Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

Congratulations to Patrick Gavin and Jeff Dufour, who will be writing the Yeas & Nays column for the Washington Examiner. At last night’s launch party at the University Club– site of many a launch as well as bar and bas mitzvahs—it was a veritable Who’s Who, or at least those hoping to make it into Jeff and Patrick’s column. But what about the food and drink? A waiter walked by with a plate of delicately encrusted chicken fingers that were so juicy they apparently didn’t need any sauce. Another waiter offered thinly sliced salmon that tasted exquisitely fresh (and did have a healthy orange glow). In the center of the room was a cornucopia of cheeses and crackers. But by then I needed a drink!

It was an open bar of beer and wine, and you could keep the bottle of red for yourself, compliments of the Washington Examiner and specially labeled for the event. Which means I have no knowledge of the vintage though I suspect it to be a 2004 Cabernet Sauvignon. The beer selection included Bud, Miller Lite, and Heineken. After much deliberation, I went with the Miller Lite, which brought the effervescent crispness that I had so desperaterly sought and with only half the carbs of a Bud Lite. Cheers!

UPDATE:  Jeff Dufour tells us, “It’s a 2000 Bordeaux, actually. Vive la France!”

Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

I was saddened to hear of the closing of A.V. Ristorante Italiano–a venerable Washington gastrolandmark. Because of its obscure location, the A.V. was the site of a great many sit-downs for lobbyists and politicians through the years. Justice Antonin Scalia met there with John Boehner back in 1996 to discuss the possibility of a Dole-Scalia ticket. According to the Associated Press, they both dined on pizza with anchovies. (You can still get a good pizza with anchovies at 2Amys in Upper Northwest D.C.)
 
The one adjective that comes to mind when describing the A.V. is dim. At night, you could barely read the menus. During the day, you would emerge as if you left a matinee. The tablecloths were checkered. And they had a backroom bar with a black-and-white tiled floor that reminded me of where Sollozzo and McCluskey were gunned down by Michael Corleone. They also had something of an outdoor garden with gaudy statues and fountains—though I never saw anyone seated out there.
 
As for the food, it was primarily southern-dominated, with red sauces poured over traditional dishes like veal parmigiana, manicotti, and ravioli. You wouldn’t find fancy dishes like “Agnolotti Monferrini Al Tovagliolo Con Ristretto In Tazza: braised beef and roasted pork agnolotti cooked in broth and served in a linen towel and a cup of beef consommé” (Galileo) or “Trota Affumicata: Fresh smoked Rainbow trout served with salsa verde, arugula and Tuscan croutons” (I Ricchi). Don’t get me wrong–I love these dishes, too. But sometimes you just want comfort.
 
At the end of a hearty meal at the A.V., the waiter would come by with complimentary sambuca. This was probably another reason I liked the place so much when I was in college. They also rarely checked for I.D. Back then, I would meet with some of my classmates who were involved in campus politics. When a friend was running for chairman of the College Republicans, he and I met with an acquaintance who was head of the College Democrats. This Dem happened to be housemates with my friend’s opponent and, in a bipartisan spirit, divulged the details of the opponent’s election day speech. When that day arrived, my friend spoke first and preemptively countered all of his opponent’s talking points and won the election.
 
I know. That was a really sick story. But it all happened at the A.V. over wine and pasta. (What is shocking is that, except for me, all of the individuals involved became lawyers!)

Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

Klaus Fritsch, the vice chairman and cofounder of Morton’s, The Steakhouse, visited our nation’s capital last week to promote his new book, the “Morton’s Steak Bible”–240 pages of unadulterated gastropornography (check out the picture of Beef Filet Diane on page 102). Prior to the book party, I met with Klaus over drinks at the bar of Morton’s on Connecticut Avenue and discussed our shared passion for steak, the nature of the business, and just what went wrong with Planet Hollywood.
 
V: I was at Kraftsteak in Las Vegas not too long ago and one of their highly touted items was Kobe beef from Japan. Have you thought of going in that direction?
K: No. There is very good American Kobe beef, Wagyu beef…. I putz around at home and we have this big kitchen, so we tried the Kobe steak, the Wagyu steak. It was like eating a stick of butter. So I don’t think it’s the kind of thing we’re going to do. Our thing is prime-aged American steak.
 
V: In your book, the “Morton’s Steak Bible,” I noticed you have a recipe for Wiener Schnitzel. How come I don’t see a Wiener Schnitzel on the menu?
K: Well, honestly, I did it a little out of respect to my heritage and more to my mother. But there’s a great recipe for Beef Rouladen.

V: Yes, I know. But it’s too complicated for me.
K: Oh, Jesus Christ, it’s so easy! That’s a great winter dish.
 
V: You also have Beef Wellington in the book. I was worried it was on its way out.
K: It’s still around. Some of the old things come back occasionally and we use them on occasion for a promotion. That’s the only steak in the whole book, besides the Steak Au Poivre, where we have any sauces. In the old days, in places in Europe, they would have lousy beef and cover it up in some fancy sauce because the steak you couldn’t eat.
 
V: What is your favorite steak?
K: Ribeye.

V: Regular or cajun?
K: Now you got me. I like the cajun a lot but the ribeye in general has the most flavor. Yes, you have the kernel of fat there–that’s the nature of the animal. We have some women who say, “Oh honey, there’s some fat in the middle.” You know, it happens.
 
V: You’re talking about my mother. She’d prefer the filet.
K: Filet is my least favorite. But the ribeye has great meat flavor.
 
V: You’re at home cooking a steak. How do you cook it?
K: Medium-rare. Just a little salt and pepper. That’s it. I brush the grill rack with olive oil. Throw it on and there you go.
 
V: You’ve got close to 70 locations worldwide. There’s a Morton’s in Hong Kong and in Singapore. Do you ever worry about overexpansion?
K: I worry about it a little bit. But on the other hand, we opened one in Chicago on Wacker Drive right across the river; we’ve really expanded the place. In the end, it’s a gut feeling. But I wouldn’t open in, let’s say, Kankakee. There has to be enough people and enough money for them to spend it. There has to be enough business. There are certain elements.
 
V: You don’t want to end up like Planet Hollywood, which overexpanded.
K: I don’t think it was overexpansion. I just think it was a shitty place.
 
V: What do you drink with your steak? Sometimes people will have beer.
K: Once in a while, I like a beer. I bounce around. But with a steak, sometimes I like a nice heavy Italian. Some will say you should only drink red with meat and white with fish, but I say bullshit. You should drink what you like.

Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

On the evening of June 29, the Austrian embassy transformed into “Café Europe: An Evening of European Temptation and Indulgence…” Or so it said on the invitation. But by the time we rolled in (at 10 p.m., with wife and mother-in-law), the building before us no longer resembled an embassy, but rather a dance club straight out of Vienna’s Bermuda Dreieck. Before we even got to the red-carpeted entrance, the first thing we noticed were the glowing red lights bathing the embassy’s façade. And then that all-too-familiar thumping of a heavy bass. (Are they really playing Haddaway’s “What is love?”) The main hall had become a techno-spectacle complete with strobe lights, nonsensical film clips on the wall, and even candelabra (in what my mother-in-law says was a homage to Mozart). Of course no Austrian party is complete without that most successful of Austrian exports–Red Bull. No wonder these affairs go on until 4 a.m.
 
Amidst the food, which included barbecue and Sachertorts, was a fountain that bubbled over with melted chocolate. I took a marshmallow on a stick, dipped it gently, took a bite, and began to lose consciousness. I was quickly revived, however, by a blast of Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus”–the extended version. (Remember the brief history interlude? “On December 5th of that same year, Mozart dies…”)
 
There was, of course, a reason for this fest–the end of a successful Austrian presidency of the European Union. Germany takes over next–and inherits a grab-bag of issues including painful budget reform and Turkey’s accession (or not) into the union. Not that anyone had time for this that evening or the following morning, when Germany faced Argentina in the World Cup.
 
The kind Volk at the German embassy set up the big screen to broadcast the game and served Bitburg on tap, pretzels, and two different kinds of wurst with minirolls and mustard–what I call a balanced diet. Ambassador Klaus Scharioth was only able to attend an indecisive first half before leaving for official business. And when the Argentinians took the 1-0 lead, a sense of doom pervaded. But then the Germans tied it up and after two overtimes, won convincingly on penalty kicks. The crowd erupted. Raucous cheers broke out. Beer may have been spilled. Special props go out to Dr. José Schulz, embassy press counselor, who astutely predicted this outcome: a tie followed by a win on penalty kicks. (When I saw Dr. Schulz at an event after Germany’s loss to Italy, he could only shake his head and wistfully wonder what could have been.)
 
P.S. The German embassy, much like The Sands, is a place where you always leave a winner: Free pens, flags, t-shirts, and coasters for everyone!

Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

For the past six years, the German Marshall Fund of the United States and the Bertelsmann Foundation have been cohosting a transatlantic conference, bringing Americans and Europeans together to promote dialogue and understanding. As you can imagine, this hasn’t always been easy, considering the differing attitudes over the Iraq war and now Iran. But it does help that each year the conference is held in the same location, balmy Lake Como, Italy. Specifically we convene at Tremezzo, overlooking the lake and just across from Bellagio. So in between very open-minded discussions on issues like counterterrorism’s impact on international law, we also have time to sit in the sun, enjoy the floating pool (right on Lake Como and anchored to the hotel’s dock), and, best of all, feast on authentic (and abundant amounts of) Italian cuisine. But on this last trip two weeks ago, a new item was added to the agenda: a dinner sampling of regional fare, both from the Como area as well as neighboring Piedmont–and a tutorial by Italian food and wine experts.

Torino chef Pier Bussetti first brought us an amuse gueule: a cup of salted yogurt with a Mueslix flake and shredded meat. The flavor was intriguingly salty and sweet. The meat reminded me of bacon, although it did not come off a pig, but, rather, a horse. Next came the bresaola (or “brazhole” as my Jersey paisans call it) and its goat equivalent.  That’s right: Two goat legs were brought out, having been air-cured and salted in a cellar for a year. Each slice is so high in protein, explained the hotel’s restaurant manager, that it goes right into the blood stream. “They give this to patients in hospitals,” he added. At the very least, it was lean.

Being one of the deepest lakes in Europe, Lake Como is home to a fish that can be caught only one time each year (during mating season). Fortunately that time is now. Similar to smelt, these fish, about three inches in length, were deep-fried and served whole, from head to tail. This was, for me, a highlight (and high in calcium!). But the guiltiest of all pleasures was a tray of, for lack of better words, bacon fat: strips of lard, with only scant bits of actual meat, translucent and oily and drizzled in a sugary syrup. Not for the faint of heart. But for the sake of this column, I had two pieces. It is amazing how your mind can convince you that this can’t be all fat. It did have a chewy texture and tasted much like bacon. But Italians could not really be eating pure fat, could they? I asked what this deadly fare was called in Italian. Said the restaurant manager: “Lardo.”

There was more during the week. We gorged on pesto and mushroom risotto and tiramisu and plump little balls of bufala mozzarella. Needless to say, the culinary dimension of the trip kept everyone in a good mood (and in good spirits thanks to bottles of Prosecco). Despite some differences, no fists were thrown, threats made, or condemnations of either effete Europeans or boorish Americans. And, in fact, there were a few areas we all agreed on. Such as that U.S. troops need to stay in Iraq until the government is stabilized. And there needs to be a solution to Guantanamo. And immigration is a serious problem in Europe.

And who ordered another plate of Lardo?

Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

Last week, the Absolut Spirits Company and the National Distributing Company debuted, respectively, its latest line of vodka, Absolut Ruby Red, and a redesigned bottle for Plymouth gin. And as can be expected at such an outing, it was done with the sort of hipness normally seen in New York or Los Angeles, but is rare for a town like Washington. For instance, walking into the Terrell Building across from the Verizon Center, the first thing you notice is the lifelike Greek statue in the center of the hall. But upon closer inspection, you realize this is no statue. It’s a real man–the kind you see on the boardwalk, in which he will only move if you drop money in his hat. (So, you see, it does pay off.)
 
The main room was swarming with restaurateurs who must make the crucial decision of adding Ruby Red to their inventories. (I would–and I didn’t even get a free bottle. Yet.) A spokesmodel (who looked an awful lot like Molly Sims) offered me a Summer Collins, which, it turns out, did not have vodka but Plymouth gin. It was a definite refresher on this humid and rain-soaked evening. (But I couldn’t help think of my freshman year in college, when I would try to order sophisticate cocktails and pass myself off as a 21-year-old. “I’ll have … a Tom Collins!” I would tell the bartender confidently. Despite moving on to such drinks as Scotch on the rocks and vodka-soda, my friends never fail to remind me of my manly past.) Props also go out to the caterers, who provided such hearty hors d’oeuvres as empanadas, crabcakes, and Beef Wellington.
 
As the rain subsided, we made our way to the tented rooftop and, thanks to $150 in fake cash, played our way through the Monte Carlo-themed casino. It figures that when it doesn’t count, the shooter at the craps table goes 30 minutes without hitting a 7. I must have walked away up $300. In between I did enjoy my favorite concoction of the night, Absolut and cranberry (and possibly tonic). “Funny,” I noted to the spokesmodel, “I thought Absolut Ruby Red would be more, well, red.” “Have you ever seen a real ruby red grapefruit?” she replied. “It’s not really red either.” Huh.
 
While the weather was stiflingly hot, the guests did not seem to mind, what with the even hotter tables (blackjack excluded), the “waitress” giving away free cigars, and a crowd that now included my good friend, Redskins runningback Clinton Portis. Before I left, I chatted away with my man Clinton*, who seemed to have a better time playing cards than I did. He was dressed modestly and wore tinted sunglasses (yes, when you are Clinton Portis, the sun shines on you 24 hours a day). He’s not a tall fellow but very stacked. Still, I think I can outrun him.
 
*Actual conversation with Clinton Portis:
 
Matus: (Shakes his hand.) I just want to say I’m a big fan and good luck next season.
 
Portis: Thanks a lot, man. I appreciate it.

Another food & politics report from Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent Vic Matus, known in other sophisticated literary circles as Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves:

The Ritz-Carlton in downtown D.C. was the site of Saturday night’s black-tie gala “Celebrating 100 Years of Filipino Heritage in the United States.”  As it turns out, the first Filipino immigrants arrived in Hawaii in 1906. (But, you ask, didn’t Hawaii only become a state in 1950? Well, yes, but then we couldn’t call the dinner a “centennial tribute,” just one that commemorates 56 years, which doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.)

In any event, some 700 guests weathered the heat and humidity (making it feel all the more like a night in Manila) and found relief inside the Ritz and at the numerous blue-lit bars that served ice-cold San Miguel beer, along with the usual spirits. Many of the Filipino men in attendance donned the native equivalent of a tuxedo–the Barong Tagolog (a finely designed, airy shirt, worn untucked, sometimes made of banana cloth–or was it hemp?).  The women lent their share of elegance, clad in grand Filipiniana dresses–the kind Imelda Marcos wore when she sang duets with George Hamilton.
 
Among the guests were numerous Filipino dignitaries such as outgoing Philippine ambassador Albert Del Rosario, Foreign Secretary Alberto Romulo, and White House chef Cristeta Comerford. Also present were Rep. Todd Tiahrt (R-Kansas) and Cecilia Marshall (wife of Thurgood).  But the guest of honor was none other than John Negroponte, our director of national intelligence (remember we have one?) who was at one time our ambassador in Manila. (On a comical note, speakers were introduced to a techno beat, as if it were the Video Music Awards. “And now, please welcome Director of National Intelligence John Negroponte!” Cue the heavy bass: Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!)
 
Most guests would probably say the highlight of the evening was the fashion show, created by Asia’s “fashion czar” Jose “Pitoy” Moreno.  And don’t get me wrong, it was a truly impressive mix of cultural history, native music, and modern interpretation of Filipino couture through the ages. But if you ask me, the highlight was the filet mignon, of which I am normally not a fan, considering its lack of intramuscular fat (and flavor). But the filets served up to the hundreds of guests that evening were remarkably juicy, ranging between medium and medium rare. This was matched by a rather impressive Robert Mondavi “signature” Cabernet Sauvignon 2004. As for Filipino influences, the appetizer was a Lumpiang Ubod–what you might call a spring roll wrapped in fresh rice paper, dressed with a sweet garlic sauce and with a side of hearts of palm.
 
I had been looking forward to the Halo Halo, a traditional Philippine dessert of ice shavings in milk, some ice cream, and an assortment of exotic fruit, served in a bowl. But, as it turns out, my first encounter with the Halo Halo occurred when a waiter moved one of the plates so swiftly, the ice and milk landed right on my arm.
 
As we made our way out on that sultry night, we were given gift bags that included a six-pack of San Miguel and a packet of Batangas ground coffee.  And we were met outside by a throng of tourists who seemed unusually interested in our posh event. Maybe they came to catch a glimpse of the ever-elusive director of national intelligence? Surely they weren’t waiting for those other hotel guests, the New York Yankees.

Extreme Mortman is extremely thrilled to present the first installment of our new special feature –  a regular chronicle of the intersection of food and politics.  To handle this daunting and tasty challenge, we enlisted the nation’s leading expert in both: Vic Matus, Weekly Standard assistant managing editor and blogger for Galley Slaves by day, Extreme Mortman culinary correspondent by night.  Here’s Vic’s first report:

When the Hudson Institute announced they would be cohosting (with the Hanns Seidel Foundation) two Bavarian members of the Bundestag, I pictured a catered lunch of echt Bavarian specialties: Weisswurst with sweet mustard, pretzels, Black Forest cake, and, natürlich, liters of Hofbräu and Spaten. Alas, this was not to be.
 
“I know, I know, we should have had spätzle and bratwurst,” joked Kenneth Weinstein, Hudson’s most amiable CEO. Instead, the venerable think tank opted for chef Vered Guttman’s “Mediterranean Cooking,” which provided a middling parsnip couscous (it’s the thought that counts, considering the topics included Iran and Iraq), grilled chicken breasts, mixed greens drizzled in a lemon vinaigrette, and a mango-berry fruit salad. But the triumph of this lunch, far and away, was the blackened salmon, tender to the touch with a flaky texture and dark orange center–no easy thing to cook right (and all too easy to overcook).
 
“I liked the salmon best,” said Joel Shin of the Scowcroft Group. “[Hudson] has got to have some of the best food among the think tanks in Washington,” added Charles Horner, who comes here almost every day (probably because he’s also a Hudson senior fellow). Still, one plate belonging to a high-ranking German diplomat was wiped so clean they didn’t have to wash it (but I’m pretty sure they did).
 
The guests were Peter Ramsauer, who heads the Christian Social Union’s parliamentary fraction in the Bundestag, and fellow CSU member and foreign policy expert Karl-Theodor von und zu Guttenberg. The theme of the luncheon was the future of Germany’s foreign policy. The discussion, however, was off the record. But let’s just say there are shared concerns over Iran, some differences on Turkey’s joining the E.U., and no consensus on how far the European Union will expand. A Democratic staffer went so far as to ask about the Ukraine and Georgia’s prospects for membership. Georgia? What about Alabama and Mississippi? Where does it end indeed!
 
On my way out the door, I was compelled to stopped in the kitchen for a slice of orange cake that had somehow eluded me. The orange zest was perfectly infused and the overall experience was, well, orangy. And moist. It had been some months since I attended a Hudson event and was delighted to find this one well-catered. My only advice to this think tank is to refrain from using silverware. Policy wonks are notorious for stealing cutlery for personal use–such as making shivs.