As Joe Englert and I take a taxi (he rarely drives because he thinks it's cheaper to take cabs, once you figure in parking tickets in D.C.) to Enology, the wine bar he co-owns with Adam Manson, I ask the businessman if this indeed has been an average day for him. After all, by my reckoning, here's his day (at least the parts I witnessed):

• Eat breakfast with sons, Henry and Alex
• Call a taxi and take Alex to school
• Play tennis with buddy Matt Weiss
• Sign a few documents in his office
• Play bubble hockey with me
• Share some rum shots
• Eat lunch and crack jokes at Argonaut
• Pick out china and flatware for the H Street Country Club
• Drink a small glass of black muscat at Enology
• Make phone calls

Yep, Englert says, this is pretty much an average day, though he's quick to remind me that he did get some documents notarized at the National Capital Bank of Washington, where he traded jabs with Vice President John Gordon, who wanted to know when Englert moved to D.C. It was 1984, Englert remembered, right after he gorged on Big Macs in Los Angeles when McDonald's was giving them away for every U.S. gold medal won during the Olympics. "That explains a lot," Gordon says dryly.

But Englert says that sometimes he goes from place to place, checking on the Internet jukeboxes at his bars and restaurants. He wants to make sure that some evil music hasn't been automatically downloaded onto the machines. "You can show up one day, and George Michael is on the jukebox," Englert says. "It's just not good for your place."

Joe Englert keeps teasing me about a blog item I wrote, calling for a moratorium on stories about the H Street Country Club until the place actually opens. Englert thinks that I secretly believe the indoor miniature golf/Tex-Mex joint will never open. As if to prove me wrong, we stop by the construction site so that Englert can help select china, drinking glasses, and flatware.

It takes all of three minutes to make the choices. The rest of the time is spent cruising the three-story (including roof) structure that will, no doubt, once it's finally built and open, become the hottest goddamn ticket on H Street NE. (See sketches below of some of the proposed holes.) Part of its appeal will be the Tex-Mex menu, conceived by Ann Cashion and executed by former Cashion's cook, Pablo Cardoso, who just happens to be on hand at the Country Club to explain both the sit-down menu and the bar menu. There will be, Cardoso says, lobster tostadas, homemade tamales, Mexican slaw with chicharones, lamb shank enchiladas, snapper Veracruz, gorditos, and a dessert pineapple chimichanga with Mexican vanilla ice cream.

The joint will also serve a decent line of Mexican beers, which will be available even on the 18-hole miniature golf course (nine holes on one level, another nine on the roof). Englert plans to have a putt-putt version of a beer cart, delivering cold ones to parched putters on the course.

Later, after we cross H Street NE and step inside the office that's overseeing beautification projects in the neighborhood, I ask Englert if he's not worried that construction will do to his businesses what construction did to those on P Street NW—almost ruin them. He brushes off the question and says there's already a shuttle bus that operates along H Street and that many patrons don't drive over, but take the Metro to Union Station. The operators here, he adds, have learned the sad lessons of P Street NW.

In other words, I'm just being a pain in the ass again.

All outward appearances to the contrary, Joe Englert is not some overgrown man-child. He's a pretty serious-minded businessman, of which I was reminded when we took a taxi cab to his second office just off H Street NE. While in the cab, we had an in-depth discussion about the politics (and cash) required to get a business up and running in the District. Believe me, Englert sheds any pretense to silliness when discussing permitting issues.

Englert's success in the bar and restaurant business, it seems, merely allows him to behave as he wants. Sometimes he plays the role of middle-aged game boy; other times, he takes on the persona of a college senior perpetually looking for the next party. Englert admits that he likes hanging out with young adults in their early 20s as well as seniors, those who have a good eight decades under their belts. Everyone else seems a bore to him, just more workaday drones with no sense of humor and no willingness to drink at noon.

Which brings me back to Englert's H Street office, which was once a plumbing supply store. The space is actually more than an office. It's also the living quarters of Englert's nephew, Travis Englert, who has a very cool one-room apartment upstairs.  The first floor looks more conventional by contrast: big leather chairs and sofa, a desk, a wall of books.

But as Englert is showing me around, he pops open a bookshelf, haunted castle-style, to reveal a secret speakeasy behind the wall. There, inside, is a battered old bar. Several bottles of liquor sit on the shelves. A cooler is stocked with beer. This, says Englert, is where he conducts business when on H Street NE.

Then he insists that we have a shot. He pulls down a bottle of dark rum from Guatemala and pours a finger for me and his two construction workers/drinking buds, Steve and Josh. He pours three fingers for himself. The rum goes down sweet and smooth. It's only around noon, and I already have a slight buzz.

This, I think, is the price for hanging around Joe Englert.

When Joe Englert goes to work, he doesn't drive to some sterile office building in Arlington. After a game of tennis with friend Matt Weiss, Englert is chauffeured to work in Weiss' black Lexus. His office? It's a converted garage on Capitol Hill, where Englert's modest desk takes up a tiny fraction of the space. The rest is filled with pinball machines, Pittsburgh memorabilia (Englert's hometown), a TV lounge, a diner booth, a collection of random signs and souvenirs, a Ping-Pong table, and a bubble hockey game.

Englert does seem to perform work while in the office. He reviews extremely detailed variance reports from his various properties, trying to figure out if there's some suspiciously missing liquor. He also signs a few documents handed to him by his long-suffering assistant, Cheryl Webb, who plays the disapproving mother role to Englert's perpetual adolescent. Webb even hands Englert the latest paperwork from the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board, which has approved licenses for three new ventures: Joe's Coal & Ice House (a barbecue joint on H Street NE), Vendetta (an Italian restaurant on H Street  NE), and an unnamed po' boy shop on Capitol Hill.

I press Englert about the po' boy joint, since I haven't heard about it before. He won't say much other than to note that it will include the services of Dr. Granville Moore's chef Teddy Folkman and a well-known local chef. I try to guess the chef. I guess right, but he won't let me print the name.

Did I mention that Englert likes to play games? He swears he's a very good table-tennis player and that, given the right opponent, he can even turn it into a work-out. But while I'm there, he challenges me to a game of bubble hockey. It takes me awhile to master the handles and knobs, which allows Englert to jump to a quick 3-1 lead. But I score again, and Englert taunts me that I need to make another soon to force overtime. I'm resigned to losing—until I flip my wrist and, much to my surprise, I score again to tie the score at 3.

Just seconds into overtime, however, Englert smacks one by my goalie. He whoops as if he just won the Stanley Cup.

He's better known for his ability to keep the District's twentysomethings entertained and well-lubricated, whether at the Capitol Lounge or at one of his playpens on H Street NE. But Joe Englert's preferred form of fun includes a morning tennis match, often against his sometime business partner and Lounge 201 owner Matt Weiss (both picture here in an extremely crappy shot).

Weiss is the superior player. He has a killer serve. He hits harder, and he's not carrying around an extra 20 pounds in belly fat, like his opponent. But Englert is a master at mind games. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for with sheer cunning. Englert knows how to get under your skin. Every time he wins a point, he releases a vocal torrent that sounds something like this: Whooo-waa-waa-waa-waa!" It's Englert's version of Nelson's two-toned taunt on The Simpsons.

But Englert has other tricks, too, particularly when he's losing. At one point, when Weiss has a seven-point lead, Englert starts his serve with this announcement, "9-2, Douche-bag."

"Did you say Jew boy?" Weiss shot back. "I'm sensitive about that."

After losing to Weiss, 15-13, when his opponent allows a soft lob to land out of bounds, Englert complains, "That wasn't sporting at all."

Englert is apparently looking for favors.

If Englert is prone to teasing on the court, he says that at least one fellow player at the East Potomac Tennis Center can dish it right back. There's a Chinese gentleman who plays in his street clothes. Seriously. This morning he was wearing black slacks, a dress shirt, and black rubber-soled shoes. He likes to give people shit, particularly Englert.

Englert says the man likes to ask him: "Why you so fat? You play every day!"