giant shrimp

thanks for the information in the two posts. i have decided on l'impero. babbo sounds tempting and i have walked by there many times -- sometimes many, many times on the same day. maybe mario betali is just too enterprising for me, and i definitely liked the looks of what he was cooking on television better before iron chef america. manhattan is a place for furious walking. i have a hard time stopping, except at the park across the street from the flatiron building, where on the weekends the people and the dogs all seem to know one another. we are just going for the day --hans memling in the morning (his paintings in brugge are incredible), sweeney todd in the afternoon and i'm sure we really will be in the mood for a good meat pie and a hunk of cheval before heading home on the peter pan. this saturday i am going up just to watch other people eat.

argh! is pretentious unless you're popeye.

the dc vice squad used to run a prostitution sting operation above dupont circle and along connecticut avenue. one day, we watched a prospective customer get cuffed in front of the restaurant. we did our people watching from the other side, and a bit later the faux streetwalker and a few buddies stopped in to inquire about free popcorn. and what was the name of the thatch-hut place a few doors down? junkanoo?

the tex mex place didn't last for very long and i can't remember the name, but i do recall that it specialized in extremely inept service and margarita pitchers that were tough to pour. we went back a few times, so there must have been something in the food.

does anyone know anything about l'impero or 'cesca?

i don't think i have ever had a dining experience like the meal at ray's last night. michael landrum's commitment to his profession and the community runs deep. as good as the food may be, there's a lot more to it than that.

i miss fio's too. on some tempestuous nights it was like watching a family wrestling, but they usually managed to patch things up. av cannot make up for its absence. walking up 19th street the other day on a blustery late afternoon, the thought occurred to me that i also miss i ricchi, though i am unsure how much. i haven't decided what to do about this. i don't want to spend a lot of money just to find out that thomas wolfe was right. i miss rupperts. viridian, so far, has not demonstrated to me that it can fill that void, but that is a story from the missing chefs department. i miss susanne's above dupont circle, city cafe on m street and mr yung who died with his boots on.

Discussing how he had vented his smoldering anger over the indifference of white americans to the sad history of genocide against the Indians by destroying mount rushmore in his latest novel, we decided that local writer david martin was definitely in the right place in his appearance the other night at busboys and poets. But by the time we got our books signed, we were not so sure about ourselves and decided to abandon plans to have a meal there. My wife complained that the giant propaganda posters at the back of the Langston room stage were headache-inducing and reminded her of “the Manchurian candidate.” Gandhi and martin luther king were a cinch to recognize, but we were, to our shame, stumped in identifying the third larger-than-life luminary in the ongoing struggle for social justice. no, it is not jim backus, I told her. could it be desmond tutu? By the end of his presentation, the author himself seemed out of sorts, blinded by the stage lights, and not entirely up to greeting the well-wishers thronging past the owner’s peace-wall collage that dominates the room. We made a stumbling passage past the crowded dining area, the open kitchen and the lounge before reaching the front door. The premises were bustling with diners and workers, who seemed committed primarily to having a good time, including a convivial young adult who was crawling on the floor between the tables. In the eyes of survivors of the bean sprouts, brown rice and heavy wampum days of the 1960s and 70s, what is most disorienting about this thriving community gathering spot is that it gives the anti-establishment movement the appearance of having gone glam. Our quest for something new led to café saint-ex a couple of blocks down the street and an abrupt change of scenery. Named after postal pilot and “little prince” author Antoine de saint-exupery, the restaurant is jammed with aviation-related photographs and paraphernalia and also an accumulation of trophies and other dust collectors that typify the neighborhood corner saloon. It feels more like capitol hill than 14th street, with dark and heavy wood, marble tops on the dozen or so tables and a bar that commands attention. Even when full, you can still embrace some quiet here, and the friendly servers facilitate a smooth ride. However, there is more going on in the kitchen than you would have any right to expect in such a place, and the interior design is so successful that it takes a while for the realization that this is not a genuinely haphazard arrangement to sink in. (there are even t-shirts on the wall, one with the restaurant’s plane logo and a second with a skunk, both for sale.) as you start tasting the food, your sense that the restaurant’s theme might be a bit arbitrary is dispelled by a cooking talent that is well matched to connotations of hard landings and the mysterious disappearance that ended saint-ex’s life. It may have been a suicide, according to speculation. Serious drinkers will find their spirits lifted by a menu devoted to an extensive selection of scotch and beer. The bartender is also expert at shaking a mean premium martini. A bit overwhelmed by the number of draft beer choices on the chalkboard, my wife does well by starting at the top of the alphabetical list with an allagash white. It’s refreshing, as is the glass of preludio no. 1 chardonnary I nurse throughout the meal. A baby spinach salad special arrives plain as can be in a light citrusy dressing with shavings of pecorino and raw squash. The latter ingredient does next to nothing for me or the salad – crunch for the sake of crunch – and even at what is usually a tender age, the spinach leaves have toughened up, inuring themselves to the cold world. I enjoyed the salad, but if I had had the ability to travel 15 minutes or so back in time I would have ordered something else. Seared endive with watercress is more noteworthy, the evening’s first hint that the chef likes to stand perilously close to the fire in his kitchen. She likes it and defends it fairly well against my fork. Frustrated in recent attempts to procure a decent cheeseburger (and still not quite convinced that we shouldn’t have headed to palena, although by this time its front dining room must be swamped), my wife finds approximately what she has been looking for. The tomato is remarkably flavorful and ripe for this time of year. Red onions are thin and sweet. The meat, medium rare, is worthy, though considering the competition these days, it’s hard to score the blue ribbon in this event. There is a generous mound of hacked-up fries wearing crunchy, irregularly-skinned coats and they provide almost a sense of extrusion, as if they were forced through a mill, but more importantly, they taste like potatoes. These are the things she tells me. What she only reveals later, as I am discussing my theory about the kitchen, is that the bun, the most ordinary part of her sandwich, was scorched, not to a cinder, but enough to render the faint flavor of ash – what you might taste if you stuck your tongue out following an explosion? Of course, to be honest, I have been writing backwards because none of this line of thought even occurred to me before I received my trout. I am glad I ordered it. this wood-roasted fish dish is an audacious presentation, shattering any preconception of pristine streams and a skillet over the campfire. If you were on a gourmet flight (I know there is no such thing these days, but imagine some of the special west coast trains you have seen on television where the chef is just as important as the engineer), and it crashed, this is what they would serve the survivors sitting by the wrecked fuselage. The trout has been butterflied, there’s not a bone left in it, and it is served blackened skin-side-up. As if that weren’t enough to grab your attention, it is dotted with a generous number of halved brussel sprouts, dark dots before your eyes. It is disconcerting. Someone had ordered it nearby and they were wondering about it loud enough for us to hear. The flesh of the fish tasted good, the skin was prime and the Brussels sprouts – held in the pan beyond any question that they had carmelized and with hints of vinegar – knocked me out. In fact, a more appropriate name for this recipe should be sprouts with trout, although that might discourage people from ordering it, and they should. Desserts provided muted notes by comparison. Without its thick icing of dark chocolate (with cinnamon and something else?), I don’t know what I would have made of the bread pudding. It is certainly unconventional, basically one piece, on the dry side, but nevertheless somewhat satisfying. My wife had coffee ice cream with chocolate sauce, and that’s about all there is to say about it. she liked it. if you want to end with some espresso, there is no need to worry. They say they don’t have it, but the cup of coffee that comes your way is great, just about the same thing except you get three times as much. Giving some more thought to this place and its nostalgic surroundings, who’s to say that the experience being evoked at saint-ex isn’t actually post-apocalyptic, in a “mad max” kind of way? In a hundred years, or some time in the future, maybe this will be the best that we can do in terms of fine dining, led by a chef who’s an excellent forager and an expert in getting the most of the fire he tends. 14th street is a virtual desert, and saint-ex is its dining oasis. A footnote: busboys and poets gets its name from an encounter between poet vachel Lindsay and Langston Hughes, who served him when he was a guest at the wardman hotel and later showed him some of his own poems. Monday, dec. 5, will be the anniversary of lindsay’s death. He took his own life by drinking a bottle of Lysol. I wonder if they make it as strong as they used to.

i don't think that creme is overpriced. restaurants are getting pretty expensive these days, so is food. but my main point is that we are not the last of the big spenders, and it's pretty easy to run up a $100 tab at creme and many other restaurants in its vicinity.

there was an invisible crowd on a slow sunday night at viridian a little before curtain time at the neighboring studio theatre, so the hostess seemed a bit aggressive when she asked if we had a reservation. as we were escorted around the perimeter of the two-thirds-empty dining room to its furthest corner, assumingly to accommodate the imminent crush of diners who knew when and where they were going, we felt a little bit like drifters but were happy to be in such an inviting spot after zigzagging our way from chinatown and noticing such changes in the landscape as the absence of transvestites from the park on mass. ave. before you get to morrison-clark inn and discouragingly expensive condos sprouting all over the place like mushrooms. but it is still probably possible to get murdered, or at least mugged, while delving into the area west of the new convention center on a dark and lonely night, we theorized. viridian is a swank, high-ceilinged, spacious box with a few oversized retromodern light fixtures, sueded walls, polished cement floors, muted earth tones and an extensive collection of local photographs. it's easy on the eyes, votives flickering on the tables, the lighting somewhat hazy without the smoke that would surely have permeated the fabulous jazzy club the restaurant's designers have resurrected from their imagination. the service, however, is casual and the menu built on cooking that's good for you. as we were getting adjusted, we noticed that my wife was sitting under the back of the bald head of washington color school stripe artist gene davis, a personal reminder from the past we would have missed entirely had we not been banished from the heart of the room. she met him once when he sold us a drawing of two silhouettes of himself, a trough and an ink pot that had been coupled with a drawing by our young son of himself using his long arms to keep the world around him from toppling. it was the man telling the child to relax, pretty much: we're all going to die anyway, so we might as well use our mortality as a creative source. the artist generously forgave the last two monthly installments on the purchase. he lived close to friendship heights in a bright blue house i am sure some of the neighbors must have thought loud. in the photograph, one of the few color shots on the restaurant wall, gene davis is wearing a pale blue shirt, which is about as intense as the decor here gets. if gene davis had eaten his meals at a place like viridian, where butter and cream have been banished, would he have saved himself from a fatal heart attack? the waiter righteously explains the principle upon which the night's recipes are unbendingly founded when i inquire if the cauliflower soup has cream. it does not. it is nothing but itself, pureed, and some salt and pepper. fortunately, the restaurant's concern for the health of its customers does not stop the showpiece bar from pouring strong libations that get to the point directly. the menus are attached to thick cardboard, and held in place by the horizontal and vertical interesection of black rubber bands, sort of a colorblind riff on mondrian. there is a top-heavy recitation of appetizers, opening with soups, then vegetables, a green salad and ending with items that could be ordered as small entrees, such as mussels and a lamb chop. there were only four entrees -- rockfish, chicken, buffalo and a squash walnut tart, $14 each, followed by a list of side accompaniments, $5 a pop. the realization that there may be a downside to removing two of the most useful culinary staples from the premises arrives with the bread basket. the bread is okay, a bit cakey in texture, its softish crust specked with black and white sesame. the pulverized squash spread that comes with it, unfortunately, is not okay, wet and wan, an unfortunate puddle. there are few among us, i would wager, who can remember the taste of our mother's milk, unless we were reluctantly weaned. the earliest explosion on my palate that i can remember came from a warmed jar of squash, and viridian's version is an insult to that memory. tapenade-ish olives are a better dip. the best solution to this problem, however, comes from the french: bake such good bread that you don't need to slather anything on it. this bread is not there yet. a small bowl of the essence of cauliflower needs something as well; it is not a disaster, but middling. it is hard to believe that the starchiness, almost pastiness that emanates is inherent in the cauliflower. the flavor of cauliflower comes into and out of focus, and in some spoonfuls is almost lost. maybe not butter and cream, but here is a vegetable crying out for something; as prepared here, it makes a less than compelling argument for eating right. why have it at all? on the other side of the table, a bowl of small mussels is not bad, and its scallion broth is the best thing to come along so far to make the bread disappear. the two pieces of roasted chicken au jus are tender and good. the squash tart is an interesting enticement to carnivores that will at least half-way win them over, and the doctors these days are absolutely raving about walnuts. however, it is at this point in the meal that we realize that the service, while friendly and decent, is not entirely attentive, so i head to the bar to request a glass of rose and another of rolin hautes cotes de beaune burgundy, 2000. it's no big deal to me. it's better to get up and ask for what you want rather than sitting there stewing, but it does result, my wife observes, in a flurry of semaphore between the bar and the floor, and the waiter is there only seconds after i return to the table curious about what i was doing, and eventually stops over to ask if we -- the least trustworthy of his charges -- need any more bread. there are roughly a dozen wines on the menu, reds outnumbering whites by two-to-one, and all are available by the glass or the bottle. there are three sparkling wines. as for the sides, brussel sprout halves with pickeled ginger are good, but hardly the best in town. roast potatoes with garlic are equally good. orange pistachio cake is a bit overwhelmed by cranberry compote and it's hard to taste the two prime ingredients. (the differences between bread and cake seem to blur in this kitchen.) a faux cream helps sweeten the assemblage, and two skinny isosceles triangles of ginger snap are used to provide an architectural dimension and taste okay enough that i am willing to concede they are not just there for decoration. the chocolate cake is mounded with chocolate sorbet, and my wife must have really liked the dessert because she was gobbling it up faster than it could melt. "ice cream" on the menu is made available through the miracle of soy milk. (i have read opinions that soy is over-rated in the health department, and that whey is where it's at.) (back to the walls, not a saucer's throw away, we also eventually noticed a color photo of the artistic clark brothers on a baseball field snapped more than two decades ago. when we were first married, my wife worked briefly at a sewing remnant shop on connecticut near st. matthew's with the wife of mark clark, and this was the first time we had seen either of them in years. an elderly woman with a turban used to frequent the store but was rarely, if ever, able to decide upon a purchase. she had 12 toes. it turned out that she lived in our building, was from transylvania and had problems tossing things out, which resulted in two fires. i was told that she gathered pigeon eggs from her balcony, but she has taken her recipe to the old folks home, or the grave.) there were at least one dozen empty tables for two in prime locations in the restaurant when we departed, roughly the same as when we had entered. this was the source of friction for several other parties who came in after us, according to my wife. most of their requests to be seated at better tables were accommodated, though one was not, and they were not happy. for us, hugging the back wall worked out fine. this is a phenomenal restaurant in some respects and a temptation to mix dining with theatre-going in the same night, which new york times drama critic walter kerr once argued, fairly convincingly, is really too much of a good thing. i don't think that the kitchen is a mess. at this very early stage, this is a promising opertation. however, it is a bit ironic that the best things we found on the menu were the closest to breaking out of the healthy food mold. we most likely will return to check out the second act. dinner for two (from two lavish spenders): $130.

two drinks, two glasses of wine, two appetizers and two entrees plus tax and tip equals $100 for two. if we had just ordered cheeseburgers, if they had had any, plus a glass of wine, it would have been less. but this is not a cheap restaurant. i have no complaints about the place physically. it's nice. however, i thought it was part of the white noise of u street development, for better or worse, not an escape from it. i could be wrong (i didn't get to see it with the lights all the way up) but it seemed like a substantial renovation job, and i am assuming that high rent is built into your check. you can make a real escape from the new u at the ethiopian restaurants further down the street. they are a good 40% less expensive than creme cafe and the food is excellent.

i'm not a good judge of the vicissitudes of obelisk since it has been years and years since i have been. the restaurant became somewhat of a running joke with us. my wife would call, usually at the last minute, and not be able to get a reservation, though she was equally unsuccessful the few times she thought she was planning well enough in advance. also, they sounded disdainful on the other end of the telephone. my memories of obelisk were that it was small, that the meals were simple and well prepared. i could be wrong in my recollection that we ate there even before galileo opened on p street, which we found a less expensive and more interesting alternative, but i will never forget when someone rushed out of the kitchen to ask us excitedly about what we thought of the small pieces of cheese on our plates. it's parmesan, right, i said? yes, it's parmesan! i guess those were the days when people still didn't know you could actually eat it ungrated. so there is a big hole in my obelisk experience. the last time, several months ago, when my wife suggested calling i told her to skip it. someone at work had just eaten there, partly to visit with a relative who was pitch-hitting on the floor staff, and he reported that it wasn't worth the money. i assumed that the energies had flowed to two amy's, which was yielding new finds for us on a fairly regular basis, such as deep fried anchovy bones, which my wife would not touch, or chestnut honey and gorgonzola, which she will not share. the pizzas were fine, but we were more excited by what we were finding around the edges of the menu. who knew that green beans, salt and olive oil could be as good as just about anything, which originally had been the point at the far less commercial venture in dupont circle. when i saw obelisk listed here among the restaurants that never come up, it revived my interest, but again, no dice with the reservations. then i noticed the don rockwell review and thought maybe it was just as well. then the post returned to the subject, sounded fairly convincing about a resurgent kitchen, so we tried again and were able to get in on a thursday night. peter pastan, we knew, was capable of orchestrating a memorable meal, even from behind the controls. so we were looking forward to the opportunity of finding out what he could do in more intimate surroundings with what we had read was the catalytic return of jerry corso to washington's every-chaging culinary cast of characters. the entry to obelisk is awkward. one flight of steps leads from the sidewalk to the door, beyond which is a small entranceway with a reservations table and pegs on the wall, where you can hang your coat if you're not worried that it would be easy lifting for a thief. going beyond the second door, you are barging into a darkened dining room that is in the midst of the ususal activities and quiet conversation. the noise levels will escalate slowly over the next couple of hours, but there is a strange hush to the whole place. the greeting and seating go smoothly, but the hostess leads the way with a conspiratorial aura; something has gone terribly wrong on these premises earlier in the evening. as guests, we are not to catch wind of it. i know of a restaurant that used to sneak live pheasants into the kitchen so that they could illegally butcher them there (wring their necks), so we could even be talking about a murder, though there is probably something smaller lurking behind the awkward smile. maybe they don't really like us being here; we're ruining it for them, and that's just the way things will have to be until the last customer leaves and the situation returns to normal, whatever normal is. they say that restaurants change all the time, so maybe it is just this one special night that the ambience flickers the way it does over sealed lips. the antipasto table off to the right of center is reassuring, with fiery orange squash and gourds beneath its legs. our server appears out of nowhere. she is small and polished and we will find out later, when she applies the parmesan to our pasta, an athlete. as we explore our matinis, the boundaries of the apparition widen and we join into it. the bread sticks are remarkably good, crusty and singed with plump spots of tender bread, sweet, an earthy encounter with wheat. we order a bottle of quartodisole cantina grotta del sole 2000 ($58, priced in the middle range of the wine list). our server says yum, so i assume i have chosen reasonably well from a list where it is most likely difficult to stumble. the wine is refreshing, fruity, purplish, medium bodied, not exactly as powerful as i have since read the combination of aglianico and piedirosso grapes described, but a cheerful addition to our table for the lengthy duration of our meal. things do still go downhill from the antipasto course in the revivified obelisk, an onslaught of four dishes, but this is a hard act to follow. most memorable by far was the burrata cheese, a pulled cow-milk mozzarella, whose fresh and creamy core plays off a chewy skin. this is tantamount to eating a newborn cheese plucked asleep from a bed of olive oil and salt and wakening on your tongue. calamari in a tomato sauce was delicious, as were two crostini. noodles in a lamb ragu with chantarelles followed, providing perfect flavor and texture, the food of shepherds who tend their flocks in pastoral contentment. when asked if there are any questions, nearby diners can be heard to ask for the identity of the pollastrino. it is a chicken halfway to becoming a grown-up, then deboned and smashed. a honeyed aroma lingers over the plate, the plumpest and softest meat consorting with equally succulent porcini. there is no tension, no contrast, in the ingredients here, but it is another burst of the baby, yielding its opulent juices without a whimper, without a muscle, just enough resistance to entertain the teeth along with the faint buzzing of bees. across the table, my wife was content with anchovy and tomato raviolis and lamb chops romping in rapini, though i was too self-absorbed by this time to noticed if her courses had carried her to a similar rapture. what was best in the cheese course -- bocconcino di capra -- was enough to make the goat the most endearing animal in the barnyard. more generous portions of principe and pecorino stagionato rounded out the plate. desserts were a yogurt panna cotta and an apple and quince almond crumble sitting beside a mound of whipped cream, more simplicity. in my estimation, they run neck and neck with desserts at two amy's but on many nights would not be the first to cross the finish line. as for the mystery of the reservations, this is only a roughly 12-table restaurant and most of the tables did not seem to turn over. we arrived at 6:30. two or three tables were empty until maybe 7:30-8:00. one couple around 8:30 came in without a reservation, was allowed to perch at the tiny bar near the kitchen door for a few minutes and then seated next to us. the woman wore a black evening dress and a dazzling array of diamonds my wife claimed must be rhinestones. she was also wearing expensive perfume. the night we were there, obelisk seemed to be popular with out-of-towners. dinner for two was about $260, worth it i think, but making it impractical to regularly sample the ever-changing menu. we received a warmer, more spontaneous smile on our way out into the cold night. and we really didn't care whether or not it was a sign of relief.

merrian-webster online says ditsy. i, myself, think of air-headed. wifty service: you know it when you see it.

i think his problem is that he smokes too much, assuming that he really has stopped abusing drugs, which is what he wrote. caught one episode of his new show on the travel channel, and it was not a success. the intimacy of the original series is gone, the format is bloated. he almost kills himself by overturning a recreational vehicle on the beach in new zealand. his characteristic nonchalance is wearing thin. of course, if you have ever seen what he eats on these shows in foreign lands, i suspect there is a fair amount of dysentery to help keep the weight down as well.

After a hard day chopping down mature trees and excavating dirt from the grounds of the washington cathedral and sidwell friends school, we had worked up quite an appetite and decided to hop on the nearest bus, which happened to be a 90, in search of nourishment in the fast-changing u street area. there were a lot of places we had heard about and wanted to try. walking east from 14th, creme cafe was the first to come up and had the look of new real estate, so we popped in, not knowing what to expect. kobe beef hotdogs were in the back of my mind. the restaurant is long and narrow, a pit area up front for lounging, followed by a longish bar on the left and an open kitchen at the end. dining tables run the length of the right hand side along a banquette, accommodating roughly eight parties at a time at tables that can be split into two-tops for some flexibility in seating, but mostly were not. exposed hvac conduits hug the ceiling, nothing new there in the design world, and there is an abundance of blonde wood, not new either, but this is a nice and comfortable space, clean as a whistle, definitely a big step up from some of the pioneering boho spots along this strip. money has been spent and people are hanging out. it looked, at first, that we would have to cool our heels at the bar, but there was a vacant table next to the mirror. this is not the ideal table for women obsessed with their hair, but it was a good table for us because we were just hungry. drinks were decent; bread ditto accompanied by a spread the consistency of hummous with maybe some artichoke, on the bland side, i believe we were told what was in it but it was harder to hear our server than each other; and the wine list consists mostly of decent bottles you can buy at whole foods on p street. several wines are available by the glass, nothing too serious, and are served in stemless glasses. a first plate of a small bowl of sauteed locally gathered (farmed) mushrooms in truffle oil, seasoned with salt, parsley and scallions provided a rich start to the meal. it was good, with a small assortment of fungi, beneath three thin pads of manchego, only one of which had melted the way it should have. instead of the oil, butter would have worked just as well, maybe better. this is a favorite of our server, if i heard correctly. a caesar salad, served with an anchovy mousse in a small tostada, was pronounced successfuly by my companion, though the diners a couple of tables down had a better idea; it's big enough to share. portion sizes tend to trump flavor at this restaurant. this seems like it would be a good place for a cheeseburger, which may explain why they were out of them. half of a big roasted chicken is on the regular menu, but on sunday night was also offered fried, so i ordered that. it wasn't really that bad, a bit dry, nicely coated with no grease, inconsistently salted. a mound of rice, though, was available to provide the correct seasoning for undersalted pieces. the poultry came with a nice crunchy broccoli spear. the other side of the table was having a rougher time with a surf and turf combo of flatiron steak and shrimp. i tasted the steak, no problem especially, with tarragon nicely balanced in the "berrnaise?" sauce. fried shrimp were reported to be mushy, maybe frozen, with coconut accents and, what this diner particularly does not like to be surprised by -- fusion going on! a small salad, plopped in the middle of the platter, was out of place. this dish had its merits, but just by looking at it you could tell that there was too much going on in one place. no room for dessert, unfortunately, even with hearty appetites. the lemon cake with fresh strawberries looked good. although there were mussels, shrimp and salmon on the menu, the accent seems to be more on meat and potatoes at creme cafe, with a southern accent thrown in for good measure. (skip the big fries, which are totally lacking in character.) and a heated conversation will probably carry you past most of the imperfections in the food ("i don't know if the bilbao guggenheim is tacky, but the hot rock museum is tacky.""i wouldn't listen to her. you should hear what she says about the space needle.") you couldn't fault the service, although it is spread a bit thin. our server seemed to be working all of the tables, took care of our every need throughout the meal and even happily tolerated listening to our ramblings. if i lived across the street, i might put this place on my list, but at $100 for two i know where for the same price i can find sublime versions, closer to home, of some of the same things being offered here. (returning home, we noticed that the alaskan pipeline is still on the ellington bridge, or have they opened up rock creek for exploration?)

squash blossoms are trite when they are put on the menu because they sound good but the people in the kitchen in all honesty would rather spend their time doing something else, and it shows on the plate. a chef of high repute does something creative with watermelon and tomatoes and everyone starts jumping on the bandwagon, and before you know it watermelon starts popping up where it didn't used to be, and who needs it. it's easier to spit out the seeds at home.

i concur that you can't go wrong with deborah madison. in addition to her more comprehensive book listed above, i have had a lot of success with "local favorites" in which she builds recipes around ingredients purchased at the farmers market, including some meats. i have been looking for a copy of "vegetarian suppers" which was published in the spring, and "vegetable soups" is due out in february. if you are interested in adapting some basic recipes and techniques that take some of the calories and fat out, you might be interested in "a new way to cook" by sally schneider. it's not a bible around our kitchen, but i was using it quite a bit for a while and it makes interesting reading. i used to gobble up cookbooks by marcella hazan. i have never had more fun cooking than when following her recipes, but i don't pull them out too often these days because i don't have the time and i'm not sure how long you can survive eating this food. you can come up with some really great things, though, as good or better than what you would find in a top italian restaurant. for a few years i would cook up a storm to see how many dishes i could get on the table in 24 hours for when my rather large family came over on christmas day. i was tempted to buy mark bittman's latest international cookbook the other day. they had signed copies at olsson's that were 15% off, and i should have bought one but i started wondering about why i would want a signed copy of a book that is going to have pots sitting on top of it and suffer all kinds of abuse in the kitchen. i have never followed his recipes from books, but have occasionally cooked his minimalist recipes that appear on thursdays in the new york times. a word of caution about recipes you find in the newspaper: there are often mistakes in them that slip by the editor. i am sure a recent bittman recipe, for example, specified way too much liquid. i was able to cook it off okay, but if i had considered the recipe ahead of time a modicum of common sense would have saved me the trouble. i am prone to jumping blindly into recipes, which can lead to some unhappy surprises. one time following a recipe from the times it seemed like my potatoes were taking an eternity to get done, until our guest, growing impatient, suggested that they would probably never be done if i persisted in cooking them at 150-degrees fahrenheit, and he pointed out that the temperature in the recipe surely was in centigrade. everyone should have a copy of julia child's mastering the art of french cooking. i remember a charlotte russe in there that was supreme. she does like you to spend a lot of time in the kitchen, however. alice water's chez panisse vegetables is a good reference even though it is not totally recipe-oriented. our copy disappeared mysteriously. my hunch is that a friend of our son, whose mother owned a restaurant, decided to present it to her on her birthday.

my wife once ordered a white birthday cake from ann amernick because i told her i liked them. i know what you're talking about, the chef told my wife, like the cakes they sell at giant. it's not something she ordinarily would do, but the cake -- big surprise -- was better than what you could buy at giant. in the opening weeks of her bakery in cleveland park, my wife went to amernick with the expectation that you probably needed to order cakes ahead of time. i told her to get anything, i was sure it would be good. her cake expectations were confirmed by the young woman at the counter -- no cakes. then she went through a list of what they sold, and was turned down on each item -- until she got to the cookies. no cookies, as well. what about these cookies in the display case, she asked. oh, those are just for display, she was told. not quite ready to return home empty-handed, she asked what the two girls on stools at the counter were eating. they brought that in with them, she was told. the story does have a happy ending: eventually we were able to buy cookies -- tiny and terrific -- and move onto cakes, the best of which by far were inspired by ann amernick and not an off-the-wall special request. some years later, in the opening weeks of cake love the vibes are good, so my wife makes a telephone call. do you have any cakes, she asks. no, she is told. we are still waiting for a happy ending to that story.

imagine my enormous disappointment last night when the cake love show was preempted by special thanksgiving programming. after a mere three episodes are they ready for reruns? i mean, give the audience a chance to warm up to it.

it's not that difficult. the extra toppings are listed on the menu. sometimes there are even lamb meatballs, which are better than cheese. the pizzas here don't always get knocked out of the ballpark, it's true, but there's nothing else like them i know of in these parts. also, it's really worth taking a look at the appetizers listed as daily specials and the assortment of small things on the bar menu. i avoid mondays, when the bar menu is not available.

It is during the pasta course that the night's service abruptly veers from a cool, graceful waltz into a perilous tango. securing a wedge of parmesan with a towel in her right hand, the server begins slowly sliding the cheese over the microplane onto a medium-sized plate of papardelle with lamb ragu. There is a light accumulation, and she continues grating. the swaying motion of her hand, mesmerizing, quickens. Seconds pass into what seem like minutes until time eventually stands still. there is only now the pendulous sawing of the server's grating arm, an incessant flexing over what has intensified into a raging storm, a blizzard of parmesan. sensing that a crucial moment has been lost, the diner looks up from his lap, up from the blanketing torrent of swirling cheese, into the astonished, exasperated face of his wife, who, he imagines, meets his gaze, joining his perplexity over how the two of them together have become so totally lost, so unexpectedly, so suddenly bound in the eternal cascade of the parmesan. the noodles, fading under a heavy cover, all but disappear. banks of parmesan grow insurmountable and the onslaught is shifting off the plate, onto the utensils, subsiding into drifts, and the steady, angry pulse beats faster still, impelled by a heart of rage with a mechanical intensity. and then, the inevitable gesture is reached and the hand, knotted, moves off. "can i take a break now?" the server inquires rhetorically, ironically, before shoving back into the dining room grasping her diminished remnant of parmesan. what had she done to escape with a mere dusting of her ravioli, i asked my wife. "i said thank you when i had enough," she said. i sent my fork in rescue of the pasta, preparing to gorge, grateful to think that the server had not been standing over me that night when the clouds of all hell broke.

it's peyton place. it's good for the ratings. it would make a good scene in a werner fassbinder movie. the same reason, i assume, that there was an air of intrigue about the mysterious closing of an italian restaurant on u street. tom has been getting pretty good at conjuring up scenes on his chat line, and mentioning individual restaurants strategically. this week there is even a beach house and the possibility of turkey and wishbones in the sand.

sorry, i don't totally get the heritage rant. is the complainer implying that the reservation wasn't honored because the restaurant would have to donate 15% to earthquake relief? and there aren't enough details to totally make sense of what happened. this sounds like it must have been the dupont circle location, where i have never been; wisconsin ave. normally wouldn't be that crowded on a tuesday night at that time. in any event, i can only assume that todd was typing too fast when he characterized the service as "at best gruff and pushy." in my experience that would be the service at heritage at its very worst. and, yes, it shouldn't happen, but you can get vodka in your martini if you don't specify gin. and if you drink enough martinis you will even start to see the restaurant's often unfairly maligned servers start to smile, especially when you ask for a small bowl of ghee to dip your olives in. looks like i am finally going to have to break down and start buying the washingtonian for information on wine. i am told that looking for high alcohol content is not always the best way to judge a bottle.

but she is available by metro, and even by boat. get off at the king street stop and there are local buses that drive up and down, i think some of them are even free. or, it is about a 15-minute walk. at night, even the shorter tasting menu with wine pairings will make driving difficult. the walk will sober you up.

in the interests of staying on topic, i always have found the idea of human sacrifice a bit unsettling, no less so than after having enjoyed a scottish hare dish at palena. my wife, on the other hand, felt the inspector had it coming. this is the type of person who always orders the steak at sushi-ko.