The Hersch

Please tell me that people don't stand in line to get into Fridays. Please. I'm begging you.

Could we have a definition of terms here? What is "quick-serve" and what is "normal"? If "normal" means "national chains", then I think that's a pretty effed-up definition of normal. For example, I've had pizza from Domino's exactly once, and as I may have mentioned somewhere here before, at the time I thought that it didn't even seem like food (that was in the mid-90s). I hope that's not normal. On the other hand, with a proper pizza oven at a proper (i.e., screaming hot) temperature, a properly made pizza should take less than two minutes to bake, so that seems rather more like "normal" for pizza than otherwise. All of the very best pizza I've ever eaten has been in Italy, and they don't mess around. It's fast, unless you're in a crowded place that doesn't get to your order until long after you've placed it. Some of the greatest pizzas I've been served have been in seemingly unlikely places. I particularly remember a little tourist place at the ruins of Paestum, where the pizza came out certainly less than five minutes after we ordered, and was ambrosial. Perhaps the very best pizza I've ever eaten was at a little place calling itself a "pizzorante" just off the autostrada in Brescia (in the north, where pizza was probably unknown 50 years ago). The place wasn't busy (I think it was late for lunch in Italy), and the pizza (actually pizze, my friend and I had one each) came out in about three minutes, and the maestro who had made it for us came out about five minutes later, when we had nearly finished devouring it, to ask if it was good. We assured him that it was.

Coat of Arms in Van Ness!

It's so nice to live in an apartment in the city.

I write not to scold, but only to chime in. The vegetable you refer to goes by a number of names, such as romanesco cauliflower, romanesco broccoli, broccolo romanesco (in Italian), or also (in Italian) cavolo romanesco or even cavolo broccolo romanesco, or just romanesco, which is obviously simplest. In any case, its name always associates it with Rome. I hadn't seen romanesco much before this year, or at least hadn't noticed it. I bought some at the Dupont Circle market from New Morning Farms a few weeks ago. I broke it into florets, tossed them with olive oil, salt, and some grated Parmigiano, spread them on a baking sheet, and put it in the oven at whatever temperature the recipe I used called for. I pulled it out after 20 minutes or so and plated some with additional cheese, and it was so delicious. But the larger pieces needed more cooking, so I put them back in the oven, and then forgot all about them for about an hour, and when I took them out again they were burnt to cinders. It was very sad. It didn't do the sheet pan a lot of good, either. Then the Saturday before last, I think, when I took Kiko to the groomer in Gettysburg, I stopped on the way back at the Catoctin Orchard farm-stand north of Thurmont, MD, and discovered that they had the very same excellent vegetable, but with no price marked. I asked one of the people working there "how much is the romanesco?", and she had no idea what I was talking about. I pointed to it, and said "this stuff" and she said what did you call it? And I repeated the name, and she said she'd never heard that before, they always called it "Christmas-tree cauliflower" but my name was prettier. Anyway, it was $3.50 a pound, just like the regular cauliflower. I love this stuff. I think it has a far finer flavor and texture than either cauliflower or broccoli in their ordinary varieties. I still have some in the fridge, and am thinking it would make a very nice soup.

I just might do that tomorrow. Thanks!

To bring this back from the ridiculous to the sublime, Bob Dylan, "Absolutely Sweet Marie", from Blonde on Blonde. A transcription of the lyric (not mine, so I can't vouch for every detail): "Absolutely Sweet Marie" Well, your railroad gate, you know I just can't jump it Sometimes it gets so hard, you see I'm just sitting here beating on my trumpet With all these promises you left for me But where are you tonight, sweet Marie ? Well, I waited for you when I was half sick Yes, I waited for you when you hated me Well, I waited for you inside of the frozen traffic When you knew I had some other place to be Now where are you tonight, sweet Marie ? Well, anybody can be just like me, obviously But then, now again, not too many can be like you, fortunately. Well, six white horses that you did promise Were fin'ly delivered down to the penitentiary But to live outside the law, you must be honest I know you always say that you agree But where are you tonight, sweet Marie ? Well I don't know how it happened But the river-boat captain he knows my fate But ev'rybody else, even yourself They're just gonna have to wait. Well, I got the fever down in my pockets The Persian drunkard, he follows me Yes, I can take him to your house but I can't unlock it You see, you forgot to leave me with the key Oh, where are you tonight, sweet Marie ? Now, I been in jail when all the mail showed That a man can't give his address out to bad company And now I stand here lookin' at your yellow railroad In the ruins of your balcony Wondering where you are tonight, sweet Marie ? Some commentary I wrote to a friend a couple of years ago: I've always thought that this was one of Bob Dylan's most brilliant songs, although it's obviously not one of his most famous. I was thinking of trying to explain its genius, but then I realized I'm not nearly clever enough to do that. But just listen to this and notice how all the boy-girl relationship stuff that the song starts out exploring sort of collapses at "six white horses", when the song is suddenly and magically transfigured into something that inhabits a mythical world rather than the familiar terrain of pop songs. And then Dylan slides in one of his most effective epigrams, tossing off "to live outside the law you must be honest". And then "I got the fever" -- sort of conventional-- but "I got the fever down in my pockets" -- where does that come from? Who has the fever down in his pockets, and how did anyone ever think to say that? Was he just going for the off-rhyme in "I can take him to your house but I can't unlock it"? Or did the pockets lead him to "unlock it" outside his own control? And then that breathtaking harmonica solo, which in its way is probably as good as Dylan ever got playing an instrument. Anyway, enjoy this, in the ruins of your balcony.

Interestingly, they don't seem to have just a plate of fried oysters on their menu currently. There are fried oysters in po' boys, you can add them to salads, and they have a couple of eggs-benedict variants with fried oysters on their brunch menu, but it doesn't look like you could say "I'll have the fried oysters, please", which seems odd. I love a plate of good fried oysters. Do they make them off-menu for you?

I've never cared for either version of "Pictures at an Exhibition", but kind of wish I'd been there to be persuaded that the original version is great. Don, you write of Peter Schickele as if he were no longer living. As far as I know, he is. I loved "Schickele Mix" and was very sorry when it ended. (Those who don't know Schickele's work, you may have heard of his composer alter-ego, P.D.Q. Bach.)

When I say "oh, for fuck's sake", and I suppose my meaning may not have been instantly obvious to all who read my rude words, I mean, for fuck's sake, every intervention by the United States in the Arab world has made the whole world a worse place. A fresh intervention, no matter how well-intentioned, will not be miraculously different. There will be no unicorns this time, any more than there were unicorns the last time. We keep being cozy with Saudi Arabia, and selling them lots of weapons, while it's obvious that the Saudis, whether the family or the government (there's almost no difference), are funding and have funded some of the worst enemies of American national interest, such as Al Qaeda and Daesh, and we continue to support them because they're enemies of Iran, whom we oppose because--well, why, actually?. We're now prepared to march into Syria and back into Iraq in order to oppose the local allies of Iran, whom we empowered with our previous interventions, while the U.S. continues to support whatever violently wrong policy of whatever government of Israel is in power, and at the same time provide huge support to Israel's most powerful foe Saudi Arabia, because both Saudis and Israelis are opposed to Iran. Because, um, why? Meanwhile continued U.S. support of Israel exacerbates everything in the region, because the ongoing violence against the Palestinian people empowers every other actor in the region, whether Sunni or Shia, to act against Israel and to consider the U.S. an adversary, if not an enemy, even our ostensible friends the Saudis, who want to kill us. Into this context, the U.S. should send the boys and girls of West Virginia and Missouri, in order to accomplish what? Make everything wonderful? For fuck's sake.

I feel I must add a salute to that other great giant of Washington radio, Felix Grant, who I have to say changed my life. I doubt I'd ever have surrendered so completely to jazz if it hadn't been for Felix Grant, who died in October of 1993. Like Ed Walker, Felix Grant had a nearly perfect radio voice, and he also had the most impeccable taste in music that any mortal ever possessed. I raise this possibly over-raised glass to Felix Grant as well.

"Never smoke" is great advice for young people who have never smoked, but appalling numbers of young people nowadays take up smoking. "Never smoke, or stop smoking if you do it" plus "always wear a seatbelt", are, I agree, the best health advice you can give. If people would follow those two bits of counsel a whole lot more of them would stay alive.

And happiness causes death.

And lest anyone labor under the misapprehension that "rule of thumb" refers to a common-law standard that allowed a man to beat his wife with a rod so long as it was no bigger around than his thumb, that is not the origin of "rule of thumb" and there was no such common-law standard, although the belief in it is remarkably persistent. The phrase appears to refer to a carpenter or other craftsman using his thumb as a rough measure of length (referring to "rule" as in "ruler"). To clarify: I think it was largely in the seventies and eighties that this folk etymology evolved, at least partially in feminist contexts. Somehow people got the idea that the origin of the phrase "rule of thumb" was a principle in English common law that allowed a man lawfully to beat his wife, as long as he used a rod no thicker than his thumb. The truth in there is that a man could lawfully beat his wife (and his children and servants), I believe well into the 19th Century. However, that had nothing to do with the origin of the phrase "rule of thumb", although I gather that many people still think it had. The OED will help: A suggestion that the phrase refers to an alleged rule allowing a husband to beat his wife with a stick the thickness of his thumb cannot be substantiated (compare the discussion by H. D. Kelly in Jrnl. for Legal Educ. 44 (1994) 341"“65); it also poses semantic problems. The suggestion appears to be of late 20th-cent. origin, probably arising from a misunderstanding of the pun in the following passage (discussing the alleged rule mentioned above): 1976 D. Martin Battered Wives 31 [in 19th-cent. America] the common-law doctrine had been modified to allow the husband "˜the right to whip his wife, provided he used a switch no thicker than his thumb'"”a rule of thumb, so to speak. This book review from the New York Times cites the wife-beating "rule of thumb" interpretation uncritically, although it is admittedly from 1988.

My sister and I had a very late lunch here (3:30 to 4:30 pm or so) today, and loved it. I wrote up an experience a couple of months ago from a weekend-night dinner, when we both liked the food very much and hated the experience because of the excruciating noise. This afternoon was, naturally, much different. Given the day and time, the restaurant was mostly empty, and not noisy at all. We walked in intending to have raw oysters, which we both love, and as we were preparing to order, our very personable and efficient waiter announced "the Rappahannock oysters are 75 cents each starting now"...we were planning to order them at $2.50 each. So we had two dozen, as they were almost free. We asked if this was a regular deal, and our waiter said no, this was "Oystoberfest", only through the end of October. Whatever, it was a great deal, and we enjoyed a dozen oysters each for $9 per person, which is way better than Old Ebbitt's deal, although obviously a long way out of town (but we were out there anyway). We then both had a trout filet, which was wonderful also, along with a vin de pays du Var rosé, which was very nice and priced at a gentle $35, I think. A beautiful light lunch that we both loved. I'd certainly gladly go back for a similar quiet meal.

I hadn't heard. Ed (I write not to correct you, but his name was Ed) Walker was probably the greatest-ever figure in Washington, DC, radio. He was practically a force of nature, and a fixture on a succession of stations since the 1950s. A part of my life for most of it, associated first and last with American University, my long-time employer and alma mater. I raise my glass in celebration of his long, illustrious career. An example to us all.

Since I moved to Foggy Bottom last December, Bayou has been within about a three-minute walk from home, but I hadn't been until last night, when I had dinner there with my sister. The food was good: We shared a plate of fried green tomatoes (conveniently, two thick slices, with dressing and garnish: hot, crisp, good); then my sister had the blackened catfish, which I didn't taste (I don't much like catfish), and I had the oyster po' boy, which was excellent. My sandwich came with two sides, and I chose the collards with bacon and the mac and cheese. The sides would have made a meal for a normal person without the sandwich. I tasted each, and brought the mac and cheese home; it was (and I hope still is) wonderful. The really remarkable thing, though, is the half-price wine deal they have on Sundays. They have an extremely limited selection of wine, but every bottle is half price on Sunday, and the full prices are remarkably modest to begin with. Say what you will about Veuve Clicquot, but it's certainly pleasant enough to drink. Marcel's, a block away, offers it at $150 a bottle. On Bayou's list, it costs $90. And on Sunday, it's $45! That's basically on the low end of retail. Calvert Woodley asks $43 for a bottle currently, which is probably the least you'll pay for a bottle in a Washington retail store. And the bartender/wine manager was tickled pink that we ordered it; they obviously don't get a lot of champagne people in what is pretty clearly an Abita kind of place. The gentleman in question came over to the table, and started off by saying "About the champagne you ordered..." and my sister and I both assumed he was going to say it really wasn't $45, or they didn't have any, or some other kind of hedge or excuse not to serve it to us. But no, he said it wasn't quite as cold as he'd like to serve it, so if we didn't mind he'd put in on ice for a few minutes before he brought it to the table. They made a lifelong friend of me, or at least a friend for as long as they're in business a block away from where I live.

I'd say the time is definitely ripe for more Helen Merrill. "It Never Entered My Mind", by Rodgers and Hart, from their now-forgotten musical "Higher and Higher", which ran on Broadway for 84 performances in 1940. This was apparently from Helen Merrill's 1963 album In Tokyo, which I've never owned. I was trying to find the recording of this song from her 1989 album with Stan Getz, Just Friends, but all I can find on YouTube is the complete album, which you can listen to here. "It Never Entered My Mind" starts at 5:47, but you might want to listen to the whole album, which is pretty great. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qHPYKW___I And here is "When Your Lover Has Gone" from the 1960 album Parole e Musica, which was recorded in and originally released in Italy, where Merrill spent part of her career. Until I just looked this up, I had no idea where this song came from. It was written by E. A. Swan, and featured in the 1931 film Blonde Crazy, starring James Cagney and Joan Blondell. In spite of being a total Cagney groupie, I've never seen this picture. I think I'd better find it. Well, that's all for now. Enjoy.

I can't give much in the way of fine-dining recommendations, as I don't generally do much of that when I'm traveling, which is too expensive as it is. I did have lunch once at Bastide Saint Antoine in Grasse, and while it's a beautiful place, and the food was very good (it had 2 Michelin stars at the time; don't know about now), I'd have to say it wasn't worth it. I'd really rather eat in a modest bistrot (where you can often get wonderful food in France for not very much money, and be among locals rather than other high-spending tourists) and spend the extra time exploring. All that aside, do consider my recommendation of Aix-en-Provence. It's a remarkable jewel of a city, much of the center of which is medieval, and yet it's not a museum, like Bruges, but a very lively center of all kinds of activity. I read somewhere that there are more than 60,000 students in Aix. My friend and I stayed at Hotel St. Christophe, which is nice, not terribly expensive (nor terribly fancy) and sits in a brilliant location just steps from La Rotonde, the circle with fountain at the lower end of the Cours Mirabeau, the city's main promenade. (St. Christophe has a pretty good restaurant, Brasserie Léopold. Not fine dining, but good, solid regional cuisine.) Up at the other end of the Cours, my friend and I ate at Aix's most famous eatery, the venerable Brasserie les Deux Garí§ons, which was not nearly as touristy as I had imagined, and where we had a very good dinner served by a really charming waiter. Paul Cézanne was there every evening for much of his life (which sadly ended quite a while before my visit). The cathedral at Aix is very interesting, and parts of it are of astonishing antiquity. Beware, though. If a soft-spoken nun asks you if you'd like to join her tour of the cloister, thank her politely and hurry off in the opposite direction. She has evil designs. While I was in Aix, I was reading M.F.K. Fisher's Map of Another Town, her memoir of Aix. I loved the book (and recommend it highly), and loved reading it in Aix. You might consider it. One note on the autoroutes that Don mentioned: They are excellent highways, and in that part of France along the mountainous coast there are many stretches that are a succession of tunnels and viaducts: remarkable feats of engineering, which are worth seeing in their own right, but often with pretty spectacular views from the viaducts (and obviously no views at all from the tunnels).

If you want first-class service, along with first-class food, there's nowhere better than Marcel's. The best service you're ever likely to experience in Washington, and probably the best food too. And they don't make you wait in the street!

No, we didn't speak with a manager. I know that's what you're supposed to do, but on an occasion such as this, raising a fuss about the service would have transformed the experience from an annoying service issue to a ruined evening, and none of us wanted to do that. However much that might have benefited future diners, it would have made our dinner incomparably worse. The "raise the issue on the spot" mantra often fails to take into account the affect that that course of action can have on an otherwise not terribly bad evening. Maybe an email now would have some kind of salutary effect, but I can't quite think of what it would be. I'm certainly not looking to have something comped.

Ah, thanks. Stachowski's is actually very convenient for me, but I've never had them special-order anything. Is the cost likely to be even higher than their already impressive price-tags?

It's also kind of cute that they don't show their address or phone number on their home page. Why is that such a challenge to web designers for brick-and-mortar businesses? Or hours of operation? Some restaurant websites don't show their hours anywhere, let alone on the homepage where it belongs.

Was that directed to me or to PollyG (or to both)?

Jambon Persillé? Jacques Pépin's recipe (which also calls for curing pigs' feet, which is a little daunting) concludes with a sauce rémoulade, which uses another cup of parsley. I've never made this dish, but have often felt that I should.