We at DCFUD try to get together every month or two for a small happy hour, discuss new restaurants, recipes, chefs on the move, all the good gossip in town. Last month, we ate at Nirvana, the fine vegetarian Indian restaurant in Northwest, and while the food was delicious and the service impeccable, the lack of meat in the meals dictated that our group Restaurant Week outing had to rectify that. The task of organizing a RW dinner fell into my hands, and as our dear friend and colleague MAW would be heading back to grad school down South on Tuesday, we had to do something Monday night. We passed around a list of participating restaurants, and selected which ones we’d like to try. Our short list included Viridian, Taberna Del Alabardero, The Prime Rib and Bobby Van’s Steakhouse. It’s hard to find fault with any of those places, and my experience at Bobby Van’s last summer certainly made me eager to go back. We selected Bobby Van’s for the meal as they were able to accommodate our group, and to our pack of carnivores, there’s just something about a good steak.
As was the case previously, the food was straightforward, seasoned and cooked to perfection. Our server Paul was conversational, friendly and, in a skill so many servers seem to lack, understood the light-hearted mood of our group. And, just like last year, Chef Eric was making the rounds, though this time he recommended that we try a serving of scallops with seaweed, radishes, mashed potatoes and a light sauce. No ridiculously exotic ingredients, but presented and prepared wonderfully. While everybody else enjoyed the RW offerings, I chose their standard menu’s Porterhouse for Two…by myself. My ability to overeat is almost legendary – ask DCFUD scribe Jason about my one-man attack on Kam Fong last New Year’s Day – and the chance to order what Washingtonian Magazine called the finest porterhouse in the city was all I needed to go from gourmet to gourmand. And what an absolutely wonderful cut! Each bite was glorious; the New York Strip side flavorful and the Filet Mignon side tender, the whole seared with the right amount of crust. Remember John Candy’s steak-eating scene in The Great Outdoors, when those last bites forced down with anger and spite? Not me – I’ll admit the presence of a small tear in my eye when the bone was bussed away. We didn’t mean to be the last group in the restaurant, and we apologize to any of Bobby Van’s staff who may have missed a bus or Metro.
For those looking for last-minute reservations, Viridian is packed tighter than a Tokyo subway train, and considering their RW special is pretty much everything on their menu, they get bonus points for really getting into the spirit of the event. The Prime Rib has long remained a mystery to us at DCFUD – our startling lack of trust funds, expense accounts or lottery winnings has rendered this fine restaurant untouchable to our meager budgets – and a mystery it shall remain for us as they are only participating in RW for lunch. Bobby Van’s is busy during the prime dining hours, but their bar side should accommodate smaller parties and offers the RW menu. Taberna Del Alabardero is likewise busy during the 7pm to 9pm stretch, but the menu looks like it’ll be worth the wait. I’ll let you know after Friday night!
Let us know where you’re going and what you’ve enjoyed in the comments. We’re always appreciative of restaurants that treat RW as a chance to shine rather than a tiresome gimmick to fill some seats.

As astute reader Audrey points out, despite the fact that they still haven’t renewed the domain name, the Washington DC Convention & Tourism Corporation & Restaurant Association Metropolitan Washington have posted the full list of restaurant week participants at http://www.washington.org/restaurantwk/.
Restaurant week runs from January 8 through January 14, 2007. Lunches are $20.07 and dinners are $30.07. Keep in mind that not everything on a restaurant’s menu is available for the restaurant week price and be sure to ask your wait staff to show you what is. Every year we hear stories of people who end up with very expensive tabs that they thought were included in the tip.
And remember to be nice to your wait staff. For some of these places, the restaurant week tabs are significantly lower than the normal price, and wait staff may see their tips decreases proportionally.
And finally, get reservations early. Like yesterday. You can book by phone with the individual restaurants or through OpenTable.com.
There are 170 restaurants are participating this year. Some options to consider:

• 1789 Restaurant
• Bobby Van’s Steakhouse
• Brasserie Les Halles
• Charlie Palmer Steak
• Inde Bleu
• Indigo Landing
• Kinkead’s
• Smith & Wollensky
• Taberna del Alabardero
• The Prime Rib
• Vidalia
• Viridian
• Zengo

Lately, I have had a huge decision to make around lunchtime. I work right between two good burrito stands, and that means that a decision has to be made when I’m in the mood for Mexican takeout stand goodness. Both stands are vegetarian and feature both black and pinto beans.
One option is Carlos Guardado’s stand on 17th and K Street, on the Farragut North side of K Street. His burritos have a fresh (quality ingredient) taste to them. To me…they are the perfect comfort food. He has three wraps to choose from (spinach, plain, and tomato), and maybe 8 small bottles of hot sauce. These sauces are not of the fruity hot sauce variety. He did have Uncle Brutha’s red and green sauces last week…and I do especially like Uncle Brutha’s green. Carlos also sells coffee.
The other option is John Ryder’s stand, Pedro and Vinny’s, at 15th and k (on the other side of K), which is all about variety. He has 8 wraps or so (including onion, whole wheat, garlic, and spinach), and 30 or so hot sauces, many of which are fruity (including Georgia Peach, raspberry habanero, pineapple, grapefruit, Jamaican mango). You can even order hot sauce by number and specify whether you want it fruity. Ordering a #7 fruity once yielded his homemade mango hot sauce, which is kept in a vodka bottle. He also has chips and hot sauces at the front of the stand…where you can sample them. You can order three different sizes here, unlike at Carlos’ stand.

You make your own change at Pedro and Vinny’s, and bag your own burrito. There is usually a line at this stand, and while on line, John will ask you what kind of tortilla you want, and whether you want cheese.
You need to check his website when the weather is not good…to ensure that the stand is open. In the winter, John will update his site Fridays, letting you know if he will be in be in town the following week.

I like both stands and tend to order the same things at both…small burrito, mixed beans, spinach wraps, and guacamole. But, it is nice that Pedro and Vinny’s has tomato salsa and a verger variety of hot sauces. Plus…I like the fruity hot sauces with their burritos, and the crunch of the onions. So…when I want quality comfort food…I go to Carlos, and when I want variety…I go to Pedro and Vinny’s. 🙂 I usually spend $5 or $6 at either stand.

Keep in mind that both stands may be closed in bad weather, especially in the winter. Although, the weather has been nice lately.
Merry Xmas and Happy Holidays to all!

A bad dinner affects humans differently than a bad movie or a bad day at work. We feel the same outrage that might be inspired by a factory poisoning the air, or the realization that last night’s hookup isn’t going to call: we took something in, into our very bodies, and trusted it and made it part of ourselves. There’s a deep feeling of betrayal and hurt to go along with the disappointment; we needed the comfort and sustenance of a good meal and now we won’t have another chance until tomorrow. Perhaps eating is just too basic to the human condition to risk messing up.
Are you listening to me, you people at Montsouris? I wrote a note to all my writers yesterday about how we should try to approach every restaurant positively. You’re making me look bad!
Taking over for Johnny’s Half Shell in Dupont, Montsouris comes to us from the owners of the very pleasant Montmartre over in Capitol Hill. With two solid restaurants as forbears, how is it things could have gone so wrong? While the few tables at the front of the restaurant look rather nice, most of the clientele is crammed into a bizarre row of cheap, diner-style seats facing the kitchen. It’s knee-to-knee and elbow-to-wine glass as diners struggle not to eavesdrop on each other, and there’s the collective feeling of confused faux pas. What could be wrong with my hair today? Perhaps I should have worn my pearls? Why oh why have we alone been consigned to this nasty and impersonal galley, when such lovely tables are visible off in the distance?
Now, in the eighties it was considered a mark of distinction have your French server hate you. Their prime purpose was to aggressively lounge near the kitchen, arms crossed and eyes glaring, cursing under their very French breath. But today that form of bizarre sadism lives on only in the very low-confidence, or the very out-of-business. I’m not sure which category Montsouris falls into yet, but I can say this: each sneer, each forgotten wine order, each ignored attempt to flag down fork, water glass, or menu, are small bruises to my soul. It wasn’t that big to begin with, and now it’s black and blue. Thank you very much.
And now I could spend a page writing about the food, but you know it’s going to be bad. Should I even bother? Assume that a good meal would have vindicated everything else, and draw your conclusions from there. The appetizers were by turns boring or inedible, the steaks grainy and cold.
I emerged from Montsouris a beaten woman; practically in tears, and with that odd combination of hunger, nausea, and leaden depression that only the a truly bad dining experience can provide. And so it was that, a few minutes later and with my stomach still churning over the catastrophe across the street, I crept into the bar at Urbana and ordered two appetizers, a glass of wine and a desert. They were lovely.
Montsouris
2002 P St. NW,
Washington, DC
20036
202-833-4180

The fine folks at Washington DC’s Convention and Tourism Corporation are usually a good place to go for information about the upcoming Restaurant Week. On their site, they’re linking to www.restaurantweekdc.com – which, the fine folks at Network Solutions tells us is either going to be renewed, or deleted, but gives us no further info on RW07.
Remember kids, always check your links, and don’t forget to renew your domains! Not every bit of mail from a domain registrar is spam, you know?
It just seems like it.

There are places in DC that require a special occasion, and places that require an ID. There are places that require you to know someone to get in. And then there are the places that require a certain something, a particular je ne sais quoi, places that need…
To be blunt, there are places in DC that absolutely require an expense account. There are certainly more expensive restaurants in the city than Charlie Palmer Steak, but it would be difficult to find one with more people dining on someone else’s bill. Lobbyists come to prove that they know how to scratch-a-back. Hill staffers come to blow off steam on dad’s credit card. Bosses bring their new employees, retiring employees, and once in a while, a secretary. Is anyone here actually paying for themselves?
I surely wasn’t. The occasion was a visit from Uncle Bill. Not my uncle per se, but certainly an uncle, in from Minnesota to sell paper. He already had a drink in hand when we met him at the minimalist bar that fronts the famed view of the capitol. A lady had bought it for him.
A recent Chowhound post described Charlie Palmers as ‘Hotel-lobby chic’ – the large, white dining room, the loud crowd stuffed into serious suits, and the waiters in slim, wire-rimmed glasses. At any moment you expect to see a potted plant. But while these are the usual at a DC steak house, the menu is more original. The required chops, steaks, and fries are joined by more exciting fare like a Ricotta Ravioli with Peekytoe Crab and Brown Butter Basted Skate Wing. It’s a combination that relies heavily on the quality of the ingredients but doesn’t mind giving them a hand when necessary; a more grounded version of Corduroy.
One bottle of excellent Pinot Noir later we were feeling appropriately political. I slurped my way through a squash soup, smooth and rich, with chewy apple dumplings. I gave one to amg and wished I hadn’t. Brussel sprouts and chestnuts were perfect for a sprout lover like me, a tender baked parmesan gnocchi was a very close second. The truffle basted rib-eye for two arrived as a huge slab of protein, presented for inspection and then whisked away to be broken down into more manageable anatomy. Reports say that it was a bit overwhelmingly meaty, but I was more interested in my New Hampshire ringneck pheasant, stuffed with foie gras and crusted in rosemary cured bacon. It was truly outstanding; simple and salty and tender and I almost cried when I realized I couldn’t possibly eat another bite of it.
After such heavy indulgence, it was a relief to find the crème brulee trio to be more like a caramelized mousse. I’d like to think that the lighter desert selection is a commentary on the kitchen’s careful forethought, but who knows. In any case, it was a perfect finish to a meal on someone else’s dime, and there was nothing left to do but to lean back in the warm glow of conspicuous consumption and port and play ‘spot the hooker’.

When my friend Wayne called one evening, just before spring, he told me that the beloved dive bar Stoney’s would be closing. Its building on L Street was being gutted, forcing the joint to close. Stoney’s was famous for good pizzas, massive grilled cheese sandwiches and cheap beer – three of my reasons to live, frankly. We had to go say goodbye to our old friend.
Stoney’s stood out in that it was a good ole’ fashioned neighborhood bar. It wouldn’t cause a fuss in East Baltimore or East Des Moines, the south side of Philly or Boston; would have fit in perfectly in Western Pennsylvania by replacing the Redskins’ photos with Steelers and Iron City neon lights. The kind of place with grizzled old late-night diner waitresses who might bring you what you ordered, and cuss you out if they got it wrong. Pictures on the walls of local sports scenes; some remembered, some forgotten, and all with a permanent layer of dust. Regulars straight from Central Casting – old men looking for a cold sip and a hot bite, straight from the job – if they had one. A gruff bartender who didn’t care how old you liked your Scotch because they only had one bottle – a gallon-sized plastic drum made from the finest distillery in Kinhump, Iowa. Stoney’s was an institution, a bar stuck in time, with a 1950s menu and decor. It wasn’t a created by a celebrity chef or HGTV interior designer, just a guy who liked beer and hearty chow. It harkened back to a different era, when D.C. wasn’t a place you went out in, but got out from.
We took solace that last beer-soaked night knowing that the owner would be looking for a new location for Stoney’s. When that new location turned out to be Logan Circle, we wondered how a new Stoney’s would look in yet another rapidly-evolving neighborhood, a place that used to be more hookers than homes. I went there Wednesday night, not really sure what to expect. Would some of the old regulars be sitting on a crooked bar, laughing at the Yuppies shopping at Whole Foods across the street? They’ll certainly be griping about the Redskins’ losing season, right? Maybe expressing shock that Alfonso Soriano left town, and wondering how much ole’ Frank Howard could make if we were playing today.
I walked into a perfectly clean, crowded bar full of freshly-scrubbed young professionals. A bar that now has a larger wine and microbrew selection, a heck of a lot more seating, and no rickety stairs to negotiate when heading to the bathroom. None of the old guys were there at all. Conversation was more policy than prose, and the waitresses were actually attractive. As though my system wasn’t shocked enough, Stoney’s now takes credit cards! Fortunately, they still have the best grilled cheese sandwich in town, or else I’d have been in Bizarro DC.
It’s a great place to go for a cheap meal and good drink. It’s definitely respectable. It is what every suburban chain bar and grill strives to be, and somehow misses. Still friendly, still inviting, but different. Changed…much like it’s new neighborhood.
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3 Whammies! out of 5. Stoney’s gets a Whammy! each for still being a great value, with heavenly grilled cheese sandwiches and good beer, and their choice to take credit cards saved me 2 bucks in ATM fees. That’s gotta be worth an additional 2 Whammies! there. Stoney’s lost 2 Whammies! by being completely unrecognizable from the old place and for being too close to Whole Foods. Nothing worse than eating fried foods and drinking beer and watching lean, healthy people walk out with organic cheeses, veggies and whole-grain pastas, knowing that you should be eating better. Plus, the way the hungry Whole Foods shoppers were drooling over my fried foods and beer was VERY distracting.
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Stoney’s
1433 P Street NW
Washington DC 20005

Young zaf’s earliest toy was a big bowl of water. She’d mix in little squeezy tubes of food coloring, flour, sugar, sand, eyeshadow, and whatever else happened to be lying around. The resulting gloop was called ‘cake’. The nearest adult was asked to eat it.
Finally, zaf discovered He-Man dolls, so no lasting harm was done (except to the carpet), but in a universe without Matell, zaf might have gone on to work at Mini Bar.
Hopeful diners must plan their meal one month in advance. The day exactly one month prior to the meal, to be precise, and Minibar’s website goes so far as to suggest calling early in the morning if you want your first choice of the 6 PM or 8:30 PM seating. There are only six chairs, and confirming the reservation requires a dizzying back and forth of credit cards on the phone, confirmation by fax, and finally a signed contract. On this particular night I waited downstairs in Café Atlantico with five other apprehensive diners, at least two of whom had been looking forward to this for six months. We talked with that hushed, nervous intimacy among strangers that usually means an imminent bungee jump or something. I calmed my butterflies with a mojito poured over cotton candy. I’m telling you, butterflies. For a meal.
The counter, set upstairs with chairbacks to the rest of the restaurant, was manned by two chefs; one who acted as ringmaster, and one who prepared little things in the background. Our particular chef said he could perform both sides, but not at the same time. Why? I have seen cooking technique whittled down to such minimalism that it looks choreographed, but that’s always been just a metaphor. This was like they were doing some kind of crazy ballet that also happened to turn ingredients into tiny, bite-sized dishes. At the end of each act they’d pick up the plates (or wire baskets, or gelatin-glass trays), nod at each other to get the timing just right, and click them down on the glass counter in front of each diner at precisely the same moment.
Each of the 30-odd dishes was constructed, passed out, and whisked away: the famous olive oil bon bons. The pork rinds with Maple syrup. The smoked oyster with apples. Some of them were downright tasty: I could easily eat a whole bowl of the Zucchini in Textures (creamy zucchini seeds – light but savory) or the Linguini made from jellied feta water. Also perfect was the tomato sorbet wrapped in avocado that made up the Guacamole. And the single spoonful of England clam chowder: Squirts of creamy potato foam with a single clam. Other dishes seemed more like modern art – there to make an interesting point instead of to please. The deconstructed glass of wine consisted of a number of herb and spice shreds, embedded in gelatin with alcohol sprayed on top.
And some of the dishes were just fun. I started giggling at course 7 (saffron yoghurt meringue), continued on through the cotton candy fois gras and Lobster Americain (served skewered on a pipette of its own shell-juice) and didn’t stop laughing till after course 32, a Halls lollypop.
I highly suggest the wine pairings, dumbed down for us plebeians into either “Lively & Fresh” or “Luscious and Sexy”. They say that dishes change about every six months. I’ll be back then to feed my inner 3-year old.

If the Springfield of Simpsons’ lore really was Springfield, Virginia, I know where Homer would be tomorrow.
According to the DC Examiner, one of the two DC-centric daily commuter papers fighting tooth-and-nail for your free readership, the Fractured Prune donut shop in DuPont Circle will be giving away free samples of their delicious, baked-while-you-wait wares, from 4 – 8 pm on Friday, December 1st.
Never heard of the Fractured Prune? You must be one of them Dewey Beach people. The Prune has been a welcome addition to the Ocean City sugar scene, quickly ranking with Dumser’s and the Candy Kitchen as must-stops while at the beach. They take the best ideas from Cold Stone Creamery (the wide array of toppings and fillings) and leave out the worst (knock off the damn singing and make my friggin’ waffle cone!). It’s a Build-Your-Own-Donut. Those who have tried the Prune’s dough-with-the-Os can attest to their warm cakey delights, customizable to your heart’s content. The picture with this story is the Sundae, but French Toast is my favorite…or the Reese’s Cup…or the Morning Buzz…or…
For some ideas of what kind of donuts you can have, check out this link. I apologize in advance if you gain weight.
Thanks to FUD friends Liz and Duane for the catch!

Bardia’s New Orleans Café of Adams Morgan is the best casual Cajun place in the city. Without any peer, without even any near competition. But having said that, the hands down best casual Cajun outside of the city is Bethesda’s Louisiana Express Company. Which is better? I dare not speculate. There would probably be some kind of explosion or something.
The preeminent decorations inside this bare-bones eatery are awards. The walls are papered with them. And although a decade or more of Washingtonian readers could easily have been mistaken, this time they struck gold. The savory, spicy smell of jambalaya smacks you in the face as you enter, and ensures you your own seat on the metro when you leave .
I tried the shrimp bisque which arrived steaming and smelling of ripe tomato. AMG dove for a his iced tea at first bite, so I got to polish it off myself with a one of the city’s most perfect, buttery biscuits. The french fries, red with chili powder, were hot and good. Poached Eggs Creole came on a bed of fried grits and perfect andouille, and the catfish po’ boy was crunchy and moist and huge. The final bill…under $30.
Was it possibly better than Bardia’s? Better to not think about it