Category: On the Road

DAY FOUR, Saturday, April 9

1:00 p.m.

We get back in the car and drive out to the northeast corner of D.C. to report our car incident at the other police station.  The very friendly folks at this station tell us we can file a complaint against the other station for refusing to take the report.  We decline, we just want to be done with this business.  After about an hour, we are finally finished!  Is there somewhere we can get a little breakfast around here?  "There's a Dunkin' Donuts just down the block."  Heh heh, cops and donuts, heh heh...okay, let's get the hell out of here.

3:00 p.m.  Short stack -- Julia's Empanadas

This little storefront on U St. carries about 10 types of empanadas daily, from sweet fruit empanadas to Jamaican style-beef patties.  I order the lovely saltenas, with curried chicken, potato, peas, sliced hard-boiled egg, and lots of onion.  The filling to pastry ratio is excellent, though the plain, egg-brushed pastry is a little on the tough side.  Would have been a perfect no-mess portable snack for a picnic under the cherry blossoms, if we had made it over there.  Dun dun dun!

Grade: A-

Total: $3.18

Will I return?  Sure.  I bet they'd be great snacks for the car.

Short stack -- Cakelove

Poor D.C.  Cakelove ain't Sugar Sweet Sunshine, I'll tell you that.  The cupcakes are beautiful, but why are they getting tough and cold in the refrigerated case?  I got two cupcakes -- the chocolate with strawberry buttercream and very pretty bits of chopped strawberry, and the vanilla with amaretto icing.  I allowed the cupcakes to come to room temperature and bit in.  The satiny buttercream was lovely and didn't overpower the cake as icing sometimes can.  But the chocolate cake was deeply disappointing -- the crumb was not tender enough and it didn't have enough chocolate oomph, a problem I encounter when I use Scharffen Berger chocolate at home.  I didn't even bother with the Amaretto -- I think vanilla cakes are even harder to get right.  And Cakelove charges a whopping $3 per cupcake, TWICE AS MUCH as Sugar Sweet Sunshine charges here in uber-expensive New York City.  At that price, I should get some love with my cake.

Grade: C-

Total: $6 (!) for two refrigerator burned cupcakes

Will I return?  No way.  There's a lot of diabetes in my family.  Every simple carb counts, so if there are vials of insulin in my future, I only want to consume kCals worth becoming ill for.

Cakelove

1506 U Street, NW, D.C.

202.588.7100

DAY THREE, Friday, April 8

7:00 p.m.

The Accident Reporting Hotline for D.C. has been down all morning long -- apparently, if you have an accident in D.C., you are shit out of luck because the hotline goes down and stays down.  Which is strange because they certainly aren't lacking in manpower -- I've never seen such a dense population of cops in my life.  We decide that the best thing to do is to fill out a report at a police station on the way to Danny's apartment.  After only one missed turn and some map deciphering, we make it to the police station at the northern edge of D.C.  Jewlia goes in by herself while Marika and I wait at the car and make phone calls.  I decide I'd like to use the bathroom and head in to find it.  I find Jewlia at the counter, laughing to herself.  "He says we can't fill out the report here.  We have to go back to the station by the scene of the crime so they can draw a diagram, even though I can draw a diagram fully well.  What the fuck are we supposed to do now?"

The surly cop at the counter says, "We don't use that kind of language here."

"Well what the heck am I supposed to do?" Jewlia says.  Jewlia's temperature is rising.  I don't think we should be testing our luck with these D.C. cops.  Luckily, another cop hands us the address for the other police station and we get out without an incident with just enough time to head over to Adams Morgan to meet our dinner dates.

7:55 p.m.

We find the restaurant with ease but spend 10 minutes circling the area for parking.  As we're driving up the hill, we see a spot on Kalorama St., and Jewlia gets out of the car to save it, just as a car full of young men driving down the hill aim for the same spot.  Marika drives up the hill so we can turn around and go back down to get the spot.  We find another space at the top of the hill and park.  Marika says, "Maybe we shouldn't have let Jewlia save the spot.  I hope those guys didn't beat her up or anything.  Let's call her." 

I call Jewlia.  "We found a spot up here."

Jewlia says, "Oh my god, we can't run into those guys.  They'll kill me.  They tried to run me over."

8:20 p.m.  Short stack -- Meze

We sit down to eat with our dinner companions, Sem Mehmedinovic, the poet whose work Charming Hostess's Sarajevo Blues is based on.  We order food.  The music is pumping and the political yuppies (puppies) are out in full force for Friday night revelry.  Much to our dismay, of all the restaurants on 18th St., the guys Jewlia fought over the parking space have also chosen Meze, so it must be a hot spot.  Luckily, they either don't recognize us or don't care. 

The speakers pump bad world trance music.  My companions smoke many cigarettes at the long dinner table.  Service is friendly and efficient.  The Bosnians order all the tapas sized place -- several baskets of oil slicked thick bread topped with sesame seeds; average hummus; cucumber tomato salad with parsley and lemon; 5 " grilled lamb kebabs; kofte kebabs; grilled chicken over some cheesy eggplant puree; I'm eating, but I'm not tasting it.  I'm so exhausted.  Bikram in the morning was DEFINITELY a bad idea.  In a lame attempt to join the conversation, I comment on the head-to-toe black garb of the women in Istanbul.  Sem's lovely wife Sanja begins a speech about religious choice and unreliable Bosnian men.  I shut my trap -- my contributions are useless.  I'm losing my shit.  I gotta get out of here or I'm going to keel over.  I know my lazy eye is drifting because I am too tired to focus.  I must leave NOW.  Jewlia and Marika sweep me up off the floor and we go home.

But not before this excellent exchange: Over dessert, Marika is sitting with Victor and Pedja.  The cheese textured honey bird's nest dessert comes with a mini pitcher of fragrant sugar water.  Victor takes the first bite.  "Mmm...it never disappoints.  Just like sex." 

Marika and Pedja both respond with an incredulous, "What?!"

Grade: Not able to rate because of peakiness

Total:  Sem generously paid, we didn't even see the bill.  Thank you Sem!  But meze share plates were $4-10, we ordered about 10-12 plates between 7 people.

Will I return?  If I weren't hallucinating from exhaustion, I'd probably say that it's not my kind of place -- it's more of a loud social scene than a food focused place.  But the food was pretty good.  I think.

Meze

2437 18th St. NW, Washington, DC 20009
Phone: 202-797-0017
Metro: Woodley Park-Zoo/ Adams Morgan (Red Line)

DAY THREE, Friday, April 8

6:30 a.m.

It is weird sleeping in someone else's house. I mean, our host was splendid and generous, but it still feels kind of invasive to me to sleep in some random person's house. I decide, well, I'm up, why don't I try and find a yoga class to take near the apartment in downtown Philly.

7:45 a.m.

I am one tough bird, I am taking Bikram yoga in some random city at 8 in the morning because I am TOUGH. The instructor asks if I've ever taken Bikram and I say, I've taken it in New York. I sense the clenching of the instructor's sphincter and I spend the next hour and a half paying for the fact that I am from New York in an uncompassionate, 105 degree room with zero ventilation. I remember why I don't like Bikram. But I am TOUGH and ready to conquer the world.

10:00 a.m.

After a pleasant, anonymous shower at the yoga studio, I make it back in time to meet Jewlia and Marika as planned at 10:00.

11:00 a.m. Short short short stack -- Rachael's Nosherei

No word from J & M so I hit Rachael's Nosherei and order a foam bowl of matzo ball soup which I carry to the table on a red cafeteria tray. Total sinkers.

1:00 p.m. After a raised voice fight with the parking attendant, whose colleague had miscommunicated the parking prices to us the night before, we take the car down to South St. again to do a little gawking. Philly has lots of pretty murals and public art, which we love. Also, many many salons to do braids. Okay, let's eat.

2:30 p.m. Short stack -- Tommy Gunn's Barbecue

I ask the guy behind the counter, "What is the entree you are most proud of?" He says, without hesitation, "The Kansas City baby back ribs." I order three teeny ribs with a side of Tennessee mustard slaw and baked beans.

The dry rubbed ribs are okay, but not moist, and don't hold a candle to the baby backs I had at the 1st BBQ Festival here in NYC featuring that 17th St. Bar & Grill or whatever. There's only about 2 tablespoons of meat on the three ribs, which is just fine for me, as I'm more of a sides girl anyway. If you're a carnivore, you're probably better off ordering the whole rack or going for the larger, meatier saucy spare ribs.

The Tennessee mustard slaw is a little disconcerting -- the mustard used is the French's kind, rendering the slaw a crayola yellow -- but it tastes pretty good, fairly mild mustard flavor but punchier than the classic slaw.

I think the beans are excellent, with plenty of pulled pork bits and a nice buttery texture, but Jewlia thinks they're too sweet.

Jewlia's spicy collard greens are excellent -- lots of heat, lots of green flavor. The Tommy Gunn sauce supposedly has some peach flavoring in it -- I don't know, it just tastes like sweet, tangy ketchup to me. I've never been much of a BBQ sauce person. (Do I hear gasps from the 'cue lovers? Come on then, show me a sauce that's worth something. I want to be proven wrong.) They also feature locally microbrewed sodas, but my root beer has too much caramel and not enough rooty bite for my taste. But it's a nice tuck in before we hit the road again, and the staff is extremely friendly. Extra points for the rolls of paper towels at every table.

Grade: B

Total: About $12 for 3 baby back ribs, two sides, and a tap soda.

Will I return? Feh, I don't think so. It wasn't so special. I'd like to have another cheesesteak instead, you know, when in Rome and all.

Tommy Gunn's American BBQ
630 South St.
215-627-6160

DAY TWO, Thursday April 7

2:30 p.m.

We drop Danny and Daniel off at their school and head back onto the road, with Jewlia once again behind the wheel.  We proceed to get completely lost in the Mall area, enjoying the cartoon pink of the peak bloom cherry blossoms.  (Totally stunning and worth a visit, by the way.)  We circle D.C. for an hour and a half.  I swear, you miss one turn in this town and you have to find a g-d tesseract to get out.

4:00ish p.m.

Finally, we reach the end of the 395 at the edge of town.  As we're getting off the off-ramp to find the entrance to the 295, we here a "krick-kerCHUNK!"  I look to my left and see a silver mid-size car between us and the ramp barrier, the beyotch driver having tried to pass us illegally, sideswiping us and saving TWO WHOLE SECONDS of time.  As we reach the end of the off-ramp, shaken, the silver car slips into the stream of exiting cars and we lose sight of her.  And thusly our Impala is impaled.  Becoming an Impale-a. 

4:15 p.m.

But we got a gig to get to in Philly, so Jewlia drives on until we get back on the 95 North, where we take the first exit so Marika can drive while the understandably shaken Jewlia can get in the back.  Except--

JEWLIA:  Uh-oh. 

MARIKA:  (Standing next to the driver's side door)  Wait a minute.

JEWLIA:  The door won't open.

MARIKA:  This part got smashed in.  Don't try to open it anymore.  I'll get in from the other side.

We all break into hysterical laughter.  Jewlia eats her half po' boy in the back.  I eat mine in shotgun.  We peel out and back onto the 95.

5:30 p.m.

Somewhere in Maryland, we stop for a pee break at a Citgo.  We pull into the Citgo parking lot when a green Jeep with flashing blue lights pulls up next to us. 

MARIKA:  Is he pulling us over?

GANDA:  He can't be pulling us over.

MARYLAND STATE TROOPER:  Stay where you are!

JEWLIA:  What did we do?

(I roll the window down.)

MARYLAND STATE TROOPER:  (voice straining with anger) Did you know you almost hit me back there?!  This is property of the state!  Do you know how much it would have cost you if you hit me?!!

MARIKA:  I'm sorry, sir, we didn't see you.

Somewhat mollified after punishing us for NOT hitting his state property jeep, he lets us go.  And we are left wondering, What is UP with the mid-Atlantic, yo?

8:00 p.m.

We make it to Philly and do the gig in a bar on Philly's South St.  It's part of a Jewish festival, though it feels closer to a J-Date meet and greet rather than a rebbe conference.  The gig goes pretty well, though Jewlia must convince the crowd to shut up a couple of times with entreatments like, "Okay guys, the next song is pretty quiet, and it's about genocide, so we'd really appreciate it if you could just keep it down over on that side, that'd be great." 

9:30 p.m.

I get the keys to the rental because I've left my cell phone in there.  I go around to the shotgun door because I know I can't get the driver's side open.  But when I get to the door, I can't find the keyhole.  I look under the handle, no keyhole.  But how did we get the doors open at the Citgo?  Marika's window was rolled down.  Shit.  I try to get my arm through the three inch opening on the driver's side.  Damn these short arms.  I try to use my yogic power to reach around to the back door lock.  I am still a yoga grasshopper and cannot reach.  Shit.  Shit shit shit.

9:45 p.m.

I come back to the car with a wooden cooking spoon, one of the instruments we use for a song called "Spoonful."  I hit the electronic unlock.  Success!  I am now Holder of the Wooden Spoon, Keeper of the Car Key. 

10:15 p.m.  Short Stack -- Pico de Gallo

With its bright Christmas light decorations and roomy wooden tables, Pico de Gallo has the comfortable feel of a college town joint.  One slim Japanese girl with big perm curls had to wait on all the tables at this kitschy cozy eatery.  We had to wait for 30 minutes for a table, but it was the best option we could find close to the club.  The spicy table salsa and colored chips held us over as we browsed the gringo friendly menu.  Nachos came with proper white Mexican cheese and little dollops of guac.  My fish tacos came with somewhat overcooked steamed white chunks of fish, maybe tilapia or snapper -- not deep fried as I had hoped.  Large, incongruous chunks of ripe papaya were strewn over the plate.  The shrimp rancheros Jewlia ordered had some butane-like flavor which couldn't be masked by the salsa it was cooked in.  The chicken fajitas were white meat -- Marika preferred the peppers to the pollo.  Now that I found the Sunset Park taquerias, I can say that we have better Mexican food in New York.  Can you believe it?

Grade: B-

Total: $17 per person for one app shared between three, one entree each, and a soda.

Will I return?  Probably not.  We should have held out for Pat's and Gino's.  But we were tired and needed a place to park it while waiting for our hosts to take us to our resting place for the evening.

1501 South St.
Philadelphia, PA 19147
Phone: (215) 772-1119

DAY TWO, Thursday, April 7

1:00 a.m.  We make our way to the Blue Room after the badly needed falafel detour.  I drink two glasses of yeasty champagne and watch the dance major twirl around the dance floor.  We tire and decide to retire.

2:30 a.m.  Danny, Jewlia's friend and our D.C. host, drives us all to his mom's house, where we will be sleeping for the night.  Danny's friend Daniel squeezes in the back with Marika and me, Jewlia relaxes with her feet out the passenger side window.  Danny drives with firm speed down the empty roads of Adams Morgan.  Suddenly, Danny decelerates.  We hear the "bwup bwup" of a cop car as it descends upon us. 

DANNY: Does anybody have any gum?

DANIEL:  Show him your bar card with your license.

(footsteps on the left side of the car.)

YOUNG COP: Sir, can I see your license and registration? (DANNY hands over the rental agreement with insurance info along with his driver's license and bar card.)  Okay, do you know why I stopped you?

DANNY:  No sir.

YOUNG COP: Do you know how fast you were going?

DANNY:  No sir.

YOUNG COP: You were going 45 in a 35 mile an hour zone.

DANNY: I apologize, sir.

YOUNG COP: And the young lady had her feet stickin' out the window.

JEWLIA:  I'm sorry sir, I was wearing heels and my feet hurt.

YOUNG COP: (Pauses, eyeballing DANNY and JEWLIA)  Okay, I'll be right back.

(In an obvious attempt at outright intimidation, YOUNG COP's partner, OLDER COP, shines his flashlight over each of our faces slowly, like a helicopter circling with its floodlights.)

DANIEL: Guys, just play up the fact that you're visiting from out of town and you don't know your way around.

DANNY: Nobody has any gum or anything?

(Time passes.  Slowly.)

YOUNG COP:  Okay, who's Jew-li-a Eisenberg?

JEWLIA: That's me.

YOUNG COP:  Who's Marika Hughes?

MARIKA: I am.

YOUNG COP:  Okay, you two are the only people on the rental agreement who are supposed to be driving this car.  I don't see any other name on this rental agreement.

DANNY:  Sir, we're going to my mother's house, it's just a mile away, they're visiting and don't know their way around here--

YOUNG COP:  Well, they're the only people that are supposed to be driving this car. 

MARIKA:  Julka, I can't drive right now.

YOUNG COP: Alright then, well drive slowly and watch your speed.

DANNY: Thank you sir.  Uh....do you want us to switch?

YOUNG COP:  Yes.  (Sticks his head in a little) Are you okay to drive?

JEWLIA: Yes, I'm fine to drive, I've only had one beer tonight, officer.

YOUNG COP:  Well, just wait a minute here.

JEWLIA:  (To the other passengers)  Do I go ahead and drive now?

MARIKA: No, just wait, I don't think we can go yet.

JEWLIA:  (To the YOUNG COP) Can I go now?

YOUNG COP:  Not yet.  (A minute goes by.)  Alright, go ahead.

JEWLIA:  Okay what do I do now?

MARIKA:  Okay, first you gotta push the seat forward--

DANIEL:  Move the seat forward--

DANNY:  There's a lever down at the bottom--

MARIKA: Push it forward--

DANIEL:  No, that's the one that lowers the angle--

MARIKA: No, the other one.

JEWLIA: You're going to have to do it for me baby--

DANNY:  She can do this, there's only a couple of levers down there, she can figure it out.

(Continued ad nauseum for five minutes.  Cop car still behind us, waiting with their lights beamed in like a spotlight.)

JEWLIA: Ooh, I got it.

DANNY:  Okay, now pull out, we'll drive a bit, then we'll switch.

MARIKA: Use your signal.

(We drive away.  DANNY and JEWLIA switch.  We make it to his mom's house.  Lots of relieved laughter, a favorite emotion of mine.  I go to bed almost immediately.)

10:00 a.m.  I wake up, refreshed, in Danny's mom's quiet house.  I do yoga for an hour in the clear, quiet morning sunlight.  I eat a packet of Cream of Wheat and have a cup of tea.  Eventually, the others emerge from their rooms.  Danny knows the perfect spot for lunch.  He drives.

1:00 p.m. Short stack -- Louisiana Express

Disclaimer:  I'd like to know what it means to miss New Orleans, but I've never been.  Until then, Louisiana Express will serve as my measure of greatness.  This little hole-in-the-wall across the street from the "Eurocars" dealership in Bethesda, MD serves up all the good things I dream I'll find on the Bayou -- chicory extended Cafe du Monde iced au laits, doughy beignets with generous piles of powdered sugar, excellent greaseless spicy fries, crisp catfish "beignets" with whole grain mustard studded remoulade, excellent shrimp and catfish po' boys on smooth, uncomplicated heroes, and a spicy, roux-richened gumbo with okra or "the works" -- crawfish, chicken, catfish, andouille, and butterflied shrimp.  Huge portions meant that I got to take half a po' boy for the road -- but I'm still dreaming of the last spoonfuls of gumbo I had to leave in my deep bowl.

Grade: A

Total: $20 per person, including tax and tip, for enough food to embarrass even me.

Will I return?  God, I hope so.  Even if I make it to New Orleans proper someday, Bethesda is a lot closer.  And I really want to try the fried oysters.  This is a road food classic, a can't miss for any road tripper in that neck of the woods.  Bethesda, who knew?

Louisiana Express

4921 Bethesda Avenue

Bethesda, MD 20814

Phone: (301) 652-6945    

Fax: (301) 654-4852

DAY ONE, Wednesday April 6

12:30 p.m.  Meet at Jewlia's house to rehearse before we hit the road.  Jewlia and her mom have prepared a lovely lunch of bagels with tuna and capers, curried egg salad, sliced Persian cucumber, surprisingly sweet strawberries, iced tea, and water with lemon, lime, and mint in a tall glass pitcher.  I wish I could eat like that every day.  I have brought my own lunch from the salad bar next door which I nibble on as well, and a big bottle of water for the road.  Jewlia's mom says, "Ganda, you always have food with you.  It's very impressive.  You're always so prepared."  Actually, I have packed several bags of black and green teas and a couple of packets of Cream of Wheat for the road -- because you can always get hot water.  I really bring food with me for the benefit of the people I'm with.  I turn into a gremlin when I am hungry.  Or under-caffeinated.

2:30 p.m.  Charming Hostess hits the road in our silver Impala rental (significantly less sexy than its 70s predecessor).  Rehearsal in the car.  Jewlia says we can eat at the venue, an anarchist bookstore/coffeehouse called Red Emma's in Baltimore.  "The girl on the phone said, 'We've got really good vegan cupcakes,'" Jewlia says.  HA!  Vegans can be funny too.  We discuss the possibility of dinner #2 when we go to D.C., where we'll be spending the night.

7:30 p.m.  Beautiful Baltimore!  I stick my head out the car window and gawk at the Orioles fans swarming the stadium.  They are the genus of white t-shirt and sneakers wearing folks I see on the Food Network's coverage of local food festivals.  It is weird to be outside of New York.  We arrive at Red Emma's.  Shelves are divided by social/cultural genre and labeled with Sharpied masking tape.  The stage is a small space which has been cleared in front of the magazine racks carrying the Utne reader and various zines.

7:35 p.m. 

GANDA: What's that?

WORKER BEE: That's art.

GANDA: No, what is it?

WORKER BEE: Oh, it's sugar.  But don't eat the stuff that dripped onto the aluminum.  It's okay to eat it off the sculpture though.  I had some in my tea the other day.

GANDA: Oh.

8:10 p.m.  A nice mixed crowd of people have formed, encouraged by excellent press in the Baltimore Sun.  I'm subbing for regular Charming Hostess Cynthia Taylor, so we're all dealing with new parts.  It's a bit bumpy but great for the first hit.  No vegan cupcakes are offered.

10:00ish p.m.  We head down the street to the bar in the Belvedere Hotel.  I eat a few mussels with butter and an oyster with Marmite-ish Guinness sabayon off our companions' plates.  I'm hungry.

11:30ish p.m.  We make it to D.C. and meet up with a birthday party at the Circle Bistro.  The kitchen is closed.  I order a Coke with 5 cherries.  I'm pretty hungry.

12:30ish a.m.  Short stack -- Amsterdam Falafel House

The Amsterdam Falafel House serves up a tiny menu of frites and falafels in small or large.  It's Israeli style, which means you build your crisp and tasty falafel with your own choice of condiments -- everything from pink pickled turnips and cucumber salad to hummus and spicy sweet tomato salsa type sauce.  I love condiments.  The frites are crisp and quite good, but the almost chartreuse-colored dutch mayo is so thick it's hard to pump out of the little mayo station.  I was hungry, now I am not hungry.  Bring on the champagne!

Grade: A

Total: $6.60 for a small falafel and a small frites

Will I return?  If I'm in D.C., especially if I'm drunk on that little party strip of 18th St., definitely.  Any place that has a condiment free-for-all gets two thumbs up from me. 

Amsterdam Falafel House

2425 18th Street NW, D.C.

Ah, tour -- it is my great American dream, seeing the world from the inside of a vehicle on someone else's dime, eating the local specialties and spending QT with fellow adventurers, all punctuated by musical performances. For the past four days, I've been on the road with Charming Hostess who, as they like to say, put the "harm" in "Charming" and the "ho" in "Hostess". We got lost, we saw the stunning cherry blossoms of D.C., we got sideswiped by a hit and run driver, we had two involuntary and two voluntary run-ins with the cops in and around our nation's capital. I got cozy with a particular wooden spoon, I ate, I took pictures, I lived to tell you about it. Coming soon -- highlights from my adventures in the signage-tarded mid-Atlantic.