Eat Bar, With Masculine Insights

Apparently all I do is work, eat, and write in this blasted thing. I really don't mind though. Tonight's excursion was to Eat Bar, because my friend from hiking at Old Rag mentioned it, I didn't know it, and I vowed to explore it. I didn't realized I'd been here before but that certainly didn't keep me from enjoying it once I arrived.

I went with a married guy friend and we had a lovely time over Heffewiessens and really delicious food, albeit in small portions. We had fancy macaroni and cheese with pork tasso (I'm too lazy to look it up), black bean hummus, goat cheese with Sopressata (evidently a type of salami) and a fig/cherry compote, half a pound of steamed shrimp, chorizo corn dogs, and frankly the highlight of the meal, a delicious $3.50 baby burger: a medium rare done burger on presumably a brioche-type bun, with caramelized onions saturated in balsamic vinegar. I couldn't help but imagine, though, what $3.50 in burger currency could get me in Oklahoma. In Oklahoma, burgers are an art. They aren't gourmet, hip little snacks one experiments with. They are serious meals, but varied in unique ways, with diverse toppings and meat compositions. I'm going home this weekend, so maybe this will merit a more thorough examination later, but I can't complain much about tonight's delicious--albeit pretentious--burger.

What's more interesting to me is another theme of a discussion I've had a few times in the past few days: do women want good or bad men? I was discussing with my dinner partner this evening that I want someone with an "edge." After looking at me funny, he asked me why, after also saying I sounded like a middle-schooler. And I'm not sure why. It seems that an atypical relationship would be more welcoming than a conventional girlfriendhood for a woman who has been single for so long, but why wouldn't I veer toward the emotionally stable rather than the emotionally confused/unavailable types? Perhaps this is the moment all my favorite heroines have to encounter in their romantic lives: that the hero of their favorite novels and daydreams isn't really a real man at all and that one's ideal may look drastically different than imagined. I suppose the only certainty I can take comfort in this evening is that I know a good burger when I see one.

100 King: The Bread Was Free, But the Conversation Wasn't

With the prospect of cereal and milk comprising part of my dinner for the second night in a row looming before me (and with a little encouragement), I took myself out for dinner tonight to 100 King in Old Town. It has a sophisticated menu, is a block from the water, and has gauzy drapes in the windows that made it appear both inviting and exclusive. I took a table outside, pulled out my journal, and was ready to write about this week's romantic vicissitudes (don't worry, that doesn't link to details of my romantic vicissitudes, just the definition).

Dinner was fine, but the service was some sort of inverted Mrs. Robinson arrangement. I was the Mrs. Robinson, being the beautiful older woman (no, no one has ever said I look like Anne Bancroft), but he was the inexperienced, nervously chatty Dustin Hoffman. Of course, there was no desired seduction on my part, but he was trying to charm while I was trying to rebuff, hence the inversion. It really wasn't that extreme either way, but compared to other fine restaurants, my assessment is that 100 King doesn't serve the single woman patron well. I'll be specific, but this is a more general indictment of restaurants' abysmal ability to cater to solo patrons. This single diner doesn't really need a chatty waiter, with her convoluted romantic brainstorms using plenty of brain power that don't want to be diverted to his fumbling up of specials on the menu or inquiring into my appetite or promising that the artichokes appetizer is delicious when it's one $9 artichoke.

My complaint gets to the larger point of it not being understood by some waiters that the event of dining out is considered by some to be a sacred event; to others (who go alone), it's an opportunity to sit quietly with one's thoughts, enjoy watching the passers-by, and eat without having to worry about cooking or cleaning. My waiter wasn't obtrusive, but I felt like I was at Applebee's...and I would have preferred the gross of mozzarella sticks my $9 would have bought me compared to the ridiculously small bowl of clammy-looking braised artichokes.

For "dinner" (it was an appetizer soup) I had seafood stock, which was quite delicious: two shrimps, four mussels, and lots of cubed tomatoes and onions in a thick broth, garnished with a grilled piece of toast with a crab spread on top. Everything else was overpriced, including dessert, so after filling up on another half roll, I wandered home to enjoy some free Ben and Jerry's. Classy, huh?

You can stop reading now, if you want, because the food talk ends and the girly drivel begins. However, I realized tonight that the way I treat waiters is amazingly similar to how I treat men, and both have followed a parallel trajectory. I'm much more comfortable to jest with both, just as I am more comfortable in being indifferent if I feel the need. However, my expectations for men have increased in parallel to what I expect from waiters. I want a waiter/man who lets me be when I'm involved in an attention-intensive event like dining out (waiter: watch for cues when/if I want to chat, man: give a girl a few minutes to decide on what she orders before asking questions), I want a waiter/man who let's me be independent (waiter: don't get too nervous that I'm alone or writing in my journal, man: don't erode my independent sensibilities), I want a waiter/man who pays attention to detail (waiter: fill up that glass without asking, man: know which details--like opening up doors--are important). It's comforting to know I operate comfortably in both waiter/man realms, but disconcerting that even a good waiter is so damn hard to find.

Red Cups

In college, the cool kids used red cups. Fraternities filled them with dangerous fruit punches. So did my friends, pouring sticky, neon blue juices into them. And on weekends, these cups littered lawns in Norman, Oklahoma. Three years after graduating, and seven years after reaching the legal drinking age, I used them too and thought I was awesome when I bought them at the grocery store for Saturday's party.

I wouldn't say this party was an unrivaled success. I forgot to put a clean hand towel in the bathroom so guests all night dried their hands either on the collard greens-stained towel in the kitchen or on my bath robe hanging from the door. Oops. I brought the collards greens and green beans out a little late, so the first wave of buffet-ers missed out. And the drinks were really strong: I was the only one who didn't grimace drinking them. I'm either a lush or tremendously loyal to my drink-making abilities.

However, I won't argue with people who complimented me on the spread, quantity not quality being the key part of the praise. Here is what I had to work with in the fridge.. please note there are 20 Coors Lites that no one found in the crisper during the party. The uncovered pie was the peach/raspberry/strawberry pie with clay peaches.


Below is part of the spread, minus all the hot (good) stuff. Virginia peanuts in the can, blackberries in the white bowl, fruit-salad looking bowl of multicolored tomatoes, a whole cantaloupe (I felt like such a talented knife artist cutting melon), and the Southern Comfort people just looked at.


The star of the show was the sultry pot of collard greens, below, with it's come-hither steam. I don't know if anyone else liked them, but I consumed the leftover collard greens in a little over 24 hours after the conclusion of the party. I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Paula Dean.


Here's a more telling picture: what the table looked like when everyone left. A half-full table means a full week's worth of lunches for me.


It was delightful, but it I was left wondering what in the world I was thinking inviting people into my apartment to eat my food, drink my beer, and not wash my dishes. But it was an enjoyable artisitic and culinary project and I'm planning another for November.. I will heartily celebrate each birthday on my march toward 30!

It worked

I had a real party for the first time in my life. Other parties I've had have consisted of people who already knew each other. Who were eating pizza. Who were celebrating a sports event together. But this was a party from scratch, themed, timed, assembling people from past and present. It was strange: what happens when college friend talks to work friend? when people start analyzing my DVD collection? when memories from the past are dredged up in front of colleagues? But diverse friends chatted, seemed reasonably entertained, and stayed, which I was afraid wouldn't happen. However, the intersection between food and love isn't an arbitrary nexus created for this blog, as it informed nearly every event during the evening. For me, it was waiting for the invitee who didn't show up, and who made me shrug my shoulders asking what I was waiting for and why. It was observing guests' reticence or eagerness to attend my party depending on their relationship status or complications to their relationship status. I can't wax profound after barely washing my eye makeup off and packaging leftovers in tupperware, but food and drinks brought us together to talk about love... I met two colleagues' fiance/fiancees, I discussed another's reunion with an old flame, with another I discussed his falling away with the church he grew up in, and with others, we discussed what we're really looking for, in temporary and long-term mates. However it's fascinating to see how love was an undercurrent of the party's explicit and implicit themes. What does it signify for a romantic relationship between colleagues if they are overt in their affection? What happens if there is conflict between guests over misinterpreted intentions? What does it mean that a plaintitive theme among nearly all guests was that we are all in some various stage of advancement or maintenance of some romantic goal? I guess I started with profound and will regress to details tomorrow, after I hike Old Rag, evidently.

Phase Two: Recall Basic Math and Color-Coordinate Tomatoes

I woke from a tumultuous sleep at 6:58 AM or so. This was my fear. One long sentence was nebulously running through my head as soon as the sun came up: "what-do-I-feed-the-vegetarians-when-should-I-start-baking-the-pie-should-I-use-fake-ham-in-a-separate-green-beans-dish-for-them-what-if-I-forget-to-pull-the-mint-julepy-bourbon-out-of-the-fridge-should-I-buy-a-small-table-for-the-unused-TV-that's-been-on-the-floor-for-two-months..." After the alarm sounded at 7 and my attempt at snoozing was laughable, I arose, threw on a t-shirt, lamented the dark circles under my eyes, and began my pilgrimage to the Alexandria Farmer's Market.

This place is great. I forgot this, because usually I'm sleeping for the duration of it, am out of town, or would rather eat cereal and balance my checkbook between 8 am and 11 am. But I went, progressive Whole Foods reusable bag in tow and with an ominous storm cloud at my back. I did an exploratory tour then began making my purchases. I even took cash and budgeted in my head (how novel). I was a bit disappointed though, because a woman sells Virginia ham steaks and bacon there, so I regret buying the bologna-looking kind at Giant, but I did well otherwise:


I bought these really sweet peaches. It was a big risk because they were a concerningly soft, but they were the most distinctive I tasted. The white isn't mold, a sign assured me; it's white clay. I'm not sure if this is a Buddhist sect thing were the peaches have to drop from the trees so nature isn't defiled and they are magically cushioned in white clay, but I bought them. And, I saved a dollar when the farmer overcharged me a dollar and I did the math in my head. He insisted he was right for two seconds while I furrowed my brow and wondered if I could even spell the word Calculus anymore. But, we decided I was right.

I also bought blackberries, red tomatoes, a melon, a cucumber, and then the real stars of the show, my $3 heirloom tomato, Italian currants (the little yellow/green tomatoes), and little orange tomatoes. I'm going to make a Greek-style horiatiki salad so the table has a bit of color, instead of the overwhelmingly neutral brown-oranges of Southern Comfort, fried chicken, pecan pie, and cheese grits.

After a nap, I think I'll be ready to start cooking.

'Twas the Night Before Juleping...

Well, I have ambitiously or foolishly decided to invite at least ten people over to my apartment (that seats eight) tomorrow for a Southern style dinner to celebrate my new residence. Tonight, while rolling silverware, I realized that this is unprecedented. I haven't had a dinner party since college, when I had a boyfriend to run to the grocery store and buy pizza rolls to supplement the food selection. However, tomorrow, my sous chef will be in Ohio and my best girlfriends are out on family and work business. I feel like I'm steeling for an assault of guests, only armed with my wits and enough alcohol to intoxicate them into believing I am a good hostess. However, phase one has begun: Sonia and I made the pecan pie (it has that delightful creme brulee hard top), the mint juleps (reason why the whole apartment sticks), and the cheese grits (with equal parts grits and cheese/butter). This was accomplished after a delightful take-out dinner of dolmathes, hummus with pine nuts and ground beef, and a salmon wrap sandwich from my favorite local Lebanese restaurant, the Pita House. Thankfully, any desire to travel to Beirut by looking at the travel posters on the walls was quelled by the neccessity of me staying in town to empty the contents of my fridge.

It is quite indulgent to have a fridge bursting at the seams, especially with new guests: collard greens, ham steaks, Virginia sparkling peach cider, and all the kinetic potential that uncooked grits and uncut pies can offer. I have to admit, though, I've been occupied with some pretty banal concerns tonight. At Target, I spent $13 on bathroom accessories so I would not expose to my guests that I keep my toothbrush in a Christmas mug or that I have a Softsoap container that houses the obviously orange Dial. I also arranged the magazines in my bathroom toilet paper rack; I'd like to remove them altogether so people don't think I actually spend enough time in there to read them, but I'm afraid that would be more obvious. I also researched--tonight--computer recycling places for the Compaq I previously stored in a closet for two years that is taking up about 8 cubic feet of space in my bedroom. I think this is a chore that will get ignored tomorrow.

If my apartment had emotions, and I assume it's developed some in its 150 years, I think it would have widened its eyes tonight, thrilling at the sight of two people in its little kitchen and would subsequently be excitedly anticipating its very own themed party, respectful of the residence: tonight, I arranged the wrapped silverware (tied it up with rattan that looks sort of like hay) in a cast iron skillet and put my Robert E. Lee figurine to stand guard on my mantle, and if I have enough time tomorrow, I'll turn my curtains into a little bustled number with a fringed hat.

Hook: Basqueing in Sablefish Glory

Please forgive me for beginning my first post with an unforgivable pun. But, I might be trying too hard. I mean, I am starting off with an account of Hook, a sophisticated, M Street, virtuous-touter-of-sustainable-fishes-on-menu restaurant. This is the type of restaurant that ex-sorority girls in sundresses extol to their visiting mothers as "the" place (as I found out on Sunday while on the metro). And I'm taking liberties in chronology by reaching back in my gastronomical history a bit (5 August); I'm writing this from Cosi, my local bakery chain with free wireless, and recounting tonight's mediocre salad, the conversational inanities of the blind date at the nearby table, and the waitress singing along to a Jamaican-ish version of Van Morisson's "Brown Eyed Girl" isn't excellent fodder for a new blogger trying to impress.

So, Hook. Since my dinner was two weeks ago, I can't gush with the same gusto as I would have that night, after enjoying grilled calamari with a walnut pesto, a Basque (region in Spain) white wine, sablefish with an eggplant (tahini?) sauce, and the Lingonberry Linzertorte (dignified name for a tart) with a hazelnut crust and Italian cheese ice cream. However, I can attempt to describe the liberating feeling of dining alone at a fancy restaurant, an experience not unlike attending a comedic movie alone on a Friday night or sitting at a bar before friends arrive.. but remarkably more dignified and eventually more satisfying.

There's a little bit of hostess incredulity at first: you're dining alone? And then a little bit of forced self-preoccupation to assuage the occupants of nearby tables that you really aren't interested in their conversation. And then, the strategic diversion of your eyes from the entire restaurant staff so they don't notice that you are trying to notice everything. But then the stiffness wears away... At good restaurants, you partially suspect that the hostess might envy you for enjoying the restaurant in all its glory. You can play the game of "is this __ in my __?" with the waiter without interrupting your dining partner's conversation. You can create the time-consuming but perfect bite by laboriously selecting an element of everything on your plate. And then, if you're really enjoying yourself, you can get mildly curious glances from that observed wait staff who wonders for whom you are a food critic (and now I have an answer to their silent inquiries!). At this particular restaurant, my friendly Mexican waiter patiently indulged all my inquiries into the make-up of every dish, from the dessert's port-reduction sauce to the tablespoon of sauce underneath my fish. He attentively poured from my French press--with only a smile--and left me to my journaling. And my fellow diners were so equally engrossed in the ecstasies $28 fishes can yield, I was able to reign as princess of my meal, manager of every fork and cup on my small table, and head editor of the most verbose journal-turned-blog ever.

The genesis...

Like any good piece of writing, I start with the genesis. I could attribute the establishment of this blog to excessive environmental awareness, claiming I will reduce my usage of probably environmentally-unfriendly ballpoint pen ink that I criminally leak into the atmosphere with each restaurant adventure I recount in my journal. I could also claim I am selfishly seeking to reduce my phone bill overage charges by not calling my mother or friend Sonia to relate each new encounter with a good loaf of bread or a non-offensive man. Or, I could admit that I egotistically think a faceless, unknown audience might like to read electronic pen scribbles of an amateur food critic and 26-year old single woman. All true, but most importantly, I hope to begin a detailed inquisition into the nexus between love and food. Or (more accurately) the causality between one's singleness and that as justification for treating oneself to pricey meals in Georgetown and recounting it for friends and family.