Goodies First

Cafe Hon

I've never quite understood why lampooning certain white folk stereotypes like rednecks, hillbillies, guidos, WASPs and I guess hipsters  is considered fair game for anyone but poking fun of other ethnicities or religions is off limits. Really, I think everyone should be made fun, but that's neither here nor there.

I wasn't sure what to make of the whole "hon" phenomena in Baltimore (and apparently, a backlash is growing, so I'm not alone in my feelings). There's a fine line between homage and parody, and I realize the reverence for a gum chomping, cat-eye glass wearing, big-haired, working class archetype that's fading from the city's fabric is a harmless form of kitsch gone mainstream.

But it's strange. I couldn't imagine a New York version. The best example I can come up with would be if a younger, wealthier more educated demographic moved into, say, Bay Ridge (Staten Island might be more fitting after this incident) and started a guido movement complete with festivals where guys showed up with orange tans, waxed eyebrows, hair gelled into impossible spikes, gold chains, smooth muscled skin encased in form fitting tank tops.

And then someone opened a place called Café Guido and decked it out with lots of marble, Greek columns and lion statues. Actually, that would be kind of funny. But I don't know if would fly because guidos are steroidal and aggro. And you know, buildings have been known to mysteriously burn down.

So no, I don't think Café Hon is offensive, I just like tangents about strange snowballs of appropriated culture. And don't think that the clientele is mostly youngsters (though here, and nearly everywhere I went had at least one large group of Asians. I came to the conclusion that they must be Johns Hopkins students because the girls looked nerdy studious not quirky cutesy like the ones white dudes in Brooklyn like to date). When I was there for brunch, there were plenty of cranky old people. One gentleman with an oxygen tank couldn't get over the fact that there were no hot dogs or hamburgers on the brunch menu. He'd have to wait until 4pm for the burger on the dinner menu and hot dogs weren't going to happen at any hour.

The food is fine, nothing special. I had an omelet with bacon potatoes and sausage. I don't think my toast was buttered, and that didn't seem right.

James had something with grits and a biscuit.

I have no idea what goes on at the Red Men's Hall around the corner from the café, but it certainly seems like a relic of "hon" culture.

Cafe Hon * 1002 W. 36th St., Baltimore, MD

Henninger's Tavern

1/2 I wanted to eat one “nice” meal in Baltimore. But defining nice isn’t easy. To me, nice is…well, if I had to use adjectives: upscale, modern and I guess intimate, though that sounds gross. Baltimore doesn’t have an Allen & Delancey or a Momofuku Ko (I’d have taken Ssam). And I guess this is why NYC is more unique than I give it credit for. It’s hard to complain about our dining options.

It appears that in Baltimore the more expensive restaurants are either a stodgy place you’d take a parent or have a business lunch or flashy and clubby likely serving mediocre tapas or pan-Asian food.

Woodberry Kitchen had potential but felt a bit precious and too locavore for my tastes. In my own version of eating local, I decided it would be best to choose a restaurant that could only be in Baltimore with an atmosphere unique to the city.

Henninger’s Tavern fit the profile perfectly. You enter through the bar; the narrow train car-esque dining room is off to the left. The walls are crammed with ephemera, pink elephant mobiles hang from the ceiling. If the word wasn’t so overused, I’d almost say it felt like a speakeasy, though one that organically evolved rather than born of strategic design. Not some Taavo Somer production but a gussied up chophouse with a sense of humor. The only place I can compare it to in NYC might be the rebounding Marion’s.

 

The food is a little fancy, not wildly creative, but solid. Still kind of full of pit beef from a late lunch, I probably didn’t need an appetizer at all. I still split an order of fried oysters just because I wanted them. And the breaded orbs sauced with a pernod-spiked cream dotted with fennel seeds certainly weren’t light.

Fisherman’s stew was similar to a Portuguese caldeirada de peixe, except that there wasn’t any fish in it. There was a mound of shrimp, clams, mussels and octopus atop a substantial fried crouton that absorbed the sauce and turned into a soft edible bread sponge.

We finished with a slice of peanut butter pie because I like my desserts sweet, fatty and American. It was 4th of July weekend. 

I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that they drink more in Baltimore than in NYC. To be more accurate, I was compelled to drink more in Baltimore than in NYC. In both bars and restaurants, servers are quick to bring drinks and eager to bring you more, there’s a palpable sense of disappointment when you say that you’re good. The atmosphere lends itself to drunkenness, kind of like Portland. I still can’t determine if my current wholly reasonable level of alcohol intake is because I’m no longer in my 20s or because I’m no longer in Portland.

After a pre-dinner whiskey sour at Henninger’s and two glasses of pinot noir with my meal, we moved onto the bar at the top of the Belvedere Hotel, which apparently has a salsa night on Saturdays. Strange because Baltimore didn’t strike me as a Latino hotbed (though we did drive through a strip of tacquerias and Mexican bodegas). A good portion of the crowd was made up of youngish white urban professionals but there were also middle aged Puerto Rican couples so what do I know. A margarita and gin and tonic were consumed there.

Then it was onto the Mount Royal Tavern, near the art school, which probably explains the bad art displayed on the walls. I went to art school so I know what I speak of, though I can say that I never made pencil sketches of Bob Marley in the privacy of my home let alone showed them in public. I had a pint of Magic Hat and a can of Natty Boh.

Following James’s trail of bars that he frequented 15 years ago we headed to Club Charles where we were half-heartedly carded and drank a gin and tonic. I was most taken with a girl who had ’50 cotton candy textured bleached white hair. There is most definitely a John Waters-influenced contingent thriving in Baltimore. I also observed that Goths are still alive and well but hang out a few buildings up the block.

That should’ve been it and 2am was rapidly approaching anyway. But James wanted to see the new and not necessarily improved Rendezvous Lounge, which apparently had moved kitty corner from its old location at some point in time, for all I know a decade ago. Supposedly in the early ’90s, the bar was of its era, filled with kitsch and playing the likes of Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash. I know the type of place.

Well, now it looks like a boarded up condemned house with only the faintest hint of signage, the letters long gone. I will grant that my perception was way off at this point, and perhaps it was actually a lovely, warm inviting space and not the barebones counter with shelves of liquor for sale (you can see in this photo—ignore the text which bizarrely uses the adjective “stylish”).

There was only one other female patron, and minus her presence we were the only other white customers. I’m overly sensitive to feeling out of place, though, with all social strata and ethnicities. I don't think I have an element. It’s not that I have a problem with anyone (except bar-goers with strollers) I just fear that others will have a problem with me.

Never mind drunk driving, drunk shopping is more dangerous. We ended up at a large 24-hour supermarket buying Saga blue cheese, Little Debbie Zebra cakes, pizza-flavored Combos, a giant potato rosemary focaccia and a plastic bag of creamed chipped beef. It was only then that I could call it a night.

Henninger’s Tavern * 1812 Bank St., Baltimore, MD

Duda's Tavern

Our attempt at post-dinner harbor-side firework watching was thwarted when a rainstorm kicked in and we were umbrella-less. I can take or leave fireworks so I wasn’t heartbroken that we missed most of the display while trying to find parking in Fell’s Point (it was still nothing compared to NYC scrambling for spots).

James wanted to pop into the Wharf Rat, a place he’d been a million years ago. I would’ve gone anywhere because I didn’t know enough about the city to be discriminating. Fell’s Point Unfortunately, it was temporarily closed with a handwritten sign that the staff had left to watch the fireworks. I got the impression that Thames Street is Baltimore’s Bourbon/Beale/South Street, the bar-lined meat-heady strip that all cities seem to have.

I wasn’t extremely hungry because I’d just eaten half a dozen crabs (well, five out of 12) but I did want to try a crab cake while in Baltimore and I knew nearby Duda’s was rumored to serve an exemplary specimen.

This turned out to be true, and in no time we were presented with a loose baseball-sized mass of lump crab meat minus a lot of nonsense holding it together. Listed as market price, I was wondering what the damage would be. $13.99, as it worked out; a good deal considering crab cakes here tend to be flat, pancakey, 50% filler and cost at least as much.

Two packets of saltine crackers, potato chips, tartar sauce and a choice of coleslaw or potato salad come on the side.

I intended to eat another crab cake the following day at Faidleys but I ended up getting distracted by pit beef instead. Now I’ll never know how Duda’s version stacks up against the local competition.

Duda’s Tavern * 1600 Thames St., Baltimore, MD

Chaps Pit Beef

To be honest, I was kind of disinterested in pit beef. I knew that it was a regional form of barbecue but I’m not one who goes gaga over piles of smoked (which this isn’t, technically it’s grilled) meat. But as I’ve often found with vacation food, you never know what will be a hit. We ended up at Chaps two days in a row, despite a big poster of Guy Fieri near the order window. That’s saying something.

You generally eat pit beef, cooked rare and sliced thin, as a sandwich on a kaiser roll. It’s nothing like Arby’s, though on the surface that’s how the sandwiches appear. But they do have a horsey sauce kept on ice in one of a handful of squeeze bottles provided for doctoring. Plain thick horseradish is the traditional condiment. I added the chilled spicy white sauce, Tabasco sauce and a few pickles. Perfection.

With a side of fries and an indoor picnic table (I’m very pro-air conditioning) you have a fine meal. It’s not as if the outdoor view is particularly noteworthy anyway. Chaps is next door to a gentleman’s club and this strip of the Pulaski Highway is lined with liquor stores, adult book stores, convenience stores and little else.

Of interest to me because I’m a reuben fan despite rarely eating them, was their special board advertising its sister sandwich, the rachel. I’ve heard of this treat that swaps corned beef and sauerkraut for turkey and coleslaw but I’ve never seen one first hand. I still haven’t seen one up close. A guy in line behind us ordered one but I didn’t want to stare.

We got sandwiches and ribs to go on the way out of town and I’m glad we did because there’s nothing grosser than a New Jersey turnpike rest stop Sunday night at the tail end of a holiday weekend. I did have to wait in a 40+ deep line to use the bathroom at one point but I wasn’t about to queue for heat lamp Roy Rogers fare when we had the real deal in the car. We did grab some paper bags and napkins from the chain to use as barriers on the storm-soaked picnic tables beyond the parking lot, though.

We ate the ribs for dinner when we got home around 9pm rather than the anticipated late afternoon. I don’t think we will be driving anywhere July 4, 2009.

Chaps Pit Beef * 5801 Pulaski Highway, Baltimore, MD

Bo Brooks

1/2 This wouldn’t be the first time that my out-of-town eating plans were thwarted by the vacations of others. Taking time off during summer? Restaurateurs don’t make a habit out of warm weather breaks in NYC. Uglesich’s (before it closed for good) and a handful of other places were shuttered when I was last in New Orleans, and like every tapas place on my list was out of commission the week I was in Barcelona two summers ago.

It didn’t occur to me that my first place crab house choice, Mr. Bill’s Terrace, might have the entire week beginning July 4th off. It’s a shame because I was liking what I was seeing on the way to Essex (I’m not sure if that’s a neighborhood or township): Teenagers with carp moustaches and non-ironic fedoras topping long frizzy locks. I spied timewarp youngsters that could out-hesher the best the Northwest has to offer. Scrawny Jack Sprat men in denim cutoffs and (once again, non-ironic) trucker hats with enormous wives were not rare either. I saw more wheelchairs in Baltimore in two-and-a-half days than I’ve practically seen in a decade in NYC (I’ve never understood what the big deal with using the handicapped stall was because no one here seems to be in need of them, but at a Nordstrom bathroom there were two disabled women waiting to use one). And cats just sit in the middle of the road, not even flinching when drive up near them (I would never hit an animal—we drove up on a belligerent feline to try and figure out why it wouldn’t move. It seemed that it simply didn’t want to).

And I liked what I saw when we arrived at the windowless box of a restaurant. I could smell peppery-sweet Old Bay in the air. I imagined Keno, pitchers of beer and the lingering stench of cigarette smoke despite a half-year indoor ban being in effect. But everything was locked up tight. We only found out that they were closed for the week when a woman in the parking lot told us so. No, I never call ahead when trying new restaurants.

I racked my brain for choice number two, Costas Inn, which I didn’t think was terribly far from where we were (nothing in Baltimore seemed a great distance from each other). We weren’t making the same mistake again and called to confirm they were open for dinner on Independence Day. They were, but uh, they didn’t have any crabs. I was starting to lose hope.

Dramatically, a severe thundershower struck adding a literal dampening to my already floundering spirits.
I had ignored James’s favorite Baltimore crab house, Obrycki’s, because it’s some weird tradition he has with his family and I hate family traditions. I wanted to do my own thing and at 6:30pm it didn’t seem likely to get in without reservations.

The only other option I had stored in memory was Bo Brooks. It was the dead opposite of Mr. Bill’s. Some places you have to look past the dump to admire the food. Here, you had to get over the cheesy vibe. I kind of knew it would be touristy but didn’t realize how much so, like a chain, maybe Margaritaville (even though I’ve never been to one), sterile, corporate, but with a good view of the harbor (it was the only one with outdoor seating, not that I ever choose alfresco over air conditioning) and substantial crabs.

Certainly, the fact that they serve crabs all year long when the other eateries don’t is telling. Not that I have any locavore tendencies. I couldn’t tell the difference between imported Asian crabs and Chesapeake blue crabs in a million years.

Crabs are not cheap anywhere—there aren’t bargains to really be had short of catching them yourself. Bo Brooks had large, extra large, jumbo and colossal. Our extra large dozen set us back $75. They certainly were hefty, dwarfing the crustaceans at Brooklyn’s Clemente’s (scene of last year’s birthday—2008’s is rapidly approaching and that doesn’t sit well with me).

 Crabs are a strange food. For me, it’s next to impossible to get even close to full because I spend so much time messing with the shells. I’m still learning cracking strategies and managed to cut up my fingers and bloodied my pinky. I think I’d starve to death on an all-crab diet. But eventually I managed to extract pristine white nuggets that actually required a few chews.

Even James, the crab snob between the two of us, conceded that these were good. And I was inclined to agree. I think heavy is the term for crabs where the proportion of meat is high. And 11 of this 12 fit that definition.

We started with bottles (classy) of Natty Boh and quickly moved onto a pitcher of Hoegaarden (only because it was the special). We were initially dismayed at their pitcher-less drink menu until we realized that pitchers are a given in Baltimore, rather than something requiring an explicit mention.

This was only a fraction of the aftermath.

Bo Brooks * 2701 Boston St., Baltimore, MD

Charm City

Well, that was a short and sweet mini-vacation. Unfortunately, I spent over seven hours in a car yesterday attempting to get back to NYC. I’m still not sure how we got to Baltimore on the 4th, itself, traffic-free in half that time. I always forget why it’s wise to just stay home during three-day weekends, but the concept of a “staycation” makes me want to hurl. I will not be a tourist in my own city, thanks.

I really just use out-of-town excursions as an excuse to ignore my reluctant sugar and starch avoiding regimen. I have the logic that somehow Tastykakes, cheap beer, fried potatoes and bread baskets don’t count as long as I’m not on my home turf. But really, how much damage can be done to one’s constitution in 48 hours?

Baltimore is the type of place where you just feel less self-conscious. NYC feels guarded and judgmental, but perhaps I’m just guarded and judgmental. Overall, I would say that people are friendly and they drink heavily. James, who went to college there, attributed the latter to alcohol being so inexpensive. I think it’s the culture in general. For instance, I don’t see people doing shots much here (though I was offered one a few weeks ago at South Brooklyn Pizza and that was highly unusual). Maybe it’s simply the difference between $12 and $5 cocktails and $5 cocktails, sipping vs. slamming.

I was turned on to the charms of National Bohemian, a.k.a. Natty Boh, and was reminded how sad it is that NYC lacks a crappy cheap regional beer. Yes, PBR is a universal, but that doesn’t count.  In Portland we had Rainier (r.i.p.). I don’t think such a beast exists here. I’m 99% sure I’ve never seen $1.50 cans of beer in NYC bars, either.

I also discovered a tasty creature called a crab pretzel at a Phillips Express tucked inside a Maryland rest stop. There’s nothing particularly pretzely about it; this is a blob of baked dough topped with crab dip and cheese, then broiled. A perfect marriage of fat and starch.

More Chesapeake goodness to come. Meanwhile, here are some admittedly random photos. Picture-taking has never been my strength.

LP Steamers

1/2 I had no idea I'd end up eating crabs in Baltimore Memorial Day Weekend. In fact, I didnt even know it until about two hours before it happened. The original Saturday plan involved getting up early and heading to Adamstown, PA “Antiques Capital USA.” But the antiques capital is mostly closed on Saturdays, Sundays are when its all wheeling and dealing. Who knew?

So, after hitting Reading and checking out the strip mall scene we decided to just keep heading south. Instead of dinner in nearby Philly where weve been a million times, why not Baltimore? It was Jamess college stomping ground, and I'd never been at all. The perfect impromptu long weekend plan.

The only trouble ensued when I tried web searching on a stupid Blackberry for places to get steamed crab. I get car sick if I even read for five seconds in a moving vehicle. I so don't get the allure of handheld devices (I still don't own a cell phone). I know web surfing isnt a Blackberrys raison detre, but it was painfully slow and cumbersome. It took me the entire two-hour drive to come up with the random LP Steamers and we had no idea if it was even a good bet.

But it all turned out well. Even with my perpetual well be too late paranoia, 9:30pm was ok. There was an empty table on the upstairs outdoor patio. Normally, I'm no fan of al fresco, but it was just right. A dozen Old Bay encrusted crabs, fried oysters, a pitcher beer and we were good to go. I loved the cheap prices, rampant cigarette smoking and convivial crowd (crude could be a better descriptor, but I'm not put off by lewd stories. The table next to us had a loud mouth girl who couldnt stop with the dirty talk, which prompted another table to semi-jokingly tell her to keep it down while they were trying to eat).

We only spent about four hours--8:30pm to 1am--in town. I need to see the city in the daylight for a better assessment.

LP Steamers * 1100 E. Fort Ave.,Baltimore, MD