Brabo

What a weird night. I write in the stupor that was induced upon me by a Russian woman who weighs half as much as I do and cheers'ed me twice as often. I decided tonight, after several failed dining attempts, to attend the most expensive restaurant on the western end of King Street. However, prior to this decision, I made several embarrassing ones, which I'll readily admit. I made the most appallling decision I've yet made in my blogging: walking up to a restaurant, looking inside, and deciding it wasn't appropriate for a single diner, Boca Sola be damned. Tonight was that night. Despite solo brunches, solo promotion-congratulation dinners, solo Friday nights, I couldn't do a single night at Rustico, a fabulous looking restaurant north of Old Town. The mood was too dark, the candles were too romatic, the groups were too convivial.

So, I retreated to Old Town, to an innocuous locally-owned (foolish assumption) Crab House: Ernie's, to be exact. I walked in, noticed three solo diners--no one else--and heard the forboding crack of a mulleted-man crushing the shells of helpless crabs. Obama was on two flat-screens telling me something that was supposed to be encouraging. There was nothing encouraging about the Chinese man with his head in his hands who saw me sitting there with a confused look on my face, trying to decide whether to demand a menu or march up and order a certain crab be pulled from the freezer case for my parktaking. The nice mulleted man--who himself had to demand of the Chinese man another beer by marching his mug to the bar--seemed to be lobbying on my behalf to the Chinese owner that he had a new customer (really not a hard thing to discern). However, after eye contact with the Chinese man failed--over the rows of outdoor patio furniture functioning as seating--I marched out. I had a whole four minutes of warmth, albeit a confused four minutes of halfway expecting scenes from The Shining to play out before my eyes.

I was embarassed. I hadn't had enough courage to dine alone at Rustico. I almost side-swiped a woman while calling Ernie's Hell Hole to find out when they closed. I took a series of wrong turns on one-way roads. I got off work at 7 pm. This dining experience was not promising.

So, because I was hungry, it was 8 pm, and because I couldn't get into its cheaper affiliated restaurant, I went to Alexandria's newest boutiquey restaurant, Brabo, an unneccessarily sophisticated Old Town restaurant three blocks from King Street Metro.

Where to start. I sat down next to a pretentious woman who ordered the world's tiniest meal and had the world's most mediocre artsy glasses. I ordered two little dishes--one of which the bartender actually put in an order for--and sat eating my scallops. Which were damn good, but which I calculated were over $6 each. And these weren't softball-sized scallops either.


These were delicious scallops with chanterelle mushrooms and some crunchy nonsense on top. I really don't remember much more about them because that's where my nice, calming, sophisticated, promising, culinary evening ended.

My Moroccan waiter, after my subtle reminder that my Ratatouille hadn't arrived (I saw he didn't enter it into the computer, sly amateur food critic I am), proceeded to ply me with wine so I would leave him with a good tip as he forget half my order. He admitted this. Then the flank wine assault began too.

After fancy-glasses-snotty-cheese-plate-eating-lady left, bleach blond Russian lady arrived. Her name is a real English word proceeded by an "a": something akin to Also, Around or Alike. It could have been the most surreal conversation I've ever hard, partially because her English sounded so good but was actually so indistinguisable from real English or because I just nodded my head a lot because I was too lazy to lean in and hear more astonishing details about her marriages and job experiences and ended up having no idea what her point was. I heard about her first marriage, second marriage (to a Marine 22 years older), her job, her life, her travels, her home in Jordan, her home in Cyprus (tax free), her opinions on men in Cyprus, life in Cyprus, and courtship. What does an amateur food writer who works 11 hour days possibly say to a contracting Russian human resources professional who works in Bagdad and has a Penthouse somewhere, who hopes her second marriage isn't her last? Very little, without being ridiculed two minutes into her account, as her Russian counterpart stops her and says her amateur food critic's monologue sounds like a homework assignment.

Three hours later, I think, blondie Russian had bought me two drinks, Moroccan waiter/bartender was also trying to intoxicate me, and I just wanted to sit and observe restaurant dynamics like an insightful, detached food writer. Speaking of food writer, here is the Ratatouille:

I would have much rather discussed with the French-speaking Bolivian and other Moroccan waiters the value of my dinner, but Mrs. Minsk decided to make the end of our conversation super awkward after she offered to give me her phone number. I reached for the bill-holding folder to grab pen and paper, and she essentially threw up her arms and said "it's too late." I don't know what I did: perhaps I wasn't eager enough to demand more stories about Russian/Cypriot/Marine dramas, or there is something offensive in Russian culture about recording contact information on bar tabs, but I departed Brabo $40 poorer (and not discernibly fuller), but awkwardly knowing the hotel room number of a crazy Russian woman who can outdrink me in Chardonnay.

Food Portraiture

It's spring, love is in the air, and I'm returning to the simple. Not a simple sonnet, not a single rose, but portaiture, through photography, of food items. In light of the simple, I'm going to try and write this up in 9 minutes or less.


Tonight, a friend invited me over to her place for a surprise party for her boyfriend. Today is his name day (Giuseppe), so we all gathered to surprise him and eat these ridiculously delicious sin balls, zeppole. Leave it to a Mediterranean culinary culture to create a pastry that should get a once-a-month self exam. These are Italian treats only created once a year for the name day celebrations of lucky Giuseppes in the Italian diaspora. I couldn't photograph the inside of the pastry, because that would necessitate me admitting the reason to a party comprised of two couples and a guy who used the ambiguous "we" pronoun a lot.


Above, getting flashed (double entendre). They were some of the most delightful treats I've ever had, partially because they were composed of large amounts of flour, sugar, ricotta cheese, and maraschino cherries.

I have only two minutes left, but want to note I didn't get green beer on St. Patrick's Day in case anyone was waiting for that cliffhanger to be resolved.


But, I found out that Irish beer photographs just fine. And close up.


I know I'm approaching culinary minutae, but there is something comforting in the simple pleasures of looking at photographed food. Or perhaps I'm just too downtrodden to make jokes about how my beer is other colors than green. Time's up.

Poste, Passed, Passer

I love clever alliteration, but my title is legitimately explanatory. Saturday, I dined at Poste Modern Brasserie, an upscale contemporary brasserie located in downtown Washington DC, [that] features modern American cuisine emphasizing fresh, local ingredients and then proceeded to both pass and be passed at today's St. Patrick's Day 8K downtown. I'd like to take a moment to note that both events were recommendations of readers, so essentially my life is playing out pawn-like in a series of exhoratations by friends/readers.

So, Poste. Well, pre-Poste. Weekends in the DC area are now those melancholy yet mildly hopeful days (but only if you see jonquils desperately poking their buds up out of the ground). So, I wandered first to my local farmer's market to see what I could find to bring light to an overcast day. One of my favorite vendors (in addition to the lady who sells the candy-colored tomatoes and the tough, sourpuss grandma who can lift the steamer trunks her husband refurbishes) is a man who sells canned goods, mostly jellies and vegetables. My favorite and a semi-frequent purchase last summer was his jar of Pickled Okra... juicy, spicy, and with just enough okra-fuzz. I also bought (for an inagural time) Dilly Beans, "spicy" snappy green beans with lots of dill. The charming man was discussing with other customers candies with a cherry filling and a chocolate covering that were sprinkled with peanuts. Once they left, I asked if he was discusssing Cherry Mash, a midwestern candy whose headquarters is in St. Joseph, MO (and whose factory I passed while on some field trip in high school). I was reminded of these delectable treats while watching a Food Network special that he watched too. However, he liked the look of them so much, he bought a box. And the nice man (after we chatted about his canned goods) said he'll bring me one next week. In cases like these, candy from strange older men is preferrable to the romantic advances I get (Friday night, it was only barely-21 enlisted Marines and soldiers).


After the market, I made my pilgrimage to DC to try some fancy food. I mentally likened Poste to one of many satellite culinary Meccas in DC. Its own characterization as a "Moderne Brasserie" made me imagine the competent but disinterested waiter who would serve me, a haven that permitted hours of reading sophisticated newspapers over small cups of coffee, smart conversation and a seat that made me feel continental and erudite just sitting in it.

Poste was not any of these things. It makes me sad that a paragon of restaurants can't be consistently good and that I spent $30 on an experience that would have been less painful at IHOP. The service was the core of the problem. I waited 15 minutes for my water and my cocktail (neither one of which my waiter delivered), he took 30 minutes to take my order, and had an obnoxious, disinterested smirk (not as charming as qualified, petulant disinterest) on his face that made me want to use the mini-jams on my table for a task far beyond what they were created for (I imagine the jar of orange marmelade would have hit its target). The Bloody Mary I got (a "Poste Mary" with horseradish, jalapeño infused Square One and juice of organic Brandywine tomatoes, garden tyme, and rosemary) was good, but the glass being overfilled forced me to repeat the word "meniscus" over and over in my head.

For another science reference, see me convex in the sugar bowl.

Meniscus is one of those terms that only comes up in reference to syringes filled with medicine and cough syrup measuring cups. So, unappetizing associations were elicited. Additionally, to continue my wallowing, I must admit that my brunch left me so downtrodden I didn't even finish my $11 cocktail. Who leaves good alcohol in the bottom of a glass save a person whose culinary soul had been temporarily crushed?

Poste is in the Hotel Monaco, which for some reason means that the restaurant's restroom can't be remotely close to where you would actually be dining. So, seemingly a quarter mile after I decided I wanted to wash up, I arrived.

Even if the waiters can't, the lampshades exhibit their competency at the Hotel Monaco.

Lunch was really good, though. If you scroll down really fast my sandwich actually looks like cake. And it was just as indulgent. I got a croque madame, which in French means "French women don't actually eat this because it makes you fat." It was fabulous. And it came with a cone of thin, perfectly salted pomme frites. I couldn't decide what to order and it was the pommes frites that sealed the deal on this choice.


This statuesque sandwich had ham and cheese on the inside (oops, Lent), a frame of what must have been brioche, and a fried sunny-side-up egg on top, with a light flourish of mornay sauce, which is a version of Béchamel.


Perhaps you'd like another view? Perhaps of the ribbon of egg tickling the side of the sandwich?


Maybe the benefit of an incompetent waiter is that without his watchful eye, you can take three photos of your entree. Plus, he didn't overturn a tray of five cocktails on me, but at the table of three lady brunchers in front of me. I whispered to the manager that the service was terrible, took my hoodie and left, saw the unencouraging but quirky movie Two Lovers, and came back to Alexandria and carbo-loaded. What a fun sport this running is.

I had dinner at Pines of Florence, a charmingly unsophisticated Italian restaurant on King Street. There were lots of tables of family and friends. Besides the woman next to me incessantly commenting on the superlative nature of her terrific/fantastic/amazing osso bucco, I had a lovely time. Lingering heartache made me forget to photograph my food, but I was impressed that even though I ordered the cheapest food item (spaghetti with tomato sauce) and nothing but water, the service was still attentive and competent. A good thing to know in times of culinary trial.

And then I had the race this morning, after which I had the best bagel (pulled from a cardboard box and eaten in about 2 minutes) that I've ever had. Horray for post-race food. I ran the course in 47:14, was 311th out of 735 in my gender/age group, was 149th out of 432 first-time racers, and had a mile pace of 9:30. Yes, I'm only highlighting the more flattering stastistics, but I'm writing the blog, not the winning runner who ran it 23 minutes faster than I, aren't I.

I went out with my loyal friends/readers/co-runners after the race for breakfast and we ended up at Harriett's Family Restaurant.


I thought oatmeal and one egg would make for a lovely, light meal. Harriett, who works so hard in her kitchen she hasn't heard there is a recession, brought me a platter of perhaps three eggs, four pieces of toast, and breakfast potatoes.


What nice friends I have, when I crumple my shoulders in disgust that my phone (and more importantly wallet) are in the car, they photograph my food for me. I also got oatmeal, but Harriett cooked up an entire can of oats. A cell phone camera could not have accommodated that bowl. We left, me longingly looking at mugs of green beer young folks were drinking in another room. Dear St. Patrick: since I ran for you this year, will you ensure I meet with green beer soon?

Hank's Oyster Bar

Nothing ministers to a jilted heart better than cheddar Goldfish and chocolate. Thanks, Hank, for understanding. The mythical Hank drew me to his culinary bosom (sorry for mixed gender metaphors) and proffered a culinary balm on a chilly evening, comfort food to soothe a weathered romantic soul, and a really nice waitress who gave me a cheat sheet on oysters. Tonight, I turned to culinary delights to make the pain of heartache go away, and it worked!

There is really no significant heartache here (and certainly none that will be elucidated clearly in my Dear All diary), but sometimes privation--of the culinary, romantic, and professional sort--drives one to satisfyingly rip crustaceans from their cloistered shells.

In short, I went to Hank's Oyster Bar, another local joint three blocks away, tonight. I knew I was in trouble when I ordered Rogue Dead Guy Ale. So much for a happy hour.


It's really a nice, happy, tie-dyed looking beer that's scary like plastic vampire teeth are scary instead of scary like dead-Confederate-soldiers-are-wandering-around-your-hallways-at-night kind of scary. Plus, I got cheddar Goldfish for free. Clever.

Then my waitress came back. She really was quite lovely and let me order at the pace I felt comfortable with. Hank's has an oyster happy hour, so she left open the possibility that perhaps I would order 28 one dollar oysters instead of diversifying my meal into one $12 chunk and investments in Rappahannocks and Island Creeks. I didn't order 28 oysters (I'm not sure if I've had that special for-oysters Hepatitis shot in a while). But my waitress didn't know what me, a crazy, Blackberry-flashing, hoodied diner would do.

But, I did in fact order four oysters. After I got my oysters, she left me alone to decide what I was going to do next.


From the top left, you'll see one fine specimen of a Dragon Creek oyster, then two Rappahannocks, then a sole Island Creek (I remember because my waitress gave me a slip of paper with their names and order). They were fabulous. So fabulous in fact, I couldn't apply that remarkable blend of horseradish and cocktail sauce I usually slather crustaceans with. It seemed criminal, like putting Butter Buds on lobster tail. Each was so delicious, in fact, I would first drink the oyster juice from the half shell, then pull the oyster off its foot.

I'd like to address something separately that reader(s) has probably noticed. My photography is miserable. The pictures are out of focus, blurry, and look like those up-close photos of dog's noses where the lens looks curved. I can't help this. I live in secret fear that managers will ask me to leave because I am photographing their food, that table neighbors might give me sideways glances the rest of their meals fearing to be indicted by stray photo shots, or that I might have to explain I am an amateur food writer who habitually and furtively photographs her food. So I do it steathily, but not well. Once I make it big, I'll focus. And pose with grateful co-diners who know my work.

So I was deciding between ceviche and an oyster po' boy, both of which would have been unique options for a seafood place. So I get the mussels, my subject of two blogs ago. I could be unoriginal and re-gush about how I love to swirl bread around the bottom of the mussel pit and oversoak it. Or how mussels are glossy. I won't (too much), but I will confess that from that meal at Belga Cafe and this one, I've decided mussels are one of my favorite foods.


You can't see the steam, but these mussels were sultry. And after one whiff, I lustily envisioned mussel-stuffed garlic (rather than the other way around). Most of the white in this picture--if it's not mussel gloss--is chopped garlic. Everywhere.

These mussels also featured chopped tomatoes, green stuff (of negligible flavor) and white wine. This was some serious broth. If really pressured, this broth would never say it's translucent. It'd insist on its opaqueness until its evaporation.


I could blame this photo on my poor photography skills, but it'd be more correct to say I was impatient to take a break and photograph when there were so many delicious mussels left.

I ate all of them. I ate almost all the bread. I'd hazard to say the broth rivaled the mussels in taste; this was no backdrop, sideshow broth.

I was exhausted, satisfied. Pleased with my choice, happy to have dramatically consoled my troubled soul with the fruits of the ocean. However, Hank's unnecessary but much-appreciated oblation was a small glass bowl of broken-up chocolate chunks. How did Hank know?