe is that as appalling as it is, I was nevertheless intrigued by it. As I’ve written previously, some of my favorite food and beveraging experiences are offbeat combinations of sweet and savory. And it was the one recipe in the entire cookbook where the originator actually felt enough shame about its trashiness that she tried to deny its ownership. Similar to Raymond and Connie Marble’s quest for the title “Filthiest People Alive” in John Waters’ movie Pink Flamingos, I wanted to assume the mantle of extreme trashiness and its concomitant shame if only for the brief span of time that it takes to down a Pepsi mixed with salted peanuts.

So I was surprised when my manager, who was a fairly colorful personality in an otherwise staid corporate accounting department, stated matter of factly that she had frequently enjoyed a slight variation of the “High Calorie Pick-Me-Up” during her childhood in Oklahoma. Her version involved a Dr. Pepper instead of a Pepsi, which sounded even trashier.

Although I was slightly disappointed that my manager had usurped any pretense that I had to extreme trashiness, I resolved to try her Dr. Pepper and salted peanuts variation.

So on one otherwise unremarkable Friday night, I decided to stir things up. I set off to the corner bodega and scored a can of Dr. Pepper and a small bag of Planter’s salted peanuts. I then emptied the contents of each into a pint glass and drank it down greedily. The cherry and prune notes of the Dr. Pepper blended surprisingly well with the salt and roasted peanut flavor, although I’m still not sure what to make of the unusual textural competition between the fizz of the carbonation and the crunch of the peanuts.

Recently, I discovered that far from being some sort of marginal white trash concoction, the “High Calorie Pick-Me-Up” actually enjoys a broad southern constituency as is evidenced by this hilariously disputatious thread on eGullet. And even stranger still, a not entirely dissimilar drink is enjoyed in some parts of the Middle East. The Lebanese enjoy a drink called jallab, which is a mixture of date syrup, rosewater, and pignoli nuts. In fact, the Lebanese Taverna serves the finest rendition of this that I’ve had. One wonders if one of the impassioned posters on the eGullet thread would recognize the kinship between these two beverages. Um, perhaps not. -AC

Full Custom Gospel Chili

When you grow up in Texas, you go through chili. We ate a lot of it, and frankly, during my early years and through my adolescence, I was not discriminating. With beans? Fine. Without beans? Fine. Ground beef or steak chunks? Either/both. Hormel out of the can? That’s fine, too. If it was called chili and even remotely resembled chili, I would eat it. And lots of it.

For the most part, things have changed. I still eat a lot, and when chili is involved, I usually lose count of how much has gone from the crockpot to my belly. But what has changed is where I eat it and what precisely must go in it. Which takes me to Hard Times Cafe, a small chain of unbelievably awesome chili parlors in the DC area.

AT HTC, one can get four types of chili: Texas (a hot ‘n’ spicy standout), Terlingua Red (a mellower, smoky version of Texas), Cincinnati (with very finely ground beef and sweetened with cinnamon—my favorite), and veggie (good, but only for those friends who insist upon remaining vegetarian even when faced with all that glorious ground beef and suet).

Beyond the the broad range of chili styles, a hungry Jack can also choose from a variety of chili applications. The Chili Bubba gives you two types of chili piled over a couple of squares of cornbread, so that upon arrival, the cornbread is practically soaked with all of the wonderful chili oil. The Chili Frito Pie gives you one type of chili liberally ladeled on a bowl of Fritos. And, the Chili Mac, my own personal favorite, allows you to enjoy your chili in up to "five ways" on top of very basic spaghetti noodles (each “way” is just a different combination of fixins). The other great thing about HTC's customized chili options is that the chili only comes with beans if you specifically request them. Now I'm a big fan of beans, but when it comes to HTC, it's best to dispense with them. After all, they're only added into the slow-cooked chili just a few minutes before your order is served. And beyond that, they just get in the way.

After years of going to HTC, AC and I have perfected our experiences here by ordering what we call the “AK Special” and the “AC Special.” When one or both of these names is uttered by its respective inventor, it is completely understood what is involved.

When I sit down, I’m always ready to order, and actually doing the ordering is like reciting the Preamble the morning after going around the house saying it to myself for two weeks—totally effortless. “I’d like the Chili Mac, Cincinnati with diced tomatoes, a side of jalapenos, and a side of sour cream.”

AC prefers an equally gluttonous permutation of the Chili Bubba. "Um, I’ll have the Chili Bubba with Cincinnati and Texas, no onions, a side of jalapenos, tomatoes, and sour cream.”

Though there are other equally tempting options (the Chili Changa is your choice of chili rolled in a flour tortilla with various fixins), now that we’ve identified the perfect meal at one of our frequent haunts, we will likely never stray from
our “specials.” But if we do, you’ll hear it here first. —AK

The Sweet and Savory Sublime

When I was a little boy, my parents would occasionally bring me along to their office building after school so that they could continue being insane workaholics- and so that I could ostensibly toil away on my homework unfettered by such distractions as Sega’s Alex Kidd in Miracle World or Randee of the Redwoods' latest bid for the Presidency.

But since my father is a doctor, and doctors tend to have waiting rooms piled high with People magazines, I actually spent most of my time flipping through “Star Tracks” and reading celebrity interviews. At that time, Luther Vandross had recently lost a ton of weight, so People ran an interview with him to inspire others to follow suit. Instead of finding inspiration in his successful weight loss program, however, I was awed by the so-called “Luther Burger,” a proprietary sandwich whose legend has apparently spread widely enough that it even merits an entry on the indispensable Snopes.com.

The “Luther Burger” is every fat little boy’s (and I most certainly wore Husky pants) concept of what the freedom that comes with adulthood must entail. That is, the freedom to dispense with a boring old hamburger bun, and instead enjoy your bacon cheeseburger as Yahweh surely intended . . . between two Krispy Kreme glazed donuts. There it is, the most sublime combination of sweet and savory since the Monte Cristo, or the Elvis with bacon for that matter (the latter of which, AK and I actually shared one time at Peanut Butter & Co. in New York).

Flash forward to a couple of years ago, when I found myself musing on the “Luther Burger” and wondering if I might conjure up my own sweet and savory food atrocity to bestow upon the world.

And then it hit me: French. Toast. Steak!

There, I said it.

What could be better than bathing a steak in a traditional french toast batter consisting of a couple of eggs, some whole milk, a little nutmeg, and a tablespoon or two of honey, then cooking it up with some butter in the frying pan, and finishing it off with some powdered sugar? Would the batter adhere to the steak anywhere near as well as it does to bread?

Well, I resolved that some day I would test this theory out in the real world, but here we are nearly three years later and the French Toast Steak is still but a dream. I simply don’t have the arterial fortitude to see this vision through. So I freely offer it to the world where some enterprising huckster, perhaps even the corporate test kitchen at IHOP (yes, the same sick minds that produced the french toasted cinnamon bun), can turn my dream into a mass market reality- or, at the very least, some post-collegiate loser can turn it into a late night drunken debacle. -AC

Once Upon a Melanzane

It is my sincere belief that the eggplant is one of the most misunderstood vegetables on the planet. Naysayers will denounce its “mushiness” or call it “gross” because of its silky, fleshy texture or shoot an askance look in its direction because of its odd shape and color. I pray that you never find yourself sitting or eating with the sort of nudnik who fails to appreciate the dynamism and majesty of the eggplant.

I find that even when eating eggplant in its various incarnations, its fundamental nature prevails: the eggplant has a magnificent smokiness when roasted, and the crisp, yet pliant, skin ultimately yields to its softer core.

I’ve plowed my way through plate after plate of Szechuan deep-fried eggplant at the now-defunct Formosa Cafe, scarfed a platter of Sala Thai’s eggplant stir-fry in black bean sauce, and enjoyed eggplant sliced, grilled and oiled up on pizza at Faccia Luna, but I think the one format that truly showcases the majesty of the eggplant is the magical melanzane (eggplant parmesan, for the uninitiated).

Every place seems to do it differently, but the end result is the same: sautéed or fried eggplant sliced thinly, layered with cheese (usually mozzarella, depending on the place), and smothered in some fabulous sauce. If you know me, you also know that I am passionate about tomatoes, so when the ripe red fruit and the eggplant collaborate in this dish … well, it’s just beyond words. In fact, I rarely speak even to AC while enjoying it. AC, be silent.

Over the past several months, I’ve had the joy and pleasure of sampling and repeatedly enjoying our immediate area’s best melanzanes. And I've listed my two favorites according to the following categories:

1.    Mountain of Melanzane. This category is dedicated to those restaurants that present their melanzane in a painstakingly brick-like form—perfectly tailored into a 3-D rectangle with sauce and cheese cascading down. The largely unheralded Trattoria da Franco in Old Town rules this category. The eggplant slices are so thin and delicate, they must use a straight razor. I’ve never seen anything like it. The sauce is on the creamy side, but is clearly homemade, and the cheese is ample, but sufficiently tucked away between the layers of eggplant.

2.    Country Style. This is the kind of rustic melanzane that you would surely find out in the hinterlands of Tuscany, where some zaftig grandmother is effortlessly slinging melanzane left and right. And you can get it at Cafe Monti, in Alexandria. The presentation is sloppy, all three main components just seemingly tossed on a plate willy-nilly. But when you sit down and dig in, you'll feel like your wizened Nonna whipped up your favorite after a long day of picking olives. In this case, you get several slices of eggplant of medium thickness, cooked to perfection so that that the flesh has a bit of rigidity (but is still soft), and the skin, still on, has a nice crackle to it. Best part is the mozzarella cheese—totally charred (probably finished off in the broiler), allowing for a covering of crispy golden, but still elastic, delicious cheese.

Check out my favorite melanzanes at the following two places:

Trattoria da Franco
305 South Washington Street
Alexandria, VA 22314
(703) 548-9338

Cafe Monti
3250 Duke Street
Alexandria, VA 22314
(703) 370-3632

-AK

Ode on a Grecian Pastry

The next time you head over to grub Thai food at Rabieng, you should make a brief pitstop two doors down at Aphrodite Greek Imports. Of course, you may also want to check out Duangrat’s Asian Market, which is conveniently sandwiched between Aphrodite and Rabieng, and is incidentally also owned by the family behind the Rabieng and Duangrat’s Thai food empire. But today, we’re talking Greek and Mediterranean imports. Besides, we discovered that sometimes nothing goes down better after an onslaught of roasted Thai chilis than Greek pastries.

Aphrodite is just a sliver of strip mall storefront, but nevertheless has an impressive array of olive oils, dried fruits, nuts, and spices. They also had four or five different types of feta from Greek feta to Bulgarian feta to Egyptian feta. Some day, AK and I hope to be knowledgable enough about feta that we can easily discern the differences between Bulgarian feta and Egyptian feta. But that day, we chose to continue living in feta origin ignorance, as we were scouting for sweets more than for savories.

We picked out two unusual book-sized flats of what may be the Lebanese version of American brittle. One candy flat was comprised entirely of large flakes of coconut, sprinkled with golden raisins and pistachios, and bound together in a light sugar syrup. The second candy flat added an additional sprinkle of almond slivers to the mix. Both candies were tough and chewy, and a bit oily from the coconut, but ultimately a must for coconut fiends.

We also sampled another Lebanese import, a cookie-sized disc of roasted pistachios bound together with a candy syrup. Apparently, this item is called “Kisses”, as is evidenced by the logo featuring two green and yellow parrots using their beaks to suspend a heart emblazoned with the word “Kisses.” The pistachios had a wonderful roasted and smoky taste, which was leavened somewhat by the candy syrup.

Next, we had the proprietor wrap up a couple pieces of their basboussa and katayif pastries, as well as a thin cake-sized slice of halvah from one of their several loaves and cakes of fresh halvah.

The katayif was like a small fist of shredded wheat, sweetened and moistened with what may have been orange blossom syrup, and stuffed with chopped walnuts. I was surprised that it didn’t also have a layer of cheese, as is customary with most of the katayif that I’ve had, but this turned out to be a good thing. The cheese in katayif is typically bland and rubbery, and its presence really adds texture more than taste. And anyway, AK and I are big shredded wheat fans, so we hardly need a layer of cheese to enhance the katayif experience.

The basboussa, a small square of semolina cake with a few slivers of almond on top, appeared dry on the outside, but was surprisingly moist and saturated with orange blossom syrup. Basboussa may be the single most addictive Mediterranean pastry, as somehow the moist texture and the sweet and buttery semolina cake seem to continually beckon me back to the fridge for more.

And the halvah with its roasted pistachios fulfilled my semi-annual need for sweet sesame paste, but was not anywhere nearly as revelatory as the Macedonian halvah that AK scored at the food market in Grand Central Station a few years back.

Aphrodite appears to make many of its Greek pastries in house, as the proprietor, proud of their wares and mindful of our excessively gluttonous haul, insisted that we try one of their Greek cookies gratis before we left. It was a buttery almond cookie, similar to shortbread, with the only real sweetness coming from the powdered sugar. Next time, we’ll have to add a few of those to our tour of decadence.

Check out Aphrodite Greek Imports at:
5886 Leesburg Pike
Falls Church, VA 22041
(703) 931-5055

-AC

Shanghai Surprise

Last weekend, AK was seized with the notion that we should check out the International Auto Show at the Washington Convention Center in D.C. Having never been to an auto show before, I was struck by two things: 1) The wonderfully toxic smell of hundreds of brand new cars hits you about twenty feet before you even enter the room and 2) Folks seemed content to just idle in, on, and around the cars chatting with their pals as if they actually own the vehicles that they’re absentmindedly fouling with their touch, breath, fiddling, and leaning.

Now, of course, you’re probably wondering: What kind of grub goes down good after an auto show? If you’re insane people like we are, then the answer is obvious. Shanghai soup dumplings, fool.

Thankfully, the Washington Convention Center is about a ten minute walk from D.C.’s ever-shrinking Chinatown. Apparently, the real D.C. area Chinatown has gradually shifted camp over the years to suburban Maryland. There are still a handful of restaurants in Chinatown whose offerings are not only exceptional, but also dare to cater to palates hankering for more than just beef with broccoli. We’ve enjoyed both Eat First and Full Kee, among others, but had never been to Chinatown Express.

If you’ve ever braved the seediness of Sixth Street, then you’ve probably noticed the divey restaurant with the showcase window featuring an absolutely enthralling noodle making performance. I observed the noodle chef practice his craft for about twenty minutes, and my puny brain still can’t quite fathom how he’s able to coax a dozen noodles into formation just by slinging a thick rope of dough around. The noodle chef is flanked by a roast meat holocaust of hanging ducks, chickens, and a giant roast pig, the latter of which was suffering the slow, but steady attrition of incoming orders.

Although, Chinatown Express offers an extensive menu of largely typical Chinese restaurant fare, they helpfully list their specialties on a separate page posted near each table.

We started off with the Steamed Pork Bun ($4.50), which is actually a steamer of eight Shanghai soup dumplings, pinched doughy purses hiding a ball of leek with pork and a sip of soup broth. The dumpling skin was as thick, fresh, and doughy as it appeared, and the pork inside was tasty. However, the soup broth was, at least in a majority of the dumplings, barely in evidence. We had previously tried soup dumplings in New York at Joe’s Shanghai, and we literally had to eat each dumpling in one bite to avoid broth run-off. But, this was hardly a problem at Chinatown Express. They were delicious nonetheless, and my favorite sweater probably benefited from not having to contend with hot broth flying all over the place. Incidentally, New York magazine offers the following explanation as to how soup dumpling purveyors get the soup inside the dumpling:

They thicken it with gelatin and put it in solid. Then, when the dumplings are steamed, voila: soup!

We also ordered the “Fresh Noodle Made on the Spot” fried with slices of beef ($4.95). Unfortunately, the beef was not all that appealing, and we realized that we should have simply ordered the noodles with vegetables. I imagine that some diners might pair a sampler plate of roast meats with the noodles instead. Still, it was easy enough to put the slices of beef aside and concentrate on the thick, doughy noodles mixed with bean sprouts and slivers of carrot. The best part about these house-made noodles is the inconsistency of noodle thickness- some noodles were relatively slender and dainty, while others were wonderfully malformed thick and bumpy at one end and thin at the other.

Of course, we had to have some vegetables, and the “Sauteed Green Leaf with Garlic” ($9.95) sated our jones for greens. Rather than deploying thin slivers of garlic, Chinatown Express has simply mashed whole cloves of garlic into halves and thirds and interspersed them amongst the greens. Be sure to pour the garlicky liquor from the greens over the rice.

And special mention must be made of the two house-made tableside condiments. One jar contains a fragrant oil and vinegary mince of ginger and scallions, which I practically ate in straight doses, while the other offered pickled slivers of garlic, which should be used sparingly.

Next time, I hope to try the “Pig’s Belly with Preserved Mustard Green Casserole” ($10.95), but I’m probably too timid to ever have a go at the “Eggplant with Salt Fish Casserole” ($11.95). -AC

Special Proprietary Cocktails

AC and I don’t drink all that much. A glass of wine here. A snifter of brandy there. And we rarely, if ever, go out expressly to drink—except for what we call “special proprietary cocktails.”

One of our favorite activities of late is to scope out restaurants (to be fair, most of them are of the high-end variety) that offer a very special drink list. Usually this involves a restaurant’s take on an old favorite and/or something entirely new and inspired or something entirely new and bizarre. Currently, Restaurant Eve reigns supreme among the handful of restaurants where you can throw down ten bucks for a cocktail and not feel like a tool. Sommelier Todd Thrasher has designed roughly half a dozen proprietary cocktails, and while nearly every one of them is worth trying, we are particularly fond of the following three: the seasonal cocktail, the pickled martini, and the mojito.

The seasonal cocktail is always good. It usually involves rum, mashed seasonal fruit (we’ve had ones with pomegranate seeds, strawberries, and mango), and a ton of mint. It’s magical. And it’s $9.50, but you'll feel like you're really getting your money's worth just watching the bartender hunched over your cocktail furiously mashing and muddling away. But it’s totally worth it beyond just making the bartender sweat for five minutes. For one, these are not beverages that one simply drinks. You get one, and you savor it. A nibble of mint, a slurp of mango, a gulp of liquid. Repeat.

The mojito, of which we are particularly fond, isn’t your standard-issue mojito. Sure, all the constituent parts are there (rum, mint, lime), but for added fun, and a boatload of flavor, the bartenders throw in a house-made mint syrup. It’s that attention to detail that takes a delicious mojito into the realm of the sublime.

The pickled martini is, frankly, from a different place entirely. Perhaps Jupiter or something. Seriously, whoever conceived of this was an evil genius. This drink takes your basic martini recipe and then shocks it with pickle juice, a pickled gherkin for a garnish, and “pickled air,” an emulsion resembling a topping of pickle-flavored bubbles. It’s fantastic. But there are a few key elements to enjoying this drink. For one, you MUST be a pickle fanatic, which I am. If you only so much as dilly-dally with the pickles every so often, this drink will be a nightmare for you. Secondly, this drink takes time. You don’t stop in for the pickled martini. You order it, slip your shoes off, find a comfortable chair, and get started. Every sip of this drink is a baseball bat to the head of briny tartness. Best thing is to share it with another pickle freak.

So, with that, cheers.

—AK