Twelve Meals

Ends of years (and because I'm lazy, beginnings of years too) are times of reflection, cataloging past events, and cherry picking preferred memories to indulge in. Because I like cliches and I have much catching-up to do, I present below (only in recollect-able order rather than by importance) my 12 meals of Christmas, all of which occurred sometime after my last post (September) and now (the 12th day of Christmas). My only germane resolution for 2009 is to experience more.

1. Lunch of dolmathes, pot roast, and burnt buttered spaghetti at my Yiayia's house

This could have been the best meal of the year. My mother and I dropped in at my Yiayia's (grandmother's) house after a day of mall-shopping, and didn't realize how invigorating the solace of Greek and American food could be. Dolmathes are stuffed grape leaves (Yiayia defrosted her homemade ones) and with a squeeze of lemon on top, they taste like sunshine, Mediterranean blue, and my Yiayia. The pot roast was already on the stove, and came out impeccably, fork-cutable tender. Burnt buttered spaghetti (in Greek, makaronia me bouturo) is my favorite meal, ever. This is the meal I used to draw pictures of in grade school when we had to illustrate favorite foods. It consists of makaronia pasta (imported, comes in different widths), with mezitra cheese (pungent, delicately grainy, and grated, see picture) and sizzling brown butter (slowly heated on the stove until just before it burns) drizzled on top. It sounds elementary, but it's an art ensuring everything is to proportion and the butter doesn't become a black, smoking mess that satisfies the fire alarm more than your palate. I've included photos of the simple, easily-obtainable ingredients (mezitra and grape leaves) as a consolation to myself that in an ideal world, my favorite food is hypothetically replicable.

2. Sonic Drive-in, every other day in Oklahoma...

Picking Sonic as an element of a compendium of favorite meals (again, using "meal" loosely, because fried cheesecake squares and french toast sticks are always admired, but never indulged in at America's Drive-In) is so unoriginal and obvious, it reminds me of a scene in "High Fidelity." John Cusack's character says he'd put Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on a top ten list, to which Jack Black responds, "Oh, that's not obvious enough Rob. How about the Beatles? Or f*ing... f*ing Beethoven? Side one, Track one of the Fifth Symphony... How can someone with no interest in music own a record store?" A person in Oklahoma blogging about food probably couldn't get away with it, but as any displaced Oklahoman will attest, absence from Sonic makes one's heart grow fonder for one of their ten million possible combinations of fountain drinks. So, I particularly gleefully drank Sonic's iced teas, strawberry limeades, and lemon-berry slushes at every possible opportunity. Please see the cousin of my favorite drink, Sonic's medium cherry limeade, coyly peeking out from behind a Texas toast-buttressed sandwich. An afternoon can't possibly progress into a satisfying evening without a little push from a Sonic drink...

3. New Year's Eve Dinner, The Metro Wine Bar and Bistro, Oklahoma City

Now we get to it: food with French descriptions, like vinaigrette, fricassee, and amuse-bouche. I admit that I learned a few important things because of this dinner: osso bucco is braised veal shank, medical items on desserts are sometimes off-putting, and wine is always a good choice on New Year's Eve. This dinner was fantastic. First, we had our amuse-bouche, a small cube of tuna, covered in puffed rice and sesame seeds, served in a large Asian plastic soup spoon. Next, we had a salad with candied pecans, cherry tomatoes, and cranberries with a honey dijon white peppercorn vinaigrette, with a more notable (and complementary) chevre/phyllo... sachet? My mom was good enough to insist I photograph our fine meal for posterity and the blog, for which I am grateful.


My entree was a mahi mahi fricasse (I think the nomenclature may have more for kicks than accuracy), which was full of vegetables, shrimp, and an appropriate-for-winter broth.


Wait, was that osso bucco in the background? Let's take a closer look...


Accompanying each course was my trusty culinary sidekick, Dinner Roll, which looked very much like the small loaves I used to read about in fairy tales about hot crossed buns and bakers' men. Dessert was this delicious chocolate pave, with sticky caramel and toasted almonds scattered around. And, dessert part two was strawberry gelee (horray for unnecessary French names!), a small square of a Turkish-delight-ish strawberry flavored, sugar-coated gelataneousness, next to a raspberry with a (frankly) intimidating plastic eyedropper filled with "framboise." Eyedroppers around food send the same half-chill up my spine that hearing words like "orifice," "infection," and "coagulant" does. However, the food was inventive and delicious, without being pretentious or uneccessarily spiced. It was just what the doctor ordered? It cured what ailed me? It was the antitdote to sometimes uninventive restaurant outings?.....

4. Christmas Dinner in Oklahoma

Christmas was delightful: a wonderful day full of interesting gift-giving, family time, beautiful sunlight, and a simple, delicious dinner. It of course was an easily-satisfying dinner because I requested most of what was put on the table, but it was such a nice homecoming, despite my brother's spending it in Italy, and it tasted like home and Christmases past. My mom bought a honey-baked ham and made green beans with ham, cornbread stuffing with bacon, cornbread with homemade honey butter, cranberries with orange zest, and a salad. For dessert, we had pumpkin pie (with homemade crust and some solidly squirted ReddiWhip) and my Yiayia's homemade chocolate pudding with meringue. I realized (unfortunately, as I can't make this pudding myself) that my non-fat pudding from a box (mixed with rice milk, again from a box) is pretty awful in comparison. Too bad homemade makes such a difference. Unfortunately, making pudding from boxes, even at home, doesn't make it homemade.

I'm thankful our hams don't come adorned with unidentifiable nuts/berries.

5. Library Bar and Grill/Thunderbird (Wild Wild West) Casino, Norman, Oklahoma

The Library is the best bar, ever. Like Sonic, the Library has a legion of fans who will loyally declare the same thing. They have good beer (six local, lots on top, even more bottled), good bar food (nachos with real cheese, pizza with crusty crusts, even sushi that's good) and is, I've decided, the site of most of the important events of my collegiate and immediately post-collegiate life. I had earth-shattering, emotionally moving, wildly empathetic, buddingly romantic, and satisfyingly mundane conversations in this place. So, my friend Jarod and I went here and had an expected evening of good beer (Boyd Street Wheat), good food (jalapeno nachos), and good conversation. It was nice, then got better. We drove about 10 minutes east of Norman, Oklahoma to someplace east of Norman, where the oasis of Thunderbird casino rose out of the plains. Thunderbird Casino is administered by the Absentee Shawnee Tribe, and houses Redneck's Cafe, Chuck Wagon Snack Bar, and The Jockey Club. We couldn't figure out how a jockey fits into a cowboy-themed casino, but that clearly was a futile inquiry. And we didn't care, because beer was only $1.50 and the menthol cigarettes were so deliciously cool! I'm not a good enough writer to explain why my attention was so throroughly and constantly diverted here. There was the woman who was knitting (in the casino), the wild-in-the-eyes, overly intense, lawyer-looking man with a wad of hundreds, the hardcore Oklahoma State fans, and the invigorating hum of mechanical slot machines with potentially lucrative lines of cherries, Star Wars characters, and African animals. I even won ten dollars, which counts as profit as I was given ten extra un-spendable-only-gambleable dollars because of my gender. So, since menthol cigarettes come from mint (a plant, at some point), it counts as a culinary event.

6. IHOP, Edmond, Oklahoma

For equally remarkable culinary nomenclature, let me recount IHOP. IHOP does it up internationally for real, now. They have crepes with Nutella, Mediterranean Chicken, and a bilingual menu. But it's details like our friendly waitress, Crystal, the four types of syrup on each table, menu items called "Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity," and the proferred choice of condiments like Tabasco and Cholula that make IHOP the breakfast of champions breakfast location, all day long. I had a great breakfast part two at 1 pm (in Oklahoma, that's never called brunch): Crystal brough me two scrambled eggs, two buttermilk pancakes, and two pieces of ham. I'm not really sure what else I need to say beyond that to explain its inclusion in the top twelve. Also, the coffee came in an IHOP mug. Unruly babies, questionably suburban gangster 12-year-olds, and another waitress who recounted the glories of dipping French fries in McDonald's ice cream did nothing to detract from my enjoyment of this remarkable meal.

7. Waffle House, Columbus, Georgia

For a variation on the same theme, let's enter my mind's stomach to Waffle House, which is not to be mistaken as some sort of less-worthy imitation of IHOP. Both companies seem to have reached an understanding with each other that neither can make both good waffles and good pancakes, so have each labored to perfect their individual breakfast speciality. So, IHOP limits their waffle-making to the Belgian sort (it really can't be taken seriously when sitting opposite menu items like four-meat omelettes or a T-Bone steak and eggs) and I'm not sure surly Waffle House waitresses would admit to knowing what a pancake--gentle and fluffly as they are--was. IHOP's Crystal was friendly: young, bright-eyed, admirably interested in what tomato products I liked on my eggs. Most Waffle House waitresses look like you took their last cigarette and gave it to their ungrateful ex-husbands. They are always friendly (although a bit prickly) and mostly competent (although both waitresses and cooks alike engage in a fascinating exchage of who is less competent themselves), but it really doesn't matter when grits, eggs, toast, coffee, and orange juice are slammed down on your table for under about six dollars. And I think there is something to be said for the waitresses' anachonistic but symbolic brown and yellow costumes, which can only remind me of pancakes and butter. Plus, the brown and yellow must have triggered some my own subconscious affinity for them, as they resemble the black and yellow colors that we've since been sporting on sweatshirts since my brother graduated from Ranger school, which is what took us to Columbus, Georgia in the first place. Again organic. Beautiful. I'm proud of this photo.

8. Mom's Cafe, Guthrie, Oklahoma

Oklahoma City is quaint, but it's not small-town America (maybe buddling metropolis America?). We have Main Streets, but usually they connect to other main (little m) streets. We have people who dress up in costumes (varieties such as WalMart vests, jerseys for our new basketball team, or underage suburban gangsters, see #6), but no period costume-wearers in Land Run garb. So, because Guthrie has these things (as a legacy of its being the first capital of Oklahoma), it makes for a charming little city, replete with antique shops, tea houses, chocolate bon bon boutiques, and of course, Mom's Cafe. My dad and I both ordered one of the best turkey dishes I think either of us had ever had: a scoop of turkey salad (with dried cranberries, mayonaise, pecans, and celery) on a little bed of lettuce, and a side fruit salad with fancy fruits (pineapple, etc... like getting Butterfinger on Halloween), rather than grapes and albino, slimy melon (equivalently, getting Tootsie Rolls). Look how charming this little corner cafe is:


We went back for dessert, because eating lunch was what we did while we decided what we were having for dessert. My dad had a lovely piece of pecan pie, my mom had a cream cheese brownie, and I ate poor Santa's face, nibble by nibble.


9. Ray's Hell Burger (Arlington, VA)/Restaurant Eve (Alexandria, VA) with my brother

I have a great brother, with sophisticated tastes. And, since I took him to Ben's Chili Bowl on his first visit to DC, I had to show him a gourmet beef product in VA. After him deriding me for parking three blocks away (little whiner doesn't understand DC metro parking) and wondering whether it was still there (thankfully I recalled something about "no sign out front"...), we were the first customers at 3 or 4 pm. It's almost too hip for it's own good, but with minimal decor, paper towel napkins, and cramped tables, it keeps a convincing aura of being a legit burger joint. My brother and I, emerging culinary soulmates, ordered the same burger, the B.I.G. Poppa, which comes with an au poivre burger, aged Danish bleu cheese, cognac and sherry sauteed mushrooms, and grilled red onions. We didn't talk much, but each silently strategized on how to consume our burger. And we got some fancy macaroni and cheese. It had some obscene amount of cheese in it and my brother (who apparently hates some cheeses, more out of principle than preference) ate it, so it was a small victory for me.

Then, I took my brother to Restaurant Eve. I don't remember what I got; I was talking to my brother too much (which is the point of a good meal anyway), but I remember he got Gravlax (again, awesome!). My excitement makes sense when you see a perhaps less-than-flattering picture of my brother:

That's chew (not Gravlax) in my brother's mouth...

If you want to read my culinary hero's take on Ray's Hell Burger, click here.

10. My brother's Italian gastronomical experience

Since this is my blog, I can make the rules so will deliver more appropriate praise about my brother. So, I choose to list one of my top meals as one I've been having for a few weeks now by proxy. My brother, since his arrival in Italy, has done exactly what I would do: eat interesting things. My brother is very adventurous and has always been an admirer of good food, but it had to meet certain conditions, namely being red and meat. However, I noticed that in a recent conversation, upon asking him his preferred meals in Italy, they were (shock!) both vegetarian: pasta caprese and a sort of tortellini with cheese. I hope it doesn't seem like I am publicly deriding his taste; rather, I'm publicly admiring my devotion to the developing tastes of my brother and writing here because I am so damn jealous. As an impressively loving brother, he has been cataloguing some of these items in his head to recount for me, including recounting meals like calamari, caprese salad, proscuitto, pizza, espresso, and horse. And he can say them with their original Italian names! I'm so proud of my brother. Just FYI, to illustrate obliquely that my blog is a natural outgrowth of my upbringing, please see what my family decided to photograph on vacation in Georgia and to immortalize on film. This is why I think it's a good idea to write paragraphs about 12 meals I've eaten.


11. Sonia's Brownies/Macaroons

My friend Sonia makes lovely brownies that should launch her into entrepreneurer-dom. They are heart-shaped, have chocolate ganache in them somewhere, and are covered in some sort of chocolate sauce that drips down off the heart's upper surface onto the sides. I clearly have no idea how they are made, but they consoled my soul the first time I tried them (Valentine's Day, 2007) and it's been a love affair ever since (she pulled one out of her freezer for me recently). She makes damn good macaroons too (her gift to me a few weeks ago), the legit French kind with the stiff outside and chewy inside. How lucky am I to have a friend who calls me just to gush about the meal she just ate (never lording, always effusing) and with whom I can have a 30 minute conversation about possible combinations of crepe fililng ingredients? SO lucky that I get gifts of cookies for reasons not tied to national holidays!


This picture has nothing to do with brownies or cookies, but is some proof of Sonia and my culinary mania: us being photographed trying to photograph our own food in Greece.

12. OKC Thunder Basketball Suite

My dear father knew I was coming to town, so took advantage of the opportunity to get tickets to his employer's suite at the Oklahoma City Thunder Basketball Team's game. I saw Shaq! And Grant Hill! And some really good but wildly shorter basketball players for OKC! It was fun... we had beer, fresh fruit accompanied by a yogurt/fruit sauce in a hollowed out coconut, crunchy veggies, cheddar-stuffed jalapenos, chips and salsa, mini beef taquitos, chocolate-covered strawberries, and brownies with nuts. These items sound quotidien, but eating them while watching tall guys slam dunk, Russian people do gymnastics at halftime, and Shaq effortlessly dominate the court is pretty much the sweetest combination of food and amusement I can think of (except for Dubuque hot dogs at KC Royals games and hot chocolate at football games, but I've already described about 23 meals here already).

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Bon Appetit!

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!

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.