Soda Lite

There's nothing like a cool drink. At one point, concocting interesting drinks was my specialty. And I'm not even talking about alcoholic drinks. In the past, I have owned my own water carbonator, an ice shaver, a pod-based coffee/tea maker, and several others. Oh yes, and a blender. But as convoluted as drinks can be, I have found that sometimes the simplest ones taste the best and are the most refreshing. That's why I loved my water fizzer so much. Because the best simple drinks (even some alcoholic drinks) start, and often end, with sparkle and spritz. And by that I mean seltzer. Plain old water plus plain old carbon dioxide. Nothing else needed.

The thing I hate about my usual drink choices is the taste conundrum. You want flavor, but it's often hard to come by. Even fruit juices are all too often mostly sugar and nowhere near 100% fruit juice. Soda (or pop as I still call it) is so overly sugary that it's too sweet. But diet soda is no better. It is just as sweet-tasting as soda and has no calories. Most diet sodas are made with nutra-sweet (aspartame), the uber-controversial artificial sweetener. Some people swear it's perfectly fine for you; others think it causes brain tumors. And recently it has even been reported to retard weight loss or even cause weight gain. Well that's not good. When something that says “diet” is exactly the opposite and people are drinking it as part of plans to cut calories when it counteracts that intention, then I say we have problems.

In all honesty, I don't know what to believe about diet soda. Even if most sodas switched to the seemingly “friendlier” Splenda (sucralose), it would seem only a matter of time before something wrong is found with that sweetener as well. I'm not ready to condemn either sweetener, but I do know that I try to drink as little diet soda as I can – and as little regular soda as I can nowadays. I can't afford hundreds of empty soda calories per day, but I can't afford brain tumors or unnatural weight gain either, so I drink a very little of each and eliminate the problems on both sides of the coin.

But that doesn't mean that after a lifetime of enjoying fizzy beverages I am fine with simply never drinking anything of the sort. In fact, I crave it at times. So I drink cold, fizzy sparkling water. No calories, no problem. Plus it adds to my water intake and levels of hydration. And you can add things to your seltzer to make them taste better with minimal additional calories. Try squeezing a lemon or a lime into some seltzer. It's like fizzy, un-sweet lemonade or limeade. You can cut a glass of orange juice with seltzer and add fizz to the juice and cut the calories per serving in half.

As a special alternative, you can make what I call soda-lite. It actually amazes me that no one really sells this. I contend that most people are okay with a little sugar -- some, in moderation. Why not make soda and have it contain only some sugar, like 10-15% of what is in a regular serving of soda. Make it sweet enough to be “better” than seltzer, but still be low-cal. No additives, no sweeteners; just light soda. Before producers buy this idea from me and mass market it, I will give you the secret recipes. First, you can cut soda with plain seltzer and it tastes pretty good. And you can control how many calories are in each glass by how much seltzer you use. However, this still tastes a little “concocted.”

I can do better. Bottle of seltzer + your bar. Well not really your bar – the mixers in your bar. Sugar syrups, really. But all you need is a little bit – a teaspoon or so – added to a cold, fizzy glass of seltzer, and you’ve got yourself a refreshing, slightly sweet soda-lite. Mix margarita mix for a lime soda-lite. Mix sweet and sour mix for lemon-lime. Mix grenadine for cherry. Mix Cosmo mix for cranberry. And so on. Heck, you can even mix mojito mix for a lime-mint soda-lite. It is actually good. I sound like Willy Wonka.

So yes, there is sugar in soda-lite. And no, I don’t drink it every day. But I do keep it in mind when I want a soda without a whole big sugary or artificial version. Really what I want there is the cool and the fizz and the spritz. And maybe a little sweet. So if you’re in soda recovery, but don’t want to risk the thousand risks of artificial sweeteners, give soda-lite a try. And in a few years, start buying it at stores nationwide!

Popeye's Psychodrama

Recently I was trapped on a bus going to New York City with 70 strangers (and Julia) for five hours. It was actually a fine experience until the rest stop. A typical, modern facility you see on big travel highways, with the token Burger King, Cinnabon and, the all-too-innocent-looking Popeye's Chicken. Being good little yuppies, who don't typically eat food like that and who had reservations at nine at one of the nicest restaurants in New York (future post), it did not take very much to get us to abstain from the rest stop pre-dinner.

Apparently we were in the minority. As we re-entered the bus for the final leg of the trip, I was inundated with the knock-you-over pungency of the smell of fried chicken, a dish I save for only the rarest of occasions. As I looked around, nearly all of our traveling counterparts were presently digging their faces into little cartons of fried chicken, and well, fries. Conveniently, this was mixed in with just the right amount of Cinnabon smell from those who needed dessert as well, to truly make it a knockout punch. My hungry self was suddenly salivating over this menagerie of gross, and I found myself deeply hankering fried chicken. Popeye's, for lack of a better option.

At this point, it was too late to even think about getting some (as if Julia would have allowed that), so I tortured myself over the smells for the last hour and a half and eventually got myself over it. We got into the city and had a terrific dinner (remember: future post). Let's just say that I ultimately consumed far more spinach than fried chicken that night, so my Popeye the Sailor instincts thankfully “out-muscled” my Popeye's Chicken ones.

Or so I thought. Fast forward two weekends.

After completely forgetting about my little bus craving, I made a Saturday night reservation for a restaurant back in DC with Julia and some friends. The restaurant was between Foggy Bottom and Dupont Circle, Hudson Restaurant and Lounge, at the corner of 21st and M. I was inexplicably attracted by its tag of contemporary-chic comfort food. Now it probably seems obvious why, but at the time, I was none the wiser.

When we got there, I was instantly impressed by the ambiance and decor. It is one of those dark, loungy places that I love, and it had a very crisp, and yes, chic feel to it. I'm not usually a big decor guy, but this is one of those places that makes me want to stay and talk (and eat, and drink) all night. It's loud enough to know that the place is happening and not lame, but not so loud that it hinders conversations.

We ordered a pitcher of their white fusion sangria, which was big, reasonably priced and very flavorful, if not a tad too citrusy for sangria. They served a nice, crusty bread with butter and weren’t shy about refilling it. We found the price to be very reasonable: dinner for four including 1 large pitcher of sangria, 2 entrée pizzas and 2 regular entrees was less than 100 bucks.

THE MENU

The menu was relatively close to what was advertised: new takes on comforts and old faves. The “starters” section included Matzoh Ball Soup (with pulled chicken), Tuna Tartare (with wonton triangles), deviled eggs, cheese steak sliders and mussels. They had a variety of brick oven pizzas with interesting topping combinations, at least four of which were vegetarian. The entrees were a little more main stream and less within the restaurant’s theme (like risotto and whole grilled fish) but were highlighted by duck confit (with truffle fries), truffle macaroni and cheese, and – wait for it – buttermilk fried chicken. Oh the horror!

THE ORDER

Mashed potatoes. Buttermilk Biscuit. Pan Gravy. Clover Honey. My silly brain, upon seeing this description, reverted back to bus torture mode and was immediately begging my better judgment to order this dish immediately. “I mean, how bad could the dish be,” it asked. “This is a nice place – not Popeye’s!”

Well for some reason that brain of mine has unbelievable control over me, and I went for it and finally ordered the chicken that I so didn’t need. And it was good. For fried chicken, I’d say it was very good, maybe even darn good. But it failed to send me over the moon like my craving and my nose and my stomach and my brain all told me it would. Again, I reiterate that I have no complaints about the dish. The breading was crisp and peppery; the chicken was moist and flavorful; the mashed potatoes were creamy; the biscuit was dry but the honey was a delightful remedy for that. And the gravy was, well, indulgent. So it was a fine meal and I don’t fault the restaurant for anything. It just didn’t add anything too new or too memorable to my fried chicken repertoire. And thus, my craving is now gone, and I feel it will be a long while before it returns. Strange, those cravings. And that brain.

The others in my party were not so affected by their deep psychological underpinnings as I was, and ordered sensible and interesting dishes like Shrooms. Had you going there? That was the name of one of their pizzas, and it was topped with mushrooms, garlic confit, brie and black truffle oil. Another ordered pizza was Hawaiian House, with ham, pineapple, fresh mozzarella and tomato sauce. The pizzas were both thin but not crispy, pretty big and very tasty. I would say that the toppings seemed a little scarce, especially on the Shrooms one, but I suppose with all those rich flavors it didn’t take away too much. The last dish ordered was a wild mushroom and smoked Gouda risotto, which I did not try, but it got a very nice review from the eater.

All in all, I think we would return to this place, if for no other reason than to further explore some of the interesting other options. Not necessarily to reorder anything we happened to order this time. Or to necessarily quench deeply recessed cravings. That is, unless we go back to New York and the bus stops at Popeye’s Confit or something.