DC has a unique energy. 

For one, it’s not a city, which is always a strange caveat. Many “DC folks” actually live in Virginia or Maryland, promoting the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia) designation as a singular entity. 

Everywhere you look there’s a monument, fitting for a district whose very existence is rooted in history and politics. Unlike many other countries, whose capitals are also their economic or cultural hubs, DC is political through and through, with most of its industry still connected to that world (political PR firms, political journalists, etc).

Although many may dismiss those in politics as bloodthirsty dogs-eating dogs, the reality is that most are thirsty for things that are not blood and their appetites are hardly cannibalistic in nature.

I’m visiting Washington D.C. to find out what kinds of food fuel the drive and ambition of so many people with big aspirations and even bigger appetites. 

 

 

Friday

I flew into Reagan National Airport early in the morning, where my friend Alex, who lives in the Alexandria suburb of Virginia, picked me up. When I told him I was visiting, I sent a list of places I wanted to try, compiled from the American-Eats database. One restaurant, Weenie Beenie, immediately stuck out in his mind as a place he’s passed frequently but never actually eaten at.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Weenie Beenie was founded in 1950 by brothers Carl and Bill Staton, funded solely by Bill’s winnings from shooting pool. It’s a best-kept secret of sorts, maintaining a low profile despite its longevity and even having a song off the first Foo Fighters album named after it. I can never resist a restaurant with a rich history, so we ventured that way for an early lunch.

We came upon a literal shack right off the highway, looking every bit its Baby Boomer age. There was a steady flow of blue collar workers on their lunch break as well as the occasional fish out of water, like us. 

I had known half smokes were a DC (and Weenie Beenie) specialty, so I made sure to order mine “all the way,” loaded with diced onions, relish, mustard, and chili, along with a side of onion rings. Half smokes are shrouded in a surprising amount of mystery. Nobody even knows where the name comes from, though it’s theorized to refer to:

1. Originally being composed of half beef and half pork
2. Its texture being halfway between a hot dog and a smoked sausage
3. Being cut in half before being grilled

It’s quite uncommon for food to have a multiple-choice origin story. 

I loved the smoky flavor and crunchy texture, which is extra crispy from more of its surface area making contact with the hot grill. The toppings added tastes from all over the spectrum, with the sweetness of the relish and the spice of the chili pulling the most weight.

The onion rings were pretty cookie cutter, almost certainly coming from a bag, but still nice and crunchy, with minimal onion sliding out of the breading. It brought a bit of familiarity to this bold eating experience in a foreign land.

One of our other friends, Will, met us for a half-smoke, then brought me to his apartment in the West End, located between DuPont Circle and Georgetown. On our drive, we remained under the watchful eye of the Washington Monument, an omnipotent presence no matter where in the DC area you are.

Once I dropped my bags off at Will’s, we made our way to the Foggy Bottom area to check out a micro-hotel called Hotel Hive, which supposedly has a stunning rooftop bar. Unfortunately, the rooftop was closed so we had to drink at the inside bar. Will and I are adaptable drinkers, so this was no issue, and we each ordered a House Rosemary G&T, made with Spring44 gin, rosemary syrup, tonic, and lemon, with an extra sprig of rosemary. 

This was an absolutely stunning drink. The rosemary elevated the flavors to incredible levels and balanced out the gin nicely. Our other friend David joined us for our second round of drinks, then we headed to his apartment. We were fiending for our rooftop fix, and luckily David’s building has a rooftop of its own, flanked by three separate buildings of the State Department. After a few beers, we hopped in a Lyft to grab dinner at Navy Yard before going to a concert.

We were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for most of our drive, unsurprising considering it was 5:30 PM on a Friday evening. As an Atlanta resident, I’m used to traffic at all hours of the day, but DC has the advantage of drivers being stuck while next to the White House.

Navy Yard was originally constructed as a shipbuilding facility right next to the Anacostia River, and to this day remains the longest continuously-operated federal facility by the U.S. Navy. It has become one of DC’s most invigorating neighborhoods, with Nationals Park, the home of the Washington Nationals, as its energizing nucleus (mitochondria?) 

Our dinner was at a trendy seafood restaurant called The Salt Line, an oyster and ale house with a New England influence. Our table was inside, but we had a clear view of the gorgeous waterfront. Will and I each got Del’s Cherry Shandy to drink, which was essentially a boozy frozen pink lemonade. If it was alcoholic, I’ll have to take their word for it because I couldn’t taste any. Luckily, they accidentally brought out an Old Fashioned, so I was dual-wielding.

It was a challenge to start our meal because I was still feeling pretty stuffed from Weenie Beenie, but as soon as our Parker House Rolls arrived, I was miraculously ravenous. They were warm, unbelievably fluffy, and the house-made butter added a cherry on top.

We also got the Baked Pimento Crab Dip, containing lump crab, Tillamook cheddar, and green Tabasco, served with a side of Old Bay crab chips (we are in Old Bay country, after all). The chips were good enough on their own, but paired super well with the dip. This app was warm and comforting, with a subtle crab flavor, a little spice, and plenty of cheese. 

We also split an order of nine oysters, which Will and David selected. I would be lying if I said I could tell the nuanced differences between oysters, besides “good” and “not good.” These were fortunately the former, with a bright salty taste and exactly the texture you’re hoping for with oysters (I don’t know how to describe it without sounding bad. Slimy? Bulbous?) I always particularly love the condiments that come with oysters: cocktail sauce, hot sauce, and mignonette sauce (that vinegar and shallot mixture that usually comes with the platter).

For our main course, we each opted for a sandwich. I got the North Shore Roast Beef Sandwich, with BBQ sauce, horseradish cream, and American cheese on an onion roll. David got the Chesapeake Shrimp Roll with imperial sauce, and crispy shallots on a split bun (Salt Line is known for their lobster roll, but we apparently just missed lobster season, which is also apparently a thing). Will got their famous New England Smash Burger, with two thin patties, American cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and mayo on a sesame bun.

We were all happy customers. My sandwich was hearty and tasty; the roast beef itself was juicy and even a bit crispy, and the onion roll was a pleasant contrast with the rest of the ingredients. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We then walked from Navy Yard to the Wharf (DC really goes all in on the aquatic theme!) for our concert. The Wharf is a highly-inspired boardwalk along the Potomac River. It has clearly had billions of dollars invested into it, and that contribution shows, with bars, restaurants, and other attractions as far as the eye could see. 

We were there to see Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead cover band, at The Anthem, a relatively new music venue. I’m a massive Grateful Dead fan, so I always tried to shoehorn their persona into greater analogies about the world. 

For example, Jerry Garcia, the lead guitarist, primary songwriter and vocalist, and general shaman of the fandom, died in 1995. Yet here we were in a fully packed, shoulder-to-shoulder 57,000 square foot venue seeing a tertiary group of musicians playing another group’s music. And they’re not even the most profitable Dead successor group: that’d be Dead and Company, with three of the original band members plus John Mayer.

Despite this distance from the band’s original run, the music remains meaningful to more fans each day, who still sing along and dance to the same old tunes as previous generations have. The music itself transcends any musician…just as the American government supersedes any specific people. The beauty of our democratic process is its ability to endure, regardless of outside factors or who’s in charge. The beauty of the Grateful Dead is how its music resonates in volumes far greater than the band itself ever spoke.

Maybe I just had a contact high from the joints being smoked in front of us.

After a nearly three-hour show, it was time for our final snack. You really learn the most about a city from its late-night scene. That’s when people show their true colors, and restaurants typically elicit the most visceral reactions.

We ordered from George’s King of Falafel and Cheesesteaks (George must be a man of many talents to be the reigning king of both!) We got a cheesesteak with fries and a side of hummus, a natural grouping, and brought them back to eat at Will’s apartment. 

The cheesesteak was a perfect late-night delicacy, loaded with juicy flavor. George has earned his title. The fries were crispy, even after a stroll back in the cold, and the hummus was surprisingly great. 

We blew up the air mattress, and as I laid down, it was undeniable: I was full. Luckily, I had plenty of time to restore my appetite for bottomless brunch the next day.

Saturday

A few hours of sleep were not nearly enough to digest a half smoke, crab dip, oysters, too many rolls, a roast beef sandwich, and a gyro with fries and hummus. Will and I began our morning in slow motion as we made our way to his couch to regain our strength with the time-tested remedy of old Simpsons episodes.

We had an 11:30 AM reservation at Agora, one of DC’s hottest brunch spots in Dupont Circle. They serve traditional Mediterranean cuisine inspired by Executive Chef Ismet Sahin’s upbringing in Turkey. I don’t imagine he envisioned his life’s work serving as the backdrop for young twenty and thirty somethings starting their weekends off with a boozy bang.

When we arrived, we were escorted upstairs to a table in the cramped upper level. Our original party of three had ballooned to seven due to a few last minute additions, so we did not have much elbow room or table space to spare. This would prove a challenge because once the first plate of food arrived, it was a relentless and unceasing barrage that beat me down in ways I never could have expected. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We started off with glasses of champagne and mimosas, which our trusty waiter ensured never ran dry. From that point, there were new plates of food on our table every few minutes. Sometimes I didn’t even see the person bringing them, they simply manifested out of the cosmos.

I could hardly keep track of all the food that arrived. There was the pita so fresh and hot it burned my hands to tear it. The Htipiti is a salty roasted red pepper and feta mixture with thyme and a drizzle of olive oil so bright it made me smile (this isn’t even me being sentimental, I literally busted into a cheek-stretching grin because of how good the olive oil was). 

The Mixed Cheese Flat Breads, with feta, mozzarella, and diced tomatoes, were a perfect marriage between cheesy garlic bread and a white pizza. There were eggs prepared in various formats: the soft and cheesy Manchego Omelette, the Salmon Eggs Benedict with guacamole and hollandaise and the most perfectly runny egg yolk.

Our table became a 14-arm beast, reaching and tearing and dipping, putting away absurd quantities of Turkish food. 

Between the constant consumption and the increasingly crowded dining room, I needed to cool down. I took a quick step outside into the 40-degree world just to get my body back to equilibrium. I stripped off my sweater, warranting confused stares from people who were dressed far more sensibly in jackets (or at least long sleeves) than the sweaty guy in the plain white t-shirt. I finally got my head back in the game just in time to enjoy the sweet French Toast, made of brioche and topped with baklava syrup, pistachios, whipped cream, and berries.

Despite my tribulations, I thought this was a fantastic experience at a tremendous value. At only $45 per person, you could easily ring up way more at any old brunch spot with a simple order of chicken and waffles and single mimosa. Agora exceeds that in quantity and quality alike.

By the time we stepped back outside, it had started to pour down something between rain and sleet, so we were ready to find a place with a roof and a bar.

Our first stop was Salazar. It had a cool upstairs area, where the main attraction was that you could pay a few extra bucks to get your shot in an ice glass so that once you downed it you could throw it at a bell. I’m not a bragging man, but I have to do my journalistic duty and report that I nailed my throw.

Over the next few hours, the bar became very crowded so we made our way to Player’s Club in Logan Circle. They describe their vibe “like drinking in your parent’s basement” which was spot on. There’s pool tables, arcade games, foosball, pinball, and plenty of other games. After shooting a couple games of pool (I did not win enough to open my own half smoke stand like Bill Staton), we went down the street to Kingfisher. It’s a smaller bar with free popcorn and plenty of seasonings, like Old Bay and lemon pepper. My pouring hand was heavy so I ended up with Old Bay all over my hands and face, which only made me thirstier (free popcorn in a bar really is a brilliant business move).

After a long afternoon of drinking, our group had dwindled to four, and we were ready for dinner. And there is no finer drunk meal than tacos.

David astutely suggested we head to U Street for Taqueria Xochi, a concept by Chef Teresa Padilla, who worked for Chef Jose Andres for 16 years before being furloughed due to COVID. She took advantage of the opportunity of being on her own to realize her long-time vision of bringing authentic Mexican cuisine to the DC area. She opened Taqueria Xochi first in a ghost kitchen then a brick and mortar location.

They don’t do dine-in, so we picked up the Xochi Platter (12 tacos with 6 quesabirrias and 6 tacos with a hodgepodge of salsas and sauces) and brought it to a nearby park. It was past dusk at this point and temperatures had dropped close to freezing so the setting wasn’t ideal…but the food sure was. 

Birria tacos are one of the finest food concoctions on the planet. How could a tortilla stuffed with braised beef and cheese and dunked in that beef’s gravy be anything other than phenomenal? I had two of those and another that may have been chorizo. Or carnitas? It’s hard to recall, but it was divine. This was one of those meals where nobody talks but instead just lets out guttural moans every time they take a bite. I imagine four drunk guys howling their way through some tacos was not what the other folks in the park were expecting to see. 

We walked off our delicious dinners and went to a few bars, but soon enough it was time to call it a night. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve eaten in a given day when it comes to late night eating. Will ordered Manny’s Meat Special (sausage, pepperoni, ground beef, bacon, gyro meat, and ham) from Manny and Olga’s Pizza. The crust was crunchy and the meats were flavorful. It was exactly the type of pizza I knew would be just as good cold in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sunday

My hunch was correct. It again took some time to muster up the physical and emotional fortitude to eat, but I’m nothing if not a fighter. After a slice of pizza to get a little hair on the dog, some coffee, and another few episodes of The Simpsons, we made our way to pick up lunch.

We went to a food hall called Western Market, which has brick walls and an overall design that makes it look more like an urban alley than a food hall. We grabbed Roaming Rooster, a chicken chain based in the DMV area, and brought it to David’s to watch the Formula One Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. All three of us got a different sandwich, and each one was killer. My Buffalo sandwich had a “medium” hot sauce with the perfect heat level and bleu cheese on top. Will got the Honey Butter, which had a nice garlicky sweetness and David got the OG Nashville with the “hot” sauce that had an intense kick but the vinaigrette slaw cut it nicely. 

After watching the race, I was still comfortably full as I took a Lyft to the airport. My flight got delayed, but even though I didn’t get back to Atlanta until 10:00 PM, I was still quite content with the Buffalo sandwich.

And thus went my excursion to our nation’s capital. It was refreshingly devoid of politics, despite the unceasing barrage of domestic and foreign drama constantly streaming its way into our consciousness. 

I was reminded of the old political anecdote that Republican President Ronald Reagan and Democrat Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill were bitterly combative during the day, constantly butting heads and expressing their fundamental disagreements about how the country should be run. Yet they could always put their differences aside “after 6:00 PM” to share a drink with a refreshing level of respect. 

Perhaps this is a rose-tinted perspective, especially compared to today’s vitriol, but it demonstrates the idea that almost all acrimony dissolves over a beer or a burger. Maybe our politicians should spend less time waging cultural wars in the rotunda and more time eating tacos in the park.