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.

Pete's be with you...

Another addition to the 14th & Irving big-business-bang hatched yesterday.

Pete's New Haven Style Apizza is nestled in the corner behind the Potbelly and the west entrance to the Columbia Heights metro. With all the construction and finish-work being done on the condos above, it's easy to miss the place, wedged beneath scaffolding and noisy whatnot...

I'm not familiar with the idea of "New Haven Style Apizza" -- evidently "apizza" is a colloquial term for this particular subspecies of pizza(?!?!) But New Haven? What, pray, is Connecticut's unique contribution to the pizza universe?

That's not a snarky question, seriously: what's the deal? At first I thought the name was just a weak pun, which isn't a bad thing. Clearly I dig me some weak puns.

For what it's worth, they claim (via the website) to use organic and local ingredients whenever possible, to be environmentally sensitive, and to revere "the Italian food culture of freshness, quality and simplicity." So there you are.

This aint no cheap apizza, neither. The basic pie will run you $17.95, one topping $19.95, two toppings $21.95, three or more $23.95. In terms of raw cash, Red Rocks beats Pete's by several bucks ($8.95 for the Red Rocks basic pie, plus $1.50 per basic topping or $2.50 for the exotic stuff).

BUT, Pete's toppings list offers some nice items as well: sauteed wild mushrooms, fried Italian eggplant, asparagus, carmelized onions, grilled artichokes, etc. This means I can finally get a decent artichoke/roasted red pepper pizza (a magical combination, trust me... particularly if you can get it with smoked gouda).

The menu also mentions appetizers, pasta, panini, Italian coffees, draft beer and wines, and a few desert items (no specifics on the beers).

So, the neighborhood continues to grow, and now the scent of highbrow pizza enters the mix. I'm eager to try the place. But I'm still a-wondering about this "New Haven" thing....

Apizza? Gesundheit!

Empanada nirvana

Praise Julia!

So I was happily putting off certain duties today, as one should on a Saturday afternoon: Dishes? Who needs 'em? Laundry? Hell, what's the point?

And besides, I can't "do anything" productive when the dog is NAPPING, can I? Gomez asleep on a Saturday afternoon??!!? It's like a rare and precious moment, like a solar eclipse! Or Haley's Comet! Or a biblical plague of locusts! Or a ride up 14th street during the afternoon rush without a dense crush of people and someone's shoulder in my mouth all the way to Irving Street!

What? Ah yes!

'tis better to bypass all those chores and catch up on email.

Friday's digest from the Columbia Heights listserv had only four messages, but the topmost item had these golden words:

---
Julia's Empanadas opened today, in the triangle area between
Park & Kenyon @ 14th St, next to Pollo Campero.
They've got some great food on hand!
---

I started trembling like a junkie instantly.

I've raved about Julia's already. And I've been going to the Dupont location regularly for a classic DC lunch on-the-hoof, and it's always a satisfying treat. Those "pillows of bliss" are cheap as hell and very tasty. As I said, Julia's deserves a place in DC's foodie paradise next to other heavy-hitters like Ben's Chili Bowl and the Florida Avenue Grill. Infact, we can just call that The Holy Trinity of DC food right there.

So I shut down the email and ran like a spastic idiot to the corner of 14th and Park.


I got my salteñas, asked if I could take a few photos inside, and spent the next few minutes munching happily whilst walking around the block like I owned the friggin' place. Like Paul Muni in the original Scarface. The world is mine.

To paraphrase Brundle-Fly:

Julia's Empanadas are inherently encouraging. They make a man a KING.


Of course everyone has their own priorities. For me, history will show that Julia's was much more meaningful than the new Target. At least in terms of repeat visits between the two places.

And a few doors down, the opening of D'vines (the beer/wine store for discriminating snobs like me who dig a Maudite now and then) will be the next big thing. Watch for that in a couple of weeks.

Pillows of bliss

Great galloping cornflakes, Batman...

HOW CAN IT BE that I've been a part of the marvelous city of Washington DC all this time, and I just now get to Julia's Empanadas?

Sweet baby Jesus and his tiny brown pies, MOMMY! I've been missing out!

For a humble $3.18 ($3.50 after taxation without representation), one can score a tiny pillow of bliss. It's about the size of a young cat's head, and it's filled to bursting with marvelous things (the empanada, not the cat's head...at least I hope not...anyway...)

My inaugural empanada was the spinach. It was an aromatic mix of spinach, ricotta, muenster and cottage cheese, pine nuts, and spices, all baked in a succulent crust that could be a meal in itself. And the whole thing is neat and tidy enough to eat on the hoof, which is the general idea. Takeout, baby. Get it and get out. Other options include chorizo, turkey with onions, Chilean beef, and folks seem to love the Jamaican style.

The location in the photo is Connecticut Ave just south of Dupont Circle. This means I've spent my life walking right past this place without giving it a second thought.

Therefore, ignorance is NOT bliss.
Bliss is therein, and will cost you a mere $3.50.

A nice pair...

As is human nature, we pause at times to reflect on how the Big Gig is going so far. The round numbers work best for this: ten years, twenty-five years, etc. They're only numbers, but they offer a good excuse to kick back and contemplate just what the heck we've achieved in all that time.

If my life was a book, it would be all internal dialogue and incessant navel-gazing, a life trapped inside the skull like a beehive of dementia. "The Story" would make Naked Lunch or Finnegan's Wake seem like the straightest narratives ever written, since Dick and Jane got that goddamned dog...

Run, Spot. Run.

But once in a while, life develops irresistable events and forces the contemplative mind to peek outside...and marvel at beautiful things. And that is what we celebrate here. It was ten years ago: A nice, round number.

September 2, 1997 was the day I began a new job as a designer at a publishing house in Tucson. It was about 10am when my tour of the office led me to the desk of a charming Editor who commanded my full attention from the first handshake.

The attraction was violent and crazy and obsessive, and intellectual as well. That first handshake wrapped a harness of sinew around my ribcage and sealed my fate: I would commence puppy-doggin' after this chick until she either fell for me or filed a restraining order with the Pima County Sheriff's Department.

Luckily, no such order was filed, despite my clearly tentative grasp on reality.

In those first weeks, I babbled at her endlessly about my obsessions, including a scheme to develop a new form of religion: a quantum cult called the AOTA (All Of The Above), where all gods, goddesses, archangels, demons, and nature spirits would be accepted as equals, under the basic understanding that EVERYBODY IS RIGHT. Thus, people would stop arguing over matters of pretentious, theological bullshit and just be civilized humans. Or at least shut the hell up. No pun intended.

She listened to all this muttering, and didn't run away to fetch the can of Mace she should have stashed in her desk. Somehow everything worked out.

Now it's a full decade, to the day, later. We've put down some pretty deliberate roots in DC (a homecoming for me, a new trip for her), and in that time, we've accumulated more stories than can be written or remembered.

To mark the occasion, a mexican restaurant. Of course.

And of course, you can't get decent Mexican out here, after spending nearly a decade in Southern Arizona. Still, Rosa Mexicano on F Street was a fine enough substitute. The margaritas were strong, the guacamole fresh, and the occasion was perfect.

Ten years seems like a long time, and it seems like the briefest moment... I can't decide.

you GO, grill.

Florida Avenue at 11th Street: The BEST breakfast in DC.

Watch this corner for rapid, weird changes: There's another condo building going up next door, which will abut the south side of the 'Grill. And it's going up fast.

The architect's rendering looks like another ultra-modern building, probably something spit out of a soulless CAD program based on keywords like "20-something overpaid yutz" and "architectural nightmare" and "don't bother meshing with the vibe of a richly historic neighborhood".

At Intangible Arts, we are not anti-progress, but we do see much of today's architecture as an aesthetic cancer; a parasite feeding on the charm of our most loved urban blocks.

Hopefully it'll mean good business for the 'Grill, but it seems puzzling that anyone would build yet another condo building in this town. In this neighborhood. In these times.

Folks can't sell the condos they've got already, thanks to the perfect storm of housing crash and sub-prime mortgage scandals. This is madness. Within five years, all these buildings will be dead shells left for the squatters, rats, and swarms of post-apocalyptic killer bees. And zombie cats.

But at least there's still an endless cup of coffee and a good stack 'o pancakes with halfsmoke next door. Condos or not, the 'Grill is a marvelous thing. Great atmosphere, great staff, and the perfect meal for a lazy Sunday morning, with or without hangover.

The Pizza Has Landed

For thousands upon thousands of years, we residents of DC's Columbia Heights neighborhood have suffered in silence, without a decent pizza establishment. We've either lived with our pain and despair, or we've undertaken pilgrimages to Mt. Pleasant street for the pizza at Radius, sobbing in our beer, sputtering pesto sauce and weeping openly, thinking we'd never have such a groovy thing for ourselves.....

WRONG, soily bastards!

Last Thursday was a sacred day for us, as Red Rocks finally opened its doors after a surge of neighborhood excitement that's been building for months. The pitch was very impressive, and it seems they've delivered on most promises: a decent menu offering brick oven-cooked pizzas with eclectic and more standard toppings, nearly thirty bottled beers, and.......uh, once I saw Chimay Triple on tap, I didn't bother noting what else they had.

We stumbled in and grabbed a table on Sunday afternoon. It had been a day of puttering in the yard, trying to tame the weeds and tall grass while keeping the dog entertained (The solution was simple: brandish the weeds and shake 'em at the dog, who promptly runs in circles for about fifteen minutes. Shake the weeds at him again, and off he goes. Boxers have such odd brains).

Point is, it's a summer day in DC. No better time to check out our new pizza joint and lovingly chuck back a Chimay or three.

Oh crap....Waitress says the taps are dead today. hm. No matter. They've got thirty-some bottles to choose from, so make it a Golden Monkey. What the hell. It's Sunday...the Lord's Day. Or something.

Supposedly, the building which now holds Red Rocks was once a rooming house, and one of East Columbia Heights' more notorious sites of prostitution. I seem to recall a City Paper cover story on it a while back. Who knows how much work had to be done in there, to transform it into this place, but I'm certainly glad they did.

The interior and overall vibe is actually a fair comparison to Radius, in Mt.Pleasant. And that is a good thing. Exposed and darkly mottled brick walls, comfortable bar, framed reprints of historic photos from the neighborhood... Looks like it's been decorated just enough for what it is, but not overdone. Instantly cozy.


Most bloggers and commenters on other sites have noted the slow service, while playing nice and granting Red Rocks the benefit of being new, etc. And truly, we had quite a long wait for our pizza, and I'll give 'em a pass as well. Besides, it was a hot, humid summer afternoon in DC, my fingers still stank of citronella from the tiki torches, and I was in no hurry. As long as there was another Golden Monkey back there somewhere. No worries.

We witnessed several curious folks poke their heads in, assess the crowd, and either find seats, or leave while thoughtfully nodding, making internal promises to return. One family came in and sat for a minute, then became instantly irate at the lax service, and stormed out. We laughed...it's the epitome of Arrogant, Ugly, Fat, White America: The universe revolves around THEM, and THEY must be catered to with flawless precision. Screw 'em. They can subsist entirely on delivery pizza from that Nazi Domino's company, while we wait a few extra minutes like dignified people, and ultimately feast like kings. Exhausted, sweaty kings.

And feast we did. We got a pair of specialty pizzas from the menu (fungi & margherita), both of which were excellent. Perfect woodfire crust: thin and strong without being too dry, and the toppings balanced well (i.e., not too much. Someday, let your inner sociologist really study a typical Pizza Hut TV commercial; you'll see what I mean).

The only real downside was, no taps! We'll definitely be back and with luck, the Chimay will be flowing freely, and the butterflies will be singing, and the people will be dancing in the streets, and the bartenders will vomit golden rainbows upon the sidewalks outside, paved with endless woodfire pizzas..... and I shall look upon it, and it shall be good.

Gluttony is a virtue.

The Great Curry Run '05

It all started as a joke. Or a snide comment. Something like that. Sarcasm was definitely involved...but sarcasm can lead to great things.

It was the start of a typical workday, about 9:30am, and I suggested to a co-worker (in paraphrase), "uh, we should hijack a military helicopter and make a run to Manhattan for lunch." Why a military helicopter, you may ask? No idea; could be a style thing: one mustn't joyride in any old beater. Plus, a Chinook or Apache might have a bigger fuel tank. It just wouldn't be STYLIN' to putter up to NYC in a stolen, rusty traffic helicopter from Channel 5.

I hadn't been to New York since 1991, and still had fond memories of my best Indian restaurant experience. It was Panna II in the East Village, and it's a feast for all senses. All senses. Eyes as much as taste.

Before we knew it, Greyhound bus tickets were ordered and we had a plan. Saturday. 7:00am. Bus outta DC. Get to Port Authority in time to hustle a cab down to 1st Avenue for a plate of curried bliss. Walk off the lunch through the Village, back up Broadway & over to Port Authority, to bus home. One rather long, wacky day.

Panna II was everything I remembered -- The decor was even more insane (they had gone tremendously freaky with the christmas lights 14 years ago, and it looked like they had acquired a few more since then).

After lunch, it was imperative that our walk include St. Marks Place, where I had blown so much cash during those previous visits; books, records, insane little things...

As the photo (above) proves, we also ran into Barney on St. Marks, who's looking a little rough around the edges these days; it seems his retirement from children's TV wasn't going so well.

Once we started heading north, to Union Square and beyond, it became clear that Christmas Shopping Season in NYC is a seriously intense experience. The Macy's on Broadway had become Mecca for all these millions of bodies, these drones, clambering towards the building like termites driven mad by chemical signals squeezed into the air from the gigantic inflatable Scooby Doo above the front door...

Anyway, we found our bus and returned home alive. Barney didn't have the cash to come along, or I figure he might have... A bigger set of photos is on the Flickr site here.

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.