Poivrot Farci

Oh, and here are the keys to the cash register-help yourself!

You clearly have no concept of customer service

Neither do you.

The establishment is question is a small restaurant, not a spoiled frequent flyer’s airport lounge.

The virtues or vitriols of patience?

I do not eat out often. I do not know what an Ipod does. Not long ago I figured out that Turin and Torino are the same cities and that it is no coincidence that addresses on “letter”streets correspond with the intersecting “number” streets. I am a socially leprous and emotionally vacant imbecile who spends his time drinking 99 Bananas banana flavored schnapps in the primate house trying to seduce macaques in heat. I do however, have enough scruples and spasms of lucidity to differentiate a business from a charity.

The only difference between humans and wild creatures (australopithecus and gigantopithecus not withstanding) is that we have the patience and rationalization to justify standing and/or waiting in line. Some may argue that we wipe our asses too, but I have seen dogs prove otherwise on carpets. There is no economic model that I know of that commiserates waiting aside from diaper-wearing Johnny Q. 6-pack who keeps his hand on a Daihatsu pick-up for 76 hours. Perhaps in one of Roald Dahl’s fantasy worlds where Jackalopes roam free on Segways and it rains reefer do-nuts and no one is bald and check-out aisles magically pop up like toadstools so that no customer every has to wait behind someone paying with a check, and if they do have to wait they get hugs and cupcakes and free liquor and tickets to a Zappa show. In my reality, first come-first served is the status quo, as in waiting to enter metro trains, waiting to eat, or hanging out at the DMV. I wait in line in the order in which I arrived as a result of tolerance and respect bestowed in me and most of the inhabitants of the planet since birth and Copernicus, save for looters or desperate refugees.

Whereas restitution for a gaffe on the restaurant’s behalf is fair, in no way should a business give away anything if their fault is being busy on a Saturday night and unable to grant the lofty wishes of being seated in premium patio real-estate. Restaurants offer services in exchange for monies. The monies pay staff salaries, supplies, booze, linens and 1-to-3 ply toilet paper; depending on the cash flow and comp’ed drinks. The mission of restaurants does not encompass pity or benevolence. That’s what the Peace Corps and complimentary olives are for.

Customer service is who I call when my computer doesn’t function properly because, uh, someone has apparently been looking at lots and lots of pornography. Charitable organizations that offer free coffee for the penitent can be found on The District Line of the Washington City Paper.

St. Francis of Assisi may exemplify the Franciscan ethos of charity, poverty, and dogs/wolves, but Chef Frank of DC and other restaurant owners need to pay rent. Surely contributors in this forum know that net profits on the dollar from small restaurants are rather lean.

Already starving, we decided to sit at the table inside... It turns out that if you don't like the table they seat you at, they put you at the end of the waiting list!

What is the statute of limitations for being at the top of a waiting list after having accepted (albeit grudgingly) been seated at another table when vying for 1 of 4 tables outside on a summer's Saturday night circa 7:30, when most diners in the same Eastern time zone are also jockeying for position?

Similarly, I go in knowing that the service will be poor (unless I can have Scott or Jerome serving me) and somehow the service always falls short of my expectations.

Why be so masochistic? There is a plenty of patio space at Lauriol Plaza.

Whilst pursuing knowledge and further experimentation with drugs and alcohol, this then sophomore Student at the prestigious State University of New York at Buffalo made a half-baked (parboiled, more appropriately) decision to microwave a whole white1 raw egg of Gallus domesticus in a novelty “I used to be schizophrenic but now we’re better” coffee mug for twelve overzealous minutes.1 (N.b.: Microwaves were contraband in the dormitories, and for good reason, as you might soon conclude.) Sloth, appetite, curiosity, and hasty failed genius conspired to prompt me to use said contraband microwave rather than ascend or descend to the university-approved electric ranges on the floors above and below to cook said egg and satiate said appetite. And it goes without saying that I had heard many an urban legend concerning the dangerous intersection of organic matter and microwaves, e.g.:

* The resourceful elderly woman who dried her unfortunate and soon to be exploded poodle in the microwave;

* the impatient French pastry chef who removed the bothersome, yet protective window and door and essentially nuked his hand, which would later require amputation;

* the hurried bride-to-be who rushed a faux tan at the salon and cooked herself.

* the world-wide accepted axiom that microwaving an egg in its shell will cause it to explode violently.

Heeding the likelihood of the latter, I cleverly punched a small hole at the bottom of the egg—the area between the two shell membranes known as the air cell. Believing that ten whole minutes were generally necessary to fully cook an egg, I allotted an extra two minutes “just to be damn sure.” After the third and final beep signaling the end of the cooking process, ever the eager beaver, I anxiously approached the microwave. With non-union iron foundry caution and a poorly insulated stein oven mitt, I delicately carried, with arms extended, the mug, egg, and scalding-hot water to an adjacent bathroom, navigating through the corner with a single and frightened2, squinted eye. After cooling the egg under running water and assuring myself that the egg “probably” wouldn’t explode, I proceeded to unpeel the shell with Hollywood bomb-squad coolness. Not surprisingly, the egg’s integrity had strengthened spectacularly during those twelve minutes it’d spent in the microwave, to the effect of a oval-shaped racquetball3. I, the culinary daredevil, sprinkled the egg with salt foraged from the bottom of a pretzel bag, greedily opened wide and . . . POUF!! Searing hot4, overcooked yolk5 shot up my sniffer and across my cheeks. The sulfuric explosion was startling. The burning sucked. The incident, totally humiliating. I cursed Jesus, Moses, chickens, nerds, eggs, then cursed some more.

Oh, the shame. The yolk, without hyperbole, was on me, literally. Brushing away the errant yolk, I noticed that a considerable amount of skin was peeling back rapidly from my nostrils, and from where I would have grown a mustache if I’d attended an Ivy League school and been Greek, or gay. Any movement of my mouth or nose caused shocks of excruciating pain to shoot throughout my visage. Only a liberal application of burn ointment and a Third Reich inspired mustache bandage provided any comfort. The prior week’s psychology lesson of Pavlov and his trusty canine made indelible sense upon learning that I could neither smile, eat, nor pronounce certain vowels, because it would painfully compromise the proper scaring of the wound.

Thereupon, I sequestered myself in my dark6 dormitory with my not so congenial Nazi-style ligature for three straight days and read not but sober textbooks, watched little more than drab Canadian programming, and played no more exciting games than low-level Tetris, all on a regimen of blue cheese dressing, sleep, and the inability to shave my awkward reddish mustache for ten awful days and nights serving as a regretful reminder.

EPILOGUE. I eventually graduated with a marginal bachelor’s degree in art history, and haven’t operated a microwave since forgetting to take a Pop-Tart™ out of the foil wrapper during the summer of 1994. I dropped out of culinary school two years later and have since battled hunger and sobriety wherever it’s found (lately in D.C.).

1. It turns out that a mere one and a half minutes is sufficient. A shorter time per egg is advised when cooking several eggs at once. (For a thorough explanation, see the “Dealing with Multiples” chapter of Definitive Microwave Cookery II, by Carol Dodson (a.k.a. America’s #1 microwave expert).)

2. Alektorophobia: the irrational fear of chickens.

3. Chickens will lay larger and stronger eggs if you adjust the lighting in such a way as to make the day seem four hours longer.

4. A chicken’s internal temperature is roughly 107̊ Fahrenheit.

5. The mother hen’s diet most likely consisted of barley or wheat, since the yolk wasn’t as deep yellow as, say, it would’ve been had it eaten lots of alfalfa. (By the way, the greatest number of yolks ever found in one chicken egg is nine.)

6. The waste produced by one chicken in its lifetime can supply enough electricity to power a single 100 watt bulb for five hours! Staggering!!!

When does a person who issues a scathing description in public of maltreatment at a restaurant have an obligation to reveal the identity of th estabishment so that others will know to beware?

People will most likely know the identity of the restaurant because of the name of the thread that it is under, with the exception of this one. No restaurant's nom de plume is under obligation to be revealed by the plaintiff, however, to make a "scathing" criticism of an incognito establishments is (though free catharsis) simply repressive, and masturbatory and offers readers little more than an anecdote. Mr. Gold's experience deserves a bitter finger-wagging "That Smell" rendition, but with so many karaoke bars in the mid-atlantic states open for lunch, how are we to know which one's sake isn't up to snuff?

A recently censored post in this thread recommended objectivity when depreciating experiences. Balderdash!

Objectivity is the antithesis of an interwebtron community in which users are able and encouraged to post their sardonic thoughts, endearment, heckles, and whatevers with respect to the food industry anonymously and therefore without consequences. Objectivity is the unbiased fluff one finds on major channels’ Evening News whose fear of losing viewers and $$ perpetuates inoffensive blandness. A strictly objective Don Trotsky forum would be limited to topics of sunshine, lollipops, rainbows and cookies; all of which would be swell or super.

Our personal epicurean experiences are perceptions unique to us -subjectivity- and taste is a personal matter of preference -be they durian or sweetbreads- while mathematics and science constitute objectivity. Nuances in flavor and service can be expected since food items differ from one to another and robots don't yet understand the comedic value of penis jokes in a kitchen setting or work for tips. Objectivity is not the pursuit in criticism thread.

Are those monkeys made of orange skins?

Anatomically correct humanoids.

of two filets of gravlax I made...

5 days seems to be a bit long for curing and might be the cause of the chew. My Swedish stepmother insists that gravlax should cure for 24 hours. It is a matter of preference, but less cured has shorter shelflife and salt/sugar proportions will affect the final product -sugar will counter the hardening effects of salt. Cure for my "gravad laks" (about 1/3 weight of wild sockeye salmon) was 150gm coarse sea salt, 250 gm sugar, 30 gm toasted coriander, 20 mg black pepper, zest of lemon/lime/orange and their juice. Placed them skin down in a non-reactive pan, covered with cure and let them sit in their brine for 36 hours. Washed, dried, sliced and wrapped around a Washington Monument template, a few inches southwest of a black forest ham White House with cornbread roof for a party coinciding with president’s day. Supreme Court chowder and Prawn cocktail Capitol not pictured.

As for storing dried peppers, run a needle and thread through the stems and hang them.

Built a smoker out of a drawer file cabinet. Took the bottom out from the top drawer, replaced it with a stainless steel rack and put a hot plate in the bottom drawer.

Brined a pork shoulder in a 4% brine for 72 hours, 24hr rest in fridge for pellicle and smoked for 3 hours with apple chips. Then roasted for 12 hours at 180F. Basted the pork thing every hour or so with its own juices, and myself with shots of my very own bloody mary infused vodka. Pleasantly salty, hints of cinnamon and clove and a whisper of smoke, much like the rest of my apartment and my clothes.

Future projects/improvements include pastrami, smoked peppers, smoked salt, hot plate with a variable temperature knob, thermometer draft chimney for cold smoking, longer extension cord (or disabling smoke detector). If I can use a single heating element for both a hot/cold smoker and reflux column still, my BBQ's and I would be unstoppable.

Namesake and Alphonse Mucha-woman etched dinner plate from an eponymous restaurant. Offered to buy it, but the waiter suggested: "monsieur, what le garçon doesn't see, le garçon doesn't know". Nice pull.

With the exception of “Butros Khaury”, herbs are fresh,

whereas spices are dried or in cologne form.

has anyone found the much-anticipated Alphonso mangoes yet?

The importation of whole Alphonso mangoes is illegal, consquences of fears of foreign bugs found within and curdled dimplomacy. Canned plup can be readily found in Indain stores.

If it has seeds, it's a fruit.

Consider okra, chilies, eggplant, pumpkins, and turban squash.

Botanically, tomatoes are fruits, however, in 1893 the United States Supreme Court ruled that tomatoes were classified at vegetables. The argument in the case of Nix vs Hedden was whether tomatoes were categorized as fruits or vegetable under the Tariff Act of March3, 1883 as the act taxed imported vegetables but not fruit. The Nix family filed the suit against New York Port Collector Edward Hedden in an effort to recover duties paid under the Act.

Both plaintiff and defense used a variety of dictionary definitions and sniglets* as evidence. The defense read evidence of peppers, cucumbers and eggplants having seeds, like tomatoes whereupon the plaintiff retorted with definition of tubers, cauliflower and beans. The court unanimously ruled that based on common usage and parlance the tomato was classified as a vegetable, regardless of it’s botanical nature.

Another case argued whether beans were classified as vegetables even though botanically they were seeds. Again, the court ruled that beans are commonly referred to as vegetables. I consulted my attorney about fruit vs vegetable and confused by the connotation/denotation he answered Charles Nelson Reilly and Terry Schiavo respectively. There exists no single wallet-sized definition of neither fruit nor vegetables due to the enormous variety of both. Furthermore, many vegetables, nuts and spices are the fruits of plants. In full compliance with the rulings of the United States Supreme Court, Mr. Rockwell would be wise to differentiate fruits and vegetable by either sweetness, location within his local grocer or which he would have for desert or desert accoutrement (experimental “artichoke sherbet and whipped windshield wiper fluid” cuisine notwithstanding) lest he soon ponder the banana/plantain matrix down at Gitmo.

*keyfruit (kee 'froot) n. any single fruit or vegetable that when removed causes the rest to tumble onto the aisle

The difference between an animal slaughtered in an industry slaughterhouse vs kosher/halal method ultimately comes down to the amount of stress endured by the creature. When an animal is killed, it’s muscle cells eventually consume all their energy (starch) during which lactic acid is accumulated. The lactic acid eventually slows spoilage by limited enzyme activity and keeps meat more or less...”juicy”.

Stress, however, lowers energy levels in muscles so that when creatures are slaughtered they have less lactic acid and thereupon their meat is more easily deteriorated or spoiled.. Such meat is called “dark meat.” Stress can most easily be defined (in affluent, western society) as a 1 legged Rabbi trying to bring his wife to orgasm during an asskicking seminar.

The more humanely (unknowingly) the creature is killed, the better the meat.

Both Halal and Kosher methods of butchery involve slaughtering the animal individually by severing the jugular, esophagus and trachea in one fell swoop. Many flakes of the PETA variety object to this method because of blabla-blah and whatever.

It is rumored that a Finnish group of rock-n-roll minstrels were told to “unplug”, as their riffs were causing a neighbor’s animals to produce “dark meat” and sour milk. While there is no definitive evidence, it is alleged that Halal herds are soothed by the mellow ballads of Yusuf Islam and that kosher steers savor Steisand lullabies as sung by Grand Funk Railroad.. Studies on the links between heifer’s chocolate milk and Chuck Brown are inconclusive.

As for poultry, Kosher/Halal laws prevent birds from being scalded before the feather are plucked, contrary to the practice in most industrial chicken factory things. Conventionally, chickens/turkeys/whathaveyou take a dip in a hot tub of sorts which loosens all of their feathers and are then plunged into a “cooling tub”, which increased the amount of water retained (as per the label). Air chilled birds have less concentrated moisture and will brown better. Don’t know how the Jews/Muslims slaughter their birds, but once dead their feathers are plucked out and often the skin is damaged. It is my understanding that the Amish who slaughter their “amish” chicken do so in their underwear. It is believed to reduce stress in the chickens.

Ultimately, halal/kosher slaughtered meat may be better ethically/tastewise regardless of your self deprecating nature or fury at Ziggy-esque Muhammad cartoons or your self righteous superiority to both.

Personally, when I get off...

So long as it isn't during Matchgame '75 reruns. Otherwise, I'm the one outiside your window, with the viking crown, periscope and a pink carnation, peddling discount France '06 Champs party panties and cardoon truffles.

Inspired by Mr. Rockwell’s colorful criticism of “the third-rate petty-swindler charlatans” at Sushi Kappo Kawasaki:

Do you, dearest contributor, present your reasonable gripes (burnt, raw, salty, spoiled, hair, band-aid) in person with the integrity of an honest, accountable being, or like many of the cretinous cowards in this community, do you veil your discontent through a clenched-teeth saccharine smile and sheepishly thank the restaurant representative for a truly wonderful meal only to later slander the establishment (maybe even years later) through binary means, because your innocuous cheeseburger was overseasoned to your taste and not the mid-plus to midwell as requested, and then describe with excruciatingly tedious minutiae every detail of every petty item consumed at every restaurant and every other thought pertaining to anything remotely edible?

Are you ignorant and your reviews a literary parallel to raw cardoons? (some extraordinarly uneducated dribbles should mention seeing polyps.)

Do you have the...courage...decency... unpussiness?... to properly address waitstaff or management so that dissatisfaction and erroneous cookery can be corrected, ensuring a decent meal for other guests? Surely those in the service industry would like to know if their product is far off the mark.

...Unless you complain that there was no caviar in the eggplant caviar. In that case, the central bus station is an suitable outlet and audience for your gaucherie.

I scored 437 in one of my last twosome scabble games.

I will gladly play for scrapple.

finally thawed, what to do?

You could make a Russian-doll-like roast which consists more or less of deboning, and...

stuffing a goose within the turkey,

put a pheasant in the goose,

a chicken in the goose,

then a duck stuffed with guinea hen,

the guinea hen being stuffed with a teal,

the teal itself being stuffed with a woodcock,

the woodcock of which was prior stuffed with a partridge,

into which a lapwing stuffed with a plover was stuffed.

It goes without saying/writing that the plover was stuffed with a bacon wrapped quail.

The quail is stuffed with a thrush,

the thrush having been stuffed with a vine leaf wrapped lark.

Stuff lark with ortolan (good luck) which has been stuffed with bec-figue.

Bec-figue should be stuffed, prior, with an olive.

Olive is stuffed a clove and a caper.

Cook the whole thing at 120F for 18-24 hours and hope for the best.

Garnish with green bean casserole and frito & Kaopectate Krumble.

Recipe as per Schott’s Food and Drink Whathaveyou.

I saw an ad for La Tasca today. It said "so authentic that you won't find anything better in Spain."

Overall, we enjoyed the place. The food was good, just not great. The sangria was tasty and they have a number of different types. I believe it was similarly priced to Jaleo. I'd probably prefer Jaleo a bit more, but my GF preferred La Tasca, as she thought she liked the Sangria better and she wasn't overly impressed with Jaleo's food to start with.

Two pitchers of La Tasca's happy-hour agua de Valencia sangria and a bottle of Jaleo's Jean Leon Penedes cleverly concealed within an authentic stove-pipe "foam dome" hat reproduction made an excursion to the National Portrait Gallery by an American presidential history enthusiast with extended fetal alcohol syndrome physically bearable. My convincing novelty "chin curtain" style beard stealthily hid the drinking tube. The late 19th century frock coat, and boots had been traded for a lighter "Jamaica, No Problem" T-shirt and jelly sandals in accordance with the oppressive urban heat which I battled with Spanish zeal while waiting in line to enter; sipping the chilled libations, lazily, hands in the waistband of my jean shorts...catcalling feminin passersby. Despite the cold sangria and wine, a false sense of analgesic warmth was needed to relieve chills from the a creepy wax sculpture of a woman at a diner table and excessive air conditioning on the 3rd floor. The frigid temperature reminded the walk-in freezer at La Tasca and the cooked up counterfeit consumer statue was an allegory to the frozen Sysco brand seafood and such I have witnessed within, and seen served. La Tasca Restaurants Inc. claims "La Tasca's traditional Spanish recipes feature a wide variety of Spanish seafood, chicken, beef and pork dishes and, whenever possible, La Tasca has imported ingredients from Spain." Imports may include inedible ceramic tiles.

My shoulders up real McCoy Lincolnness however recalled Jaleo's bona fide Spanish sardines; a pungent, oily, genuine product like the ones cooked a la plancha on 1/2 inch steel plates the night of St. Peter's procession into the clam waters of Zahara de los Atunes celebrating the start of the sardine migration. As I eyed fat, sweaty tourists and licked my salty brow, I thought of the plump, fried, salty buí±uelos de bacalao in Seville, and from my acerbic reaction to their reaction to my gesturing that their collective girth obstructed my view of the Great Emancipator portrait: ripples of rememberance echoeing the boquerones en vinagre de Jerez of Jaleo and Barcelona's Boquerilla market.

Whether the Spanish as a populace can be regarded as generally lazy is an issue of work ethic, and the greatness of Abe Lincoln a question of ideals. The integrity of Spanish ingredients however should not be compromised and La Tasca's use of third rate products in comparison to Jaleo's is a disservice to Iberian pride, consumers and more than a matter of taste.

And can someone please explain the difference between a souffle and a sabayon?

Sabayon is an emulsification in which the yolks are cooked to a frothy volume and then anything from passion fruit juice to pubic hairs are incorporated. Like a loosey goosey hollandaise/mayo.

Souflee is expanding air molecules of whipped egg whites slowly (or the molecules is busted) folded into a mixture, as articulated by the Charles law (French scientist and balloonist J.A.C. Charles): If a “Hope That Rash Goes Away” balloon is inflated, air takes up more space, and the HTRGA balloon expands or get bigger. I just ignore rashes and hope they go away.

Heat caused the gas bubbles (heh-heh) in the egg white thingy to vaporize into steam and the whathaveyou has no other choice but to expand upwards. However, whatever expands must contract. The higher the cooking temperature, the quicker the fall...like meth parties. Sweet souflee molds are coated with butter, flour and sugar -some may argue the crystalized sugar acts like sandpaper and keeps the souflee from falling so quickly. For savory, breadcrumbs or cheese does the same thing. Smaller souflees should be baked in a water bath to keep them from throwing up out of their molds.

400F/200C is the best temperature to bake at. Anything less and you get a porcini top, though that might not be bad for a porcini souflee..

Needless to say, the French shouldn’t inflate their world cup hopes as I fear Brazil will be scoring in a conga line.

Allez les Bleus... ne chiez pas dans la glue.

And the best part is, 'cause it's ground into the meat, none of your kosher friends will be the wiser!

So long as the patties don't look like Gloda Meir, or Muhammad. If I'm trying to impress my PO I stuff mine with braised veal cheeks, puréed garlic confit, demi glace, bit of anchovy, herbs d'prvnce steeped in butted and shape them like Ziggy. Good and good for you, and the spirit of Ferdinand Point, and then some.

I stuff my burgers with pizzas and Christmas yule logs. It gets a little messy but makes my R&D friends at Pizzahut blush.

I'm looking for a good source of recipes on the web. Any suggestions?

An animated television program inspires epicurean possibilities.

[...Upon conclusion of a "Meat and You" video narrated by the late Troy McClure]

Lisa: You can't expect us to swallow that tripe?

Principal Skinner: Now, courtesy of the meat counsil, please help yourself to this tripe.

May 1st, May Day was the traditional worker's holiday long before there were any such thing as communists. It was because it is the traditional worker's holiday that the Communists in the Soviet Union chose it as a national holiday. Learn a little history about worker's rights and their struggle for them.

Karl Marx co-authored the Communist manifesto in 1848 and Duck Soup in 1933.

The Bolshevik revolution was in 1917 though Plato’s republic was chiseled onto marble back in the 4th century BC and allegedly made references to private ownership of property. I have not read it. Its all Greek to me, hey-yo! (Insert laugh track).

As for May Day/International Worker’s Day, I understand it to be the celebration of the Haymarket Riot of May 4, 1886 in Chicago. In 1884 The Federation of Organized Trades and Labor Unions sought to establish an 8 hour work day to become effective May 1, 1886. A general strike and riot ensued and so did the 8 hour work day as we know it. All the events seem to take place within 60 years of each other.

Заколебал. Мне насратъ, что тъо думаешъ.

more information and less chat would be a HUGE step forward. And that applies to more than just this thread.

Johnb

In the spirit of more draconian limits on arm-chair MFK Fischer binary dribble and streamlined concentration of essential, subjective information:

1. The nozzle of the mustard dispenser at the 7-11 in Mt. Pleasant is often a little crusty.

2. On Monday July 12, 2006 circa 2:38pm EST, the soap dispenser in the 2nd floor men’s room at Lucky Bar was empty.

2a. They were out of paper towels too.

3. One of the women who sings at Perry’s on Sunday brunch pees standing up.

4. Laboratory tests confirmed that my lamb liver on the Eve lamb tasting was burnt “to a crisp”.

St. George's Akavit. Some hooch I have been tinkering with. Ketel One vodka steeped with mango, papaya, peaches, apricots, pineapple, ginger, grapefruit zest, vanilla and a light caramel of nutmeg, cinnamon, clove, cardamom and corrainder. A little sweet, a little bitter from the zest, warm, fragrant, good. Drinking it out of a dried coconut too. The spices remind me of Grenada, the namesake, and 2 months of hitch-hiking on boats through the caribbean...and around scandinavia.