Waitman

Any reports of fresh peas? They had some at Columbia Heights last week but they we starchy and seemed to have been picked some days in advance. Having samples every strawberry vender at Courthouse, Dupont (except Heinz, who seemed a little pissy about it) Mt. Pleasant and Columbia Heights in the last two weeks, I'd say the best berries were from the seemingly Latino-owned farm -- sorry, I don't know the name of the farm -- that sets up on the same side as Toigo, but further down towards Atwater's. Darn near perfect berries two weeks in a row.

Not sure what you're looking for, but I recently dropped a boatload of money at Evolution Audio, right around the corner from the Tyson's Galleria, and they specialize in serious stuff and did very well by me. Come around and we'll take some of your Mozart on a high-decibel spin and knock back a little Hock, and you can see if they're someone who might could answer your inquiries.

Putting my crank hat back on after being nice about Red Hen. A recent experience at Range left me wondering how low standards have fallen. Not that the food wasn't very good -- a broad variety of tasty treats well-prepared, and the vegetable offerings were varied and treated with respect. But nothing was great. It was kind like, "well, shouldn't this be the minimum we expect from a "quality" restaurant?" The service was unfortunate, though not unexpectedly bad given the vast sprawl of the sterile space. I chuckled when I read DPops' praise for the sommelier -- not imply that he didn't deserve it -- but our wine service can courtesy of a Haley's Comet waiter (he came by the table every 76 years) who pronounced the famous French region CHA (like 'chat')-bliss. A fine enough dinner, and I'd eat there again if I was in that neck of the woods (and try the pizza). But would I call two weeks out and cross my fingers for a reservation? Nah.

To first-ever female Gershwin Prize Winner Carol King, whose Tapestry album was a bigger part of my early adolescence than I care to admit, whose "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" was the most daring song of the early sixties, who lifted spirits on a grim presidential campaign when she showed up in Cedar Falls, Iowa for Gary Hart one frigid January afternoon and who was a blast to drive around Philadelphia, even she did worry aloud, based on my driving skills, that she was about to finally make the cover of Rolling Stone...for her obituary. And who, when I broke protocol and asked for her autograph "for my girlfriend, who has put up with a lot since I've been on the road," signed her name, laughed and said: "here, tell her to sleep with this."

Oh, the injustice. 24 posts on the middling-but-hip corporate cookie-cutter Le Diplomate (hey, I liked it, but...) and only two on the vastly better, home-grown neighborhood hangout The Red Hen. From the spare but welcoming room and the wood smoke that envelopes you like an old friend's arms the instant you walk in, to a menu priced like a neighborhood joint and not a tourist destination to the vertigo-inducing clash of plaids on Sebastian's jacket/shirt and bow-tie combination, The Red Hen feels immediately like The Place you Have Been Looking For. But don't trust me, ask the superstar chef with the supermodel wife Johnny Monis (I confess she was the one who caught my attention first, with me wondering why a girl like that was hanging out with such a short dude), or Dave, the new-ish bartender at CityZen who were both hanging out around the rectangular bar. Far more than Chinese in a Chinese Restaurant (check out Mr. Tang's in NYC) or truckers at a diner, industry pros at a mid-scale establishment seems a reliable indicator of a quality joint and, especially, good food with a minimum of fuss. I started out with a "Bad Liver and Broken Heart," with vodka and some combination of bitter, orange and bubble that made it a refreshing start to an early evening, but I confess that I just got it because the name is the same as two great songs, one by ("And I don't have a drinking problem, 'cept when I can't get a drink/ And I wish you'd a-known her, we were quite a pair,/She was sharp as a razor and soft as a prayer") and one by ("It's girls like her that keep me tryin'/she goes off like an air raid siren"). None of the fancy-schmancy custom cocktails cost more than $9, by the way, and none of the wines on the by-the-glass list is more than $10. When was the last time you got a $7 glass of wine at a bar that didn't suck? Of course, you didn't have M.Zutant scouring the world for a bracing (with a softly sherry-ish finish) Slovenian Toh-Kai or a surprisingly assertive Pecchenino Dolcetto, which felt too tannic for a split second before resolving itself a delicious Italian quaffer. Chicken livers were, you know, chicken livers but tasty with shaved Parmesan(?) on toast. And, if the brandade was runnier than I make it, it pulled no punches and it's a favorite that I see too rarely on local menus. We asked Sebastian which pasta to get and he recommended the Fusilli Caccio e Pepe -- fusilli with cheese and pepper -- which did indeed turn out to be an al dente plate of minimalist deliciousness. I had the most expensive item on the menu, a $23 chicken that had been spatchcocked and fired on the aforementioned wood grill. For 23 bucks, you actually get a perfectly cooked, whole -- if diminutive -- chicken seemingly glazed with something balsamic, sitting atop mushrooms and an assortment of vegetables with a bit of grill-taste to them, as well. My friend won the evening, though, with grilled scallops resting atop fresh peas and (something else grain-ish -- she selfishly ate most of the scallops, so I forget). Hard to talk about the dish without layering on the kind of superfluous embellishment that The Red Hen eschews, just delicious ingredients combined with an understated flair and cooked with respect. They alone would bring me back. We finished with a couple of bitter brown digestifs (an Amaro and something else a little sweeter) and walked into the rain feeling very, very good about life. I know someone will enlighten me, but I am hard-pressed to think of another place in DC that can accurately be called a neighborhood establishment and also offers food this creative and this good at this price. Perhaps because Sebastian actually lives in the neighborhood* and can' t have the moms and dads at his kid's daycare or the barristas at Big Bear (which charges more for wine than he does) calling him all uppity or -- worse -- boring, there seems to have been a lot of effort put into making this as effortlessly appealing as your favorite pair of old jeans. I am led to understand that many table are left open for walk-ins, so even if Open Table says no, it might be worth a call. When we dialed, we were told there were no seats but the bar was empty -- a condition which had changed utterly by the time we departed. I recommend going early or very late if you don't care for crowds. But mostly I just recommend going. * (I have given co-owners Chef Michael Friedman and FOH Majordomo Michael O'Malley short shrift because I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them, but consider my accolades as accruing equally to all three ).

So, you roll into Le Diplomate and you feel as though you've somehow magically left 14th Street and found yourself in Paris Balthazaar in New York, a movie set somewhat more realistic that Hugo but not quite as good as Midnight in Paris. Suspend a little disbelief and it's all good. And the food is all good, too, though not great. Possibly the bread basket is the highlight, but the clams were fresh and served with proper American cocktail sauce, not that snooty mignonette. The onglet was unobjectionable, though we can all make that at home and the frites were pale and had an unfortunate texture, as though they'd been batter dipped or something (not that I think they were). The Bouillabaisse should perhaps have been called "Bouillbaisse," it seemed bland and underpopulated, a modernist adaptation of the classic, whose presentation had more zing than its taste. The mushroom tart appetizer was a keeper, though, with kudos to the crustacian (that's French for "crust-maker," right?) who ensured the crunch. The Grapefruit Coupe Glasse was kind of a a delightful mess, with grapefruit sorbet, financiers, whipped cream and whatever slung into a largish glass like a Tiki Room cocktail and somewhat gleefully slurped down. The place distinguished itself with its service. We finagled a last-minute reservation (once again, the phone defeats Open Table) and then worked that into an outdoor deuce where we could watch the world walk by and avoid the indoor clamor. Our waitress was both delightful and competent, as we were modestly -- but always politely -- difficult. She remembered the "two straws" requested for the Sancerre that we ordered with the clams after we'd forgotten asking for them-- we were on a lo-test night out, two straws, one glass, like Archie and Veronica -- and handled our indecision at key points with aplomb. We were a bit put off when some managerial type came around and announced that it was probably going to rain and so they'd have to roll up the awning under which we were perched because it wasn't built for the wind, and they probably didn't have room for us inside. Reality is reality but, as a communications professional, I think they need a better line than "it's going to rain and you're shit out of luck." Especially since they handled things so well, eventually Of course, the wind died as soon as the rain started, so there was no reason to roll up the awnings, so we maybe could have sat there, but whatever. We had finished desert so we hung in the bar area settling the check and so on, and one of the many, many people who seem to lurk near the front desk (who all seem to have there act together) wandered by, slid me a business card and told me that I should try to get my next reservation -- should reservations remain scarce -- through the e-mail on the card rather than queuing with the proles. He then guided us to an empty table and forced a Sazerac on me. It was a truly impressive performance, not the least for the casual way in which the gentleman tossed it off -- no big deal, we just fuckin' take care of you here -- and greatly appreciated as a customer and a critic -- especially for a newish joint. And it -- unlike the somewhat humdrum cuisine -- makes me look forward to heading back. Especially now that I have that secret rezzie e-mail. Oh, yeah. A pretty decent, reasonably priced red Bandol, though I wouldn't go through that wine list looking for bargains. it's a fun place, but let's be real.

On those rare occasions where we've ventured forth on Mother's Day, we have had luck (here in DC) with the obscure and ethnic. Of course, that demands lining up a mom who thinks bi bim bap is a great Mother's Day dish -- something of a generational concern, probably. You might also aim for an early dinner -- after brunch/lunch but before the normal dinner hour.

I only go to Stachowski's because he has managed to hire the most astounding attractive cashiers in the history of delis. Who cares about the food? There. I said it.

To E.L. Konisburg. At the Met's Beatrice Court Wine Bar. Paid for with the nickles, dimes and quarters my brother brought along. With my dirty laundry stashed in an urn in the Egyptian Wing.

A big tumbler of Black Bush for Robert Schehr, Stephanie's dad, who passed away yesterday. And then another one.

Inconceivable. And that's not even mentioning the celestially inflated "5 Star" designation.

Beuchart's might work, if my friends don't mind the arduous drive from upper NW, and Range would fit the bill nicely if reservations are available. Thanks.

So, what;s new-ish, moderate-ishly priced and decent-ish. Table would fit the bill, but I ate there the other night, as would Mintwood Place if I liked it better than I do or even Black Salt. You know, someplace to catch up with friends over a leisurely meal and look like you know your way around the restaurant scene, without dropping a million bucks. Thoughts?

I'm a big Zenebech guy. Get the gored-gored. My one visit to Ethiopic was pretty awful.

If the ingredients for a more "common" cocktail are available, it's pretty much impossible to adopt attitude 2 without adopting attitude 1. Perhaps not being "able" to make the drink would be a better way of phrasing. Not to turn this into another tragic East Coast/West Coast beef, but it appears that (at least a few) Californians are mounting a counteroffensive against the mixologist trend. No offense to the mixologists in the house.

Years ago, when our eldest was still carriage-sized, Mrs. B and I wheeled him into the Whitney Biennial -- an aggressively avant-guard proof that the phrase "there's a fine line between clever and stupid" is especially true of the art world (with plentiful examples of each). His carriage had become a repository of all the detritus you might acquire on a warm morning in Manhattan but didn't feel like carrying around: guidebook, subway map, water bottles, sunglasses and so on, plus the usualy baby stuff. He was asleep, so at each gallery we'd park him in the middle and wander around the perimeter, artifying ourselves before meeting back, collecting the baby and strolling into the next room -- at which point we would often encounter an art aficionado hovering over the buggy, chin in hand, wondering what the artist was getting at with this particular found sculpture. The look on their faces as we pushed off -- shock and alarm followed immediately by sheepish embarrassment -- was almost as interesting as the art on the walls.

That would be the Tate Modern, I assume, and not the Tate.

It certain seems like molecular gastronomy and abstract art both require the viewer/diner to have an open mind, and undertand the basics of the concept. Thereafter, isn't it subject to personal interpretation that can be neither right nor wrong? If so, then it's perfectly okay to disagree with the likes of Tom and Todd, but that doesn't make you right or them wrong and vice versa. Or, possibly, like most art, which does not end up in museums or art history books,it's largely forgettable stuff produced by people seeking novelty for its own sake or producing lame knock-offs of more talented artists. And used as as a cultural signifier to place oneself above the masses ("it's sad that you can't see the genius in Pollack's oevre. Fortunately, you can still buy Thomas Kincaid paintings for your tacky little home."). I actually like much abstract art, by the way. But, though I keep an open mind, I have never been particularly impressed by molecular gastronomy, and I'm not persuaded that it's because I don't "understand the basics of the concept." Another "sign of a good critic" critic is to stand steadfast in the face elitist trends and elite trendsetters and point out that the Emperors underwear is showing. If I hit the lottery, you're all invited to the Hirschorn and Minibar, where we'll duke this out over many courses and a few bottles of decent wine.

This seems to suggest that there is something beyond a mere disagreement regarding the merits of the restaurant going on here -- that there is something unprofessional or nefarious in the critical reaction to Suna. I am curious to hear more.

Thanks, all. I have passed these suggestions along.

A friend wants to send a thank you present to some folks that helped her out on a big project, and she's thinking food. OF course, they people are in California, so they have access to a lot good stuff (I still can't get over seeing vintage port and Heitz Martha's Vineyard for sale at a gas station). She'd like something regional or at least local and, of course, something that can be shipped. Any thoughts?

I like to recrisp a slice or eight of pepperoni pizza in the oven, until the crust has the rigidity of of a cantilevered Falling Water balcony and pile fresh arugula that's been drenched in "bleu" cheese dressing on top. With all that green stuff, you can pretend it's healthy, but deep down you know you're fooling yourself -- which makes it even better.

Dropped a couple of hundred dollars eating everything on the menu (the tasting menu and the "from the vault" menu) at WD-50 the other night. Came away underwhelmed. I admit it might be me -- maybe my palate is just too juvenile to appreciate the nuances of this particular joint. It might be the whole "seasonal and local thing," because winter foods tend to be bland, what with all that squash and turnips turning up on the plates. And it might be Wylie, who seems to have stepped away from the mad scientist stuff I used to read about back in the day. I remember the first time I heard the acoustic version of "Layla" from MTV unplugged and thinking "when did Clapton start doing a lounge act?" Maybe Wylie should only play when he's plugged in. At any rate, even with the menu posted on line, it's hard to recall some of the dishes. A sweet shrimp with "pine needles" (one of the few science experiments I recall -- pine essence extruded and congealed to resemble needles) and chestnut came together flawlessly and intriguingly (it takes a second to to figure out if you really like pine flavor in your food), and popcorn soup was quite rich, understated and yet forceful. And the red meat dishes -- squab, flatiron steak and smoked duck -- were quite tasty. But any decent pho place would have served up a better broth than that accomanying the "pho gras;" bone marrow in a fake mashed potato "bone" needed more than a little pomegranate to wake it up and I barely remember the monkfish or the sea bass at all. Admittedly, I was was with a charming dining companion who may have proved a distraction, but I do remember restaurant meals where I don't remember the cab ride home (and the set list from Dead shows where I barely remembered the planet I was on), so the night is oddly blank. We found ourselves very hungry long before our nine o'clock reservations but were advised that there were seats in the bar, where a very friendly and knowledgeable bartender -- with help from an assortment of besuited management-looking types -- took excellent care of us at a comfortably sized four-top. Those who regard my reviewing with an appropriately jaundiced eye and wish to see for themselves without committing to the $155 tasting menu should know that the bar offers the option of ordering any two courses for $25, and additional courses for $15. When the bartender said he'd have to check and see if we could order both menus rather than choosing one or the other for the entire table (apparently SOP at WD-50) we threatened to get the two-course deal and then order every other plate on the menu at $15 per. And when he laughed rather than rolling his eyes and mouthing "what an asshole" to the manager, we knew he was a good guy. We put ourselves in his hands for the wine and didn't pay too much attention except to note an excellent Sylvaner early on and two Pinot Noirs, neither of them from either France or the U.S. -- and the Chliean version (the other was German) being excellent -- "Litoral Vineyards Casa Marin '09." Wylie Dufresne is, of course, under no obligation to be the madman he seems to have been back in the day -- or maybe quinoa fries just aren't as much fun as they would have been in 2002 -- but I would have enjoyed a little more zing in my cuisine rather than the understated elegance that was delivered.

Not to quibble, but "cooked to perfection" isn't jargon, though it is perhaps a cliche (or, at my house, standard operating procedure ). Jargon, when deployed, carries with it an extra dollop of pretense which appears to make the deployer feel more comfortable charging you an extra few dollars, and/or lording his or her culinary superiority over you. Cliches are (to me) annoying on a much lower level, and easily ignored. Mr. Slater, a gentleman whose wine program I'd be tempted to join even if he called it that, had the correct idea with "curated."

it was bad enough when people started to "source" things instead of buying them -- "I sourced this Slurpee at the 7-11" -- and driving a truck to a farm became "foraging" (people who wander the woods looking for chanterelles are still encouraged to use the term). The everything became a program. A wine program, a cocktail program. Having a sommeliere buy wine he or she thinks will please his customers is not enough, we must let our customers know that our wine person a ferocious manager, possibly with a clipboard and a whistle, assembling not a "cellar" or a "selection" or even a "list," but a program. If you apply and provide appropriate references, you might be admitted to the program yourself. Don't get me started on "mixologist." Now we have the combination of pretentious procurement language and MBA beverage management jargon: The rye room (another cliche, but a tasty one) at the coming Capella restaurant in Georgetown, will feature a “hand harvested ice program.” Lord help us.