A+ in Handwriting for Adolfo

I remember reading a study a while ago (reminiscent of this) about the difference in tip size when a server handwrites something on the check.

Drawing a smiley face on the check increases a waitress’s tips by 18 percent but decreases a waiter’s tips by 9 percent.

But that doesn’t happen very often in DC. Not to put on city snobbery, but this sort of cutesy crap occurs at a TGI Fridays in the suburbs. And honestly, I can’t remember the last time I saw this–anywhere–in the last few years. Until last night.

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Top Chef Exit Interview: Episode 10

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I always knew one day there would be a Top Chef episode starring Leon Panetta. WTF! Seriously though, Padma and Co. have some good D.C. access this season. But one chef-testant had their cover blown…and they tell us what happened, after the jump.

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No More Day of Days

Memorial Day. Check. Fourth of July. Check.  Labor Day. Check. Columbus Day. Eh, Check.

But fucking National Soft Serve Ice Cream Day! Really?!?! In the last few weeks I’ve been hit with a barrage of days, including yesterday’s soft serve. (Coincidentally, I did enjoy salted caramel custard at Dairy Godmother.)

Earlier this month, August 7th to be exact, the PR folks behind Grey Poupon told me to honor National Mustard Day. And, whoa!, it’s been 30 years since the original snobbery that starts with “Pardon Me…”

But I’m not sure either of these very special days can compare to, get this.

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Peaches ‘N’ Pita

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As I mentioned earlier in the week, the veggie gf and I are spending the next month or so in San Francisco, while she completes a medical rotation here and I — well, eat. We found a nice little one-bedroom sublet on craigslist that was not a scam at all (phew) and have been spending most of our free time so far wandering the streets casually in search of grub.

Sunday morning, our first full day here, we strolled down the hill (goddamn, they are not kidding around about these hills) and stumbled into the Fort Mason farmers’ market, where the free samples alone were basically a full breakfast. There were about 12 varieties of fresh peaches, plums and nectarines cut up for people to try, and each of them was about 100 times better than anything I’ve tasted on the East Coast so far this year. Needless to say, we left with several different kinds of peaches to take home.

That night, I picked up some coffee before heading home (goddamn, these people are not kidding around about their coffee), and while at the store, grabbed some pita for breakfast in the morning — I like to toast it up and melt a little butter and maybe some herbs on it — a simple but satisfying breakfast.

So while our place is nice, it turns out the girl we are renting from is, shall we say, significantly less obsessed with cooking than I am. She has no toaster. No coffee maker. No microwave. No spices past salt and pepper. It turned out even my simple breakfast of toasted pita was too fancy for this bare kitchen. I had my single-brew coffee maker on hand for emergencies, but clearly, I had to improvise.

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Artsy Drawing of the Day

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This came up in a recent pictionary game. Your turn to guess.

The Line Between Simple and Stupid…

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…is crossed when you spend money on this product.

I found the item above on the clearance table at the Williams-Sonoma store in Princeton, New Jersey. That, boys and girls, is a bottle of simple syrup that you can purchase for the low, low price of $3.99 — a deal, mind you, because it’s marked down from $6.99. Sure, Williams-Sonoma is fun for some window shopping and general inspiration whenever you don’t feel foodie enough. It’s always a blast to poke around the gadgets, drool over the Le Creuset that you can’t afford and marvel over the fact that someone is actually willing to drop fifty bucks on a popsicle machine.  (Isn’t that what your freezer is for?)  But this is going too far.

In these tough economic times, let me save you some of your hard-earned money:

One part table sugar.  One part water.  Boil until dissolved.  Cool.  Use. That’ll be seven dollars.

A Promise I Will Keep

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The contempt I maintain toward measuring has seeped into my cocktails. Even though it barely ever works (although my friend Tim can eye the hell out of a drink), I refuse to pull out a jigger to ensure proper proportions.

But that is because I think I found the secret ingredient, er, science behind enhancing an otherwise unsuccessful cocktail.

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