Slight exaggeration, folks — I’m fine. Just trying to drop a few unwanted pounds, and feeling that all-too-common side-effect of dieting: a craving for everything. So, of course, I’ve been torturing myself with memories of the best meals ever . . . and especially the ones I’ve savored in various parts of the world.

My favorite cousins (they know who they are, back there in Virginia) love eating in restaurants. Nothing wrong with that. What has always fascinated me, though, is their ability to remember every restaurant they’ve eaten in, in every locale they’ve visited, and every meal they’ve had in each place. Amazing. While I, on the other hand, only remember the very best.

In Washington (D.C.), where I’ve spent most of my life, there would be too many to list. When I first moved there as a teenager with my family, Washington was still a rather small, provincial city, with very little to recommend it as far as restaurants, theater and night life were concerned. But it has expanded nicely in all those areas since then. Still, the three favorites that stand out in my memory are all from years past, and — sadly — no longer exist. Maybe that’s why I still long for them. They were Costin’s Sirloin Room, The 923 Restaurant, and a little place called Yummy Yogurt: as diverse a collection as one could imagine.

Costin’s was the elegant place in which I passed out and hit the floor in the middle of dinner on my 30th birthday . . . but I’ve already covered that charming incident in an earlier chapter. Their food was the real star of the show: an enormous slab of prime rib of beef done precisely as ordered (medium rare for me) and so tender it could be cut with a fork; the perfectly-baked potato heaped with sour cream; a crispy fresh salad; and a slice of fluffy rum pie to top it all off. A gastronomic orgy, to be sure!

The 923 was named for its address: 923 Fifteenth Street, N.W. It was below street level, situated beneath a bank building, and had a darkish atmosphere conducive to lingering. I only ever ordered one thing from their menu, because it was so good I never wanted anything else: Liver Bavarian. (All you liver haters, please stop gagging — it’s not polite.) It wasn’t a big slice of meat, but tender strips, in a magnificent brown gravy with onions, served atop a pile of wide noodles. Simple, satisfying, and obviously memorable, because I’ve never managed to forget it. I’ve tried recreating it at home, but without success.

As for Yummy Yogurt, it was just what the name implies: a place that served up a wide variety of delicious frozen yogurt treats. But they also had a lunch counter with hot foods, and my absolute favorite was a taco salad served in one of those big, fluted taco shells, with layers of ground meat seasoned to perfection, red beans, chopped tomatoes and lettuce, shredded Cheddar, all topped with a great mound of sour cream . . . OMG, I’m drooling!

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But enough about Washington — I’ve still got a lot of cities to cover.

Cape Cod: No contest; even the big, crispy friend clams took second place. Because at a waterside restaurant in Barnstable called Mattakeese Wharf, you could order a large baked lobster stuffed with the most delicious, rich, moist cracker stuffing, which in turn was host to a dozen (I counted them) large, tender scallops. It was enough food for a group, but I managed to down the whole thing — I just couldn’t stop. I did, however, barely taste whatever the side dishes were . . . and wisely skipped dessert.

Alaska: Salmon, salmon everywhere. But the hands-down best was the salmon filet roasted over an open fire in a clearing by a wooded area supposedly populated by an unknown number of bears (we didn’t see any). It didn’t matter that it happened to be a cold, rainy evening; we were under canopies, the company was delightful, and the food was phenomenal.

London: Sorry, my British brethren, but there really was nothing memorable about the food; it was fine, but not special. Maybe I just didn’t hit the right places. I did, however, have a really good breakfast — after dancing at a disco until 3:00 a.m. — in a 24-hour diner where a customer slam-dunked a waiter for some unknown reason, and they quickly made up like gentlemen while the rest of the customers simply went on eating. That was fun.

Budapest: A local attorney took us to a neighborhood restaurant outside the tourist area, where he chose the menu. I could have done without the steak tartare (not fond of raw meat with a raw egg mixed in); but the inevitable goulash earned its reputation that night: tender beef and vegetables, savory gravy, warm, fragrant, and completely soul-satisfying. Also loved the accompanying Gypsy musicians . . . and I mustn’t forget to mention the incredible Viennese pastries at Cafe Gerbeaud another afternoon. Loved Budapest then; very sad about their Prime Minister now. But that’s a whole other story.

Prague: Oh, where to begin? In my three months there, I was introduced to at least a couple of dozen fantastic places. But the one I frequented most was the simplest, most rustic of all, that I labeled “the chicken place.” It was outside the center of the city, in a log house nestled in a thinly wooded area. In the center of the huge room was a long, blazing fire pit, and over the fire was a spit that held at least a dozen juicy, dripping chickens. As often as I went there, the staff quickly learned that that was what I always wanted to order. And there was yet another group of Gypsy musicians, who singled me out for serenading when they saw that I loved their music. And I was a really good tipper. The meal cost the equivalent of about $5.00; the tips were way more.

Berlin: It’s not just one dish that stands out, but the entire meal. Our group from the cruise ship (we had ridden the train down from the Baltic port of Warnemunde) was treated to a pre-arranged buffet luncheon in a large downtown restaurant in a business complex. It was a perfect example of “go big or go home” — an enormous buffet table with every kind of German food imaginable. And it wasn’t just the quantity that was outstanding; each and every dish was superb. I can still taste the sauerbraten, dumplings, and sweet-and-sour red cabbage. Wunderbar!

Copenhagen: In one of the restaurants at Tivoli Gardens, I had the best filet of sole I had ever tasted . . . up to that time. I didn’t think anything could beat it, but then there was . . .

Stockholm: During our tour (from the same cruise), we had free time for lunch on our own. We wandered into a square near the Royal Palace, and found several restaurants. One had the most people seated outside, so we chose that one. We had to sit indoors where it wasn’t so crowded, but that was fine. And it was there that I learned that, no matter how good something is, there can always be something better. In this case, the filet of sole again. The folks of Scandinavia sure do know their fish, and what to do with it!

Tbilisi (Georgia): A fascinating place, with a slightly dangerous vibe. And fabulous food. I went with the Chicken Tabaka one evening — a popular local dish that somehow made chicken seem exotic. It’s the seasonings, whatever they are. And then we watched the restaurant owner add up the bill for our whole group on an antique abacus. That was in 1988; I assume they’ve upgraded since then . . . but maybe not. It was part of the charm.

Moscow: I was busy working there, and didn’t eat out much. I did find that the McDonald’s burgers were way better than in the U.S. — locally-sourced everything, nothing frozen. But the best meals were those prepared in the homes of my Russian friends. There is truth in the adage that the most important ingredient in any dish is love. There is nothing, in my experience, like Russian hospitality and the sincere warmth of the Russian people. (The government, of course, is something else again.)

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That’s enough food for now. Suffice it to say, while I haven’t had many bad gastronomic experiences in my travels, I have had quite a few winners. I feel truly sorry for people who hesitate to travel abroad because of the strangeness of the customs and the food. They’re missing one of life’s greatest joys.

And now, friends, it’s time for my low-cal lunch. Oh, well . . .

TTFN,
Brendochka
9/3/23