Who else was distraught when they saw the photos of Obama in Ben’s Chili Bowl? I mean, I love going there on Saturday around noontime in the winter. I always sit at the table that he and Fenty occupied to nosh on their half-smokes. Why wasn’t I there this weekend to give up my seat for our new Presi? Such remorseful thoughts plague me, like when I hear about his family touring the Newseum or the Lincoln Monument. Missed chances. Hmph.

Thus I begin my proactive approach to meeting the new man. On Sunday, I hauled Lauren down 16th Street to take a look at Camp Hay Adams, a.k.a. Obama Temporary Home. We saw lots of Secret Service folks, but no O’s. More impressive were the temporary stands they’ve constructed in front of the White House. Here are some pics from the scene, sadly sans B:

I really wanted to love Founding Farmers. However, while a treasure trove for Michael Pollanates, it’s not paradise for the gourmands and value-seekers of this world. Sure, their food is sustainable, mostly local, and generally good, but it falls short of being a Citysifting great—for now at least.

Its concept and name are both strong. Described on its website:

The Founding Farmers name represents a combination of ideas: it is a celebration of the land, and the American family farmer; it is a nod to the founding fathers of our country, many of whom owned and farmed land that surrounds Washington, DC; and it is a place where true, sustainably farmed, grown and harvested American foods reminiscent of traditions from across the land are brought to our guests.

Nice. I like sustainable things, and the clever name. And, if not my favorite restaurant design, the interior is interesting, from the cotton chandeliers to the community tables, which encourage diners to chat about—I don’t know—sustainable farming. All in all, it’s a nice dining experience, save for the main problem: TOO MANY ITEMS ON THE MENU. Such a syndrome means diners a) suffer from the paradox of choice while ordering, b) fear that nothing can be truly outstanding when the cooks have so many (and wildly different) entrees to prepare, and c) have trouble reading their menu because these cumbersome laminated beasts bump into one another as you try to maneuver them.

The food? In an attempt to make this post the second in my soup series, I ordered the Roasted Tomato Soup ($6) and the Late Harvest Salad ($7). The soup was not good; in fact, our waiter gave me the split pea and ham (that day’s soup special) when I told her I wasn’t pleased. The next bowl of soup was equally small, but more fulfilling. It tasted healthy (not in a good way) and needed salt, but it was acceptable. The salad was solid—a small plate filled with spinach, caramelized onions, large bacon chunks, and blue cheese. My dining partner’s meal was much more impressive, but priced accordingly: The $24 plate of diver’s scallops and pumpkin risotto made for a lovely flavor combo, and the scallops were perfectly cooked. That said, both of us were distraught by the heavy, oddly shaped silverware—they made the process of eating just about as difficult as the aforementioned process of reading the menu. We ended on a gigantic slice of $8 carrot cake, with a dobble of homemade vanilla ice cream. It was good, but it was eight bucks!

Located in the IMF building in Foggy Bottom/Farragut West, it’ll take some pleading from my sustainable cronies to get me back there. But I’ll go again—maybe for some spring greens.

Okay, I get it. Change is in the air. And that’s a good thing when it comes to governmental matters. But Annie’s—my dear neighborhood restaurant—why did you have to change?

“There have been lots of menus thrown at us,” says our waiter, when we, like many of their clients, complain about the new menu. “Most of the stuff is still the same,” she continues, “We’re still the same old Annie’s.”

Ahem. Same old Annie’s, times two—in price that is. Instead of the old dictionary-menu of barbecue pork sandwiches and fried shrimp platters (all with reasonable prices), Annie’s now offers a sleek, rectangular two-pager listing entrées you’d only order for an anniversary. But here we are at my favorite place, and while we briefly consider throwing the menu at the owner (where is she???) and marching out like others have done before us, we decide to clean out our wallets for one last hurrah.

The verdict? I ordered my “splurge” dish—the queen cut of prime rib—only because it was one of the few items that didn’t go up much in price. (It’s now $26.95, instead of $24). It tasted the same. Delicious as always, and I appreciated the new au jus container. The oval dinner plates from the “olden days” accommodated the slab of beef better (being easier to maneuver and containing the juices a bit better), but the new square plates do make for a better photo—for anyone who cares about the way their food looks. The prime rib is no longer served with a dinner salad, but sensing my duress, the waiter gave me one anyway. The popover is new too, but it’s nothing special.

My fellow diners each ordered the cheapest thing on the menu next to the $13 hamburgers: The $15.95 plate of sliders. Stefan chose the mini-burgers; Lauren, the fried chicken sandwiches. Presentation again was nice, if you’re wowed by the deconstructed look: the lettuce, tomato, and pickle were stacked on the outside of the bun, affixed with a party toothpick. And the portions were huge, with three decent-sized sandwiches on each plate. But is this something that either of them will start dreaming about on a weekday night, drooling so that they mobilize themselves to visit the restaurant? No. Especially not for $15.95. Me? I won’t be back for a while, and we certainly won’t drop in here again looking for a reasonably priced meal on a Tuesday night in January.

And I’m guessing we’re not alone. For a restaurant that’s essentially served the same unpretentious meals for over 50 years—at reasonable, “weekday” prices—there will be plenty of clients that will stop frequenting the place, and maybe (or so I pray), Annie’s will revert to the way things were. Until then, I mourn the loss of an era. It was good while it lasted, right?

In Search of Soup

Obviously, I like this city. And for the most part, it offers everything I’d want a big city to offer. But where, oh where, is the soup? I’m freezing cold and all I want is a hot take-out-pint of corn chowder or beef and barley. Instead, I pass by the multitudes of D.C.’s new frozen yogurt shops, completely devoid of customers—and wish they’d take the hint and serve up something hot in the winter like, say, vats of gumbo. Alas, until this happens or Charlottesville’s Revolutionary Soup decides to open up shop here, I’m on a search to find the best soups in the city. To be found, as far as I can tell, at restaurants that are NOT sole soup sellers. First up, the French onion soup at Cafe du Parc:

Gobs of broiled Gruyère cheese atop broth-soaked croûtons and chunks of caramelized onions make Cafe Du Parc’s rendition of  Soupe à l’oignon the best I’ve ever had. (And I have been to Paris.) The 10-dollar bowl of soup, plus the crusty French bread served along side it, will fill you up, though I’ve heard great things about their mussels too. Tip: I’ve had two bowls of this artery-clogging soup, and I’ve found that it settles better when you eat it midday. Try taking a walk on the Mall first to get optimally cold, stop in for a hot bowl around lunchtime (the restaurant is located right next to the Willard Intercontinental Hotel), then walk up to the White House or the Hay-Adams Hotel to stalk the Obama family. Yes, this is my idea of a perfect day!

I’ll be covering my best soup experiences here on Citysifting intermittently for the next month, but I’m eager to hear your favorites as well. Know of a place that I should try?

Apologies for Citysifting’s unannounced vacation. Its author had to make a quick trip to New York to visit college friends, followed by a flight to her home town on Christmas Eve. Between all the present buying, opening, and processing, she found little time to blog. So here comes New Year’s resolution #1, made public here to stick me to this. Blog regularly. Okay, now I’ve committed and we can move on with things. For those of you who want more Argentina, I’ve made two photo galleries on Facebook: Buenos Aires and Mendoza. For those who want me to actually blog about what this blog’s supposed to be about, rest assured that I have no trips on my calendar in the foreseeable future. Citysifting will be, as its skillfully sketched banner suggests, all D.C., all the time. At least until P and I buy tickets to Iceland.

Before closing this out, let me offer a few photos to highlight the past two weeks of my delinquency. The Canon was with me after all…

#1: My first visit to MoMA. I was in heaven as I stood before one of my favorite paintings for the first time. A framed print of Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon hangs in my bedroom in Ogden, but to see these women in their original form—10 times larger than the print I used to look at daily—was quite overwhelming.

#2: Sledding in Mount Ogden Park. We had a few good snowstorms while P and I were at home in Ogden. While snow means shoveling, it also allows for great sledding in the park just behind our house. The family went without me one day, but I joined them on the second. How would you like to have this in your backyard?

#3: (One of) the best gift(s) of Christmas.We were spoiled with gifts this year, so much so that we had to check an additional suitcase filled with our loot. We received lots of worthy treats, but a favorite, that’s already improving our daily life, is Apple’s Airport Extreme. Our wireless is super speedy now. Thanks Dad! But a photo of a small white box is hardly interesting, so instead, I give you a video of the “collective” favorite gift of Christmas: the Wii Fit, and more specifically, Sean White’s Snowboarding game. A video to close out the year:

(Pardon me, but I have to interrupt the Argentine narrative with some sentimental D.C. coverage. I miss my own city!!!!)

On Sunday, Patten and I laced up our walking shoes and bundled up to prepare for a walk on the Mall. Obama had us both in the mood for some Lincoln, so we opted for the 5-mile loop that included the Mall’s west side. For me, the Mall is best in winter. This may have something to do with the fact that I first saw the Mall on a cold winter day, and it reminds me of that initial awe. But there’s something else going on here. For one thing, there are significantly fewer people walking about. Secondly, those who are, use quieter voices—snowless winter days don’t beg for screams and shouts. And, without the growth of spring, the oppressive heat of summer, or the colors of fall, the monuments really stick out amongst the bland elements of winter. One is truly with the monuments, and has the peace to reflect on their existence. I’m sounding quite dramatic about this thing we call the Mall, but I’d be lying if I said i didn’t feel that immense sense of pride for my country as I stare up at Lincoln in his chair, or peer out at the reflecting pool—laden with Canada Geese navigating through the small sheets of ice that have formed overnight—and beyond, to the Washington Monument and the pointed dome of the Capitol. All of this, magnified in winter:

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There’s nothing better than having an excuse to eat ice cream daily—which was a regimen we followed throughout our two-week trip. BA is known for its helados (ice cream), and you’ll find a heladeria on every other block. Every local we asked had a favorite brand. In fact, while paying for our double scoop at Dylan (my favorite heladeria in San Telmo), we told the worker that we liked his ice cream best. “No, no,” he said, “Persicco is the best.”

We tried all the big names—Freddo, Volta, and Persicco—and the smaller independent stores. And the honest truth is that it all tastes amazing. The ice cream has this creamy, yet sticky consistency—like it’s infused with marshmallow puff. Each store offers about 50 flavors, each in their own fancy silver canisters—a very high class way to store ice cream, we decide, compared to the ice-crusted glass freezers and 3-gallon paper buckets common in U.S. ice cream shops. The most popular flavor is dulce de leche—and each shop has its own version. Whether filled with almonds or chocolate or just plain, this rich caramel flavor is so sweet and creamy, you swear you’ll never consume it again. But… yes, I consistently ordered it.

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While nearly everything in Buenos Aires is a bargain to Americans due to the exchange rate, hotels are not. Tourism has seen a huge jump since the country’s economic crisis of 2002—for the very reason that everything’s so affordable—and hotels have responded. One night at the city’s poshest digs, The Alvear Palace, will set you back about $800 US dollars, and that’s for the smallest room. Even the Hilton and Marriott are pricey, starting at around $230 and $250, respectively. For a two-week trip, Patten and I couldn’t begin to think about paying that nightly. So, we rented an apartment in San Telmo through ByT Argentina (their website looks a little shoddy, but they were very professional), with the help of my on-ground expert who assured us that the location was in a safe and charming location. Price: $345 for the week. The apartment agent was waiting for us when we arrived from the airport, and as their policy requests, you have to pay twice the cost of the room upfront as collateral. (On your last day, the agent comes back and returns your deposit). The apartment looked just like the photos (shown here), however, what we couldn’t “see” or “hear” in the photos was the pervasive smell of mothballs and the paper thin walls: we could hear just about everything our neighbors were doing. But overall, we were in a great location with a comfortable bed at a ridiculously affordable rate. Oh yes, and a computer with fast internet access.

After our first week in Buenos Aires, we went to Mendoza for four days, then returned to Buenos Aires for two nights. This time we wanted to stay in an opposite location: If San Telmo is the New Orleans of BA, then Palermo is Miami Beach—gritty history and traditional cafes vs. trendy boutiques and fusion cuisine. Each neighborhood had it’s appeal, and while Patten and I preferred San Telmo for its uniqueness, Palermo certainly had its charms, and we loved the place we stayed. Gorriti 4290 is no Ritz, but it was charming, impeccably clean, and inexpensive: $75 for the one room with a private bathroom (which is where we stayed), and $45-55 for the rooms with shared baths. The owner Hernan became our lifeline: booking us shuttle tickets to the Pampas (more on that later) and opening his doors for our bags much earlier and later than check-in and check-out times. Housed in an old four story home, the bathroom fixtures and shower head were ancient—and functioned like they were ancient—but the room was gigantic compared to the other hotel rooms we’d seen in the city. The TV was about the size of Patten’s head, but the bed was very comfortable. And lastly: While I probably shouldn’t review a place by its guests, Gorriti’s guests added to the charming experience: a couple from Atlanta that decided to leave their jobs/home for one year to learn Spanish and “just live” in Argentina (they were staying at Gorrit while looking for an apartment to rent), and a loquacious hearing-aid project manager from Switzerland who was prepping to bicycle through Patagonia. Your night’s stay comes with breakfast, which included the ubiquitous medialunas and other pastries, as well as coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice.

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While we had a trip with few regrets, one was not arranging a guided tour of Recoleta Cemetery. This place is absolutely fascinating: 6,400 mausoleums of all sizes and shapes, holding the bodies and/or ashes of some of Buenos Aires’s wealthiest citizens. Though I can’t find an actual price tag, people say that per square foot Recoleta Cemetery contains the priciest real estate in the city. This is not the green acre cemetery we’re familiar with in the U.S., but rather a concrete and marble jungle, which makes the prospect of being here alone at night, all the more creepy. Many of the tombs are in severe disrepair: You can actually look through their broken glass doors to discover layers and layers of coffins in their depths, or at face level, as pictured above, destroyed shrines. To get you in the mood, here is a 45 second audio clip of the “sounds of the cemetery,” to be played while scrolling through our photos. (Meows are courtesy of Patten, as he tries to coax one of the cemetery’s 75 wild cats.)