Michael Landrum

From the suppressed Thurn and Taxis 1616 Folio Re-translation from the Castillian, purchased from the estate of Pierce Inverarity in the famously disputed "Lot 50" massacre by Trystero Corp., confessed stolen by one "Pig" Bodine on his deathbed--microwave poisoning--and bequethed to the Beardsley College Library (where I viewed it quite by chance while visiting my then fiancee Shelley Summers) by a shadowy William Slothrop: "...the Slinghs and Arrowes of Owtrageous Phartuone..." Make of this what you will. You can always count on a grill cook for purple prose...

Is it me that is disturbed, or is it the world hoisted upon the petard of my outrage?

Perhaps it is a Hemingway-themed nanoLAB extravaganza. Sort of a "A Moveable Feast" meets "Death in the Afternoon" last-man-standing, Segway-mounted battle royale served by docile, conflicted castrati. I will need volunteers to drive the ambulance. A featured attendee will be Wilfred Brimley with a half-price coupon he found floating in the Potomac, that sadly, tragically, futilely can not be honored since it bears the e-mail address of Jack Abramoff, not his own, and he must go hungry but there was honor in the inevitability of the defeat. Dessert will be at sunrise--cupcakes baked by the poor while those who have mock those who have not with degrading pictograms, the insult of which they will not understand since they are illiterate or do not speak English anyway.

I WILL BEAT THEM ON THE HEAD WITH A CAST IRON SKILLET.

At Ray's we are happy to have some one bring in their own cake if: they call ahead; they offer us a piece; and it is tasty, delicious and wonderful at any temperature and does not come with a cutesy note that insults illiterates and non-English speaking immigrants and degrades us all. If people bring their own cake without asking I am momentarily stunned at the rudeness involved, which does not happen often, and then do my best to continue about my business, desperately trying to pretend it is not happening. Due to bad experiences in the past, we limit the number of cakes per table to three, unless they can blow "Columbia, Gem of the Ocean" through an ensphinctred duck call. We do not charge for this provided they bring in an original, non-transferable, ID-verified copy of an e-mail with my e-mail address, snookykins_bigbear3@gmail.com, printed in blue ink. Upon verification of legitimacy, since legitimacy IS the hallmark of my organization--I just hate people who cheat, don't you?, I will place the e-mail under one of three coco-nut shells, move them about with a disorienting opera-based banter, and if the guest can guess the correct coco-nut shell there is no charge, depending on where they sit and which day of the week it is. PS: Motorized transport of the cake is allowed under all circumstances, since I have no way of knowing whether the cake is frozen or not based solely on its box.

Oh-ohh. Looks like I might have to start allowing 95 minutes.

How about not belonging to a club that uses award nominations as a bribe/threat to coerce non-members into joining?

There is no such thing as a corking fee. It is both stupid and insulting to even attempt such an absurdity. Virginia law allows you to take off premises the remainder of a bottle of wine that has been purchased at an on premises retailer provided that: 1) the bottle wine has been opened and served on premises; 2) the cork has been replaced 2/3 of the way--presumably so that a corkscrew would be necessary to remove the cork; and 3) the wine is placed in a bag. I would imagine that Virginia ABC law would make it illegal to extort a fee to enjoy what you already own, and to enjoy a right to which you are legally entitled. In any case, would that fee be taxed? At what rate, sales? or sales and meals tax? Would that fee be collected and not reported? Since there is no provision for a corkage fee in the law it does not seem to reason that a corking fee would be allowed even if it wasn't so stupid.

I just saw Mr. Monis at Greenberry's, looking a bit haggard and quite sexy I might add, and he confirms this hope for Tuesday--not that I am a reliable source for dates of openings.

My guess would be that that is illegal in Virginia.

Komi, Eve, Palena, The Prime Rib--prime rib, Jerry's Seafood--the Crab Bomb.

I do not have a publicist so it is not likely they will show up at Ray's, either in real life or in fabricated press-released invitation lists. Also, Wilson Boulevard is not as thick with Bush girls, of whatever stripe, as that stretch of mons Avenis Wisconsinis is. Which is a shame because (with apologies to the forum for: 1) highjacking another restaurant's thread to discuss my own; 2) being off-topic; and 3) veering towards the political) I am philosophically, politically and emotionally committed to serving underage girls alcohol. It's good for business and it is good for me, as long as I don't get Lay'd or Fastow'd.

Wasn't that Smith Point? Or wherever a publicist says?

Why don't we come out and say it...this Old Towne auslander, this invader of the Old Dominion is rumored to have Jewish blood. Alert the Minute Men!! Everyone put on their Brown Shirts and fight!! Fight!! Fight this scourge against the purity of the Motherland!!

Anyone want to field this one? Rocks? Anyone?

Hungry No More Dear Forum: I have long been an avid reader of the reviews in the forum and have often used the exciting, tantalizing stories of culinary thrills found here as the basis of some of my more fantastic dining adventures and experiments. That being said, I must admit that I never believed these wild reports of gustatory excess and daring to be true. That is, until this happened to me. Now, I am not one to brag, but I have often been told that I am a "tall dude" with a "beatific air." In addition, I should mention that I possess a substantial girth (having put on a good twenty pounds recently) and a prodigous, fear-inducing, well-nigh insatiable, appetite. In fact, outside of certain cup-cakes, there is almost nothing I won't put in my mouth. Further, those who know me well cannot help but marvel at my superhuman endurance and lustful delight when it comes to alcohol consumption. I mention these things since, as you will see, they play an important role in the story that follows. Recently, and quite unexpectantly, I found myself alone on a Saturday night in a part of town named after the one US President whose girth is said to exceed my own. I came upon a bustling, charming, almost insouciant restaurant whose very facade beckoned me and teased me at the same time and seemed to invite me in with a promise of untold alimentary delights. No menu posted out front could ever prepare me for what was to come next. Never being one to deny myself such pleasures, I entered, at first tentatively, vacillating back and forth at the threshold that seemed to reveal so much, yet also hint at such rare, hidden treasures contained within, and then, once I made it past the first door into the warming air of the vestibule, I stifled a low moan of hunger and unbearable anticipation and plunged in with gusto and an almost embarassing abandon--that is if I wasn't already past the point of caring. I made my way straight to the waiting barstool which received my heaving, desperate bulk with a sigh and a groan of it's own, straining to contain my impressive anatomy as I filled the seat to its very limit. All the while, the barstool seemed to welcome and caress every contour of my craving mass, which, as we will soon see, was soon to increase even more--past the point even I thought possible. Once settled, I ordered a cocktail from the list of options so enticingly displayed, every detail, down to the most intricate garnish, held out before me with a passionate, knowing pride in the pleasure the whole was about to give me. It's as though, knowing how much pleasure others have received from these liquid treasures, there was no holding back in boldly promising and describing the ingredients of the mind-numbing ecstacy soon to be delivered to me. I chose a "Sicilian Martini" whose dark, lusty, bracing, exotic potency seemed to be just right for my mood. The minute my frosty, sculptured glass was handed across that impassive stretch of bar keeping me from the boundless, endless supply of liquid fantasies contained in the alluring, amply full bottles protected therein I knew that this was no ordinary drink, and that this would be no ordinary night. I let myself go, and took a drink. From that point on it was like I couldn't stop. I plunged next into a plump flute of Prosecco whose tingly effervessence could take pages to describe, but let's just say that it certainly deserved to be called "pro." With that I began devouring the delicious morsels placed before me--beet, lobster, cool, sharp greens, explosive bites of pure lemon cleaned of the surrounding skin that nature gave it to protect the delicate, pulpy flesh from too-prying teeth and tongues, then back to lobster. And then all over again. Sometimes I even combined several of these pinnacles of succulence in the same bite, reeling in a stupor of sensory overload as each flavor fought to be felt, but then settled, not quite exhausted yet, into mutual, reciprocal melding of flavors. It was too much, I didn't know what to eat first, so I kept going back and forth, from one moist, exotically scented morsel to the next. I was in a delirium and I didn't want it to end, but end it did. I was nearly sated, but so hungry still. One look in my eyes and you could tell I was not done yet. At this point, I was brought a soothing, warming broth of rich, intense, gamey purity. It was as though the bartender could read my mind, and brought me the one thing that would both soothe me and prepare me for the next round of Gargantua-l engorgement. Oh for a live goose, I thought, knowing that soon my darkest needs would break through to the surface. Soon, almost instantly due to my heightened excitement, the refractory period ended and my appetite became aroused again, and not for the last time that night I should add. Dark, mysterious bites of foie gras and squab, whose intensity threatened to overwhelm me, seemed to be strategically studded throughout the broth, as though for optimal pleasure. I brought spoon after spoon of this heavenly nectar to my lips only to have it dissapear too quickly into the nether regions of my gullet. Quicker and quicker I drank (ate? does it matter?) this precious, enriched broth until finally I could stand no more, just as exactly at the same time the broth which I thought would go on forever gave me its last. I collapsed backward in exhaustion, already thinking of what delight was to come next, and there was so much more to come. I continued deep into the night with drink after drink, course after course until finally I could consume no more. There were many more culinary adventures and surprises that night, and much more to share with the forum, but that will have to wait for another post. The amazing thing is that I never even knew the restaurant's name until I was at the curb outside waiting for a cab to take me home, and looked back yearningly for one final glance at the culinary Pleasure Dome. Well, let's just say I now know exactly where to go if I find myself in that neighborhood again. In fact, I am already planning my next "unexpected" visit, if you know what I mean. In the meantime, consider me "Hungry no more." Name and address withheld

I should add that I had neither the need, the pride, nor the decency to hide behind a fruit basket, and nature's bounty was celebrated more than just symbolically.

As many people already know, I was briefly "The Grill Cook" in The Village People--a time of shimmering glory in my life sadly cut short by our ill-timed and ill-fated benefit performance for the MOVE Organization in Philadelphia and the less than, let's say, umm, hygenic part I took in that performance. (This is where the particularly astute among you may begin at long last to suspect that the Ray in Ray's The Steaks actually links me to John Ray, Jr.(No googling, please)). As such there were many naked catalogues of one sort or another that I participated in--some of which are still in heavy demand in Japan and can still be found, with some difficulty, on the web--and must therefore establish precedence and demand credit for this trend which is, in fact quite old.

All right then, I'll get in the spirit of things and complain about a no show. First I should say that Ray's has very very few no shows/no calls, maybe one party every third day (the exception is in the period directly following a mention or review in the Post or the Washingtonian when a whole demographic who is not my clientele absolutely has to have a table at 7:30 on Saturday night which they then do not particularly feel the need to honor--and my no show rate increases by a factor of 10), partly because we call all of our reservations who have not confirmed their reservations that day. For those of you who think that we do not spend enough time answering the phone, that takes about two hours a day--time that I otherwise could be taking reservatios and handling other guest requests. If I did not call to confirm, I would probably have about 15-20 (covers) no-shows a day, or about 10%. But I avoid that by doing the necessary work. No credit cards, no charges, no contracts. OK, so back to my no show. Three weeks before the Rammy awards the assistant to a very important, very high-placed figure at RAMW called to make a Saturday night reservation for his boss. Now I should mention one thing about RAMW--I have never joined because I do not agree with their agenda or way of doing business, and I do not believe that I am a part of the segment of the industry they represent. I especially do not like the fact that they do not waive membership fees for new restaurants under say, 100 seats, which is something they would do if they truly meant to support the industry, or that they do not seek to indentify struggling restaurants and make efforts to market and assist them, things they freely do for the already successful coterie of players. Two weeks before the announcement of the 2005 Rammy nominees, I get a message from this powerful and important person saying, "Congratulations, you've been nominated for a Rammy, don't tell anyone because it is a secret, the nominations have not been announced yet. The only problem is that you are not a member and only members can be nominated and we've already printed the announcements so we'll both look bad if you don't join." Hmm. (The previous year they had asked me to join, when I had been open over two years, saying that if I joined they would make sure I was nominated for Best New Restaurant. Hmmm.) She wanted 7:30, we had 6:30, the assistant booked the table. Thursday before the reservation she (the important person, not the assistant) called to try to change the reso to 7 or 7:30, which we could not do. Saturday, no confirmation and the number we called to confirm, the assistant's office voice mail, natch. We left a message. 6:30? No call, no show, no nada. Courtesy call on Monday from her or her assistant to apologize? Nada. Do I feel better for bitching? Have I helped my public persona? Have I somehow made me or my restaurant more appealing to someone reading this who may not know me or the restaurant first-hand, say a casual visitor to this forum? No, no, and probably not.

Actually, your clientele extends far beyond guests-in-house. Your clientele includes not only your guests and guests with future reservations (to whom you have in effect already made promises) but also: all residents and/or workers, implicitly, in the immediate area which you have consciously selected as your place of business--the more high-profile the location the more this is true--and whom you have chosen, and whom you depend on, as neighbors; anyone who has come in contact with your marketing and publicity efforts; and, in fact, the entire demographic and socio-economic classes to whom you pitch your endeavor and hope to attract--whether they have visited your restaurant or not, they are your clientele, and you chose them.

Michael Landrum's post earlier was a joke--not directed at anyone, but the set-up was too good to resist(all of the restaurants listed, besides Buck's and Ray's are strip clubs, and they all have apostrophes), underscoring the fact, like Mario Batali reminding us in his way of Poor Yorick's fate and the fate of all of our ambitions and vanities, and like Frank Zappa reminding us that the crux of the biscuit is, yes, the apostrophe, underscoring the fact that when it comes down to it all of us in the restaurant business are doing something dirty for money.

I do think it is in very poor taste, and does not project a sense of hospitality, to complain about your clientele in a public forum outside of your restaurant. (A disagreement with a guest's or individual's comments concerning your restaurant made in that public forum is different). No-shows are to restaurants what fleas are to dogs. In no way did I state or imply that any individual restaurant in this discussion is overpriced or mediocre. I did state that these packed chain restaurants, whatever evil they represent to the sophisticated palate, satisfy their clientele's needs successfully and honestly. I do not believe that the average diner should be looked down upon. I do believe that the DC dining scene is rife with overpriced restaurants that are mediocre and inhospitable to guests. Generally these restaurants do not come under discussion here, but they do represent the fine dining experience in the minds of the dining public. My daily experience is that the vast majority of the dining public--maybe not the dining elite found here, but the rest of the world--approaches the restaurant experience with trepidation, anxiety, intimidation and fear--more often than not justifiably so. That is a fact that fine dining restaurants, not chains, have created by overt inhospitality and intimidation. As an operator, much of my guest involvement is to counter the received expectations caused by this lack of respect for the guest, an onus that I quite frankly resent.

Many fine dining establishments in this area do not allow cameras or camera phones. Most of them have apostrophes in their name (e. g. Joanna's, Archibald's, JP's, Louis Rogue's, Buck's, Ray's etc.) but that may be coincedental. It is a way to maintain and protect the artistic integrity of the work and the artists hard at work.

As opposed to...OVERPRICED and mediocrity that varies based on sex, color, dress, ability to locate Sienna on a map and appearance of wealth/power?