District of Pi Pizzeria

We first wrote about District of Pi last April when we tried the mobile version, Pi on Wheels.  We were impressed by the deep dish pizza from the truck and eagerly anticipating the opening of the restaurant in Penn Quarter.
 

We finally got around to trying the non-mobile version of Pi and were equally pleased.  We started the meal with an unhealthy, yet delicious, BLT salad featuring romaine, red onions, pepperoncini, crispy bacon, cherry tomatoes, parmesan cheese, and peppercorn ranch dressing.

Though Pi offers thin crust pizza, we came for the deep dish since it's not as easy to get in DC.  Pictured below is the small Kirkwood (mozzarella, meatballs, red peppers, basil).  We were impressed with how Pi manages to make a crisp deep dish crust without a hint of grease.  It's like a taste and texture hybrid of a pie crust, cracker, and cake. Like all respectable Chicago-style pies, the cheese is tucked underneath the layer of tomato sauce. The pizza didn't skimp on toppings (or underthings?) as there were large chunks of sausage and peppers throughout.
   

While we went old-school slumber party style and ordered pizza and soda, Pi has an impressive beer selection as well.  It would be a fun place to gather with a group.  You can even invite your really loud friend because the noise level in Pi is stadium-loud.

Second Thoughts from B

I remember fondly the days of Domino's Pizza, 2-liter bottles of Coke, and a brand new Nintendo system.  I'm talking about the old school 8-bit NES.  Duck Hunt, Legend of Zelda, Mike Tyson's Punchout, and of course, Super Mario Bros.  I'm sure other generations have equally fond memories of the early Atari games or the next generation of Nintendo that had controllers with so many buttons it looked like something from NASA.

Regardless, there's something child-like about pizza and soda.  Being the "kids" that we are, J and I occasionally crave the food that fueled all of those 11 year olds in sleeping bags who played video games until 3am (sorry to all those parents who endured sleepless nights - but seriously, what were you thinking when you agreed to host such a party?). 

District of Pi was able to recreate those happy memories.  Let me be clear, this is not to say their pizza is Domino's-like.  Rather, the energy in the room (it was filled with hoards of teenage tourists), along with the familiar and comforting flavors were exactly what we needed.  The brick walls and open spaces may have easily reminded me of Chicago but the deep dish pizza did not. It wasn't something that will make a city famous, inspire cookbooks, or cause culinary experts to fawn over.  It was, however, filled with happy memories, and on this night, that was exactly what the Dr. (Mario?) ordered.

El Rinconcito Cafe

We're on a mission to try every restaurant within a couple block radius of our house.  Our biggest fear is that there is a hole-in-the-wall gem right next door that we're overlooking.  With that mission in mind, we checked out El Rinconcito Cafe, a tiny Salvadorean-Mexican restaurant on 11th St NW.

The reviews I read online encouraged us to stick to the Salvadorean part of the menu and skip the Mexican food.  When we think Salvadorean food, we think pupusas, so we ordered a couple (one pork, one cheese).  They were served piping hot with a side of tangy cabbage slaw and we destroyed them in about 4 seconds.  A great ratio of tortilla to filling, these were among the best pupusas we've tried.

B ordered a Salvadorean shrimp and tomato dish that was approximately as hot as the surface of the sun.  I love spicy food and I was dying after one bite of this dish.  He embraced the heat (and gulped down the water) and loved every bite.  Somehow, the searing heat didn't overwhelm the flavor.  Our waitress warned him that it was spicy, and she was right!  If you're not a heat seeker, you can ask them to tone it way down on the spice level.

Yelpers raved about the carne deshilada with egg and they were spot on.  This classic Salvadorean comfort food dish features shredded flank steak tossed with a fried egg.  It was paired with a generous side of avocado, rice, beans, and cheese.  Nothing fancy, just simple ingredients done really well.

 

If you want to get your Salvadorean fix without leaving Downtown, head over to El Rinconcito.  Be warned that the restaurant is tiny (maybe 20 seats total) and the food is cooked to order (which is a nice way of saying it takes forever).

Second Thoughts from B

You know the old Warner Bros. cartoons that go for the cheap laugh by torturing their antagonists?  Anvils falling on toes, characters flattened by speeding trains, and of course, spicy food that makes tongues and eyes shoot out of heads, you know the drill.

That's how hot my shrimp was.  The spice grew in intensity as beads of sweet immediately formed on my forehead.  Handmade tortillas and buttery rice provided only mild relief.  It was painful....

But... painful in a good way.  I am not a fan of burning my face off for the satisfaction of saying I was able to endure it.  Rather, spice should add another element to a dish to provide balance. I appreciated the pain because it married well with the familiar flavors of Central America. It made me mindful of the creaminess of the rice, the sweetness of the tomatoes and shrimp, and the tart acidity of the slaw, not to mention the warmth of our waitress who seemed genuinely entertained/pleased that someone was enjoying this dish.

So while I might have looked like Wile E. Coyote after Bugs had swapped a hot dog for a stick of dynamite, I was grinning from ear to ear with every bite.

The Jam Cellar - Swing Dance Lessons

You're probably thinking "Swing dance lessons? What is this, 1997?"  Yes, it's been a few years since the swing craze swept the nation, but swing is alive and well every Tuesday night in DC.  B learned to swing dance in LA at the height of swingmania and, at every wedding we go to, he tries to swing me around the floor while I cling on for dear life hoping the song will end quickly. 

When it came time to write my 30 Before 30 list, I decided to add "take a beginner's swing dance lesson" so that I can keep up with my fancy footed husband.  Some quick Googling led me to The Jam Cellar, an every Tuesday swing dancing event in a gorgeously restored 18th century  mansion overlooking Meridian Hill Park.

The Jam Cellar offers a free lesson every Tuesday night at 8:30 p.m.  If you want to stay for the main event, a DJ-led dance at 9:00 p.m., it will only set you back $6.  If you really want to get into the swing of things, you can sign up for a 4-week set of lessons for $50 (includes dance admission).

Of all the things on my 30 list, I was perhaps most nervous about this swing dance lesson.  Sure, I fly through the air on the trapeze without fear, but I get really nervous about partner dancing.

The lesson was taught by Andy, who immediately put me at ease with his easy-to-follow explanations and carefree attitude.  Right when I was feeling pretty good, Andy announced that we'd be partnering up.  No problem, I thought.  I can dance terribly with B and it won't be so bad.  After a quick spin with B, Andy announced we would be switching partners. Wait, what!?  Apparently this is standard partner dancing lesson protocol, but I'm glad I didn't know about it before the lesson.  I probably never would have gone in.  Luckily, the other partners were great sports (and about as new at this as I was), and we had fun fumbling our way through the steps until it resembled something like dancing.  Each time I took a turn with Andy, I just grabbed on tightly and let him swing me around a lot.  I think once or twice I even put my feet in the right place!

Our 30 minute lesson turned into an 60 minute lesson as Andy taught us variations on the basic steps.  Not bad for a free class!  By the end, I felt confident enough to head upstairs to the big kids' dance and fumble my way through a couple of songs. 

Every time that I'm totally freaked out by something and force myself to try it, I end up glad that I did it.  The same is true for dancing at The Jam Cellar.  The atmosphere was welcoming and the price was right.  I may never be ready for primetime, but you may find me on Tuesday nights at The Jam Cellar, stepping on B's toes in the corner of the room.

Second Thoughts from B

To be perfectly clear, J's tongue is firmly planted in her cheek when she referred to me as her "fancy footed husband."  While I'm not completely oafish, I'm far from comfortable on a dance floor.  Rhythm, much less impromptu movement that some would call dancing, doesn't come naturally to me.  Perhaps that is why I like swing dancing.  I know just enough to feel comfortable, and as long as I follow the script, I'm passable.

There was a window of time when swing dancing and the related culture was cool.  The movies Swingers and Swing Kids coincided with popular music inspired by 1930's big band.  Zoot suits, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, and the Brian Setzer Orchestra were regularly found at parties.  And during all of this, any guy willing to learn a few basic steps would have no shortage of attractive girls asking him to go dancing every Friday night.  I was in college at this time, and needless to say, I went to my fair share of bars, clubs, and rec halls that were cashing in on the swing dancing fad.  However, by the time I met J, the national fascination in swing had faded, and my one advantage on the dance floor was lost.

Much to my surprise and delight, J added swing lessons on her 30 before 30 list.  Immediately, I had visions of grandeur.  Like Jon Favreau's Mikey, I'd shock everyone with my slick moves and sweep J (playing the part of a young Heather Graham with ease) off her feet.  I was sadly mistaken.

Within the first minute of our lesson I knew I was in trouble as our instructor taught us a completely different version of swing as the one I knew in my previous life.  Now I found myself stepping on toes, counting out loud to stay on beat (with minimal success), and apologizing to everyone who had the misfortune of being partnered with me.

But we muddled through with our supportive instructor and more than a few gracious dancing partners.  At the end of the night, we left this beautiful dance space with our egos mostly intact and a new hobby to cultivate together.  Not bad for a Tuesday night.

Belga Cafe

When you live in sniffing distance of your favorite mussels and beer in town (Brasserie Beck), it's hard to get enthused about other Belgian restaurants. However, we've been to Belga Cafe probably 5 times and have left happy every time.

Belga is smaller and homier than Beck and, in our experience, has warmer service. It has a great cluster of patio tables for watching the action on Barracks Row, and boasts a beer menu nearly as thick as Beck's.

Oddly enough, at both Beck and Belga, I've had a waiter/waitress offer, unprompted, to give me the glass my beer was served in. So now I've got three Belgian beer glasses and a Beck cloth napkin at home, and I did not steal (or even ask for) a single one of them.

In our admittedly limited view of Belgian fare, the true test of a menu is the mussels and frites (which reliably photographs poorly, so we didn't even try). We've written about the bivalves at Beck, Granville Moore's, and Mussel Bar (and have been enthusiastically encouraged to go to Mannequin Pi's in Olney, but still have not mustered the motivation to drive that far).

Belga's mussels are really good, but we've got an issue with the way they are served. Instead of putting the mussels in a wide, shallow pot or pan, Belga piles them high in a deep, narrow bowl. This means that the broth (my favorite part) is buried beneath a Jenga-tower of mussels, keeping me from dipping bread into it until I've eaten so many mussels that I'm too full for bread. Since I really only order mussels so that I can eat the frites and dunk my bread in the broth, Belga's serving strategy is not my favorite.

While I won't turn down a chance to eat at Belga, and we've been happy with the non-mussel dishes we've tried, I don't think Beck and Dr. Granville Moore are in danger of losing their top tier status in my book.

Second Thoughts From B

I don't know that I've ever walked out of the house with the intention of eating at Belga Cafe. That we've ended up there as many times as we have must be more than a coincidence. I can think of 3 restaurants in the DC Metro area that serve mussels that I prefer to Belga's. So why is it that whenever I'm on Barracks Row my first instinct is to swing by Belga?

I honestly don't know the answer. Frankly, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But something does draw me there. Is it the friendly atmosphere that seems to encourage a leisurely meal rather than a mere pit stop for refueling? Is it the sophistication of a proper European-style cafe? Or is it the result of several happy memories with good food and better friends? It is a mystery.

As a scientist, it isn't in my nature to be satisfied with the unexplained. I feel like I have to be able to logically break down what it is about Belga Cafe that makes me want to keep coming back. Chalking it up to chance, voodoo, or Jedi mind tricks just doesn't satisfy me... but clearly, something about this little Belgian cafe on Capitol Hill does satisfy me, and for now, that will have to be enough.