DC Dining, Finally

Sorry I have been away awhile, kids. I've been caught up with party planning for our first game night here at the new place. Plus, yesterday was my birthday, so I had to go partake in some excellent local cuisine to celebrate. However, it's time to get back to business. So, let's move on.

Enter Jaleo.

Jaleo was a restaurant that I first heard about on Iron Chef. If you remember from my previous post, Jaleo's Executive Chef, Jose Andres, smacked down my future baby's daddy, Bobby Flay, during battle goat. When I heard that Andres' restaurant was in D.C., I just had to go.



Well, here we are!

Chef Andres' style is Spanish influenced. His restaurant is a tapas bar. Neither Jon, nor I, knew what that was. What we understood it to be was appetizer-like dishes, but we had more of a little fried finger foods. Perhaps like Mexican empanadas. Boy, were we in for a surprise.

Tapas is simply Spanish for appetizer. So basically, you order 4 or 5 dishes to share about the table so that you can focus on the conversation and not dive into your meal, so to speak. Well, let me just say that our waitress was crap, and if she would have explained that to us in the beginning, we might have enjoyed our time a little bit more. The service we received was terrible! After trying to get reservations unsuccessfully for three nights, we were greeted by a teenager and waitstaff in blue jeans. I don't care how good the food is, if the waitstaff sucks, a restaurant will tank.

The first thing we were served was a chewy bread (good) with a cup of olive oil. In the olive oil was a rosemary branch and a clove of garlic (skin still on and unroasted). While it was a beautiful presentation, the oil absorbed almost none of the flavors of the aromatics. Disappointing.

Presentation: B+, Taste: C

Like most restaurants we go to, we always order a cheese plate. I must have been a mouse or a Frenchie in a former life, because I live for cheese. We had a variety of cheeses, mostly of Spanish goat origin. The collection was reasonably priced with a variety of excellent flavor pairings and texture ranges. Score: A+

Squeeek! I mean squee!

Then we had to decide between a large variety of tapas (or small courses). After we finally flagged down our waitress, we asked about how many we should order. She recommended about 5 selections for a table of 2. Because we had ordered the cheese plate appetizer, we decided that each of us should picking 2 plates for the table. It was a personal goal of mine to pick one safe dish (something I knew I would enjoy) and one unsafe dish (something I had not tried before). Jon went with two safe dishes. We placed our order and leisurely ate on our cheese. We couldn't enjoy our cheese long though, because our tapas starting coming within 3 minutes, in a haphazard fashion.

My unsafe dish came out first, and coincidentally, was one of the restaurant's best sellers: Dátiles con tocino. Bacon wrapped dates, which are then battered and fried. The menu stated:‘Como hace todo el mundo’ (you will want to eat this every day). I have never eaten a date before, and with an endorsement like that, how could I not give it a whirl?

Well, six little fried dates arrived at our table within about 3 minutes of our order. They looked like little hushpuppies, plated on a white saucer with a white cocktail napkin. Presentation: F. They were, of course, molten initially. After giving them a chance to cool, I braved my first bite. The little date was chewy with a chewy bit of bacon on it. The batter was crispy, but a bit oily.  It was a sweeter dish than I would have expected given the bacon. They weren't fantastic but they were OK. Definitely not something I will be craving everyday. Taste: B.

Jedi Andres: "You will want to eat this every day."
Us: "Your mind tricks won't work on us Jedi."



Next up was one of Jon's safe dishes. He ordered Gambas al ajillo, "the very, very famous tapa of shrimp sautéed with garlic." Initially, this was going to be a straight Jon dish, because I don't like seafood. He received a small bowl of about 5 shrimp, which appeared to sauteed or boiled in a golden yellow sauce. One bite of the shrimp revealed an intense garlic flavor. There was no fishy flavor at all. The shrimp were perfectly cooked and were not chewy. Jon devoured them, giving me a couple bites while I forced down my dates. Presentation: B+. Flavor: A.

Perhaps this should have been labeled "eat every day"

  Next came out Jon's other order: Trigueros con romesco. (Grilled asparagus with romesco sauce). Romesco is a Spanish-style, tomato, bell pepper, and garlic sauce thickened with nuts or bread. Presentation: B. Flavor B. Basically, it tasted like grilled asparagus in a thick spaghetti sauce. Meh.

The final course was mine and I was very excited to see it come out. My safe order was Lomo Ibérico de bellota con manzanas. (Fresh loin from the legendary, acorn-fed, black-footed Ibérico pigs of Spain served with roasted apples.) It was also our most expensive tapa at $20. It looked fancy enough when came out, but the plate was white, the apples were blanched, and the pork was slightly browned. It would have looked much more impressive on a brightly colored plate. Presentation: B-

We are running out of room for all these little plates.

Now on to flavor. I am not going to to lie, it was the most tender piece of pork I have ever eaten. It was also the fattiest piece I've ever eaten. I imagine that comes from the acorns, which are very calorie rich. The meat had a good flavor, but as you can see in the photo, the portion size would have easily fit in the palm of my hand. A good half of it was fat, so there were only a few bites of actual meat. That was very disappoint ting considering the cost. Also, the "roasted apples" were really nothing more than a smear of apple sauce. Taste: B-.

By the time we had finished all our tapas, we were still hungry, but it had been more than 30 minutes since we had last seen our waitress. We saw some desserts go by, but our growing dissatisfaction with the service encouraged us to seek dessert elsewhere. After receiving our check of over $100 for basically 5 appetizers and 1 alcoholic beverage, we were pretty unhappy. It wasn't so much the price or quantity of the food that was so disappointing, really. I mean, we expected to pay more for less at an "upscale" restaurant. However, we expected better service and way better atmosphere. The waitstaff wore blue jeans for crying out loud! If I am going to go to a premium restaurant, I expect the staff to at least be wearing black slacks, not holey jeans. It was like we were eating at a Chili's for 4 times the price. Overall restaurant rating: C+. I was, naturally, quite devastated.

Jonathan and I ventured back into the chilly night air as we walked back to the train station. We took in the city a bit and discussed our expectations versus the results of our meal. Then, we happened to notice a little bakery that was bustling still at 9 p.m. We took a peek in the window:

Nom

We wandered in and ordered a chocolate, peanut butter cupcake for me, and a red velvet cupcake for Jon. Mine was pretty good, though a little dry. I imagine they would have tasted a little better earlier in the day (probably fresher). A nice local allowed me to photographer her holding the bakery's signature box.

"I'm going to be a hand model!?!?!"

The bakery had a nice discount for returning the box in an effort to go green. I can appreciate that. We consumed our cupcakes on the street as we made our way back to the hotel. It was a pleasant way to end the evening of our first Iron Chef quality meal.

A Foodie Stumble Through Washington, D.C.

For those of you who live under a rock and could not guess where I was from the out of focus  obviously professionally shot photo of me in the mysterious, Plexi-glassed kitchen, I was in the Smithsonian standing in front of Julia Child's Kitchen....and I was squeeing myself.

Julia's Kitchen for those of you who cannot make it there; here is a higher quality slightly more professional photo tour of its awesomeness.

What was I doing in Washington D.C. you ask? Lobbying for better food labeling, food handling/processing, or clearer marking of genetically modified foods? Sadly no. Instead, I was learning about a doctoral program, seeing the campus, and generally trying not make a fool of myself with the folks that will be deciding what I do for the next 5 years of my life. While Jon and I were there, we decided to take in some sights as well.

The last time I went to D.C. I was not the bumbling fool well-versed culinary genius standing before you today...no wait...that's a lie. I was exactly the same. I just didn't know that I would fall ass-backward into blogging about it at that time. That's why I was not so keen on visiting the kitchen over say...the memorials the last time I was there.

This year, I had exactly 2 things that I wanted to see: Julia Child's Kitchen, and the Jaleo Restaurant. Jaleo was a restaurant I first heard about while watching Iron Chef. Jaleo's Executive Chef, Jose Andres, smacked down my future baby's daddy (and apparent upstairs neighbor), Bobby Flay, during battle goat. When I heard that Andres' restaurant was in D.C., I just had to go. I don't travel to New York or Las Vegas (where Flay and many other challengers have a lot of their restaurants) so I feel like this was one of the few opportunities I would have to eat at Iron Chef quality establishment. More on that later.

This moment is for Julia...

It's too bad it's behind greasy, smudged Plexi-glass.

Me: "How's the picture look?"  Jon: "Great! Totally in focus and everything!"

Notice the clock says 12:20. It is always lunch time in Julia's kitchen.

 Every pot has a purpose.

There were quite literally a MILLION people in there trying to see it. I didn't realize that so many people were interested in seeing her kitchen. Getting these three pictures with no one else in them was enough to get about 1,000 piss-faced, hurry-up scowls. That's okay though. This was my moment with Julia. The first thing that struck me was the color of cabinets; Tiffany Blue. My wedding was in Tiffany Blue, the hovel is decorated in Tiffany Blue, I am at one with Tiffany Blue.

Tiffany Blue is the worst color to try to match for weddings, just fyi. If you are a perfectionist bride, choose another color for the love of God or you will be bald from stress and broke because you practically have to custom dye everything.

The next thing that struck me was how low the stove was. She had the cabinets raised because she was exceptionally tall for a woman. If you do the flash tour linked above, you will notice that it appears a good four inches or so lower than her cabinets. That may not seem like much, but if you are constantly bent over like that, you are going to throw out your back. Here's a picture of it, but it doesn't quite capture the disparity in height. Perhaps that why she had a stool perched there on the other side. So she could sit while she fussed over pots.

 (C) Jeff Kubina

Of course, this range was an incredible improvement over her earlier stoves, like the one seen here.

Another thing that struck me, which I guess it shouldn't have being that I was in a museum and all, was how well used everything appeared. The pots and pans were battered and scorched, jars were full with peeling labels, utensil handles were bent. It reminded me of walking into my grandmother's kitchen as a child. It just goes to show you how blinded by media perceptions we (meaning I) really are. When you watch cooking shows on TV you see nothing but brilliant counters with shiny pots, pans, and appliances. See Exhibits A, B, and C below.

Still too exited to be talking about radishes, Rach.       Image (C) CelebPulp

Chef Anne, I hate to categorize you in the same universe with R.R., but when you say, "big meat" you scare me a little and make me think dirty thoughts. I hope this does not affect our potential future BFF-ness  (Image probably (c) of Food Network)

The Anti-Christ. No explanation required. Image found here.

Another thing that surprised me is how cluttered and random the kitchen appeared. Again, I shouldn't be because Julia actually lived and cooked in that kitchen, putting things in places that were convenient for her regular use. Not like today's TV chefs that have everything symmetrical and neatly stacked/contained. (Review the above if you don't believe me).

Julia really loved knives, but she did not own a knife block. I thought that was interesting. She instead chose to have her knives within easy reach on a magnetic strip. Julia Child was, in fact, childless. Good thing though, so she did not have to worry about any emo neighbor kids getting ahold of her knife collection. Just an interesting observation.

Go cry somewhere else emo kid.

One thing she thought every cook should have was a mortar and pestle. Don't ask me why. I'd probably just end up dropping it on my foot or something, but here is hers.

"An Essential Kitchen Tool"

Another, more surprising, component of the exhibit talked about how Julia didn't start cooking until later in life. And, like myself, she was not always successful. I think it was quintessential Julia to want to teach others and show that she had lots of obstacles to overcome to achieve what she did. It makes one feel almost as if she were your friend instead of some soulless celebrity cook. 

I am not alone.

What touched me the most about the exhibit was the obvious love between Julia and Paul. It was thick in the air like a peppered, white gravy. So much love passed in that kitchen, and as you can read from the picture above, she admitted that there would be no "French Chef" without her beloved Paul. I would not be "The Project" without my beloved Jon, either.

It was a great experience and I found myself welling up with tears as we walked out. The exhibit moved me, and I can't tell you why. It was like being at a celebration of life for a recently departed friend. It's exactly the same way I felt when I watched the end of Julie and Julia, the movie. You see the Smithsonian kitchen kind of fade into the the actual kitchen, with Julia cooking away and Paul coming in with a package that turns out to be Julia's first published cookbook. Julia has changed the lives and inspired many servantless, American cooks like myself. I was just lucky enough to see a small glimpse into her every day life.

Thank you Julia, for everything.

Wordless Wednesday: Probably Getting a Little Too Addicted

Busted...

The Time I Stole Eggs from Bobby Flay

Last weekend was a particularly busy week for Jon due to his company's semi-annual convention. Being the awesome spouse-like person that I am, I tagged along to get in the way and distract him from his duties as much as possible.

What I enjoy most about going to his conferences is the nice dinners that we are occasionally invited to. This time, we were invited to a place that served bone-in Filet Mignon. It was awesome. Afterwards, we went back to the hotel bar for a drink.

Just one...

Well, of course, I was dressed beautifully and made my man proud to sit with me while we were at dinner. The bar, however, always seems like a different story. Things usually end up going South fast when we drink with Jon's coworkers. Why? Because we can never get away with just one drink, and I can't hold my liquor.

Enter the Lemon Drop Martini.

I always imagine myself looking all glamorous and sophisticated as I sip my martinis, all dressed up in my fancy pants. (whoops, just typed panties...must still be fighting that hangover). In my mind, I look totally rad like this:


 However, I probably look a little more like this:



Squee!!!!!!

After two nights of closing down the hotel bar and enough lemon drops in my system to...well...piss a lot of lemonade, my nights got a little bizarre. While Jon was holding his liquor and snoozing next to me, I was overcome with the most realistically odd dream imaginable.

It all started out normal enough: I was in my kitchen cooking...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...this recipe that was going to be a masterpiece. After looking through the cookbook, I casually walked over to the fridge to get a few ingredients. To my horror, I had no milk, eggs, or butter. I start having a panic attack and dash around the apartment as if the place is burning down. Alas, there is none of these products any where! I glance over to my skillet and the concoction is boiling! Boiling without the necessary staple ingredients! It will be ruined!

I dash out my door, across the landing, up the stairs, and start banging on my neighbor's door. My neighbor ends up being this lady who interviewed me for a job over a year ago (in real life). Not at all phased about why this Ph.D. is living in the same ghetto hovel as me, I begin begging her for all the ingredients I need. She made it very clear (in real life and in my dream) that she didn't really like me. Then, she proceeds to berate me, deny me all said perishables, and slam the door in my face. I weep.

*Weep, weep.*

Then, I just happen to notice a really nice set of stairs leading up to a penthouse suite. "When did my apartment get a penthouse suite?" I think to myself. I am slightly awed and scared at the same time. The steps are so clean and brilliant white.

(Was this a metaphor for heaven? Not sure.)

I felt compelled to climb these stairs in my desperate search for perishables. I slowly crawl on my hands and knees up the flight of stairs to the penthouse. I get to the front door, but I can't bring myself to knock. Then I notice the door is imperceptibly ajar... 

I give the door a tiny push and see a beautiful apartment loft filled with all kinds of luxury furnishings. The floor is gleaming marble. Panoramic windows flood the room with brilliant sunlight. Then, in the distance, I notice a man watching TV on a white couch. His back is to me, but I know who he is ...



Iron Chef Bobby Flay

"Holy Fish-sticks!" I think to myself. "I live two floors below freakin' BOBBY FLAY!" I admire his gleaming, white chef outfit from the floor where I am still hunkered like a scared mouse. He does not notice my presence. I can't bring myself to knock on the door and ask Bobby Flay for the things I need. I feel very small and ashamed...like I'm in a place I don't belong.

I think to myself, "If I ask Bobby Flay to borrow eggs, milk, and butter, he will think I am the most inept cook ever! What will he think of me not having these staples in the house!? STAPLES I TELL YOU!! He will be totally disgusted with me and will refuse to grill in my presence." I feel tears coming to my eyes.

*An idea forms in my brain...the room darkens...a chill fills the air...*

I must steal from Bobby Flay.

My logic is this: If he never knows I took these things, there is still a chance that we can still be best friends.

I see it all playing out in my head like this:

Perhaps we run into each other on the staircase and I can be all casual like, "Oh hey, aren't you that Bobby Flay guy?"

And he would be like "Oh yea, I am. Are you a fan of Iron Chef America?"

Then, I would be all nonchalant like "Oh, well, I watch it every now and then..."

And he would be like, "Well that's cool. Maybe we could grill together sometime."

And then I would be like, "Sounds like it might be fun. I'll bring an apron."

Then, when he turns to head up to his apartment, I squee like a teenage girl.

Time to get serious: I must preserve the future BFF-ness potential of me and Bobby Flay.

I notice a gourmet kitchen staged to the left of the front entry. The only problem is that the kitchen is in direct line of the living area where Bobby Flay is watching TV. Any false move and I would be discovered.

I scamper on my hands and knees across the cold floor in a bold dash to the kitchen.

*Scamper, Scamper*

I dive behind the kitchen's center island as if I am stealing homeplate just before Bobby Flay turns his head away from the television. He must of heard me. I chastise myself. I must be quieter. He returns to watching his program.

I stealthily tip-toe my way to his refrigerator and open the door.



Bobby Flay owns a Stainless Steel Frigidaire Gallery 25.8 Cu. Ft.
 French Door Refrigerator with Thru-the-Door Ice and Water.



I carefully collect the eggs and milk. I peer around the door. He is still tuned into the TV...

Quietly, I close the refrigerator and start my escape when I realize I have forgotten the butter. I break out into a sweat. I glance over my shoulder towards the TV...the coast is clear. I reopen the fridge door and notice the butter is all the way in the back on the top shelf. I MUST get the butter. I move the eggs and milk to one arm and stand on my tip toes to reach for the butter. Just then, the egg carton opens and a couple eggs go tumbling towards the ground.

*Splat, Splat*

The jig is up. I see Bobby Flay rise from the couch all slow-motion style like a giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk".  He starts coming right at me. I snatch the butter from the shelf and make a dash for the front door. Screaming like a mad woman, I run all the way down the stairs, across the landing, and back to my apartment.

I slam my door and lock it behind me. Bobby Flay is coming for me and he is not happy. I dump all the stolen perishables into a pot. All evidence must be destroyed. I try to whip up an omelet. Perhaps if I invite him in for an omelet, he will forget how angry he is about me stealing his food. Everyone likes an omelet, right? RIGHT!?!

*There is a knocking at my door*

I startle.

I look around panicked!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's the hotel maid...

Jon looks over at me. He says I look frazzled. "What's wrong?" he asks...