Alien gourds

Oddly shaped squash for sale at a city market in Montreal, Quebec. 

Doctor's Associates, or: How I Reconciled My Dislike of Jared with My Love of Subway

I grew up in the neo-socialist community of Columbia, Md. Founded in the mid-1960s by real-estate-mogul-with-a-conscience James Rouse, the unincorporated Central Maryland town was envisioned as a racially and socially blended Lake Wobegon. A supposedly perfect place where children could wander the woody paths while their progressive parents tended houses on acorn-strewn streets named for poems and literary characters. It was Stepford gone liberal and erudite.

Rouse divided the city into villages, each with its own village center. Each house within a village was theoretically within walking distance of the village center, where residents could shop for groceries, grab a bite to eat at one or two of the tiny local restaurants, or gather at the town hall to discuss who had incurred the wrath of the village's feared Architectural Committee by painting his shed fuchsia.

I lived in the village of Harper's Choice in the neighborhood of Longfellow on Eliot's Oak Road, the only street not named for something out of "Hiawatha" or "The Wreck of the Hesperus." When we were old enough, my brother and I were permitted to walk the bucolic half-mile path from our townhouse to the village center for lunch. With the $20 bill our mother had given us, (she expected at least $10 change from the excursion), we could buy congealing slices of New York-style pizza at Columbo's, a painfully unadorned ham sandwich with throat-scratching Fritos at the Red Caboose (their saving grace was excellent rainbow sherbet), or salad from the rapidly rotting items on the SuperThrift salad bar. To a suburban 9-year-old, the act of purchasing food himself is more important than the quality of the food that he is purchasing.

In the mid-1980s, Subway opened one of its first Maryland franchises in my village center. Owned and operated by a young Korean family that had recently come to the United States, the Subway was at once a local sandwich shop where you might meet up with a classmate after school and a purveyor of consistently fresh and tasty sandwiches. Not long after Subway arrived, the now useless Red Caboose gave way to a Chinese restaurant and Columbo's yielded to local chain Jerry's Subs and Pizza.

I marveled at the limitless concoctions I could buy at this new Subway for less than my $5 allotment -- a footlong tuna salad sandwich, an Italian B.M.T., a meatball sub, or a Cro-Magnon steak-and-cheese hoagie. And for my toppings, I could choose from standard lettuce and tomato to then-more outrageous green peppers, olives, and hot peppers -- a far cry from the lettuce-tomato-onion-pickle prison of the Roy Rogers "Fixin's Bar." With a 25-cent bag of Utz barbecue potato chips on the side, I was stuffed for cheap.

It was at this Subway that I learned what went into classic sandwich combinations. It was also at this Subway that I learned fast food isn't necessarily a heart attack in every bite. When a McDonald's planted itself across from the new Chinese restaurant, the old Subway's sales took a hit. When a shiny, new Subway opened in the nearby Hickory Ridge village center (the Mondoburger to the original's Good Burger), the old Subway started to take on water. And when the town remodeled the village center and left the old Subway invisible from the street, the old Subway sank.

By the time the old Subway closed, I had a driver's license and could high-tail it over to the new Subway in Hickory Ridge for lunch. And I must admit that the food was fresher than at the old Subway and the service more efficient. A Mark McGwire-lookalike named Dylan ran the place. He had smartly assigned one "Sandwich Artist" to pulling the bread from the oven and cutting it open, the next to meats and cheeses, the next to toppings, and the last one -- usually himself -- to wrapping the sandwiches and manning the register. The new Subway was visible from the street and boasted a steady supply of customers from the nearby high school and the burgeoning neighborhood. They offered footlong sandwiches for $2.99 on Tuesdays, guaranteeing a line out the door at lunchtime at least once a week.

During my four years in college at the University of Pennsylvania, I very easily could have gone through Subway withdrawal. I lived on campus, and the closest Subways were on the Drexel University campus and at 30th Street Station -- fairly short walks from Penn, but crossing the Market Street barrier to the north seemed like going to another country. More important, Philadelphia is the quintessential sandwich town. Why go to Subway when you can easily get a stellar hoagie from the local Lee's Hoagie House or Wawa? Only to break the monotony of an embarrassment of riches. I would only eat at Subway when I returned home for breaks -- and then exclusively at the Hickory Ridge subway, the paragon of efficiency and quality.

Just after I graduated from college, Subway introduced "Jared" as its spokesman. The chain was growing rapidly and repositioning itself as a healthy alternative to the Burger Kings and McDonald's of the world. It had seized upon as its new spokesman Jared Fogle -- an Indiana University student who lost 245 pounds off his 435-pound frame by eating a spartan diet comprised only of Subway sandwiches. All of a sudden, Jared was everywhere. He waved his old oversized pants like a bullfighter's cape in front of charging dieters who desperately wanted a quick fix.

Who couldn't admire this newly svelte, Nietzschean ubermensch who had conquered his weight problem by using institutions to his advantage? Me and the majority of Americans. Whereas it was hard not to perceive his initial appearances as borderline inspirational, his ubiquitousness and holier-than-thou attitude made me wish that he would cover himself with those big pants -- a living, breathing version of a Cristo sculpture.

The introduction of Jared was a harbinger of Subway's impending corporatization. The longstanding practice of cutting the top out of the submarine-shaped loaf of bread gave way to slicing the bread through the middle. Quality and efficiency sometimes fell by the wayside as it became easier to land a Subway franchise. Subways franchises became more consistent in their offerings (just try to find barbecue chicken or sprouts nowadays). New baked breads left a scent on your clothes when you left.

I valued those Subway franchises that retained some measure of independence or quirkiness in an environment pushing toward the uniform. When I began law school in Philadelphia, my access to a Subway became extremely easy. I lived downtown, and I often grabbed dinner at the Subway inside the Sunoco gas station at 22nd and Walnut streets. A tongue-less woman named "Santa" made Philadelphia-inspired behemoth subs on which you could get hot and sweet peppers; like a true Philadelphian, she counseled against mayonnaise in favor of oil and vinegar. Off Route 95 in Christiana, Del., an aged Subway franchisee held tight to her old ways and cut the top portion out of the bread. And back in Columbia, the Hickory Ridge Subway made the best of its corporate trappings.

Not surprising considering the chain's proliferation, I have visited unequivocally bad Subways across the country, including several in Washington that are way too stingy with their frequent-buyer stamps. But what keeps me coming back to the chain is the knowledge that I can nearly always get a sandwich with a high cost-to-quality ratio. I can get a sandwich that I can modify according to what I want that day. And wherever I am, I can get a sandwich that reminds me of proudly trekking to the village center with my brother, my mom's $20 bill in hand.

Yellow in blue

The Hawaiian kids make flavored snow cones at Matsumoto Shave Ice on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii.

Grocery list

This weekend in Quebec City, I chanced upon the oldest grocery store in North America, J.A. Moisan. The quality of its produce, prepared foods, and imported goods inspired me to list the top five grocery stores I've ever been to -- an act that would undoubtedly do Rob Gordon proud. Here in Washington, it's nearly impossible to shop at a single grocery store if you want quality ingredients at fair prices. And don't talk to me about Wegmans. Sure, it's got everything truffles to peanuts, but the variety simply isn't worth confronting the throngs of people or driving out to Chantilly. No one wants to drive in Northern Virginia. But the places below come close to doing it all.

1. Ralphs Marketplace, Santa Barbara, California and various locations throughout California. Combining a high cost-to-quality ratio with virtually everything you could ever want, Ralphs Marketplace is the best. The fruits and vegetables are stellar and reasonably priced, the meats are fresh and varied, and the place is open 24 hours a day. The standard of Ralphs is what chain grocery stores should strive to reach.

2. Albertsons, Morro Bay, California. Owing to its Central Coast location, the Albertsons in Morro Bay not only carries fantastic quality produce and meats (including tri-tip) at fair prices, but its wine selection is one of the best in the state -- and thus in the country.

3. Lazy Acres, Santa Barbara, California. I have never seen a better produce and wine sections than the ones at Lazy Acres. Plus, it carries Straus Family Creamery butter, which I have already confessed I could eat by the stick. My only problem with the place is that you can't by a bottle of Coke there. Why is it that the fancy organic places deny us simple comforts?

4. J.A. Moisan, Quebec City, Quebec. Although Moisan is small, the prepared foods are excellent, and the import selection superb. Want lavender syrup and fresh leeks in January? It's OK!

5. Reading Terminal Market, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. So, it's not a grocery store per se. But the old market pulls together wonderful meats, vegetables, and personalities under one huge roof. Obscure cheeses, quality hoagies, and Mennonites, oh my! It would be higher on the list, but you can't buy wines there -- and, no, Blue Mountain Vineyards doesn't count.

Honorable mentions
Trader Joe's, all locations that sell wine. Nobody doesn't like Charles Shaw.
Publix, Florida's wonderful supermarket chain.
Whole Foods (high quality, but simply too expensive for daily use).
Shoppers Food Warehouse, Alexandria, Virginia. Very high cost-to-quality ratio and an extremely complete international food section. Plus, I once saw the Iraqi president shopping there.

Conch-ed out

A plate of conch fritters at Alabama Jack's on remote Card Sound Road in Key Largo, Florida.

Restaurant Week: By the numbers

Last week ended the latest installment of Restaurant Week here in Washington. Restaurant Week comes twice a year, and it's a time when you can eat a three-course meal at many of Washington's best restaurants at lunch for only $20.05 and at dinner for $30.05. Because I left for my vacation halfway through the Week, I had no choice but to cram the experience into the two nights at the front end.

Although the prices often represent a significant deal when you consider that a dinner entree alone often costs $30 around here, the downside to Restaurant Week is that a product quality/service drop may accompany the price drop. With restaurants pulling in less cash per four-top, they may tend to rush through service to maximize turnover. And with less frequent diners showing up at restaurants to take advantage of the lower costs, the restaurants may not feel the need to pull out all the stops.

Consider the two restaurants that I hit. The first stop was 1789, a Washington institution that has been around for more than 60 years. With its prime spot near Georgetown University, 1789 has a constantly renewing client base of visiting parents wishing to take their student-scholars out for a fancy dinner, not to mention foodies who show up for the creative grub. The service at 1789 was leisurely and relaxed -- and the quality of the food outstanding. I started with the pumpkin ravioli smothered in chanterelles, continued with the venison and lentils, and ended with an apple Charlotte. My girlfriend started with the French onion soup, continued with the restaurant's signature rack of lamb (for a $10 supplement -- a Restaurant Week trick used by many restaurants, including Vidalia, to cover, and maximize costs), and ended with the white chocolate creme brulee. There was no indication that the service/food quality had fallen along with the prices. Indeed, the 1789 brass seemed to recognize that Restaurant Week is a chance for restaurants to attract new customers with a special deal to get them in the door.

The second stop in my Restaurant Week tour was Butterfield 9. Butterfield 9 is a new American restaurant that is always solid, but never creatively great. I started with the shallot soup with sliced duck confit, a bit oily but otherwise richly sweet. The next course was a lightly breaded cod with sauteed greens. Again, a bit oily, but otherwise not terribly flaky or dry. The dessert was an outstanding Mexican chocolate cake that hovered between pastry and mousse. For 30 bucks, not too shabby. The problem? From the outset, it was clear that it was Butterfield 9 management's lone objective to run through as many customers as possible -- and thus to rack in as much cash as possible on a night when the big spenders don't come out to play. The entree came out right on the heels of the soup, allowing the absolute minimum time for digestion. The server almost literally threw the dishes down on the table, picking them up as soon as it appeared that anyone was getting close to finishing. And as we finished our port with dessert, the maitre d' twice asked us if we needed anything else -- translation: get the hell out so that we can use your table again.

If I pay $30 for a complete meal -- even if it's less than the usual price tag, I don't want gruff, hurried service. If a restaurant signs on to do Restaurant Week, not only should it live up to the standard to which it should aspire on a regular night, it should go above and beyond -- to reel in those folks who dine out less.

I won't return to Butterfield 9. But if I have some cash to burn, I'll certainly go back to 1789.

Sugar bombs

A display of "gaufres," or waffles, at a bakery in Brussels, Belgium.

Jersey stir-fry

In a little more than three days, my girlfriend and I are skipping town for vacation. The one problem is that we ran low on food several days ago. Because of our recent busy schedules, neither of us had time to go to the grocery store (or, as my Philadelphia-based friend Buster says, "go food shopping") when it actually mattered. Much like the two-man crew on the International Space Station, we've had to subsist mostly on takeout from Moby Dick House of Kabob -- and make use of whatever odds and ends are lying around in the refrigerator and cupboards.

Before I leave town for an extended trip, I have but one grocery-oriented goal: use up whatever perishables are in the house. According to my friend Bob, a meal made from throwing together such eclectic items is called a "Jersey stir-fry." Similar to the concoctions that my classmates and I made in first grade from weird lunch foods in the school cafeteria, a Jersey stir-fry may contain anything and everything. The lone difference is that a Jersey stir-fry can and should be consumed in the absence of small-scale gambling, dares, and promises of "10 cartons of milk to wash down the hot sauce if you eat it." Jersey stir-fries are not limited to pre-vacation times; they may be eaten during busy periods when grocery-shopping is impossible; before moving (so as to get rid of perishable foods that you can't take with you); or for fun -- as when Kramer wanted to find out how far he could drive on gas fumes.

The origins of the term "Jersey stir-fry" date back to the Hundred Years War. In 1468, a Chinese adventurer named Jiang Lao approached King Edward IV in London with a proposition: he would help the king to take back the English Channel island of Jersey from the French in exchange for four acres of coastal land on the island for use as a small farm. Recognizing the strategic importance of Jersey in his ongoing battles with the French and the relatively low cost to the kingdom of ceding a measly four acres, the king agreed. He generously outfitted Jiang with a rowboat, a shield, and two weeks' worth of dried mutton and leeks. Jiang soon arrived on Jersey, but found it heavily guarded by French forces. He hid in a rocky crevice while he planned his next move. Unable to make headway after two weeks, Jiang used up all his provisions but one dried leek. The situation was dire. He netted a fish from the Channel and picked some wild dill growing near a northwest-facing beach. Starving, he built a fire and fashioned a makeshift pan from his shield. Jiang, a top chef back in China, expertly fileted the fish and stir-fried it with his dill and leek. The wonderful scent brought the French troops out of their camps, whereupon they discovered the heretofore hidden Jiang. Impressed by his culinary ingenuity with random ingredients, the French troops surrendered their weapons to Jiang, who immediately took Jersey for Edward IV and England. The Jersey stir-fry was born.

That was a big lie. The Jersey stir-fry actually derives from the same New Jersey-based line of humor that created the term "Newark tuxedo" to refer to a sleeveless undershirt -- or a "wifebeater," to use the parlance of our times. The comedic theory is that New Jersey is a trashy place whose citizens may view trashy things as luxurious. Bob himself is from New Jersey, so I don't feel too bad. Yesterday, I made a Jersey stir-fry consisting of couscous, cream of mushroom soup, diced fennel, and diced carrots. Today, I made two Jersey stir-fries: 1) a chicken salad sandwich using my emergency can of diced chicken, a spoonful of mayonnaise, Old Bay, and diced fennel (hey, I bought two bulbs on a whim last week, OK?); and 2) chocolate cookie malt frozen yogurt from soon-to-go-bad vanilla yogurt, Whoppers chocolate malt syrup I picked up in Hershey, and ground Moravian double chocolate cookies. Together, these "trashy" things were nothing short of phenomenal.

It's a lot like that old Food Network show Door-Knock Dinners, where famous chefs show up with Gordon Elliott at a random house and try to whip up a gourmet meal from whatever's in the kitchen. Often, the best meals are generated out of necessity. With virtually nothing in the cupboard, the world is my mock oyster.

Le vert et le brun

It's not a novel by Stendhal; it's a basket of fiddleheads and a basket of morel mushrooms at the fabulous Granville Island Public Market in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Ten sticks of butter

When I lived in Santa Barbara, I wandered the aisles of the 24-hour Ralphs supermarket for relaxation. I would do this at 2 in the morning, when my only aislemates were UCSB students hunting for Corona, bread distributors restocking the shelves, and the Dude drinking half and half out of the carton. I found contentment in picking over pluots and persimmons (fuyu, not hachiya) in the middle of the night.

The District of Columbia has no such luxuries. Sure, there's the 24-hour CVS in the Ritz-Carlton. It does the job in a pinch, but it's really just a pretender to the throne. Faced with the loss of the heroin that was Ralphs, I've turned to the methodone of Great Chefs of the World -- which, thanks to the miracle of TiVo, I can watch at 2 in the morning if I so choose. When I hear Joe Byrd's bass kicking off the theme song followed by the rest of the Charlie Byrd Trio playing over images of people skiing in the Alps or lounging on Elbow Beach in Bermuda, I'm lulled into a pleasant vegetative state that may or may not include drooling.

Like a meal, the show is divided into three parts -- the appetizer, the entree, and the dessert. Typically, each course comes from a chef who works in a different region of the world. The Charlie Byrd Trio's music plays only during the beginning and end of each segment -- never while the chef is preparing the dish. Indeed, while the chef prepares and cooks, the only background noises are the humming of a nearby walk-in refrigerator or the Wolfe-ian fwalops of the wisk working through eggs, sugar, and milk.

Many of the featured chefs do not speak English, which means that they describe the cooking process or the recipe in their native tongues -- typically German (for the pastry chefs, who are nearly always Austrian), French, or Italian. This also means that the show must enlist a narrator to explain in English precisely what's happening.

The narrator is Mary Ann Conroy, a native of New Orleans whose soft Southern accent doubles as Calgon. Great Chefs does not feature "light" or "low-fat" dishes. We're talking real-deal, heart-attack-in-every-bite, classically prepared dishes that contain butter. Or, as Ms. Conroy calls it, "buddah." And not just a pat of butter. Two sticks of butter. Five sticks of butter. Ten sticks of butter. Yes, it's glorious. I could watch episode upon episode, not only for the bountiful skills and ideas, but for Ms. Conroy to roll another "Chef then adds two sticks a'buddah" off her tongue.

Sometimes, ten sticks of butter isn't nearly enough.

A surefire New Year's hangover cure

At Nevada's In-N-Out Burger flagship store at Industrial and Tropicana in Las Vegas, a Double-Double and "well done" fries await a scarf-down.