Review: The Open Kitchen, Charlotte, North Carolina

A Great Old-School Italian-American Place

I was in Charlotte, North Carolina recently to attend a show at the Belk Theater at Blumenthal Performing Arts Center (a fabulous venue, by the way) and was hunting for an Italian eatery for our theater party of four.

Many years ago, my default Italian place in Charlotte was a lovely spot called Zarrelli's, run by a charming Neapolitan immigrant named Aniello “Neal” Zarrelli. Sadly, Neal died in 2017 at the age of 87 and his wonderfully warm and welcoming restaurant passed into the Queen City's culinary history.

Charlotte is an up-and-coming food city and there is no shortage of modern, upscale Italian restaurants in the metropolitan area. But I do so miss Zarrelli's and it's traditional menu and atmosphere. So when my online search led me to a story about the city's first pizza restaurant, I was intrigued.

Located on West Morehead Street between Freedom Drive and I-77, The Open Kitchen was founded by brothers Speros and Steve Kokenes back in 1952 to serve the factory workers in what was then a heavily industrial neighborhood. And if the surname “Kokenes” doesn't sound particularly Italian to you, that's because it's not: the brothers were of Greek heritage. Steve was born in Washington, DC and that's where he first encountered a relatively new dish called “pizza” or "pizza pie" as it was often dubbed in those days.

It's hard to imagine today, as pizza has become so ubiquitous and embedded in American culture, but back then pizza was an exotic dish found only in Italian enclaves in big cities. Gennaro Lombardi, an immigrant from Naples, is generally credited with opening America's first pizzeria in Manhattan's Little Italy back in 1905. American servicemen in WWII developed a taste for the tasty comestible when they encountered it in local places in Italy and they brought that taste back home with them. Soon pizza was moving out of the “in” spots in places like New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia and was spreading across the culinary landscape like wildfire. That fire was fed by entrepreneurs like Dan and Frank Carney, who founded Pizza Hut in Wichita, Kansas in 1958 and by local Italian immigrants like the two that opened the first pizzerias in my small Midwestern home town; Marino's, in 1955 and Luigi's in 1957. Both places were huge hits with area teenagers who were among those that helped pizza take over the American food scene in the next decade.

Anyway, the Kokenes brothers brought the new-fangled dish to this Southern bastion of grits and gravy nearly seventy years ago and it's still going strong in its original, definitely retro location. The neighborhood has changed and is now “trendy,” but the venerable eatery still reflects the Greek and Italian traditions of the family that opened it, and pizza is still at the center of the menu.

I fell in love with the exterior at first sight. Thanks to renovations and expansions in the '60s and '70s, the place doesn't look exactly like it did back in 1952, but it's darn close. Then I stepped through the front door and was immediately transported back in time.

The comforting aroma of Italian food caresses your olfactory sense as soon as you enter. You are seated at a sturdy table covered by a red-checkered cloth and you are presented with menus. You can barely read them, of course, because the place is very dimly lit, just as a traditional red sauce joint should be. The friendly and accommodating server takes your drink order and returns fairly promptly with your beverages and with a basket overflowing with an assortment of fresh bread, little tubs of butter, crackers, and some very slightly stale individually wrapped breadsticks. Remember those? I do. They were the highlight of my meal when I was about ten years old.

Now it's time to order.

As I said, there are a lot of Greek touches to the menu including Chicken Livers Greque, Pizza ala Greque, and a Greek Salad, but the focus is on Italian-American dishes like Baked Ziti and Chicken Parmigiana, along with various other chicken, veal, and seafood offerings. And, of course, lots of pasta. There are a variety of soups, salads, and appetizers from which to choose and several Italian-ish sandwiches, if that's your thing. And, lest we forget the star of the show, there's pizza.

My dining companions all went in different directions. One ordered Lasagna Di Stefano – a blend of pasta, ricotta and provolone cheeses “oozing with our tempting meat sauce.” Another chose the Chicken Parmigiana – “tender chicken, sautéed in a tomato, mushroom, and wine sauce, then covered with mozzarella cheese and baked to perfection. Served with spaghetti ala marinara.” My wife opted for meat ravioli in an “oh-my-god” meat sauce. As for me, hey! Sul serio? Why would I go to Charlotte's first pizza place and not order pizza?

Six 'o clock on a Saturday evening and the place was quite busy, but our food was delivered surprisingly quickly. And it was out-of-this-world good. We all ate until eravamo pieni – ma non troppo pieno per dolce. For you non-paesani, that sort of means we were stuffed but we saved room for dessert. Two chocolate mousse split among the four of us. Decadente e divino! The Open Kitchen features a nice selection of wine and beer and our choices perfectly complimented our wonderful meal.

Nothing we ate broke the bank: my simple cheese pizza was eight bucks, the lasagna was $10.75, the chicken parm was $15.75 and my wife's ravioli was $13.50. I have been to places where one entrée would have cost as much as our entire meal combined and would not necessarily have been anywhere near as good.

You'll find The Open Kitchen at 1318 West Morehead Street. They offer dine-in, curbside, and delivery. Open 11 am to 9 pm Monday through Thursday, from 11 am to 10 pm on Friday, and from 4 to 10 pm on Saturday and Sunday. Reservations are not required and large groups can be accommodated with sufficient prior notice. Dress is casual and parking is onsite, but it's not a very big lot. You can call them at (704) 375-7449 or find them on the Web at www.worldfamousopenkitchen.com.

May the late Neal Zarrelli rest in peace knowing that there is still a great old-school Italian-American place thriving in his city. And The Open Kitchen has definitely made the list as my new “go to” eatery there. Now, if only they had somebody strolling through the dining room singing opera like Neal used to. Beh, non puoi avere tutto. (You can't have everything.)

Review: Giada, The Cromwell, Las Vegas, Nevada

A True Gem Among Rhinestones

Okay, anybody who knows me knows that I'm a particular fan of Giada De Laurentiis. I became a fan during her “Everyday Italian” days on Food Network, back when the network was actually worth watching. In addition to being a talented chef, I've always found her to be a nice person. I've actually met Giada, spoken with her, spent time with her and have frequently defended her against shallow detractors who criticize her for her appearance. Is there a more absurd reason to “hate” a person?

Anyway, I was excited when Giada made the announcement in 2014 that she was opening a restaurant in Las Vegas, joining the ranks of many other “celebrity” chefs with eponymous eateries there. And I was even more excited when I finally got the opportunity to dine at her signature place.

I don't much like Las Vegas in general. It's just not my scene. In the first place, with apologies to Elvis, the “bright light city” doesn't so much “set my soul on fire” as it just burns up my wallet. I'm not fond, for example, of shelling out ten dollars for a Coke and a candy bar. I don't gamble, I don't like crowds, I don't like noise, I don't like drunks, and I especially don't like crowds of noisy, gambling drunks. And I object to being accosted by grubby pornslappers who pop their smutty little cards at me every ten feet as I walk along The Strip. After all, why should I patronize them when I can, as the numerous rolling billboard trucks proclaim, have girls delivered “direct to your room” just like a pizza? Thank you. No.

I do, however, appreciate the vibrant Vegas food scene. Just about every “famous” chef I know either personally or through various media has a place in “The Entertainment Capital of the World.” Tom Colicchio, Gordon Ramsay, Emeril Lagasse, Masahara Morimoto, Buddy Valastro, Joel Robuchon, Guy Fieri, Wolfgang Puck, Jose Andres, Robert Irvine......the list is extensive to say the least. But it was on Giada's place at The Cromwell that I was focused this trip.

We had a 9 p.m. reservation, but between being seriously jet lagged and frankly tired of all the throngs crowding The Strip, we showed up early with the intention of just sitting quietly at the bar until nine if necessary. Fortunately, it wasn't: thanks to a very friendly and accommodating staff, we were seated within about thirty minutes. But our relatively brief sojourn at the bar was quite comfortable and pleasant. We were attended to promptly and settled in to enjoy a nice Pinot Noir (hers) and a cool glass of Peroni (mine). When we were seated, we were quite well seated, thank you, at one of the coveted window tables overlooking The Strip below and the adjacent fountains of the Bellagio. The restaurant's huge retractable windows were open on a pleasant autumn evening, enabling us to take in all the dazzling sights and cacophonous sounds from a nice safe perch on the hotel's second floor.

The ambiance and décor are very much reflective of Giada, including works by her artist friend, Darren Quinn. Giada fans and viewers will recognize his “Amore” from her TV show set. There are also some wonderful portraits of her, her grandfather, Dino, and her beautiful grandmother, Silvana Mangano displayed near the bar. It's an elegant and sophisticated vibe that is at the same time quite understated and soothing in the midst of all the surrounding glitz and faux glamour.

I don't know where Giada (the restaurant) found Fred, but I wish he could be cloned or at the very least loaned out to train every server at every eating place in the country. Friendly, personable, efficient, and knowledgeable, Fred was a joy. He was perfectly professional without being the least bit pretentious or stuffy. He never hovered, but he was never far away. His familiarity with every dish was impressive, although I do wish he'd learn to pronounce “mascarpone.” The flat, American-accented “mahs-car-POHN” was a bit grating, but that's just the annoying purist in me. Fred's recommendations were spot on and he seemed genuinely pleased when we were genuinely pleased by them. Obviously somebody who enjoys his craft and is not just collecting a paycheck.

Whoever was running the kitchen the night we were there (I know it wasn't Giada) also obviously enjoys their craft and is extremely good at it. The food was absolutely delicious. Giada features a unique fusion of Giada De Lauretiis' personal “authentic Italian meets modern California” style. By and large, it's lighter fare that doesn't necessarily sacrifice any of the traditional Italian taste.

My wife was especially amazed by her ravioli with Brussels sprouts and brown butter. She has never met a Brussels sprout she enjoyed – until now. Her fulsome praise of the cook on the vegetable and her equally enthusiastic enjoyment of the delicately unctuous brown butter were the talk of the evening. My bucatini pasta dish was also enjoyable, with a sweetly tangy pomodoro sauce and perfectly cooked pasta. Well, the al dente texture was perfect. The pasta itself could have benefited from just a teensie bit more salt. I know a lot of places have to cook to the lowest common denominator of misinformed patrons who are convinced that the slightest amount of salt in their food will lead them straight to hardened arteries and an early grave, but I was somewhat disappointed that the cooks at Giada would fall into that. Giada knows, as every Italian does, that salt – in what some consider egregious amounts – is the only way to flavor pasta. There was a little dish of flake salt on our table, placed there to compliment some incredible bread, and I crushed and sprinkled the tiniest pinch of it over my dish to immediately discernible results. The minuscule addition made the tomato flavor in the sauce pop even more. But again, I'm a purist and a cook. Others may not have noticed or appreciated the difference.

And these were porzioni veramente italiane, truly Italian portions. No huge overflowing platters of food. These were perfectly plated individual portions, not great piles designed to feed ravenous hordes like you usually find in “Italian” places.

Speaking as I was of the bread, a complimentary plate of ciabatta and an olive oil rosemary bread was absolutely to die for when combined with a selection of condiments that included the aforementioned flake salt, some capers, some peperoncino, an herbed olive oil, and an insanely good lemon mascarpone butter. I'm definitely stealing that last one.

I'd also like to steal the hot cocoa souffle that capped our incredible meal. A fresh-baked hot chocolate souffle that was deflated tableside and filled with rich chocolate sauce and served next to a scoop of creamy marshmallow gelato. Buonissimo! Perfetto! Delizioso! And a whole bunch of other Italian superlatives.

Did this heavenly repast come cheap? Oh, hell no. My credit card went straight to ICU. But you know what? The food, the service, the atmosphere, the entire experience was worth every penny and I'll eagerly do it again next time I'm in town. Just don't think you're going to Olive Garden when you cross the threshold at Giada. The food is obviously superior to anything you'll ever get at such a place, but be aware that you'll get a lot less for a lot more.

Giada is located on the second floor of The Cromwell Hotel & Casino at 3595 S. Las Vegas Blvd. They serve a weekend brunch Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and are open from 9 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. those days. Monday through Thursday hours are 5 p.m until 10:30. Parking? Yeah, right. This is Vegas, baby. Reservations are not strictly required but are strongly suggested. Dress is golf course or business casual. But again, this is Vegas: don't be surprised by anything you see. Allow at least an hour to an hour-and-a-half for your dining experience. Call (855) 442-3271 or visit the website at https://www.caesars.com/cromwell/restaurants/giada .

Review: Violino Ristorante Italiano, Winchester, Virginia

A Pleasant Surprise

Located in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, the northern Virginia city of Winchester is known for a lot of things. It was the first city south of the Potomac River to install electric light. It's home to Shenandoah University and to the Museum of the Shenandoah Valley. Since 1924, the city has hosted the annual Shenandoah Apple Blossom Festival. George Washington slept there – many times. The founding father spent much of his young life in and around Winchester, working as a surveyor. The city has a deep Revolutionary War connection and an even richer Civil War history. And country music icon Patsy Cline called Winchester home and is buried there in the city's Shenandoah Memorial Park.

Add one more thing to the list: one of the finest authentic family owned and operated Italian restaurants in which I have ever enjoyed an outstanding meal.

We were in town for business and, at the end of a long day, were looking for a good Italian place for a late dinner. Not knowing much about the area, we just Googled. It seems there are lots of Italian places in Winchester, including a few that delivered to our hotel. But my wife was adamant: she wanted a “nice” place. So we picked one that looked especially “nice.” It turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

Violino Ristorante Italiano is located on North Loudoun Street near the intersection with East Piccadilly Street on the northern end of the quaint pedestrian mall that spans several blocks of historic Old Town Winchester. It is one of several “Italian” places dotting the mall landscape but the only one that is un ristorante italiano vero. The others are probably very nice places, but like the mall on which they are located, they are pedestrian; typical Italian-American pizza and/or pasta joints. Violino Ristorante Italiano is much different.

Friuli-born Franco Stocco attended culinary school in Venice in the late 1960s. He and his wife, Marcella and their children moved to Washington, DC in 1985 where Franco continued to hone his craft in DC-area Italian eateries. While visiting Winchester, they spotted the building on the mall, found that it was available, and in 1995 fulfilled their dream of opening a place of their own.

But unlike your typical red-sauce joint, Franco kept his focus on his northern Italian roots and specialized in dishes not normally found in “Italian” restaurants. For instance, there's Portobello D’Autunno, Franco’s creation of baked portobello mushroom topped with a wild mushroom puree, goat cheese, and rosemary. Or Coniglio di San Remo, a Liguria-style braised rabbit, prepared with fresh herbs, white wine, and Taggiasche olives and served over soft polenta. Or perhaps a Galletto al Limone, a grilled boneless cornish hen marinated and pressed with rosemary, garlic and lemon and served with roasted potatoes. How's that stack up against the usual offerings of chicken parm and spaghetti and meatballs? See why I was thrilled when I walked through the door?

The décor and ambiance are delightfully authentic. There's outdoor seating available on the mall, but my wife and I opted for an intimate tavola per due inside the small but tastefully and artistically laid out dining room. Functional but comfortable wooden chairs and tables covered with gold linen tablecloths populate a room painted a rich Tuscan gold and accented with aesthetically pleasing artwork, much of which reflects the dominant musical motif one might expect of a place called “Violino.”

Service was unfailingly friendly and impressively professional. The staff was the perfect blend of attentive and invisible, just the way they should be. Specials were described, orders were taken, and food was delivered promptly and efficiently. Water glasses were kept full and, although never seeming to hover, servers were available exactly when you needed them. We came in about an hour before closing and, even though we were aware of the fact that time was marching on, in typical Italian fashion, we were never made to feel that way. Being in the business ourselves, we're savvy enough to know not to linger, but nobody gave the slightest indication of the, “Hey, don't you dummies know it's almost closing time?” you sometimes get at some places.

The food was indescribable. My wife, a sucker for seafood, was almost set on the Lobster Pansotti Gondoliera, lobster ravioli in a lemon Parmesan cream sauce crowned with a whole cold water lobster tail. But when the server described a delectable-sounding duck dish with orange sauce and house-made gnocchi as one of the specials, she went there instead and was so glad she did. She savored every morsel of the perfectly prepared anatra, a dish that's easy to screw up, and thoroughly enjoyed the fresh, tender gnocchi. My fatta in casa linguine aglio e olio was superb; a simple dish executed exceedingly well.

To my unrestrained delight, they featured my favorite Birra Moretti, a traditional golden lager with nice aromas of malt and hops and with a slightly bitter finish. I much prefer it to the more commonly served Peroni, which was also available on the extensive wine and beer list. My wife was very pleased with her selection of a house moscato.

We deliberately saved room for dolce. Our choice was a decadent molten lava chocolate cake topped with a wonderful vanilla and honey gelato and garnished with an appropriate little chocolate treble clef.

Not only was it a delicious evening, it was a fun one as well. Somebody was having a birthday and instead of having the waitstaff come out and clap while singing “Happy Birthday,” the chef/owner himself, Franco Stocco, went to the table and sang a traditional Italian folk song. And while in the midst of our postprandial torpor, my wife and I had a very pleasant conversation with chef/son Riccardo Stocco.

Is Violino a little pricier than the run-of-the-mill “Italian” joint? Yep. Is it worth it? Oh, yeah, emphatically so. Violino Ristorante Italiano is now at the very top of our “must stop whenever we're within a hundred miles or so” list and we would highly recommend it to anyone seeking an authentic Italian dining experience.

Violino Ristorante Italiano is located at 181 North Loudoun Street in Winchester, Virginia. They are open for lunch Tuesday through Friday from 11:30am to 2:00 pm and Saturday from noon to 2:00 pm. Dinner service is Tuesday through Saturday from 5:00pm to 9:00 pm. Violino is closed on Sundays and Mondays. Outdoor dining is available, weather permitting. Reservations are accepted but not required and attire is business casual. The street directly in front of the restaurant is part of the pedestrian-only mall, but parking is available on Piccadilly Street and in nearby parking areas. Call them at 540-667-8006 or visit the website at violinoristorante.com.

We may have found Violino to be a pleasant surprise, but don't be surprised to find us there whenever we're in the area.

Review: St. James Cheese Company, New Orleans, Louisiana

Move Over Emeril's, Brennan's, et.al

Brennan's, Commander's Palace, Antoine's, K-Paul's, Dooky Chase's, and, of course, Emeril's. These and other iconic eateries are the places for which New Orleans is justifiably famous. And with just a short time in town, I didn't get to go to any of them. I can see Archie Manning's eponymous place, “Manning's,” from my hotel window. Ditto for Mulate's, the establishment that bills itself as “the original Cajun restaurant.” But I didn't go there either, mostly because half of the Crescent City seemed to have gotten there ahead me. Everywhere I looked I saw three and four dollar sign restaurants, most of which had only one name and none of which offered the simple, affordable lunch I was seeking. Until I Googled nearby restaurants and saw the St. James Cheese Company just a couple of blocks away.

The menu was right up my alley: a simple and straightforward selection of sandwiches and salads along with cheese and charcuterie boards, an English “Ploughman's Lunch,” and “Cheesemonger's Mac & Cheese.” How can you go wrong with choices like those? So off to St. James my wife and I went on a sunny early summer afternoon.

Located in the Warehouse District, St. James Cheese Company occupies space in an old renovated building on Tchoupitoulas street that could be described as “hole-in-the-wall.” Now, that's not at all a bad thing: some of the best restaurants you'll ever find are holes-in-walls. It was evident as you walked through the door that the place was bright, vibrant, scrupulously clean and well-kept, and nicely appointed. It was also quite loud. Bare floors, exposed brick walls, and high ceilings may be chic and trendy, but there's a lot to be said for the good old days of heavy fabric and other sound-deadening elements that allow for conversation without the need to say, “What?” and “Huh?” every other word. Oh, well. I'm old. So sue me.

The sign at the door requested we order up front during peak times and this was definitely such a time. My wife looked at the menu, made her selection, and scampered off to snag one of the last remaining tables while I stood waiting in line. It wasn't too bad; the line moved quickly and within a couple of minutes I had ordered our sandwiches and taken a seat.

In addition to being a sandwich shop, St. James Cheese Company is also a bona fide cheese shop, replete with a familiar wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano on display as well as an impressive selection of other delicious cheeses, both common and somewhat exotic. St. James Cheese Company was started up post-K (after Katrina) by Richard and Danielle Sutton, transplants from the London neighborhood of St. James, who decided in 2006 that they wanted to bring artisanal and farmhouse cheeses to New Orleans. The Suttons began their “life in cheese,” as they call it, at London's Paxton & Whitfield, one of the oldest cheesemongers in England. Holders of two royal warrants, one from the Prince of Wales in 1997 and one from Queen Elizabeth II in 2001, you could say P&W knows something about cheese. And the Suttons have brought that level of quality, knowledge, and sophistication to the Big Easy.

I noticed bagged loaves of fresh artisanal bread for sale in a basket at the front counter. And there was a nice variety of “gourmet” foods on offer as well. I was pleasantly surprised to see both carnaroli and vialone nano rice for sale. Everybody has arborio these days, even Walmart. Carnaroli and vialone nano? Not so much. St. James' mission statement proclaims, “We aim to provide our guests with a meticulously selected and unexpectedly diverse assortment of perfectly ripe cheeses, charcuterie, and gourmet grocery items.” Mission accomplished.

After a wait of no more than five minutes the food arrived. And we were absolutely transported. Move over Emeril's, Brennan's, et.al. Give St. James Cheese Company some elbow room. There aren't enough “o”s in “gooooooood” to describe what we had.

I opted for a basic grilled cheese sandwich, what they billed as a “Rustic Grilled Cheese.” It starts with white cheddar from world champion Wisconsin cheesemaker Tony Hook. Add some unidentified but undeniably delicious smoky bacon and sandwich it between slices of fresh country sourdough bread from New Orleans' own Bellegarde Bakery, throw some kettle-cooked potato chips on the side, and you have a simple sandwich that is simply divine.

My wife chose the “Smokey Blue,” a magical combination of roast beef, house smoked blue Mycella cheese, lettuce, tomato and Worcestershire mayo on toasted multigrain bread sourced from another local bakery, WildFlour. With apologies to Louisiana's own Justin Wilson, I guar-ron-TEE she will be talking about that sandwich for days to come. Her comment after the first bite said it all: “Chefs always talk about 'layers of flavor.' That's exactly what this sandwich has; layers of flavor. Nothing is muddled together. Each element stands on its own and contributes a distinct layer of flavor to the overall sandwich. It's just remarkable.” And that's from somebody whose palate I respect immensely.

The staff at St. James is friendly, knowledgeable, and efficient. It's not a very big place, but it's light and airy and clean, both in terms of decor and of physical condition. The menu is small; fewer than a dozen sandwiches, a handful of salads, and a couple of specialties like the aforementioned cheese and charcuterie board and the ploughman's lunch. They have a kids menu and a great beverage selection, including the usual soft drinks as well as a rotating selection of craft beers on draft, ciders and wines, and some specialty cocktails. Obviously, we couldn't sample everything, but based on our experience with the wonderful plates we had, we give the place four thumbs up and just wish we had more thumbs.

The location we visited is in the Warehouse District at 641 Tchoupitoulas Street. I understand there is also an uptown location. The downtown store is open Monday through Wednesday from 11am to 6pm, and on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday from 11am to 8pm. Closed Sundays. Prices are reasonable and parking is.....well, it is the Warehouse District, okay? Don't get your hopes up. There's limited onstreet parking and a number of nearby lots and garages, but the location is also within easy walking distance of some of the district's major hotels. Call them at (504) 304-1485 or check out their website at https://stjamescheese.com

Emeril's, with its “Andouille Crusted Gulf Drum” and its “Pressed Pickled Ham & Cheese,” is only a couple of blocks down the street. But for my money – and for a lot less of it – you can't ask for better than the humble but outstanding fare at St. James Cheese Company. Laisser les bons fromages rouler!

Review: The Clocktower Restaurant & Bar, Staunton, Virginia

Time's Up For The Clocktower

Every now and then I come across a place in my travels that so impresses or delights me that I vow to put it on my “let's go there again” list and recommend it to family, friends, and readers. Such a place was The Clocktower Restaurant & Bar at 27 W. Beverley Street in historic downtown Staunton, Virginia.

Please note: “was” is the operative word here.

When my wife and I visited The Clocktower about a year ago, we were absolutely captivated by the place. Located in the trendy downtown area of a small Virginia college town otherwise known as the birthplace of both President Woodrow Wilson and the Statler Brothers, the Google listing said: “Circa-1890 clock tower with a retro interior is the locale for Italian eats, sandwiches & drinks.” Sounded like our kind of place. And it was. The atmosphere was delightful, the service was friendly and efficient, and the food was superb. We immediately added The Clocktower to the aforementioned return and recommend list.

Alas, The Clocktower's time on that list has run out.

My son and his family were traveling through that part of Virginia the other day. They were overnighting in nearby Verona and my wife and I arranged to drive over to meet them. We had only a limited time to visit. Basically we were making a nearly four hundred mile round trip in order to have dinner with my son, his wife and her parents, and our four grandchildren. We raved about The Clocktower, just fifteen minutes or so down the road from where they were staying, so we all caravanned over to Staunton for a memorable dining experience. Well.....it was memorable alright.

The Google listing still touts The Clocktower as “the locale for Italian eats, sandwiches & drinks.” Don't believe a word of it. The place is about as Italian as Rome.....Georgia! No more four-cheese ravioli al forno. Ciao ciao homemade baked lasagne. No chicken parm, no chicken marsala, no “pastabilities” where you could create you own pasta dish from their selection of housemade pastas and sauces. All the delectable Italian dishes my wife and I had so enjoyed a year previous were gone, replaced by a pedestrian assortment of “pub grub” offerings. (Sigh) But we had come all that way, so we decided to see it through.

The waitress was perky and friendly and quite clueless. My son's father-in-law ordered a “Seven & Seven” from the bar for his wife and drew a totally blank look from the server. He explained it and then ordered a particular whiskey and Coke for himself. The server returned to inform him that the bar did not stock his brand and offered a substitute whiskey instead. When his drink arrived, it was a whiskey on the rocks with no Coke. The girl must have had a thing about ice because my wife's sweet tea, which she had ordered with no ice, came in a glass full of ice.

We had lots of time to contemplate the new menu; it was about fifteen minutes before anybody showed up to take our orders. That was another thing: in addition to being perky, friendly, and clueless, our server was also largely invisible. And it wasn't because the joint was jumping. There were only six other patrons seated at two tables when we arrived and they had already been served.

The kids got macaroni and cheese and French fries from the kid's menu. The rest of us ordered a variety of burgers, sandwiches, and fairly simple stuff. My wife opted for a “deconstructed shepherd's pie” while the in-laws chose to split a nominally Italian-American chicken and broccoli fettuccine Alfredo. And since no decent Italian would deliberately adulterate good pasta with chicken or broccoli, I chose to get just plain fettuccine Alfredo (which in and of itself is not truly Italian, but that's another story.)

The kid's stuff was out in about ten minutes. And it arrived with an extra ingredient. Fortunately, someone spotted the long strand of.....something......hanging from my granddaughter's fork before it made it to her mouth. It was too thick to be a hair. We didn't really know what it was. And there was nobody around to ask. I finally put the offending substance on a napkin and took it over to the bartender, the only staff person in evidence. A few minutes later, the manager/co-owner came out of the kitchen and apologetically informed us that they had identified the object as a thread from an apron. And they, of course, replaced the dish.

Good thing, too, because over the course of the next forty-five or fifty minutes, we adults were staving off starvation by snitching fries off the kid's plates. Yeah. You read that right. Nearly an hour for a burger, a sandwich, a “deconstructed shepherd's pie,” and a couple of pasta dishes. As the numerous clocks festooning the walls ticked inexorably through the minutes toward that one hour mark and as we hungrily contemplated the kid's leftovers, the food finally arrived. When I semi-seriously noted that my wife and I were cooks and that we were about to head back to the kitchen to lend a hand, I was told that there was only one cook on duty, the other having been dismissed earlier in anticipation of a slow night.

I guess this would be a good point to bring up a fact I discovered too late to save the evening. It seems that immediately after the wonderful visit my wife and I enjoyed last year, the building and the business were sold. The restaurant operation has been taken over by a triumvirate of people who have no restaurant background and who have admitted to experiencing a “learning curve.” It seems they want to "spruce up the place, add a couple of new dishes, and start a new legacy." Pssssst! Lousy start.

On the plus side, the food was good. Other than the extra fiber in the macaroni and cheese, nobody had any complaints and everybody cleaned their plates. We even ordered some desserts: a couple of decent cannoli and a gargantuan hunk of chocolate cake that probably would have fed the whole party.

So here's the bottom line: if you want Italian food in Staunton, Virginia, you ain't gonna get it at The Clocktower. If you want fast food in Staunton, Virginia, you ain't gonna get it at The Clocktower. If you want perky, friendly, clueless, and largely invisible waitstaff, that they've got at The Clocktower, along with good food that isn't anything to write songs about.

For what it's worth, The Clocktower is located at 27 W. Beverley Street in downtown Staunton. Dress is casual, reservations are not required and parking is onstreet. They're open from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday through Thursday, from 8 a.m. until 2 a.m. Friday and Saturday, and from 10:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. on Sunday. Call them at 540-213-0665 or visit their website at https://clocktowerstaunton.com

Buon appetito......e buona fortuna.

Review: Bobby's Burger Palace, Potomac Mills Mall, Woodbridge, Virginia

I'd Go There Again

Okay, so I'm not like a really close personal friend of Bobby Flay's. I don't have his number on speed dial on my phone. (Although I do have a few pictures of him on it!) I have met him at industry events (hence the pictures) and have spent a little time talking food and cooking with him. Anyway, when I spotted a “Bobby's Burger Palace” at the mall near my hotel in the Washington, DC suburb of Woodbridge, Virginia, I figured, “Bobby's place? Why not?” And my wife and I went on over there for dinner.

Even a few days after Christmas, the parking lot of the super-busy Potomac Mills Mall was packed. My wife had driven us over from the hotel and she suggested I hop out and get a table while she found a place to park.

First off, there's no “getting a table:” the place is counter service and all the tables are communal. Surprisingly, considering the overall volume at the mall, Bobby's wasn't particularly busy at 6:30 or so on a chilly, rainy Thursday night. There was one couple in line in front of us, three more people came in after us, and there were perhaps eight or ten other customers seated at tables around the restaurant. As I said, all tables are communal, so if you're looking for a place for a romantic interlude or even for quiet personal conversation, don't look here. Unless you don't mind sharing your thoughts with the strangers sitting across the table or seated beside you. More on that in a second, but picture having an intimate dining experience at a Waffle House service counter. Get the idea?

But hey! It's a burger joint. It's described in published literature as an “upscale fast casual restaurant” and I can get behind that description. The location, the ambiance, and the menu are definitely a cut above, say, “What-a-Burger” or “Five Guys.” But all in all, it is what it is: it's an “upscale” burger joint. Just as Bobby Flay intended.

Bobby Flay has come up through the ranks. From age ten when he asked for an Easy Bake oven for Christmas to the French Culinary Institute to his work with Jonathan Waxman and Jerome Kretchmer to helming the kitchens at Mesa Grill, Bolo Bar & Restaurant, Bar Americain, and Bobby Flay Steak, Bobby has circulated in the upper atmosphere of the culinary world for many years. Back in 2008, he decided he wanted to work a little closer to the ground: to bring a touch of the “fine dining” experience to the more common market. Bobby says, “Food is the epicenter of my life – what inspires me every day. It’s the way I make my living, the way I relax, the way I express myself and how I keep healthy. I want to share that passion with as many people as possible.” And since one of his favorite things to eat and cook is a burger, the first “Bobby's Burger Palace” opened at Smith Haven Mall in Lake Grove, Long Island in July of that year. The location where we dined is one of nineteen now spread across eleven states and the DC area.

The menu is pretty simple and straighforward. There are about a dozen sandwiches on offer, including a veggie burger and an adult “griddled cheese.” You can choose your meats from among beef, turkey, and chicken and opt for add-ons of bacon, fried egg, or double meat. You can have your burger “crunchified” – topped with crispy potato chips – at no extra cost. Hand cut fries, sweet potato fries and buttermilk onion rings round out the menu. BBP also features a selection of “spoon bending” shakes in a variety of flavors. Unlike your run of the mill burger stands, BBP serves beer, wine, and frozen margaritas as well as the usual assortment of soft drinks.

My burger-loving wife went with the Palace Classic Burger. She also ordered one of those signature shakes, the vanilla bean one. Heretical though it may seem, I'm not a burger guy. I'm part Italian. I like food that ends in vowels. But the Griddled Cheese looked appealing, so I ordered one. The food was outstanding. My wife found her burger to be completely drool worthy and even the “griddled” cheese was way above average. The fries were perfect and the portions more than adequate. And the prices were ridiculously reasonable. It didn't cost us any more to eat “upscale” fare at Bobby's place than it would have had we gone to the Five Guys down the road.

The only thing that gave us pause was the service. It was kinda slow for the relatively low volume of business. Now I don't know that the kitchen may not have been snowed under with call-in orders or something, but they seemed to have a hard time getting food out to the dining room in a timely manner. It's an open kitchen so you can see what's going on back there, and to our trained eyes it looked like the flow could have been a little smoother and the service a bit faster. The ticket time on our order was nearly thirty minutes. Now that's about industry average for an an entree at an “upscale” fast casual joint, but considering the aforementioned Five Guys boasts a seven to eight minute ticket time for the same order...... well......it just seemed a little long for a burger and fries. And my wife's shake arrived a full five minutes after her burger had been served.

And call me anti-social but I'm not so much on the seating concept. My wife and I sat across from one another near the end of one of the long tables. We were quietly discussing the events of our days when a party of three women seated themselves immediately to my wife's right, leaving one or two seats between. So now you've got five people at a ten or twelve-top, four on one side and one on the other. As the newcomers started their conversation it kinda put a damper on ours. Communal tables are great for large parties of friends or family. But two groups of strangers sitting elbow to elbow? Not so much.

Be that as it may, would I go back to another Bobby's Burger Palace? Sure. I'd definitely go there again, especially now that I know what to expect. The place was scrupulously clean, the atmosphere was pleasant, the service was friendly if a bit slow, the food was delicious, and the price was right. Overall, it was a great experience and one I'd recommend – with certain caveats – to anybody looking for a nice “upscale fast casual restaurant.”

The BBP I went to is located at 2700 Potomac Mills Circle, Woodbridge, VA 22192. They're open Sunday thru Thursday from 11AM to 9PM, and on Friday and Saturday from 11AM to 10PM. You can call them at (703) 490-2121. No reservations. Casual attire. Ample parking. Call-in and online ordering are available. The Potomac Mills location partners with Doordash for delivery. Find more locations at http://bobbysburgerpalace.com/locations

Restaurant Review: Amalfi's Italian Restaurant and Pizzeria, Mt. Pleasant, SC

A Hidden Gem Worth Finding

Hidden away in a shopping center in Mt. Pleasant, SC is a gem of an Italian restaurant: Amalfi's Italian Restaurant and Pizzeria.

When I say “hidden away,” I mean it. Even with electronic guidance, when the GPS announces “the destination is on your right,” you look and go, “Okay. Where?” Then you spend several minutes negotiating the maze of Belle Hall Shopping Center's shops before you spot the Amalfi's sign over the door of a small space in the back.

Unlike the chain places with Italian-sounding names, Amalfi's is an Italian restaurant actually owned and operated by Italians. One of my standard gambits in determining the “Italian-ness” of an Italian restaurant is to simply greet the host or hostess in Italian or to speak Italian when requesting a table. “Una tavola per due, per favore.” If that gets a blank stare or a nervous smile, I start to look around to make sure I haven't stumbled into an Olive Garden. Well, I did get the nervous smile from the young man at Amalfi's door; a smile that was repeated by the waitress when I greeted her with “buona sera.” But word must have spread that there was an old guy in the place speaking Italian because soon several Italian speakers came out to chat with me and I was quite happy and satisfied with the eatery's authenticity.

One of the Italian speakers was owner Davide Mazzola, who originally opened Amalfi's in downtown Charleston in 2008, but moved to the current spot in Mt. Pleasant in 2011 after a kitchen fire damaged the original location. (There is now a second Amalfi's in James Island, located there to service the original Charleston customer base.) Davide is from Napoli, where his family operates two restaurants. He began his American journey in North Carolina working for his uncle in Greensboro before launching his first Amalfi's in Elkin and following it with one in Wilkesboro. Because he loves being near the ocean, his next choice for expansion was the Charleston area.

In the traditional Italian manner, Amalfi's prides itself on using only the finest ingredients and freshest products available and everything from the sauces to the breads and doughs are fatta in casa, or home made, according to family recipes.

Stepping through the door at Amalfi's transports you to an Italian trattoria. There's nothing fancy, glitzy, or trendy here. In fact, it's a little stark. Lots of wood and warm golden umber with a few splashes of Italian art and bric-a-brac on the walls. There's an immediate intimate vibe and homey feel to the small space, especially to the upstairs area where our party of three was seated on a beautiful mid-April evening.

In truth, this was our second visit to Amalfi's, but writing about our wonderful initial experience was set aside due to a death in my wife's family that occurred around the time of the first visit. So when we found ourselves back in town on business – this time in the company of a coworker with an appreciation for good food – a return to Amalfi's was a foregone conclusion.

Everything was as we remembered it from our first outing. The atmosphere was pleasant and relaxing, the service was friendly and attentive, and the food was semplicemente squisito. (“Simply exquisite,” in case you couldn't figure that one out.)

The deliciously fresh homemade bread arrived first, accompanied by a delectable dipping sauce of oil, herbs, spices, and tangy balsamico. Okay, so it's not traditionally Italian to serve bread before a meal (bread should be served as an accompaniment to the meal, not as a pre-meal course of its own), but it's what Americans have come to expect and I never complain about good bread, regardless of when it's served.

There were several intriguing appetizers on the menu, ranging from an antipasto of thin sliced prosciutto, soppressata, mozzarella di bufula, asiago cheese, kalamata olives, and marinated vegetables to a house specialty called “zucchini alla scapece,” described as being an original from Naopli consisting of fresh sliced zucchini, grilled and topped with balsamic vinegar, prosciutto, and shaved asiago. There were also offerings of arancini, bruschetta, and calamari. We settled on a simple caprese and were not disappointed.

Soups and salads were well represented. My wife chose a thick, rich, flavorful homemade tomato bisque to accompany her entree.

Our guest was agog at the entree choices, which included selections from categories including “Traditional Italian,” “Pollo,” “Vitello,” “Melanzana,” and “Sapori di Mare” as well as “Specialty Entrees,” pizza in both Neapolitan and Sicilian styles, calzone and stromboli, subs, and a children's menu. With all that from which to choose, she ordered baked ziti and a generous garden salad. The “ziti,” which was actually penne, was served in a hearty ricotta and tomato sauce topped with fresh mozzarella and baked to golden perfection. My wife's choice of entree also came from the “traditional” column; she had perfectly tender ravioli stuffed with a savory meat filling and served in Amalfi's signature homemade tomato sauce. Neither lady was able to finish the typical “Italian restaurant” portions, but they made serviceable dents and pronounced both dishes to be delightful.

Having had pasta on my previous visit, I opted for pizza this time, choosing a simple Neapolitan-style cheese pie. Although the crust was a little more American that true Neapolitan, the overall product was delicious and satisfying and the two slices that made it back to the hotel didn't last long once the midnight munchies struck.

Even with tiramisu and my personal favorite, cannoli, on the menu, dessert was out of the question. They'd have had to wheel us down the stairs and out the door on a hand-truck. Maybe next time.

And there will be a next time.

The Mount Pleasant location of Amalfi's Italian Restaurant and Pizzeria is in the Belle Hall Shopping Center at 664 Long Point Road. They are open from 11 am to 10 pm Monday through Thursday, from 11 am to 11 pm Friday and Saturday, and from 11 am until 9:30 pm on Sunday. Dress is casual, reservations are not required, and families are welcome. Ample parking is available. Call them at (843) 793-4265 or find them on the web at www.amalfisofmountpleasant.com. Or you can follow them on Facebook and Twitter.

A Ferris Wheel Near The Tower Of Pisa? No-o-o-o-o-o-o!

Come Up With Another Way To “Make A Difference”

What is it with Ferris wheels all of a sudden? I mean, really. As carnival rides, I like them as well as the next person. But to stick them up in the middle of otherwise beautiful, scenic, iconic, and often historic areas? Not so much.

Examples of “pleasure wheels,” devices on which passengers rode in chairs suspended from big wooden rings turned by big burly men, go back as far as the 17^th century. The modern wheel with which we are familiar was constructed by a bridge builder named George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr. It is often referred to as the “Chicago Wheel” because Ferris erected it for the 1893 World's Columbian Exhibition held in that city. Since then, the Ferris Wheel has been a staple at fairs and festivals all over the world. And that's fine. I've got no problem with that. The thing was built as an attraction for a fair, and that's where it should stay. They're great fun to ride, okay, but they are ugly as sin. Great spindly monstrosities dominating whatever landscape surrounds them. And people have suddenly started planting them in the middle of the aforesaid beautiful, scenic, iconic, and often historic areas. All for the sake of attracting tourists.

Visitors to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park may recall that many years ago, when the approach to the park via SR 66 and US 441 became so cluttered with hundreds of screamingly garish billboards that marred and obstructed the breathtaking views the tourists actually came to see, city administrators in Sevierville, Tennessee erected a small sign near the city limits apologizing for the unappealing billboard clutter.

So perhaps somebody should apologize for “The London Eye,” that horrid blemish on the historic face of Britain's capital. Looming over the city from its prominent position on the South Bank of the Thames, the “Eye”-sore now dominates London's iconic national timepiece, Big Ben, and the Houses of Parliament. Economically, it's a wonderful attraction, catering to millions of tourists who ride up, go around, and come back down. Whoopee! Aesthetically, it's like a party hat on the Mona Lisa.

Many Parisians are none too fond of what's been done to the ancient and beloved Louvre. I.M. Pei's glass behemoth has been called “an annex to Disneyland,” a “gigantic gadget,” and a “despotic act.” And those are the milder critiques. Imagine what will happen when somebody decides to stick a Ferris Wheel behind the Eiffel Tower. Oooops! That's right. Somebody did. The “Big Wheel” ruins the scenery on the Champs-Elysees near la place de la Concorde, but so far only seasonally. The giant mobile rig has been a fixture at Christmas since 2000. But the city is getting sick of it, accusing its owner, fairground king Marcel Campion, of illegally occupying a site of historic interest and ordering him to take it down. Defending his gaudy blight, Campion says the Big Wheel “contributes to the city's fame.” Yeah, kind of like the St. Valentine's Day Massacre contributed to Chicago.

And now Pisa wants one. And they want to stick it right in the center of the city, a five minute walk from the world-famous Leaning Tower that has defined the image of Pisa since the 12th century. The city's idiota cultural commissioner, Andrea Ferrante, has actually signed off on this lunacy, saying he hopes this will show people “there's more than just the tower – the whole city is beautiful.” I agree. It's beautiful just the way it is. The last thing it needs is an ugly carnival ride marring that beauty. I have friends who toured Pisa recently. They sent me a great picture of themselves standing in front of the iconic tower. And now some deficiente wants to put a Ferris Wheel in that picture? No-o-o-o! Say it ain't SO!

The proposed wheel will be nearly as tall as the campanile itself. Boosters enthuse that visitors will be able to “see the Tower from a unique angle.” They'll also be able to catch a glimpse of the Mediterranean coast as they loop around. Doesn’t that sound exciting? The current plan is to build the “attraction” in what is now a parking lot and leave it up for a three-month “trial” to “assess its popularity.” If enough stupid tourists pour enough euros into it, they'll make the thing permanent, no matter how many locals slit their wrists. Critics, including the cultural advocacy group, Italia Nostra, fear an ugly modern wheel wouldn't complement the city's medieval architecture. No! Ya think? But a so-called “heritage council” member named Salvatore Sanzo persists, “We can't keep getting by with the Leaning Tower alone. A giant wheel could make the difference.” The sheer stupidity of that statement leaves me speechless. By that logic, Florence will want a wheel, too. It can stand right behind the statue of David. Maybe Rome can erect a wheel inside the Colosseum. And Venice can get two: one on either end of the Grand Canal.

And why should the wheel mania stop there? Don't you think a Ferris Wheel would look great atop the Acropolis? Surely a wheel would bring more visitors to the Taj Mahal. Picture a Ferris Wheel spinning among the Egyptian pyramids or standing alongside the statue of Christ the Redeemer above Rio de Janeiro. There's lots of room on the National Mall in Washington, DC. A big wheel would look great between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, don't you think? Or maybe mount one sideways on top of the Washington Monument! Wouldn't that be an “attraction?”

And why limit ourselves to Ferris Wheels? Roller coasters are great fun, too. We could knock down that creaky old Golden Gate Bridge and a build an exciting new roller coaster across San Francisco Bay!

I know times are tough. And I know Italy's national and local governments spend billions every year preserving the country's rich heritage. But there's got to be a better way. I'd hate to think we've become so creatively bankrupt that erecting eyesores willy-nilly has become our only solution. Let's leave the carnival rides at the carnival where they belong and come up with another way to “make a difference.”

No Dinner Reservations For Old, Fat, Naked People

I Won't Be Going To The Amrita

When July 29, 2016 rolls around, I will not be present for the grand opening of a new restaurant called The Amrita. In the first place, it's located in Tokyo, which is a wicked commute from my current home on the East Coast. Not that I don't occasionally travel to enjoy new restaurants, but 6,881 miles does seem like a bit of a stretch and besides, there are other reasons I won't be going to this one.

Given my culinary preferences, I seriously doubt there will be anything Italian on the menu. I could be wrong. Italian dishes are everywhere these days and The Amrita might up and surprise me with a fantastic bucatini al amatriciana. Who knows? And in any case, my wife is a big fan of Japanese food, so there's that consideration to take into account. Even so, however, there are still other reasons I won't be making reservations at The Amrita. Three reasons, to be exact: I'm old, I'm fat, and I don't like sitting around in paper underwear.

You see, The Amrita, which takes its name from a Sanskrit word for immortality, is one of a growing number of restaurants worldwide that caters to folks who want to dine senza vestiti. That means “without clothes,” for you non-Italian speakers or, as the late Lewis Grizzard was fond of saying, “nekkid.”

Okay, there are thousands of eateries for nudists and other sun worshipers in camps and enclaves dedicated to that sort of thing all over the globe. But The Amrita is fairly unique in that it, like its counterparts in London and Melbourne (the cities in England and Australia as opposed to those in Kentucky and Florida), is not located out in “nature” somewhere where patrons are already slapping volleyballs and swinging golf clubs au naturel. No, these places are smack in the middle of town and they invite all comers to come in and strip down for dinner.

At The Amrita's inaugural banquet, you'll be able to sit at the table in your “hygienic” paper panties and enjoy selections from an organic menu while being served “Adam and Eve-style” by “men with the world's most beautiful bodies” and enjoying entertainment in the form of a “Men's Show dance performance.” (Let's see......in America we have a term for such places, but I suppose “titty bar” wouldn't quite apply in this case, now would it?)

While I am not a habitue of such establishments, I have nothing against them. I used to have a Playboy Club key back in the day and I have patronized a Hooters or two over the years. Those institutions are different in that while the staffs may show varying degrees of skin, the customers must remain completely clothed. Or at least they must if they want to avoid getting tossed out. At The Amrita, everbody is invited to get naked. Well......almost everybody, and that exception leads to the final reasons I won't be going to The Amrita.

The Amrita has standards. (Stop smirking.) In order to be issued your paper undies, you have to be between the ages of 18 and 60. Apparently there is something unappetizing about age spots, stretch marks, and wrinkles. Obviously, the management is not aware of the Italian maxim that says, “a tavola non s'invecchia” – “at the table, one does not grow old.”

You also can't have any tattoos, which should just about guarantee a light crowd these days. However, even if you meet the age criterion and are unmarked and unblemished by body art, you still have to weigh in. Yep, them paper drawers don't come in XL. If you weigh more than 15kg (about 33 pounds) over the average weight for your height, well......there's a McDonald's right down the street.

Mia bella wife would make the age and weight cuts, but she has a couple of discreet tattoos that would not be so discreet under the circumstances, and although I am inkless, I am slightly overage and significantly undertall. (As opposed to being overweight, you know.) On the plus size.....er.......side, we wouldn't have to worry about those annoying Instagrammers or about clueless idiots babbling away on their cellphones. All such devices have to be locked away in a tabletop box. (Now there's an idea I can get behind at any eatery.) And we wouldn't have to be subjected to unwanted conversation from other diners: patrons must promise to refrain from being a “nuisance” by chatting up their nearly naked neighbors.

Alas, we couldn't afford the joint anyway: tickets are going for anywhere from 12,000 to 80,000 yen, which equates to $112 to $563 US. On the one hand, I suppose the cost would be somewhat offset by the savings incurred through not having to go out and buy new dinner outfits.

I suppose a certain degree of titillation (no pun intended) is to be expected, but nudity is a great equalizer under such conditions. The sartorial playing field is rather leveled out, after all, when you're wearing nothing but your birthday suit. However, I do think management ought to implement a ban on Viagra, Cialis, and such before dining. I mean, really. I know some of these places are just designed to be temporary pop-ups, but......

And you know, I hadn't before this second considered another aspect. As careful as I am, every once in awhile I do manage to splash or drop or dribble something down my shirtfront or into my lap. Or somebody else does it for me: the manager at the old Italian place that used to be located in Epcot at Disneyworld practically had apoplexy after a waiter spilled olive oil down the leg of my khaki pants. Such things would not be a problem at places like The Amrita. Just have some wet-naps handy and you're good to go. At worst you might have to whip off your little paper pants and put on some new ones. Unless, of course, flambéing or hot coffee are involved, in which case a trip to the hospital might be in order.

No, I guess July 29 will probably find me at Little Italy. It's close to home, you don't have to show an ID to get in there, it's okay if you have a tattoo or two, the only scales are located in the kitchen, you can can get a plate of spaghetti or ravioli for less than fifteen bucks, and everybody – thank God – wears clothes. I'll be there around seven if you'd care to join me.

Julia Child's Kitchen at the Smithsonian

A Timeless Trip Through Time

Julia Child was inarguably one of the most influential culinary figures of the 20^th century. And if you'd like to argue, let me posit this question: how many people do you know who have had their home kitchens enshrined at the Smithsonian?

In an age before the current cult of celebrity chefs, Julia's seminal Mastering the Art of French Cooking had already made her a star when she first appeared on television in 1962 doing a cooking demo on how to prepare an omelette. Inspired by that success, her first series, The French Chef, hit the airwaves on Boston's WGBH on February 11, 1963. And history, both culinary and media, were about to be made.

Julia lived near Harvard University in a house at 103 Irving Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts from 1961 until 2001. After putting up with flaws in eight previous kitchens, Julia knew exactly how she wanted this one to function. She mapped it all out and her husband, Paul, designed the kitchen to meet her needs as a place where she could not only cook for the home, but also research and develop her recipes. To that end, he raised the maple counter tops in the kitchen by two inches to accommodate Julia's towering 6' 2” height. He selected a light blue-green paint for the room's overall color scheme. Covering the walls with pegboard, Paul used a marker to outline all of Julia's numerous pots and pans, ensuring that there was a place for everything and that everything would be in its place. This comfortable, efficient space would later serve as the setting for three of Julia's TV shows. Discreet poles and brackets were added so that appropriate lighting could be hung when the shows were filming. When tape was rolling, the table and chairs made way for an island equipped with a built-in cooktop and prep surface. Everything else in the room was authentic Julia, right down to her wall oven with the squeaky door.

Paul Child died in 1994. A few years later, Julia decided to return to her native California. In August 2001, representatives of the Smithsonian Institution met with her to discuss the possibility of preserving her iconic kitchen in the National Museum of American History. Her former home near the Harvard campus still stands and is now a private residence. But the kitchen was painstakingly removed and reconstructed as a historic artifact currently on display on the ground floor of the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History: Kenneth E. Behring Center, located on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. To be clear, the kitchen you see there is not a museum replica. It is Julia's actual kitchen, complete with her appliances, cookware, furnishings, and an endless number of her favorite cooking tools and gadgets.

I was in Washington, D.C. recently and paid a visit to Julia's kitchen. It was as amazing as I expected it would be; a timeless trip through time. The 14 x 20 space, viewed through three glass viewports placed in the actual door openings that led to other rooms in the house, is like a wonderful time capsule. Julia's pots and pans are outlined and hung on pegboard just as Paul designed. There are no fancy curtains in Julia's kitchen, just simple blinds, open for viewing from the outside now, but once providing a look outward at tree-lined Irving Street. You can see an automatic icemaker tucked away in one corner, a practical necessity for keeping foods fresh during long taping sessions. Sixteen baking sheets rest in vertical slots next to the dishwasher. Oils and vinegars live on a countertop near the stove, with a variety of spices, teas, coffees, and syrups in a cabinet above. Julia liked cats in her kitchen. Maybe not real ones, but you'll see artistic representations of several spotted around the room. Although she relied on the handier electric wall-oven for her TV shows, her “big Garland” still dominates the room. Purchased used for $429 from a Washington, D.C. restaurant and shipped to Cambridge, the six-burner Garland commercial gas stove, big enough to hold two 25-pound turkeys, stands in its place near the main kitchen door. Look carefully and you'll see a handmade needlework sign that depicts Julia's famous “Bon Appetit” catchphrase displayed high on one wall. It was a gift

from a friend. My wife particularly drooled over Julia's gleaming dark blue KitchenAid stand mixer, displayed in its customary place on the counter. A KitchenAid food processor is there, too. It's the one she was using at the time of the Smithsonian's acquisition of her kitchen, having gone through several previous makes and models, including a French prototype of the Robot Coupe that she acquired in the '60s. Her Cuisinart blender is nearby. There's a large butcher's saw hanging on a wall and a huge cleaver, a personalized gift from the WGBH-TV staff. And the mezzaluna hanging up there is......quite impressive. I've got one, too, but it's nothing like that one. You'll notice a unique painting of an artichoke on the wall above the electric oven: it was done by a friend and was one of only two paintings displayed in Julia's kitchen. This one's a reproduction. The original went to Santa Barbara with Julia. Look at the bookcase full of cookbooks. Among copies of her own books and various other reference works, you can spot a copy of “The Joy of Cooking” by Irma Rombauer. Julia kept a “To-Do List” on the counter next to the phone, and yes, that's a lorgnette hanging on the wall above it. Julia used it instead of reading glasses to read fine print.

Bon Appetit! Julia Child's Kitchen at the Smithsonian serves as a centerpiece to the museum’s ongoing Food: Transforming the American Table 1950 – 2000 exhibit. Surrounding the kitchen are numerous signs and displays related to Julia's cooking, her career, and her influence on America's food scene in general. Tapes of one of her programs play on a continuous loop. There's even a life-size cut-out of Julia with which you can pose for a photo-op. (Need you ask? Of course I did.)

Also in the exhibit are areas dedicated to “New and Improved!” consumer goods; “Resetting the Table,” highlighting the immense changes Americans have experienced in what and how they eat, and in how they think and feel about food; and “Wine for the Table,” a fascinating look at American viticulture.

As with all Smithsonian properties, admission to the National Museum of American History is free. While Julia's kitchen is a great attraction, don't miss other important treasures housed at the museum, including Thomas Jefferson's desk, George Washington's uniform, Edison's light bulb, Archie and Edith's chairs from All In The Family, Dorothy's ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz, the Greensboro Lunch Counter, and, of course, the Star-Spangled Banner. Allow yourself plenty of time to explore and absorb everything. The museum is home to more than three million artifacts. Going in with the idea that you can knock it out before lunch will really lessen the experience.

The National Museum of American History is located at 14^th Street and Constitution Avenue NW in Washington, DC. Open daily from 10 am to 5:30 pm, you can call the museum at (202) 633-1000 or visit the website at http://americanhistory.si.edu.

The museum offers quite a delicious plateful. As Julia would say, “Bon appetit!”

The Total Morons On Yelp Who Are Guiding Your Decisions

Don't Whine, Don't Whimper, Don't Cry. And, Above All, Don't Yelp

Anybody who drops by here knows I don't have a lot of use for Yelp and other social media outlets of the sort.  The reason is simple: too much democracy. It's the same reason the Founding Fathers chose a democratic republic for our form of government. In theory, at least, under a republic, ordinary people choose educated and qualified individuals from among their ranks to represent them in the decisions that will affect them. In a true democracy, it's every man for himself. Just throw it all out there and see what sticks. Social media “review” sites operate the same way. Rather than allow qualified, educated critics, reviewers, and guides to provide information on where to go, what to eat, what to see, etc., many people opt, instead, to “Yelp,” thus putting themselves at the mercy of legions of absolute idiots.

I mean, before you go calling me an elitist snob, think about it: how many ordinary people do you know whose advice you would trust implicitly in making an important decision? Oh, sure, some of your trusted friends and maybe a few family members are pretty hip and cool, and they'd be alright to ask. But among the people you meet in the store or pass on the street, how many? The spiky-haired dude on the subway who has so many piercings he looks like he fell face first in a tackle box? The girl with the tattoo of a snake coming up out of her cleavage and wrapping around her neck? How about the redneck biker who lives down the street and blows you out of bed revving up his Harley on Saturday morning? Or the airhead you got behind in line at the supermarket who had to pull out the calculator on her phone to total up the two items in her cart? Are any of these total strangers – emphasis on “strange” – folks you would want giving you opinions on matters of taste? If you're a Yelper, they already are.

CNN recently compiled a bunch of Yelp “reviews” that perfectly illustrate my point. Here are a few of the more mind-numbing ones for your consideration.

A Yelper visiting the Louvre: "Each to their own I guess, but paintings and sculptures just hold little or no interest for me." Then why did you go to........oh, never mind. Same question for the brain trust who went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and commented, “I refuse to pay any amount of money to see antiques collecting dust.” O-o-o-o-k-a-a-ayyyy!

Speaking of experts in antiquities, I really appreciate the opinion of the learned gentleman from Florida who went to see the Colosseum in Rome and came away with this brilliant observation: "Yes, it looks great at night but put some lights up on that abandoned GM Assembly Plant in Detroit and you'd have about the same thing without any long visitor lines.” He's obviously been to a few of Florida's main cultural icons.

While we're in Rome, there's this highly educated “review” of some minor artist named Michelangelo: “After seeing so many other free churches' beautiful ceilings, I was disappointed with the Sistine Chapel's ceiling.” Thanks for the tip, pal. I'll definitely avoid this blatant tourist trap.

You see where I'm going here? These people are amazing!

Boredom is everywhere for these jaded sophisticates. Especially drop-dead dull places like Yellowstone, as described by a Maryland Yelper: "I want to tell you that I am not some nature hating guy. I take my kids hiking. I rock climb. The problem with the place is that it is dull. [But] If you are in the area for some reason it is worth dropping by.” Three million visitors a year and this guy says “it is worth dropping by” if you happen to be in the area with nothing more exciting to do. He's right up there with the guy from Colorado who had a great suggestion for improving the “wow” factor at the Grand Canyon: “As amazing as the views are it is really kind of boring. Every 500 ft a new vantage point of the same thing: a really big hole in the ground...What would [be] nice is segway rentals.” Yeah, that would perk it up for me. People on segways trying to do Evel Knievel. The boredom these jaded reviewers feel even extends to war memorials. Witness this witless wonder from Philadelphia's opinion of the Vietnam War Memorial: “It's a wall with a bunch of names on it. I mean NO disrespect but spice it up a bit. It's kinda boring.” How can it be boring? There are segway tours around there, after all.

I feel like a proctologist. Assholes everywhere I look.

I guess I'm just being unfair because my standards aren't high enough. Obviously, aristocratic people from elite Alpharetta, Georgia who say the Eiffel Tower is "crowded, overrated, and ugly from up close” operate on a totally different plane from the rest of us lower beings. That would be the same plane upon which the San Francisco Yelper lives who offers this sage comment about another Frenchman's work, this one standing in New York Harbor: “As a proud American I wanted to love this, but was grossly underwhelmed... Old Lady Liberty is just that... old.”

And then we come to my favorite Yelpers; the restaurant “reviewers.” The ones who bring their elevated palates all the way from Arcadia, California to Copenhagen to dine at Noma. Of a place with two Michelin stars that has been ranked as the best restaurant in the world four times by Restaurant magazine, our California critic had this to say: “One of the courses literally made me gag but in NOMA, spitting into your napkin would be a like crime so I swallowed it like a bitter pill.” OMG! Somebody tell René Redzepi, International Chef of the Year in 2008 and one of TIME magazine's “100 Most Influential People in the World” in 2012. He'll be devastated.

There's the California girl who one-starred a restaurant after a five word “review:” “Could use some vegan options.” My GOD! How shortsighted! How dare this restaurant not anticipate her personal dietary preferences? I'll bet they didn't offer “gluten-free” options either, the swine. This place should be forced out of business and the owners covered in tofu and ridden out of town on a rail. It's obvious that one star was generous.

I'm inordinately fond of “reviews” like the one put up by somebody who looked at the menu posted in the establishment's window and opted not to eat there because “the food didn't look good.” Or the ones that trash an eatery because the “reviewer” didn't like the décor.

And I liked the one slamming a Kosher place in Boca Raton. The Yelper got all exercised over the fact that the “bacon” wasn't really bacon and the “American cheese” wasn't really cheese. They accused the owners of dishonesty and when the traditional Jewish nature of the place was explained to them, they huffed and puffed about going to a restaurant, not a synagogue and finished their one-star “review” with an asinine comment: “Since when is it a sin to go to a restaurant, be a Christian, and expect to get the food you ordered? I WILL NEVER RETURN. FOR GODSAKE PASS THIS ON TO THE FOLKS YOU CARE ABOUT!!!”

And then there was the brilliant Yelper who one-starred a Jewish restaurant for being closed on a Jewish holiday.

I've written my fair share of negativity regarding Olive Garden, but the “review” posted by a Yelper from Cerritos, California truly humbles my best effort: “A while back, our little family went with our $50 gift card to the Cerritos Olive Garden, had some piss-poor salad, some pasta that tasted like ass, some meat that tasted like ass, and some bread that was probably good when it was baked, but had gone tough in the last billion years and now tasted like ass. The service was actually really good, and I felt bad for the young man who had to carry that shit around and pretend it was anything but ass. 'Excuse me, sir, how was your serving of ass? Did you enjoy the ass tonight? Would you like me to box the leftover ass to take home?' Poor guy. Don't nobody give us another Olive Garden gift card. I'll fucking kill you.” Definitively proving that the only ass involved here was the one writing the “review.”

And Yelpers often write helpful “reviews” aimed at assisting the common folk who eat at fast-food places. Like this one for Wendy's: “This place is BAWLIN' yo. Chicken nuggitz be crispy like you never SEEN. I tasted one and I was like 'WHAAAAT! Are you serious Wendy?' Mean girls workin the friers, tho. This one chick wouldn't even let me holla. I was like 'please you ugly anyway.'” That just says it all, right?

Coffee shops get “reviewed,” too. “Hmm… Where to start. The joint’s cool until I got banned for making a pass at one of their barista. Apparently asking their co-worker if she (the intended) was gay, was a big no-no in their java world. Oh, and I asked their Asian-looking chick, if she was Asian. That too; was a violation. Yawn !!”

Yelp gets millions of such submissions a month. These educated, erudite, intellectual paragons of taste are the people to whom you are turning for guidance and advice. I can't wrap my head around it. It's like giving millions of children boxes of crayons and telling them to create fine art. A few might get close, but the vast majority will turn out stuff of a quality you won't even want to display on your refrigerator much less in a gallery or a museum. Substitute a computer keyboard for the crayons and you are essentially allowing the same group of people to dictate where you're going to go, where you're going to stay, what you're going to eat, and what you're going to see.

I recently stayed at a nice hotel where I enjoyed a long weekend. The only negative came from a couple of selfish idiots ensconced across the hall with their duo of yapping little mutts. The hotel staff was practically apoplectic with apology and did their very best to ameliorate the inconvenience, which only lasted until the selfish miscreants checked out after one night. The little critters were quiet during the overnight hours and the time I was subjected to their yodeling and yapping was brief because I didn't spend a lot of time in my room other than overnight. No harm, no foul. The management offered to relocate me to another room. They tendered generous discounts. They apologized incessantly and were extremely grateful that I had brought the matter to their attention. All because they feared I was going to be one of “those people” who would take to the Internet and trash the entire hotel because of an isolated act of ignorance on the part of a pair of fellow travelers. Hey. The management called their cellphone. They knocked on the door of the room. And when they finally caught up with the cretins, they told them to control their dogs. What else could they do? Call in the local animal shelter's SWAT team with tranquilizers and cages? So, no, I'm not going to go on Yelp and trash the hotel. There was nothing wrong with the hotel. Just with some of the idiots in one of the rooms. But unfortunately, Yelp brings out the worst in petty whiners and empowers them to express their footling concerns to the detriment of businesses already struggling in an uphill battle to please an increasingly demanding public. The results are often higher prices and scaled back services as owners and managers strive to provide the least risky options directed at the lowest common denominator. Thanks a lot, Yelp.

Bottom line, as everybody in the service industry will tell you, if you've got a problem with a hotel, a restaurant, or an attraction, bring it directly to the attention of management. Don't whine, don't whimper, don't cry. And, above all, don't Yelp.