Founding Farmers

It's still Restaurant Week and I had a double date last night (by which I mean I went out with two charming gentlemen; yes, they will be reading this). They were lovely, intelligent, opinionated, indulged me in my photo-taking, engaged me in conversation, and had lively opinions. However, we engaged in one of the most heated relationship discussions I've had in a while, and perhaps the most heated discussion I've had with any one with whom I have not been in a romantic relationship. I'm relating this because it marks the true intersection between love and food, a theme I may now be reaching a ham-handed approach with. However, put cocktails in our hands and the romantic theories fly.

I'll start with the uncontentious cocktails. Well, I'll start with the place first and its general strategy, with its cocktails as an example. Founding Farmers, an organic, green restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue is nice. Innovative menu, lots of room, homey food. It just takes it self too damn seriously. Which this whole city does, which is why I was arguing with my lovely friends why women in this town have it so rough. Men here aren't men. They recharacterize themselves as something trendy: green, progressive, metrosexual, enlightened. Why can't he be an Oklahoma onion hamburger instead of beef carpaccio, I ask myself. Separately, why do I need an organic $14 cocktail when the wine they serve me from a cardboard box tastes just as good? These are abstractions of two long-standing complaints I have (essentially getting to the same question of, "where's the beef?"--I jest), but they received an interesting treatment last night concerning whether the problem lay with women or men in this town as to why there weren't more happy couples. But I just note it here; I won't attempt to resolve.

I digress. I had a sazerac, a famous New Orleans cocktail which walked (ably) the fine line of a serious drink that will get you drunk and a drink that celebrates the vicissitudes of alcohol in a dignified way. It was delicious, with a shaved ribbon of orange rind. Andy (see hand) had something with a lot of bourbon.


Then we had bread with spreads: whipped butter with sea salt, and then red pepper Romana , cheddar pimento, and Green Goddess spreads. The bread was fresh, airy, and had the ideal floury crust. We were starving, but it was lovingly prepared and we enjoyed it.


Then we were served our salads. Both my friends are an aspiring food critic's ideal companions: they both shared their food. Andy with his salad, Mike with his fish. I can't ask for better platonic muses. My salad was delightful...baby lettuces, avocado, dates, almonds, grapes, with a champagne vinaigrette.


Our waiter brought out our fantastic chardonnays and we got our Salmon cooked on cedar planks. It was the first good meal I've had in ages, though, where the food was delicious--worth poring over--but where the conversation about romance made its enjoyment secondary, almost rendering the food anti-intellectual. We tried to answer big relationship questions, during Restaurant Week, which is like trying to discuss the evils of capitalism while on Santa's lap: some conversations just become more tortuously interesting when you know you aren't really in the ideal environment to discuss them (and know it will take ages). However, we discussed marriage, the appropriate emotional maturity for marriage, the dating scene for men and women in DC, and costs/benefits of serial monogamy.

However, since I'm the one writing here, I'll note that I observed some striking things between the restaurant and men in general in this city. And this gets to the nexus of food/love within an existing supra-framework. This city is obsessed with rank, status, standing, and how to get ahead. Restaurant proprietors in this city have the gall to give the air that they are divinely entitled to decide my food choices for me, while deigning to permit me to step foot in their hallowed culinary halls. I'm the boss here: I want my food to taste good, not to basque in the glory of its greeness. I see the same framework here with men: a sense of entitlement that the men hold the cards and that women should crawl to them. It appears I'm bitter, but I just lament a self-indulgent culture in this city that allows for haughty behavior that sidelines a large segment of the population (I haven't been spurned, I'm just speaking anthropologically).

My most remarkable post-dinner observation was that I could discuss all of these rather complicated, depths-of-a-woman's-soul issues with two men, who were giving me their honest take on my own comments and offering up their own. Before I try and become more amateurly profound, here's dinner:


We all had the salmon, but I had the lemon-herb dressing. The salmon was accompanied by Yukon Gold whipped potatoes and... something green. I ate it before I had a chance to ask the waiter what it was.

I guess I'm frustrated because the food had less complexity than the conversation. Or I could be frustrated that detailed conversation renders the food an annoying nuisance. Perhaps I'm most frustrated with the contention that there comes a time to be serious: about food, about relationships, about the direction of one's life. The dessert was damn good though.


So thought Andy.


So thought Mike.