Nadya

I would, and have, parked illegally and just factored the cost of the ticket into dinner. Also, to my knowledge, Komi does not take parties over four. Things may have changed since I've been there, but do call and ask.

Just a little didactic reminder that Russian and Uzbek are two distinct peoples who did not come from the same genetic pot. Thanks.

Uzbeki food is closer to Central and South Asia (i.e. Afghanistan, Persia, some but not all Pakistani) than to Middle Eastern. It's a lot heavier and starchier. I don't think there's an Uzbeki restaurant in this area. For a bit of historical trivia for you, Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, is famed for abundance of fruit, vegetables and food in general. During World War II it received millions of evacuees from Middle Russia because famine was never a threat in that area. Also, in my hometown, if you can't make Uzbek pilaf, you are not marriage material.

Why? Don't be!

Wow, Miss Baklava Maker. You are sophisticated beyond the limits of my imagination. But the shopkeeper blood in me wonders - is there perhaps a market for ground almond SKINS? For, you know, recipes that call for exact proportion of blanched almonds to blanched almond skins or similar. I can probably have fun coming up with a name for that, after I'm done having fun popping out the white, slick nuts. Almond 4 Skins?

If I wasn't me, but instead was a different person who owns pounds of sophisticated kitchen machinery in form of food processor, and has patience to enjoy physical labor - why, I'd get to have all kinds of fun. You know, whilst popping out white, slick nuts. Until then, I get to give me money to King Arthur and Whole Foods.

Kopitiam, a Malaysian joint on M St. between Camelot and other titty clubs. Very casual, inexpensive, food is serviceable.

Thanks, darlings, went to Whole Paycheck last lunch break and bought a bag of almond flour, thirteen sodding ninety-five a pound.

After careful consideration, I concur. Actually, not after one second of consideration. How do you prefer one to the other? They are two totally different experiences. Dining at Citronelle is a major production that requires planning, deliberation, hours of grooming and selecting the right shoes, and weeks of fasting thereafter to repair the bottom line and the waist line. Dining at Central, well, you can pop in in your skankiest jeans, eat a damn good burger at the bar and bugger off, all in under an hour. I can see doing it regularly, mostly in the mirror, as I ate and drank at Central three times over the last two weeks. I wouldn't want to have a full Citronelle dinner every week, would you??

If you are not someone who enjoys physical labor at any great length or owns pounds of sophisticated kitchen machinery, where would you go to buy ground almonds or pistachios? I hear they are available for sale, but can't find them anywhere, and I rather enjoy the thought of someone thoughtful doing my nut-grinding for me.

I didn't see this comment until much later, but I need to make a Public Service Announcement again. Please, people. Please. Just because the tables happen to be un-seated at the exact moment you are staring at them, it doesn't mean that they are available! If you walk in at 6 pm, and you are told there are no tables available, so you park at the bar and ogle the tables resentfully, it may very well be that there is a reservation pending for that table at 7.15 pm, and the reservationist has no reason to believe you will be done in an hour. Why did they seat you later? Who knows? Maybe there was a cancellation. Maybe they decided they could squeeze you in after all. I will face the rage of a walk-in who is denied a table any day over making half-assed apologies to a reservation who walks in and can't be seated at a reasonable time.

Cedric did serious time under Michel Richard's tutelage. I'm pretty sure Richard by now has him drilled in all the details of How The Big Man Wants Things Done.

Nature tolerates no vacuum. It's official. Central on Monday night is what PalenaMondayNight used to be. Finally tried the burger as I felt I was sliding to me old Burger-Hatin' Euro ways. Let me tell you. That burger is the work of art. Crisp brioche bun, perfectly done (that is, cooked perfectly in accordance with my blood-loving instructions) patty, cheese, bacon, mayo tarted up with some horseradish, and a little love letter from a kitchen sophisticate, a paper-thin tuille-like crisp flat potato chip made of shredded potato lovingly supporting the meat from both sides. The bar drinks continue to entertain and for once in me young life, I would willingly take alcohol over dessert. That Pimms cocktail smells of spring. The apricot libation is just decadent. And next Monday, well, you know where I'll be

Cheers: regularly getting onion soup at BdC after skating practice whilst still wearing that black spandex getup. Jeers: denied access to skanky Paper Moon because a member of our party wore tennis shoes.

Quick dinner on Thursday night. Cheers: Quirky community-center hipsterish decor. Pretty chandolier. Getting a seat is not a problem. Bar staff speaks Russian. Food can be comforting, particularly on a cold night such as last Thursday. Carrot ginger soup is quite flavorful. Would have loved to do shots of acquavit. Jeers: Food overpriced for a fare most charitably described as "homey" and least charitably, as "mediocre." Split pea and ham soup too starchy and thick. Hunter's stew hot and satisfying but a touch too acidic. Desserts blah. Wish the place had more people in it. Glad I tried it, but will not be hauling bottom all the way up to Petworth again without special reason.

Miss Chica summed it up perfectly...man, that list goes on and on and on. The evening was a show of complete, unrestrained hedonism (well, is there another kind? there is something very wrong about being hedonistic in moderation). Blueberry champagne is a must-drink, note to self, close to four glasses of bubbly (in addition to many, many others) and zero hangover on Sunday, is this not the best recommendation? Love the decor, modern and spacious and luminous, even if the stylized, larger-than-life rendition of Michel Richard on the wall is a bit over the top. On the plus side, while you are getting drunk and squinting your eyes, the portrait is abstract enough to transform in your blurry vision into sky and clouds, pictures of relatives, birds and bees and assorted moving images, anything, really, and is also giggle-inducing, which is good for digestion. Or ingestion. Not sure which, perhaps both. The service was like a good interpreting service - completely unnoticeable yet making things happen. I turn my head away for a second to admire the view or to ponder on the meaning of life; I turn my head back, and there are glasses and things on the table. How? how? I don't know but I was loving it. They know what I want and what goes with what I want. Whoever trained the staff deserves a gold medal. They made us feel adored. The kitchen, to which we had first-row tickets, is three times as big as my apartment; it was like an upscale ballet of impossibly clean-looking cooks dishing out the plates to the wide slab counter. The faux gras pate has to be my favorite indulgence of February. I believe it was 60% the real thing and 40% chicken livers; in any event, it was ridiculously rich and good and flavorful and I refuse to believe it's bad for me. How can anything made of liver be bad for MY liver? The problem with the menu is that EVERYTHING looks good. You know how really good eateries make you wish for expanded stomach capacity? I want the hanger steak AND the lobster burger AND fried chicken AND for my miniskirt to still zip up with no problem, which shall I choose? My hanger steak was perfect, Chica's lobster burger was perfect, my stomach capacity was very far from perfection. Desserts..what a showstopper. I don't know from souffles. But I heard they are hard to make. The one they set before us was proudly erect with just a touch of quivering, and oh that chocolate sauce, I wish I could spoon it and eat it all up, I do. Hazelnut bar is Citronelle's KitKat bar on steroids, it's more like a chocolate log, and I wish I was more hungry. Yes, the chef wanted to make another dessert for us, which we foolishly! declined. Now as I'm typing this, fresh from my ascetic breakfast of dry toast and egg, WHY did I not agree to another dessert? WHY? I do believe I found a new home downtown. I predict that these bar stools will be seeing quite a bit of my bottom. If they'll have me in the dining room again, I should be so lucky. I met at least two managers I wanted to marry by the end of my dinner. I don't remember when we stumbled out. I can't believe I drove home.

If part of the money (or all of it, really) goes to charity, will you start making lunch already? Or do I have to keep giving me money to sodding Boston Market?? I'm across the street, you know. It's not far, now is it.

Cheers: Open 24 hours a day. Sushi chefs sport a generally amenable disposition. Scallion pancake on par with other area restaurants, and I can personally consume eight a day and not lose an eyelash over it, probably single-handedly driving up scallion sales in the DC area by a quarter. Did I say it's open 24 hours a day? Kimchee keeps coming, with a nice crunch and spiciness. Pickled veggie sides can make a serviceable meal. The whole 24 hours a day thing intrigues me. Spoons come with cute little condom-like wrappers on wide parts reminiscent of "sanitized for your protection" on Motel Six bathtubs, driving up the giggle factor. Jeers: "Spicy" pork BBQ is feeble in spice quotient. Should have stayed home and eaten my lovely curry. Waitresses speak worse English than I at age seven. Sushi pedestrian. Don't go with anyone you fancy - playing footsie under the table results in unlovely ridged burn marks from scorchingly hot barbecue gas pipe tentacles pressing into tender thigh areas. Road leading to restaurant is one lane, therefore, cannot overtake slowpokes without endangering self.

No. Inna name of the lord and all his cherubs. No. If I was off, I would have my studmuffin take me to Popeyes, buy me four biscuits, and feed them to me in the back seat of the car. But I'm on. So maybe it's oysters. Or potentially passing out upon return home. I'm sorry, were you looking for suggestions for a good place to eat on V-day? Besides your kitchen? And maybe places like Karachi or Islamabad City?

It is not often that I bust out a ballgown. In fact, me skating gloves get more game than me ballgown, and believe me, they don't get a whole lot of game. But on the rare occasions when sparkles and sequins come out, the setting needs to fit the bill. As long as I don't have to foot it. And that's why a few Saturdays ago the four of us were ushered into Prime Rib's dining room. "Do you find the idea of time travel appealing?" my friend said to me. "You will love this if you do." Hmmm, all right. As long as destination is not pre-indoor plumbing, I suppose. To put it in objective, dispassionate terms for which I am generally known, Prime Rib took me back fifty years ago, easily. Did I enjoy it? It was an experience. But did I enjoy it? I know I wanted to. There are people who I like and trust who enjoy it. If it's good enough for Mr. Eccelenza Slater, it is most certainly good enough for me. The dining room looks like a slightly PG-fied Hugh Hefner testosterone fantasy completely untouched by time. Black tufted leather wingback chairs that must feel like a girdle to anyone over size eight, not that I would know what that's like. Walls done up in bordello-esque black and gold, studded with flimsy chandoliers and pictures of horny swans drooling on helpless rubenesque nudes. An absolutely astonishing number of combovers and three-piece pinstripe suits. Enough hair helmets fit to fly in Soyuz Apollo mission, or to keep Acquanet in business for the rest of my life. And yes, darlings, there are still women in this land of abundance and Gucci outlet malls who wake up one morning and decide to wear a white blouse with a gold lame bow tie. They exist. Their natural habitat is in Prime Rib on Saturday nights. As my friend said, "I keep expecting an old lady with a fruit-mounted hat and crudely applied rouge to show up any minute." Also, the median diner age must have been around 72 - after our little band of four people under thirty-three was seated. Prior to that, perhaps 103. But I digress. How was the food? The menus, too, were completely untouched by time, all the way down to the old-fashioned typeface. The content, as you can imagine, has probably been set in stone since 1952. At least. In other words, Nelson will dance a jig stark naked on his column before anyone can put anything foamed or ponzu-reduced on that menu. There is prime rib. There is all kinds of steak, the most daring preparation being steak rocquefort. There is crabcake, crab imperial, bisque. There is lobster (I think.) And if they don't come with more description than that, it's because they don't come with any more than that. My prime rib was a split-cut, which was still enough to feed a small family for weeks. A beautiful piece of meat, perfectly prepared, tender, and so unadorned, it looked like a Midwestern virgin. What's on the plate? you say. Prime rib, I say onto you. And what else? Prime rib. What, nothing else? No. Prime rib, presented in a small puddle of what I presume is Jus de Prime Rib, aka the liquid that seeped out during cooking. No sauce. No garnish. No style. No flourish. No daring improvisation in form of perhaps a lone parsley sprig on top. But aren't there sides? Yes. There's all kinds of sides you can find at any American table. Creamed spinach, steamed spinach, french fries, corn on the cob. The good side of sides: they are exactly as described. The bad side of sides: they are boring. The service was smooth and efficient, but perhaps a touch impersonal. Not that I am complaining, but for an experience such as this, I want a silver-haired, immaculately dressed waiter that gracefully cocks his head to side while listening to my troubles and deftly refreshing my martini. Perhaps patting my bottom as I stand up. Alas. What I got was a nimble youth taking down my order and depositing said items in front of me when food arrived. Finish. Desserts don't even merit a mention, unless dishonorable. Bread pudding, bleah, cubed pieces of bread resting on a thin puddle of vanilla-ish sauce, submerged perhaps by 1/8th of an inch. Pastry chef, report to headquarters for spanking at once. Unacceptable. So as much as I appreciate an unadorned piece of sublime protein, my enjoyment of Prime Rib was purely anthropological in nature, similar to what I imagine one feels whilst on a visit to an Amish village. I didn't even know places like this exist anymore. And the real dessert came at the end of the meal, when an octogenarian sliding, with considerable difficulty, out of his padded seat next to me suddenly stopped moving and stared at my cleavage long enough to make me want to hand him a pair of binoculars. Instead of indignation, I broke into unsupressible giggling. "Leave it," my friend said. "Don't move. Straighten up. Shoulders back. Chest out. It's charity, in more ways than one."

For me, a neighborhood restaurant is the place you are happy to patronize for promixity reasons, but would not travel to visit. Scenario 1: I am visiting a friend who works near the Nat'l Cathedral. "Hey Nadya, wanna hit 2 Amys?" "Sure, man." Scenario 2: I am hanging out at Eastern Market with a friend who lives on the Hill. "Hey Nadya, wanna drive to 2 Amys for dinner?" "Nah, too far. Let's go around the corner instead."

I would also argue that Komi was never meant to be a "neighborhood" restaurant in the same sense that 2 Amys or Monmartre are. It happens to be in a neighborhood, yes, but its appeal is much greater. What was the last time you walked into Komi for dinner (as opposed to a reservation)?

After getting hammered in and out up and down left and right every night, every night during Restaurant Week, the last thing I want to is to hit a brother presumably in the pangs of the same misery. Yet after a breathtakingly incompetent half an hour into Bebo (fifteen minutes before eye contact with bartender? server looking up at me with "oh shit" instead of "hello princess"? Nyet. ), we moved to Rasika and couldn't be happier. Cozy seats at the chef's counter. Professional, courteous service. Palak chaat, delicate crispy gorgeous as ever. Humble lentils turned into satisfying depth of dal makhani. Braised lamb (salli boti) came as cubed lamb instead of a shank I enjoyed on previous visits, doused in sauce of sweet deliciousness so ubelievable that when a chef came out, he offered to fix us up with more sauce. Calamari in tangy tomato sauce, miles away from the usual mediocrity. Everything so good, you forget it's Restaurant Week. And bread basket, note to self, do not forget bread basket, or else the delicious sauces will go to waste lingering at bottoms of plates instead of being mopped up and thrust in mouth. Cannot wait to return.

Look, pumpkins. It's Restaurant Week. It's over 200 covers every night. We try to please really hard. When you adjust for volume, the number of dissatisfied customers during RW isn't that different from regular nights. The waiter's manners are a matter of personal opinion. One man's patronizing is another's cordiality. They didn't click with the waiter, obviously. That happens. No one likes to be rushed from the table, of course. But see above. It's Restaurant Week. It's over 200 covers every night. And the clash of civilizations we have here is this: Diner: "How nice to sit down. What a posh place. God bless Restaurant Week. Finally, a chance to have a fancy meal." Waiter. "It's 6.45 pm. Would be nice to have them out by 8 pm to turn the table. Let's see if they are ready for apps." Oce again, for every customer who is annoyed with the offer to order appetizers there is another one who is annoyed with "but he didn't even offer us appetizers!" They obviously had a bad experience; I regret that. Adjusting expectations during RW is a very prudent policy but RW attracts a type of diners who are not always inclined to do that.

Yeah Chicago!!!!