Lazy Susan Roulette

I knew long before I even left for Asia that great food was in my future when our Chinese guide and translator, JX, emailed me to ask, “Do you like roast ducks?” The answer, of course, was “yes.” And for the next three weeks, I couldn’t wait to board the plane.

The highlight of the 2004 trip (for work) was the three days I spent in Shanghai with my mom, DV, and JX. JX, I learned not only had an appetite to match mine, but also the same bizarre interest in new, interesting foods. Of course, we were on his turf, so I was getting to truly experience the new and interesting, while he happily showed us the ropes.

I decided right off the bat that I didn’t care what came across my plate—I was going to try it...at least twice. Luckily I didn’t have to read a menu or worry about what type of cuisine to have, as all of our meals were either orchestrated by our hosts or planned by JX. So they led, and I followed.

The meals with our hosts were outrageous. Both meals involved roughly eight to 10 Chinese men, JX, myself and my mother. JX tried to keep up with everyone so as to give us a Cliff’s Notes version of what people were talking about, all while trying to eat. Meanwhile, food was being brought out in various stages. Bowl after bowl and platter after platter of food would be placed on an enormous lazy susan, so as too ease sharing between so many people. The dishes were enormous and plentiful; I believe fresh dishes were coming out for the duration of the meal (about three hours). Our hosts in both instances were pleased that we were eating so heartily (myself more than my mom) and even encouraged me to keep eating, even when I was clearly at capacity and ready to prostrate myself in my hotel room. More, more, more.

More of what, you ask? Herewith I include a list of every item placed on the lazy susan (as taken from my notes) at both meals:

Meal No. 1
-goose liver
-crunchy, marinated sheets of squid
-shredded tofu
-sweet and sour pork
-barbecued park
-sauteed greenleaf
-deep-fried crepe with sesame pork
-cold tofu slices
-a dish of mushy small shrimp in soy sauce
-Peking duck
-tofu in coconut broth
-pork spring rolls
-cole slaw (the vinegary kind)

Meal No. 2
-more sheets of squid
-green vegetable with squid
-fish in a sizzling hot pot
-barbecued duck
-tofu in broth
-soup of bamboo stalks and pork
-small shrimps (heads still on)
-some kind of strange yellow vegetable
-fish pieces
-dumplings with more green vegetable
-beef in lettuce
-and yet even more green vegetable
-watermelon
-chicken soup

Stay tuned for more on this trip in future posts.

—AK

Triple Cream Dream

The DC food media love to hype up new restaurants to the point of extreme oversaturation. And when that happens, our inclination is avoid the subjects of such abundance praise.

Of course, there are exceptions.

While AC scoffed at the notion of trying out the new outpost of California-based Cowgirl Creamery after weeks of incessant hype, I was intrigued and went there with a friend.

I love cheese, and because I know very little about all the varieties, I went into this shopping excursion with an extremely open mind and pretty much ready to buy anything the proprietors said I might like.

Upon walking in, I was already intrigued by a few wrapped wedges of cheese, jarred preserves and jams, and lovely varieties of crackers, olive oil, and other cheese companions placed near the front counter.

But the real action was taking place in the back, where a couple of women, dressed in their chef gear, were offering tastes of just about anything, and ringing things up like mad. At one counter, one of the cheesemongers enthusiastically offered, “would you like to try our homemade cottage cheese?!”

Normally, I would make the throw-up pantomime when the words “cottage cheese” are uttered. Thanks to a few college friends who would pile a generous scoop of it on top of canned peaches or Jell-O as part at the dining hall, my opinion of cottage cheese has always been rather low. Plus I never liked the texture and tanginess of it. But again, with an open mind, I tried it, and it was insanely creamy and only had a slight bit of tang. This stuff would KILL in a lasagna.

Interest piqued, I moved over to where several customers were hovering over massive wedges and wheels of cheese. I decided that I didn’t want something so novel that I wouldn't be able to eat it in large quantities. I enjoy the bries and the camemberts and the blues indiscriminately, so I wanted something accessible like my favorites, but also something with a different flavor or texture. I explained my needs to the cheesemonger, and she replied, “Oh, you’ll want our Mt. Tam; it’s our signature cheese, and it’s a triple cream.” Well, I am down for anything that is “signature.” To me, that means “nothing tastes quite like it because we make it right here.” I tried some, and after it instantaneously melted in my mouth (think brie without the pungent taste and way way creamier—just a clean, fresh, cheese), I picked up a wedge. Even the once-skeptical AC said it was the best cheese he'd ever tasted, and he reserves such superlatives for very special situations.

I also wanted something made with raw cow’s milk. Why? I don’t know, it just sounded like a good idea at the time, so I bought some Constant Bliss purely on the nice lady's recommendation. Constant Bliss, which is from a farm in the Pacific Northwest somewhere, is a bit firmer than the Mt. Tan, tastes a tiny bit sharp, but was also very creamy and fresh. Both cheeses paired nicely with the Mitica Fig Jam I picked up.

Check out Cowgirl Creamery:

919 F Street NW
Washington, DC
(202) 393-6880

All in the Details

We apologize for the long delay, as AC and I have been struggling to get back into the habit of regularly posting after our recent wedding and lavish honeymoon at the Greenbrier resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia.

We have many things to write about, as we have resumed our culinary adventures since then. But first, I want to share with you some special details from our time away from the real world.

Ostensibly, we chose the Greenbrier so that we might enjoy just a slice of what the landed gentry types get to soak up on a regular basis. What we got was much more than that.

Certainly, the activities (falconry, sporting clay shooting, and a sulfur soak in the spa), the outstanding meals, and the unparalleled politeness of the staff (every single staff member asked us how we were—every single one), put us square in the midst of the high life. But it was the little extras in the main dining room that took the whole experience to a level of greatness we have never experienced.

The crudité: Before placing our orders, we were brought a simple porcelain dish with some celery, cauliflower, endive, and carrot, accompanied by a ramekin of ranch dressing. Contrasted with the hickory smoked pork tenderloin, fancy steaks, seared fish, and foie gras we enjoyed night after night, it almost seems silly to serve such a bare bones appetizer. But in fact, the fresh veggies and dip were a welcome entrée into a rich two-hour dinner, and the offering conveyed the very traditions and hospitality for which we traveled four hours to enjoy.

The iced tea: There was nothing outrageous about the iced tea at the Greenbrier. It wasn’t infused with herbs, or sweetened, just garnished with a big wedge of lemon. At times, the iced tea, which we've seen referred to elsewhere as the "table wine of the south," seemed like the only soft drink on offer. Even at the daily 4 p.m. teatime, it seemed that people were enjoying just as much of the iced variety as they were the milk and sugar version. We got to the point that after lunch at Draper’s Café, the in-hotel luncheonette, we would get our refill of the tea, settle our bill, then take our teas up to our room to enjoy them while we decompressed in front of the television. And at dinner, it was a refreshing counterpoint to the pinot we gulped down each night.

The saucer and doily: Whether it was the iced tea, the freshly squeezed juices, or even ice water, it came in a tall glass on a saucer with a doily. Even water! We loved this special touch because, to us, it feels like the best water/juice/tea on the face of the planet was brought to us. No other glass of sweet, delicious nectar compares to this one right here, and because we are such special guests, we shall enjoy the best of everything at the Greenbrier. Reality check: The lovely doily/saucer combo prevented water rings on the tablecloths.

The finger bowl: With the bill after each breakfast and dinner service, we were brought a small silver bowl, lined with a thin filter emblazoned with the Greenbrier logo, and filled with warm lemon-scented water. The first time I was bestowed with the dainty thing, AC and I had NO idea what to do with it. AC suggested it was for “washing our hands,” so I did. I scooped some warm water into one hand (hard to do with such a small bowl), and rubbed my hands together as if they were under a faucet. I felt like a complete dolt doing this, but someone had taken the trouble to offer the bowl to me, so I was going to use it in whatever way seemed most prudent. At breakfast the following day, I took the liberty of asking how to properly use it. Our waitress said, “just dip your fingertips in it” in a delightful drawl. Luckily, we found out that we were not alone in our confusion. The waitress shared with us a story from the previous evening wherein a young girl thought it was consommé, and was ready to start slurping away at this seemingly superfluous "soup course".

Melba toasts: Thanks to the Greenbrier, I acquired an addiction to Melba toasts, those small, thin toasts used mainly for hors d’oeuvres. During dinner and lunch, a staffer walks around with a big breadbasket ready to take diners’ requests (soda bread and cornbread were also available). This takes place throughout dinner, so many, many pieces of bread can be had. I went for the Melbas because I figured they were a bit lighter than other breads; I wanted to save room for the ample entrees, salads, and appetizers. But the problem is this: I got like five or six of them each time. I would take the real butter (fashioned in the shape of the Greenbrier logo), smear it all over these little things, and munch away. Things only get worse when the breadmaster comes around again. I think, “Well, I’m getting the foie gras, and they only give you a couple of brioches, so I’ll need more toasts.” And then more toasts, and more. We’re talking toasted bread and pure butter, and a lot of it. And the foie gras is still being prepared! I would like to tell you all that there was a point at which I stopped eating the Melba toasts. But I can’t. The good news is I’ve been off Melbas for over a month, and I’m doing fine.

—AK

Goin' Up th' Country

We've been pretty busy as of late, and it doesn't look like we'll have any new content at least until the week of June 12th. We hope that you'll bear with us for now, and give us a chance to entertain you anew thereafter. In the interim, we haven't been able to link to all of our DCist efforts, so if you've been curious about what we've been up to on that front, then each of the following links will take you to a page that lists most of our articles thus far:

AK's Articles

AC's Articles

Rock.

—AC & AK

Chorizo Salvation at San Vicente

The D.C. area has a unique problem for those interested in uncovering quality Mexican grub. While those living in other cities typically have to contend with queso-laden Tex-Mex masquerading as "authentic Mexican," Washingtonians must suffer through a glut of Salvadoran restaurants' half-hearted renditions of Mexican food. Still, there are a few Salvadoran joints that have made great strides in helping D.C. overcome its authentic taco void. Taqueria El Charrito Caminante is probably the most famous example, as the entire D.C. board on Chowhound was overcome with praise for its goat tacos back in 2003.

Recently, Steve Siegel, who is easily the most prolific and adventurous poster on the D.C. Chowhound board, wrote a post extolling the virtues of San Vicente, a fixed-site taco shack on Columbia Pike in Arlington. Siegel proclaimed San Vicente's chorizo tacos the second best in the area after the aforementioned goat tacos from El Charrito Caminante.

With no less an eminence than Steve Siegel heralding its greatness, we knew that we must make haste to San Vicente. We had actually taken notice of San Vicente during a previous excursion down the Pike, as its distinctive burger shack architecture hearkened back to the pre-pupuseria era of Arlington. This burnt-out neon sign offers further evidence of its original incarnation.

AC wrote a fairly detailed article for DCist a couple of weeks ago describing our experience: Chorizo Salvation at San Vicente.  That post was picked up by Gawker Media's travel site, Gridskipper, whose post, in turn, was linked on Wonkette. This viral blog nonesense can be absolutely dizzying. If you happen to read either of those two blurbs, rest assured that the chorizo taco is hardly a secret menu item. In fact, the chorizo taco platter is there in plain sight on the menu. It's simply not listed as an a la carte option, but San Vicente is apparently willing to accommodate such a request.

Unlike other taco joints that have the various meats festering in vats, San Vicente makes everything to order.

The chorizo taco was everything we hoped it would be. Chorizo tacos are usually dripping with that distinctive orange grease with bits of ground sausage typically clinging to one another by a web of stringy fat. Instead, this chorizo was finely chopped and had just the right amount of grease to let you know you're still dealing with chorizo- but not so much grease that you know you'll be lamenting your decision later. They were moderately spicy, but also had a nice amount of cinammony sweetness. Behold, the chorizo tacos in all their double tortilla glory:




They were topped with freshly chopped tomatoes, onions, jalapenos, and radishes. Radishes, in particular, are our own personal authenticity indicator when it comes to tacos. It seems like such an oddball flourish, that we reason their inclusion must be the secret sign of taco greatness. We've only experienced radish deployment at a few places thus far, but each of those places occupies a coveted slot among our top taco rankings of all time. So there.

The tacos de carne were decent, but the meat was fried to the point where it became dry and crispy, while we were expecting juicy and tender. We would have enjoyed them more had we moderated our expectations accordingly. Their excellent housemade jalapeno hot sauce singlehandedly rescued these tacos for us:




The pupusa, itself, was a glory to behold. Just look at its wondrous irregular shape with the nice bit of griddle charring resulting from errant cheese escaping from the tortilla. But the important cabbage slaw curtido fell short with its mild, almost ketchupy hot sauce.




Other highlights included bottles of Sangria Senorial, the finest grape soda in the world, and a marañon agua fresca, made from cashewfruit juice. This drink is refreshing, but also rather odd, owing to its fruity, nutty, and milky taste. It seems to be a standard Salvadoran agua fresca.

San Vicente is tiny and sparsely decorated, excepting this insane tapestry depicting a festive village scene replete with pupusa-making:




Since our visit, Steve Siegel has followed up with a post noting that San Vicente's "red beans are far and away the best I've ever had. If they can make them consistently well, it would be worth going just for that." He also  differs with us on the curtido, picking up on an element that was simply not in evidence on our visit: "Interesing to note, the 'curtido' which comes with the papusas is liberally dosed with thyme (!) giving a distinct flavor to the cabbage." Clearly there may be more goodness remaining to be uncovered.

Enjoy the greatest chorizo taco we've ever had at San Vicente:

2599 Columbia Pike
Arlington, Virginia
(703) 920-1130

—AC & AK

Famous Roast Beef

On a rainy Good Friday we decided against hanging out at home and watching Comcast On Demand, instead opting to make a trek downtown to enjoy a long-held DC lunch tradition: Hodge's Sandwich Shop, a sweltering hole (even on a temperate day) lodged on a gritty corner of New York Avenue.

A few weeks ago, AC chronicled its carved meat glories for DCist: "Famous Roast Beef". The owner was lounging about out front and could instantly tell that we were exhibiting an unusual amount of interest in his establishment. He started prattling on about how Hodge's is a "historic landmark". He said that he bought Hodge's about 30 years ago, but that it would likely be swept away in the next year or two in the ongoing revitalization of "Mt. Vernon Triangle."

Despite his awareness of its historicity (it's been around since 1898 in at least two locations), the owner said that he was unlikely to re-open Hodge's in another location, as the investment in new equipment would be substantial.

The roast beef sandwich was expertly carved and piled high, requiring only a squeeze or two of horseradish sauce. The roast beef is only available medium or well-done. Oh, and the best thing about Hodge's is the carver will ask if you want the bread dipped in jus for each sandwich, and then skim each bun across the surface of the roasting pan. That's right: hooray for ham jus and turkey jus.

Though Hodge's seems to have established its reputation with its roast beef sandwich, we were even more blown away by its Friday special, a "smoked baked ham" sandwich. Thick slabs of ham were appropriately sweet, smoky, and salty. No condiments needed.

The seemingly pedestrian turkey sandwich was quite a dark horse. We got there in the late afternoon, so only part of a turkey leg and a few remnants of meat were left in the roasting pan. Nevertheless, the carver ably assembled an estimable sandwich. The meat was tender and savory, and the celery and herbs swimming in the juices in the roasting pan clearly indicated that some Thanksgiving style effort went into this bird.

The sides, sadly, were underwhelming. The mac 'n' cheese and butter beans were woefully bland. Though others have testified to passable collard greens, we think you should skip the sides and save space for at least one, possibly two of those sandwiches. And they have sweet tea to ease the digestion.

Shuffle on over to Hodge's on a lazy Friday afternoon to sample all three of these sandwiches. It's open 'till around 3:30, but you'll want to make it there no later than 1:30 since they're severly depleted after the lunch time rush. There are a few tables under an awning if you're into braving whatever passersby New York Avenue might throw at you.

Hodge's Sandwich Shop
616 New York Ave NW
Washington, DC
(202) 628-0606

—AC & AK

A Deconstructed Malted

I used to loathe malted anything. When ravaging my annual Halloween haul, I always left the packs of Whoppers malted milk balls lingering among the debris field of Mary Janes, Clark Bars, Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews, and other unloved candies at the bottom of my trick-or-treat bag.

But in my last year or two in New York, I developed a powerful taste for malteds. Incidentally, AK’s dad recently mentioned that he could tell she had once been a real New Yorker because she called a malt by its rightful “malted” designation.

It all started with an obligatory pilgrimage to the Lexington Candy Shop, an old school diner and soda fountain that made a brief cameo at the beginning of the classic 70s paranoia flick Three Days of the Condor. If you live in New York and haven’t been to the Lexington Candy Shop, you’re missing out on a classic slice of old New York. They have amazing malteds, extra sour cherry lime rickeys, and they get bonus points for continuing to offer the lost American breakfast classic that is the grape jelly omelet. And yes, we’ve had the grape jelly omelet because we’re that trashy.

A subsequent trip to the Bespeckled Trout, a cluttered shop of antique curiosities flanked by an old fashioned soda fountain, revealed the extent to which soda jerkistry could be an art form. The impassioned proprietor apparently makes his own syrups and even imports raw malt pellets from Wisconsin.

Unfortunately, we’ve not yet discovered a classic malted in the D.C. area. But we’ve managed to content ourselves with a quality substitute: the Dusty Road sundae at the Dairy Godmother, Del Ray’s much celebrated Wisconsin-style custard shop.





The Dusty Road is basically a deconstructed malted. Their creamy vanilla custard comes topped with hot fudge and malt powder, and though we skip the whipped cream and nuts, we can’t not get the maraschino cherry.

The genius of the dusty road is that it allows you to decide how to moderate your malted with each spoonful- from granular malt powder overkill to smooth blend of custard, malt, and hot fudge.

Although we had always thought that the Dusty Road was owner Liz Davis’ singular creation, she informed us that this sundae format is a standard offering in the midwest. But she assured us that our other favorite, the Door County Sour, which pairs marshmallow creme and sour cherries specially imported from Door County, Wisconsin, is a Dairy Godmother original. I replied that the Door County Sour is her great contribution to sundae culture. I think, however, that this C.I.A. trained former pastry chef might have greater aspirations than that.

Sate your frozen treat jones at the Dairy Godmother:

2310 Mount Vernon Avenue
Alexandria, VA
(703) 683-7767

—AC