Northern Virginia Summer BrewFest

God bless America, and her beer brewers. Yesterday, I attended the most sophisticated event ever associated with beer, in a truly inspiring celebration of fizzy drinks that up until yesterday had seemed pretty indistinguishable. I joined my friends Rob and Laura at the Northern Virginia Summer BrewFest (yes, there is also an autumn one), and it was superlative in every respect: lots of beer, lots of beer samples, lots of different beers, tons of local American breweries, multiple men and women with conspicuously weird tattoos, women with alarmingly small halter tops, emotional making-ups and making outs facilitated by lots of beer, and an impressive selection of fried/grilled food.

We started with one cup:

This was the golden ticket. Well, it was the receptacle for what the four tickets you get with your admission will get you. But I bought more.

I had or sipped, but did not photograph, beers from the following breweries:

Allagash Brewing Co. (Tripel) Hook and Ladder Brewing Company Magic Hat Brewing Company Mountaineer Brewing Co. (some beer the representative said girls prefer) Raven (watery sip)
Abita Brewing Co. (Jockamo IPA, cute label) He’Brew Beer (Pomegranate ale, described as "chick beer but 8%")
Kona Brewery (Walua Wheat ale with passion fruit) Atwater Brewery (Atwater Vanilla Java Porter, probably my favorite)
Bells Brewing Inc. (warm glass of Amber ale from the bottom of the barrel)

The bottom one is becoming my new favorite pick. Yes, yes, it's brewed in Michigan.

Everyone was happy, even including the kettle korn popper, who gave us a lesson in kettle corn making (add a ladel of oil to the kettle, add a scoop of popcorn kernels, soon after, add twice as much sugar as popcorn, and stir).

And the Confederate soldiers who presumably came from some re-enactment made me feel right at home. Literally.

Lunch, after about 6 mini beers and multiple sips, was of course fabulous. The tent we patronized had a grill full of onions, peppers, meats, and spiraled sausages, in a beautiful array of greasy, ostensibly pre-hangover food.

I got an Italian sausage. It was great: impossibly large to eat and with my post-7-mini-beer skills or general clumsiness, managed to rip off a piece, have it drop off the foil wrapping and hit both my shirt and my shorts and wipe mustard on me during its fall to earth.


Laura made a good decision to order a "Hole in One," or a donut, right off the fryer, covered in ice cream and sprinkles. It was impressive that that tent had both a donut fryer and a freezer to hold at least four types of ice cream. That's fair-food innovation for you.

The culinary find of the afternoon was the turkey leg: the unadvertised, dripping-in-poultry-juice, sinewy, Medieval, feudal-lord-invoking turkey leg. Rob found it and served as a turkey leg ambassador to other fair-goers who wanted a turkey leg, but couldn't find its source either.

Of course being part of the turkey leg eating club means you instantly find affinity with other turkey leg eaters.

Passion Fish

Dinner tonight was just good. Sometimes when I dine alone, the dinner is good intellectually: I spend time deconstructing the ingredients, criticizing minor chef decisions, eyeing other patrons, lamenting their poor conversation, and searching to find familiar and rewarding tastes in each bite. Other times dinners are good with friends because the food pales to the conversation and glides by one's senses without being noticed. However, some rare nights, the company and the food proceed in parallel, equally satisfying and varied. Tonight was a night like that...there was forboding lightning on the horizon but a patio table was open and my friend Mike and I had dinner at Passion Fish in Reston prior to a big step forward in his life.

Dining in Reston smacks of disingenuous; it's like claiming you went to the bowling alley and had a really delicious filet. Pretentious of me? Of course. But Reston means eight lane thoroughfares, Best Buys and Home Depots every block (interspered between Starbuckses), and architecture that looks like any other new, green glassy, high-risey amalgamation anywhere in Northern VA. But tonight we found a gem. Or maybe the whole place is full of gems and the abundance of SUVs driven by suburban environmentalists prohibits my seeing them.

The restaurant was charming. It was in the vortex of a semi-creepy planned community/shopping district (creepy in its formality, ninety degree angles, profusion of BMWs and men in boat shoes), but just on the cusp so that the panorama was calm with just casual passers by. We sat on the patio and soaked in the beauty both on our table and passing by on plates being delivered to neighboring tables. The couple behind Mike both ordered an entire fish. With its erect little tail saluting us as it was carried by above our heads. How fabulous.

So Passion Fish is fishy and Mediterranean, but with a splash of Asian. And the flavors are much more complementary than expected. Mike ordered a blue crab and corn chowder soup with crab meat and green onions. It was smooth, flavorful, and not overwhelmingly creamy; even hot, it was as refreshing as soup in the winter is soothing.

On the bottom left, you can see the silverware had little fish tails. It was really too cute by half, but somehow worked, even to an increasingly cynical diner and professional young woman like I appear to have become. It was like the Mickey Mouses ears-shaped butters at Disneyworld or ice cream creations where an upside down sugar cone is a hat...trite but visually consoling.

I had Peruvian ceviche. I have done ceviche a lot, most of it hovering somewhere around medicre to unremarkable. Tonight it was truly new and admirably innovative.

I was hungry so the picture is blurry, but yes, that's popcorn on top of my ceviche. It was fresh and spicy (with red onion, habanero pepper, lemon juice, and green olive oil) and the popcorn added salt and crunch that made it somehow taste like both beach and fair food. And you'll notice that it's encased in a bowl of ice. Someone tonight cared more about my food than I did and that makes me happy.

We stuck with light stuff to sample more. The following probably looks like an unappetizing mix of influences, but it fit. I'd try and more effectively weave in the theme of tastes proceeding in parallel, but I'm too tired. But, Mike got grilled octopus (with lovely squishy/crunchy suckers) with grilled halloumi cheese, all atop a little Greek (horiatiki) salad and drizzled with Tzatziki. Plus it had a purple sauce drizzled on top and baby croutons.

I got a mojito (with thick clusters of mint leaves and an unfortunately splintery piece of sugar cane) and a prettily-displayed California roll. The sushi may appear to diverge from these Mediterranean flavors, but I tasted the faintest glimmer of lemon juice in it, which brought the dinner back full circle. And it came with a cute little tagine-looking soy sauce holder.

The service was good; the waiter seemed to have bypassed the long sushi chef order backlog for us (we were hurrying) and was attentive, knowledgeable, and gave confident recommendations on both my drink and ceviche. The forboding lightening edged into the horizon, the rain never fell, and the press of time, like a current, took us off the patio and back out into the world.

Vermilion, or Why Fish Guts are Better than Lemon

When a girl is in a summer dress, anything is possible. The world seems like such an oyster, walking three blocks in stilettos seems tolerable, even recommendable. Partaking in homemade limoncello (provided by a blog reader and friend) prior to dinner seems requisite to an evening out at an Italian-inspired place. And sweeping into Vermilion after 8 pm seems like what a girl should do when in a floral frock. And that's what I did.

Pre-dinner limoncello aperitif in my kitchen.

Unconsciously in my mind, I was preparing for a date with dinner; my preposition choice here is key. Some girls in their lives take a date to dinner. In my life, sans viable dates, I spend a romantic evening with a fine meal. The waiter usually is the facilitator, chaperone, or third-wheel of this date. And since these meals are usually the first of their kind, this waiter-role isn't inappropriate or awkward. But these aren't the desperate longings of a single girl; these are the longings of an amateur food critic who wants her waiter to stop acting like he's about to nervously ask her to prom.

It occured to me tonight that being a single girl dining out is also like volunteering to go on a blind date with your waiter. You want to be paid attention to, flattered, get the same treatment as other girls/patrons concurrently on other dates, have him notice small details, and be comfortable, conversational, and genuine. And this is the life after bourbon, where service may never be as singularly attentive. But I've always expected more from a guy with a plastic ear piercing plug thing: that he'd skated with all manner of righteous, diverse dudes so he'd be at ease with any patron, or would admire the uniqueness of a woman dining out, like a rock fan is proud of the young woman who makes her way to the front of a Tool concert.

I didn't get this. I sort of got the treatment of a grandmother who might pick up her grandson in her pink minivan in a very public spot after his having a successful shopping trip at Hot Topic. My waiter presumably wasn't embarassed of me or disappointed in my lack of ostentatious black ear decor, but he certainly didn't treat me as the sophisticated diner my flowery dress should have suggested to him that I was.

I didn't get the specials, my amuse bouche was delivered by the water boy, my bread didn't come until my dinner (unlike other diners), my waiter tried to steal my amuse bouche before my bouche was fully amused, he was terrible recommending items on the menu (damn equivocating men), and was just generally awkward. I define generally awkward as the act of forming sentences that begin at about 2 words a minute then quickly crescendo into a fevered pitch of a question in a tone too urgent and uncomfortable for most men to replicate.

To begin, just after ordering, I got a mini stein of chicken broth. I thought the water boy said it was argula and pasta, but I think it was chicken broth, garlic, and maybe a head of Parmesan. 0 for 1, but raw garlic makes me thankful I'm single so I don't have to excercise restraint in eating it.


For my appetizer, and after a series of follow-up questions posed to my waiter as to what I was eating, I had rabbit "porchetta." It was pretty impressive. On the left is the "porchetta": a melange of rabbit meat and aromatic herbs, encased in a rabbit body. So, like bunny sausage. Except I wasn't reminded of the cuter, more Disney-esque word for rabbit until just now, so I could indulge in peace. A sourdough cracker formed the dividing wall to a celery remoulade. My waiter told me it was a fennel salad. 0 for 2. The salad had too much dressing (some sort of mustard-based mixture); its consistency--dense, watery, crisp, and cool--made it fun to eat, but not quite as fun as pickled pearl onions. I was 2 for 2 on consuming every last bit of bad-breath-giving food.


But I got bored. There was no one around, I was sitting in the corner where the sideways glances of passers-by somehow reminded me of being a lady for rent in a red light district (I was right against the window), and I might as well have been my waiter's least favorite English comp teacher, so I took a photo of a light.

At some point, I accidentally flipped the lights off with my shoulder blades during my dinner and another waiter came by to turn them back on. I lose a point, but my waiter doesn't get one because he didn't turn them back on. Score.

Dinner, however, was fabulous. As the plate was set down, the waiter reminded me I ordered halibut and I cursed to myself that I did it again: ordered flavorless, pallid fish (a fear motivated by my repeat ordering the same fish as my last dinner but not by the appearance of tonight's dinner). But this fish had much more personality than my waiter: it was smeared with fish guts ("scraps" or some other nicer word) and then pan seared, so it had the crisp exterior my waiter promised. It was resting atop smashed fingerling potatoes (really smashed but still intact), cipollini onions, delicious greens (tasted as delicious as freshly-cut grass smells), all in a red wine-butter sauce. It was a triumph.

And just as a bad first date doesn't catch hints, my waiter didn't pick up that my fork and knife were arranged in a parallel fashion at 3:00 on the invisible plate clock. For longer than a waiter should. He immediately noticed, of course, when I finished my wine and asked if I wanted another. The stud I encountered only appears to have been in his ear.

Dessert was delciousi: I had a yogurt "parfait," which was a series of small poppy cake squares (dense but shallow pieces), perched on mounds of lemon curd, blueberries, and granola, with some sort of blueberry sauce and an inkling of yogurt drizzled around. It was innovative, delicious, deconstructed but easy to reassemble, and fresh. I was Roxane to the chef's Cyrano de Bergerac, with the incompetent waiter/emissary getting in the way.

And while tonight's service was disappointing--as most first dates are--it's some consolation to me that I have paragons. While I look for a man like Mr. Darcy, I'll quest for a place with Bourbon Steak-style service. A girl's gotta dream.

Life After Bourbon

I hardly remember my life before Bourbon Steak (that life of six hours ago). Back then, I could walk into a restaurant, confidently order, resist being overwhelmed, confidently talk to waiters, and competently photograph the food. Perhaps because I've not dined critically or dined alone in a while, these skills are less refined, but I doubt it. Also, perhaps passing the shiny black sports cars in the parking lot and changing from flip flops to grown-up shoes in Georgetown's Four Seasons lobby humbled me somehow, but I really don't think that's true either. I think I just genuinely enjoyed being put in my place by a restaurant tonight, in the nicest of ways...it's refreshing to be so overwhelmed by good food and service that your critical eye just stops working (well, mostly).

Tonight was a Kennedy Center ballet night. So, instead of getting a Subway sandwich to go and spilling lettuce all over myself while I hurriedly eat it on the Kennedy Center terrace, I decided to plan ahead, meander through Georgetown, and find a nice place to eat. After scoping out other recommendations, The Four Seasons seemed fine: good location so when I was running late before the show, I wouldn't have far to go (I anticipated correctly).

So, I changed shoes, walked on an important-feeling black carpet, and approached the hostess stand. And they were friendly; if there was false pretense, my fevered brow (it's summertime) distracted me from it. They were genuinely nice, asked for my name (last name included), asked if I wanted reading materials (accommodation of solo diners?!), and walked me to my table.

Half my view was obscured by booth or pillar, but I could catch a glimpse of the Georgetown canal and the large important man down the banquette from me. And the fabulous-looking wait staff who were all pleasant. I ordered then my waiter guided me in the direction of the ladies room. I returned and my askew napkin was re-folded, my glass of wine was waiting for me, and after I sat down, another waiter put the napkin in my lap. I know I sound green, but the flutter of linen delights.

So, one sip later, I get amuse-bouche one: french fries. Three types with three sauces, so nine ways to celebrate a fried potato stick. On the left are duck-fat fries with pickled ketchup, in the middle are onion fries with onion mayonnaise (which I almost ate by the spoonful), and the third were cheddar fries with barbecue sauce or something. My bouche was amused.


"And for more free food," my waiter introduced, "a lobster corn dog." I'm not kidding. Tonight I had some of the best fair food I've had so far away from Big Tex.

(I hate acknowledging any utility Texas offers so present my sidenote in parantheses to deride its importance to my broader story and the world. Big Tex, above, presides over the Texas State Fair, where one can get a foot-long corn dog, quite possibly the best fair food ever.)

And then the bread came out: four beautiful rolls that had merged together (and had to be plied apart as they were baked in one cast iron pan) that were covered with truffle butter and sea salt. As part of my overwhelmedness, I don't have photos of them. Or my appetizer or entree. I tried, but either out of forgetfulness or impatience with my phone's limited memory (that petulantly told me twice after photographing my food that they wouldn't save), there is no visual record.

But, for my appetizer, I had citrus cured fluke sashimi. It was beautiful, really. Thin slices of opaque white fish, strewn with wisps of radish, hibiscus, aromatic herbs, and spicy flowers and drizzled with oil and vingear and a red flower reduction (I think). But it was festive and light and I surgically had two bites a minute to prolong my enjoyment of it. I think the waiter may have been a bit confused why it took so long to eat, but he patiently endured my silent gushing and timed every interaction perfectly.

My entree was surprisingly unfabulous, but somehow this was less damning than it usually is. With the price I paid for it, I could have bought off half the catch from the guy fishing on the Key Bridge, but it eventually worked out ok (only a few paragraphs more, I promise). I got wood-grilled halibut that had been basted with some vinaigrette. The presentation was nice...enthusiastic looking fish with bit of green herb on top, a stroke of balsamic vinegar reduction across the plate, and a grilled lemon, but it didn't taste like much and needed salt. Of this $36 piece of fish, I probably didn't eat the last $9 of it because I was bored with it. Plus it was mushy and took too much effort to put on my gleaming fork. Criminal.

I didn't feel like telling the waiter though, in unsurprising passive-agressive fashion, so just simmered as he convinced me to order a single espresso and dessert. I wanted to, but after I did a little eviscerating. But I forgot my wrath when I sipped from my mini cup. Then any remnant of anger was hewn away by my dessert: passion fruit panna cotta. In a large, shallow bowl, panna cotta was covered by three little mounds of grapefruit, passion fruit, passion fruit seeds, and avocado and a small oval of coconut sorbet. After presenting the dessert, my waiter drizzled a lemon grass concoction over all of it.

The service was stellar: attentive all around, cooperative, friendly. With two espresso sips left, the general manager approached me to ensure everything was ok. He was charming, so I was fine and we discussed what brought me here and how I liked it. Then he asked about the food and I inquired if halibut was typically mushy (slightly less confrontational than that). I confessed my distaste, he apologized, and mentioned I should come back and he would buy me a glass of wine. Then he fetched his card, gave it to me, and insisted again I should come back. And that I should e-mail him. I think I missed the explicit instruction as to whether I was supposed to email him when I was coming so he could prepare the glass of wine ahead of time or if he was hospitably offering me an online ear to which I could therapeutically explain my inevitable nightmares of being haunted by limp, flavorless halibut.

$102 shorter but with a free glass of wine in my future, I bounded out of the restaurant and headed toward three (!) hours of ballet. In the lobby, I saw a young woman who looked like Reese Witherspoon holding hands with a guy who looked like Jake Gyllenhaal. The goofy grin of a hotel bellhop bragging about the photo he took confirmed it. They might get free fries and lobster corn dogs, but I doubt free wines from general managers are in their futures.