Thing 31: I Ricchi

And the quest for good Italian goes on. Why must this be so hard?

Friday night a friend's dad was in town, and when he comes to town he likes to treat his daughter, Jodi, and a handful of her friends to a nice meal. Jodi, a regular reader, decided to use the opportunity to aid me in my search to find a good Italian place. She chose I Ricchi, on 19th Street, as our destination.

I really wish I could say my searching was over. And I will admit that the food was really good. But I can do without the rules and the attitude next time, please.

Our reservations were for six, at 8:00. One of our party was going to be pretty late - she'd called Jodi to let her know, so we were not going to wait on her - but were told that we could not be seated until our entire party was there. I understand the logic behind rules like this, about turning tables quickly and using a restaurant's seating efficiently, but there were five of us and we were happy to dig into drinks and appetizers while we waited. So we lied and said we were all here so we could be shown to our table.

I Ricchi is crowded and noisy, with a clientele that is mostly older and fairly well off. The decor is white table clothes, faux-rustic trellises and wine racks, soft pink lighting and candles. The kitchen is open, and there is a wood burning oven, fires blazing, visible at the back of the room. The room is friendly and warm, noisy and fun.

The waiter, a snooty Frenchman accustomed to big tips, handed out menus and gave Jodi's dad a wine list. He looked at the empty sixth seat and walked away. As we perused the menu, the food looked good but the prices were very high. This is not the kind of place that I can afford to go whenever I crave a big bowl of spaghetti.

Jodi's dad, happy to take us all out and unconcerned about the prices was nonetheless shocked by the wine list. Wines ranged from $100 - $400 a bottle. So when the waiter came back, we all ordered wines by the glass, because really, you won't offer any $30 or $40 bottles? That seems extreme. It turned out later, after we'd ordered our drinks, that there is a more moderately priced wine list, but it is separate from The Wine List, instead located on one page in the back of the regular menu. I don't like restaurants that try to trick you into a $100 bottle of wine by hiding the $25 bottles. It feels dishonest.

After our drinks came and our sixth person had not arrived, we wanted to order a round of appetizers to start with. At this juncture our waiter tells us we cannot order appetizers separately from ordering our entrees. We have to order them at the same time. Apparently everything is slow cooked over wood charcoal, so they must start our entrees simultaneously to preparing our appetizers. The manager comes over to see if everything is alright. We are frustrated and hungry, and seemingly not allowed to order any food. He tells us to go ahead and order our appetizers and entrees. Our sixth person can order her entree when she gets there.

Now that we are allowed to order, we go ahead and get some appetizers to share - a plate of garlic bread topped with peas and shrimp, and asparagus topped with chopped egg. The asparagus is $18 and our waiter immediately tells us we must order at least two, as one plate only contains six spears and will not be enough for the table. One of our dining companions orders the chicken as her entree, and is told by the waiter that she does not want it because it takes an hour to cook. She insists that she does, in fact, want it, regardless of cooking time.

We ask for some bread in the meantime, and we don't get any. We ask again, and our waiter tells us there is no bread available, as it is baked freshly in batches and he is waiting for the next batch. When bread does arrive at our table, it is cold, having decidedly not just emerged from a bread oven. I am tired of the rules and the tricks by now.

Which is a shame, because when the food comes out, it's really good. The garlic bread is buttery and loaded with fresh garlic, the asparagus slightly overcooked but with a delicious balsamic vinaigrette. For my entree, I get the baby lamb chops, which are hardly babies but are three huge chops, slow roasted over open coals. There is a thick layer of fat around them, but once I remove it, the meat is incredibly rich and flavorful. It comes served with a small rectangle of deep fried pollenta, which is crispy on the outside and warm and creamy on the inside. The carrots are cooked with plenty of butter and are delicious. I sample Jodi's sea bass, which is a special that night and is rich and flavorful, with a crispy outside from the fire it was cooked over. Everyone seems to be enjoying the food.


For dessert, we order a slice of cinnamon-walnut cheesecake and a slice of tiramisu for the table to share. The cheesecake is the clear winner, but I don't like walnuts, so I polish off the better part of half the tiramisu, which is creamy and light.

It's nearing 10:30, and we're sleepy from the feast and ready to head to our homes. Jodi's dad picks up the bill, which was incredibly generous as this could not have been an inexpensive feast. The food was delicious and I even get to go home with two leftover lamb chops for lunch the next day. But for all the good food, the service and the rules just can't justify this place to me.

So the quest for a really good Italian restaurant continues. Some place with good food, good service and reasonable prices. Anyone? Submit suggestions in the comments, if you have any.

Thing 30: "Before There Was Harlem..."

"The who's who of America passed through this neighborhood," our tour guide will tell us over and over during out two-and-a-half hour walking tour. And as she takes us along U Street and into Shaw, you realize, she's absolutely right. Duke Ellington, Thurgood Marshall, Bill Cosby, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Diana Ross, Cab Calloway, Langston Hughes, Dr. Charles Drew, Coach John Thompson, and all manner of black lawyers, doctors, writers, musicians, politicians, activists and intellectuals. They were all either born, educated, or made their livelihoods on U Street and in Shaw.

On a perfect, sunny Saturday morning, I meet a small group at the 13th Street exit of the U Street metro stop to take a walking tour of the neighborhood, led by Sandra at Washington Walks. Sandra turns out to be a somewhat strange guide -- knowledgeable but disorganized. Her speech is dotted with repeated phrases ("the who's who of America," and "we're going back 140 years," are mentioned more times than I can count), and though I'm sure she's given the tour many times before, her explanations meander and she frequently misspeaks. However, her point is a good one -- before there could be a Harlem Renaissance, those artists and intellectuals had to pursue a rigorous education. And so before they went to Harlem, they came to Howard University in the Shaw neighborhood, the most important of the historically black colleges and universities in the nation.

Our tour begins at the corner of 13th and U with a view of the Lincoln Theater, Ben's Chili Bowl and the mural of Duke Ellington on the side of the True Reformer Building. Sandra sets the stage for the tour by playing Duke Ellington's Take the A Train from a small stereo in her canvas bag, and tells us about the days before integration, when blacks were not allowed to shop downtown or enjoy the entertainment. So they spent their free time in Shaw, seeing movies at the Lincoln Theater or live acts at the Howard Theater. "We're going back 140 years," she says as she explains that the Shaw neighborhood is named for Colonel Robert Shaw, the white Civil War colonel portrayed in the movie Glory, who led an all-black unit of the Union Army. After the Civil War, thousands of black Civil War soldiers settled in this neighborhood, creating the largest urban black population in America prior to World War I.

Our next stop on the tour is the True Reformer Building, at 12th and U. Historically, Duke Ellington played his first show here. Today, it houses the museum that goes with the African American Civil War Memorial located at 9th and U. We spend about a half hour in there, looking at old prints of black Union troops entering Richmond, photographs of Frederick Douglas' two sons in their Union uniforms, bills of sale of slaves. We watch half of a longer documentary about black soldiers in the war. The regular curator is apparently not there today, replaced by a young woman that does not know Sandra, and the two women seem uncomfortable in each other's presence, trying to out do each other for knowledge of the Civil War. We leave the museum and walk towards the Thurgood Marshall Center.

I had never been to nor heard of the Thurgood Marshall Center, despite its location at 12th and S St, NW. A former YMCA, this historic building is primarily a community meeting space, but also houses a small exhibit about the historic social life of the Shaw neighborhood. As Sandra explains, during segregation, blacks were not allowed to stay at white hotels, and there were no hotels at all for blacks. They were relegated to boarding houses, and places like the Y. Famous entertainers and athletes stayed here because there was nowhere else for them to stay.

The Y also served as overflow housing for Howard, and they have a sample dorm room still set up for visitors to look at. Langston Hughes once lived in a room just like this. Langston Hughes was a really important poet for me when I was in high school and it was completely humbling to see his college dorm room.

Next stop on the tour: the former Whitelaw Hotel, at 13th and T St. This historic hotel is now a low rent apartment building, but was once the first hotel in the District built for and by black people, to accommodate first class guests who might not want to stay at the Y or another boarding house. It was built in 1919 by John Whitelaw Lewis, a wealthy African American who founded the Industrial Bank of Washington. "The who's who of America" passed through this hotel in its day.

After desegregation, when the white hotels downtown were opened up to all guests, the Whitelaw fell out of favor and declined. By 1977 it was in serious disrepair and was closed by the city. Sandra took us inside for a look at the dining room's original stained glass ceiling. When the building caught on fire in the '80s, one of the locals from the neighborhood took out the original ceilings to save them from ruin. They are now back in the building's main community room, one representing fish and the ocean, the other representing fauna and the forest.

Duke Ellington's childhood home is at the end of the street, but we are now running behind so Sandra simply tells us the address and then scoots us towards our final stop on the tour. After the tour I seek it out, a nondescript, red brick building, two stories with a small front yard.

We end the tour at the African American Civil War Memorial, at 9th and U. It depicts three soldiers and a sailor, all African American, on the front side of the bronze statue. On the back, in the hollow, it depicts their homecoming. It is surrounded by two large granite arcs, with over 200,000 names carved into them, the "Wall of Honor." These are the names of all the soldiers who fought in the all-black units of the Union Army and Navy.

Sandra leaves us by pointing out the outline of the Howard library in the distance, reminding us that this city, this neighborhood, and this university drew a large, vibrant community of African American artists, intellectuals, professionals and business owners, sustaining the community after the Civil War and through the civil rights movement.

Thing 29: The Testicle Festival

Yes, you read that right. I spent Saturday night at DC's 4th Annual Testicle Festival.


A friend sent me the listing for this about a month ago. I'm pretty sure he meant it as a joke, but how on earth does a person not go to the Testicle Festival?! The name alone is priceless! Plus, I had just read Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour, in which he raves about the deliciousness of roasted lamb testicles. That made me both curious and brave to try these so-called "rocky mountain oysters," of which I could indulge in unlimited quantities at the Festival. Also, $15 for unlimited beers and bourbon seemed like a good deal. And finally, the tag line of the event is "The Original Sack Lunch." Clearly, I had to go.

The event was held at the American Legion in Arlington, not far from the Boyfriend's house. I managed to drag him along as my date, even though we were both tired and perfectly content watching the Nats game. He had to work all day Sunday and was really reluctant -- for some reason the offer of unlimited, deep fried testes wasn't appealing to him, but I promised to pay his way and to leave in an hour, which convinced him to accompany me.


When we arrived at the Legion, the parking lot was full, as was most of the street parking in the adjoining neighborhood. Once we paid our entrance fee, we entered into a large room packed with about 200 people in their early 20s, animatedly drinking beers and dancing to the live country band. The delicious smell of deep fried grease permeated the room; it smelled the way I might expect a bash at KFC or Wings 'N' Things to smell. The Festival was sponsored by the Montana State Society, a fact reflected in the very height of the attendees. The average height of these corn fed, Big Sky dwellers was about 5'10", a fact not lost on shorties like me and the Boyfriend. The gents were clad in a lot of plaid and denim, with the occasional cowboy hat. The women were all stunning and dressed in their best club-gear.

The Boyfriend and I made our way to the bar, which was just a couple people opening Miller Lite, Bud Lite and Coors Lite cans as quickly as possible for distribution, and one girl being run ragged pouring bourbon for the thirsty crowd. There was no line to speak of, just a crowd reaching out for drinks. Our thirsts properly quenched, we headed to the buffet. By buffet, I mean a table with a plastic bucket of cheesy poufs, two giant bowls of pretzels, and an empty tray with deep fried crumbs that had held the main attraction. Freshly fried batches of testicles emerged from the kitchen every ten minutes or so, only to be wolfed down by hungry Festival attendees. We waited for a fresh batch.

Hot and fresh from the fryer, a new batch of testicles arrived. The Boyfriend refused to partake, but my moment of reckoning had arrived. I grabbed an "oyster," dipped it in BBQ sauce, and went for it. How was it? I will defer to the photo essay as taken by the Boyfriend:

There were four distinct phases to eating this delicacy, as captured in those photos. 1. Apprehension: "I am about to eat a cow testicle." 2. Enjoyment: "Hey, this tastes like a deep fried chicken nugget! This isn't bad!" 3. Realization: "It's kind of chewy...because dear God, I'm eating a cow testicle!" 4. Self-loathing: "I can't believe I just ate that." The biggest problem being that the consistency is chewy enough that you have time to realize what you're eating. Otherwise it would just taste deep fried, and deep fried is a flavor I generally enjoy.

My mission unfortunately complete, we spent the rest of the evening enjoying the party. The music, the Wil Gravatt Band, was really good and a lot of fun. A local DC honky tonk band, they kept the crowd dancing and the mood just right. The crowd consisted mostly of Hill staffers, although not entirely -- I ran into seven people I knew during the hour and half we stayed, none of them staffers.

As midnight drew near, the Boyfriend and I decided to leave the testicle and bourbon-fueled revelry because he had a very long day at work the next day. I will say, I am glad we went. The experience was well worth my $15.

Side Note: Hurry back, Eastern Market. You will be dearly missed until your return.