Waitman

I think it's unfortunate that an intolerant majority has to have their way in every single bar and restaurant in the city. Just leave us a couple of places per zip code and then you won't have to deal with us and you can feel superior as you stride past saying "not here, that's a smoker's bar." Went out last night to Dino's. Didn't smoke. Had a decent meal. Had a good time. Went out after to Aroma, 4P's and Frannie's. Smoked. Everyone was smoking. We all had a good time, there, too. Live and let live is a fine way to go.

According to this article I just read, Wide World of Wines -- at 2201 Wisconsin Avenue, located conveniently near Good Guys -- has a fine selection.

'less I want a beer and a smoke at my local.

Found this in the a one of the local wine-shop newsletters I grabbed while I was out stocking up on bulk Gallo for the holidays. “I am drinking the stars.” -- Dom Perignon Cave Dwellers and other metro-area residents of a certain age and income were treated to the first non-pornographic public work of one of the wine world’s rising stars, Don Rockwell, in this month’s Washingtonian magazine. Writing with the crispness of a just-released Tête de Cuvée, Rockwell explored the world of recoltant-maipulant – small grower – champagnes, kissing the work of obscure winemakers like Henri Billiot French style, on both cheeks, and bitch-slapping larger producers like Moët et Chandon, Veuve Cliquot and other bastard children of the LVMH empire. “The difference between Grande-Marque and small grower Champagnes is the difference…between Lay’s potato chips and the rustic versions made by locally owned Route 11,” he observes helpfully, before exploring the back roads of Washington’s champagne markets with the help of tour guides like Mark “Syrah goes great with menthols” Slater and Terry “ja, ich habe auch champagne” Theise. Apparently – perhaps surprisingly – written while sober, the result is a fine introduction to the whys and wheres of small-batch champagne buying, certain to fill you with guilt as, dashing party-ward at 8:30 on New Year’s Eve, you snatch up yet another bottle of Piper because you can’t remember what was in the article. Long-time fans of Rockwell’s underground work will note the lack of what some saw as defining idiosyncrasies of his oeuvre – thinly-veiled personal attacks, French proverbs, obscure Washingtoniana and smut – but the near-encyclopedic knowledge of wines and of the local scene that have always been the bass notes of his free-form rants shine through. Rockwell denied, by e-mail, that he had threatened to quit and start his own magazine if he were not granted more editorial freedom. Rockwell is apparently part of a youth (relatively-speaking) movement begun by new food and wine editor, Todd Kliman, in an attempt to improve Washington’s somewhat fusty readership demographics (in a recent survey, 68% of Washingtonian readers said they would be “very likely” to subscribe to a large-print version of the magazine). The gap between the New Kids’ outlook and that of the Old Guard is perhaps most clearly illuminated in Kliman’s choice of “Busboys and Poets’” impresario Andy Shallal – a man who actually aims to attract gays, African Americans and bike couriers as customers – and the readers’ pick of Auberge Chez Francois as the area’s “best” restaurant for the 89th consecutive year. Whether Rockwell will be part of the team that bridges that gap, or if the callow, free-spending youth demographic has already been lost to DCStyle -- despite their fucking over some talented and dedicated contributors, not they they’re bitter -- remains to be seen. Meanwhile, a toast of something obscure and delightful -- something that goes great with a hand-crafted, dill-vinegar crisp -- to Don, and to Todd for bringing him on. Good to see someone get the ink they deserve.

Washington Post on chain decor. "Susan Sontag nailed the idea of camp in the 1960s, labeling it as "failed seriousness," but no one has yet put a finger on the failed joviality of the retail age -- and its air of enforced cheer, sentimental prefab and the replication of nostalgia."

The Junkanoo -- boarded up for many years -- played a small but important role in the downfall of one of Washington's most powerful men, as the joint where he and his mistress got liquored up just before her fateful swim. Click here.

I think, pre Booey, I was more Foggy-Bottom based: Mr. Henry's, the 21st Amendment and the original Red Lion. I agree about Rabelais, but I loved that real estate. I did spend a little time in the Cold Duck, a hangout of my Father-in-law when he was passing regularly through DC peddling Black Bush whiskey.

Well, take comfort in the fact that at least your mistaking a Montelena for a fine French Burgundy is not likely to become an international incident, as it was in this rather more famous tasting. Or, "you can quote the [beloved] English wine writer Harry Waugh, who was once asked if he had ever mistaken a claret for a red Burgundy. His reply: 'Not since lunch.'" (TonyAspler.com "Bluffer's Guide to Dinner Parties") (BTW, don't Bouchards always suck? Or have they gotten better lately?)

The Golden Booeymonger was located on the corner of Connecticut and R and is now the Scientologist's local HQ -- that's not a menu, that's personality quiz they're handing you. If I ever ate at GB, I was too wasted to remember. After Golden Booey's went belly-up, it went through another incarnation, as Fourways. Despite the name and the relatively sleazy morals (I mean that in the fondest possible way)of the early 80s, the name somehow referred to a compass and the place had a vaguely nautical theme. It was never very good, but they had a great outdoor cafe location. Speaking of which, anybody remember Cafe Rabelaise, just across the street, where the Cosi is now? That was a the greatest people-watching place in the Circle. No seats inside, no food, not much business, service charge added without being told, a rookie waitress from a different country every time you went by -- but the view from the railing on a summer night was spectacular. Everyone I knew assumed that it was being used as a tax write-off off or a way to launder drug money.

A little cranky this morning. Nicotine fit? I noticed you left your smokes and lighter at the bar. Enable me, baby!

"Panda to Lead Smoking Ban Protest" --Washington Post 12/7/05

Naaaah. I'm not buying that. First, a fist is a clear act of agression, while a smoke, is not. It may be obnoxious (to some) or unhealthy (the data on second-hand smoke's health dangers is not as clear-cut as it is often portrayed) or simply aesthetically displeasing. It's not an act of violence, however. And second, non-smokers have plenty of places to go. Now, however, smokers will not. I don't buy that everyone has the right to impose their beliefs, restrictions or aesthetics on everyone else -- that everyone has the right to "enjoy" every bar or restaurant. If BdC wants to have a "smoker's" bar, well, non-smokers don't have to go. I hear the wine bar at Sonoma is pretty fun.

I'd suggest that the experience of your restaurant -- and a growing number of others -- disproves your own statement. You controlled the argument, the majority of the diners won, pretty much everyone seems happy. Without a law. Why not let other restauranteurs and customers make their own decisions, now that real choices exist? See? Everyone happy. But most diners aren't vegetarian, lactose intolerant or on Atkins, either, and restaurants work to accommodate them. Smokers accepted segregation and ever-smaller corners of establishments in which to quietly pursue their vice. Legislation designed to hurry what appears to be a natural trend toward extinction are posturing by craven politicians. Mainly, I'm pissed about the bars, though -- all the ones I go to have those "ban the ban" signs up. Why not let them make their choice and prosper, or not, as people respond?

To you, loitering. To others, savoring a meal and becoming infused with the kind of warm glow about an establishment that brings one back. One that I am, personally, happy to enjoy in the bar after the meal, FWIW. Different argument -- a lot of people like to linger/loiter after a meal whether or not they're smoking, a lot of people think having a check dropped and getting the bums rush is poor reward for dropping a couple hundred bucks on food and wine. That's why I never go to a certain steakhouse ...(kidding Landrum, kidding! -- for the love of Pete put down the knife!)

Every American has a God-given right to a cigarette, a martini and an affable bartender after a hard day at work. This is fascism. Particularly galling is the fact that the trend toward smoke-free is gaining so much momentum without the moronic DC City Council getting involved, that it appeared that everyone would soon have a reasonable choice. Bastards.

Try this thread for belly. Mrs. B knows quite a bit about pork belly, as well, and may reveal wisdom if asked politely or bribed with gin. For butts, we marinate a la Kellers short ribs, using Alsatian wine in the marinade, with leeks, carrots, onions, bay and whatever. A day or two later, we brown the fucker -- a pain -- and then throw it in a big put with the marinade; pork stock, apple cider, and Calvados. Cook low for four or six or eight hours, place on a cold back porch (fridge can get soooo crowded) under a lid heavy enough to keep the squirrels out, overnight or until the fat congeals and you can remove it. Strain the braising liquid and cook it down to whatever viscosity you fine rewarding, adding cider (to the sauce) and Clavados (to the cook) as desired. Warm gently and serve to happy neighbors. Two days later, make up some cole slaw and some barbecue sauce and serve the leftovers as a pulled pork sandwich, telling the curious that you were inspired to combine Calvados and French braising with 'cue and slaw by eating at the well-know Richmond restaurant, "The Frog and The Redneck" ("La Grenouille et Le Pluque")

At the time, there were also quotes from some of the principals to the effect that they hadn't expected to spend a lifetime in the business, that they'd done what they set out to do, and that they were ready to move on with their lives.

More toward Baltimore indeed -- the chain was started by a bunch of Baltimore Colts, including Hall of Famer Gino Marchetti.

One of my many illustrious food industry gigs was a six-week stint behind the counter at the "Club LT" on the corner of Wisconsin and N streets -- now Paolo's, I believe. Worked the overnight shift, three nights a week. Quite an experience, with the homeless guys hanging out at one end the the counter (Sky King, Little Jackie, the guy who used to do my mopping for a free breakfast, the bitchy homeless woman) and the drunks elbowing their way towards the register at the other end. One night some guy started breaking open his lithium capsuls and snorting their contents off the counter. "This is a great country. You can't do this kind of thing in Russia," he growled. I figured that if he was on Lithium, it was best to leave him alone. Quite a show.

Nino's! I was just bemoaning that loss last Sunday. You must be old.

Mrs. B and I will have symphony tickets and will be trucking our daughter around, and unfortunately will likely be unable to make it. Have a great night though, and PM me if you're still going at it, oh, 10 o'clock.

Old Macs. OK, not a restaurant.

I don't think being passionate about your craft and wanting a little money and recognition for doing it well are mutually exclusive. I think they're probably two sides of the same coin -- except for the occasional saint or Peace Corps volunteer -- and that's a good. Hell, everyone has bills; everyone has an ego. I think Elias nailed it, though. If you do what you love, good things will follow. A lot of my friends and I fell into politics as young ideologues, without clue how we might make a living at it and now, many years later, we somehow are, or are enjoying ourselves in related fields.

I'll line up with the "pox on both their houses" crowd when it comes to dinner. Both are competent at their price level, neither seems worth waiting in line for. Kicking back in the lounge at the Tabard, though, is one of DC's great pleasures, and the painting of the cherub with the dice one of DC's great treasures.

I was thinking of the great EBITDA scam: "sure, we have a two million dollars of debt service a month, but we had an operating profit of 40%! (on revenues of $1200)."