El Pollo Rico

You can't drive very far in the Arlington, Virginia area without running into a restaurant serving pollo a la brasa, a.k.a. Peruvian chicken. As many times as we've seen the signs, we'd never made it into a restaurant to check out the chicken hype. Opportunity struck last week as we played the "where should we eat?" game with visiting family and someone suggested Peruvian food. 388 mostly positive Yelp reviews led us to a packed parking lot in Arlington to try El Pollo Rico.

El Pollo Rico is a no-frills cavernous room featuring several rotisseries for roasting the famous birds. It's a good thing they have so many rotisseries because people come in and order chicken like it was going out of style. The ladies in front of me ordered six chickens to go. The staff keeps the line moving quickly and before we knew it, we were carrying our trays to a table in the dining area.

The menu is short and keeps the focus on the chicken. Chicken comes with a choice of two sides (rice, beans, tortillas, french fries, or coleslaw). The rice is standard steamed rice, which is helped in the flavor department by a generous dash of their green hot sauce. The fries and coleslaw were nothing to get excited about. The chicken, however, was juicy and flavorful and worth a return visit.

I can see El Pollo Rico being a great stop before a picnic or as an easy meal for a group. A whole chicken (with 2 sides) will only set you back $14 so you can feed a lot of hungry mouths on the cheap. Our group of 4 ordered one and a half chickens and it was almost more than we could handle.

Second Thoughts from B

On a dark and stormy night, four intrepid souls ventured outside the city gates in search of sustenance. Their journey of peril and heroic perseverance led them to an oasis of exotic and worldly cuisine of the highest order. In their moment of triumph, the victors sang hymns of exaltation to the heavens to celebrate their good fortune.

OK, back to reality. We found a chicken joint in Arlington and in the words of Miley Cyrus (or at least what I know of her from SNL), it was pretty cool.

I just don't know how excited I can get about chicken. It was good but as a staple of home cooking, I'll never associate it was fine dining or something that I crave. Still, as a reliable and irreplaceable part of my diet, I'm happy to have stumbled across another good option. And I guess that is what El Pollo Rico is... another good option. File it under the "cheap, fast, and in the area" category. (That's CFITA for you government folks)

Noodles on 11

It's no secret that I love noodles. I've also mentioned my quest to try every restaurant within a several block radius of our house. So, when a noodle shop opened up near our house, I couldn't wait to get there.

You might recognize this as the old Sushi Aoi space. The owners closed neighboring Mazu, moved Sushi Aoi into the Mazu space, and opened Noodles on 11 in Sushi Aoi's old locale. The sushi bar is still there but now you can sit and slurp noodles instead of nigiri.

Since I'm an equal opportunity noodle lover, I had a really hard time settling on what to order. After bouncing around the menu (and the Asian continent) from pho to tom yum to Hong Kong style noodles, I decided on the Suki (Thai-style sukiyaki with shrimp, beef, chicken, and egg in a house special sriracha sauce with bean cellophane noodles). At first sniff, I knew the broth was going to be packed with flavor and the taste matched the smell. However, for a dish that lists so many ingredients, it just felt kind of sparse. I'd prefer to have them pick one protein and give me more of it than have a single shrimp, a few pieces of chicken, and no identifiable beef. The noodles, made in house, were pleasantly soft but either B ate most of them when I gave him a few bites or they didn't put too many in the bowl. At $11.95 (lunch price) and with a bowl the size of Pete Carroll's ego, I just expected more oomph.

B, following the suggestion of the framed article on the wall and hoping to recreate the quacktastic magic of Mark's Duck House, ordered the Hong Kong style noodles with roast duck. Don't worry Mark, you're safe at the top of the duck heap. The duck had a nice flavor but was on the tough side. The noodles were a big, stuck-together clump. Maybe the addition of some sauce would've softened things up and made it easier to eat? When your bite didn't include a piece of duck, you were left with a glump of sticky noodles. I know glump isn't even a word but it's the best way to describe these noodles.

Somebody please tell me that we just didn't order the right things. I can't bear the thought of having a noodle shop so close to my house that leaves me feeling so...glumpy.


Second Thoughts from B

In the government we seldom call things outright "failures." Instead, we focus on the "challenges" or "obstacles," but my favorite piece of governmentese is "missed opportunity." Noodles on 11 was the ultimate missed opportunity. As J described, everything was there for us to have a new local favorite but when you're paying $10+ for a noodle dish that needs better noodles, this is not a business model we can get behind.

To expand on the vocabulary lesson, let's go a little deeper into J's "glump." For those of you who were once teenage boys, there are two type of noodles: the ones you eat by the pound and the ones you throw at your buddies because they'll stick to their face. Glumpy noodles are the latter.
I'm tempted in this space to tell a story about a certain member of my family being confused about how to cook noodles, but I'll spare this kitchen-limited loved one. However, I will say that there was anxiety over how much water should be boiled and for how long. Now, if I was served a glump of noodles from this unnamed family member, I'd probably give them a pass. But when you're paying for a dried-out sticky mess from a place with noodles in the name, that's a missed opportunity. Some would even call it a failure.

Mussel Bar

Sometimes we do silly things to save money. We live next to Brasserie Beck and love their mussels and frites. So when Robert Wiedmaier opened the more casual Mussel Bar in Bethesda, we were intrigued but couldn't see a reason to schlep out to Bethesda to try the food we can get about 50 paces from our door. However, when an offer for a 50% off Groupon hit my inbox, I took it as a sign that we needed to go to Bethesda.

Mussel Bar is like Brasserie Beck's younger, tattooed, rocker brother. The servers wear t-shirts, they don't take reservations, and they blast different concert DVDs during dinner service. We were treated to U2's 360 tour. If you don't want a side of Bono (or similar rock icon) with your mussels, it's probably better to come during lunch.

On a Friday evening, I metroed up to Bethesda to meet B after work. I knew we'd be in for a wait but I still was a bit taken aback by the 1 hour and 20 minute prediction. Who says people aren't eating out in this economy?

We found some chairs near the bar and waited while sipping on a beer from Mussel Bar's impressive collection. After about an hour and 10 minutes, we were directed to our table beneath Bono and The Edge.

We started off the meal with a salad listed on the daily specials chalkboard. The citrus salad with romaine, orange, and grapefruit supremes sounded light and refreshing. Unfortunately, the salad was a little lighter than we'd anticipated as it was brought to the table completely undressed. After several bites of tasting nothing but watery romaine with fruit, we asked the waiter for some dressing. The dressing helped but I wouldn't go running to Bethesda for this salad.

At an emphatic suggestion (or three) from our waiter, we tried the mushroom Belgian pizza with wild mushrooms, gruyere, bacon, arugula, and "essence of truffle" (Does that mean it is channeling the wisdom of the wise truffle king?) So many times flatbreads resemble packing material, but Mussel Bar has figured out how to make them pleasantly chewy with a crackly crust. The flavors were bold and it was a creamy contrast to the spicy mussel dish that was to come.

We were anxious to see how the mussels at Mussel Bar would stack up to our favorites at Beck. Though served in the same pan and presented with the same flourish (as the waiter removes the glass lid and allows the delicious-smelling steam to escape), we found the mussels here to be more plump and more flavorful than their cousins at Beck. Sticking to the daily specials, we tried the grilled shrimp mussels with cilantro, scallions, and a spicy tomato fondue. The broth was rich and packed a punch without being overwhelming. As promised by the waiter, the cilantro flavor was subtle and did not overpower the dish the way that that silly soapy weed can. Our only complaint about the dish? There were three measly shrimp! Three! This reminds me of a classic nursery rhyme:

Three grilled shrimp. Three grilled shrimp

See them in there? See them in there?

You better savor each bite carefully,
Because there aren't enough for your tummy,
For $16 we'd expect a few more,
Than three grilled shrimp.

Kidding aside, we were impressed by the complexity of flavors in the mussels and, as always, I swooned over the frites.

So was it worth it to trek to Bethesda and wait over an hour for food very similar to what's served in our hood? Yes, because we loved the mussels and, more importantly, because we had a coupon! Would we go again without a coupon? Perhaps, if we happened to be in Bethesda. In the meantime, I think we'll stick to the older, more buttoned up brother Mr. Brasserie Beck. He takes reservations.

Second Thoughts from B

I don't know how much reader overlap there is between our little local blog that mostly talks about food and ESPN, but I'll give this analogy a shot anyway. ESPN's most read columnist, Bill Simmons, a.k.a. the Sports Guy, has a theory about NBA players. To put it simply, as long as you excel at one thing - be it defense, outside shooting, rebounding, waving a towel and cheering for your teammates, etc. - there is a place for you in the NBA. Teams will overlook holes in all other aspects of your game so long as you are outstanding at that one thing.

And that leads me from muscles to Mussel Bar. You see, the wait was long, the room was loud (which would have been a problem if I didn't love U2), the salad was undressed, the pizza was good but rather generic (which makes it forgettable in my book), and the shrimp were mostly missing. But the thing I'll remember is the plump, tender, and juicy mussels.

As with all of the different mussel preparations at Brasserie Beck (and we've tried them all), the spicy tomato fondue was wonderfully bold and complex. But at Mussel Bar, the mussels were not just a vehicle by which we would enjoy the sauce. Simply put, they surpassed Beck on my personal best ever list, and despite any other flaws, that alone will make me want to come back.

Banana Leaves

Well this is a first...and hopefully a last. After intending to try Banana Leaves for months, we finally made it there for dinner on Saturday night. Only hours after we left, tragedy struck in the form of a defective water heater and Banana Leaves burned. Thankfully, the restaurant had closed for the night and nobody was hurt, but I feel very saddened by the destruction that the owners are faced with. Here's our take on Banana Leaves in hopes that it will rise from the ashes.

Riding high following a dramatic regular season college basketball finale, we wandered north of Dupont Circle to Banana Leaves. We were joined by Budak, loyal dining companion and official co-tester of whatever generic pan-Asian place we covet. After sipping on a respectable pomegranate lemonade, we kicked the party off with a trio of appetizers.

While the edamame and seaweed salad were solid, the Roti Canai (Malaysian-Indian pancakes with spicy potato curry sauce) were high-five worthy. B, after drinking the rest of the potato curry (which was meant for dipping, not slurping like a soup), said he could order 18 of these and call it a night. It was a ridiculously good combination of textures and flavors. The super soft and doughy roti pancake made the perfect vehicle for the spicy curry. Before the fire, we were making plans for a return trip to Banana Leaves just to order this dish. I think I'll be dreaming of it every day until they come back. If they don't reopen, I'm tracking down the chef for the recipe. Budak didn't share our love for the dish but that's because he ate 255 straight Indian meals while studying abroad, and curry still makes him shake in his boots. This is the same guy who thought Wok and Roll was a good idea, so take his opinion with a grain of salt.

After the Roti Canai, I knew I'd be let down by my main course but I was pleasantly surprised by the honey peanut noodles that had a fun coconutty sweetness with just the right amount of heat.

B's Banana Leaves rice was more confusing than anything else. The plate combined sweet and sour fried shrimp, curry chicken, an egg, and coconut rice in a banana leaf. Since the plate was flat, you couldn't really mix things together without them falling off. Even if you could, the flavors of the shrimp and chicken didn't match. Anyone know how to eat this dish?

I truly hope Banana Leaves will rise up phoenix-style and bring that Roti Canai back to Dupont's hungry masses.

Second Thoughts From B

It is hard not to mask my heartache following the fire by making inappropriate puns using descriptions like "hot" or "on fire" to describe Banana Leaves. It is also hard to write this post without it turning into an obituary. I think I've succeeded on one account and failed on the other.

Those in mourning often turn to the phrase, "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." But where does that leave those of us who had just discovered their new love?

Is "love" too strong a word this early in our relationship? Yeah, probably. The reality is that I loved the Roti Canai, liked the pomegranate lemonade, and was confused by my sampler plate entree. Would I be using the word "love" without the fire? Probably not, but like all of those who left us too early, our feelings are sweetened by nostalgia. So let me say so long to my latest lost love with a tender ode.

Has anybody here, seen my old friends at Banana Leaves -
Can you tell me where they've gone?
They fed a lot of people,
But it seems the good, they die young
I just looked around and they're gone.