Joshua Grinnell

Zaatar on popcorn with lots of butter. I'm not sure what's in zaatar, but you can kind of taste oregano, cumin, sesame, fennel... it's a good mix. You can get a shaker of it at the Mediterranean Bakery in Alexandria that will last you the rest of your life.

It was a canny decision on Franzia's part to put it in boxes instead of bottles, since you can't even park it behind the radiator or fridge and make vinegar without starting a fire. I'd say hold on to it until summer, soak some strawberries in it, add some sugar, and turn it into sorbet. Or take the sack out of the box, drop it in a pillowcase, and use it to bludgeon whoever gave it to you.

There's always Salt Potatoes for when you have NO spices and need something to go with steak. Quarter some red potatoes, fill a pot with water to cover your taters, then add enough salt to make the water milky/opaque. This can be anywhere from a cup's worth to half a cup, depending on your medical history. Boil the potatoes for 25 minutes or until a knife goes in and out without much trouble, drain the water, and throw in a quarter stick of butter to the pot until the potatoes are coated. Serve with expensive steak. They actually sell ready-made bags of this at Wegmans, for those who are utterly stymied when adding salt to water.

This is offensive, poorly spelled, and possibly libelous and has been posted in one of the filthy backwaters of the internet, but it does claim to outline Rachael Ray's plans for humanity: Something Awful.com

Our little orange bastard so far has eaten: Mandarin oranges Cauliflower Toenail clippings (that was memorable) Lard that we were thawing for a pie crust Baked salmon with lemon butter He seems to prefer oatmeal stout, but I'd like to switch him to something cheaper. I understand that some cats are more discriminating. We are planning on moving him to a homemade/raw food diet. It's not because we love him, or because we think it would be better for him, but because he produces twice his weight in crap every two days and fewer processed cat food products apparently might help that. Our google searches turned up using ground turkey and brewer's yeast to make little meatballs, which will commence once the turkey market crashes in three days. Anyone know where one might acquire brewer's yeast cheaply? I love cats, but I could never finish a whole one.

I see from today's lettres that Mr. Rockwell was at Cassatt's recently. I fervently hope that he wasn't there Saturday night, as every time the band stopped playing would be the exact moment that I would say something shameful that would suddenly carry across the restaurant. The meat pies were indeed very good and there are easily 7 or 8 to choose from. My beef and cheese was great until I hit the occasional bits of gristle. The steak and mushroom pie didn't have that problem and was perfect for a cold night. The lamb kabob and the grilled tilapia were fine, but you can get those elsewhere AND those unfortunate souls who ordered them were forced to borrow my mango chutney. I protected it like an enraged giant weta. We came because of their inclusion in the Neighborhood Eats on WETA (which is different from a weta; look it up) and because New Zealand has always been the escape plan if we had to flee the country, so it would behoove us to see if we like the food. Has anyone else been? Is the food small "a" authentic?

I'll second the Brooklyn Bagels place on Wilson by the Courthouse metro and throw in Weismullers by Georgetown University for their breakfast sandwiches. You can smell them cooking the onions and sausage for a block in the morning and they're not worth resisting.

Not only does fiber do... as advertised above... it will also go a ways towards making you feel full, which is one half of the foodie equation. The other half, of course, is "this would be better with cheese." So, work out meals that include the things you crave, but will fill you up with smaller portions as suggested by Heather. I do steel-cut oatmeal with parmesan or BLT salads with lots of leafy greens. Other than that, start out exercise slowly and you'll be amazed how soon you can ramp it up. Start by going for a good walk at lunch, buy a bike, get one of those huge punching bags, sign up for a 5K, etc. I find an excellent weight management tool is riding my bike 15 - 20 miles round trip out to a special lunch (Dairy Godmother, Vienna Inn, Elevation Burger) and relishing that whatever fantastic goodness I just put in, I burned it and then some.

Then there is the analogy section on the RAT verbal: EGGS:CONDOMS a: PASTA:ATKINS DIET b. GEODUCK:NATTO c. BARTLES:JAMES d. CONGRESS:THIEVERY

Either welsh rabbit/rarebit, with some beer mixed into the melted cheese, mom's spaetzle, or breakfast pasta. There should be a better name for it, but the last one is a sauce-grabbing shaped pasta cooked to almost done, then tossed in a frying pan with scrambled egg mix (two eggs, as much grated cheese as possible, and dashes of half and half, pepper, and vietnamese hot sauce) and stirred until the mix cooks into the crenelations on the pasta. It's my comfort food, plus a fond reminder of those times when all I had in the apartment were eggs, pasta, and condiments.

Thank you. Insofar as DC has a regional folk cuisine (soul food? the half smoke? jumbo slice? astronaut ice cream?), residents of a particular city/region shouldn't have to answer for their culinary abortions. I don't agree with putting cheez whiz on a cheesesteak, but I'll defend to the death Philly's right to do so.

I hadn't read this post prior to needing something to hold me over for the early Sergio Mendes show last week; it was one of the first really cold nights we've had, but with little styrofoam containers of rice 'n' gravy and mac 'n' cheese milady and I could have stood on the street for hours. Her one complaint is that "southern" cornbread shouldn't be as sweet and cakelike as what we had at Os and As. When she makes it, it's more savory (it's made with bacon grease as an ingredient) and she always throws a fit whenever she's given "yankee" cornbread. Me, I liked it just fine. She doesn't read these, generally.

I never thought I'd have a chance to bring this up ("dear penthouse, I never thought it would happen to me") but I will only go to a strip club if they have cheese fries. You can get out of every awkward conversation at a strip club as long as you have cheese fries. "You want a lap dance, sweetie?" "No thank you, I have cheese fries." "You want to go to the champagne room?" "Not unless they have cheese fries there, too." "Do NOT f#*&ing TOUCH the girls!" "Does she have nacho cheese fingerprints on her? No? Then bring me more cheese fries and play some f%$#ing Creedence for once!" "I'm just working my way through law school." "Yeah, I'm just working my way through cheese fries." Etc., etc., etc.... Crystal City Restaurant has passable cheese fries. I can't seem to recall any at Good Guys or Camelot.

It's a gorgeous Columbus Day, so I figured it was high time I biked out to Elevation Burger. I started with the Cheeseburger, my measure of any good restaurant, and was not let down at all. Rarely has it ever been the cheese that makes the cheeseburger; normally, the cheese is there to contribute to that globby texture that gets overwhelmed by beef taste. I could taste how good the cheddar was- it tasted like it was older than my bike. I forgot to order fries, so after finishing the burger I got back in line. To continue with the general lean of the thread, these fries are very, very good. Each time I dipped into a fresh little white cup of ketchup, I experienced that same slight sadness that came with marring a new cylinder of play-doh. It was just too perfect to destroy, but in the end it had to happen. Very, very good fries. Fries and a "boutique" root beer from the fridge were done, but... I was still hungry. Plus, well, I had to bike back across a WHOLE COUNTY* and I needed fuel. I got the "half the guilt", which is one meat patty with one veggie patty. You have a choice in veggie patties, too. You either have the one that tastes like meat or the one that tastes like veggie. How provocative for the "Vegans vs. Omnivores" thread. I got the "tastes like meat" one, expecting it to be subverted by the meat on top. Not only did no one raise an eyebrow at me going through the line a third time, the veggie held up nicely. It tasted a bit like hamburger polenta and had a nice crusty shell. My only criticism is that I ordered bleu cheese dressing for the second burger and it didn't have much of a bleu cheese flavor to it. I'll grant that it's dressing and not the actual cheese, but there's not much of a point if you're thinking "what this burger needs to taste like the ones I make is bleu cheese." Is this a better burger than Five Guys? Hoy... well, it's not quite better than the original Five Guys I used to get in high school, but it is probably better for you. Is it better than post-franchise Five Guys, Fuddruckers, Red Robin, et al? Think of it this way- you can have a favorite kind of dog, but that doesn't mean that you don't love every dog you meet. Some people are cat people. I'm a hamburger person. Elevation is going to be my favorite for a while, but that doesn't mean I can stop hussying around at Wendy's. *the smallest country in the continental United States. Seriously.

From experience, the St. Regis Library Lounge on K Street is good for faux philosophical book club musings. The faux is because the books appear to be cut in half and glued to the wall. The scotch and calamari rings are good, though. For a more genteel affair and urbane discussion (alternate history SF, natch), the Silo Room at Dr. Dremo's can comfortably sit a dozen or so in relative quiet as long as you get there early enough to stake it out. Also, as long as the place still exists.

I couldn't call myself an omnivore if I hadn't tried everything, so I can give one reason for eating tofu dogs. In certain respects (though by no means all) a well-prepared tofu dog can taste better than your average packet of franks that your impoverished Uncle Lou brought to the family picnic. In that case, it's not that you're eating them because they taste "just like" a hot dog and more that you thank god that they don't taste much like a hot dog. Granted, they need a little more mustard and a pickle spear in with the bun to be really good, but that's true for hot dogs in general. Just to throw a log into the flame war, contrast the vegan lifestyle choice (no one is born a vegan, short of debillitating allergies... to meat?) with the choice to lead the life of a gourmand bon vivant. "I will not eat this, it has meat." "I will not eat this, it was made with French's yellow mustard." One is grounded in a moral choice, the other in an aesthetic choice. If a person is a chef, I assume that they're used to making considerations based on the potential aesthetics of your customers. If you accept that moral beliefs trump artistic ones, then any chef should be prepared to work with a vegan palette. If you believe that art supercedes morality... well, I agree with you, but good luck convincing a vegan that the steak you made is too beautiful to pass up.

Taberna del Alabardero has a small private dining room that fit my small office christmas party two years ago; I believe it's used for the King of Spain when he's in town; at least there's a portrait of him over the table.

My mom grew up in upstate New York, in a place called Pittsford that was apparently settled primarily by people from Schwabia in Germany. Schwabes are stereotyped as being both stingy and practical to a fault; they're like German Scottish people. This makes my care package story strange, yet oddly fitting. There was a Schwabisch baker in Pittsford that made Laugenbrotzeln (I'm skipping so many damn umlauts typing this entry) which are thick soft pretzels that have been given a lye bath before they're boiled. I've heard that Auntie Anne's tries to replicate this with a baking soda bath and so have I, but it's really not the same. I have many childhood memories of pulling these lye-zapped pretzels out of the toaster oven and then sitting down with a tub of salted butter for dipping... oh, it's so very good. Some people eat them with mustard. Bah. However, this baker had a good racket going as he was the only one in hundreds of miles who knew how to make these pretzels. Maybe he was just the only one with enough lye lying around. Either way, he was making a killing on these because they're addictive. He didn't tell his kids the recipe or write it down anywhere, which became problematic when he died seven years ago. There was a pretzel drought that withered the pretzel hopes and dreams of not just Pittsford, but the large "Let's Get the Hell Out of Pittsford" diaspora that had been receiving care packages of these pretzels at a pretty steady clip. Fast foward to myself, the scion of a pretzel addict and an initiate into pretzel devotion as well. I hit every german/austrian restaurant for miles, then the cafes/conditoreis, and finally walked into the Heidelberg Bakery in Arlington. I smelled something. Something I had not smelt since... There, on the bottom shelf of one of the display cases, was a stack of three perfect lye-blasted Schwabian pretzels. I was briefly struck blind. I may have picked up a marzipan frog and kissed it in joy. When I came to, I ordered one. They even let me have a little tub of butter, perhaps they saw something in my eyes. It was truly the real deal. I bought the stack and asked if they could make more. The nice lady said that they make a couple dozen in the morning, but there are hardly ever any left by noon. They do take special orders, however. Periodically, I get a phone call from my mom to tell me that she ordered 6 dozen pretzels from Heidelberg Bakery and could I be a dear and pick them up? She packages them up and mails them to relatives still in Pittsford, where I had assumed that they were hoarded like country hams for special occasions. It was only recently that I discovered that these care packages were being sold off to local pretzel fiends at oktoberfests and euchre games at an extravagant markup. You can argue that this is unfair to Heidelberg Bakery, and I agree. You can argue that this goes against the spirit of the care package, but I disagree. Who among us didn't sell off some choice bits of home at camp or while abroad? I got top dollar for my pop-tarts in England; I curried favor with the ladies at band camp using mom's molasses cookies. Care packages create a bridge to home; it just so happens that in the case of these pretzels, home is filled with stingy, clever-like-a-weasel folk. My mom grew up in upstate New York, in a place called Pittsford that was apparently settled primarily by people from Schwabia in Germany. Schwabes are stereotyped as being both stingy and practical to a fault; they're like German Scottish people. This makes my care package story strange, yet oddly fitting. There was a Schwabisch baker in Pittsford that made Laugenbrotzeln (I'm skipping so many damn umlauts typing this entry) which are thick soft pretzels that have been given a lye bath before they're boiled. I've heard that Auntie Anne's tries to replicate this with a baking soda bath and so have I, but it's really not the same. I have many childhood memories of pulling these lye-zapped pretzels out of the toaster oven and then sitting down with a tub of salted butter for dipping... oh, it's so very good. Some people eat them with mustard. Bah. However, this baker had a good racket going as he was the only one in hundreds of miles who knew how to make these pretzels. Maybe he was just the only one with enough lye lying around. Either way, he was making a killing on these because they're addictive. He didn't tell his kids the recipe or write it down anywhere, which became problematic when he died seven years ago. There was a pretzel drought that withered the pretzel hopes and dreams of not just Pittsford, but the large "Let's Get the Hell Out of Pittsford" diaspora that had been receiving care packages of these pretzels at a pretty steady clip. Fast foward to myself, the scion of a pretzel addict and an initiate into pretzel devotion as well. I hit every german/austrian restaurant for miles, then the cafes/conditoreis, and finally walked into the Heidelberg Bakery in Arlington. I smelled something. Something I had not smelt since... There, on the bottom shelf of one of the display cases, was a stack of three perfect lye-blasted Schwabian pretzels. I was briefly struck blind. I may have picked up a marzipan frog and kissed it in joy. When I came to, I ordered one. They even let me have a little tub of butter, perhaps they saw something in my eyes. It was truly the real deal. I bought the stack and asked if they could make more. The nice lady said that they make a couple dozen in the morning, but there are hardly ever any left by noon. They do take special orders, however. Periodically, I get a phone call from my mom to tell me that she ordered 6 dozen pretzels from Heidelberg Bakery and could I be a dear and pick them up? She packages them up and mails them to relatives still in Pittsford, where I had assumed that they were hoarded like country hams for special occasions. It was only recently that I discovered that these care packages were being sold off to local pretzel fiends at oktoberfests and euchre games at an extravagant markup. You can argue that this is unfair to Heidelberg Bakery, and I agree. You can argue that this goes against the spirit of the care package, but I disagree. Who among us didn't sell off some choice bits of home at camp or while abroad? I got top dollar for my pop-tarts in England; I curried favor with the ladies at band camp using mom's molasses cookies. Care packages create a bridge to home; it just so happens that in the case of these pretzels, home is filled with stingy, clever-like-a-weasel folk.

We stayed at the Heritage House B & B. http://www.bbonline.com/va/heritage/index.html The bed was gigantic and the breakfast was very, very good. That's about all a B & B should have required of it, but there is also a nice sitting room with some decent port for sipping and a well-tended garden out back.

I wasn't aware that they had real estate holdings throughout the town; I'm beginning to wonder whether the little kozy korner diner (not actual name, as I can't remember it) on the main street was owned by the gents in question and thusly constrained to only providing grilled cheese and fries in order to keep out the gourmet competition. That was a damn fine grilled cheese and I can't recall it costing several hundred dollars, so if they're granted their freedom in the coming arbitration the Inn might have some local flavor fighting them for the next Beard awards.

There was a wonderful time when I could pick up a cadbury flake from the british grocery in clarendon and then walk across the street to the lazy sundae to jam it up to the flaky hilt in whatever scoop of deliciousness was available, like I used to get from street vendors in England. That time has passed. Also, I need to try an Irish flake now.

Milady and I went to Piola for lunch on Labor Day, so I can't talk about the service being indicative of anything as we were the only ones in the place (they were prompt and courteous). I had the carbonara pizza and she had the smoked salmon penne. First things first, the pizza is pretty good. The crust is thin and crispy right up until it gets towards the center of the pie, at which point it becomes that fabulous floppy grease trap. It's a study in opposites, I know that doesn't appeal to everyone. The sauce is thin, but tasty and the ingredients weren't laid on so thick that you couldn't pick a slice up without it collapsing. Pretty good. The pasta was also tasty, with the salmon kind of sneaking in instead of overwhelming. However, for the food you get I find the prices to be a little steep and I realize why. The space itself is very modisch, with mismatched furniture in the lounge and textured steel tables. I know this is meant to appeal to the young horny folk who can sometimes overflow from Cafe Asia next door and I know they can charge $10 and up for a small pizza because it's a sit-down dining experience with cloth napkins, but there's that calculated nod of "your internship didn't turn out to be very impressive with the opposite sex; try our pizza and booze." Meh. I'll go back, but I know I'm not one of the beautiful people. I just eat well and marry better. So there.

Shamshirry is a pretty good bet, though it can get a little crowded and full of small children running around. Get the chelo kabob barg (filet mignon with rice) and ignore the bread you get when you sit down. 8607 Westwood Center Drive You'll notice most of these posts are kind of steering you away from Tysons Corner proper... there are good reasons for that.

After reading through the posts, I was worried that two small cods and an order of chips wouldn't be enough for milady and I. It was, but it was hot out and that's no good for gluttony. That beer tap next to the cash register is going to come in handy when it's colder out. We had split a fried milky way regardless of full stomachs. If you have a +1 coming with you, go ahead and get one for each of you. It will stave off a fight later. The outside was like those crispy pieces of funnel cake when they've been left in the oil too long by an errant carny making eyes at your cousin, but the inside is as warm and toothless-smooth as a carny's mouth.

My favorite is Lalibela on 14th St., at the intersection of straight lines from the dupont and mcpherson square metros. This comes with a caveat- the food is not quite as good as etete or meskerem, as the meat isn't quite as high quality. What you get is a place that's still full of cabbies, however, which is probably what going out for Ethiopian felt like before places started having to take reservations. The staff is very happy to see you and damn impressed if you manage to finish your meal. It's enough off the beaten path that you can generally get a table on a Friday night, as well.