30 Restaurants in 30 Nights!
Tales from a Gastronomical Marathon
By Mimi Harrison

I'm a middle-aged woman, unattached, writing freelance for a living. Every time the phone rings I reflexively ask myself, "Love or money? Money or love?" Then a call came that offered a dream assignment that guaranteed one and promised — who knows? — both. How could I refuse? I couldn't.

Ergo, I spent an entire month — 30 consecutive days — eating dinner at a different restaurant in and around Bethesda. Feeling somewhat like a cross between Bozo Miller (one of the all-time greats in professional eating who, in 1961, consumed 63 Dutch apple pies in an hour. My best Google shot finds him still alive at 97.) and Margaret Mead, I undertook the assignment with some hesitation: I am a skinny person upholstered in 20 extra pounds of midlife excess and lethargy. But 30 nights of sybaritic bliss. A month of sundaes. I had a generous budget for meals, but none for lipo. On the other hand, for a free dinner, I will stop at nothing short of larceny. So I traded one of the Seven Deadlies (sloth) for another (gluttony), and had a fantastic time.

Night 1: El Gavilon
Like a little girl playing jump rope, I wasn't exactly sure how to hop in. Should I sit with a cold martini, order seared scallops and mango terrine? It was, indeed, a dark and stormy night; maybe something warm and spicy was just the thing. I picked up my buddy Michael S. and headed to El Gavilon, a Salvadoran joint in Silver Spring, for papusas and a shot of culinary heat.

You have to know Michael. An astrophysicist at NASA, he is finely tuned, a basically brilliant guy. He has looked into the deepest regions of the universe and can rattle off the names of the farthest precincts known to science. As a navigator from Chevy Chase Circle to Silver Spring, however, he stunk. With the rain, the written instructions from MapQuest (Michael responds better to schematics, like maps.) and a very intense male vs. female conversation about perspectives on marital fidelity, it took us over an hour to reach a place that was 15 minutes away. No matter. There were turquoise walls and lights showing through the dripping windows of El Gavilon, and we were hungry.

We seated ourselves near the TV, which was tuned to a Spanish drama. There was no audio, but no words were needed. The place held the promise of every independent, slightly worn, authentic ethnic restaurant: a magician in the kitchen, evoking memories of grandma.

Our waiter, Manuel, appeared and, from the menu slap-down until we left, he was enchanting company. Suave, but not at all outrageous, he resembled a debonair version of Little Richard. His trim moustache sat above his pursed lips; his pompadour was immaculate. We ordered drinks, sat back and relaxed. As it happens, El Gavilon is a Salvadoran restaurant because it is owned and staffed by Salvadorans. Their hearts are still in Salvador, but their menu is pure Laredo. Although there were papusas, the choices were the usual fajitas, enchiladas and other Tex-Mex fare. I wanted something different and, when a waitress walked by with a platter of sizzling protein that smelled and looked fantastic, I asked her what it was. It was special. It was not on the menu. Even at $24.95, I had to have it. When Manuel cruised by to take our orders, I mentioned it to him. The special, of course: Madrecita! The Little Mama! That was me, by God, and, even better: when I asked him the price, Manuel said it was $19.95! I liked this place.

When Michael called his beloved while we waited for our food, Manuel was curious. "It's his girlfriend," I whispered. "You're not the girlfriend?" Manuel comes in close with a wink, "Then maybe you're the wife?" Man-u-el! "This is America!" he reminds me, "Everyone is free!"

Once Madrecita is sizzling under my nose, I realize that its shellfish — two split shrimp and a lobster tail — have spent more time in the deep freeze than the briny deep. I knew they would have been frozen, but I hoped it would have been within the past few months. The chicken sizzled, but that was all it did. The beef had a nice satisfying jaw to it, but it tasted of nothing but salt. The bilious mariachi Muzak and the fine margaritas, however, made a great backdrop for Manuel. He continued his lesson when he brought the check. In El Salvador, he explained, men have wives. They come here to work and after a while (a shrug) they take another wife. (Please note: Manuel, a waiter at El Gavilon in Silver Spring, Maryland does not take part in this practice.) "We are men!" he announced and looked at Michael and they shared that laugh. God help us. His rather fluid concept of domestic relations aside, I liked Manuel. He was a rascal.

Night 2: Tavira
I have a whole month of dinners to plan for, so I have to decide whom I want to accompany me, and how frequently I want to dine alone. Eating alone at a serious restaurant isn't for everyone. Some people are uncomfortable as the only one at a table meant for two — the discreet removal of the other place setting, the empty chair. It has its pleasures, though. I love to sit with a good martini and a crossword puzzle or a book. Relieved of the need to make conversation, I can just relax and observe the scene, eavesdrop, watch the trays as they glide by, engage the waiter, pick up sailors — whatever I want.

But sometimes I will want company, marching through Georgia as I am. But how about a twist — dining out with a stranger? I call a friend, do some strategic networking and I'm on the phone with Michael K., a likely companion. We seem to share interests — he's willing to split the bill and he speaks Portuguese. Perfect! Tavira, one of the area's few Portuguese restaurants, is on my list.

I have always loved the Portuguese language, and not just because the people I've usually heard speaking it were Brazilian — naked, nubile and on a beach. Having lived for a while near Provincetown, Massachusetts, I am familiar with the Portuguese community who flocked there years ago to fish. Portuguese seems a fraternal twin to Spanish, slower, more languid, without the clip. I have promised Michael free reign to show off, and he is fluent.

Tavira is a very pretty restaurant in a very queer location, in the basement of an office building on Connecticut Avenue in Chevy Chase. On a rainy Friday night, trying locked doors and padding through the empty halls, we feel more like cat burglars than eager diners. Tavira's signage needs some upgrading. Once we find the place — cozy, welcoming — it's easy to settle in. We have a few caipirinhas, the Brazilian's favorite libation of cane liquor, sugar and lime. Fluency increases. Victor, our obliging waiter, explains that the word "caipirinha" literally means "little country" in Portuguese. The drink is a country mouse, the anti-martini. But it's just as effective. Michael and Victor are deep in conversation. From my Romance language background (I speak French like a high-functioning cretin) I can tell they're discussing the menu, Michael's Brazilian ex-girlfriend (passion is better than Berlitz) and the relative merits of beaches outside Sao Paolo. Do I detect a twinge of Chinese waiter syndrome? Are they, um, discussing me?

When it's time to order, Victor stands and recites the specials. They are so long and so complicated, it seems he should have a lectern. But they all sound luscious. Michael knows a lot of the menu and we are soon sharing plates of dainties, then platters of fabulous decadence: squids, clams, sausage, lobster, garlic, eggs, mussels, beefsteak. The room is filling, but not crowded. It is quiet enough to converse, but loud enough not to be overheard. Michael is great company, Victor comps us some Fonseca, a rich syrupy port.

Night 3: Athenian Plaka
The rain just won't let up, so I want to return to a warm and welcoming country. How about Greece? It's another night out with a Michael, but this one is female. (I know so many people named Michael, I have considered having a party for them and them alone. High concept, but it might work.) It's a lion of a night, considering it's April. I was hoping for a lamb. We park too far away and walk many cold blocks along Woodmont Avenue. But we're headed for the right destination. Athenian Plaka is cozy, we get an immediate friendly reception, and I will have lamb after all.

I love Greece. I spent my last college semester there in 1969 doing art history independent study; I traveled from Thessalonika in the north to Rhodes in the south. It was the first place I had ever been in the world outside the United States, and it was a great place to start. Consequently, the food I ate when I was there — which was still the rustic and rather crude stews, broils and braises of tradition — has a place in my heart. Figuratively and, I suppose, literally.

Our host tonight is the owner, Peter Katsatos, who guides us to a table away from the door. When I tell him what I'm doing — a mealtime marathon — he sits to chat. I profess my love for his native country. He aims, with his place, to preserve the warmth and intimacy of the old-style taverna , a tradition petering out in Greece. We swap stories — my experiences as a miniskirted American in Greece during the right-wing junta, his daring sneak under the ropes to stand again in the Parthenon. We've both had brushes with the Athenian authorities.

Female Michael, as she is known to my son to distinguish her from the dozens of other Michaels we know, is not what you would call a Rabelaisian eater. She's skinny as a zipper, does not eat meat, and neither drinks, nor eats food made with, alcohol. She demonstrates a restraint and self-discipline for which I have awe — but not much envy. We order fried calamari and a tasting — platter entrée — something for everyone. Waiters slide by, many with plates of something flaming they extinguish with a flourish of fresh lemon. Looks good, smells great ... maybe next time.

Night 4: Passage to India
If you go to Cordell Avenue, as I did, looking for Heritage India, you'll be out of luck. It's gone. In its place is Passage to India, owned by a Heritage partner who broke off to be on his own. You might pass knickknack shops and parking lots on your way; but once you enter, you're back in the raj.

The room is lovely, the staff is accommodating and immaculate. (In fact, later, when the chef comes out to say hello, he is starched and spotless. Just who had been stirring those pungent, perfumed sauces?) The collection of paintings, prints, archival photographs of long-dead child princes and portraits of Brahmin families are transporting. We're far away, and we haven't even seen the menu.

"We" in this case is female Michael and, for some cross-generational intrigue, our teenage kids — her daughter, my son. They are magnificent children, if children is the word. Juliana drove us here. Sam is cleanly shaved. They are old enough to handle a menu that does not offer supersizing.

But can they handle the embarrassment of being with their mothers? It is an established truth that I am the most embarrassing mother in the developed world. Basic human decency this evening requires that these two sit in public with their mothers, but every gesture of ours provokes a reaction. Eeee, I'm taking notes; well, OK, I explain to the waiter why. Aaiii, Michael has her hair held up by two small clips instead of one. The payoff of the evening comes when I try to drink my iced tea through the inserted straw, which is wrapped in cellophane.

No, I'm wrong. The payoff of the evening comes with the food. There are doilies of lacy pappadum and saucers of fragrant dips. We dunk and daub and eat our way through — from curry to tandoori to a basket filled with wonderful breads to soothing rice pudding.

The check is presented, but I am reluctant to leave the raj. My only question at this point in my eating odyssey is: am I the maharani or the elephant?

Night 5: Ruth's Chris Steak House
I live several blocks away from a Ruth's Chris Steak House but have never been inside. It always seems full of tourists and big, bloated conventioneers, so it never appealed to me. The night I decide to hit the Ruth's Bethesda venue, I have an entirely different impression.

This is testosterone territory to be sure — burly chairs and acres of wood, but there are lots of couples and entire tables of women. I don't feel uncomfortable dining here alone. The wooden and brass appointments and potted palms give it a feel of the Gilded Age, (I expect to turn a corner and see Sanford White and his corpulent chaps wreathed in laurel) but it's just a great post-feminist place for hearty eaters.

Rather than sit alone at a table — a little too "Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone" for me — I decide to sit at the bar. There's an Astros-Giants game on the tube, a cute bartender named Dave and a book I brought: a biography of Martha Gellhorn, fearless woman war correspondent, femme du monde, Hemingway ex-wife. I'm in perfect company and happy as a clam.

The martini is perfect — crisp, cold and loaded with olives.The manager has heard I'm here — I'm getting so popular! — and comes to chat. Although Ruth's eponymous restaurants live on, she , alas, is gone. She passed away in 2002. But how can she be forgotten? That crazy illogical restaurant name — at age 33, New Orleans housewife Ruth Fertel got a divorce from her husband, mortgaged her house for $22,000 and bought Chris Steak House in order to earn enough money to be able to send her two sons to college. And that voice — like gravel in an ashtray, beckoning all to come and partake of the great American overindulgence: red meat and too much of it.

The rib eye I order is perfection, the broiled tomatoes are sweet, the baby spinach is emerald, just slightly steamed. Undaunted, I ask for — and finish — banana cream pie. I have just consumed a grotesque amount of food, the calorie equivalent of two whole days in one sitting. But I am not ashamed of myself, even for my excess. In fact, I haven't been this happy in months.

Night 6: Buon Giorno
When the sun breaks through the next day, I decide to celebrate by taking my son to have pasta at Buon Giorno. Angela and Arcide Ginepro started their restaurant in downtown Bethesda in 1975, when it was one of only four or five restaurants in town. Today, the crowds and crush on Bethesda and Woodmont Avenues attest to the fact that, per capita, Bethesda has among the most restaurants in the country, second only to San Francisco.

But the streets surrounding Buon Giorno on Norfolk Avenue on the "other side" of town, seem from that earlier time. They are filled with the kind of businesses people used to need — repair shops, cleaners — establishments that predate our throwaway culture. Buon Giorno is like that as well, not dowdy or depressing at all — just a holdover from an earlier, more sedate age when you dressed nicely for dinner, held civil conversation and ate carefully prepared, fresh and elegant food. There is not a shred of a trend on the menu. No one has styled the place with rustic fake Italiana. The crowd is mature, the flowers are fresh, the music is subtle, and our waiter has an enchantingly trimmed and waxed moustache whose ends curl up and make my son and me feel giddy.

Like most of the staff, Carlo has been on board nearly since the beginning. According to Daniela Nicotra, the Ginepro's daughter, the kitchen has been manned by the same staff since just after Watergate. Making a little culinary history themselves in those days, the Ginepros introduced pesto to the Capital of the Free World, and, says Daniela, mussels too. Her parents live nearby and still walk to work, where Mr. Ginepro makes all the pasta by hand. Although he doesn't like to say so, he is 90. He would also be grateful if I would say that Buon Giorno, thank you, is not open for lunch.

Night 7: Thyme Square Café
One week into my month of meals, I head for Thyme Square. This place is aptly named, sitting as it does on a prime chunk of real estate near the epicenter of today's bustling Bethesda, across from the Barnes & Noble and next to the Landmark Theatre. Thyme Square has location, location, location.

On a Wednesday night, though, the place seemed more Jan. 1 than New Year's Eve. I sit at one of several occupied tables in the dining room; there were several more outside. Basically, there was nothing doing. A TV was tuned to "American Idol," mercifully soundless. The bartender stood around, the wait staff loitered in the corners. I've worked as a waitress and, believe me, weeknights can be killers. The bartender, happy I think to have someone to serve, snaps to attention and politely takes my order. A server delivers it suspiciously quickly. When I thank her she says wistfully, "It looks so good!"

It wasn't good. It wasn't bad, either. It was just Wednesday: the roasted salmon, potatoes and asparagus sure sounded good, and I'm sure they were, when they were first cooked. But the meal has been at least par-cooked and jazzed again under a broiler. The effect has all the appeal of the fibber on Match.com: a good idea past its prime. Not awful, just not the meal of your dreams.

You can't blame a place for a weeknight slump. On the weekends, Thyme Square is usually tootin' with business, and the plates are flying out of the kitchen as the food is made. As I get my check, the sound track is playing a disco rendition of "MacArthur Park". That clears me out immediately.

Night 8: Persimmon
After a full week of restaurant meals, I feel great. I am the envy of everyone I meet. It's such a relief to have a four-week dispensation from cooking and home. I have not been shy about ordering; neither have I been foolish. During the day, I go light, if I eat at all. I'm warmed up and ready to rip into my second week, so I head for one of the best: Persimmon.

When Damian and Stephanie Salvatore planned their new restaurant and had to give it a name, it was harder than naming their babies. They wanted something evocative, but not overly exotic. Something easy to spell and remember, yet nothing too generic. What to do? Luckily, Persimmon fits the bill and suggested the lovely color for the dining room. Frankly, had they called it "Warthog," I think their bistro would have still been a success.

Again, I am by myself. But, on the other hand, I'm with someone I happen to love very much, so I'm happy. I sit with a book. (Well, not a book. It's my friend Beverly's new Saks catalog, but who cares?)

The menu is pleasingly brief and it speaks to me. Persimmon serves "American" food, and, although these days that can mean plates of preposterously architectural entrées or precious dishes that are more punctuation than sustenance, this place gets it just right. I have a dreamy but down-to-earth meal of seared scallops, salmon braised with wild mushrooms and a poached pear and coconut cake arrangement that is satisfying without being stupefying.

Two elderly gentlemen at the next table distract me with their conversation. They discuss Italy — trattorias in Venice, views in Orvieto, markets in Rome — most of the talk is memories, but none of it is wistful. "Barbara and I courted in San Francisco, and there was a wonderful pizzeria in North Beach…" Courted in San Francisco…There is erudition, too: "Peter was moving from the Old World biochemistry to the New World molecular biology." They are obviously seasoned medical men, researchers probably, cancer possibly. They are old, but they are living in the present, if not the future. I think that is a healthy thing. They talk about breakthroughs and papers at conferences, and both tuck into plates of steak topped with a scribble of frizzled onions. It's getting crowded, I hate to leave them. I'm starting to love them.

Night 9: Raku
I like to go out with a crowd on a weekend. I've got one tonight and when we get to Raku in Bethesda, it is jammed. It's a good thing I made a reservation. Le tout Bethesda is here tonight, or so it seems. It's a nice room, spacious but not cavernous, full but not squashed. It's also lively, a lot of full-tilt eating and talking is going on, but it's not unpleasant. I snap open my napkin, glad I am here.

The Asian outfittings are handsome, and the menu sounds fantastic. There is so much to choose from: sweet, savory, crunchy, raw, steamed, fried, the carb eater and the carbless can be happily satisfied. My little group negotiates: there are two hearty omnivores (Volker, the man in the group, and Guess Who), Dale, a South Beacher, and female Michael, who, as I have previously observed, might be happy with a saucer of poppy seeds.

The room is homogeneous, a large crowd of well-tended people passing plates and bending their mouths up to catch dripping chopsticked morsels. But wait. Among us all, I would say, several hundred souls, there is one remarkably shorter patron. He's got a silken slide of blond hair and rosy cheeks that must draw old ladies like groupies. He is accompanied by his senior familial associates and the chatter and smiles among the three of them are irresistible. I think I need his statement.

I introduce myself, explain what I'm doing and am invited to a seat. His name is Trevor and my honed maternal eye is correct: he is six. He has just eaten chicken and noodles, using a really neat little pair of learner chopsticks. They have a nifty little rubber thing that attaches the sticks and makes manipulating the food easy. A free dessert is placed in front of him, bread pudding with some whipped cream and strawberries. A finger goes into the cream, a cat's smile crosses his face. A free dessert? I thought I was the only person being comped this month!
"Oh, he's a regular," his mom explains.
"What's your favorite restaurant of all?" asks the roving reporter.
Not missing a beat, he answers "Café Deluxe."

Ah well.

Night 10: Black's Bar and Kitchen
Having a month of dining, carte blanche, on somebody else's nickel is a mixed blessing, probably not unlike the average 15-year-old boy's fantasy of hooking up with a nympho. Sounds great in the abstract, but... The rain continues relentlessly and I'm not in a rush to get outside.

So Black's is the place for me tonight because I'm feeling, frankly, a little… film noir. I'm on edge, see, but I can't say why. The sky is spiteful, spitting down rain. My windshield wipers can hardly keep up — slap, slap, slap, slap. There's not a dog on the street. It's empty on Woodmont, but I got no change for the meter, not even a dime. Who cares? I slam the door and walk away, pull up my collar around my chin. My hair is soaked.

I step inside Black's and nothing breaks my mood. There's lots of smiling faces around me, but what do they know? They're young still, they just haven't learned. It's good and dark, which is fine by me. I ask to be sat at a single; I order a double. The drink is good, it burns going down, which is just what I want. Guy in the booth behind me is talking about sheet metal, perfect. Billie Holiday sings, "I Cover the Waterfront." How did they know?

I scan the room; it's mostly empty. The rain brings out only the hardest or most tender hearts. There's an old photo in my booth — a fishing camp, the '30s, bunch of guys standing around, fish, smokes, you know the story. This place is like that, yeah, 1930s Michigan, Upper Peninsula. A little E. Hemingway (a little J. Peterman).

Then I see him. Well, well, it's been quite a while. He's across the room, and he's with a blonde. Not a blonde who would make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window, but a blonde. Younger. I watch them awhile, on the sly. What's between them? Hard to read the body language. He could be telling her all about me. He could be trying to sell her used Xerox equipment. It's hard to tell, but I really don't care. That was a while ago, and it wasn't love, it was fun.

I've got to eat — and run. I opt for the crab cakes. They're good. Too good to eat as quickly as I do. I pay up and give the kid a good tip. The rain is coming down now in buckets. I slip in some Sinatra to carry the mood and head back toward the city. I don't stay too long in one place these days. That line about the bishop kicking a hole in a stained glass window? I cribbed it from Raymond Chandler. Just in case you care.

Night 11: Olazzo
The rain won't break. It's springtime now, but the skies sulk and get dark way early. I am a third of the way through my marathon month and I have a growing collection of guest umbrellas on the backseat of my car. I also have a growing suspicion that there's more of me than there was two weeks ago. I have denied myself nothing, and am shamelessly feasting on all the things I'll never make at home — lobster, scallops, crabmeat and duck, soufflé and mousse and delectable confections. Driving up to Olazzo, despite the rain, my mood lifts. It must be the anticipation of pasta and, oh, I don't have to park my car!

If there is anything better than valet parking on a rainy night, it's a place like Olazzo — warm, jammed, and putting out plates of carbohydrates without apology. There is the whole range of Sunday dinners at mama's house: lasagna, linguini, ziti, veal, chicken and lots of warm elastic cheese. The tables are placed close together, so I can't help hearing the foursome next door. They discuss the GNP of the EU, another one of those inside-the-Beltway alphabet songs. They are informed, they are concerned and they are vegetarians. Boy, are they ever vegetarians! When their orders come, two of the four are convinced that their meatless lasagna is meatful. His mouth has distinctly detected a small piece of meat. She is irate. Is the waiter sure they have been served the vegetarian dish? Yes, because the meat lasagna has the meat scattered over the top, not within the layers. Will they take the plate back to the kitchen so it can be checked? The offending lasagna is promptly removed and returned with polite assurance that it is, indeed, a meatless meal. The morsel of dead animal must have inadvertently popped onto the top from another dish. That is not good enough; a new serving of lasagna is required. After a wait of about 15 minutes, the waiter delivers a virgin portion. "Are you sure this is the vegetarian?" What are these people afraid of — meat, or plutonium??!

It is my firm belief that all humans, especially those who patronize restaurants, should first be required to serve. They might then appreciate the intricacies of a professional kitchen where, despite the best intentions of the chef, the physics of combining and heating molecules of food can be complicated and even — yes — messy. At a place like Olazzo, whose kitchen is cramped, a stray curd of ground meat might indeed fly from one plate to the next without inflicting loss of life.

Roberto Pietrobono, the restaurant's young co-owner, takes all this in stride. His younger brother, Ricardo is in the kitchen, armed, as I dreamed, with their family's recipes, one of which is my favorite thing, Italian Wedding Soup. He wraps up a complimentary bowl for me to go and throws in a smile. No normal person will leave Olazzo unhappy.

Night 12: La Ferme
I don't think any normal person would even enter La Ferme unhappy. That is my next night's destination. I had been only three times to eat at La Ferme, each one in "mazel tov" mode: two bar mitzvahs and, just last week, a wedding reception. As I enter tonight, shaking off rain, I get a reception indeed — a personal one. Pino, the suave and ponytailed manager, greets me and says "let me undress you first," taking my raincoat. Perfect: It is one I bought in Paris last fall.

The stucco building that houses La Ferme had a 60-year history before La Ferme owner Alain Roussel bought it in 1984. Built in 1920 as a girls' private school, in 1980 the building became Brookfarm: The Inn of Magic, a club that brought a tad too much raucous nightlife to the calm and verdant precincts of the Martin's Additions neighborhood. Happily for all concerned, M. Roussel made that all disappear. The experience of dining at La Ferme needn't be sweetened by anything magic. This restaurant manages to combine the eternal allure of the countryside with the sophistication of urban tastes.
.
There is a reason why people choose to celebrate happy occasions at La Ferme. The ambience is comfortably rustic, the menu is exquisite and the piano player does his best Yves Montand. So why not order the sea bass braised with savoy cabbage and morels in sauce moutarde. And, s'il vous plait, the chocolate soufflé. Madame will eat the bread, yes, as she drinks her wine, a nice cabernet sauvignon.

Today La Ferme is a favorite of the locals and the only magic being performed is in the kitchen.

Night 13: Volare
It's still raining the next night (Did I just see a guy with a beard float by in a boat?) and female Michael and I are cruising deepest Bethesda. We're trying to find Red Tomato. But here is Volare, another on my list of destinations and they offer valet parking. Nolo contendre. Andiamo.

One step into Volare and you know you've found another of those perfect authentic neighborhood places. With its conglomeration of paintings and hangings, tapestries, bottles and plastic grapes, this is not the latest thing. It is even better, the real thing. If you had a nonna to pry from her own cucina for her birthday, you would bring her here.

But something seems off. I find it somewhat strange that all the help here seems Asian, which doesn't immediately augur well in the authenticity department. Everyone is prompt and polite, but I'm thinking that the kitchen might well have a José and not a Guiseppe rattling the pans. I ask to speak with the owner, as I usually do, and I'm told he is "Mr. Robinson." Hmmm. Not that promising either.

The menu is classic by anyone's standards, and we aren't that hungry tonight. But the eggplant parmesan, OK a cliché, is delicious. The eggplant is sliced thick, delicately fried and tender in the middle, the sauce is just right. Michael's pasta e fagiole soup looks lovely and comforting, all velvety beans and potatoes in a creamy base. So somebody knows what they're doing.

By check time "Mr. Robinson" (whose real name is Robinson Vasquez) appears. But he's the guy who parked our car! He looks Italian, but Robinson? Easy to explain: he's from Ecuador. Oh. This guy is nice, and I realize then that Volare is a quintessential American place. Vasquez is an immigrant from Ecuador. He came to DC with dreams of success, started a hair salon, did well, bought another, did better, got bored, bought Volare and oversees its care and management, whether greeting patrons, parking the cars or doing the dishes. The staff is an ethnic patchwork, the chef is Italian. The patrons are a patchwork as well and, as Vasquez delivers the cream puffs he insists we try, I see we customers are all united in our state of satisfaction.

Night 14: Addie's
So this is Addie's. How many times had I passed the inviting little cottage on the hill, so out of place just beyond earshot of the hue and honk that is Rockville Pike? I park in back, walk up to the front, and, on this first sweet evening in weeks, feel as if I'm going to somebody's party. There are clusters of people on the lawn, a couple of picnic tables for waiting with a drink (Addie's does not take weekend reservations), and people already eating on a patio. Inside, it's humming — packed at 6:30. Tonight's company is my older brother and his girlfriend. We order a pitcher of sangria and are happy to study the menu.

The sangria is great. It's not my usual choice, but Addie's version is light, crisp and delicious, brightened with apple as well as orange. It goes down too fast and we order more. Just as the second pitcher comes, we're seated and have to commit: I want a steak, but I need the fish, the pork sounds luscious, but fried sweet potatoes sound downright dangerous at this point. The appetizers alone are irresistible. I finally decide on grilled calamari and shrimp with lentils, the rib eye, which comes with whipped potatoes and steamed spinach and that pile of onion I'm seeing everywhere. Later I opt for warm chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream. God bless her, this girl can eat.

While we wait for the check, Tammy, the hostess, stops by to chat. The owners, Jeff and Barbara Black, are also the owners of Black's in Bethesda. Addie is Jeff's grandma in Texas who has never been here, 'cause she doesn't fly. What a shame! I think she'd be downright proud. Jeff and Barbara met, Tammy says confidentially, at the CIA. I know my brother. From a bedroom full of Landmark Books as a kid to a town house packed with Tom Clancy and Len Deighton hardbacks, David is a masculine romantic. He thinks this detail is amazing. Tired of toil at the agency, Jeff and Barbara leave it all behind to season pork and bake up bread. He loves it. Should I tell him about the Culinary Institute of America? Nahhhhhhh.

Night 15: Café Bethesda
Michael K. comes out another night for a blissful dinner, this time with two other friends, to Café Bethesda. Our car is taken by the valet; I am getting used to valet parking, and dread the day when my Civic turns back into a pumpkin. We are escorted to a window table where the new spring dusk darkens beyond the white lace curtains.

Café Bethesda is a sibling and next-door neighbor of L'Academie de Cuisine, the venerable Bethesda culinary school that has been making real cooks of civilians since 1976. Their new catalog is rapturous: besides courses in elementary techniques like knife skills (basic and advanced), L'Academie offers one-day intensives in specialties like Summer Harvest Baking, Summer Berry Desserts, Chocolate Basics (yes, please), Great American Cakes, and Sandwich Breads and Fillings for Summer. (Call me any time.)

Tonight, though, we are happy to be the amateurs and let the chef do the cooking. The menu is brief and balanced, and everything sounds appealing. Although the room is small and every table is booked, the atmosphere is quiet and civilized. Of course, such a nicely refined destination is hardly going to attract a rowdy crowd. There is the murmur of conversation, the subtle clink and sip of dining room sounds. The offerings seem just right: a variety of land and sea, seasonal produce and different techniques. After an extreme overindulgence the night before, I decide on an entrée only. The duck breast is a royal flush, a pink and perfect fan of flesh in a sauce, the spinach hitting just the right notes. The only time I ever tried to cook a duck was a grotesque failure — it seemed like human flesh, greasy and tough, not something meant by God to be eaten. This dish I am eating is that magic mix of suede and velvet that duck is meant to be. All at our table are happy; a poached pear and mascarpone dessert wins a particular rave.

When I speak with the manager after the meal, I am not surprised to learn that this is the first time since 1988 that there are no students employed in the kitchen. But of course. How could a neophyte turn out food so skillfully? Surely there must be a master or two back there crowned with well-deserved toques. I ask to peek behind the scenes into the narrow, stifling galley. But the two chefs schvitzing in the kitchen are not Marcel and Jean-Claude. They are two babies — sheepishly smiling and mopping their brows. Francisco and Rogelio are from Honduras — best friends from high school who have come to Washington to find their lives. How did they manage to learn to turn out such sophisticated, seamless food? They worked with the old chef, and evidently paid close attention. These guys must be no older than 25. Friendly and shy, they are searing tuna and roasting duck, poaching pears and turning out splendid scaloppine like the best of them. They are the best of them.

Night 16: Bethesda Crab House
It takes talent, technique and precision to create sophisticated dishes. How much talent does it take to execute several hundred crabs at a time? Bethesda Crab House does this every day, but it seems to me that it ain't ballet. Isn't it more like a tap dance? I decide to find out.

A crab house isn't the best place to go by yourself, but that is exactly what I'm doing on the first nice night in weeks. It's almost 8 o'clock and the large parties are thinning out. Most of the tables are covered with the remnants of crab-crackin'— the typical Chesapeake train wreck of shells and innards, napkins and mallets. But it's a breezy beautiful evening, and, tucked into a long table all by myself, I order crab cakes and start back on my New York Times crossword puzzle.

The Bethesda Crab House is exactly that. Its menu is short and to the point: they serve steamed crabs, crab cakes and steamed shrimp. There is corn on the cob (crates of fresh ears sit inside to be shucked as needed and slaw (rather factory-made, but we don't come here for coleslaw, do we?). There are no crab puffs, crab fritters or crab imperial; no she-crab soup, fried fish, french fries, hamburgers or anything else to distract the staff from their purpose in life: to cook up livid crusty batches of crabs and dump them in front of you, so you won't have to do it at home. (My husband and I once hosted a crab feast at our house, which had to be held INDOORS because of rain. I don't recommend it.) The tables are full of friends and families, so there is plenty of chatter and the syncopated whacking of mallets.

I have neighbors at my table now, a bunch of people just short of 30, some of whom are neophytes at tackling a crab. We strike up some conversation. I expect a little fun observing them (my introduction to eating crabs came at age 19, when I showed up to the party in a crisp white piqué dress and high heels.). But the waiter gives such a clear and simple lesson they have no trouble or disgust at all. What interests me instead is their conversation. After a while of discussing golf (they all seem to play) and Bush-bashing (they don't seem to like it), the talk turns to sex, notably their recreational use of Viagra. Viagra! These people, and I mean the men AND the women, are in their 20s! Suddenly, sitting there with my glasses on, doing a crossword puzzle, alone, I feel like a Gilda Radner character, a total dork. I feel like shaking a finger at them and saying, "What's wrong with you kids??? Why, in my day…."

At that point I'm relieved to see Henry Vechery, owner and operator, who started the Bethesda Crab House 43 years ago with his twin brother. The twin lit out for the territories after a while, but Henry owns the restaurant still, and his kids and grandkids work in the business. Henry knows crabs. He's local, from Silver Spring, and he used to be a food broker before starting his own place. Tonight they had larges (by the time I got there, they were sold out), but jumbos are coming. Henry talks about crabs like a guy might talk about cars. These larges are beauts, and the jumbos will be even better. If my crab cakes are any indication, Henry knows just where to go to get the best, sweetest, most succulent stock. Their crab cakes are luscious, all lump meat, as promised, stretched not unpleasantly at all with buttered, seasoned, fresh bread crumbs.

Henry is a widower. Before he goes, he confides that his girlfriend moved down to Florida two days before. He has a date tonight — tonight, why Henry! Well, he says, you know, you get used to good sex and it's hard not to have it. Amen to that, Henry, amen to that. Sort of like good crab cakes...

Night 17: Grapeseed
The thought of healthy, unblemished young people popping Viagra for sexual energy depresses me, and I spend the next day investigating the journalistic possibilities of the subject. It is just another sign to me that our culture is really spiraling down the drain.

Perhaps with that thought gnawing at the back of my mind, I decide to head for Grapeseed, from what I hear, a decidedly refined and civilized place.

It's one of those stagnant, unseasonably warm evenings, when the air is like dog breath on your leg. Grapeseed is crowded. Many people would be tempted to get the air conditioner going for the first time all season, stay home and eat a salad, but Grapeseed provides a lure. It's not even cool in the restaurant, but no one turns away at the door. Why?

This is a rather high-concept establishment that, as its name implies, emphasizes the perfect wine with every dish. In fact, the menu is full of arranged marriages, and there are specific wine recommendations beside every item on the menu. That is heaven for the wine lover and makes things easy for the customer who is not savvy (which includes me. I know food but am not much of a wine drinker). It also upholsters the tab, if one is not careful. To prevent sticker shock, the management thoughtfully offers two serving sizes: a 2.5-ounce tasting, and a full 5-ounce glass.

Jeff Heineman is the owner and chef, and his knowledge and love of wine are equal to his culinary gifts. After studying at Bethesda's L'Academie de Cuisine, he went to France, where he apprenticed to a chef in Burgundy in exchange for room and board. He really paid attention. From my grilled lobster with bacon, white beans and lemon through to my perfect, almost military cylinder of chocolate mousse pie, there was not one false note. Heineman's menu changes daily, no small challenge for any chef, especially one who plays matchmaker. That takes clarity of mind and a deftness that eludes many in his field. Plus, he does his work in an open kitchen, and pulls it all off with complete aplomb.

Night 18: Louisiana Express
The sultry weather breaks the next day. This is spring. Birds are back, bugs too. The cicadas are probably emerging from their 17-year dreams. I am relaxed and happy. But here's where this assignment gets hard. I just don't feel like getting dressed up and eating in a restaurant tonight. It is, of course, a plum assignment to eat a month of wonderful meals. But who really wants to go out every single night? It's wearing on me, and the only place left on my list that won't require me to dress up offers one of the few kinds of cuisine I don't really like, food from N'awlins.

I am the only person I know who hates New Orleans, an opinion that makes me feel as if I have one big eye in the middle of my forehead. It may have been the circumstances under which I have visited the city. The first time I was 15, on a sullen cross-country jaunt with my family in August 1963. The summer was scalding with racial unrest, and we Pennsylvanians were depressed at the sight of segregated facilities. Plus, New Orleans in August is rank. We stayed in a tourist cabin motor court where a guy came in and sprayed every corner with DDT before we brought in our bags. Even so, mosquitoes were everywhere, and outdoors they stuck to us like torn toilet paper on shaving cuts. I hated it. The second time there, I'd fled to a friend's after the fatal stake was driven through the heart of my marriage. It was Halloween weekend and the streets were stuffed with urinating tourists. Even in my happiest, most contented moments, my idea of a good old time is not drinking until I puke on my shoes.

And the food! I usually eat a healthy diet, and that town seemed to be a nightmare of fried food. I hated the beignets, and that burnt-up fish! All I remember beside the heartache was the crying need for fiber, the one request that is not readily fulfilled in our southern Gomorrah.

So. When I saw that Louisiana Express was on my list, I honestly did not want to go. I was just not up for popcorn shrimp, slimy okra and sugared fried bread. In fact, I put off my visit so late in the night I was the last customer there. And I wasn't even hungry. But what a surprise! Set in a little strip of miscellaneous businesses in Bethesda, Louisiana Express is a charming place — cheerful but not manic, casual but not funky. As soon as I ordered the catfish special, my mood began to expand. Since I was the only person there, and it was getting late, there was the risk that I'd get a recycled geriatric dinner. Boy, was I wrong. The catfish was fresh, its cornmeal jacket crunchy, freshly fried and, miraculously, dry after frying. The spiced shoestring potatoes were nice, which made me suspect they were seasoned by hand on the premises, not on a conveyor belt at a factory. The slaw was the best, a chopped salad really, with cabbage and carrots, peppers, celery and an acerbic tingle all its own.

I signaled José, the chef, to commend him on his talent and find out his story. A shy man who warned me he spoke little English, José was able to yak on with me for about 10 minutes with no trouble at all. He is from El Salvador. He has never been to New Orleans. He learned to cook from the owner. Is the owner perhaps a Mr. Dupris, a Mme. St. Onge or a M. Leboeuf? No, he is Mr. Finkhaus, and he is from Germany.

I'm getting the message that the real melting pots these days are in restaurant kitchens, where some kind of international alchemy is providing us with hearty cross-cultural blessings.

I was too full to try one of the splendid-sounding desserts (bourbon bread pudding, pecan pie), or to stop by the cooler by the door. There you can buy a Popsicle on your way out, a perfect way to extinguish the spice. It's a nice touch.

Night 19: Red Tomato Café
I'm pepped up by making peace with Cajun cooking and refreshed enough to start out the next evening with spirit. Even though I'm on my own again, and the clouds have returned, I'm glad to pull up to the parking valet outside Red Tomato. (Just where do all these cars get parked? It's like all those single socks in the laundry. They must exist, somewhere.) All this valet parking is really making me feel posh and spoiled. Obviously, I am really easy to please, a trait I get from my father who was just so happy with schmaltz smeared on rye bread. I do think though, were he still alive, things like valet parking (plus $4 coffees and wardrobe malfunctions) would kill him.

It's a darkening evening, and the inside of Red Tomato seems darker still. Light comes from the maw of the fired-up brick pizza oven, so that's about all we need. I'm perched at a teensy, tall airport-lounge table for two, but I still have Martha Gellhorn with me and she is excellent company everywhere.

My waiter breezes over, and I can immediately tell that he is one of those eager, cheerful sorts who, rather than offering unobtrusive, silent service, is going to be an Announcer: "Your menu, some water…" "a new napkin…" "your fork there," etc. But I really don't mind because he is a sweet young fellow, and — imagine — he's Irish!

Everyone in the house is loading carbs, so I decide it's time I had some Bethesda pizza. Although I do order some starters — a green salad with an extremely gum-puckering lemon vinaigrette and a pretty flatlined lentil and shrimp dish — the pizza is obviously the prima donna. Mine comes with generous, nicely grilled vegetables on top, even fresh tomatoes. The crust is deftly made, light but with a satisfying tooth to it, and just enough crunch. It's really delicious.

As I'm polishing off the last slice, my waiter friend appears again to announce the clearing of the plate. I ask him if he's Irish. "Irish? No!" "Oh, I thought I detected a slight lilt to your speech." "Oh, yeah, I try out different accents sometimes," he says. "I thought I sounded Spanish or Portuguese." He's from Bethesda.

Night 20: Sweet Basil
The next night I have a reservation at Sweet Basil. I'm meeting friends, but they're late. Being the well-mannered kind of people I choose to spend my time with, they have thoughtfully phoned in a message so I don't have to worry my watch and think I am there on the wrong night or at the wrong hour. (A friend showed up a day early for my wedding, and followed the whole family circus around to prenuptial events like a forlorn pup. We have snapshots of him, shoulders sagging, in the background of every event — the rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner, the prenup brunch, looking like Waldo.)

This little interlude gives me time to watch the passing parade on Fairmont Avenue, and it is almost literally that. Outside the window there is an ongoing procession of dads toting their wee sticky ones on their backs, coming from the ice cream place on the corner. But the wait gives me time with the menu, for which I am grateful.

Candidly, Thai food has never been my favorite. It has always tasted soapy to me, the same somewhat unappealing list of chicken and beef and seafood with oily, muddy or incendiary sauces with too much cilantro, and the inevitable pad Thai, which seemed more culinary miscellany than an actual thought-out dish.

Sweet Basil's menu is literature after pulp fiction.

The possibilities seem endless, and I am tempted to order something, anything, even before my friends arrive. I wait, though, making myself happy with a gin and tonic and an entire basket of shrimp chips, whose connection to shrimp eludes me. Styrofoam, yes, but shrimp? They're good, though, like a sort of infantile oral fixation.

When my friends do arrive, we spend a good long time on the menu. They agree that these dishes will be more than we have come to expect. We are so right. Turnip cakes would be unrecognizable if we hadn't read the menu, but their satisfyingly bland flavor is flattered by a sprinkle of sprouts and peanuts and a scalding dipping sauce. Grilled calamari is tender and fine. We go through the animal kingdom in our entrées — chicken, snapper and lamb — and make good on our agreement to share (a bit grudgingly, I think).

When Birat Pitayatonakarn, the owner, comes by to chat we ask him why his menu is so splendid, so unlike those at all the other Thai places we have been. These, he says, are authentic traditional Thai specialties. What we have been ordering for years are tailored to American tastes — gringo food, friends, the Thai equivalent of chop suey and egg rolls.

But who can be in the kitchen? Mr. P., born in Bangkok, has a sister who runs a restaurant there. A country girl came to work for his sister and learned to cook at the sister's side. She is now Mrs. Pitayatonakarn. She runs the kitchen at Sweet Basil, so the recipes, to our good fortune, live on.

Night 21: Divino Lounge
Where next for a little exotica? I have a little list. And next on my list, for night 21, two-thirds through my marathon, is Divino Lounge, a place I've passed a hundred times heading north toward Rockville. It is listed as "Latin," which, to my imagination, immediately evokes people in togas. Ancient Rome; fifth grade. What did those people live on? Fishes and fowls and jugs of wine. Almonds and olives.

You won't find any ancient patricians peeling grapes at Divino Lounge, but you will find a lot of contemporary customers — maybe even a senator — in search of authentic Latin American cuisine. The restaurant, which has been in its place on Wisconsin Avenue for about 10 months, caters to a clientele who appreciate authentic, traditional Spanish and Argentinian food. The menu culls the land, the sea and the garden for fresh and elegant presentations.

The specialty of the house is parrillada, a traditional Argentinian delicacy, although "delicacy" is not the first description that springs to mind. The dish is unsurpassed for drama; it is served on individual hibachi-type grills at the table. And, from the looks of it, it is also unsurpassed for power protein. Parrillada has one ingredient: dead animal. PETA members need not apply. The mixed grill comprises various cuts of beef, blood sausages, sweetbreads, short ribs, and muscle cuts, the kinds we norteamericanos are used to eating. (In Argentina, parrillada traditionally includes exotica like intestines and testicles, which the owners, Carlos DiLaudo and Nelson Ayalan, thoughtfully chose to exclude.) Simply seasoned with pepper and salt, the roasted meat glistens with chimichurri, its traditional sauce of oil, vinegar, garlic and spice. According to Senor DiLaudo, no proper Argentinian would stint on the chimichurri, since it is considered a potent aphrodisiac. The testicles, I suppose, are eaten just because they are delicious. My friend and I chose seafood rather than any major meat production, and every dish was perfection. The crowd was attractive as well, drawing largely from the area's Argentinian community.

Night 22: Irish Inn at Glen Echo
I think I need a breeze to cool me off, so the next night I head west to the river. When Chris Hughes and his wife Libby took over the Inn at Glen Echo, they set about turning a romantic restaurant into an absolutely fabulous romantic restaurant. I had been there once or twice under the former ownership. Now, with its Irish flag rippling in the evening breeze, I was not sure how the Celtic component would improve the place, or how it would manifest in its menu.

When it was ready to open on New Year's Eve, 2003, the Irish Inn had been refurbished into a dreamy hideaway. Set as it is out of town, and down off the highway, the somewhat wild riverside foliage — at least on a springtime night — sits in each window quite prettily. Each room, all of which vary in size, has an intimacy to it that would make this the perfect place to pop the question, announce the pregnancy, or celebrate anything else. (Note: Do NOT come here to break up.) The interior has been done in a soft but striking palette. I wanted to eat each course in a different room.

And I definitely wanted to eat each course.

The menu is not strictly traditional Irish cuisine, although, if that's what you pine for, the downstairs pub will always have beef stew, corned beef and cabbage, and shepherd's pie to offer. The restaurant menu is, rather, refined; and, from the assortment of starters and entrées a friend and I ordered, I would say that Steve Jaeger, the chef, does well with everything. A crab cake, although it did not deliver the lump meat it has promised, was stringy but satisfying. A polenta cake with ratatouille was just as good. My friend's pan- seared scallops ("Oh, pan- seared scallops again, Mom!???") were succulent, and my leg of lamb was served with an unusual mix of peeled white potatoes, lima and other starchy ground beans. Both hit my culinary G-spot.

Barry Nolan, the manager, was solicitous and helpful, as were all the staff. And his Irish accent was real.

Night 23: Ri Ra
Although I enjoyed a perfectly marvelous meal at the Irish Inn at Glen Echo, I have to confess that shepherd's pie was still on my mind. I am not even a small part Irish, but, as anyone who knows me can attest, I have always wanted to be Irish. I think it must be the language. I am drawn to the lilting speech, the lovely use of the word "grand." The large, fractious families who speak of "our Erin" and "our Brendan." So for a little more taste of Gaelic I head to Ri Ra, Bethesda's new piece of the Old Sod. An Irish pub and restaurant, Ri Ra is quite literally a bit of the Emerald Isle. The handsome interior was constructed of antique mahogany woodwork shipped to Bethesda from Ireland. The bar in the restaurant was once the bar at Dublin's Olympia Theatre which first opened in 1879 on Dame Street, opposite Dublin Castle. Over the last 100 years the Olympia has been home to many of Ireland's famous playwrights, including Oscar Wilde.

What's a "Ri Ra"? We're glad you asked! It is "a place or state where exuberance and revelry prevail." I sit in the pub the better to watch the musicians inside. There are 10 of them, "having a session," as a member puts it. There are fiddles and pipes, a penny whistle and a couple of squeezeboxes. One man holds in his hands a drum called a bodhran, which he strikes with a stout wooden stick. Irish music is merry, although there is always the tug of the minor key.

The menu lists what I imagine is typical hearty Irish fare: fresh oysters, fish and chips, beef and Guinness stew, bangers and mash, mushy peas and shepherd's pie. There are also nods to today's eclectic tastes like fried calamari and blackened chicken linguini. My shepherd's pie sits before me, but not for long. Piping hot it is, full of carrots and mushy peas covered with a fancy doodle of mash. Grand.

Night 24: Joe's Noodle House
My month is drawing to a close. I am down to a handful of choices. Tonight: Joe's Noodle House in Rockville. As much as I would love to call myself an "old China hand," (one of those glamorous sobriquets I've always wished I could apply to myself like, "I do my own stunts," or "I'm wearing a wire.") my experience with Chinese food has not gone much beyond dan dan noodles and moo shu pork. I'm not a baby, about it; I just haven't had the opportunity to order from a Chinese menu that hasn't been modified for the gringos.

The menu at Joe's Noodle House has not been modified for the gringos. The menu at Joe's Noodle House is not for sissies. The owners of Divino Lounge may have thoughtfully altered their parrillada by discreet omission of certain traditional items, but the chefs at Joe's are not selling out to anybody's western sensibilities. There are pages of menu, with 183 different items (I counted). This is exotic unadulterated gastronomy: jelly fish; pork intestine, tripe, kidney and ear; Szechuan beef jerky; duck tongue and feet. But it is also poetry: Bitter melon, Drunken Chicken, Chive Pocket and Eight-Treasure Sweet Rice.

I rather bashfully but earnestly seek guidance (i.e. beg for advice) from Audrey Jan, the co-owner and hostess for the evening. Luckily, she is gracious and understanding, and helps me choose three dishes that are typical but not overtly Indiana Jones. Ms. Jan started the Noodle House four years ago with Tianwen Pei, a friend from mainland China. While their menu is extensive — it goes way beyond noodles — their kitchen is small. A peek reveals one range tucked into a miscellaneous wedge of space and one small room crammed with more burners and personnel, all air rights given over to dangling woks, pots and other paraphernalia. The cooks look startled, so I quickly withdraw.

The food is fantastic. The squid is cleaved into big hunks, not the delicate rings I am used to, battered and fried and served with salt, a nice change from the Italo-yuppie usual. A huge glass bowl of dark and oily broth that hides buttery slices of beef and bok choy is amazing. Pepper flakes the size of Wheaties stick to the food; the effect is incendiary. (Improbably, the theme from "The Godfather" is winding away in the background.) The waitress glides back and forth. (She reminds me of the waitresses who used to roll the dim sum carts at my favorite place in New York. Occasionally one would go right by our table. When we made a motion for the waitress to stop, she would mutter in passing, "Not for you.") Now I'm providing Joe's waitress a hearty chuckle with my spasmodic coughing. She must like mischief. "A-too spicy for you?" she asks every time she brushes by. Next comes baby eggplant, artfully cut in halves, in garlic sauce. These are like jewels. They are moist, just anointed by their garlic bath. The insides are butter, the outsides shine.

Night 25: Vegetable Garden
If a visit to Joe's is just too much for your delicate sensibilities, I strongly suggest you stop farther down Rockville Pike at Vegetable Garden, where I headed the next night. This is the yin to Joe's yang — an organic vegetarian Chinese restaurant where neither a feather nor a snippet of fur has ever settled to the kitchen floor. So legitimate is the mission of Vegetable Garden and so far-ranging is its reputation, that I was able to find numerous sites on the veggie-net singing its praises. Not only does Vegetarian Times name it "one of the 31 top vegetarian restaurants in the country," (The number 31 is impressive, I think. It puts the lie to the "Top 25" template that every other magazine slaps over a "Best of" survey.) Veggie Garden has also earned the imprimatur of PETA Eats, an online resource the organization provides for hungry compassionate gourmands. In addition, Vegetable Garden participates in COK (Compassion Over Killing, a non-profit animal advocacy group based in Washington), which means that it is a friendly haven for that same constituency. In fact, 10 percent of every Thursday's receipts at VG go to COK. I had no idea about any of this the previous times I'd eaten there. I just went because the food was great.

The Vegetable Garden's chefs do their own brand of alchemy, turning only the plants of the earth into just about every protein analogue possible. There are plenty of vegetable dishes. Their moo shu vegetables are my absolute favorite: a healthy heap of thinly sliced and lightly sautéed green and red cabbage, snow peas, wood ear mushrooms, and carrots — and hoisin sauce with just a whisper of sweetness. The pancakes might be a tad rubbery, but I never mind. Most Asian places serve a dark and morbid mix of overcooked cabbage and God knows what else as moo shu veggies. Vegetable Garden's version is fresh with color and crunch; these ingredients have recently been growing in a field.

But the really impressive creations are the ones that come in quotes: Orange "Beef" and Kung Pao "Chicken," for instance. They certainly look good enough. Personally, I am never convinced by the soy versions of anything, but vegans can feel at home here and everyone, regardless of lifestyle or philosophy, can find a wide variety of fresh, healthful and yummy cuisine. Although I have always found whole-wheat, carob, non-sugared desserts a little too Gulag Archipelago for my taste, Vegetable Garden offers a number of vegan desserts, like pumpkin pie and pecan Tofutti, that seem to please the crowd.

Night 26: Green Papaya
After the simple humility of Vegetable Garden, I'm still in Asia the next night, but I'm back to indulgence. The ambience at Green Papaya, while not quite as lushly evocative as films like "Indochine" or "The Lover," is redolent of unapologetic pleasure. The Vietnamese menu opens before me like a storybook, and every chapter is enchanting.

My companions have just spent a month in Vietnam visiting friends, so they are considerably savvier than I. Their first reaction is sticker shock: an evening at a Hanoi nightclub — with food, entertainment, and wine — costs $2.50 a head. But soon they return to our own economic realities. We take so much time studying the menu you'd think we were planning the D-day invasion. This is an embarrassment of riches. Appetizers alone offer us more than too many choices. Then there are soups and salads, stir-fries, braises and caramelized dishes. Pork, beef, chicken, lamb, mangoes, shrimp, papayas, scallops, pineapple, ginger, garlic and lemongrass — dozens of fresh and fragrant possibilities.

Our patient waiter checks on us several times and brings us drinks. My piña colada seems absurd and infantile next to my friends' bottles of beer. With its orange slice and maraschino garnish, in a glass so tall I have to hold it away from the table as if I were playing a saxophone — I feel like I'm drinking a Shirley Temple.

In 1979, when Green Papaya's owner, Michael Phan, came to the States from Saigon, he must have been a kid. This is his second place (he owns Little Viet Garden on Wilson Avenue in Arlington). When our food arrives — baby clams the size of pearls, spicy ginger noodles with shellfish, rack of lamb with jasmine rice, rice paper rolls of delicate seafood and tender vegetables, we are transported. I am unlikely to get to Vietnam any time soon. I am very grateful that Mr. Phan has settled in Bethesda.

Night 27: Tower Oaks Lodge
The Clyde's Restaurant Group, as it is called, has grown from its first venue, the still-robust Georgetown pub, to almost a dozen high-profile eateries, including the Old Ebbitt Grill and 1789 Restaurant. The 11th member is Tower Oaks Lodge, and, on the long approach through the towering outside balustrade of winky white lights and button-busting virility of the building itself, I didn't know if I was about to sit down with Clyde Beatty or Clyde Barrow.

The Wow factor is pretty high inside, if Wow is your thing. And well it might be when you've got a bunch of cousins in town, a business birthday or a happy family occasion. This place is styled and stuffed, from the rugs to the rafters, with more Buffalo Bill-Eddie Bauer-L.L. Beaniana than is probably under any other roof on the face of the earth. This is one pitch-forked, long-oared, Bowie-knifed, tommy-hawked, gold rush, silver bullet, brass balls experience, folks, and that doesn't even include the menu. If you can pull your gaze away from the moose-headed, leather-stockinged, snowshoed interior and read the bill of fare, there are plenty of reasons to break your stare.

I start with what promises to be the Paul Bunyan of shrimp cocktails and, at $7.50 for three pieces of bottom-feeder, it better be. It is! These are shrimp but they sure ain't shrimpy. Each one is the size of the chick-lobster tail. And they are served exactly right: chilled but not icy, firm but not tough, toothy, sweet and tasty to boot. The cocktail sauce comes with a plop of horseradish on top, and, mixed together with a spritz of lemon, they really are, hands down, the great American appetizer. (Did you ever have to share your shrimp cocktail with your sister or brother? Didn't you hate to?) I only have several more nights to go, so I order the crab cakes — I'm only human! Would they be anything other than jumbo lump? Of course not. Not at Tower Oak Lodge! These two babies are broiled (thank you), so heavy with hunks of crab they are falling apart on the plate from their own weight and lack of a cheater binding. This is bliss.

But... my stomach. My poor stomach, the internal organ I've larded with almost a month of rich and decadent cooking. Uh — my heart! My reliable little fist-sized squeezebox with its subtle thump, my organ of life that has survived several breaks and astounding recoveries, what am I doing to you? My hips! My sturdy, perfect-for-childbearing, size 8 hips, you are in there still, somewhere, but you were a totally incognito size 12 at the beginning of this month. Has this month added more padding?!

I think I'll have the strawberry-rhubarb crisp with vanilla ice cream. How can I resist? Do I want to sit at home next week, finished with this assignment, and regret the crisps, tortes and soufflés I didn't eat? But hold the caramel sauce, please. Even if I am at Tower Oaks Lodge, I don't want to overdo it.

Night 28: Cubano's
I'm down to the last three restaurants on my list. After the Americana of Clyde's, I'm thinking Cuba si! Yanqui no! The next evening my friend Tom and I head out to Silver Spring for some island life at Cubano's.

Patrons at Cuban restaurants seem to be divided into two camps: those who yearn for their native country and long to see Fidel's cigar finally extinguished; and those who glamorize Che but have never had to live under the strictures of the revolution. Tonight we are united and agree on one thing: let the mojitos flow! All politics is cast aside as we sit at the bar and watch the barman make this Cuban specialty. Like all great countermen, be they egg-makers, burger-flippers or drink-mixers, this guy is an artist. He deftly mixes the sugar (it looks like a half-cup per drink), rum, lime juice and club soda. He then tops each glass with mint leaves and julienne of sugar cane, 10 glasses at a time.

Adolfo and Rocio Mendez are our hosts, and they couldn't be nicer. While Tom and I wait for paella, we are presented with a generous platter of hot appetizers. The tostones, fried green plantain; beef empanadas; chicharrones de pollo, hunks of fried marinated chicken; ham croquettes and fried yucca soon fill us up. Even though everything seems to be fried, the combination of sweet and pungent flavors goes down nicely with our mojitos.

Like so many ethnic restaurants all over the country, Cubano's is family-run. The Mendez family left Cuba for Venezuela in 1961. Cubano's is also, like so many of its immigrant cousins, run by non-restaurateurs. Adolfo, for example, was trained as a pharmacist and Rocio had been in advertising. But they dreamed of opening a restaurant and serving Cuban food, so, with no experience but lots of family, they decided to take a risk. Adolfo's sister Millie helps to run things, as does her son. Her nephew Umberto is the chef. Lucky for us. The paella for two is a seafood and sausage feast. Waiters swing by with armfuls of plates, like buttons sewn on a sleeve, eight at a time. Everything that passes by looks and smells delicious and the rooms, soothed by the voice of Ibrahim Ferrer, are lively and full.

My only regret is that we have absolutely no room left for flan. So Rocio makes us a grandma's package of leftovers for tomorrow. Besides, she explains, that's when paella is really the best. I'll be at another restaurant tomorrow, so the last I see of Tom is as he is disappearing down my street with parcels under both arms.

Night 29: Tel-Aviv Café
Tom lived off the leftovers for several days, but the next evening I was out again, this time for my penultimate meal. Am I getting wistful? Although the thing that I feel more than wistful is waistful. (I must certainly not be the first person to flip the old slogan, "a waist is a terrible thing to mind.") For my next-to-last dinner on the boss, I decide to spend his shekels at the Tel-Aviv Café in Bethesda.

I am an errant tribeswoman. Although I march with the world's legion of, as we used to kid ourselves in college, SHBs (Sultry Hebrew Beauties), I have never been to Israel. I do not go to temple and, most Decembers, a Christmas tree is erected in my living room. But culturally I am most definitely Jewish, and culture includes cooking, so I'm up for a Middle Eastern meal. A mixed surprise, then, to open the menu and find that the food has taken a giant step west. But what luck. The kitchen at the café has for the last two months been run by Philippe Maigrot, formerly of La Ferme! While diehards can still dip their pita into hummus and baba ganoush, Middle Eastern dishes seem to have been swept off the menu by a westward wind.

My companions and I opt for a delicate crab and broccoli flan, and smoked duck and curly endive salad. There is also a bowl of savory zaatar, an olive oil, garlic, and herb concoction that nicely lubricates our lips. We order three different entrées and actually manage to stick to our promise of equal splitsies: tender and nicely trimmed rack of lamb, fresh trout with potato and Jerusalem artichoke puree in porcini reduction, and — look! — the same wonderful sea bass with braised morels and savoy cabbage in sauce moutarde I ate at La Ferme. I might be telling tales out of school, but M. Maigrot has brought with him that wonderful dish, and, while not plated as elegantly as it was at La Ferme, it is every bit as divine.

We split three desserts — warm and luscious almond-pear tartlet with vanilla ice cream, chocolate mousse cake with fresh raspberries and a satin round of cappuccino tart. The Ben Aim family, owners of the café since its inception in 1994, greet us with complimentary glasses of Limoncello di Capri, an after-dinner elixir the color of the sun itself. Natives of Beersheva, Israel, the brothers came here in 1976. David is the former chef; despite the coup of having Maigrot in the kitchen, he avers that he will still tie on an apron for the old regulars who miss the old menu, with its Israeli/Moroccan/Mediterranean accent.

Night 30: Old Angler's Inn
Shalom, sala'am and aloha. The next night I am at my last meal, and I've saved a fabled place for tonight, to make the last scene cinematic. I know of the Old Angler's Inn only from legend, of celebrations, trysts, engagements and other Kodak moments. I've heard it is a year-round seduction with the roaring fire in winter and the patio in spring . Alas, as of now, I do not have a tryst-worthy partner; instead I invite brand new friends.

The inn itself has been on this roadside spot since 1869. Once accommodation to horse-country swells traveling to the capital, it has since the mid-50s been the destination for those in love or out for a celebration. The patio is secluded and springtime surrounds it with freshness and fragrance. The menu is splendid, although appealingly brief. There is not much that doesn't sound wonderful. There are temptations like tenderloin, pecan-crusted sea bass and duck breast with figs.

As soon as I sit at our table I suddenly feel sick. Can there be a place less conducive to that? I don't know if the waiter hears my order of a glass of water and a cup of tea and sizes me up as a cheap date. But that's what I order and that's how he acts. (I've waited on tables, I can size up a "broiled chopped beef" the second they sit down.) The waiter, whose face is just slightly more affable than Paulie Walnuts', delivers the menus and I see just exactly what I will miss if I feel any worse. I drink some water and sip at the tea: appetite, don't fail me now!

Steve and Mary show up just in the nick of time. Between Lemon Lift and their sparkling company, I forget how I feel and relax. Steve and Mary are friends of friends, and we click immediately. We talk teenagers and family, art and work. They have three kids who are all almost grown. They are delightful individuals and a lovely couple, unusually receptive to each other, thoughtful, loving and kind. What is their secret?

Evening starts to darken the patio, accelerated by an oncoming storm. The wind whistles through the trees. For my final dive, my go-for-the-gold, I close my eyes and order a codfish cake with lobster sorrel sauce and beef tenderloin. (God I'm a trouper.)

I observe that Steve and Mary must have married as