G is for Grano

Grano, a petite pasta bar in Hampden, is an unlikely choice for happy hour, but it’s in my neighborhood and I am deeply lazy. Despite logistics (so tiny you can’t bring a crowd, no liquor license), it was a decent place to knock back a few glasses of wine with my friend Annie. We feasted mightly upon gossip and pasta.

There aren’t any appetizers on Grano’s menu, although there are salads. We bypassed the greenery in favor of pasta. Grano offers 10 sauces that can be paired with seven types of pasta. Annie, another recovering Catholic schoolgirl, gave up alcohol for Lent, so originally Grano was meant to be a meat- and wine-binge, but in the end I ordered a meatless vodka sauce with linguine and she got the pomodoro sauce with penne. (We chose conservatively — the more exotic sauces include a Gorgonzola Walnut and Calamari Vesuvio.) Although my noodles could have been strained better, Grano should be applauded for getting Italian Annie to say their pasta was cooked al dente.

We split a meatball the size of a newborn’s head for $1.95. For a traditional snack-y happy hour, order a few meatballs and some Calamari Vesuvio (available in an appetizer portion without pasta). No liquor license means BYOB. (BYOB — hooray!) I brought an Australian rose from the Wine Source down the Avenue. One of Grano’s few service missteps was that they don’t mention the corkage fee until you get the check. It’s $3, which is a steal compared to most restaurant wine mark-ups, but almost every other surcharge is carefully enumerated on the menu, save this one. And even if the waiter was nice enough to put the bottle in the fridge while I waited for Annie, being charged $3 to open a screw-top wine rubs me the wrong way. (Corkage fee — boooo!)

For dessert, I was delighted to find Pitango Gelato, imported directly from the store in Fell’s Point. Pitango is something I’d drive across town for, to get a cup heaped with the creamy goodness of Chocolate Noir and Bourbon Vanilla. I don’t know that I’d go out of my way for Grano, but since it’s in my ‘hood, I’d probably go back.

Grano — 1031 West 36th Street, Baltimore, Md. 21211 (no website)

I is for Irate

I usually don’t pick out my AHH spots too far in advance, but after this I’m reserving the I spot for Iron Bridge Wine Company in Columbia. which has been vandalized twice in the past month. The first time, on March 23, anti-foie gras protestors took credit for the act. This time, no one has stepped up, but it appears to be the same group.

I have had foie gras exactly once in my life, at 1789 in Georgetown. It tasted like meat butter, and I was undecided on if I liked it or not. I’ve read Fast Food Nation and Consider the Lobster. I’m aware that other cities have banned foie gras for ethical reasons. I realize that gavage is not all the fun you can have with your feathers on for the ducks. But I do not like violence or destruction or waste, which is what vandalizing a restaurant in protest of one dish on their extensive menu is. Restaurants are tough businesses to keep afloat, and repeated  vandalizations don’t help the bottom line. Foie gras protestors, vote with your wallet, protest outside the building and start a petition to outlaw foie in Maryland. Just keep it legal. You’re winning more foes than friends. How many people eat foie per year anyway? Wouldn’t it be more effective to lobby against unethically raised cows or chicken?

Arguably my aforementioned distate for violence and destruction and waste could be targeted towards the people who turn living, breathing duckies into meat butter. But because of the methods employed, my sympathies lie with the restauranteurs who seem rational and professional in comparison to the childish antics of the protestors. Quoth Steve Wecker, a co-owner of IBWC: “You can be an activist. You don’t have to be an anarchist or an idiot.”

Word, Steve. I’ll see you in a few weeks.  I’m going to eat so much foie that my liver will become deliciously engorged with fat and you’ll want to serve me with toast points and truffle butter.

Give Us This Day Our Daily Meat

I officially ended my Lenten meaten fast this morning with a Jimmy Dean sausage patty on an English muffin, and scarfed some Pascal ham and several other meaty hors d’oeuvres today. I tried not to go too nuts, since I’ve heard that re-integrating meat into your diet can be tricky. I don’t know that 40 days would really make that much of a difference…plus I slipped up a few times.

Forbidden Meat #1 — I entered the break room during  an all-day work event and was so excited to see the free food that any non-meat promises flew straight out of my head. You’d think I’d never seen a steam tray of hot dogs before.

Forbidden Meat #2 — Ain’t no way I was telling my boyfriend’s parents, who don’t speak the best English and who had prepared me a wonderful chicken dinner, that I wasn’t going to eat it. Also, my mom’s rule when we were growing up was that it was more of a sin to waste food that it was to break fast, so I figured this fell under that category as well. The chicken was cooked, and turning it down wasn’t going to accomplish anything. That said, it must be difficult  for real vegetarians to find ways to turn down animal-based food graciously. Kudos to those who do it well.

Forbidden Meat #3 — I initially didn’t see any vegetarian appetizers while at a cocktail party so I ate some Swedish meatballs and chicken fingers. After I found the veggie eggrolls, I stopped. Mostly.

Forbidden Meat #4 — In a round-robin tournament between Jesus and a hotel breakfast buffet, Jesus went 0-2. The Son of God lost to longtime favorite free bacon, and, in a surprising upset, chicken apple sausage. It was the morning after the cocktail party so the whole weekend was something of a meat bender.

Forbidden Meat #5 (?) — My dad made me pasta with what I think was meat sauce on it.

All in all, I was not a very good vegetarian. Or at least not a very healthy vegetarian. I tried to eat lots of yogurt and beans to get protein, but you know what’s vegetarian? Onion rings. And french fries. And diet soda. I would eat a nice salad with some nuts in it for lunch and then flag mid-afternoon and prop myself up with caffeine and salty snacks. I most certainly did not lose any weight. Dropping lbs. was not a priority, but I wondered if it might happen, just because I read so much about how Americans eat too much meat.

As it turns out, I didn’t miss meat as main course as much as I missed meat as accent. As I alluded to the ode to a veggie quesedilla in my E is for El Salto entry, meat can provide a depth of flavor that vegetarian dishes often lack. I’m sure there are ways to manipulate vegetables and soy and dairy to be as complexly delicious as meat, but I didn’t find it in the last 40 days. (If you have suggestions for good veggie dishes I should try, please post in comments.)

Personally I’m better off having a deli sandwich for lunch and not compensating with meatless but unhealthy midafternoon snacks. Halfway through Lent, I was fantasizing about driving to Andy Nelson’s while mainlining bacon fat, but today I’m surprisingly meh on meat.

I am planning on checking out a G spot (…that’s what she said) with a friend who gave up alcohol for Lent. We shall feast mightly upon meat and wine. But perhaps not as mightly as I once planned.

F is for Fletcher’s

I have this thing about water chestnuts: I LOVE THEM. They have this perfect crunchy texture without being dry, and I wish they were in everything. Sadly, they are in nothing but Chinese stir fries and rumaki.

So I was elated when I saw Fletcher’s online menu that features shrimp and water chestnut dip. Huzzah! I couldn’t believe that a rock venue would bother to have an  interesting menu in the first place, and it was really vegetarian-friendly to boot (edamame, black bean hummus, veggie burger options).

Unfortunately, when I got to Fletcher’s, the menu had changed. I ate enormous fried shrimp  in  sriracha-cilantro sauce and washed it down with a few happy hour beers, but I’m still sad I didn’t get any water chestnuts. I also didn’t get any onion rings, which were my first choice. (They were out.)  The brooding indie rocker two barstools down also didn’t get lettuce on his burger, because they were out. I consoled myself with a few cheap games of pool on Fletcher’s really busted pool tables. The brooding indie rocker probably wrote a song about loss and disappointment.

I’m trying not to dwell on the bad stuff, because Fletcher’s deserve major points for effort, and also because one of the cooks told me they are revamping the menu in the next few weeks to make it more locally sourced. Very ambitious for a dark hole of a rock club decorated with garlands of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Genny Cream Ale empties.

Incidentally, the chef wore horn-rimmed glasses and was super-cute. And that was just the chef, to say nothing of all the skinny boys in black loitering around the place. So if you like better-than-average bar food and emo guys, Fletcher’s is the spot for you.

I didn’t explore the performance space upstairs, so I should probably go back sometime. The performers from Lion of Ido were really nice and “Beatles meets Weezer” sounds like something I’d like. Unfortunately I am a total square with an office job, so there’s no way I’d make it to a show that starts at 10:45 on a Monday. I was lame and went home and fell asleep in front of the soporific brilliance of the North Carolina Tar Heels.

Addendum: If anyone has recipes involving water chestnuts, please post in the comments!

E is for El Salto

“You’ve never been here before?” asked the eavesdropping man in the next booth.

Nope, never been here.

“Good food, good food. You’ll like it.”

He looked simultaneously thrilled for us and bereft for himself, that we had the joy of new discovery before us while he had only the memory of the first heady days of amor por El Salto.

Brooklyn Park’s El Salto has a cult following among Baltimore’s Mexicanophiles. I can’t say that I’m one of them now, but I did leave pleasantly full of chips and good cheer. It was an evening of highs and lows.

Low: Spotting the place. El Salto is a converted fast food place on Richie Highway, with all the architectural splendor that description implies. My sources tell me it used to be a Wendy’s, but as someone who purchased her car from a converted Taco Bell, I have no complaints.

High: Getting out of the car and being hit with the smell of chilies and spices and grilled meat.

Low: Coming in the door and realizing El Salto has no bar. (Converted Wendy’s. Duh.) I worried I’d hauled myself across town for no AHH-relevant reason.

High: A row of tables pushed together, populated by co-workers and a brace of empties, having an emergency post-work happy hour to bitch about their idiot boss. Totally AHH applicable.

Low: My margarita. Sufficiently alcoholic, but made with a weak mix and served in a parfait glass with table salt on the rim. I fared much better when I switched to a bottle of Modelo, garnished with a lime and a frosty beer mug.

High: Delicious, fresh chips. Subtle tomato-y salsa that was neither overly spicy or sweet.

Low: My boyfriend was late.

High: El Salto was very nice about letting a single occupy a corner booth during prime time, and apparently 6:30 to 7:30ish is prime time at El Salto, with the post-work crowd and young families having a night out and high schoolers on dates. (Good people watching? High schoolers on dates!) The crowd thinned out after 8.

Low: My boyfriend’s El Salto combo platter. Beef tips in sauce with rice and beans were pleasant but underseasoned. Granted, he’s not happy until food makes him sweat from spiciness. (I know, I know. Tardy AND sweaty? Step back ladies, he’s taken!) And I couldn’t sample it because of my Lenten vegetarianism to provide a normal person’s POV. The rice and the piping hot corn tortillas were good though.

High: My Vegetariana Quesedilla. A big quesedilla filled with cheese and deliciously spiced and char-grilled veggies. The VQ has a depth of flavor that so many vegetarian dishes lack. Very, very well done.

Low: El Salto doesn’t have a website, so I can’t link to it. But I went to the one at 5513 Richie Highway.

In conclusion, I wouldn’t go out of my way to visit El Salto, but if I found myself in the neighborhood post-Lent, I’d try the chicken chimichanga that the El Salto superfan in the next booth recommended as his personal favorite, and wash it down con mas Modelos. But it would be hard to pass on another VQ.

D is for the Diamondback Tavern

I agree heartily with the mission statement of the Diamondback Tavern:

“The Diamondback Tavern concept was built buy a group of local guys who were tired of there not being a place in Ellicott City, Columbia or Catonsville where you could sit back and drink, enjoy a good meal and watch the game without spending an arm and a leg.”

True dat, with the possible exception of G.L. Shack’s in Catonsville. I had high hopes for the Diamondback Tavern, located on Old Columbia Pike in Historic Ellicott City. It’s a charming space that seems to lure would-be bar owners away from the Main Street foot traffic, like sirens luring sailors to their deaths. There have been four incarnations of basically the same bar that I can remember, and none stick around for long. The Diamondback was competent but not spectacular, and history seems to indicate that’s not enough.

Entering the old stone building, I took a sharp right into the bar. It’s attractive and soothing, but the gestures towards sleek modernism fight with the rustic mill town feel of the structure and of Ellicott City itself. We hunkered down in one of the large booths and watched traffic and pedestrians go by on the sharp curve of road outside the big picture window. As our party trickled in, we perused the Maryland-inflected menu.

Lulu wanted fries with gravy; as a Lenten vegetarian, I nixed them in favor of edamame. It was the right choice. The steamed soybeans came with a healthy dusting of salt and pepper, while the fries that came with Genny’s Vegetarian Dream were lame. (Genny, a full-time vegetarian, can be tough to please with unimaginative veggie fare. But she assured me the open-faced portabella sandwich was, in fact, as dreamy as the name suggested.) The “crab dollop” was billed as “not your typical crab dip” but it is totally typical crab dip. Fortunately, typical crab dip is delicious. The crab and corn fritters were not. Too much fritter, not enough crab or tasty mustard sauce. Lulu’s vegetarian risotto was lovely and laced with an herb flavor none of us could name. I took a guess and asked the waiter if he knew what it was – lavender? – and he responded that it was butternut squash. Wha?

Despite the name and the “watch the game” part of the mission statement, there’s nothing particularly sporty about the Diamondback. Only two wooden turtles on the bar allude to the Maryland Terrapins. No turtle ice cream or Brenda Frisee Salad? Am I the only one who enjoys really hacky food puns? Yes? Oh.

Anyway, the name hints at a sports bar and the menu aspires to be a gastro pub. The Diamondback offer daily drink specials and live music that seem to encourage a young crowd, but the scene was really sedate. There’s a disconnect happening here, but things could fall into alignment if Diamondback endures and settles into a clearer identity.

Diamondback’s website doesn’t post its wine list, which is a huge oversight because that sucker is awesome. Or, perhaps more accurately, awesomely priced. I almost fainted out of my lovely window seat when I saw that a healthy handful of wines by the glass for $4 and $5, two bottles of wine priced at $16 and plenty more bottles in the $20-something range. It’s not something that will make your wine snob friends writhe with envy, but your wine snob friends are lame and far less fun than your cheap drunk friends. So call the cheap drunks, tell they to bring a $20, and you guys can go to town on some $16 wine and crab dip.

C is for Cinghiale

During the past few days, winter has been in its death throes, the last few gasps before spring is born. In these trying times, Cinghiale was a nice place to be. It began from the moment when the complimentary valet whisked my car away from the corner of Lancaster and Exeter as I sprinted through the cold air into the velvety embrace of the enoteca (an Italian word for wine bar, or something like that).

While Cinghale in the less formal sister of Very Important Restaurant Charleston, it is still quite elegant. The decor has much marble and mirrors and many metal table tops, but remains cozy and inviting. Guests facing the bar can contemplate the antique mirrors and dark shelves filled with bottles of vino; those facing the windows can take in the sight of the sun slipping down past the Inner Harbor skyline through the picture windows. Both options are lovely, as are many of the wines. Impecunious me and my friends visited on a Tuesday night, when all of Cinghiale’s bottles are half prince. Let me repeat: HALF PRICE. This meant we could drink twice as much, or according to one party’s calculations pay half as much, but that would have been far less fun.

I can’t really comment on the food — we ordered only  a Lilliputian cheese plate. Our very nice and informative waiter had a slight tendency to hover. It was as if he’d never seen a gaggle of women who wanted to yak over much wine and little food before.  The sommelier, a lovely young woman, found a nicer balance between attention and smothering. She also steered us towards a fine Bolgheri that was a smidge out of our price range but well worth it.

Both the space and the patrons were well-heeled, and more racially diverse than many spots I’ve seen around Baltimore. I would certainly return for Cinghiale, to curl up in one of the posh banquettes or at the elegant bar, and give the food a more thorough examination. Don’t let the oddly terrifying Web site with weird superhero waiters who shoot pasta out of the palms of their hands and wear trendy sneakers deter you. Cinghiale added an unexpected touch of warmth to my Tuesday evening.

11 Diet Sodas

As a testament to how thorough my last Lenten Promise failed, I give a rundown of one week’s sodas:

Diet Soda # 1 – Purchased at Bella Roma, the superior, but further away, take-out spot. Had to dodge Robert Poole kids having snowball fights at the bus stop to make to Bella Roma. (What’s with all the mean “Goddamn punk kids” looks, Hampden residents? Could kids possibly do something MORE wholesome than have a snowball fight?) Counter Guy immediately asks if I want a Greek salad. I quite often want a Greek salad but not today. Feel immense pleasure at having attained regular status at local eatery.

Diet Soda # 2 – Guzzled down at desk as displacement activity for editing item about a teenager who died in a car accident.

Diet Soda #3 – Sipping customary afternoon combo of soda and Lay’s Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffled Potato Chips. Have convinced myself that the texture of the sweet bubbles and the salty ridges of the chips are Pavlovian catalyst for my creative process. It’s like a really, really low-rent version of sparkling dessert wine and a fine English cheddar.

Diet Soda #4 – Once a month I crash through the door of Angelo’s (inferior but closer take-out spot) screaming, “GIVE ME A LARGE DIET SODA, CHEESEBURGER AND FRIES AND NO ONE GETS HURT.” They throw a styrofoam bucket of soda at me (My favorite way to drink soda – fountain soda in an Earth-killing cup with lots of ice) which I cling to and suck like an angry baby. A counter lady drops the fries at my table and I slather them with cheap, thin ketchup. By the time the burger itself arrives, I have begun to calm down, like the Hulk coming out of a rage.

Diet Soda #5 – Motherfucking phone company.

Diet Soda #6 – Drunk whilst watching Wife Swap in bathrobe and socks.

Diet Soda #7 – Drunk whilst housecleaning and eating bacon.

Diet Soda #8 – To stave off depression of forthcoming $320 physical therapy bill for ankle sprained during improv performance. (Fell off the stage; am gifted physical comedienne.)

Diet Soda #9 – Very exciting: first soda purchased from new machine in office break room. The soda is brash and young, much like a fine French vin de primeur with hints of oak and corn syrup.

Diet Soda #10 – In mall food court, panicking over possibility of having committed fraud at upscale retailer. I bought a coat on an online final sale for $99 but it was too big. When I returned it to the store, dissembling that I had no receipt, I was refunded the full price, $325. Thrilled at first-ever profitable mall visit; terrified of judgment of God and man. $225 would nearly offset my physical therapy bill, but Sister Catherine would be so disappointed in me.

Diet Soda #11 – Purchased to make it seem like I was not coming into the Royal Farms solely for the purpose of purchasing deodorant at 1pm. I was just thirsty, and stopped in for a drink, and then happened to notice that deodorant was for sale and casually asked the clerk to retrieve the item for me from the shelf behind the counter. If you’ve never noticed it, convenience stores keep the deodorant behind the counter along with cigarettes and meth-ingredient cold pills because it’s a commonly shoplifted item. Because even the homeless don’t like spending half a day with B.O., although I apparently can live with it.

My Lenten Promise

After a whopping 16 years of Catholic education, there are a few things that will never leave me. On the rare occasions I do go to Mass, my favorite part is still the Sign of Peace. (Everyone turns to his neighbors, shakes hands and says, “Peace be with you.” It is very friendly and personal and sweet.) I can still recite the Hail Mary in French. (Je vous salut Marie, pleine de grace.) And I always give up something for Lent.

As we learned from the charming and sensitive film 40 Days and 40 Nights, Lent is a 40-day fasting period beginning on Ash Wednesday and ending on Easter Sunday. (In elementary school, Ash Wednesday was the bomb — it takes a while for everyone to go through not only the Communion line but through the ash-getting line, which ate up a delightfully large portion of the school day. Plus, it was entertaining to see everyone, including teachers, with huge black smears on their foreheads, and convincing girls with bangs who’d inadvertantly wiped their ashes off that they’d pretty much punched a one-way ticket to hell by disrespecting God.) This fasting has popularly devolved into the practice of “giving something up for Lent.” Catholics forgoe an indulgence — be it a food or a hobby or a habit or sex with Shannyn Sossssamynnn– for the whole 40 days.

Some people donate the money they would have spent on the habit to a charity; others just use it as a reminder of the season. (Step 1. Reach for chocolate bar 2. Remember you gave up chocolate for Lent so it’s forbidden. 3. Curse softly to yourself. 4. Think about how He gave up His mortal LIFE for you and your sins, so maybe you can show some respect and lay off the Dove bars for a few weeks, OK?)

My Lenten sacrifice is always food. Last year it was my namesake, the mighty potato: no French fries, no chips, no home fries, and a surprising amount of soups. I did pretty well. The year I gave up soda was a disaster. Diet Pepsi, you are my dark, bubbly master. I literally betrayed Jesus for you. At least Judas got 30 pieces of silver.

This year, I’m kickin’ it pre-Vatican II style, and giving up meat. I am an enthusiastic carnivore, so this should be interesting. The next six (or so) AHH stops will have an emphasis on places that serve things that did not have parents. The forthcoming “C” restaurant has some mean vegetarian paninis, or so I hear.

C is for Clipper City

If you’re looking to entertain out-of-towners, the Saturday tours at Clipper City are a deal at $5. Drink, learn how beer is made, drink more. Support local businesses. Generate neutral topics of conversation for your visiting in-laws. Drink.

Clipper City official site

Note: Clipper City doesn’t count towards the official total, because I visited in 2008.