Former City Paper reporter Dave Jamieson and I pulled up a chair last week at Levi’s Port Cafe and practically ordered the left side of the menu, everything from a slab of ribs to Carolina-style barbecue pork to fried catfish to mac and cheese. It was our first visit, and we wanted to sample widely. The meal was part of my ongoing quest to find decent Carolina ‘cue in the area. More on that later.

But as I was paying the bill at the counter, another apparent first-timer walked in and introduced himself to the cashier. “Hi, I’m Marion Barry,” he told her and held out his hand. He said he had heard about the soul food and barbecue outlet. By the time I paid up and started to walk out, Barry had settled in at a table by the window, and plates were starting to pile up around him.

Barry’s glad-handing struck me less as politicking than as a ploy for a free meal. But not so, says Johnny Kersey, owner and chef at Levi’s. “Everybody pays that comes in,” he says, otherwise he’d go out of business fast. “If the president comes in, he has to pay.”

But Kersey did say that he’s known Barry for awhile, though he couldn’t remember if the councilmember had ever visited his place before last week’s meal.

Near the end of my meal at Station 9, the slick new restaurant carved out of the old post office building on U Street NW, I felt something stabbing my ass. I lifted my right cheek and found this uncomfortable hunk of metal lying there on the booth seat. I had no idea how it got there, but it was the perfect symbol for my dinner.

I got screwed.

Even though the menu here reads like some corporate-approved list that you’d find at Ruby Tuesday or Chili’s, my wife, a friend, and I were determined to remain open-minded about the fare. We figured the proof was in the execution, not in the description, of the dishes. (Our generosity of spirit was harder than you might think, given that one appetizer was described as “Mo’ Rockin’ Beef Rolls.”)

My friend ordered “Big Bob’s Bass,” a head-on specimen whose skin was supposed to be cooked ’til “crispy” but was closer to the dry, weather-beaten texture of a Midwestern corn farmer’s face after a long, hot summer. The fish was chewy and tasted like…nothing. I ordered the barbecued spareribs almost as a dare. I really didn’t expect Carolina- or Memphis-quality pork ribs. But I also didn’t expect a plate of dehydrated bones with the sauce dried hard onto the meat like plaster. The kitchen’s attempt to hide its mistake under a fresh application of sauce was noble, but a failure just the same. They were, without a doubt, the worst ribs I’ve ever eaten in my life.

Only my wife’s sweet, meaty pan-seared scallops saved the dinner for complete disaster, but it still wasn’t enough for us to wonder what the hell Tom Sietsema was thinking. When you get screwed this bad—the bass was $21, my ribs were $19—you want others to feel your pain, too.

This week’s question comes from Kelly Cresap of Silver Spring who wants to know:

“I got a headache recently after having a salad with fried spinach and grilled chicken at a restaurant in Silver Spring. The headache is consistent with ones I’ve gotten from meals prepared with non-organic oils. Do you know which restaurants use organic oils? Or would it be easier for me to avoid foods that require oil in preparation?”

I’ve been putting off this question for weeks now, for mostly for one reason: Where the hell do I begin? Call all the restaurants in the area and ask if they use organic oils? Mix it up with allergists who’ll tell me I’m an idiot for trying to address someone’s potential food reactions without a better understanding of what’s causing the problem?

My first call was to Nora Pouillon, the godmother of organic in D.C. Pouillon’s place, Restaurant Nora, is certified organic, which means that 95 percent of everything that her kitchen produces is organic, including her cooking and salad oils. “I don’t think that anybody [else] uses organic oil because it’s much too expensive,” Pouillon says. “I get it delivered in 500 kilogram drums…because that’s the only way I can afford it. If you buy it in any smaller quantity, it’s prohibitive. I think most people just use regular oil.”

Pouillon has never heard of anyone experiencing headaches from non-organic oils, but she didn’t rule out the possibility. Corn oils, after all, may be processed from genetically modified corn, and some lower-quality olive oils use chemicals to extract the last drop of liquid. But she also wondered if the culprit may be something other than oils. She wondered if flavor-enhancers such as MSG, a common ingredient in restaurant cooking, might be causing the headaches.

I put Kelly’s question to a pair of doctors as well, one of whom didn’t want his name used. Dr. Victoria Goldsten, a doctor of naturopathy, has heard of people being allergic to “specific oils but not so much non-organic, because each oil, their structure is a little different.” Still, she believes “there’s probably some form of chemical in the [oil-making] process that [Kelly's] reacting to.”

The publicity-shy allergist was more blunt. He thought Kelly’s question was “almost impossible to answer” without testing. He suggested that Kelly take the potentially offending meal to a board-certified allergist, who can break it down and create a series of skin tests from its component parts, including the oils. He said there are a “million reasons” for someone to get a headache, but that “food allergies per se are not really at the top of the list.”

The bad news is that if you’re indeed allergic to non-organic oils—or maybe even just highly intolerant to them—your only solution will be to avoid restaurants, since most seem to prefer non-organic oils. As the good doc said, “There’s no treatment for food allergies other than avoidance.”

The drink: Mongolian Motherfucker

The location: The Red & The Black, 1212 H Street NE, (202) 399-3201.

The price: Whatever the bartender decides.

The buzz: My closest friends in D.C. are a sextet collectively known as the Shitheads. We adopted the nickname after our habit of behaving badly in public, the pinnacle of which occurred when one of us (name withheld to protect the not-so-innocent) loudly mocked a blind man for knocking over a jug of olive oil and then not cleaning it up. (Disclaimer: The Shithead in question didn’t know the man was blind at the time, though he still believes blind people can be assholes.) I say all this as background for the Shitheads’ recent visit to The Red & The Black. We already had a martini in us when we arrived. I badgered the bartender, Jason, to make us his signature cocktail. He hemmed and hawed, asked what we like, and then confessed that he makes a bad-ass “Mongolian motherfucker,” which he said included 12 different ingredients. It sounded ridiculous, really, sort of the mixologist’s version of the Hollywood mad scientist’s potion. I almost expected the drink to bubble and smoke when it arrived. Jason graciously outlined all the ingredients of the Mongo Mofo. You might want to hit the toilet first before reading the next sentence; it’ll take awhile to finish. The drink includes sloe gin, melon liqueur, peach schnapps, triple sec, black raspberry liqueur, amaretto, citrus liqueur, coconut rum, dark rum, spiced rum, light rum, Southern Comfort, rail tequila, grenadine, and orange juice. I got the sense Jason was making this shit up as he went along. The real beauty of the Mongo Mofo is watching Jason pour it. He tilts a stack of small rocks glasses—or are they large shot glasses?—so that each has an opening just large enough to pour the rust-colored liquid into them. (See pic above.) I swear Jason must have the steadiest hand in town. We followed the barkeep’s orders and downed the drink in a single gulp. I was surprised that it didn’t taste like jenkem. Instead, it tasted like you were drinking Hawaiian Punch with a fresh wad of Bazooka bubble gum in your mouth. The Shitheads were pleased. So pleased we ordered another. Then one of the Shitheads of the female persuasion suggested that the Lady Shitheads needed to thank Jason with a kiss, which they did. (Frankly, one of them seemed to be heading toward lower parts of Jason’s body.) We broke out the camera and took endless pictures. We started to talk loudly. We even made my wife’s sister an honorary Shithead. Yep, if there’s a house drink at Chez Shithead, it’s the Mongolian motherfucker.

The dish: Oyster stew

The location: Franklins Restaurant, Brewery, and General Store, 5121 Baltimore Ave. Hyattsville, (301) 927-2740.

The price: $11

The skinny: Franklins is my kind of neighborhood joint. Housed in a historic corrugated-metal building in Hyattsville that once served as the community’s hardware store, Franklins maintains the spirit of the former occupant. I mean, the thing I love about hardware stores, particularly the old community ones that smell like machine-cut nails and fertilizer, is their insanely byzantine nature. You can turn down any aisle in a hardware store and find some ridiculous home or garden gadget that you never knew you needed. The menu at Franklins is much the same, stuffed with the strangest assortment of items, from wood-fired pizzas and burgers to satays, curried chicken and knockwurst. On my latest visit, I ordered the oyster stew appetizer. I typically prefer my bivalves straight-up—no lemon juice, horseradish or mignonette for me. (Seriously, would you add a squeeze of lemon to a Pinot, which, like an oyster, is a pure expression of its terroir?) But I digress. The oyster stew was far better than I ever expected it to be, yet another sign of how serious Franklins’ takes its task of feeding its many friends and neighbors. Okay, sure, the pale-yellow bowl sprinkled with a confetti of parsley shouts “festive” in shrill tones, but the stew itself speaks a more harmonious language. The oysters, poached in champagne, hold all their original brininess, which is perfectly complemented by the creamy soup spiked with fennel, Pernod, and generous amounts of pepper. The bacon-crumble garnish gives the dish extra depth and crunch. As I alternate between the stew and my “Rubber Chicken Red Ale,” a heady, house-made brew with this sweet rumlike flavor, I can’t help but think that Franklins understands what it means to be a gracious neighbor, not just a neighborhood restaurant.

Those of you who couldn’t wait for the New York Times to hit the publish button last night—and you know who you are—have already dissected this piece like a lab specimen. But for you non-obsessives, here’s critic Frank Bruni’s review of Fiamma, the sort-of Italian, sort-of not restaurant that lured away former Maestro toque (and Beard Award winner) Fabio Trabocchi.

Before Trabocchi split for the Big Apple, he earned four stars from both the Washington Post and the Washingtonian. In Bruni’s estimation, the chef rates no better than three. Is this a case of D.C. critics being too easy or the Times being too hard? Or perhaps New Yorkers just can’t hand out four stars to newcomers, particularly those from the District. Discuss.

I just finished reading Phoebe Damrosch’s memoir, Service Included, about her time as a captain at Per Se in New York City. I have just one thing to say: Phoebe Damrosch, you’re no Ruth Reichl.

Damrosch doesn’t have the necessary skills—the writing chops, yes, but apparently not the discomforting honesty nor the ability to think beyond pithy anecdotes—to make me care about her personal relationships the way Reichl did in her memoirs. Besides, she no doubt got the book deal to dish dirt on Per Se, its famous chef, and its even more famous clientele. C’mon, Damrosch: more dishing, less romancing.

With that said, Damrosch does offer up a “diner’s bill of rights” that strikes me as far more reasonable than the one that the Los Angeles Times recently coughed up like a half-digested corn dog. Besides, as a waiter at one of the best restaurants in the country, Damrosch has a far better idea of what are really “rights” and what are just prissy little desires from overly pampered diners who want to create a caste system in every high-end dining room.

Below is Damrosch’s “diner’s bill of rights.” (Incidentally, her list reads much more like a bill of rights than the Times‘ meandering, repetitive, sometimes even ungrammatical list. I mean, a “right” to “Eating with the rest of your party”?)

1. The right to have your reservation honored
2. The right to water
3. The right to the food you ordered at the temperature the chef intended
4. The right to a clean, working bathroom
5. The right to clean flatware, glassware, china, linen, tables, and napkins
6. The right to enough light to read your menu
7. The right to hear your dining companions when they speak
8. The right to be served until the restaurant’s advertised closing time
9. The right to stay at your table as long as you like
10. The right to salt and pepper

My wife’s family eats Thanksgiving dinner late. This year we didn’t start feasting until after 8 p.m., which is just fine by me. I’ve never been a fan of the four-o’clock stuffing, which leaves you hungry right before bedtime. And we all know that eating before bed is not good for digestion.

But dining late on Thanksgiving forces you to eat a regular lunch, and since Carrie—known as the Ballbuster or the old Ball and Chain in my macho household—and I didn’t want to invest any more time in the kitchen, we searched for an open restaurant in downtown Silver Spring. It wasn’t easy. We feared we might be stuck unwrapping cold sandwiches at Starbucks.

Then we noticed, to our dismay really, that Pho Hiep Hoa was serving. We had been avoiding the place for the same reason every other pretentious asshole does—no one trusts a Vietnamese pho shop in a commercial, white-bread strip center crammed with a Potbelly Sandwich Works, a Red Lobster, and a place that dares to call itself Eggspectation. Perhaps the Thanksgiving spirit—or extreme hunger—had softened my critical faculties, but I was quite happy with my pho. My fragrant bowl of eye-round, flank steak, brisket, tendon, and tripe went down extremely well, even if the noodle-to-protein ratio was about 5 to 1 in favor of the noodles. Then again, with pho, half the battle is waged tableside, where the quality of your soup is determined by a wise application of jalapenos, Thai basil, fish sauce, Sriracha sauce, and other condiments. I’ve learned how I like mine.

The real surprise at Pho Hiep Hoa proved to be the beverage menu, which includes milk shakes. I almost ordered the durian shake, but then chickened out. Instead, I got the avocado version, which sounded equally disgusting. The pale green liquid in the milkshake glass looked like lime sherbet, but it tasted like cream, sugar and…the unmistakable flavor of avocado. Truth be told, the avocado’s unctuousness was pretty muted, tamped down by all the milk and sugar. The shake played off the vegetable’s creaminess as much as its flavors. I have to admit, I really liked the drink, even when I sucked chunks of improperly mashed avocados through the straw.

I have such a love/hate relationship with turkey. Sure, I love the tradition of gathering around the turkey dinner and giving thanks with family, but basically I find the meat to be a gamy and oversized protein carrier for things that have better flavor, like stuffing and gravy. If it weren’t for brining and dry-salting, I’m not sure I’d ever eat turkey. And don’t even try to feed me one of those leftover sandwiches stuffed with dry, cottony turkey slices whose only saving grace is a generous application of mayo and cranberry sauce.

Leave it to Mark Bittman, the Minimalist for the New York Times, to offer up a simple, no fuss recipe to better deal with turkey leftovers. It’s a barley ‘risotto’ with turkey and mushrooms, and it will be part of my eating plans this weekend.

How about you? What do you do with leftover turkey?

This week’s question comes from Washington City Paper news reporter Ruth Samuelson, who wants to know:

“I, like many other people, have family coming into town this week for Thanksgiving. We want to have a decent meal on Saturday night, but I’m having trouble coming up with a local restaurant that will, presumably, meet everyone’s approval. Mostly spicy cuisines are probably out, as well as highfalutin foodie joints with unrecognizable dishes. The budget is $25 to $35 per person, including drinks and possibly shareable appetizers or dessert. And, ideally, the restaurant wouldn’t be extremely loud.”

Maybe you’d like President Bush to stop by your table, too, with Dick Cheney in minstrel outfit frolicking in the background and playing “Hail to the Chief” on pan flute? What you’re asking for, Ruth, is a tall order, particularly because, as you said in a separate note, “the idea is definitely to impress” the family a bit. In D.C.’s ever-expensive restaurant climate, $35 doesn’t go very far, particularly if that price must include tax and tip. For example, I recently had lunch—lunch, mind you—at Brasserie Beck and it ran $38.50, without tip. My meal? One beer ($9), one brioche appetizer ($9), and one bowl of mussels ($17).

I’ve been combing through my recent receipts and checking various sources, trying to find some good, not-too-expensive restaurants that might impress your kin without being too noisy or too spicy. The list is not long, and it may require some sacrifices on your family’s part. You definitely won’t be able to have pre-dinner drinks or cocktails, which will likely add between $5 and $15 per person to the check. Nor will you be able to have more than two courses each. You may even have to split a bottle of cheap wine to keep your liquor costs down.

With those caveats, I’d suggest the following restaurants, both for the (general) quality of their food and for offering an environment, a vibe, or an experience that you won’t find elsewhere. In no particular order, I’d take the family to Oyamel (many of the antojitos at José Andrés’ downtown operation are not spicy, but just make sure to go early; it can get noisy later in the evening); Hank’s Oyster Bar (either the Dupont Circle or Old Town location), Rustico in Alexandria (try one of the Bites & Beer appetizers); Colorado Kitchen in Brightwood Park (you may have to share an app, since the entrees are often in the $20 range); Palena Café in Cleveland Park (the roast chicken and truffled cheeseburger are among the best in town, but go early, ‘cause it’s first come, first served in the front of the house); Dr. Granville Moore’s (the hip new moules et frites joint on H Street NE could cross your noise threshold, particularly if the jukebox is blaring); Old Ebbitt Grill in downtown (the powerbroker ambience and oysters alone make Ebbitt worth a trip); Comet Ping Pong on Connecticut Avenue NW (no ordinary pizzeria, this joint serves up uniquely handcrafted New Haven-style pies in a cool, industrial playground); Central Michel Richard on Pennsylvania Avenue NW (no lobster burger for you!); and, finally, if your family is a little adventurous, I’d suggest the Saturday dim sum at Hollywood East Café on the Boulevard (it may be the cheapest best meal in the area).

Ruth, I hope you and your family have a great Thanksgiving, regardless of where you choose to eat in the days after the feast.

Ricky Moore was working as chef at Agraria when a producer called and asked if he’d like to compete on the Next Iron Chef program. He had no idea why they called him, but he was, of course, interested. Next thing Moore knows, a producer calls back and says, in effect, that the he’s been dropped from consideration—but would he like to be a challenger on Iron Chef America instead?

Which is how Moore ended up competing against Michael Symon—the Cleveland toque who ultimately won the Next Iron Chef contest—as part of Iron Chef America’s “Battle Thanksgiving” on Sunday.

For Moore, however, the surrealism didn’t stop there. The chef watched Sunday night’s show—in which he wore his Agraria whites in gleaming Kitchen Stadium—from the lounge at Indebleu, where Moore was hired last week to replace Vikram Garg. And the hastily pulled together viewing party only came together after Indebleu’s chief of communications, Mark Gundersen, learned about the upcoming Iron Chef episode—by Googling for it late last week.

But the weirdest thing may have been the outcome. The three judges practically drooled over Moore’s Thanksgiving dishes, which the chef says were “inspired by family.” Author and Vogue columnist Jeffrey Steingarten called Moore’s pumpkin soup with bacon and shiitake ragout “the most perfect pumpkin soup I’ve ever had.” Alexandra Guarnaschelli, executive chef at Butter in New York, called Moore’s bacon-wrapped venison “truly delicious,” while Steingarten deemed it “perfectly cooked.” And Guarnaschelli noted that Moore’s sweet-potato streusel with maple-pecan ice cream started its “seduction process with the aroma.”

To which someone at Indebleu screamed: “Seduce her, baby!”

The only negative comment centered on Moore’s deep fried turkey, which one of the judges apparently said tasted like shoe leather. I don’t know if that was true, though. I couldn’t hear the comment. It was too noisy at that moment in Indebleu.

The bottom line, it seemed to me, was that Symon was going down—in his very first competition as an Iron Chef. No doubt my opinion was colored not only by the judges’ comments but also by my indigestion of Moore’s nibbles at Indebleu, including his awesomely savory giblets samosa and his triangles of salty-sweet apricot naan.

Then the Chairman Mark Dacascos announced the winner: Symon, 51-43, which is practically a landslide. Someone shouted to Moore, “You were robbed!” I couldn’t agree more.

The Dish: The avocado, nori, and scallion sandwich

The Location: Le Pain Quotidien, 2815 M Street NW, (202) 315-5420

The Price: $8.95

The Skinny: Le Pain Quotidien is an international chain of casual bakeries and cafes that specialize in fresh bread. Pain was originally launched about 17 years ago in Brussels by chef Alain Coumont who, according to company legend, “spent several years perfecting the taste, and so little by little the unmistakable taste of the original daily bread (’le pain quotidien’) was created.” Yeah, that’s fascinating, but not as fascinating as this: How using the French spelling of “the daily bread” obliterates any overt Christian interpretation, even if the long communal tables inside the new Georgetown location suggest that you should “break bread” together. A friend and I did exactly that over a recent lunch–and we didn’t even pray first. We instead took a leap of faith on a pair of sandwiches, she the chicken curry and me the avocado with nori seaweed and scallions. I was delighted when the waiter brought out our plates. My sandwich looked more like a salad, or even a tea sandwich on steroids; single slices of house-made wheat bread were buried under crescent moons of avocado, diced tomatoes, various lettuces, ringlets of scallion, toasted sesame seeds, and lots and lots of tiny slivers of nori. The final grace note were two triangles of dried nori standing in the middle of the plate, like bat wings in mid-flap. The sandwich looked too pretty to eat. When I did bite into the concoction, I was surprised at how bland all those ingredients turned out to be. Or maybe I should say how subtle they were. The creaminess of the avocado tended to dominate the nuttiness of the sesame seeds, the mineral flavor of the nori, and the…well, the abolute nothingness of the out-of-season tomatoes. This was one of those occasions when I was glad there was salt on the table. A few shakes, and everything was fine. The magic of sodium chloride enhanced and combined the flavors. Who knows, maybe it was a miracle?

The New Oxford American Dictionary announced this week that “locavore” is its 2007 Word of the Year. I have just one question: Shouldn’t the winning word actually have a foothold in reality? I mean, shouldn’t you be able to point to someone and say, “That person is a locavore”?

I’m telling you right now: No one is a locavore, not even those forward-thinking women from California who reportedly coined the term. At best, people can be semi-locavores, but not full locavores.

Don’t believe me? Well, let’s say you had scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee this morning for breakfast. In fact, let’s say you bought the coffee from a local roaster and the bread and eggs from a nearby farmers’ market, which is fantastic. I’m right there with you. But where did the wheat for the flour come from? I almost guarantee it wasn’t from around here. Those coffee beans definitely weren’t grown locally, and the salt and pepper for your eggs? They were produced far from here.

Used as term to signify the overall movement toward local/seasonal/sustainable eating, locavore is great. I’m behind it all the way. But used as a term to identify someone as a locavore, the word is deceptive, even perhaps alienating, much like “carnivore” is alienating to non-meat eaters.

What’s more, the word underscores a hulking contradiction about our eating and dining habits. While some folks crave local foodstuffs—both to help the environment and to improve their health—other foodies are demanding authenticity from the ever-increasing number of ethnic and fusion restaurants in the area. You want real Peruvian? You need the peppers and potatoes grown in Peru. You want authentic Szechwan? You need those numbing peppercorns from China. Hell, even Philly cheesesteak fans get bent out of shape unless the bread is trucked from the Amoroso Baking Co. in the City of Brotherly Love.

Locavore is a terrific idea, but I think for the movement to succeed, it needs to be realistic about its limitations. Let people keep their coffee, and see if they don’t embrace the idea.

This week’s question comes from Stephanie Mencimer of the District who wants to know:

“How much should we worry about getting food poisoning from buttercream frosting made with raw eggs? I took a class on cake decorating…at L’Academie de Cuisine and the instructor told us that the risk was low but also that all the sugar in the icing would inhibit the growth of bacteria. I find this hard to believe. What do you think?”

That’s a great question, and I’d say that even if you weren’t married to Erik Wemple.

According to the American Egg Board, which of course has a vested interest in the discussion, “Scientists estimate that, on average across the U.S., only 1 of every 20,000 eggs might contain the [Salmonella enteritidis or Se] bacteria. So, the likelihood that an egg might contain Se is extremely small—0.005% (five one-thousandths of one percent). At this rate, if you’re an average consumer, you might encounter a contaminated egg once every 84 years.”

Christine Bruhn, director of the Center for Consumer Research at the University of California, Davis, tends to agree with the Egg Board on those stats. But she notes that eggs can also become contaminated from sources far away from the farm—like from your hands (particularly if you separate the yolk from the whites using your dirty, filthy digits) or even from your refrigerator. Bruhn once did a study on how often people wash their fridge, including those little eggs slots on the door. “Most people acknowledged that they just wiped up a spill and they didn’t actually wash the refrigerator very often at all, once a year maybe,” she says.

The problem is, a little bacterium goes a long way. It doesn’t take much to make a person ill, particularly if you’re very young or very old, pregnant or have a compromised immune system. What’s more, bacteria tend to multiply like rabbits jacked up on Viagra, alcohol, and porn. The Egg Board claims that, “If not properly handled, Salmonella bacteria can double every 20 minutes and a single bacterium can multiply into more than a million in 6 hours.”

Sugar, believe it or not, acts as a sort of condom in this bacterial reproduction business. Those sweet crystals tie up the water that bacteria need to multiply. “Sugar is linking, chemically linking, to that water and…keeping it away from the bacteria,” Bruhn says.

Still, Bruhn notes, sugar (like Trojans) are not exactly fail-safe when it comes to prohibiting reproduction. A recipe, she says, needs to be about 80-85 percent sugar to inhibit bacteria growth, and even that won’t guarantee a 100 percent safe frosting, since there may be bacteria already “sitting there alive, just waiting to get you when you eat the product.”

The potential bacteria contamination of buttercream icing is almost impossible to determine, Bruhn says. “It could possibly [have] a high level of sugar that the bacteria would not grow, but it depends on how the person makes it…how moist the cake is, how long it has been sitting around, how hot the room, those various factors.”

In the end, though, the risk of Salmonella poisoning is pretty low, Bruhn admits, unless you’re a member of an at-risk groups. But Bruhn, for one, doesn’t like to take chances. “I would advise those people who are risk-adverse and love the people they cook for just to buy those little cartons of [pasteurized] eggs,” she says. “They can always use the egg white in other dishes like omelets or other cooked dishes later on if they don’t use it all for the frosting.”

Hungry? Curious? Experiencing violent mood swings? Send your most intimate questions about dining or anything else to asktim@washcp.com, and a real-live food critic will answer them!

The drink: Bourbonesque

The location: Westend Bistro by Eric Ripert, 1190 22nd St. NW, (202) 974-4900.

The price: $12

The buzz: D.C. has never struck me as a town that hosts coked-up, see-and-be-seen, Gotham-style glamour events where hookers compete with barkeeps for a gentleman’s wallet. We do state dinners and spittle-spraying marches on the mall. But events that mandate slinky new cocktail dresses and wad of fresh Benjamins? Not really. That said, Thursday’s opening of Westend Bistro by Eric Ripert felt like an event, not that I noticed many hookers among the sea of humanity bobbing around the Ritz-Carlton (though maybe a few scenester whores). Ripert, New York’s darling of stove and small screen, was there, inspecting dishes in the kitchen and walking purposefully through the dining room, a graying pontiff in chef whites. When I arrived around 8 p.m., the place was booked solid for the entire evening; not even some late-night two top by the toilet was available. My only hope for food was a seat at the bar. I satisfied myself with a drink from the cocktail menu, which includes such concoctions as “Eric’s Primo Margarita” and the “Ripert Favorite” (Jose Cuervo Reposado with pomegranate and tangerine). I wasn’t about to suck on any Ripert-branded drinks—isn’t that like virtual sex?—no matter how many awards he’s won. Instead, I ordered the “Bourbonesque,” mostly because it seemed like such an odd mixture of winter and summer seasons. Served in a frosted martini glass, the drink combines Maker’s Mark with crushed ice, muddled strawberries, and maple syrup. It seems like the kind of syrup Dean Martin would pour over his pancakes after a night out with the Rat Pack, sweet but with a marked bourbon burn. The cocktail’s dandy for a few sips but gets boring fast. Yet I keep slurping on it, drawn to its continual sugar rush, not unlike that bowl of chocolates you can’t keep your hands off during the holidays. I have higher hopes for Ripert’s food, whenever I get to try it.