Eden at Eve

As a result of my lacking a full-time, masculine companion, when certain events like promotions come along, their proper commemoration necessitates a solo dining experience, as was the case for me today and tonight. To celebrate my joining the ranks of other barely-qualified government employees, I decided to spend my extra funds (before they arrive in my paycheck) at Restaurant Eve, a four-star restaurant in Alexandria, blocks from my apartment.

I waited 25 minutes for a table. This is rare for me to have the patience to wait. But the thought of turning around after waiting 10 minutes, then 20, and retreating to my apartment for pre-made ravioli and Bud Light was unacceptable to a person now in the upper echelons of government service. So, I was finally seated.

Restaurant Eve is a couples restaurant: people celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and corporate events together there... I suspect, judging from the age-mismatched pair next to me, people also celebrate their mistresses' very existence. So, this is not the most appropriate place for a mid-level civil servant to celebrate alone. However, I forged ahead and was quite busy observing the woman in the leopard-print raincoat-ish slicker/shirt in front of me, listening to my waitress talk about her "photogenic memory," and eavesdropping on the waiter-in-training busyboy discuss his flashcard practices for memorizing menu items.

The Bistro at Restaurant Eve

Without the assistance of the attractive and precocious young sommelier, I chose a Chenin. I'm not sure what this is because the only interaction I had with him was him was trying to steal my bread before I was completely renconciled to parting with it. This correctly suggests that the bread (warm ciabatta) was delicious.

I ordered my appetizer because I saw the Barefoot Contessa make in on TV months ago. It's called Gravlax, a Norwegian-style cured smoked salmon. It was quite huge for a fancy place: a long rectangular plate that tapered a bit at the end, with enthusiastically pink salmon garnished with dill and a sauce of cream/egg/mustard seeds. On top was a wisp of a cracker shaped sort of like the end of a leek (the flat green end, not the rooty white end). Some random waiter filling up my water asked how I liked it and I nodded like a little kid who just took a bit bite of a 'smore.

Dinner ($38--I won't even think of how many fish farms I could have bought for this price) was Red Snapper with flirtatiously fall flavoring (it tasted like the weather: warm with just a suggestion of the impending autumn). The fish was crispy on top and moist on the bottom, cushioned by caramelized onions, mustard greens, butternut squash, apples, and garam masala spices. It was extremely delicate but still quite hearty.

Dessert was probably the most amusing, because the flavors alternated between citrusy and mature fruit: I had mini-football scoops of plum sorbet, nectarine sorbet, and peace ice cream. Each was topped with a little flowered lemon cookie. Each scoop rested in a recessed circle in a rectangular glass plate.

I realized two interesting things tonight, though. I prefer having a male waiter, first of all. I find there is less pity and surprise in their face when I arrive alone. Also, they typically better appreciate the complicated process that comprises my decision making. And they're just more delighted I'm having a good time, albeit alone; I guess it's probably because they know that single girls with male waiters leave good tips. But I'm equal opportunity.

Secondly, I realized that dining alone removes some of the gloss of dining out at a fancy restaurant. You hear the little squabbles between employees, you know their pecking order and who is in training and who is doing the instructing, and you witness the quiet reprimands they give to each other. It's probably like being at Disney World: if you move fast enough, the trash doesn't exist and Mickey's head is screwed on straight. If you sit and observe for a while, I guess you would probably see the bored janitor sweeping up the crumpled Mickey ears and Grumpy the dwarf checking his watch to see if his shift is over. That's not meant to be entirely cynical, but to illustrate that not all processes of a successful operation can be hidden. However, the most important process--the preparation of my delicious dinner--was entirely veiled and gave me a really heavenly gastronomical experience.

P.S.: I didn't celebrate my promotion entirely alone: my pop artist dad helped me celebrate it graphically.

Hobbit Hole Sushi

My goal tonight is to integrate every reference back into the holistic message I am trying to convey, in one small ball of Jefferson, Tolkien, and Scheuer, to explain my dinner. Last night, I meandered around my neighborhood and passed an innocuous sushi spot, housed between an alleyway and Bilbo Baggins bar; I vowed to return. Today, en route from the metro, I listened to a podcast featuring a Thomas Jefferson impersonator, who recounted TJ's admiration of the Roman historian Tacitus, who "never used two words when one would serve." Keeping with this theme, this entry will fit into one paragraph. As compact as my entry's aspirational length is the square footage of Momo. I snagged the last spot, a corner at the sushi bar. With some clever maneuvering, I had (but never at the same time) miso soup (always tasty), shrimp shumai, and assorted fresh/delicious sushi, including one of my favorites, saba (mackerel). The service was attentive and the sushi man generously gave diners tuna nigiri with spicy sauce/crunchy stuff/BBQ sauce (yum). And I read my Michael Scheuer book which, despite its erudite, was preferable to listening to an older becoming-drunk-on-sake pair and the young couple asking what the green stuff on their plate was. Sorry again; I have no picture. My choices must be too hole-in-the-wall-y.

Oklahoma is OK!

This weekend, Oklahoma in all respects was victorious. OU beat a truly pitiful (really, the pity was palpable) University of Tennessee-Chattanooga football team, 57-2; Oklahoma so far avoided any effects of Gustav and delivered me safely from the Midwest to DC; and Oklahoma generously provided me with enough fodder to create an interesting (or at least excessively long) blog entry. I arrived Friday night, slightly harried from my travels and the ubiquitous crying-on-plane baby. But, I was so glad to get home. We went out for seafood when I arrived (Houston's airport was only good for a $4 fruit smoothie) at one restaurant of Edmond, Oklahoma's burgeoning restaurant scene called Fish City. The gumbo was nothing to write home about but I was with my parents anyway, so there was really no need for it to be so good to do so. However, they have a clever cubist rendition on their website that I like, so two thumbs up to their web developer.

I woke refreshed Saturday morning (houses are nice because typically neighbors who like techno music with lots of bass don't live the floor below) and we headed over to the Edmond Farmer's Market. It's a small farmer's market, but full of farmers from all over Oklahoma, selling beautiful produce. Peaches are great in Oklahoma, but a large, overalled farmer told us this was probably the last week for them. I supposed this is ok, because I also like orange produce of the squash and pumpkin variety, but nothing beats summer peaches. To the right is an example of Oklahoma peaches, taken from the Web site of Livesay Orchard, purveyors of Porter peaches.

After picking our produce (see how catchy alteration is?), we went to Java Dave's, a local coffee shop. I know I have lots of weekend events to detail, so I will just say my coffee was good. Plus, I don't want to write much more without a germane Java Dave's picture; an image of a Java Dave's gift basket is not useful for my purposes.

So was any stellar food consumed on this trip, you wonder, multiple paragraphs in? Por supuesto, en Oklahoma. Oklahoma has its culinary gifts, which include phenomenal Mexican restaurants of all varieties. This trip it was a quirky restaurant, the Iguana Lounge, in an old brick garage north of downtown. My parents were very impressive in that they planned to take me here, not just because of the blog, but because they know I'm always looking for good new restaurants in OKC, which was thrilling. But, I'll be brief because the restaurant's too new for a Web site and I'm afraid you'll stop reading if I don't get to another picture soon. The food was delicious: we had a bowl of orange, blue, and white corn tortilla chips with guacamole served in scooped-out avocado shells, in addition to a variety of salsas: verde, habanero-apricot, a hot tomato salsa with orange zest, and normal salsa with cilantro. I had a delicious taco al carbon with cilantro, lime, and queso fresco and a bowl of cilantro-lime beans. The waiter was new, but gave free salsa, so we liked him.

We drove around downtown a bit, saw the lovely Block 42 townhomes around the corner from the restaurant (the downtown area is quickly becoming dense and hip, with really refreshing housing options), and then headed back home.

After a nice walk around the neighborhood (I passed a house with a permanent garage sale in the front yard), the mood turned serious as we prepared for Oklahoma's 2008 football premiere. My Yiayia (grandmother) came over, the pastitsio (Greek lasagna, see right) was put in the oven, and we sat down, tears-in-our-beers, to find that the $29.99 Pay-per-View game was nearly unwatchable because of a bad connection. Even though Oklahoma was the highest-ranked upper-division team the Chattanooga Mocs had played since facing number three-ranked Tennessee in 1951 and even though it's probably not entirely neccessary to be concerned about OU's performance until mid-October when we play Texas, to have the viewing experience so cruelly misunderstood by a Cox Communications associate who couldn't fix the reception was heart-rending. But, of course we still had dinner:

And the world went on, while we listened to the game on AM radio.

The next day was church. Greek women are crazy; however, that's not why I write. After a nice family meal at Bravo! Cucina Italiana (the emphasis theirs, but not undeserved), my mom and I went shopping. However, that's also not why I write. That night, we had delicious leftovers and I made another horiatiki salad, this time with Edmond vegetables.

I fearlessly wield paring knives.

Answer: Kalamata olive.

I'm afraid my dad knows "Under the Tuscan Sun" is on the TV.

The flight home was nice, but I won't bore you with the glories of airport Subway sandwiches, new Samsonite luggage, or the cloud-less Alexandria sky. But stay tuned (or beware), dear readers; I'm off to Columbus, Georgia this weekend and am likely to be equally verbose!