Even though I know better, I often mumble out “foh”, mainly because the correct pronunciation is hardly universal knowledge, so saying it makes me feel like a pretentious tool, like that woman in the TV commercial: “Oh, and an endive salad. No, it’s absolutely pronounced ‘on-deev’.”

Anyway, on to Pho DC in Chinatown. Or as I refer to it, “Chinablock.” I’m not sure we can really call it a “town.” Love DC, but our Chinatown is weak, weak, weak.

Pho DC doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s surprisingly modern and sleek on the inside. Many people sit with their bowls of pho at the big bar in the front of the restaurant, and there are two dining rooms further back.

The first time I ate there, I ordered the grilled shrimp vermicelli, which was excellent. Perfectly grilled shrimp with nuoc cham and a spicy assortment of hot sauces.

A couple of weeks ago a few of us from work went during lunch. Started off with spring rolls.

And I decided to order pho this time around, going with beef meatballs.

I hesitate on how to describe the meatballs… I should preface my comments by pointing out that I’ve never had Vietnamese meatballs before. These could have been the finest example in all the land for all I know. But to say they weren’t what I was expecting is a massive understatement. Where I was anticipating biting into soft, pillowy orbs of ground beef, these had the consistency of a rubber ball. Tough and rubbery is really the only way I can describe them.

I gave it my best try, but just couldn’t come around to the texture. For the first time in a long while, I left food behind on my plate — the meatballs went uneaten.

If someone is an expert on Vietnamese cuisine, please illuminate — is the rubbery texture typical?  I’m guessing my aversion has less to do with Pho DC and more with Vietnamese meatballs themselves.  Did I miss out on a delicacy by leaving them untouched?

Pho DC
608 H St. NW
Washington, DC
202-506-2888

Mostly though, I’m thrilled that I can get my mussel fix whenever I want. During happy hour, orders of mussels and frites are $10 (normally $18). The big bowl of frites (not pictured) comes with both ketchup and a garlic aioli.

The mussels arrive in a blisteringly hot iron pot. This is my Eastern Shore mussel pot, with new potatoes, corn, sausage, and Old Bay seasoning.

Tender, plump, meaty mussels. One had failed to open, so I threw it away. The rest went right down the hatch.

To wash down the mussels? A 1/2 liter of cold Belgian beer (all metric system at St. Arnold’s).

Belgian beer, mussels, frites and open air dining. That’s the recipe for a good time had by all.

St. Arnold’s Mussel Bar
3433 Connecticut Ave. NW
Washington, DC
202-833-1321

Seafood lovers rejoice — everything your heart could desire is here, looking sparkling fresh like it’s just been plucked out of the Chesapeake.

I saw customers loading up on shrimp and all kinds of fish.

The star of the show though, is clearly the crabs. Chesapeake Bay blue crabs to be exact. You can buy them live.

Or steamed with Old Bay. The smell alone is enough to make your mouth water. My only regret was that I didn’t have a cooler on hand to take some crabs home with me.

At one point I swear I heard an announcement over one of the PAs: “Crab man, line 2. Crab man.”

There’s plenty of cooked seafood to be eaten, like at Captain White’s near one end of the market.

This is where I picked up a cup of Maryland crab soup — spicy and seasoned with Old Bay.

And a crabcake sandwich.

No tables with chairs, but there is an area where you can stand at wooden counter tops and enjoy your food, while looking out over the water towards Hains Point.

The thwack! of mallets hitting shells was all around, as people dug into their orders of steamed crabs.

I’m sure there were tourists mixed in with the crowd, but most of the people I saw looked like they knew exactly what they were doing; some looked like they’d been coming for years.

Don’t get me wrong, I love all the popular tourist destinations around here. They’re part of what make DC, DC.  At the same time, it’s comforting to know a place like Maine Ave Fish Market exists… unsullied by bus tours, geared primarily for the people who live here, hardly apt to appear on a postcard, and cranking away long after the tourists have gone home.

Maine Avenue Fish Market
1100 Maine Ave SW
Washington, DC
202-484-2722

There’s a scene in the new documentary “Bully” where a bullied kid eats alone in the cafeteria. Technically, he’s not alone — there are other kids on either side — but they ignore him so he may as well be. It broke my heart. I wanted to reach through the screen and hug him.

The scene struck a nerve, because as my family can attest, I’ve ALWAYS hated seeing people eat alone.  When I was young we’d be out at a restaurant, I’d spot a person dining solo, and it would bother me for the rest of the meal.  I was so weird about it that it occasionally became this cruel joke where my family would point someone out and say, “Hey Doug, that person’s eating alone,” just to twist the knife a little more.

Emotionally, I still feel those same pangs of sympathy, even though intellectually I understand that for adults, eating alone is not a sign of loneliness or despair. People do it all the time, by circumstance or by choice. They could be traveling, or exploring a new restaurant, or thrilled to have a night away from their screaming kids, or maybe they’ve just had a long day at work and need to unwind without constant gabbing.

(Unless it’s Valentine’s Day. If I ever see someone a person dining alone at a restaurant on February 14th, I may just curl up in the fetal position and weep. Which is strange because I don’t give two shits about Valentine’s Day.)

I can’t say that I’ve ever had dinner out by myself (aside from traveling), but I’ve certainly done breakfast and lunch. Eating alone can be great — sometimes you’ve got an absorbing book that you want to plow through, or you simply want the serenity of solitude. I recently popped in for lunch somewhere and spent the meal leisurely reviewing flashcards for Chinese class. That was both relaxing and productive.

So no, a person eating alone doesn’t warrant a pity party. And yet, I know the next time I’m out at dinner and I see that man or woman sans companion, I’ll be glancing over for the rest of the night. I only hope the person has a book or magazine.

What are your thoughts on eating alone? Do you enjoy it or do you always seek out a dining partner? And are you a sap like me who wants to go around the restaurant giving hugs?

For Washingtonians, there’s Georgetown.

Tourists flock there — case in point the line at Georgetown Cupcake — but most DC residents I know steer away from Georgetown in favor of U St., H St., Dupont, Columbia Heights and Adams Morgan.

A mention of Georgetown is often met with a shrug of indifference or an expression of disdain.  From what I’ve gathered, many locals view Georgetown as touristy, snobbish, generic, douchey and overrun by rich college kids. It’s also trickier to get to by public transportation and traffic there sucks.

I’m not familiar enough with the Georgetown scene to form a concrete opinion, but the few times I’ve hung out there, I’ve (shrinking with embarrassment) kind of liked it. It feels different from any other part of DC, and I enjoy the C&O Canal and waterfront (especially the beautiful, rebuilt Waterfront Park).

So I will say it proudly — I had a good time with my friend Melissa in Georgetown on Friday night.

We were both so famished that after deciding on Vietnamese, we essentially wandered into the first restaurant we stumbled upon — Little Viet Garden.

The “garden” seating is accessed by walking down some narrow stairs, past the bathrooms and out a back door. Not the most scenic route. But once you’re out there, it’s quite nice.

I was in a damn good mood. It was Friday night, the weather was perfect, and we lounging outdoors with a Tsingtao beer and food to come.

Like summer spring rolls with grilled pork.

For my entree, I got the black pepper caramel pork.

Came with a side of pickled vegetables.

Nice peppery sauce, although for a dish that was supposed to be spicy, it lacked heat. (We both squirted on a liberal dose of Sriracha).

As the sun went down, the outdoor dining area became even more quaint.

We were soon off to see a movie at the AMC theater, before checking out the art and live music at the Water St Project, and finishing up with late night drinks on the waterfront at Sequoia.

Agreed, Georgetown is yuppieish and awash with tourists. But on a beautiful spring night, it sure isn’t a bad place to be.

Little Viet Garden
2934 M St. NW
Washington, DC
202-337-4536

An example of a good run: head out with your Potomac River Running group, work up a sweat and appetite, then walk together across the street to Alero for dinner.

Alero’s not blazing any trails for Mexican food, but I don’t think they’re trying to. What you’ll get is recognizable and standard fare, with drinks that go down easy. And really, after a run, that’s all you’re looking for.

You’ve gotta have margaritas. (With salt.)

Tacos Juarez: Three crispy chicken tacos with pico de gallo, refried beans and rice.

Ask for a side of hot sauce. It’s pretty darn hot.

For the birthday girl, a sombrero and singing of “Happy Birthday” by the restaurant staff.

With summer weather almost upon us, I can see making a few more Alero trips in the coming months to lounge on their deck and sip margaritas. May not even go for a run first.

Alero
3500 Connecticut Ave. NW
Washington, DC
202-966-2530

Or maybe I was just taken aback by the price. These babies are pricey! (A “bunch” is not robust.)

Then again, I believe the window for these wild leeks is exceedingly small. Isn’t ramps season over by the summer? No wonder chefs treasure them and tremble at the mere mention of their name.

I’d like to understand more about ramps though — can they not be farmed like other vegetables?  Are they found only in the wild like truffles? Why is their season so short?

An interesting mystery, these ramps. Maybe I’ll buy a bunch this Sunday to see what the fuss is all about.

The object of my affection, a double burger with lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions and mushrooms.

Plus heaping orders of fries and onion rings for everyone.

Objectively I can’t even really comment on the quality of the burger.  For all I care it could have been ground beef slapped between two pieces of shoe leather and I probably would have proclaimed it the best thing ever.  All I know is my level of enjoyment for this thing shocked and amazed me. And whatever’s in that “Z-sauce” that comes on the side, it’s working.

My co-workers and I were all standing there eating, and I was desperately trying to conceal my creepy sounds of food ecstasy, but a few slipped out, despite myself.  I’m afraid the scene looked something like this.

Couldn’t help it. You can eat all the lentil burgers, veggie burgers, or soy burgers you want… nothing replaces the taste of the real thing. And because I hadn’t had one in so long, I appreciated it that much more.

Oh, burger, how I’ve missed you. You’ll always have a place in my heart.  It may be a while before we cross paths again, but I promise it’ll be special when we do.

Z-Burger
1101 4th St. SW
Washington, DC
202-599-0400

During the credits of Jiro Dreams of Sushi, I let out a small sigh of contentment, like I’d just eaten the greatest meal of my life. Except, I hadn’t actually eaten it, I’d only watched it being prepared on a movie screen.

Jiro Dreams of Sushi had me mesmerized from the opening frame to the last credit.  The new documentary (currently playing at E Street Cinema) is a must-see for anyone with a passion for food, or a passion for anything, really. It profiles Jiro Ono, considered by many to be the world’s greatest sushi chef. His tiny 10-seat Tokyo restaurant has earned a three-star Michelin rating, and even seasoned food critics speak reverently of the place.

I remember seeing Jiro’s restaurant featured on Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations a few years ago. Bourdain was unsurprisingly awed by the food, but we learned little about the impassive Jiro himself, mainly due to time constraints and the language barrier. Here, the filmmakers reveal what makes him tick. And he’s a pretty fascinating guy. He’s got stories, he has some sly personality, and at times, he’s quite funny.

You also haven’t seen sushi prepared until you’ve seen this movie. Jiro has devoted his entire life to his craft. Literally, his entire life; he was on his own and got his first job at the age of nine. Nine!  Now 85, he lives, breathes and sleeps sushi. The movies captures his never-ending quest for perfection (some may call it obsession), a drive that he’s instilled in his two sons, both of whom are following in their father’s footsteps.

I could watch Jiro and his kitchen staff all day on a continuous loop.  The dedication, precision, nuance, and attention to detail must be seen to be believed. You could probably count on one hand the number of people with that sort of singular focus. It’s like watching the last of a dying breed. Jiro doesn’t seem to care about money or fame. He just wants to make the perfect sushi. One gets the sense that if he ever retired or were unable to work, he’d quickly slip away. Without your single passion in life, what else would there be to live for?

There’s a section of the movie where a food critic compares Jiro’s tasting menu to a concerto. That leads to a sublime scene of stirring classical music, beautiful cinematography and shot after shot of gorgeous sushi. It was thoroughly moving. My eyes actually welled up. Yeah, that’s right. I got teary at a movie about sushi.

What can I say, I dug the movie. It’s inspiring watching a true artist at work. It’s inspiring hearing someone talk about the sacrifice and dedication it requires to achieve greatness. It’s inspiring seeing people who take such immense pride in their craft.

And damn, the food… We all walked out of the theater with one thought on our minds: Where can we get some sushi??

Anyone who saw me on the Woodley Park-bound Circulator bus last Saturday saw a guy holding a death grip on a plastic bag filled with bread. I was guarding that steaming bag like it was a small child. After spending almost six hours at CulinAerie’s artisanal breads class, I’ll be damned if anyone was stealing the fruits of my labor.

I loved the class. LOVED it. Learning how to make bread on a relaxed Saturday? What could be more fun?

Nice setup at CulinAerie. 16 students, several assistants, the instructor, and a TV monitor so that people in the back could follow along with what he was doing.  Our instructor, Chef Matt Finarelli, was great: articulate, laid-back, patient and knowledgeable. The man knows his bread.

Over the course of the class we made San Francisco sourdough, baguettes, focaccia and oatmeal scones. The more I learned, the more I realized what an art form bread making is. There are so many factors to consider, and subtle changes can lead to big variations in the final product.

God’s gift to bread making? The Kitchen Aid mixer.

Chef Finarelli said the breads could be mixed by hand, but I think you’d have to have Popeye forearms to make that a reality. The breads started in similar fashion — proofing the yeast, mixing it with the bread flour and salt, kneading the dough, proofing the dough… Some doughs were drier (focaccia and baguette), while the sourdough was wet, sticky, and goopy — a five year old’s dream.

This was the focaccia dough after it had been mixed and kneaded. It plumped up like a melon.

My partner’s and my focaccia coming out of the oven. It had been brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with chopped herbs and grated parmesan.

For lunch, we used our still-warm focaccia as bread for sandwiches. Delicious. Doesn’t get much fresher than that.

The trickiest bread of the day — the San Francisco sourdough. Sourdough requires a “starter” — a living, breathing, yeast organism that has to be “fed” regularly like it’s a pet. The starter gives sourdough bread its distinctive flavor. Chef Finarelli has kept his starter going for seven years!

Here’s how our sourdough came out. We didn’t score the “X” marks on top deep enough, but it still looked okay.

Especially the crusty underside.

Here it is split open.

Our baguettes before going into the oven. Mine’s on the left. I started getting OCD about the shape, trying to form it just right.

Came out a little crooked and with an open seam on the bottom.

And the oatmeal scones. Very simple to make and so good.

Of the four things we made, the one I’d do most regularly at home is focaccia. It wasn’t overly complicated and Chef Finarelli said it freezes the best of all the breads. I’ve already used it several times this week for paninis.

There’s an immense satisfaction that comes from reaching into the freezer and pulling out a bread that you made with your own two hands. I think it’s because bread is so elemental. It’s one of the world’s oldest foods, represented in almost every culture. If you can make bread, you can feed yourself and feed others. Hell, it’s the staff of life.

I’m already looking into buying a scale and a baking stone. This could be the beginning of a lifelong obsession.

CulinAerie
1131 14th St. NW
Washington, DC
202-587-5674