Truth in advertising

I was blown away by this little bit of decorating a while ago; just now getting around to documenting it.

So here we have a detail scene inside our friendly neighborhood boozer Wonderland, with their gorgeous new addition to the decor.

That old wedge of neon spent ages commanding the corner of 11th and Park like a proud figurehead on the prow of a rum-soaked viking ship. The old liquor store has been dead for a long time and is set for demolition as part of the whole Bi-Rite market rehab.

As reference, this was it six months ago:


And now it joins the rest of the goodies in the Wonderland. They've got a great collection of DC relics in there; signs from long-dead shops and countless bits of random weirdness. I would have loved to witness them trying to mount that sucker on the ceiling.

Always a fan of the old signage. Glad to see it will outlive its old home...

Go East, young Mayorga...

I conspired to meet the missus at Mayorga Lounge after work today, to celebrate.

Hell, who needs a reason? Uh... to celebrate the longer-lasting sunlight... celebrate her last and final visit to the bone-doc, following a long ordeal of healing a busted knee... (no? it wasn't the last visit? There's another appointment? Jeezus, these doctor creatures are vampires!)

As it turns out, tonight was the first night of a new menu at Mayorga.

Gone was the predictable cafe grub, which was always decent but mediocre. Now, I'm never one to complain unless it's really dreadful: Others were much more critical of the food there, whereas I still remember when the building was a dead shell of a place. Thus, I'm just grateful SOMETHING nice is in there, something clean and groovy and free of rats and crumbling plaster and racks of exposed rebar, looking like the ribs of a deceased antelope herd, rotting in the urban sun of northwest DC...

What? Anyway...

So today was the unveiling of the new menu: all Japanese and Korean stuff. The ownership and management is the same as it was before, but the kitchen crew is all new blood: The little Korean lady behind the swinging kitchen doors doesn't speak a word of English and bless her, the food was marvelous.


I'm no expert on the cuisine, but the modeum twigim appetizer (veg tempura with sides of kimchi, shredded radish, watercress, and some fish thing) was almost a meal in itself, and fresh enough to render the dipping sauce almost unnecessary.

We shared a bowl of the chop chae donburi (rice & wheat noodles with veg), which also came in a generous portion ("donburi" being the oversized rice-bowl: thank god for wikipedia): it was just enough to feed two moderately hungry adults. The noodles were done to perfection and the proportions balanced just right with the rice, vegetables, dressing, etc.

Having a Delaware beer with such a meal probably shatters the cultural vibe, but what the hell. It was a summer-ish day (mid-80s and a bit humid) so it all went down fine with a pint of Dogfish IPA.

Then, to completely destroy the Asian-cuisine vibe, I noticed the fresh bottle of 15-year Balvenie behind the bar. And, uh, well... call it "research" for our trip to the UK in a couple of months. Sure, we'll spend most of our time in London but I want to at least dip a toe into Scotland, and uh... "Research," as I said. Homework.


And the Balvenie 15 was the perfect cap on a cultural mishmash of food and booze at Mayorga. Any day that ends with a good single malt is a fine day indeed.

Anyway: for the locals here in Columbia Heights DC, I just wanted to spread the word on Mayorga's new menu. Get over there. It's a nice departure from the expected bar fare, and it appears to be authentic and quite well done.

The happy couple...

Guinness and Jameson, together again.

A brief moment of relaxation at Nanny O'Briens, with spouse and a re-broadcast UEFA match on the tube.

It was also a celebration of sorts. M's leg (broken at the knee) has now healed enough to crutch about without wearing that corset-like, steel/velcro/nylon immobilizing brace thing. Thus, without having one leg forced straight, our dining-out options have exploded. Previously, we were limited to places with booth seating, so the leg had a place to rest without being a hazard to everyone.

Precious few indie pubs are good for that: they may have the right seats, but not many. And the after-work crowds make it a raw gamble.

So to play it safe and get booths and ample floor-space, we've been stuck with wretched "family style" chain restaurants in the suburbs. And after suffering for weeks with all that gutless, milktoast terror with uniformed waitress drones with PLEASE, KILL ME etched into their lifeless eyes as they prattle on about their special taco salad which had been shipped in huge bulk quantities from some corporate hive in Joplin, Missouri, available at a special discount for senior citizens, the recently lobotomized, and other fans of FOX News, etc.........

A newly bendable knee means we can get back to reality.

Hence, a proper pub. And a proper pint. I couldn't quite see which countries were playing in the match, but in that comfortable moment, it didn't matter. Cheers.

Through the Looking Glass (and what Alice drank there)

I suppose this would be an update on a previous post concerning our much-beloved corner pub Temperance Hall, and its acquisition by the folks behind The Wonderland Ballroom.

No, I'm not breaking new ground here, and the topic has been beaten to death by concerned beer-drinking bloggers and their loving commenters. And I'm as guilty as anyone.

The new establishment has been christened The Looking Glass Lounge. Comment threads on other blogs had (prematurely) bemoaned everything about the place: The name, the threat of it becoming as "hip" as The Wonderland (eek, the terror!), menu changes, etc... Yes, there was hoopla.

I've never been accused of being an optimist (again, the terror!) but I refused to crucify the place without a fair trial. And I'd be as devastated as anyone if Temperance was to truly DIE, or be replaced with a savage little shithole. It was Intangible HQ's corner pub, and may God have mercy on its soul...

A few weeks had passed since the sale went down, and I felt it was finally time to enter and sniff around. And dear sweet potato jesus, it was relatively unchanged. Banish the hoopla, we're gonna make it, children: We're gonna LIVE...


The menu seemed the same, for the most part. Or at least, everything I cared about was still there. The BLT was classic Temperance, complete with the garlic mayo. The garlic fries were, actually, even garlicky-er than before, which is sheer awesomeness-beyond-imagination.

I was sad to see the Brooklyn Brown Ale go, but they did have a Baltimore-based (but European-produced) amber lager on tap called The Raven, which was as drinkable as Newcastle, but with more personality. Dan Searing (still there) suggested we try the Raven on behalf of Edgar Allen Poe, whose birthday it was. And it was (1809). And we did.

Dan also says they're keeping many of the great ryes of Temperance Hall, but perhaps thinning down the more expensive varieties.

Overall, at least for now, it has the same great vibe. And the slightly-remodeled upper floor looks great: removing the tall barriers between booths was a genius move: the space feels more open and friendly.

So fear not. Get in there. Have you hugged a bartender today?

Alas, my temporal temple of Temperance.

BEHOLD this small slice of Lower Petworth in Washington DC.

Temperance Hall: our charming neighborhood bar and much-needed bit of good vibes on Georgia Avenue has been sold to the owners of the nearby Wonderland Ballroom. This has caused a mighty ruckus amongst the Temperance Faithful, and I'll be damned if I can figure it out.

The Wonderland, once the darling bar of Columbia Heights, is now criticized by the hipper-than-thou, simply because it's doing well. It's popular, even. Hell's Toilets, dude, even the accursed "Orange-Liners" are showing up.

As if success was a bad thing.

The fear is that Temperance Hall (soon to be christened "The Looking Glass Lounge") will become some kind of zombie clone of Wonderland. Que Horror!

Perhaps I'm too naive and forgiving, but I love both establishments. Each have their merits: Wonderland has its chili-dog and Dragon Stout, and Temperance has its garlic-fries and Overholt rye. Life is good.

But would the knee-jerk whiners shut-the-hell-up please? It could've been infinitely worse. See the shredded corporate hellhole formerly known as DC's Chinatown, or even Silver Spring for examples. Temperance could just as easily have become a Starbucks.

Incredibly mad props (whatever that means) to Blogger Brethren Prince of Petworth, who has been tracking this story with a depth and clarity which far surpasses any other local media. Many of the comments on his posts showed just how insane folks can be. In a nutshell:

The name sucks, the beer selection is gonna suck, the menu is gonna suck, the popped-collar folks are gonna swoop in from Arlington and destroy our little piece of the world....


But through all the bitching, it's clear what an impact this little bar has made on the neighborhood. There was no finer place to be when a DC United game was on the tube and the sacred nexus of Garlic Fries/Old Overholt was plentiful.

We visited the place last night, to see what changes had taken place already. One positive sign was a Guinness tap, to the far right of several others which I didn't make note of... I mean, hell, if there's Guinness, the others don't matter.

Then, I was shocked and very pleased to find we'd been sitting next to the Good Prince at the bar the entire time, without realizing it. It was like a spontaneous summit meeting between two mighty superpowers.

Yes. Another Overholt please.

The brisk December sky looked down, smiling, upon humble and happy Temperance Hall. I'll reserve judgment upon the new place until it's up and running.

But, *snif*... I will miss the old gal...

the fall and rise of fall?

Where art thou, o Fally Fall...? Another day of 77-79 degrees? Where's the brisk whoosh of ghosts? Where's the mad dash for that perfect light jacket, which must still be in a box, somewhere?

The Equinox is long behind us, so git with it!

The photo was taken at a fab neighborhood watering hole, at a gaping exposure of 3.2 seconds. If the walls really WERE that color, I might never have left... until Autumn really arrives, anyway.

UPDATE, 1:30pm: okay, it's officially 76 degrees, which is better than 79, but still too warm, demmit.

the last supper

How to have a classic American Weekend:

1. Pack everything you own into boxes.
2. Move it all 9.5 miles directly south.
3. Unpack everything.

And so begins our final farewell to the Maryland suburbs and finally, hopefully, a chance to stay put for a while. The DC house is nearly painted, the exterior work carries on, and the punchline of an enormous, 4-month joke is about to be delivered. ... something about "patience" or some rubbish like that. It's not funny anymore.

So, knowing we'd spend Friday night in a dizzy freakout of packing boxes, we had our sacramental Last Supper on Thursday, at that corner landmark that needs no introduction (photo above). The Stained Glass Pub. Home of the most unfairly hyped pizza in the state of Maryland (which is strange, with Armand's just down the street), and a great place for classic Murrlin' people-watchin'.

Particularly during Redskins games. hooboy.

As expected, the pizza was astonishingly bland and caused a moderate amount of visceral distress, and the people-watching was off as well, since of course, it was Thursday. And the Redskins were nowhere to be seen.

No matter! We're moving on, and I'll finally be back in the DC neighborhood which I abandoned, stupidly, for Syracuse some 16 years ago. Since then, such marvels as the Wonderland have cropped up, which will be MORE than sufficient to fill the void left by the Stained Glass Pub, and its Redskins...

we have a pill for that...

No great social observations this time. No complacentcy-shattering diatribes, no cynical punditry. Just the Pharmacy Bar...it's definitely one of the coolest-looking businesses on 18th street, with its comforting cascade of blue pills, tumbling down the wall like a dream of chemical bliss...

We may need the Blue Pills to get through the next two weeks with sanity intact. For those following our journey into first-time-home-buying, we're now on the final sprint towards closing. Inspection is done. Appraisal is done. Haggling over last-minute repairs seems done.

So now we wait, and TRY to stay calm by sucking the blue pills off the dusty brick walls of the Pharmacy Bar... Tastes like lead-based paint. Need water. I don't know what they DO, man, but I'm gonna find out...

Two weeks and counting.

Saint Patrick, Stealer of Souls

Screw the sacramental wine; I'll have a Guinness to wash away the damage of life.

St. Patrick's story is well speculated, but the truth has been surrendered to legend, which is probably for the best. Truth never makes good television. Legend is far more interesting.

He is, of course, credited for bringing Christianity to Ireland, as represented by the expelling of a plague of snakes (pagans) from the young nation. Of course, the Christians' methods of persuasion were not subtle, and the trail of dead was enormous as they marched into northern Europe.

So, please do have that Guinness (or five) tonight, but raise one of those pints in honor of the Druids of Eire. We need a few million more of ye, to balance things a bit in this world. Cheers.

Now is the winter of our discotheque...

Two green apple martinis, as ordered by two redheads (methinks they doth thinketh aliketh), with ice and without. I observed this from the relative safety of a draft Newcastle and pondered the synchronicity.

We discussed the recent past, lingered briefly on the present, and delved into the future. Such is the effect of the cause. The mighty and the meek of Washington DC bustled about us, commuting between bar and bathroom, while the punishing beat of disco throbbed from overhead speakers.

I'm not sure if we made good progress in drawing out future plans that night, but I WAS brandishing a DVD copy of Roman Polanski's Fearless Vampire Killers when I got home. That must count for something.

Shot, glasses.

Can beauty be found in the golden velvet hues of Agave Poison? That most psychotropic of alcohols (but for absinthe, perhaps) seems to promise much by its color alone: what lurks inside that brine of madness?

The rabbit-hole goes deep, and all rabbits are insane when they return to the surface. Perhaps they were humans once, sitting in a Maryland restaurant, studying the secrets lost in that golden chemical maze...

Turkey Burger Smackdown '05

This was serious business:

Our favorite turkey burger has always been at Timberlake's on Connecticut Avenue, but rumor had it the Hawk 'n Dove could be a contender. Immediately, the Hawk earned points for being closer to work, having outdoor tables, and Guinness on tap (why, Timberlakes, why not, for the love of Joyce?)

Service at the Hawk was slow. Painfully so. Granted, a Nationals game had just ended and Barracks Row was bursting with red-tee-shirted sportsfans, so I'll be generous there. While meditating over a black pint and waiting for their best attempt to beat Timberlake's lead, I studied the street from our cozy outdoor table -- the bar next door seemed photogenic enough... The day was cooler, less humid, breezy, and the curb was dotted with an odd mixture of cars; gleaming BMW convertibles and rusted Toyotas.

Gentrification makes strange bedfellows.

Turkey Burger arrived (with onion rings, of course). While I'm sure both Timberlake's and Hawk 'n Dove use easy, pre-packaged ingredients, the Hawk's offering was more "packaged" somehow. Didn't have that lovingly hand-tooled vibe, somehow. Both places offer fine, fat onion rings but even on that count, Timberlake's kicks the Hawk right in its feathered butt.

Our waiter guy disappeared into the mob of baseball people at the bar, and we never saw him again. An appropriate amount of cash was left on the table and we ambled off, with mixed reviews of the two establishments. Hawk 'n Dove would be best for simple after-dinner drinks, maybe an appetizer and a seat outside to study the german sportscars with immaculately groomed Bichons barking in the back seat... but for awesome turkey-burgers in a classic hardwood bar environment, Timberlake's remains victorious.

We strolled happily into the distance, in search of squirrels to chase. It took about two hours but we found one, dammit. We found one.