Thing 103: Piratz Tavern (Yarrrrrrrrr!)

Fer' a tried and true buccaneer like meself, 'tis hard to find a meal in this District O' Columbia. A pirate's sup is a raucous affair of bubblin' pots and unendin' flagons of Rhum, not the dainty plates and Marrrrtinis of you landlubber set here in the D. o' C. (Once I ran me blade straight through a scurvy dog who felt me parrot Polly wasn't a proper patron for his establishment -- 'tis little surprise me and me mates have not been asked to dinner since, me thinks).

So what's a pirate to do when he wishes to woo a fine wench in an atmosphere befittin' his station? If there be coin in his pocket and time on his hands, he sets sail for the Spring of Silver in Maryland, where be Piratz Tavern, a tasty bit o' stuff less than a day's march from the Metro's Line o' Red.

Once yer peepers get a glance o' this place, ye can plainly see it be a place for scalawags and rapscallions alike. Skeletons and skulls be found adorning what methinks ye landlubbers call a "beer garden" and a Jolly Roger waves proudly over the rooftop. Step inside and YARR! This be a place for Dred Pirate and his mates!

Flickering in the darkness ye see a veritable nightmare of swords and skeletons...this not be an eatery for the faint of heart. There be but one challenge (and it be a doozy, me friends). When me mates and me stepped in through the Tavern's door, we was met square in the face with the Pirate's worst enemy, the innocent laughter o' children!


Yes, me friends, the foredeck of this eatery is a place for families and other landlubber types. It be sickening to me guts and almost made me turn round and sail fer' home, I ain't afraid to tell ye. But past the searing smiles of the happy familes be the Davey Jones' Locker Bar, a place where true pirates be found.

Tis there that a fish outta water like meself can sit and sup on Salmagundi, the pirate's stew, and Grog, the deadly concoction of rhums and spices no landlubber can endure without a designated navigator for the voyage home. The food be tasty enough, me think, but the real excitement be found on the walls and behind the bar, where One-Eyed Mike serves up fresh Grog with tales of the seven seas.

If ye think ye ready for a trip into the world of the dred pirate, set ye course for Piratz Tavern. If ye think ye not ready, then ye be' nothing but a scalawag and a dirty bilge rat. Don't cross me or ye shall feel the cold taste of be blade against ye throat!

Today's blog was guest written by Peg Leg Santoro. You can reach him at pegleg_santoro@pirateguild.com, but don't insult him or he might make you walk the plank!

One year ago: Georgia Brown's.

The author, Peg Leg Santoro, in his natural environment with a mug of grog.

Thing 77: Olsson's Books and Records

I needn't have panicked, of course, because in this city, great Things are happening every day.

Take Olsson's Books and Records shops for

example. They have author events, signings and readings going on nearly every day. There is likely to be something that will please everyone in any given month, and for me, that something was Anthony Bourdain. Live, in the flesh, and telling it like it is.

Most people don't know this -- in fact, I don't think anyone knows this -- but Bourdain is one of the three people that spurred me to start this blog in the first place. I'd just finished reading A Cook's Tour, and was struck by his narrative style, his knack for the travelogue and the casual, humorous and honest ways he looked at food and travel. Unfunded by cable TV, I don't the means to do what he does in quite the same way, but darned if I couldn't write a fantastic travelogue about the city I'm in love with, which I am lucky enough to experience every day. (The other two people were Molly, and the Boyfriend, if you were curious).

So Tony holds a special place in my heart, even though he would probably ruthlessly make fun of me if I ever had the opportunity to tell him so. At 11:45 I ducked out of work and took the bus to Chinatown.

I was not the only one with this idea. By the time I rolled in, a few minutes after noon, I couldn't even find a place to stand where I could see the man. It was like Bourdain Radio, with a view of the backs of people's heads.


But I could hear his voice, and what a voice he's got. I suppose he wouldn't be a successful author if didn't have a distinctive voice, but having now heard him live and off the cuff, I can vouch that he speaks with the same snarky bluntess that he writes with and that pervades all of his TV appearances. He's half jerk and half best friend, heaping honest praise on those that deserve it, and mercilessly ridiculing those that deserve it, too.


Bourdain on vegetarians*: If you are priviledged enough to be one of the few people who is even able to go to Thailand and you don't eat everything in sight, it's not just rude, it's dumb. It's like going to a museum and saying 'I only want to see the paintings in blue and red.'

On which Food Network chefs are worth their salt: Mario. Mario is a behemoth. He knows everything, about everything. Those are cloven hoofs he's got hiding in those plastic clogs.

On which Food Network chefs are not: People would complain if I went on TV and told all the kids at home to listen to Judas Priest records backwards, and then go into the woods and slaughter goats. But that's what that Sandra Lee is doing! Putting spray cheese on a Triscuit and telling people it's a healthy, homecooked meal for their families -- it's the same thing.

On why his show is no longer on the Food Network and on Travel Channel instead: They came up to me and said, "We want more BBQ shows. Our audience doesn't really get this thing you do where you go to other places. They don't do subtitles. But our grilling shows get huge ratings. What if you went to different tailgating parties instead?"

On whether he ever gets sick from the foreign food: Most of the times that I've ended up with my head in a bidet some place foreign, it's been alcohol related.

On where he plans on eating dinner that night: Ben's Chili Bowl. Ground meat of unknown origin? How can I say no?

Olsson's has a pretty strict system for getting books signed. You have to a) buy the book that day, at Olsson's b) then they will give you a numbered card and c) then you wait in line based on the number of that card. I was still on my lunch hour, so I ducked out shortly after his talk, but I did manage to sneak up to the front and get his picture as he was signing. Skinny black jeans, boots, dark shirt, silvery hair. He looked tanned and a bit gaunt, just like on TV, but, you know, in three dimensions.

For those of you who want more Tony -- he'll be at Lisner tonight, though it's sold out, and from his lips to your ear he'll be at Ben's tonight for dinner.

*These quotes are from my memory, as I wasn't taking notes or recording it. I'm a blogger, not a journalist!

Thing 33: Ride A Horse

You could probably guess this already, but I'm a city girl. I'm more Urban Dare than Survivor. But every now and then, a girl's gotta leave the confines of the city, get a little dust on her sneakers, and ride a horse.

The Roommate found the Woodland Horse Center in Silver Spring because she is seriously considering taking riding lessons and was researching places to do so. The appeal of Woodland is that they give a free, one hour introductory lesson every Sunday afternoon. The Roommate had never so much as been on a horse before, and before she committed several hundred dollars to the thing she wanted to be sure she liked it. She asked me to come along because she knew I wouldn't say no. And the Boyfriend came too, because he just likes to ride horses.

Which is how we found ourselves speeding out to the suburbs in a zip car Volvo last Sunday. Now, you fellow city dwellers may be like me and think, "Silver Spring? That's not so far." Well, as it happens, Silver Spring goes a lot further north than I had thought, and gets a lot more country. As we drove down on Colesville Road from downtown Silver Spring, apartment high rises gave way to large, single family, suburban homes. Then, once on New Hampshire Avenue going north, the suburban homes gave way to...nothing. Country roads.

The Woodland Horse Center is beautiful. When you turn onto the dirt driveway off of New Hampshire you drive under a huge, drooping willow tree and come up on a large barn. Not surprisingly, horses peek their heads out of the barn windows. A large field extends south of the barn. To the north of the barn is a dusty, fenced in corral, where our practice lesson will be held. Behind the barn there is an idyllic scene behind a wooden fence - green hills, leafy trees and a small stream, two horses quietly grazing on the grass. (I have the distinct impression that I made up the bit about the stream, but I'm pretty sure the rest is accurate and not subject to my fantasy of what "the country" is supposed to look like.)

We arrive just a bit late, and the introductory lesson is already underway in the barn. Although Woodland accommodates all ages with its lessons, the vast majority of the dozen people attending the free introductory are under the age of ten. The Roommate, the Boyfriend and I significantly up the average age of those participating.

The lesson begins with a short lecture on staying safe around a horse -- don't walk behind the horse, don't make any sudden movements, don't approach the horse if its ears are flat against its head. Then one of the more advanced students demonstrates how to get on and off the animal, making it look, of course, effortless and easy. Just place the reigns behind the neck, lower the stirrups, grab hold of the mane, and swing your leg over the beast. Easy!

Having been shown the basics, we are ready to ride. Since we'd arrived late, the three of us don't have helmets or horses yet, but the staff gets three horses ready as quickly as it takes for us to read and sign our waivers and pick out helmets.


Our three horses are waiting for us in the corral, while the others are already on their horses. They are walking slowly in a circle on the outer edge of the ring while our horses stand in the center, waiting for us. My horse is named Tonka, and she is a white horse with a light caramel color on her ears and the sides of her face. I am entirely too short to mount the horse, which is not quite as simple as they made it look in the introductory lecture. I can't even lift my leg high enough to get my foot in the stirrup and I need to use the step stool and feel like a total wuss. Once I'm actually on the horse, my helper adjusts the stirrups to the proper length, shows me how to hold the reigns, and then walks Tonka, with me on her, to join the group as their horses walk in a circle.

Every person gets a helper who is an experienced rider, who holds the reins while you're on the horse, and gives you tips about your form and technique. My helper turns out to be the manager of Woodland, a middle aged woman named Tammy. I ask her how long she's been riding, and she tells me that it's since she was a little kid. She gave it up when she had children of her own, but came back to it just as soon as she could because she missed it so much. She is very patient with me, giving me good pointers about how to sit correctly and how to interact with the horse.

Once we've gotten the feel for riding the horse while it's walking, we practice "posting," which is the motion one makes while the horse is trotting. This is where it gets hard. You have to thrust your hips forward, basically causing your entire body to rise until you are almost standing in the stirrups, then lower your body back down, all while keeping your knees turned out and without pulling up with the reins. It's hard because the motion is very awkward, and your natural instinct is to lift up with your hands to balance yourself. Unfortunately, that tugs on the reins and pulls the horse's head back, which is uncomfortable for the horse. So you need muscle control and exceptional balance, which anyone who has seen me walk in high heels knows I do not have.

We practiced posting while the horse was still walking, then one at a time we had the chance to actually try it while our horse trotted. In addition to the difficulty of the hip motion and the balance, you have to time it with the rhythm of the horse's trot. If you lose control of your body, it is called "bouncing," which is exactly what it sounds like. Needless to say, I did my fair share of bouncing. But I began to get the hang of it just a bit, and I can see why lessons would be both necessary and fun.


Our introductory lesson was over after the attempt at posting. The helpers would return the horses to the barn while we returned our helmets to the office...which was coincidentally where you could sign up for lessons! The three of us snuck off without signing up for anything, but the Roommate liked it enough to make some follow up calls regarding pricing and scheduling.

We came back to the city, returned the zip car, and then immediately took naps when we got back to the apartment. Horse back riding is exhausting! But what a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon -- an idyllic country setting, a magnificent animal, fresh air and sunshine.

Did you enjoy reading this? Subscribe to my RSS feed, or get new posts delivered right to your inbox!