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.