Opium is not on the menu. Sheesh.
Jazz beats and the pulsating heart of DC's world music scene.
Joyful seance makes contact with Frida Kahlo. Refreshments served.
On a good night, there's toilet paper in the bathroom.
One part gay bar, two parts Arnold's Drive-In from Happy Days.
All this time, the Dalai Lama just wanted a piece of 18th Street.
Waiting for anything is easy when you have a pitcher of icy margaritas in front of you.
If you e-mail enough people and tell them you're working, are you working? BYO vodka-resistant keyboard.
Boobs, banjos, and beer. What more do you want?
You've never done Ethiopian? Start here.
Orientalist fantasy fix and party central for the kebab set.
Adams Morgan's European boite for the tall, dark, and handsome.
Everything looks perfect from far away.
Serious Alfred Hitchcock moments whilst sitting in the lap of luxury.
Frank Sinatra's breathing down my neck, I swear.
If Malaysia's this nice, why are we in DC?
Super chill den of delights for brew snobs and their loose-collared foodie friends.
Everyone's favorite brunch. Everyone's favorite sidewalk to stand on.
Such a dive that it's named after a city near Detroit.
Most likely coffeeshop for a Craigslist (heterosexual) missed connection.
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