Viva Saint Valentine

This past Valentine's Day was probably the best ever. I think the fact that it had little chocolate, no wrapped gifts, and no saccharine teddy bears is probably what made it so successful. Instead, I had my parents, piccolo players, edible flowers, barbecue, goose poop, and costume jewelry. It was a celebration of love of parents and love of children and love of our first president and his unfortunate mouth.

My parents arrived Valentine's Day eve eve and I met them at Daniel O'Connells in Old Town. They got burgers, I got nachos, and my dad and I had Blue Moons (or generic Blue Moons). First food success! Then they saw my couch, and learned what a legitimate professional I am. Of course, they also saw how I have a kitchen chair that functions as coffee table/end table and that my radiator and china cabinet (bookshelf with souvenir champagne glasses from fundraising events) jiggle when you walk near them.

Us girls on the couch.

We were tired, retreated to my parents boutique hotel (that had orange pillows, animal print robes, and bellhops with purple velour suits), and stopped for sweets at La Madeleine that evening. La Madeleine is to pastries what suburban street riots are to Paris: not good. But we found better sweets later.

The next day, I had the brillant idea to take my parents to the National Arboretum. Yes, the one few people have heard of that is in Northeast DC. Yes, the one that has nothing blooming in the middle of winter. First, we stopped at Breugger's Bagels. Our bagels were a bit mangled by the bageler in training, but they tasted good. We hopped in the car and my parents got to see the glories of Northeast; even more than they expected as I took several wrong turns and sped over a few speed bumps on industrial side roads.

The Arboretum was desolate: I had the feeling we had stepped in to some really boring dystopia movie like Planet of the Apes, but we didn't even get to see something future/historical like the Statue of Liberty creepily poking out of the ground. But then it stopped being boring. We stopped at a striking arrangement of the old Capitol columns that had been reassembled on top of a hill.


The columns were a perfect time to pretend to be a good photographer too.


And to take family photos.


We wandered into the Visitor's Center, realized how much we were missing because we came during the worst possible season, got a useless map from the useless Visitor's Center lady who told us we could walk around the Arboretum and see nothing in case we didn't want to see nothing from our car, and then saw the Koi. The beautiful, calming Koi that had not in fact died during the winter months.


With recentered chis, we wandered over to the Bonsai section and we began madly photographing the most intricate little Bonsai plants we'd ever seen. We were like giants in the most diverse forest. We were the only ones there (besides the hippie lady who'd already wandered off) and were able to soak in all the bizarre but fascinating detail of groomed, pedigreed trees.


We couldn't avoid each other with the massive amount of photo-taking.


Find the parent in this photo.


We also saw numerous variations of rosemary in the herb garden (those were the plants that were most prolifically alive). Maybe all the mini trees reminded my dad of the cedars of Lebanon and thus Lebanese food, but with a desire for tabbouleh, we headed back down to Old Town to one of my favorite restaurants, the Pita House.


That's a mural on the wall. I hope that's not a unicorn.


Here's my dad. We both got souvlaki sandwiches. This picture shows if my blog had underwriters (of support rather than money), he'd be at the top.

Sometime later or earlier, I don't remember exactly, I told my parents about this cupcake place in Old Town. (My mom remembered discussions we've had about cupcakes being trendy/a fad around here. Oklahoma doesn't have dessert fads. You either like Sonic or you don't.) So they indulged me and we all went together to check the place out. They charge $3 a cupcake. Recession schmesession.


Lavender Moon Cupcakery was like a rich adult's candy store. But the owner was nice and let me take a picture of the back room.


My dad got one with banana and pineapple and I got one with white cake stuffed with lemon curd with a raspberry atop thick, creamy icing. It was deliciously dripping in pretension.

We shopped around, explored and then ate again. I'm sure we did something interesting before dinner. It may have been a nap, but this isn't the Boca Dorma. For dinner, we went to A La Lucia. I'm not afraid of repeat blogging, or close up pictures of dead anchovies.


My dad and I split roasted artichokes with anchovies, olives and olive oil. After one bite, I wanted to hop on a plane and visit my brother.


My mom had veal pasta.


My dad had lobster pasta. Getting back to the amorous love theme, I thanked Cupid I didn't have to spend my Valentine's Day eve with the guy behind my dad and just got spend it with my dad (he eats steak).


I had rotini pasta with roasted eggplant. I also had espresso.


On with it, you say. We recommenced the next day with a different tact: less greenery, less romance, more history, and more water. We're in Virginia, not Asia or Italy, we said to ourselves collectively. We went to Firehook Bakery in Old Town, scoring ourselves some legit pastries: flaky, dense scones. Then we returned to celebrating this side of the Atlantic and headed down to Mount Vernon to celebrate love of country on Valentine's Day.

We took pictures of plaques about the estate.

We took pictures close up.


We took them while standing in a field of goose poop.


We grimaced in fields of goose poop while having our photos taken overlooking the Potomac.


And we witnessed a charming five-minute parade with colonial music that whet our appetite for colonial food, like ye olde macaroni and cheese with Virginia ham (what my mom got).


I got the largest barbecue sandwich I've ever ordered and it's almost too graphic to post here.


But the world must know the truth: that Mount Vernon, a tourist hub for both boy scouts and Japanese tourists, has good food. And that's no lie, said GW.


The museum is quite spectacular, too. Poor GW had some serious teeth problems. Apparently, his wooden teeth were just an urban legend but he was plagued by teeth and gum ailments his whole life. He would have done quite well with his estate's macaroni and cheese and barbecue sandwiches, though.


For kicks, we went down to Occoquan. The Occoquan? We went into a few pretty worthless shops, but then a nice upscale furniture place. And of course photographed ourselves.


After doing some other stuff, it as time to wine and dine ourselves for Valentine's Day. I threw on my costume jewelry, tried unsuccessfully to keep my stiletto heels out of the gaps in brick on every sidewalk, and met my parents at Bookbinders, my local steak/lobster joint.

I love that I can feel like a gangster's wife, a sophisticated socialite, or a stock market investor walking into this place. My dad and I got wine and we all got clever little Bookbinders salads.


I don't really remember what it was, but it had goat cheese (of the chèvre variety). Dear, dear chèvre reminds me of my dorm room in France where I always had some of the delicious, cheap stuff in my fridge.

Then love came my way. The selfless love that only a fat lobster tale can offer a grateful diner. I had no idea lobster could be this good: it was dense, tender, flavorful and overwhelmingly rich. My dad and I split two South African lobster tails. I was fairly certain I heard a chorus of snapping claws applauding the performance of one of their own.


It was served with an edible (I ate it) flower, gouda mashed potatoes accompanied by a jalapeno cream sauce.


Daddy got his lobster. Yes, my dad's a steak man, but he fears nothing from the ocean.

Mother with her filet.

Depite our demurring smiles, we knew we deserved cake. Chocolate cake. Because Valentine's Day means that girls get their chocolate birthright.


Content with the kind affection of my dad/my mom's husband, my mom and I had a lovely Valentine's Day. It could have been my best ever. There was no uncomfortable jewelry giving (or requisite wondering how long you had to stay together because of the jewelry giving), no disingenuous card/gift exchange (I got great cards from my parents, by the way), no post-dinner romantic pressure (akin to what follows prom, although that didn't happen to me because I wanted to break up with my date after the dance, but that's another story), and no icky, sappy anything.

The next day, we met up with my aunt and uncle at a favorite local Mexican restaurant, Austin Grill. It was nice to catch up, and my Ahi tuna tacoes were muy sabroso.


Then we went to Annapolis. My my, how masculine this place seems when you get outside the Beltway. We parked near the Naval Academy and wandered in, after talking Oklahoma football with the nice guard.


We saw the famous Major General John Lejeune, the author of the Marine Corps' birthday message.


And we saw captivating sail boats floating in the harbor.


And we posed in front of the Naval Academy seal. Essentially, we ate and photographed our way through the greater metropolitan area. However, after all this Marine exposure, I must add:

Rangers Lead the Way.

We were hungry, and wanted seafood so walked around a bit downtown, which was charming. It seemed like a very good date city and was charming, even with some whipping winds.

Just one of Annapolis' romantic alleyways.

Then we saw a charming local store:

That became even more charming after some photoshopping (courtesy of my dad):


Then we went to a not so charming local tavern, Middleton Tavern, right on the water. I'm sure it was a great place in 1750, but it appears to have been undergoing a steady decline since then. We got crab balls (yes, we made jokes about the name) and oysters, pictured below. And more beer.


I had a lovely time.. thank you both for coming!

Belga Cafe

I'm glad I could take Belga Cafe seriously, because after a glance at the menu, my juvenile linguistic humor made me question if I'd be able to make it (in addition to the fact that a bowl of mussels--the equivalent of sea squirrels in their ubiquity--started at $18). Anyway, Belga Cafe serves items like Kip and Krab Sigaar, Waterzooi Van Vis, and Kazen Kroketten, which to a French major--who looks down on Belgium's "other" language, Flemish--seems like drunken culinary jibber jabber terms with too many extraneous vowels.

I have to admit, though, it didn't take long for me and my dining partner to realize the food was too serious to be offended by jabs at its vowel count. It's no-nonsense, high-class, well-presented bar food. And by bar food, I mean sophisticated Belgian brasserie bar food that's meant to be enjoyed over fancy Belgian beer, cast iron pots full of crustacean remains, and artisanal mayonnaise.

So first we got beer. I got what Mike had--he said it tasted like hops; I thought it tasted like meat. But it tasted like something bold. Like two vowels in the middle of a four-syllable word or leiderhosen (wrong country).. but something remarkable. With both beers I ordered, I got a glass that was made especially for that beer. However, this was a good indication of the premium on presentation that was to come.


To satisfy my own attempts to be clever, I'd like to coin a phrase for my own benefit for the outing Wednesday evening. I'll call it a nondate. It had the trappings of a date: we were two people having dinner, talking, laughing, splitting delicious plates of food. But, it was not a date: there was no awkwardness, no coy explorations of romantic interest, no tiptoeing around past or future (aspirational) relationships, no tiresome circus acts of trying to be overly clever or impressive. It really was fantastic. We were able to talk food and love in between delicious bites; what a nexus. It was especially valuable because not only did it all have the benefits of a nondate, it also proffered the rewards of a working dinner, each of us being able to discuss common relationship/dating inquiries from the other genders' perspective...like a romantic Rosetta stone.

Anyway, dinner was good too. We split this amazing Warm Ajuin Taartje, a warm onion tart with a softish tart bottom that was smothered in soft, carmelized onion and sliced cherry, heirloom tomatoes, covered in a crisp netting of cheese, and finished off with dressed arugula. Around this teetering tower was a "sweet olive oil sorbet," which was just drizzled olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I was ready to eat olive oil sorbet by the scoop, but apparently it was deconstructed or had both melted and evaporated.


We devoured it, and it was too delicate to last long. Regarding dinner, I will present dinner abstract, then explain it in specifics.


There's something so charming in mussels' gloss: it's such a regal presentation for a food that also answers to "bivalve molluscs." I ordered mussels they way they should be ordered: in French. Moules marinières are classic at-the-plage food to eat with frites while pondering whether to be downtrodden Sartre-like by your existential crisis or be afflicted by your spleen after reading some poetry by Baudelaire.


Mine had white wine, shallots, parsley, and garlic. I realized clearing away layers of mussels to reach a bit of liquid in which to dip crusty bread is one of my little indulgences. We also each had a cone of frites, hot, crisp, and salty, and begging to be dipped in our little cup of mayonnaise.


I was always making forward progress: finishing one beer to get another, eating more mussels and creating more dipping room, and moving one step closer--one mollusk at a time--toward dessert.


Mike ordered Mussels “Rodenbach,” with red ale, bacon, and asparagus. It's really the perfect to-chat-over food: hands-on, can be enjoyed slowly even while you're eating fast (you can only make so much progress at a time), and easy to share.

Then we ordered dessert. This dessert should have been served atop an exquisite Belgian lace tablecloth or should have been painted by Jan van Eyck or received some honorary award from NATO or have been applauded by an audience of appreciate waffles. We ordered a Warme Krieken Taart, which was a soft almost cake served with sour cherries atop the rim of the cake, accompanied by a spiced yogurt sorbet and cherry beer gelee. But interspersed among all that was an elderberry liquor sauce, thin sticks of meringue cookies (that's a guess), a thin slice of a pineapple/mangoish fruit, and spicy wisps of cookie emerging like plumes from the sorbet.



It was remarkably detailed, but had so many components, it allowed for a great game of "how does one compose the best, most balanced bite." See Mike's attempt:


Let the nondates continue!