babka

Mr. Lankford was kind enough to not laugh at my 6V drill, but his expression explained a lot of the troubles I'd had in building bookshelves at home. This was my first trip out and the pictures, as beautiful as they are, don't begin to capture the beauty of his operation. I'm from Iowa, grew up across the street from a cornfield, and was under the erroneous impression that I understood farms. He's turned the whole concept on its head--it was a beautiful, humbling thing to see. The amount of work that's left to do makes my heart hurt, and mr. jacques' head-twitches at the sight of deer and the sound of powder blasts made me laugh all afternoon. Didn't get out of bed until noon today, at which time I discovered some torso muscles I didn't know existed. Extended thanks to Camille-Beau, who brought wondrous food and organizing prowess to the trip!

If anyone can give my friend and I a ride, the second round's on me.

is anyone driving up on Sunday or Monday?

barbarians. most of the lot of you--barbarians. have you never slathered the heel of whole wheat, fresh from the oven, with butter and honey? and then sliced another couple of lumps for mozzarella and tomato? harumph.

Cafe Mozu tonight. Special RW menu, consisting largely of the menu options from last month. Tasty sesame salad w. lotus root, ok duck spring rolls, good steak, overcooked cod, good black & white martini, lemon tart that tried to please all at once and utterly failed. Not, all in all, their best cooking, though perfectly pleasant for the price and a reinforcement of the idea that it's far better to save food dollars for weeks that aren't restaurant week. We asked about an additional cheese course and were presented, cost unasked (our fault), with the single saddest plate I've ever encountered. If your customers can ID the cheeses to their local Safeway, it's probably not worth serving. We tasted each one once, decided there was no point in continuing, asked for the bill, opted to convey our unhappiness with the pathetic, uneaten cheese when we saw the $25 cost for a "special food item"---and they immediately agreed that the plate wasn't up to the quality of their normal cheese offering, apologized for the chef, who was slammed, kindly removed it from the bill, and gave us a gratuis glass of (flat) champagne. service was, across the board, a gem. welcomed with a smile, seated with a smile, served our entrees (granted, before our before appetizers had been cleared) with a smile, finally given a steak knife with a smile, offered champagne with a smile.... by all means, go to Mozu. next week.

to dunk the whole-wheat crust after you've gobbled the goods.

I've been on the east coast for seven years and I still don't understand this folding slice obsession. This is what pizza looks like: Note: It is not a soggy cracker wetted with tomato sauce and a dash of cheese. (Franchise opportunities available, if you want to spread the light.)

My mother flew in from Iowa yesterday, arriving at National at 11 and needing to be at Dulles by 3 PM. After careful triangulation on the metro system we determined that two--and only two--restaurants would both let us to have a lunch worthy of her exceedingly paltry expense account and allow her to catch the 5A out to Dulles: Cafe Atlantico, off of Navy-Archives, then catching the bus at L'Enfant, or Pho-75 in Virginia, catching the bus at the Rosslyn metro. Pho-75, however, is a half a mile from the metro. We checked the weather forecast Monday night. Cafe Atlantico, then. And a fine, fine lunch it was. My mother caught the blue line by accident, so I sipped a mint-limeade at the bar while waiting. The bar was empty save for Jose Andres himself, flipping through a magazine and looking unusually calm. I tried desperately to think of something to say to one of my culinary heros that wouldn't make me sound like a nerd at prom--but, er, I _was_ a nerd at prom, and old shyness dies hard. I silently drank and thought quiet admiring thoughts instead. My mother finally stumbled in. She's been a fan of Cafe Atlantico since well before I moved here seven years ago, and she's not shy at all. She also, fortunately, didn't recognize Andres, so we just sat at a table under the window and I didn't whisper anything until he'd left. We split the soup, the ceviche, and an order of the day's special, soft-shell crab. The soup was, as usual, brilliant, sweet potato with crunchy things and a dollop of crema. Whenever the weather decides to cool, I want an Atlantico-Corduroy soup cook-off. Winner gets to shout: No-- well, you know, at the loser. Ceviche was tuna chunks under a lump of fat, soft avocado, and it was very good, though it was the soup we went dueling over for the last scrape. Soft-shell was also very nice, I think--by the time you split a soft-shell in two, though, hunks of meat have gone squirting in every direction and it's a little hard to find one with just the right crunch left. I wasn't such a fan of its warm tomato, olive, and something else base, which overpowered the faintly sweet crab--but if you pulled it out, the base was tasty when piled onto the surrounding chips. My mother swore she was too full for dessert and I was leery of falling asleep at my desk, so we passed, though not until I'd detailed the past wonders of Mr. Klc's baba in a futile attempt to change both our minds. Instead, we metro'd down to L'Enfant plaza and bought a pint of plums from the Tuesday farmers' market to eat while waiting for the bus. They were good, but I fell asleep anyway.

Squished between a long week and a longer weekend, I was a little bit eager & early for the Friday HH. An hour early, to be exact. The charming bartender and the lovely candle convention ladies were amusing one another by telling stories of a southern biker bar and vodka-fueled escapades across the country, and I drank a ludicrously cheap beer while waiting for the rest of the Foundation crew to arrive. It's a good place to self-medicate while hiding from the city for a little bit. One shared goat cheese, a gazillion orders of spring rolls split down the tables, a half order of the world's most perfect scallops, one lovely tomato salad (courtesy of the beloved Mr. Powers), one peach sorbet, a stolen bite (or three) from Heather's chocolate torte, and a couple of fine, fine glasses of wine later, I happily rolled home. I can't think of another place in this city where you can eat so well without crimping your budget, especially if you're willing to share plates--$4 for spring rolls, $4 for the goat cheese, $12 for scallops, thanks to the chef for the tomatos, and I was a very happy camper again.

I'm from a Scandinavian community in the midwest, a place so far from oceans that black cod suggests rotten lutefisk. When my waitress and my dining partner suggested together that I might be unreasonably prejudiced, I suggested they'd both lost their minds. (No, not on the lutefisk, and yes, there is a difference between rotten and not. Drench it in butter, stuff it into mashed potatoes, wrap everything in lefse, and shut up.) They were right. The stuff is butter marinated in seawater, and Mozu renders it brilliantly, with a tangy ponzu accent circling the curvacious fish. "I should give you a taste of my steak," said my partner, when the cod had dwindled to a final bite. I hastily speared the fish into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Yes, you should," I replied. I like this place. My salad was light greens in a spicy-sweet dressing, wrapped in fennel, the waitress promised, and cucumber, my eyes and tongue assured me. Service was kind and unobtrusive--an hour into our meal, we realized that we'd eaten dry bread and caught up on much that was important, but forgotten to order. We caught our waitress's eye. "Are you ready?" she asked. "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation." Outside, the river was shimmering in the fading sunlight; inside, a solo traveler snuck a book beneath his table, like a grade school child, and men in shirt-sleeves drank wine while sneaking glances at women in V-necked dresses. Dessert was the bento box with tastes of all the chef's pastries, all fine, though I wished, at the end, that I'd forgone the sweets for a glass of Macallan's in the lounge, where a pianist was playing. The mess of roads surrounding the building guards it as well as any moat, and Mozu makes a fine, fine oasis.

No such thing as a free lunch. Or is there? politics aside, how is the food? Has anyone actually eaten there? And is this kind of stuff the norm for the powerhouse joints?

delivery starts Tuesday, July 5, though I can't imagine the delivery zone will have a large...

picnic in Malcom X last night to the music of the drummers: Crab Cakes with mustard creme fraiche (a la Bob Kinkaid, and with thanks to our brand-spankin' new Giant--$10 for a pound of backfin blue crab!!!) Spanish Tortilla Flowery salad greens from the market Stinky cheese & salami & nectarines as the drummers wound down. I love summer.

two stars? Sietsema's expectations are surpassed.

My initial image of Merkado was shaped by Anne Hull's beautiful, eloquent Post story on the place's kitchen in late May: The Hope of D.C.'s Aproned Ranks Sad to read the coalescing reviews.

pl.n. inexpensive dumplings downed for luck on the 29th day of the month in South American countries blessed with Italian immigrants. A Saint lurks in the roots of the story, though cynics have pointed to poverty and the day before payday as an alternative explanation. s.n. a government worker in certain South American countries who attends to the office but once a month to collect a check. s.n. Frank Ruta's final exam from Hogwarts. Grade=Provisional. Contingent upon further experimentation to secure the Saint's blessing. Currently magicking something resembling clouds of triple-cream brie frollicking with crisp spring peas and shattered bacon. Priced appropriately for a gnocchi waiting on payday. Recommendation: Go quickly. Saint's a-coming soon.

I work in the Watergate. There's a lot of money here. I don't know how much, exactly, only that Condi Rice and Bob and Elizabeth Dole are among my neighbors, I'm told. And I think Monica used to live here. Also, there's a law firm and a couple of Embassies, including the Saudis across the street. The Saudis have a lot of money, I'm told. We're all together in the middle of nowhere, though the river is very pretty. We have restaurants here in the middle of nowhere, where there's lots of money. We have multi-ethnic restaurants, here, in the middle of nowhere. We have a Mediterranean coffee shop, an Italian place that makes its own pizza, Chinese take-out, a bakery, and a grocery store with a deli. I tried them all on the days I forgot my lunch, and I've found tastiest food for those days: CVS sells Stouffer's Lean Cuisine, and there's a microwave in the office. ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

wow. What on earth was going on with that BdC complaint? Sietsema gets complaints about the service there regularly and therefore decides to post an unverified food poisoning charge? How does the first justify the second?

I'm going to ask this question even though I suspect you despise it: Which Breadline creation would inspire you to walk 45 minutes in 100 degree weather without sunscreen, given that tomatoes are not yet in season? edited to add: oh! And please explain the cucumber & fruit water? I'd never, ever, tried to balance a full cup of water with a tipsy lid while biking through downtown traffic until I got addicted to that stuff. What inspired it?

Never have I traveled from heaven to hell so quickly, and with a single plate at that. We started with a Pecorino Brinata, a mere babe at 20 days old, which tasted uncomfortably like a Sunday School picture book: Kind and gentle, a whisper of grass immersed in pillowy cream. The Rochetta came a few cheeses later, the snack of a Russian saint, "pasteurized" for the rules but loose and earthy enough to pass muster even after a few vodkas. It tasted like cows, sheep, and goat all mingled together, somehow. Then, still later, came the Piave Vecchio, which surely was responsible for the Sistine Chapel. Roll together Parmigiano Reggiano with Gruyere and aged Gouda and you've got the glorious mess of the Piave. (Five of us helped diminish Ms. Jill's Piave inventory afterwards, and those comparison cheeses are from her words, not mine.) And then, having reached the zenith of the plate, we plunged. Ubriaco, a wine-drenched cheese, smelled like a scratch & sniff sticker, and tasted about the same (though I understand others at the table had some different, if incorrect, opinions about its merits.) Finally, at the end, true hell: The Pecorino Fossa, a cheese with a great history and a smell, and taste, like shit. The noun, not the metaphor. We opened with a detailed lecture on Italian geography, history, and cheese from the ever-energetic Cheese Lady, who knows her shit, and closed with a purchasing frenzy at the cheese cases. And I'm deeply grateful to both the Lady and hillvalley for the entire experience. Even the shit.

You've been the driving force behind one of the major shifts in D.C. foodways over the past decade and a half: Thanks to you, we've now got good bread throughout the city. My Saturday mornings start with a slice of bread and butter from the Breadline stand at my local farmer's market, where I buy a loaf for the week (we freeze half and gobble the rest.) What other changes have you seen over the years? Who else has been working to inject good food into the bloodlines of this city?

Mark, I was stunned to read of your consulting work. I think it's wonderful, but so many chefs have run into quality problems when they started expanding their operations--you, clearly, haven't, as Breadline is still far beyond the top of the game. How on earth do you do it?

thank you....next time I'm in the neighborhood, I'll be sure to pick up some cheese and a bottle of wine from whole foods & continue on home....

52, please.

cafe atlantico for sunday brunch. you can hit the galleries afterwards if you don't drink too much.