The Alarming Mediocrity of Good Stuff Burgers

[like it's been hacked up by a cat]

What did I expect? Just because the guy was a contestant on Top Chef, his restaurant should be good? That's like going to a concert by an American Idol winner and expecting the Rolling Stones. But one likes to think there are some standards in the world. Standards that dictate things like, say, folks who make hundreds of thousands of dollars on TV as chefs, ought to be able to pull off passable burgers.

But when I went to Good Stuff Eatery in Capitol Hill last weekend, the feeling I came away with -- shit, "disappointed" doesn't begin to capture it. For starters, the place had all the right visual cues that I should expect great things. It was brand new, spic and span, sleek almost to the point of Jetsons-esque diner-kitsch futuristic. Then you look at the menu, which boasts about farm-raised beef, and has down-home contrived names for each of its sandwiches, like "Uncle D's Chili 'N Cheddar." So I ordered. I ordered the Good Stuff Melt, because it was the rare afternoon when I wasn't in the mood for bacon on my burger. At $6.89, the Melt promised three types of cheese, carmelized onions, and grilled mushrooms. KB and I split some fries with rosemary on them and I topped it all off with a black-and-white milkshake, kind of like a chocolate-dipped vanilla soft-serve after a few minutes in the blender.

Look at the picture above. That's how my sandwich arrived. The bun was so shriveled and moist that it looked like it had been used for fastball practice before it was served. The patty was 1/3 pound, tops, and this was a 7-dollar burger here. So I guess it wasn't quality or presentation that I was paying for here. Maybe the taste? Nope. I bit into a way-well patty with far too much cheese (I thought the "3 types of cheese" referred to variety, rather than a quantity of cheese meant to compete with the meat) and the other fixin's quite lost in the mix. This burger comes nowhere near even holding a candle to 5 Guys, even in spite of the chain's messiness. The milkshake? Sure, it was good, but it was an unseasonable 80 degrees out and I quickly lost interest. So it wasn't THAT good. The fries were run-of-the-mill. Nowhere near as deftly spiced as those from The Brewer's Art, and the dipping sauces (like the burgers) sounded good but came up way short. An Old Bay mayonnaise might as well have just been Old Bay and water, it was so heavy on the allspice. The mango sauce was not suited for potatoes of any kind. The sriracha mayo was great, but that was it.

For the first time in I don't know how long, I did not finish a burger and a milkshake. Not to mention a burger-milkshake-fires combo that came to almost $17. Get bent, Spike. This is the last time I go to a restaurant based on Top Chef endorsement alone.

FOOD: C-
I can cook a better burger than this in 7 minutes flat. Over-done, poorly-proportioned, pathetic presentation, unremarkable fries, and a tasty, but far-too-rich milkshake. All of it overpriced, to add insult to injury.

SERVICE: B+
Fine, whatever. The counter girl recommended the fries I chose, but they were nothing special. No one was mean or anything. We did see Spike drifting in and out of the place looking disinterested. A couple was overheard at a nearby table saying, "Why is he always here?"

AMBIENCE: A
I actually really dig this part of south Capitol Hill, and would consider living here if I ventured to move to Washington. Plus the decor was, for a burger joint, pretty ideal. It relived some of that 50s futuristic drive-thru glory that usually makes places like In-N-Out taste better.

Nostalgic for Baltimore, Anyone?

[shyuck, shyuck, shyuck...]

I went to Faidley's the other day for lunch, intending to get a crab cake, but ended up just doing it Mad Men-style, with the working lunch of straight oysters and a beer.

The following night, I had oysters that really blew these ones out of the water at Hank's Oyster Bar in DC, which I think is my current favorite restaurant in the District, but it was Bawlmer, man, and it was REAL. I perused seafood:


[god made ROCK ...fish]

And this handsome fellow came home with me, to be grilled up on Friday. He's all fillets and ice in my freezer right now:


[oh, hi]

And Brooksie knows what's best:


[brooksie]

Felice Bros. @ Birchmere, 4/15

Despite the hellish drive from Baltimore to Alexandria during rush hour, I had a lovely time with KB seeing the Felice Brothers, the latest greatest hillbilly punk band (or are they just a punky hillbilly band?) to emerge from New York. I love this band's self-titled record, mainly because they sound just like The Band on a lot of tracks, but also because they make music that is strikingly rough-edged in an era where that's becoming the norm for garage rock bands, but still hasn't caught on in the country scene. Bluegrass is great, sure, with all its flourish and technical wizardry and hot fiddling, but there was certainly a vacuum to be filled for bands that play low-budg old-time string band music with the same type of voracity that the Sex Pistols or the Stooges played rock. A few years ago, Old Crow Medicine Show started the big push to fill that gap. The Felice Brothers, from upstate New York, are the latest.

Fittingly, drummer Simone Felice was wearing an OCMS t-shirt while he sat behind the kit. His two brothers, James (accordion, keyboards, vocals) and Ian (guitar, lead vocals) were two his right, along with Greg Farley, the slightly ADD fiddler and washboard-scraper who did lots of vaguely hip-hop dance moves when he wasn't playing and wore absurd nut-hugger jeans, and Christmas, the group's bizarre, strung-out looking bassist. They played a good mix of songs from Felice Brothers and their new one, Yonder Is the Clock, which came out just a few weeks ago. "Run Chicken Run," "Cooperstown," and "The Big Surprise" were new to me, while "Helen Fry" and "Frankie's Gun!" were raucous and familiar. Highlights were "The Greatest Show On Earth" and "Radio Song," and very rough-edged version of "Whiskey In My Whiskey," which had a fast, hustling beat, lots of yelling, and featured Ian playing a dirty country guitar solo while standing on his brother's bass drum.

The thing about the Felice Brothers is, they sound like shit in concert. But then again, they sort of sound like shit on record. Their singing voices would make most A&R men cringe. Their playing isn't amateurish, per se -- it's just not especially impressive. What they've got, really, is a real sense of poetry to their songs, dressed up in ripped clothing and wild, drunken energy. "We're just a bunch of dirtbags," Ian said at one point in the show. And he was right on. Christmas, the wide-eyed, strung-out looking bassist, literally had no elbows on his shirt, it was so badly torn. The five of them kept drinking from one another's beers and passing a pack of cigarettes around during the show. Farley, when he wasn't scratching out gloriously scratchy double-stop solos, was either smashing the drum kit's cymbals with a washboard or messing around with the other players' instruments. When they finally ended the set, with a hoarse, drunken version of Townes Van Zandt's "Two Hands" -- my favorite TVZ song, coincidentally -- no one in the crowd wasn't dancing.

Mekong Delta

[k likes pho]

When the bosses in my office heard that just up the street a restaurant called Mekong Delta had opened, they took it as a sign of generational drift. How could one possibly give such a name to an establishment and expect anyone to come? It would be like naming an Iraqi tea-house The Falluja Cafe! Have these kids no historical memory?

OK, fine, so some bad stuff went down in the 60s in the Mekong Delta. But there's some good stuff goin' into my belly on Saratoga Street's own version of the place. I had lunch there a few weeks ago with my friend KC, but it wasn't the first time I'd been there. A week or so before I went with my colleague AR, and at 12:30 we were told that if we didn't have a lot of time, we shouldn't hang around, because each meal is made individually, without line cooks, and that we could expect to wait 45 minutes. For lunch!

KC and I arrived at 11:40, and the service was considerably more expeditious than that. I got a mixed seafood pho with huge gobs of (real) crab meat swimming in a sea of scallions and salty broth. King prawns, scallops, and (I think) some fish meat mingled around the traditional Vietnamese rice noodles, and the whole deal was seriously slurpable:


[slurp!]

KC got the Vietnames "crepes," which our server recommended for someone who was interested in "something different," misreading us, perhaps, as regular customers. It was a tasty savory pancake -- perhaps a bit too pasty -- filled with fried veggies, chicken, and a few too many styrofoam-tasting bean sprouts, and it left me wondering if there was some sort of French Indochine connection here. I mean, are there "crepe" shops set up all over on the streets of Hanoi? What other fusions are there? Pork belly rolls in buttery boules? Guess I'll have to go there and find out.


[dip!]

FOOD: B+
This was no 3-visit Frank Bruni review, but the two dishes we did have were really tasty. I'm not a huge connossieur of pho, so I need to wait until I eat something from MD that has tripe in it before I can call myself a man, but overall a good lunch for $10 apiece. Oh, and the lightly-hinted-at flavor of the cold white tea was great

AMBIENCE: B-
Kinda crappy. The place is too small -- it's in a rowhouse at the corner of Liberty and Saratoga, and every table is sort of near the door. We were wedged up against a fridge full of cokes. But maybe when it gets sunnier out they'll add some sidewalk tables.

SERVICE: B
The first time we went there, the suggested wait was outrageous. If grandma can't cook everything customized in less than 20 minutes, hire some line cooks! But the manager is very nice, and our food came moderately quickly the second time, with no mistakes.

Americana in the City

[Deer Tick]

Flanneled weird-beards of Baltimore: Fear not! Americana, with the occasional tinge of indie rock, is alive and well in this town. This past weekend we checked out a total of five acts, at three different venues, all but one of which fell under the general banner of "rootsy" and, curiously, they were some of the best shows we've caught in a while.

Friday night Deer Tick, a Brooklyn-via-Rhode Island country-rock band, opened a bill at the G Spot, for the second time. The first show was with Wye Oak headlining, a little over a year ago; Friday it was moody troubadour Matthew Houck, also known as Phosphorescent. Both times, Deer Tick narrowly out shined the headliner. Led by guitarist and singer John Joseph McCauley III, the band sometimes hits high emotional points that you don't expect out of them. "Little White Lies" and "Art Isn't Real a.k.a. City of Sin" trickle along with finger-picked guitar parts and chiming lead lines, but McCauley's voice is brash and mature, and especially suited to lines like "I gotta get drunk, I gotta forget about some things/ I lived in lies all my life/ And I've been livin' here all my life." The band also played local favorite "Baltimore Blues No. 1."

Houck, we were told by a neighbor, was pissed about the sound system, but it was difficult to tell because this is the first time we've seen him. His brand of psych-drenched country-folk seemed cool enough, though, and his voice is outstanding. And the keyboard player in his touring band did things rarely heard of in relatively straight-laced country music—rolls and riffs straight out of the blues idiom, making a kind of ornate joinery with Houck's singing. But the songwriting falls a bit short. The best Phosphorescent song played, "Reasons To Quit," sounds like a tired reworking of the Louvin Brothers' "Satan Is Real," both in melody and lyrical tone. An encore version of the Bee Gees' "To Love Somebody" was good, but not great.

Saturday, J. Roddy Walston and the Business, the ubiquitous Jerry Lee Lewis-meets-Queen bar rock band, returned to the Ottobar after something of a Saturday night residency there a few months ago. Beefed up by openers Egg Babies Orchestra, the rumor was that the bar had its biggest bar tab ever. The Egg Babies are a spectacle worth spectating. Each show they play is different, both in song selection and theme, and Saturday was "Movie Show II" a sequel to an earlier performance in which the band played '80s movie themes while projecting scenes from the movie behind them. "Neverending Story" was incredible. "Stuck In The Middle With You" over the cutting scene from Reservoir Dogs was fun, and "St. Elmo's Fire" and "The Glory of Love" over scenes from the Karate Kid Part 2 were transcendent.

J. Roddy's set was pretty much all old songs. But that doesn't change the fact that this is probably the best live rock band in Baltimore. The energy is unbelievably high, every song is anthemic, and J. Roddy lurches around, rocks back and forth, and literally dry-humps his keyboard when things get really wild. Not to mention bassist Zach Westphal's glorious head banging with his elbow-length hair, which honestly is one of the best parts of the show. We were standing behind a hardy crew of frat types, clearly loving the cock rock, who kept hugging each other and nearly kissed during "I'm Going Out," Roddy's Thin Lizzy-ish chant about "going out with my friends." Highlights included an encore version of the delightfully filthy "Full-Grown Man" and and artfully delivered "Nineteen Ought Four," a slow blues-rock ballad that compares a love affair to the Great Baltimore Fire.

And Monday night, after missing two opening acts by the pitifully early hour of 10:30, we returned to the Ottobar for six or so cuts from Maryland-based alt-country outfit Cotton Jones. This show was disappointing. Michael Nau seems like he has a really talented singer/songwriter/performer package in him somewhere that is so obscured by the mediocrity of his band it's almost painful. In fact, listening to the gal who sang, played keyboards, and shook a sleigh bell and could not bring herself to sing on key or in any harmony more interesting than a fifth off of what Jones was singing, was quite literally grating. Add to that the two totally unnecessary electric guitars on stage, and body language from the band that could be mistaken for nothing other than, "I'd rather be anywhere but here right now," and what you've got is a band that sounds like an imitation M. Ward that's earning only a tiny fraction of what they could be making if they were a trio. Sad to see and say, but tough love seems to be what Cotton Jones needs in order to cut some of the fat out of its live act.

Cross-posted at City Paper's Noise blog

Raphael Saadiq @ Ram's Head Live, 3/23/09

[oh, he means it.]

Monday night I found a good way to keep my weekend birthday celebration going: by checking out Raphael Saadiq at the Ram's Head. I previewed Saadiq's show for City Paper last week, but there's far more to be said aside from what I heard on the record and in my interview with the singer. Namely the muscularity of Saadiq's stage show and the devotion of his fans in the audience.

Saadiq bookended his set with versions of the 5th Dimension's "Aquarius/Let The Sunshine In," playing a pearl-white telecaster himself and dancing gamely while doing it. He then jumped into a set of songs from his album, The Way I See It. "Let's Take A Walk" started with about 16 slow, crashing 7-chords that hit on the last syllable of each of the opening lines ("This place is CROWDED--" BWAAAANNGGGGG!!!" etc.) then jumped right into the stilted, mid-tempo groove of the song. This song really highlighted two things for me. First, as my concert companion pointed out, Saadiq only sings songs about love and sex (and bluntly!: "This place is crowded / Don't know 'bout you / But I need some sex / Some sex with you / 'Cause you're on my mind..."), and second, soul rhythm guitar, while hardly thought of as a virtuoso pursuit, can be really effing impressive. Rob Bacon, Saadiq's touring guitarist, literally never stops riffing. It's true that soul tunes are highly chordal: meaning, they're based on definite, discernible changes, usually based on the blues (I-IV-V and II-V-I etc.), but Bacon was just killing it with these neck-sliding 9-chords and blues turnarounds right in the middle of lines. I was sort of entranced.

But enough guitar nerdery. Let's talk real for a minute. And by real I mean an 8-and-a-half minute, 5-song medley of Tony! Toni! Tone! slow jams that Saadiq inserted almost exactly in the middle of the set, including "Anniversary," "Lay Your Head On My Pillow," and a few others whose names fail me despite my extensive command of the Tony! Toni! Tone! catalog. As soon as the slow jams started, most of the crowd -- largely 35-45-year-old black couples, which was refreshing to see in the usually frat boy-choked Ram's Head -- paired off and started slow dancing like they just couldn't wait to get home and get their clothes off.

If the slow jams were ecstatic, the stuff from the new album was paradise. "Staying In Love" and "Sweet and Tender" were full-steam energy. Saadiq's two back-up singers were hopping and jogging in place, both, like him, wearing suits and skinny ties. One was a peppy little pistol of a woman and the other was a tall man who had sweated through his shirt (but refused to remove his sport coat) by minute 2:00 of the 6-minute extended version nof "Sure Hope You Mean It," complete with minimal, Four Tops-style turn-and-step choreography. I felt like I was seeing the closest thing available to an early sixties soul show, or maybe just like I was in the James Brown scene from Liberty Heights.

Matt & Kim @ Ottobar, 2/27/09

Walking away from the triple bill headlined by Matt and Kim—the Brooklyn, N.Y.-based dance-punk carnival band that was the darling at last year's South by Southwest festival—at the Ottobar Thursday night, we were wracking our brains trying to think of another band, or any sort of live act, that does as good a job as Matt and Kim do at becoming fast friends with the audience. Much of Wham City acts stage hyper-positive, interactive play-dates at their shows—Dan Deacon has his gauntlet, Blue Leader wants a few games of Nintendo with you—but most of that stuff is parallel play. None of them do what Matt and Kim do, which is to appeal immediately to the most sociable in the audience, to impress upon them how likable and un-rock star they are, to make everyone in the place feel a degree of ownership over the music: These are my buddies. They've come over to jam. Isn't that cool?

That social invitation probably the same reason that a good deal of punk-influenced art-school bands, like occasional Matt and Kim tour-mates Double Dagger and the Death Set, prefer to set up in the mosh pit, or at least do the majority of their performing from there: It's democratic, intimate, and makes concerts feel like dance parties, without the self-consciousness of a performance. But Matt and Kim don't play from the floor. She pounds her drums and he sings and does hand-stands on his keyboard rig from the stage, both of them upfront and close to one another, with flickering slides of their album cover projected on screens behind them. The charm is in their intense familiarity and bubbling enthusiasm for what they're doing. "Kim," Matt will say before most songs. "Kim, are you ready?"

Thursday night began with a set of Misfits-meet-Siouxsie punk dirges from local band Sick Weapons, which features Blood Baby guitarist Peter O'Connell and Elie Beziat's moribund yowling of lyrics such as, "I can't fuck for the fun of it." Midway through their set, Beziat chugged a few 5-hour energy drinks onstage, offering one to the crowd. (Double Dagger's Nolen Strals raised his hand and was obliged.) "If these were around when I was your age," Beziat observed, looking at the small bottle in her hand, "maybe I wouldn't have done all that cocaine and dope and morning-after pills."

Following them was Hollywood Holt, a nerdy Chicago rapper whose "Throw a Kit," a song about souping up mopeds, is really just a more frenetic version of the Cool Kids' "Black Mags." Hollywood was a high-octane, slam-dancing showman, though. His voice through a stage mic is on the high side—he sounds a tad like the Digital Underground's Shock G: nasally and strained—and he frequently raps along with the studio version of his voice from pre-recorded tracks. But, "Hollywood" was a great dance track.

Matt and Kim set their instruments up onstage with some Biggie and T.I. tracks being piped in, and immediately started dancing with the crowd from the stage. Throughout their set, which was moderately long and touched on both their self-titled debut and last month's Grand, Matt kept gushing about how great it was to be in Baltimore. Shout-outs were made to Double Dagger and local DJ Emily Rabbit; past shows were reminisced. Kim's infectious and constant smile was impossible not to imitate. At one point she apologized into the mic for "breaking the rule" of not drinking more than two beers. In response, Matt took two song breaks to explain her "three stages" of drunkenness: the first is giggly. In the second, she "tells you all kinds of things that you don't want to know about feminine hygiene" The third is "Violent Kim." Did the crowd want to see Violent Kim? They did. Matt handed her another beer.

As for the songs, what they lose when played live in production value and Kim's vocals they gain in raw energy. "Cinders" and "Lesson Learned," two of the rowdier tracks from Grand, were great. Matt's keyboard work is mostly confined to the types of synth and organ work that you'll hear from Wham City acts, and with limited range he makes a surprisingly robust sound. Older tracks, such as "Good Old-Fashioned Nightmare" and "It's A Fact" sounded fresh. The crowd of mostly college-aged kids was with the band on every line, and the dancing was wild.

When the end of the set came, Matt was ebullient—stammering and thanking and telling the crowd "how much it means" to him that this was their biggest ever show in Baltimore. The finale was "Silver Tiles," a hand-clapper of an anthem with a huge, singable chorus—"And all our hopes and all our friends/ Through parking lots, it's where we've been"—that doesn't appear on any album. "This song is all about old friends," Matt said, and it looked like he was near tears. Then he took his mic, got up from his stool, and jumped onto the upturned, waiting hands of the audience.

Cross-posted at City Paper Noise Blog.

Weekends @ Metro Gallery Feb. 25

[TGIF! LOLZ!]

I'm starting to think that most of the press on the Baltimore band Weekends is written by their very close friends. For example, a blog that I'm just discovering exists, BMore Musically Informed, had this to say about them:

Already garnering comparisons to Ponytail this Baltimore duo fills any rock and roll void one might possess with riffs of pure joy. No Age's Nouns was a similarly great record, but each and every jam on Weekends' s/t debut blows Nouns out of the water.

Really? Where have they garnered comparisons to Ponytail, pray tell? Among your friends? Because I haven't seen any, and the two bands sound absolutely nothing alike. Their sounds are as disparate as No Age and Ponytail. One is really loud, sludge-hammer noise-punk, and the other is really loud, but melodic surf-guitar riffs with a girl out front screeching nonsense. Don't get me wrong -- I like both bands, but the comparison is inapt.

Or take, por ejemplo, this incredibly undescriptive "No Cover" profile from City Paper last month, which includes the following quote from guitarist Adam Lempel:

"I saw Brendan playing [and] I was just like, 'I want to be in a band with that dude,'" Lempel says while doing a vigorous impersonation of Sullivan on guitar. "[He was] rocking out so hard. He was just into it in a good way."

This quote, to me, captures hipsterdom in its most perfect, putrid nutshell. It's like, being "into it" is ultimately BAD, and Lempel liked Sullivan's playing because he was INTO IT, but just like, not in a lame way. He's really venturing into uncharted territory here: a hipster band with musicians who are actually enthusiastic about music. Their approach, as reported, complete with self-described "rudimentary" drumming and a marked aversion to something called "blog rock," which we don't really hear defined in any way, offers no argument to me about why I should listen to this band. In fact, the only possible type of person I could see reading that review and thinking, "I really wanna check Weekends out," is the lowest, vilest type of poseur who jumps up every time they read the word "Copycat," puts on their pom-pom winter cap, wriggles into their skintight jeans, and heads out for a six-pack of Pabst (not Boh) before the show.

All that said, I went to go see Weekends last night because I've met Lempel at shows before, and he's a Hopkins grad, and he's always seemed like a really nice, genuine guy. I arrived right after Bad Liquor Pond finished up, and left right before True Womanhood took the stage. I'm sick, and I'm going on vacation next week. Gimme a break.

They did about 7 songs, almost all of which sounded like No Age covers. Sullivan's guitar work, I think, is a lot more interesting than Lempel's. He makes a lot of use of his Strat's low-end, so that bass tones don't get completely lost in the wall of fuzz these guys pump out. Lempel's approach has more to do with playing mathy melodies, one string at a time, with an octave pedal on, which is not very captivating. Likewise, Lempel's a better drummer. The few songs they played that deviated from the ear-blowing noise-punk model featured Lempel playing beats that were...I dunno...funky. I mean, the music honestly never approached danceable, unless you consider violent torso-bobbing dancing (funny side-note: I noticed a kid who was a few years under me at college in the audience who is an Orthodox Jew and also sort of a punk in his spare time, and he was dancing in just the aforementioned manner, and it looked like he was getting really into his davenning). The vocals were highly-reverbed and completely inaudible. The crowd was small and not terribly enthusiastic. If Weekends is going for the type of cultish, sweaty mosh masses that the usual bullshit MICA bands draw, they need a new business model.

And again, I find myself stepping back, because in reality, Weekends was alright. I mean, they're derivative, but they're sort of fun. They do rock out. They twitch and spasm and lurch around with their guitars, as if the instrument is some sort of wriggling snake that is very strong and hard to control. It's loud, and therefore subversive. They seem to be doing what they've rehearsed to do. I guess I'm just getting tired of all these bands that think that reworking the White Stripes model over and over again is the best outlets for their talents. Let's think it through a little more, and develop the concept, eh, guys?

Ray's Hellburger

[monsterburger!]

Everyone knows DC is a burger town. They gave us 5 Guys, which is a gift I'd never exchange. In fact, writing about it right now, I'm thinking of going and getting a burger from there for lunch. Actually, screw that. I packed lunch today. I'll get 5 Guys for dinner.

Anyway, KB and I finally tried the place Serious Eats called the best burger in DC -- even though it's in Arlington, Virginia, technically, which I guess is Metro DC -- Ray's Hellburger. It opened last summer in this strip mall in downtown Arlington. The place is not without affectations. They don't serve fries, which reminded me of Thrasher's, the famous Ocean City fries place, which refuses to serve ketchup, as if any modicum of predictability would compromise the integrity of the whole friggin' place. So no fries with my burger? I can deal. But Ray's recently got rid of their potato salad, too, which is a disappointment, and the only side available really, were these deep-friend cheese balls, which sounded good at first, but were ultimately not at all worth it.

On to the burgers, though. This is a fantastic piece of meat. I had the Let's Get It On burger, which, as you can see from this menu, has applewood bacon, swiss, cheddar, mushrooms, grilled red onions, sauteed peppers, roasted garlic and lettuce and tomato. I added Ray's signature "Diablo sauce," which is a chipotle mayo, because it looked good. I washed it down with an excellent draft Old Dominion root beer.

There are generally two main ways, I think, for a burger like this one -- the type that comes with lots of toppings and a generously-sized (10 oz) patty -- to stand out. One is to think up really cool combinations (The Dizz, in Baltimore, is great at this -- for examples see their Black and Bleu burger, the Mediterranean Burger, etc) of toppings and give the burger a real identity based on a number of different flavors that mash together. The other, is to have a real stand-out rub or very high quality meat, so that the actual burgerrific flavor comes through strong in spite of all the toppings and sauces (come to think of it, The Dizz's Curry Burger and Whiskey Rub burger are examples of this type -- I should really blog about them soon). My experience with Ray's was the latter. They advertise their meat as "premium aged" and "freshly ground" and it really comes through. Especially with a medium rare specimen, like mine, the meat is as much a pleasure as what's on it -- the parts, in other words, are superior to their sum. Let's grade this:

FOOD: A-
Great meat that lives up to its billing, and easily the best burger I've had in DC. I've never been to any of Ray's other spots (Ray's the Steaks, Ray's Classic), but if the quality is emphasized like it is here, I'll buy it. The only reason these vittles fell short of teacher's pet status is that I don't have a lot of patience for restaurateurs who think it's cool to NOT sell sides for the sake of authenticity. Funny, barbecue places never do this, and they're arguably the most meat-focused people in the world.

AMBIENCE: A-
Ray's is a tad crowded. I heard a rumor whilst there that they're moving to a new place relatively soon. But the simple, old-school menu reminded me a bit of Fatburger and the place was lively in general.

BOOZE: A
There was no booze. But man, that was some good root beer.

[vermountains]

"I know it's pretty, but I didn't take it out for air."

Stowe was -25 with the wind chill when we skied there three weeks ago, and believe me, the novelty of beardcicles are NOT worth even one ride on the chairlift in that type of climate.

New Years Nibbles Part 9: DESSERT

[click to enlarge]

This is the ninth, and final installment (obvi) in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Jake, who is famous for aboriginal folk, intense energy, coyote calls, vivid dreams, and general good vibrations.

NEW YEARS BROWNIE PIE, Or, Smarter Than Your Average Brownie Pie

1) Pie Crust
2) Brownie Mix
3) Eggs (one more than the recipe calls for for a more cake-like consistency)
4) Oil
5) Raspberries
6) Blueberries
7) Chocolate Chips
8) Ice Cream
9) Chocolate Sauce

Cook the brownie pie with #1-7. Serve it with #8-9. See diagram for additional info.

New Years Nibbles Part 8: ROAST PORK APPLE-BBQ SLIDERS

[oh yeah.]

This is the eighth in a series of blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's blogger-chef is yours truly, who really isn't all that famous, but once was racist against rednecks in public, apparently.

ROAST PORK APPLE-BARBECUE SLIDERS, Or, Sweet, Savoury & Tart , and Meat, Fruit & Grain: An Explosion In Your Mouf

1) One 5-pound pork tenderloin
2) 4 tbspns Robbie's pork rub (salt, pepper, cayenne, cumin, paprika, Old Bay)
3) Olive oil, a reasonably full bottle
4) Stubbs original recipe barbecue sauce, one bottle
5) 2 Granny Smith apples, halved and sliced thin
6) 3 tbspns brown sugar
7) 1 baguette
8) 3/4 cup Maker's Mark bourbon
9) 1 tspn cinnamon

Rub dat po'k generously, and I mean sensually, with Robbie's special po'l rub. I mean, get yo' haaaaaaaands all messy, and make it nattthhhhty. Then brown that bad boy, and I mean chocolate that daddy in a skeelit on high flame with olive oil. Then put that fat boy in an oven-ready dish, with oil on the bottom, into the oven at 325, and roast it for an hour and 15 minutes, no need to baste. Now grab them apples. Grab 'em hard, but not too much in the fingernail department, because would you let someone grab your momma like that? Now hold 'em. Hold them apples in your hands, just ta get a feeeeeeel on 'em. Now CUT them apples up! Cut 'em! And when they good and thin and slicy, throw them daddies back in the skillet, with the leftover po'k grease, and add the sugar and whiskey and cinnamon. Fry them suckas for about 5 minutes. Slice the baguette all little-titty-bitty. Slice that po'k too. Put po'k slices on baguette, and bourbon-brown-sugar cinnamon appleson po'k, and BBQ sauce on toppa that. Eat, but beware of mud butt.

New Years Nibbles Part 7: HIPPIE SPRING ROLLS

[hippies. spring roll.]

This is the seventh in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Dani, who is famous for his abiding love of tofurkey.

DANI'S HIPPIE SPRING ROLLS, Or, One of Two Dishes We Don't Have a Picture Of

1) 2 packages tofu, thinly sliced, fried in oil
2) 1/2 cup peanut butter
3) 6 cloves garlic, minced
4) 1/4 cup soy sauce
5) 16 large romaine lettuce leaves
6) 4 cups cooked rice vermicelli
7) 2 mangos, sliced
8) 2 avocados, sliced
9) 1 cup fresh basil leaves

(*note - all measurements are open to interpretation)

1) either buy cooked tofu or pan fry it (or deep fry if you're so inclined) until it is golden brown and delicious.
2) in a small pot, saute the garlic for a minute, then add the peanut butter and soy sauce (and if you want a thinner sauce, add water to desired consistency - i added about a cup)
3) assemble wraps - in the leafy end of the lettuce leaf, place a small handful (1/4 cup) of vermicelli, a couple of slices of avocado and mango, a couple of basil leaves and a dollop of peanut sauce, then fold over the stalk end of the leaf and fold over the edges.

New Years Nibbles Part 6: BEET GOAT CHEESE TARTINES

[tartans and tartins]

This is the sixth in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Anna, who is famous for her stunning performance in the 2005 Pittsburgh YMCA Turkey Trot.

BEET GOAT CHEESE TARTINES, Or, Easy Like Sunday Mornin'

1) 2 cups drained sliced pickled beets (from a 16-ounce jar)
2) 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
3) 4 cups coarsely chopped frisée
4) 2 tablespoons olive oil
5) Salt and Pepper
6) 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
7) 6 ounces herbed soft goat cheese
8) 1 (24-inch) baguette, quartered crosswise, then each quarter halved horizontally and lightly toasted
9) 3/4 cup walnuts (3 ounces), toasted , cooled, and chopped

Toss beets with balsamic vinegar. Toss frisée with oil, lemon juice, and healthy punches of both salt and pepper. Spread goat cheese on baguette, then make open-face sandwiches with toasted walnuts, beets, and frisée.

Gogol Bordello @ the 9:30 Club, January 2nd

[my camera sucks, sorry]

You know, it's funny. Eugene Hutz has a terrible voice. His guitar playing is amateurish and he insists on playing an awful-sounding classical guitar. He's sorta old and pasty, yet he marauds around onstage with his shirt off, sweating, gesturing theatrically, and yelling. His live act, should not, by any rights, be this popular. And yet his band, Gogol Bordello, sold out two consecutive nights early this year at the 9:30 Club and introduced me to a new cult following that, now that I've seen it first-hand, makes total sense.

For those who don't know the group's music, their latest album is Gypsy Punks, a title that is actually pretty lame in how explicitly accurate a description of the music it is ("Come check out the new record from Death Cab For Cutie -- Precious Emo Rock!"). They play mainly at two tempos: quick, klezmer-style boom-chuck, and (somewhat inexplicably) moderately-fast reggae. Everything is in Eastern European harmonic modes (Hutz is Ukrainian) and a lot of it sounds the same and sorta blends together, but then, who am I to complain about that, given my favorite band?

I know the new record fairly well, but not to the degree where I'm shouting along with ever song. But the really remarkable thing about the Gogol Bordello live show is the type of energy he inspires from the crowd. We're talking jumping, fist-pumping, moshing, crowd-surfing -- all to an ethnologically complicated blend of gypsy fiddle, accordion, drums, bass and loud electric guitars. "Not A Crime," my favorite cut off the new record, was absolute mayhem -- limbs everywhere, girls freaking out in the crowd. Onstage, the band became a crowded nine-piece, complete with a little guy who did nothing but bang a tambourine and shout and two Asian chicks in booty shorts, one with a marching bass drum and the other with cymbals who would hit them on downbeats then hold up one hand in a sort of runway/martial pose. In fact, a lot of what went on had a decidedly martial feel to it -- mixing "punk" with Eastern European dance musicks tends to emphasize the marching beat, the heavy-handed bassiness of it, and a kind of frantic, violent energy that makes beefy frat boys, skinny Jewish hipsters, and hippy-looking girls alike go crazy.

Other highlights were particularly sing-alongy versions of “Start Wearing Purple” (a song whose meaning I really can’t decipher) and “Immigrant Punk,” both of which sound like crazed dub tracks. Needless to say, Hutz (who, incidentally looks a lot like Frank Zappa) was wylin’ out the whole time – climbing on monitors, frothing at the mouth, throwing water bottles around, etc, but nothing all that outrageous or shocking. Towards the end of the show, when he led the entire band in a run from the center of the stage, single-file out to the right wing and on top of a speaker, and the back to the left side, and that back, etc., etc. – it seemed to me almost comically tame. I sorta wanted him to grind up on one of the Asian gals or cut himself with the wine bottle that was always in his non-mic-holding hand. Something more, you know, punk. The best song performed may have been an older cut – “Supertheory of Supereverything” – which it’s utterly anthemic chorus: “I don't read the Bible / I don't trust disciple / Even if they're made of marble / Or Canal Street bling!”

My main beef with the show was that the band was constantly throwing out these false endings to their songs. The song would end on a big sustained chord, which they’d hold out, sometimes for like 3 minutes or more, with lots of layered feedback and noise, before they jumped right back into the rhythm of it, just to get the crowd going again. All of that seemed sort of unnecessary.

But on the way out, my main thought was this: It’s really amazing how merging certain types of folk music with more danceable western music seems to get the unlikeliest of people interested. I mean, it makes sense that Irish pride-yelling Bostonians get really drunk and sing along gleefully with the Dropkick Murphys, but why should M.I.A. be successful in blending hip-hop and grime with traditional Sri Lankan beats and singing styles into “Boyz” or “Bird Flu”? It’s at least a little bit counterintuitive. Likewise, I think it’s cool that all sorts of young people—be-patched punks, preppy-looking college kids, and hipsters among them, at least on Friday night—can get down with a souped-up version of klezmer, a type of music that is, on the face of things, patently uncool.

New Years Nibbles Part 5: DELICIOUSLY EASY ITALIAN DIP

[oh, the excitement!]

This is the fifth in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Olivia, who is famous for crunching the numbers and her triumphant overcoming of the challenges of Montessori school.

DELICIOUSLY EASY ITALIAN DIP, Or, as Old Country As It Gets

1) Fresh mozzarella, one good-sized ball
2) Roasted red pepper and tomato brushetta, two jars
3) Pine-nut (not pumpkin seed) pesto, two jars
4) Black Olives, as few or as many as you'd like
5) Sun-dried tomatoes, same serving size as above
6) Shredded parmesean cheese, one handful
7) Ciabatta bread, one loaf
8) Garlic, one clove
9) Olive oil, enough to cover the ciabatta

Thinly slice the mozzarella cheese and spread over the bottom of a (preferably glass, which is better to view the beautiful layers) 9 x 12 baking dish. Spoon a healthy layer of the bruschetta over top of the mozzarella, followed by a thinner layer of the pesto over the bruschetta. Decorate the top of the dip with sun-dried tomatoes, black olives and shredded cheese. Next, slice the ciabatta bread down the middle, drizzly liberally with olive olive and smear the fresh garlic all over. Bake the bread until warm and toasty, cut into pieces, and enjoy with the dip. Yum.

New Years Nibbles Part 4: BACONATED AUBERGINES-CUM-MUSHROOMS

[simon says...]

This is the fourth in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Shaun , who is famous for being an "unabashed bohemian and sorrow-junky" who wrote a mildly-pleasing work of theatrical drama.

BACONATED AUBERGINES-CUM-MUSHROOMS, Or, eggplant, mushrooms 2 ways, and BACON

1) eggplant (peeled)
2) white whole mushrooms (the button kind)
3) brown whole mushrooms (same)
4) bacon
5) olive oil
6) salt
7) black pepper
8) THYME (VERY KEY)
9) the grease left over from cooking the bacon

Peel the eggplant because it makes it so much better, chop it up into bite sized chunks. quarter the bigger mushrooms, half the smaller ones. Put the eggplant in a big bowl, toss it with liberal amounts of olive oil, thyme and saltnpepper. Get it going in your frying pan/wok on medium heat. Start the bacon in another pan. Add the mushrooms when the eggplant starts to soften. When the mushroom are almost at their desired level of juicy tenderness, add the bacon (in bits) and the grease rendered from the cooking of that very same bacon and stir it all up. It looks like something calvin (as in calvin and hobbes) would make faces at, but it is, to quote a local indian restuarant's menu, "unbelievably tastey".

New Years Nibbles Part 3: FENNEL CANTALOUPE SALAD

[you see dis? now make dis.]

This is the third in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Margot, who is famous for being the subject of a hilarious marijuana-related duping scheme run by the University of Pittsburgh's young republicans, and for saying, on national TV, "I still think Kerry's a douche, but I voted against Bush."

FENNEL CANTALOUPE SALAD, Or, a Salad of Cantaloupe and Fennel

1. Fennel, 2 bulbs
2. Cantaloupe, 1
3. Lime, juice of several, to taste
4. Olive Oil, a healthy drizzle
5. Salt, to taste
6. Pistachios, a healthy handful
7. Bleu cheese, another healthy handful, crumbled
8. Tarragon, one bunch, coursely chopped
9. Love- the most important ingredient! I guess I miscounted my corporeal ingredients so I'm including this oft neglected one.

Slice the fennel bulbs thinly on the diagonal and place in a bowl. Halve the cantaloupe and carve out thin concave bits with a spoon into the fennel bowl. Squeeze the limes over the whole thing until everything's good and limey. You can add salt and olive oil here and let it sit for a little while to meld. Before serving, toss with the tarragon, pistachios and bleu cheese.

TWO WORDS: NUMBER ONE

Oh dear lord yes

New Years Nibbles Part 2: BNUTSQSH BALLS

[another day, another batch o' balls]

This is the second in a series of guest blog-posts from the folks who attended our New Years Eve Iron Chef-style cookoff at Hickory House. There was one rule: you had to use exactly 9 (as in, 2009) ingredients. The results were so delicious that no winner was determined, and I felt compelled to post the recipes on here. Today's guest blogger-chef is Becca, who is famous for being the last person under 45 to watch CBS.

RESOLUTIONLESS BNUTSQSH BALLS, Or Butternut Squash gnocchi with sage, toasted walnuts, and gruyere

1) Butternut squash (1--halved, cooked, scraped, mashed)
2) Flour (a bunch)
3) Olive Oil (enough)
4) Sage (1 tsp? - fresh, minced, and then about 2 tbsp scattered whole leaves)
5) Onion (1-chopped)
6) Walnuts (handfuls, the more the nuttier)
7) Gruyere (the stankier the better, enough to cover gnocchi with dank cheesey layer)
8) Egg (1, beated)
9) Salt (filler ingredient, to taste)


Bake butternut squash in the oven until cooked thoroughly (about 40 minutes? an hour? Long enough for a sufficient pre-new years nap).

While the bnutsh is baking, heat a largeish circle of olive oil in frying pan, and add onion. Sautee onion until translucent, add sage leaves, relish aroma. Set aside, nap.

Remove baked bnutsh, and once cool enough to handle, scoop out contents into large bowl. Add onion/sage mixture, egg, and a good mess of flour. Mash with hands, adding flour until the mash reaches doughy consistancy. Salt.

Sous chef: While chef is mashing, sautee walnuts in a pan (use the same pan the onions were cooked in, don't rinse) with olive oil and whole sage leaves. Sautee until nuts become golden brown and crunchy.

Form bnutsqsh mixture into evenly sized balls, roll in a plate of flour to coat.

Bring a large pot of water to boil (adding salt, duh). Add bnutsqsh balls. They are cooked when they rise to the top. Remove with a slotted spoon, and place in pan with walnuts, simmering, stirring until coated.

Spread contents of pan on an oiled cookie sheet, and sprinkle with shredded cheese. Bake until cheese melts.

Serve with champagne. No resolutions necessary.