Ode to broth

There are few foods more heart-warming and soul-satisfying than a large bowl of simmering beef broth, with or without noodles. As a respite from the cold, harsh winter, or as a hangover cure, it is one of the more nourishing and nurturing meals one can have. It is curious how this dish exists in multiple incarnations in different countries and cuisines – French consommé, Vietnamese pho, and the Chinese beef noodles, or 牛肉汤面. Slight differences in each, but the theory behind them is the same: beef plus water plus starch equals goodness.

Clearly the most important component of this dish – whatever you call it – is the broth. The basic concept is to take beef bones, or various cuts of beef, and stew them in water with a complex mix of various spices and ingredients. For the Chinese beef noodles these include but are not limited to ginger, garlic, scallions, star anise, and others. One of the secrets in Chinese cooking is the use of dried scallops (conpoy) in sauces, stews or broth. This is not so much the entire scallop but rather the adductor muscle that has been removed and dried. Adding this to soups adds a sweetness but also an increased depth of flavour to them.

Once you have the broth, the rest is self-explanatory. The noodles are cooked in the broth and then doused in cold water to stop them from cooking. A generous helping of broth is ladled over the noodles, and the dish is topped with mung bean sprouts and cilantro. Thinly-sliced pieces of beef – typically a better cut – are dipped into the simmering broth to brown them but not cook them through, and then added to the dish. Other beef-based ingredients – beef meatballs, organ meats such as beef tripe, cheek and the like – are also cooked in the broth and can be added depending on the preference of the person eating.

Hunter and I used to frequent Pho 75 in Rosslyn (coincidentally, in the same strip mall as Ray’s the Steaks, mentioned in the previous post). It was a cafeteria style eatery serving Vietnamese pho, and it was probably the best version of it in DC and one of the cheapest meals possible around town. I always thought it was funny how the menu had 17 different dishes, which were all basically the same pho dish but with different combinations of beef cuts. But in the end when the pho came nobody could really tell which cut of beef was which, so in effect it really didn’t matter what you ordered.

The other day I went to try the Empress Place Beef Noodles in Siglap, located in an unassuming eating-house right next to an even more unassuming supermarket. Clearly, the concept of marketing has not hit the folks at these two establishments, for they were both barely noticeable from the street. You had to feel for the beef noodle place, because even their signboard is obscured by the awning and completely out of sight from anywhere but inside the eating-house. For an establishment that is just one among many eating places proliferating the Siglap stretch, this amounted to professional suicide, perhaps. But I suppose if the quality of your offering shone through enough, you don’t really need the marketing.


The Empress Place beef noodles was, sadly, markedly mediocre. It had neither the heft that you expected of beef stock, nor the acidic piquancy and spice that one comes to expect from Southeast Asian dishes. It wasn't bad, but it was nowhere near spectacular - and I can't afford to waste calories on food that is not spectacular if I want to maintain my girlish figure. I very much preferred the version at Laguna Food Centre at East Coast Park. The one bright spark was that they used a really good cut of meat for the beef slices, which were tender to the touch and an absolute pleasure to chew on. Of course, this also meant that it was a tad more expensive than you might otherwise expect.


So the search continues then – for the best beef noodles in Singapore. I have written about this in the past, but I am still searching for a good version of the dry beef noodles – the gummy, starchy kind. What they do is they reduce the beef broth and thicken it with cornstarch to form a thick, gooey sauce, and then coat the noodles with this sauce instead of serving it in broth. I like this dry version better than the version with the broth, but sadly it is becoming harder and harder to find (except at chain food courts). Onward, then! There is no rest for the weary.



Empress Place Beef Noodles
936 East Coast Road (LTN Eating House)
11am to 11pm daily

A walk down memory lane: Ray's The Steaks

Ray's The Steaks
1725 Arlington Boulevard (at N Quinn)
Arlington, VA 22209
703-841-7297

For my last year or so in DC I was part of an informal association – an invitation-only club that met once a month and still does to this day, only now without me. We called ourselves the Scotch Club, formed as a male-only retaliation to a female-only book club that a friend of ours had set up. We would get together to drink Scotch and compare our tasting notes, but in reality few of us knew anything about the drink, and some even despised it. But we all liked one another, and so Scotch Club became a symbol greater than the drink we celebrated – a symbol of good times, with good friends, living large in the nation’s capital. More than anything it was an experiment in the social nature of man and his proclivity for forming associations and institutions – to make the days and the nights of this passing life a little less lonesome and a little more bearable.

Once a quarter we would organise an outing, be it a scotch tasting event or a trip to Shelley’s Back Room for a good cigar. Sometimes these outings involved scotch, and sometimes they didn’t. One of these outings was so nice, we had to do it twice: making the pilgrimage across the Potomac to Arlington, VA and a restaurant called Ray’s the Steaks for a nice, thick, juicy cut of beef. Scotch, stogies and steak: at the risk of sounding chauvinistic – those form perhaps the Holy Trinity of masculinity. Of course, a mention is also due to the fourth and more unsavoury cousin – strip clubs.

I have always believed that the meat that you can get at steakhouses is far superior to the meat available to the common consumer because restaurateurs (especially the national chains) usually get first dibs on the good, USDA Prime beef. They have access to better distribution channels, and their sheer demand gives them leverage with the top cattle growers both in and out of the United States. It is the sole reason I still go to steakhouses, for I think I can make a pretty damn good steak by myself at home. But because the meat I have to work with was never as good as that which I could get by eating out, I had to go to the Palm, or Morton’s, or Smith & Wollensky. I never really liked Ruth’s Chris, and the Capital Grille was mediocre at best. All that was, of course, before I went to Ray’s the Steaks.

There are many things you have to put up with if you want to eat at Ray’s the Steaks. Foremost and perhaps most annoying, the restaurant does not take reservations. This means that you have to show up the day of, and either hope you are lucky enough to be able to walk in and get a table, or drop by at least two hours in advance to put your name down. My annoyance at this policy abated a little when I found out that this was designed to make things easier for the people living in the immediate vicinity, and to preserve the “local restaurant” flavour of Ray’s. Still, it is rather annoying.

In addition, Ray’s is a no frills, mom-and-pop restaurant. There are no white tablecloths; there are no large Burgundy wine glasses. The décor is nothing to shout about – the walls are painted an unmemorable off-white and are unadorned of any art or artifice. It reminds one of a high school cafeteria, or even a homestyle local eatery in the Jersey suburbs. It is even located in a strip mall. The service is brusque and the waitresses move quickly but surely – focused more on their own efficiency rather than your general comfort. The wine list is sparse but filled with very drinkable wines for very reasonable prices.

If you can put up with all that, then your reward is one of the best steaks I have ever had the fortune of eating, and all the complimentary mashed potatoes and creamed spinach you can stuff your face with. Ray’s ages, cuts and trims all their steaks on-site – and the result is a large, thick-cut, juicy and well marbled corn-fed piece of beef, grilled however you want it and served with whatever sauce you choose. I had the filet, with a peppercorn sauce that was as tart as brandy and as smooth as heavy cream – a sinful but savoury accompaniment to what was a succulent steak.


There are also several nods to the good old days – before nutritionists had their say – when people did not just have seconds or thirds for dinner, but second and third dinners in one sitting. I thought my filet was already a huge hunk of meat, but at Ray's you can also get the "Cowboy Cut" – a 28-ounce bone-in ribeye – or the Chateaubriand – center cut toploin sliced and served with onions, mushrooms and asparagus. The latter is advertised as a meal for two, but originated as a cut for one person – the author and diplomat who served Napoleon and Louis XVIII, from whom it takes its name. They really knew how to eat in those days. I sometimes wonder if I would trade another five years of life expectancy, for the ability (or blissful ignorance) to make stupid decisions or eat and drink to wanton excess. It’s a toughie, that one.

I think I might despise people who eat their meat well-done even more than I despise vegetarians. At least vegetarians have morals. People who eat meat well-done on the other hand, should not be allowed anywhere near the scarce supply of good beef available to the rest of us, and should be refused entry at any self-respecting steakhouse.

I liked my dinner at Ray’s because I was with good company, but also because of the acceptance that the dinner was not going to be about the service, or the wine, or anything else but the steak. Even the bread and the sides, though solid, were mere distractions. You come to Ray’s because you crave sinking your teeth into a pink and juicy slice of meat, charred on the outside but barely warm on the inside. Accepting that it is all about the meat allows you to focus solely on the enjoyment of that particular experience, and it was not unexpected that conversation came to an abrupt halt once our steaks had arrived. For several minutes there were only the sounds of cutlery clinking on plates and the low, gruff, moans of satisfaction only a steak can elicit.

Ray’s the Steaks has now expanded beyond its modest mom-and-pop beginnings: there are multiple locations, a retail arm, and a burger joint just down the street. I do not know what this means for the Rosslyn location. I do hope, for all our sakes, that it preserves what has made it so unique in the past – a dedication to the local community and the ideals of nourishment over artifice, and not least of all, putting good steaks on the plates of its diners.




Photographs courtesy of Brian T. Hege

Morgan Is A Waiter, Pt. II

Being a server at the very fine restaurant in which I toil has been an extremely interesting and educational experience.  I have met so many friendly people, who really want to enjoy themselves, who are curious about wine, food, or are just plain hungry.  Many are lovely people.  In fact I would say that 98% of the people I've met are anywhere between reasonably pleasant and awesome.  Unfortunately for myself and pretty much every one else in the service industry the other 2% seems to do their absolute best to pick up the slack.  Waiting on a table like this, particularly when they travel in larger groups is at best humorous, ridiculous, and a warning sign screaming "Don't let this happen to you!" at its worst is a soul grating punishment, enough to drive a man to drink, go grey and pull his hair out.  

A table of 5 orders 5 salads, dressing on the side.  4 fish: one no salt, no butter, no fish cake; one sauce on side; one w/ fish cake no sauce; one no butter in sauce; "Can you just make a mixed vegetable plate?"

Yesterday, two men at the bar asked if the chef would make them a creme brulee.  There's no creme brulee on the menu.  "Come on, it's easy... He's a chef right?  Can you go ask him if he'll make it?"

"Can I just have some hot water? I brought my own tea."

The answer to everything is "Of course.  I'd be happy to."  It has become pretty clear to me how and why so many service employees get to be jaded and bitter.  I think that keeping a sense of the ridiculous is the best medicine.  If you can laugh at the requests (not to the customer's face, naturally) then you can keep handling them and keep being accommodating and hospitable.

Really, it's not even the complicated or strange or stupid requests that are truly hard to handle, but the people who become rude when you can't get them whatever weird shit they want, immediately.  Those are the tough ones.  What is it that sucks the joie de vivre out of these people? and how does it seem okay to vent on their helpless and hapless waiter?  I hope I never find out first hand.

A walk down memory lane: Babbo NYC

Babbo
110 Waverly Place (bet. MacDougal & 6th)
New York, NY 10011
212-614-6670

If you want good Italian outside of Italy there is only one place to go, and that place is New York City. When you are there it is perhaps impossible to walk five blocks without coming across an Italian place, and amongst all that quantity there is some quite amazing quality. Insieme and Felidia in midtown, Fiamma in Soho, and Del Posto in Chelsea are all fabulous places to hunker down with a good plate of pasta, mop up the sauce with freshly made bread and wash it all down with a rustic red wine. Apparently Scarpetta in the West Village is worth trying as well. But if you want an experience that is good and true and one that you will remember for months and years to come, then you must go to Babbo.

Babbo is the flagship restaurant of one Mario Batali – he of Molto Mario! fame – who also owns a whole host of other places in New York. Yet Babbo seems to be the one he loves best, and it shows most markedly – from the intimidating menu of dishes, through the excellent wine list, to the faultless and convivial service. Here, more than in his other restaurants, Batali indulges his love of variety meats. It is an offal lover’s paradise – showcasing everything from testa to beef cheek, lamb’s brain to goose liver.

It has been almost two years since I went to Babbo, and it speaks volumes that Morgan and I still remember that night – he more vividly than I. I was in New York for my birthday, and had rounded up Camille, Morgan and Elisabeth for dinner. Thinking back, I realise it must have been a last-minute trip, for we had no reservations and our plan was to show up early and wait for a table. There are four tables by the bar at the front of the restaurant for which no reservations are taken, and whether you can walk in and wait for one of those tables depends on how early you show up that evening and stake your claim for them.

I remember meeting Morgan early for a drink and then stopping by Camille’s house – Morgan fretting all the while that we should have just gone to Babbo and staked the place out. As 8 o’clock rolled around he took on that despondent air of a gambler whose last chances are fading fast before his eyes. He did not have much hope of being seated given that we were going to be walking in at what he considered a late hour, and his head was already racing through the possible alternatives, while his heart steeling itself for the disappointment of having to settle for something else.

But then an amazing thing happened that restored his faith in the restaurant gods. We were in a taxi not quite five blocks away when Elisabeth called, saying that she had just stepped into the restaurant and that they could seat the 4 of us immediately, but only if we were all there. I remember her nonchalant tone as she asked our whereabouts, and I don’t think she realised just how big a deal it was because she asked innocently, “Should we take the table?” I also don’t remember if I thought to control the volume of my voice as I yelled at her to take it, take it, whatever you do, for the love of God take it.

We were there momentarily, and there were lots of hugs all around. I would have given the hostess a hug too if it had been socially acceptable. We had what was quite possibly the worst table in the house, but the fact remains that we had walked into Babbo at 8 o’clock without a reservation, and were seated immediately.

Babbo is housed in one of the converted brick townhouses on Waverly Place, and while it doesn’t have the sprawl and elegance of Del Posto, nor the sleek chic of Fiamma – it more than makes up for it with its amber-hued, rustic interior. Tables are set in close proximity to each other, and the restaurant is always packed. The feeling you get is one of coming back to a cabin or a hostel after a long day of hiking or skiing, and finding other hikers or skiers already putting their feet up and kicking back with their beverages. You half expect someone to hand you a hot chocolate, and judging from the smiling faces and warm, generous manner of the waitstaff, that might not be too far-fetched an idea.

The service at Babbo is one of the best I have ever experienced, and I think that stems from not only the technical expertise (which shall be elaborated upon shortly) but also the hospitality of everyone associated with the restaurant. For lack of a better description, it seemed as if everyone, from the hostess to the waitress, from the sommelier to the busboy – everyone felt a simple joy at being able to be part of our night out. It didn’t seem like they treated their duties as a job or a means to pay the rent. Truly, they were entertaining us, and glad to be doing it too.

But what we were there for was the food, and it did not disappoint. The food at Babbo is simple, by New York standards. The pastas are well-made and cooked to al dente doneness. None of the dishes have too many ingredients, and whatever is on the plate is adorned with no more vinaigrette or sauce than it needs. Eating the food at Babbo is uncomplicated, and consists of no more than putting a fork to the food and bringing it to your mouth. But what a pleasurable experience that proved to be.

Morgan started with an antipasto of testa – pig’s head boiled and deboned before it is braised with white wine, carrots and onions, then forced into a gelatin mold and sliced thinly a la salumi. It was served with pickled pearl onions, topped with toasted mustard seeds and came drizzled in a thyme vinaigrette. He offered me a bite of it, which was how I could tell that he liked it. After all these years of eating with Morgan I had come to realise that he only shared his food when it was good and he wanted you to try some. If it was not good he ate it all himself.

I don’t remember my antipasto but I do remember my pasta dish, Chianti-stained pappardelle with wild boar ragu. Like everything else it was simple, hearty, reached into the deepest depths of your being and told you everything was going to be okay. Camille and Elisabeth shared the pumpkin “lune” with sage and amaretti, which I did not try. Morgan followed the testa with lamb’s brain “Francobolli”, with lemon and sage, and admired its simplicity. The brains were mild and subtle and not too offensive, yet Camille still shied away from it with a look of naked terror on her face.

We ordered a bottle of Sauvignon, Ronco delle Mele from Venica & Venica. I forget the year but I remember that when the server brought the glasses to us we saw that there was already liquid in the glass. When we asked, she explained that it was their custom to pour a drop of the wine into the glasses when they were brought to the table, so that the glass would be infused with the aroma of the wine. When I poked my nose into the glass I saw immediately what she meant – the glass was filled with a heady bouquet, intense to a degree that full glasses never were. It presented a bouquet that was pure and easy to digest, to pick apart and to enjoy. When you smell a full glass of wine there are a lot of competing flavours that are often too complex for an amateur such as myself to isolate and identify. With that glass, filled only with one drop of the wine – I smelt grapefruit, I smelt grass and I smelt peach, and I smelt them all clearly and distinctly.

When it came time to select another bottle we signalled for the sommelier, who came over almost immediately. We explained our price range and talked a little bit about what kind of reds we liked. He had a couple of recommendations and started into them before we interrupted him – wanting to also tell him what each of us was eating for dinner. Upon hearing this he smiled and said, “I already know what you are having for dinner, I went and looked at your ticket before I came over.” At this point we knew we were in good hands, and that further debate was unnecessary, so we went with the first option he presented.

Sadly, I do not remember what wine it was, but it must have been good because I do remember feeling very happy that Elisabeth did not drink – for that meant more for the rest of us. I also remember Elisabeth’s grouper entrée being the standout. I did not have much faith in the fish dishes at a place renowned more for its pastas and organ meats, but her grouper, with charred leeks and a pancetta vinaigrette, was simple and delicious. I had the duck, which was very solid, and Camille had the beef braised in Barolo with porcini mushrooms. Morgan deviated from his one-man crusade to eat the heads off any animals in his path and got the grilled quail with “Scorzonera alla Romana” and saba – which he said could have been a little hotter but enjoyed heartily anyway. It came with salsify – one of his favourite root vegetables (and one of mine) – which had been roasted in Sambuca and which pleased him greatly.

There are many things I like about Babbo. I like its simplicity, I like its neighbourhood feel. I like the hospitality of its staff and their attention to detail. I like the fact that compared with many of the finer dining establishments in the city, Babbo is a little less expensive. It pains me a little bit that I will not be spending my birthday there this year, so let me just say that among the few places that are in my opinion must-visits in the Big Apple (the Met and the No Malice Palace to name just two), Babbo ranks somewhere up there.

No sign, no soul

No Signboard Seafood Restaurant (Esplanade)
8 Raffles Avenue, The Esplanade Mall
#01-14/16
Singapore 039802
Tel: +65 6336 9959

I have always found it strange how it is only in Chinese restaurants that you get the large round tables of 10 or more people. It seems to me that the more reasonable method of handling large parties – either a long table or combining smaller tables lengthwise – may be more efficient space-wise. At the very least, this naturally creates smaller groups, or “pockets” – making dinner table conversation much easier and more intimate. If I am at a long table, or at one of many four-tops pulled together, I know who to talk to. When I am one of 12 people at a round table, it becomes a little more difficult to manage the conversation.

There are people who have learnt the art of holding court at a dinner table, and I admire them for it. I have seen the very best do this – engage everyone in hearty conversation, offer interesting opinions when it is time to be serious, and laugh when it is time not to be – all the while politely but subtly slipping their food into their mouths and never looking anything but graceful. I could never do it well; I was too interested in the food. In a strange way it was often people that prevented you from truly enjoying your food, except for the rare few that are as good as the food itself.

Britt came to visit Singapore this past weekend, and one of the places we took her to was No Signboard seafood restaurant, for that famous Singaporean classic – chilli crab. It was lovely to see her after so long, and it was a good thing that we had already spent the bulk of the day together – for she wound up sitting across from me at the large round table and we did not exchange a single word the entire time.

Chilli crab is, according to many, the unofficial “national” dish of Singapore and consists of hard-shelled crabs stir-fried in a tomato and chilli-based gravy – that is in turn usually laced with spices like galangal and turmeric as well as ribboned with beaten egg. Eating chilli crabs is as much adventure as it is dining, because of the efforts you have to go through to crack the crab shells and pick at, slurp on or suck out the meat. It is served with zha mantou – deep-fried sweet bread rolls with which to mop up the remainder of the gravy once you are done with the crabs.

The No Signboard restaurant chain is one of the success stories within Singaporean hawker fare. Started in 1981 at the Mattar Rd Hawker Centre – without a signboard – it remains a family-owned and run business with four locations in Singapore and several others overseas. Their latest offerings, at the Esplanade and Vivocity, are skewing more upmarket. As is somewhat inevitable when any organisation expands, they have sacrificed quality and market leadership for consistency and increased market reach. They may no longer be the best at making crabs, but to many are still a familiar, reliable and acceptable choice.

(I like Red House at East Coast Park for chilli crab, Eng Seng at Joo Chiat for black pepper crab, and Mellben in Ang Mo Kio for both plain and white pepper crab.)

We ordered some traditional zi char dishes to complement the chilli crabs, which was undoubtedly the main draw of the night. The gu lu yoke (sweet and sour pork) was very disappointing – the batter was not crispy enough and the tomato sauce did not have enough of a sour tang to it. The steamed Soon Hock was actually done quite well and drew rave reviews from Britt, which is saying something because she apparently grew up eating a lot of seafood. The house-made tofu with ground pork - one of their specialties - was well made and well-flavoured. The sambal kangkong was decent, but fell short in that like most of the other dishes it did not have enough wok hei.

To explain: wok hei is a romanticised notion of the flavour, or “essence”, imparted onto the food cooked in a wok at very high heat. True wok hei is a combination of the scientific – Maillard reactions, caramelisation and combustion levels only possible at high heat, increased moisture retention of the ingredients due to the short flash-frying time; and that which is not so tangible – the speed and the skill of the chef in exposing all the ingredients to the heat and to the sauces and flavourings, and the alleged ability of cast iron to retain and impart flavour. It is wok hei that gives wok-cooked food that smokiness, and amplifies its flavour while retaining its lightness.

The bright note was that the bamboo clams were excellently prepared – lightly seasoned with soy sauce, garlic, ginger and chillies – as well as being meaty and succulent. These are also called razor clams, and I had eaten them only once before but made a mental note to always ask about their availability when eating seafood in the future.

The chilli crabs took a while to arrive, by which time we had almost filled up on the other dishes. But when they came we all wordlessly agreed that it looked worth the wait for, and tucked in heartily. I was slightly disappointed – the chilli gravy needed a little more heft and spice – but the crabs themselves were fresh and juicy and an absolute joy to slurp on. I defy anybody with dining table etiquette to look graceful while eating crabs. It may be possible, but then you would not be getting the most out of the meal.


For a chain that has its roots in hawker centre and zi char cuisine – in which wok hei is paramount for the distinctive and soul-satisfying flavour of the food – No Signboard’s fancier locations have really fallen far from grace. Sure, this location is air-conditioned, overlooks Marina Bay and has the feel of a proper Chinese restaurant; but I would trade all that in an instant to be sucking down on chilli crabs on a stiff-backed stool, in a stuffy shack on the beach.

From Russia with love

by Reed Keefe

Cafe Kashkar
1141 Brighton Beach Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11235
718-743-3832

There are two things I, in my very limited experience, love about New York City. One is the fact that so many places, whether they actually are or not, feel like a find, a little secret that only a select few know about. The second, related thing is the fact that so many places feel foreign. Different clothes, different languages, different foods—I like feeling like a subway ride could have been an airplane ride, a short walk a road trip. It’s true that much of this feeling stems from my own ignorance about New York, but I think it also is an actual product of living in New York, where diversity and size mean that the city is constantly re-discoverable. Eating Uighur food in Brighton Beach combined both these elements, but, weirdly, at the same time, made me feel very at home.

About two weeks ago, Leila invited Sam and me to her Hannukah party in Park Slope. A trip from Morningside Heights to Park Slope is, of course, an invitation to make the most of the long journey and explore Brooklyn for the day. That day, it meant an afternoon at the aquarium and dinner in Brighton Beach (I, by the way, recommend a trip to Coney Island covered in snow—a place I think would strike most New Yorkers as foreign in its extreme quietness).

Exiting the subway at Brighton Beach is, for anyone who hasn’t been, a truly disorienting experience. Much like when I visited Flushing with Jason, I was struck by how abruptly the dominant culture and language changed. Here, that language was Russian, coupled with Cyrillic script on every store and, coincidentally, driving snow and freezing temperatures (Sam swears he saw a Boris Yeltsin look-a-like, birthmark and all). We walked and walked down Brighton Beach Ave., finally finding the tiny Café Kashkar, a place that some people say is the only authentic Uighur restaurant in New York City.

Café Kashkar did feel secret; few people were there, except a group of men toward the back - and without strict attention to the building numbers, anyone could have walked by the place. And, it felt foreign to me too. My knowledge about the Uighurs, or Uyghurs, a people who traditionally live in Central and some of East Asia, came not from food research but from human rights research. I knew about the Uighurs not because of their culture but because of challenges to it. I suppose you could say, that I knew about the Uighurs in a way totally divorced from their food. What I loved about eating at Café Kashkar, though, was the fact that everyone seemed willing to share. Our extremely kind waiter, taught me not only how to properly pour the tea (watch out, I’m apparently ready to be a good wife) and that the design I loved on the teapot represented the cotton grown in Uzbekistan, but also about every dish following that pot of tea.

But, onto the food. Oh my goodness, the food. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten food that was so warming. Everything was rich and meaty, a little spicy. First, the very innocuous sounding house salad (our very kind waiter also recognized my guilt about not eating enough vegetables). The salad was a wild mix of julienned carrots and cucumbers with a spicy, vinegary dressing, transforming what I returned to throughout the meal. Quickly, the samsa also came—flaky dough pies filled with lamb meat—and the pilaf, rice that would have been pretty typical except for the thick, buttery lamb on the bone (restraint was required to keep from gnawing).

Slipped in between the first meat appetizers and, well, the next meat appetizer, was the beautiful, comforting, lagman soup. Lagman really is everything I love in a comfort food—lamb (!), soup that is a little spicy, slightly thicker than normal but not yet a stew, warm, and filled with my very favorite carb—the noodle. The noodles really were revelatory—they stood up to the vibrant tasting broth and the tender lamb; they were still thick and slightly chewy after long intervals of soup slurping. If it were possible, I think I might have enjoyed lagman even more if I had seen those noodles being made. At the end of the meal, Sam pointed out the small window that opened onto the kitchen. There, in all his bald-headed, six foot something, 200 plus pounds glory, was a chef rapidly tossing the noodles before cooking them. I think that man may have personified the idea of “it’s even harder than it looks.”

Finally, we ended with manty. Manty are advertised in the restaurant window, and, therefore, I think a neighborhood selling point—for good reason. I’ve had very few dishes that are both so delicate and so hearty. Manty are meat dumplings. The outside of those dumplings, at least at Café Kashkar, are steamed and translucent, just barely revealing the rich mix of lamb inside. While the outside of the dumpling practically melts away, the lamb remains as substantial but as tender as it was throughout the meal, a perfect reminder of everything that was wonderful about dinner. Eating Uighur food in Brighton Beach did feel like our secret find, our foreign experience, but I think the perfection of each dish reminded me that these dishes are mainstays, not only within a culture but also for the people at the Café who make them so beautifully (those noodles!). I hope we find our way back again.

All in all, everyone should eat at Café Kashkar. And, let’s say, hypothetically, you don’t feel like eating (shame on you!), you should still watch the music videos they play. Uzbeki pop princesses, mark my words, are the next hot thing…


Reed Keefe is a thief of hearts.

Chinatown 2.0

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time in the Chinatowns of my fair city. Perhaps it's Jason's beautiful photographs, or perhaps it was that trip to Phily when I ate all those duck tongues with wine flavor.

Either way, I've been craving the textures and ingredients that I can only find in another 'hood.  Last night was the pinnacle of my several trips because I came with friends.  The beauty of having a group is trying so many different and awesome and (for us) unusual items all at once.  We had roasted pork with wontons and noodles, roast duck, snails with black bean sauce, and a "casserole" of baby shrimp, bean curd and X.O. sauce.

As I have so often lamented, my words will never equal the beauty or the ridiculousness of having around 100 snail shells piling up, nor, more importantly, around 100 snail "doors" scattered around the table, clothes, and other food.  Those inedible little buggers were an entirely new dining hurdle.

I love this food because it is so different from that I which I can or would make for myself.  I love that they brought us peanuts to eat with our second round of beers.  I love the orange slices after that. I love the price... I guess I just get off on trying and enjoying new, fabulous things.  Even more, however, I enjoy sharing it with my good friends, who also don't mind the occasional snail door on their sleeve.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world

“By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it up by finding something better.” - Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

It was the worst place for a bar, and consequently also the best place for one. The old Red Derby was almost at the top of the hill that led to all the bars in Adams Morgan; hidden away atop an Ethiopian restaurant with nothing visible to the street but a picture of a red derby hat and a dusty, decrepit staircase. The inside was painted vermilion red, and there was a pool table as you walked in, along with mismatched couches strewn around the place. The bar was hidden in the corner furthest away from the stairwell, long and sleek and organised. The sexiest parts of the place often escaped notice – the two large skylights, and the bathrooms, impossibly tiny but decorated with an artist’s eye for collage.

I think most of all it was the people that made it a comfortable bar because they were all interested in each other and in their drinks. They were all good and real and wished nothing but the best on you. There was always somebody there to talk to and everyone had stories. Even if they were lying they always told the stories well, and it was much more enjoyable than listening to a true story. And people only lied when they got too drunk, as everyone does, and then who can really blame them?

At the centre of it all were Sasha and Dave, who welcomed everyone in with a disarming honesty that made you feel at home immediately. They treated everyone like long-lost friends, and there is nothing else really to do with long-lost friends but raise your glasses. They would always sit and chat if they were not busy and were the perfect hosts. Pat, the bartender, had kind of a manic energy but in a good way, and it was always a good time talking to him.

Matthew brought me to this place the day after it had opened; he and Katie had stumbled upon it only the night before. For the next few months it was all I ever went to. I remember walking up that street and looking out for the lights of the main drag of Adams Morgan, and stopping before even getting there. We walked in semi-darkness past the tennis courts on the right and we were never there early enough. It was one of those places where you ordered a shot of Jamie and a Schlitz or a PBR to start the night, and then maybe you could trade up to a mixed drink. Nobody would look at you funny if you had a mixed drink. But it was beer that we were most often there to drink, and they had all their beer in cans so it was easy to drink and to dispose of.

The Derby did not last long in Adams Morgan: the official story was that they had gotten into a dispute with the landlords and had to move out. I found this out the night before they were to close, and it distressed me to no end. The night itself I was there from open to close, right to the very end when Sasha played ‘New York, New York’ and we all sang along. When the song ended she pushed us out even as we drunkenly called out for an encore. She told us that she wanted to clean up and get out early but I could see from her eyes that she wanted to close the doors and grieve in private. As I walked back down 18th St I felt like someone had kicked me in the shin with a steel-toed boot. I did not cry, but there was a knot in my stomach and it felt like there was no other pain in the world.

Dave had promised that they would reopen in another location but spring came and went and the Derby was still no more. There are other great bars in DC and I was never short on entertainment but as the days went by I became surer and surer that this had been a one-time deal. It had come and gone and I was glad I had taken advantage of it as best I could, but it had been taken away and all the good times could barely make up for the heartbreak.

The Red Derby finally reopened up in Petworth, and I was fortunate enough to visit it several times before leaving DC. They kept the vermilion red walls, and Sasha and Dave and Pat were still their amazing selves. They still served beer only in cans but had expanded their selection and had started serving food as well. But somehow it felt different and also it was ages away, so sadly I did not go there as often as I would have liked.

What I liked about both versions of the Red Derby was how effortlessly it transcended the sum of its physical spaces. I never felt like I was in a room of any sort when I was there, never noticed whether the walls were grimy or if the paint was chipped. Anybody can take a space and serve liquor and beer in it but it takes something else to transform that space into a bar that people enjoy themselves in and can call their own.

Dave had told us once that the Red Derby was his trial run, and what he really wanted to do was open a bar called the Gin Rickey, named after the drink. I knew that no matter how long it took or wherever the place might be I should try my best to be a supporter and a good friend. He and Sasha had no shortage of good, good friends and supporters but I enlisted as another without hesitation. For I knew if they could create a place as good as the Red Derby that they could go on to create more, and make even more people happy through food and drink.

A good café on the corner

Dupont Market
1807 18th St NW
Washington DC 20009
202-797-0222

On Saturday mornings I would get up late and then work until I felt hungry, which normally did not take long. It was a choice between finishing up early on Fridays and working Saturday mornings, or the other way and I almost never went the other way. I liked my evening coffee on Fridays and then a nice cold beer to close the week and start the night. But this sometimes meant that I worked on Saturdays while people were enjoying the day.

One of my favourite places to go when I got hungry and it was nice out was Dupont Market – down the street from where I lived. It was the best place in the neighbourhood for sandwiches and to be sure I went there in the cold weather too; but when it was warm you could sit on the patio and read the paper or watch the people walk up and down 18th St. The owners set a dish of water outside for any dogs passing by, and there were always people walking in and out of the tiny shop. Across the street was a gas station and right beside the deli were two other eating places, so it was easy to miss except if you were looking out for it. But once you knew it was there it became hard not to stop by when walking past, and the sandwiches inspired deep loyalty in those who lived or worked nearby, including myself.

There was a narrow deli counter tucked into the back of the small shop space, next to the table with the coffee flasks, behind which three people could barely fit. They had a griddle and a bread toaster; and between those and a fully stocked deli they created wonders. There is something about watching your food being made for you that makes you hungrier. It makes the waiting even worse than it already is. But it turns the eventual eating into pure joy.

I liked the El Umberto sandwich very much – turkey, Swiss cheese, avocado and alfalfa sprouts on toasted ciabatta. If you didn’t ask them not to, they would drizzle the filling with olive oil and crack fresh black pepper onto it, which made me happy. I think the olive oil at the end really transformed the sandwich. Of course, I am also a fool for sprouts. E-- hated sprouts and thought eating them was like eating grass, and she used to tease me mercilessly for adding sprouts to everything.

She liked to have the chicken salad sandwich, which I was also a fan of because they used dark meat most of the time, and because it had grapes in it. It was creamy and peppery and tasted of borscht. They also sold the chicken salad by itself in little takeaway cases, hidden in the fridge along with a surprisingly fine cheese selection. Like everything else in the shop – it was a little overpriced.

But what we both loved there and got more often than anything else was the breakfast burrito – a filling of burger patty cubes, cheese, pickled jalapenos, tomatoes, eggs and avocado in a wheat tortilla wrap. You could not keep it for long after it was made because the moisture from the eggs would seep out and make the tortilla wrap soggy, so we often sat outside with our burritos and a coffee and ate them while deaf to the sounds each of us was making. I racked my brains to figure out why it tasted so much better than any other breakfast burrito I had ever eaten, but to this day I have no satisfactory explanation. I have seen them make it – so I know that there aren’t any secret ingredients, and the ones that they use did not look particularly extraordinary. Yet somehow when they were all put together, some kind of magic happened. Maybe it was the griddle that they cooked it on.

There are places you go to because they are destinations, and places that you go to simply because they are there. Dupont Market is a little bit of both. There were times when I thought to bring someone there or otherwise I craved a sandwich and made a special trip there; but other times I would walk by on the way back from tennis and duck in for an Orangina and a piece of bread. It seemed to be open all the time and I always felt at home there. Perhaps it was because I knew that after leaving the place it was simply a left, two blocks and a right to my house – not a far way to travel before laying my head to rest.