It’s a few minutes before 4 p.m.—on a rainy Saturday afternoon—when we walk into BlackSalt Fish Market & Restaurant, in the Palisades. It’s quiet, save for the fish monger and some bustle at the back bar. So this is what all the fuss is about (and those hours spent on the phone wrangling dinner reservations for my former boss), I’m thinking, after examining the fish carcasses on ice and prepared foods/dressings/sauces that bedeck the counter and fridges in the market. We make our way to the bar, where we discover we’ve arrived “just in time for happy hour.” Or, we can wait an hour for dinner service, with its menu of toe-curling prices. Hmm…which will Emily choose?

Oh, the joy of an unexpected dozen raw oysters, for $1 each! I’m giddy, as I use the tiny seafood fork to dab horseradish, vinegar, lemon, and cocktail sauce on a cold and slippery mollusk, taking a few three chews before I slide it down my throat. Follow this with a nice swish of bubbly (only $5) and I exhale with that satisfaction of discovering a great, great thing.

The happy hour menu is enthralling…and cheap. We order with abandon, which makes the experience not-so cheap when we pay our bill. No worries. The oysters are the highlight, for me at least, but the rest is memorable: fresh, jumbo Gulf shrimp for $1 a piece; Rhode Island calamari with chipotle remoulade ($7) that employs an almost perfect combo of smoky creaminess, crispness, and chewiness — without any attribute overwhelming the whole. And I can’t stop stuffing my mouth with finger-fulls of the thinly-shaved BlackSalt and vinegar chips ($3).

I only taste the Provencal seafood stew (market catch, mussels, shrimp, and saffron; $9), but it seems like a great bargain, piled high with fresh seafood; my friend seems to love it, practically cleaning the bowl. The drinks aren’t a bargain as happy hours go ($5 drafts; $7 martinis), but that 16 oz Allagash White tastes pretty darn good when sipping in tandem with bites of calamari. We also splurge on the key lime pie, an $11 indulgence that somehow seems okay in our drunk-on-fresh-seafood opinion…and it is awfully good.  Bottomline: Order lots of food and savor those drinks. We’ll be back, when a car allows it.

Having a friend move to Rockville was life changing for me. Seriously. You’ve heard me rave about it before, but every time I visit, I’m wowed again by the culinary prestige on the Pike. Lest you think I’m being sarcastic, let me tell you about the dumplings:

China Bistro, like all great Rockville eateries, is in a strip mall. Florescent lights reading “Chinese Food,” “Coffee,” and “Bubble Tea” sizzle in the window. We take a seat at a four-top that’s miraculously cleared of its guests the minute we enter. “Can I get a beer?” our friend asks. Our server (who is also the co-owner) shakes her head. No booze here.

Patten makes his way to the bathroom, located deep in the kitchen, and disappears for what seems like an hour. Apparently he’s made friends with the cooks and they’re showing him how to make dumplings. He returns with the chef’s suggestions: Mama’s Special Dumpling (stuffed with pork, shrimp, chives, and nappa cabbage; $7.95), Beef Celery dumpling ($7.50); and Chive Shrimp Dumpling ($8.25). We order all three, but only get one plate fried. “Steamed much better for you,” says the owner. Clearly we’re not here for our health, but we listen anyway.

Our dumpling plates arrive within minutes. The pan-friend dumplings are savory and delicious, but there’s something unique about the steamed version: clean and supple, yet intensely flavorful…as if the lack of oil sharpens our taste buds. We dip the plump dumplings in a vinegar/chili oil concoction, which we’ve created ourselves with the condiments on the table. We’ve also ordered the tomato egg drop soup ($2.95 for two servings) per Yelp’s recommendation. It too is clean and flavorful–and fresh. This is not the gelatinous stuff you’re used to. Here, they use a clear broth and mix in an egg and fresh tomatoes, to order.

After scarfing down the dumplings and the soup, our friends are stuffed. Patten and I need more, however. Not because we’re hungry. We just don’t want this to end. We try the veggie tofu soup (per our server’s recommendation), and bubble tea, red bean flavor. The former is chock full of fresh veggies and tofu (Wow, I could eat this every night,” says Patten), while the latter is laden with sugar and giant tapioca balls. It is quite delicious, but veers from the healthy. Again, not that we’re here for our health, but we’re starting to think the low-cal stuff—at least when it comes to China Bistro—is best. What a revelation! We pay our forty bucks (for four guests!!!) and leave with yet another Rockville high. Foodie heaven, yet again.

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China Bistro; 755 Hungerford Dr., Rockville, MD; (301) 294-0808

Title: Snowtorialist
Photographer: Patten Wood
SIT-uation:  Dupont Circle. Morning after the BIG snow. But no worries. Nothing’s keeping this guy from Sunday’s ritual: looking good in the park.

It’s All in the Name

It’s Saturday night, a little after 7 p.m. We’re leaning on Little Miss Whiskey’s purple sparkling counter-top, chatting up the bartender we have to ourselves. Save for that couple to our left, we’re the only ones in here. But likely not for long. Apparently this place gets packed “late night.” Katie asks for their special drink, a mason jar filled with a stiff mix of frozen iced tea vodka and peach schnapps. Patten opts for something Belgian. And I order a Duckrabbit Milk Stout: the only beer on the list who’s name fits in a place like this. After all, we’re here at Little Miss Whiskey’s Golden Dollar for one reason: its name…and I’m not going to order something generic.

I have only just learned of this bar, minutes earlier, from a friend of a friend. We had no intentions of visiting tonight, but the hour wait at Granville Moore’s encourages us otherwise. We’ll kill the hour drinking. Brilliant.

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There’s no sign on the exterior of Little Miss Whiskey’s—”Just look for the purple lights,” the host tells us, and sure enough, we see the white rowhouse on 11th and H Street NE, with purple flood lights illuminating its facade. Inside, I’m taken with the decorations: velvet wallpaper, golden chandeliers, Louis XVI-like mirrors, and black lights that flood the room in purple. We tour the second floor, the garden, the bathrooms. Our bartender tells us it’s been open since August, and we start thinking about all the nights we haven’t spent here. And then we take a more proactive approach: planning birthday parties, after-work happy hours, summer nights on the patio, where we’ll feast on burgers off their grill.

Thinking of, I’d like a snack. But the only food available tonight is a Jimmy Dean sausage sandwich. I ask the bartender if he’s kidding. “No, but you can’t have one now anyway. I only bring those out after 1 a.m., when you’re drunk.” I guess I’ll have to wait for mussels. In the meantime, we fill up on our bartender’s stories and dream about our next visit.

Photos by Patten Wood

Best Reason to Develop a Beer Gut

I happened upon something dangerous last night: ChurchKey. Tis true: Finally a casual-chic bar has opened on 14th Street that a) serves 50-plus somewhat-unusual drafts of beer (I only recognized about 10 of the names); b) has so much seating that even when swamped on a Monday night with 100 or so guests, most people still have a place to sit; c) offers some of the best bar service I’ve ever had in DC. Actually, she was one of the best servers I’ve had in this city, period.

What this means???  No more crowding and yelling over expensive wine at Cork or beer at Saint Ex. No more nights on back-breaking stools at Stoney’s. No more excuses for making the long-haul walk to Thai Tanic for dinner, because NOW there’s an amazing bar across the street to visit before and/or after.

Aside from the draft beer list, they have another 500 labels available in the bottle. Each beer is served in a specific glass “to perfectly tease out the nuances of each style on our list,” writes beer director, Greg Engert, on Churchkey’s blog. Sounds pretentious, I know, but somehow they’ve managed to mesh together passion, detail, intellect, and coolness, and create something that still feels down-to-earth.

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I had sips of four beers, absolutely falling in love with one: The Breakfast Stout (American Imperial Stout; $6.50). I wanted to sip it for hours—maybe because it smelled and tasted like chocolate coffee. Or maybe it was just because I just felt so gdmn cool sipping out of that bulbous snifter. Honorable mention goes to the seasonal pumpkin beer (Tsmisje Speciale with a whopping 10.5% alcohol; $8.50) and the German Pilsner (Hopfenkonig; $6.50) that our server promised would finish “round, not crisp.” And yes, it actually felt like our tongues were slipping over spheres as the beer made its way down. I left spellbound, in love with ChurchKey after our first date. Let’s hope things progress as beautifully as they have with Patten.

Okay, maybe I’m just being cynical here, but I was really disappointed when I saw Great Falls. I’d expected some gigantic deluge, and instead, saw a large river with big granite rocks and rapids. Is this really considered great? Granted, where I come from, natural wonders are as rampant as Mormons. But still! What’s with all the hype???

Patten and I propose a name switch: River with Rocks. Anyone want to sign our NPS petition?

German Feast

My favorite meal as a child was a gigantic plate of veal wiener schnitzel from The Bavarian Chalet, one of Ogden’s best (and most expensive) restaurants. I’d go there most birthdays, sometimes more if I could convince my parents. My mouth still waters at the thought of that meat (and accompanying spätzle)—drizzled with lemon juice I’d squeezed myself using their metal wedge squeezer and smothered with a rich gravy. It was heaven. It was the sole reason I took German in high school. It’s mostly to blame for my lifelong obsession with food and restaurants. And now it’s gone, dead for a decade.

I’ve yet to find wiener schnitzel as good, not even in Deutschland. But in my surprising little gem of a city, I’ve finally found a solid competitor. Tucked in the back of a German grocery store in the office land that is downtown (13th and H Streets, NW), Cafe Mozart is odd from the get-go. After you make your way through the florescent store stocked with German foodstuffs, a back door opens into a small bar—deeper in, through another door, you’ll find the dining room, with its low ceilings, booths, and German posters pasted about the walls. If you come on Tuesday, you’ll also find Sylvia, the talented musician who serenades you all night with her accordion and wooden spoons.

The menu is exhausting. I think it took us a good 30 minutes to order—too many choices and it all looked good. I settled on the pork wiener schnitzel ($23.95; mostly because it was $4 less that the veal), but was distressed about the menu’s absence of gravy. I told the waiter my Bavarian Chalet story. He listened politely then said: “We’ll serve yours with gravy.”

Deep into our pitcher of creamy Hefeweissen, food was served. For me that meant a giant plate of schnitzel, spätzle, pan-fried potato pancakes, a thick lemon wedge (sans metal squeezer), and pork gravy. A meal to satisfy a King. I couldn’t have been much happier. Patten ordered the Debreziner ($16.95), a spicy pork sausage served with sauerkraut and German potato salad. Once he finished his, he ate half of mine and ordered more potato pancakes. He hasn’t stopped raving about his meal, telling all that “it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had in DC.” Our dining friend ordered the Viennese Beef Goulash ($21.95), which was hearty and tasty in its own right, but seemed to get too rich after a while.

Cafe Mozart is not cheap, but it’s the type of place you leave fulfilled. We practically skipped home, with visions of sausage and schnitzel dancing in our heads. Yeah, it made us that happy.

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BTW: Apologies for the month-long break. In short, life got in the way—but City Sifting is back. I love you all, and keep reading!

A local restaurant with two mentions this year in Bon Appetit? We had to see what all the fuss was about, regardless if it meant an hour’s drive to northwest Baltimore, with a token mile-drive through The Wire territory. (Yep, that is what Baltimore really looks like). Woodberry Kitchen is located in a renovated foundry complex (not far from said territory), replete with lofty ceilings and sustainable frills galore, Dwell-style. We were seated upstairs in 3-sided rectangular booth, which was awkward at best. All of us faced out, as if we were the panel for some contest. The judgment? Cocktails and appetizers merit a visit, but skip on the entrees, which are too big, too expensive, and ultimately too boring.

To be more specific:

Things began wonderfully: I ordered the Farmer’s Daughter cocktail (cucumber-infused vodka and watermelon juice; $10)– it was probably one of the best cocktails I’ve ever had. Not too sweet, fresh, clean. I was also impressed with the other three cocktails at the table, especially the Gov’t Mule (vodka, housemade ginger beer, lime-ginger syrup; $10), which was served in a copper mug.
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Then came our spread of appetizers. The buffalo soft-shell crabs and Chesapeake-style oysters (baked, with crab on top; $15; pictured above) were divine. The chicken wings were moist and flavorful, if not terribly inventive, and the pork buns were just so-so—think: miniature BBQ pork sandwiches with too much of a bread/pork ratio.

Entrees were a big disappointment. The burgers were a hit (and a value, $15), but my fish and chips ($21) were bland as could be. Fresh fish, but just very boring. Fellow diners weren’t wowed by their entree’s either. The suckling pig was fine, but forgettable; the $31 Kansas strip steak was flavorless.

Desserts were okay. The carrot cake ($9) was the table favorite—3 golf-ball sized squares of warm cake with homemade rum-raisin ice cream in the middle—but I probably could have done without.

Patten and I sat captivated in the Hirshhorn’s black box theater, as we watched Guido’s “Nummer Acht (#8) everything is going to be alright.” Essentially, it’s a 10-minute video of a gigantic ship cutting through ice, with Guido walking in front of its prow. It’s absolutely mesmerizing. In her thorough review of the film, WaPo’s Jessica Dawson puts it this way:

Both boat and figure move in lockstep. Van der Werve continues forward while the icebreaker keeps pace. The scene appears as if it could go on indefinitely. To suggest just such an endless journey, van der Werve ends the film as suddenly as it began, snapping back to a silent black screen and final credits.

What to make of this? Though the action is minimal, the psychology is intense. The stark image of man pursued by industrial beast glues us to our seats. When will the man fall tragically through the ice? When will he break into a run? Will the ship give up pursuit? As time passes and it becomes clear that, in fact, nothing will happen next, the film turns into a philosophical exercise.

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Guido will be speaking about his film (and other works) at the Hirshhorn Museum this Thursday at 7 p.m., in the third-floor Lerner room. Nummer Acht—a snippet of which I’ve embed below—will be on display through October 11. If you haven’t seen it, get thee to the black box. If you’re like me, you’ll watch the video loop twice.

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I need to visit Osteria Bibiana a few more times before I give you my full-on review, but I can say this: The Bucatini pasta dish (with guanciale, red onion, red chili, and pecorino) was delicious. It actually made an appearance in my dream last night, along with a $107 steamed lobster, but that’s another story…