Thing 54: murky coffee

This was breakfast Sunday morning:

Sunday morning at murky coffee on Capitol Hill. Ben Folds singing merrily on the stereo. The happy chaos of a coffee shop, the calling of drinks, the whir of milk steaming, the click of the espresso grinder's lever and the dull thud that empties the espresso holder after a shot has been pulled. The aroma of truly fresh, complex, bittersweet black coffee.

murky is a community gathering place.

There is a screaming toddler, his mother consoling him. There is an ancient, disheveled-if-not-homeless woman, with a bag of nick knacks, who shuffles slowly, so slowly, between her seat at a table, and the water pitcher on the counter. Students with laptops are using the free wi-fi. Fitness folks fresh from the gym, still in sweaty gym clothes. And then me, meeting a new friend for coffee before we explore the sensory delights of Eastern Market.

I order a classic cappuccino and a scone. The shop is filling up, and I snag a seat at a table for four that is occupied already by a father and his young daughter. The girl, her skin the color of the latte her father is drinking and blue eyes searching everything curiously, is asking her daddy why mommy isn't there with them. "Because you kept her up all night! She is home sleeping." He gently chides her. She sips from a small paper cup of steamed milk, until, urgently, she informs her daddy that she needs to go. Now. He scoops her up and runs to the bathroom with her.

It takes awhile for my cappuccino to be ready. They don't hurry coffee here. I'm in no hurry, either. I nibble my cranberry scone, reading about world history and salt. My friend has been delayed, but on a lazy Sunday it's hard to get anxious about time.

After about ten minutes, my coffee order is up. May I draw your attention to the exquisite detail of my cappuccino?


murky baristas compete in nationwide barista competitions. They are repeatedly proven to be the best barristas in the metro area, the mid-Atlantic, the East Coast. It shows.

Care and passion has gone into every drop of every drink served at murky. Their training process is rigorous. They have partnered with a roaster in North Carolina that allows them to guarantee that no coffee served in the shop has been roasted more 14 days before. They are obsessive about where their coffee comes from, how it was grown, how it was procured and how it tastes in your cup. They have thought about everything.

And so I enjoy my cappuccino, savoring it slowly, sip by sip. You know that dry cappuccino foam, where you feel the bubbles on your tongue, and you never understood why people even like this drink? Forget it. Leave that memory behind as you drink milk foam that is thick, rich velvet on the tongue. It mixes with the dark bitter coffee, no sugar necessary, slightly sweet in its own right. Yes, this is what all of the fuss is about.

Like all the very best local, independent shops, murky cares about the product and the process in ways you just won't find at the bigger chain stores. The familiarity of a Starbucks logo in a strange city has its place, but it can never compete with a small local enterprise that cares about the quality of its coffee to an obsessive degree.

Sooner or later, my friend arrives. She orders the same thing, and we are equally taken with it. We laugh, loudly, as she tells me she may write a book, and I tell her chocolate angel food cake and buttermilk pie. Our laughter mixes in with the buzz of the shop, the sounds of Sunday city living. Everyone in the place enjoying the very best cup of coffee they have ever had.

Thing 53: Eamonn's

I woke up this morning with a fried fish hangover.

Did you think that was possible? I sure didn't. And yet, I woke up this morning tired, thirsty and with a raging headache. Hungover. And with only one beer under my belt from the night before, but enough fried foods to fatten up even Nicole Richie.

Was it worth it? Oh, yes.

Last night, Jessica and I went to Eamonn's, in Old Town. Jessica works around the corner from the place, and yet somehow had never managed to go. I deeply a covet a trip to Restaurant Eve, but can more easily afford Eamonn's -- both restaurants are owned and operated by the same couple, Chef Cathal Armstrong and his wife Meshelle, and are each named for their children, Eve and Eamonn. Whereas Eve is probably one of the best restaurants in the area (just take a look at their tasting menu, and then send me a gift certificate, please!), Eamonn's is but a simple chipper, with a basic menu of delicious fried Irish and British specialties.

"Thanks be to Cod" is written on the glass of the front door. Indeed. The menu is simple. Fried fish (cod, ray or fish of the day, which was yellow tail yesterday). Chips, hand cut, twice fried, small or large. Seven house made dipping sauces. And something called the 'batter burgher' and the 'batter sausage' which I'm hoping means a battered and deep fried burger or hot dog. Sides of coleslaw, English-style "mushy peas" and baked beans. Three kinds of bottle beer and Guinness on tap.

Jessica and I had both come from the gym, and it was already past eight when we arrived. Which is to say, we were really hungry, which may account in part for the fried foods hangover the next day. We ordered a LOT of food. A gorgeous piece of cod for me, small chips, curry sauce, traditional tartar sauce and a Harp. Cod for her, a large chips, Marie Rose sauce and a Harp.

We doused our chips in malt vinegar, laid out our sauces and got to work. The fish is battered and fried to a beautiful, greasy, golden brown, the coating crunchy, the fish inside purest white, flaky and meaty and fresh. Piping hot. Dip it in curry sauce and oh....the curry sauce is the only non-mayonnaise based sauced, served hot and so you are asked to order it with your meal. It is a rich, dark, mustardy yellow, so fragrant with spicy sweet, I joked that I would drink the leftover. Actually, I nearly did:

And I very nearly took the leftover sauce home to cook with in some capacity, but didn't think it could survive the metro ride home in my purse. Oh sweet curry sauce, how I long for thee!

So we dipped and ate, dipped and ate. The tartar sauce was creamy and delicious. I wasn't a huge fan of the Marie Rose, a mayonnaise base with sun dried tomatoes and nicoise olives, mostly because I didn't like the bitterness of the olives with the fish -- too overpowering. The fries were crispy and dark brown, thick and long, twice fried as all the best fries are meant to be. (Side note -- a really good fry must be twice fried, once at a low heat to cook the potato all the way through, and then again at a high heat to crisp and brown the outside. There is much writing on the science and method behind the french fry. It is something I have studied). Are these the best fries? I'd still stand behind the fries from Amsterdam Falafel. But these ones are definitely a pleasure.

And then we sat, digesting. We dissected Britney's and LiLo's latest antics, discussed the minutiae of our relationships and professional lives, and mulled over the idea of crabs in Annapolis. You see, we were waiting. We were waiting for the food to settle so that we could eat...A DEEP FRIED MILKY WAY BAR! (da da dum!).

Holy cow, people. Holy cow. HOLY. COW. Now, I had heard of the fried Mars bar when I lived in England. One of my best friends at the time was Glaswegian (and yes, that is what people from Glasgow call themselves, and yes, it is the funniest word I know). He swore by the fried Mars bar, but for some reason, I was reluctant. I think because it sounded like the worst thing a person could put into their body. But, six years later and still thinking about the possibility, it is a regret of mine that I'd never indulged. I'd like to think of myself as more of a culinary adventurer, both low- and high-brow.

So how exciting that I could finally try one out at Eamonn's. For dessert the menu is, again, very straightforward. Milky Way. Snickers. Banana. Dough Balls. All deep fried. I ordered the Milky Way.
It arrived a fairly unexciting tube of deep fried dough, dusted in cinnamon sugar. We cut it in half, and went for it.

People, this is one of the greatest things I've ever eaten. RUN! don't walk to Eamonn's and eat this. (And you may also want to run back. And then around the block several times. And then over the gym. Delicious? Yes. Healthy? Are you kidding?) The candy bar completely melts in the fryer, so what you end up with is a shell of sweet fried dough, with a viscous, gooey, chocolate/caramel/nougat filling. I guarantee a state of eyes-closed, finger-licking, sugar-coma, bliss:

Now, as you can tell, this was a tremendous amount of fried foods, and it is no surprise I was hungover the next day from all the grease. Having never been there, Jessica and I did not have a proper game plan. So if you are reading this and have never been to Eamonn's, learn from our mistakes, and stick to the following suggestions:

1. If there are two of you, order a small fish, and a small chips, to share. I cannot stress this enough. It's filling food. You don't need a lot of it to satisfy you. If there is only one of you, order a small fish and a small chips, and use all of your willpower to only eat half.
2. Order the curry sauce. Maybe even two of them. Bring it home with you. Make some kind of spectacular rice dish with the rest of it for lunch the next day.
3. You know how you just split a small fish and small chips? So you wouldn't be too full? That's so that you can order an entire fried candy bar for yourself. Be greedy. It's worth every single indulgent calorie.
4. Visit the gym the next day.
5. Repeat.

Thing 52: Meet A Presidential Candidate

You may recall, I once went out for eggs and met ?uestlove. Today, returning to the office from a pudding-buying expedition to the corner bodega, I met...Congressman Dennis Kucinich!

You may remember him from such elections as 2004, and 2008. You may also have heard of him in reference to the "Boy Mayor" of Cleveland, or Wait Wait Don't Tell Me's Official Hopeless Democratic Candidate 2008.

He was enjoying a late lunch with his wife, on the outdoor patio in front of the Greek restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue. I, the political nerd that I am, felt compelled to interrupt them and ask for a picture. They looked only mildly annoyed, but come one, he's at the top of the offbeat celebrity sighting cagetory! I had to ask! And he was happy to oblige. And now I'm thinking my vote is going to Kucinich in '08.

Mostly, I love how much I'm geeking out in this photo.