Curse of the Phantom Boyfriend

I haven't had a boyfriend since 2005. In 2005, I thought a fancy date was when my boyfriend spent more than two dollars on me at my local fast food taco restaurant. In 2005, I thought it was tolerable that more money was spent on my boyfriend's cat food than on gifts for me. It was easy. Sort of idyllic and peaceful. It was Oklahoma. But since then, I haven't been foolish enough to enter into a relationship with someone who doesn't at least hold the metaphorical capacity and willingness to spend those extra few dollars at a taco joint. I'm mostly fine with it and that's the truth.

This dearth of a boyfriend has manifested itself in a variety of ways. Like Tuesday, when I bought a coffee table that came in a 52-pound box. Single girl carried that all the way up the stairs herself. When she got promoted, that fancy dinner came out of her paycheck and she went alone. And when she decided she had a crush on two-plus guys at once, that's ok because she didn't have a boyfriend to care. Bugs get killed, parallel parking gets done, large electronics items get purchased, investments get made, stuff gets fixed and beer gets drunk in this apartment, all sans boyfriend.

So, imagine the egregiousness tonight of a woman who throws a party for herself at her apartment and along with the solo pre-party planning, coffee table solo lugging, and copious vodka drinking (because all she has to do is be sober enough to wish her guests goodbye and stumble to her bed) realizes that she has accidentally acquired a boyfriend since her party began five hours ago. She thankfully is sitting on her couch now, alone, talking about herself in third person and drinking more vodka because she missed so many opportunities before. But she's still perplexed by the odd progression (or nonprogression?) of events.

So this party was great. I had way too much beer and alcohol (I have four unopened wine bottles I bought, acquired two more, bought 60-plus beers and perhaps 10 were drank, and have a ton of alcohol left, unless I finish off that vodka tonight) and copious amounts of food (I sent five people away with leftovers and still have a tableful of food left), and was able to catch up with people prior to my trip.

Please note, this is after the party.

I even have extra basil, post party.

And what I have to try and fit in my beer-stuffed fridge.

Truth be told, I invited some single guys I may or may not have had a crush on. It's my party, I do what I want. So, at the risk of inviting (I think unjustifiable) scrutiny, I'll also admit I invited a guy with whom I may have gone on a few date with. In 2007. 20 months ago. And I thought girls hung on.

Since this is a food and romance blog, I'll admit that tonight the food had an inverse relationship to the romance had. So there's the tie-in to the blog theme, readily admitting that witnessing my written ire at 1 am might be just as justifiably entertaining. The beauty of having a party as a single girl is that you can talk to whoever you want. You can flirt with every single guy, or none. So imagine my surprise that despite my efforts to hostess in my apartment, I had a shadow. A presence that was not-so-subtly trying to publicly illustrate his primacy in the boyfriend front. Without coordination with the alleged girlfriend I'll note. This activity involved: staying forever, cleaning up, occasionally answering comments when directed toward me, and staying forever. I picked this young man up. To help out, and we agreed beforehand that I'd rather not drive him back because I would probably have drunk some and wouldn't feel comfortable. Our arrangement was he would carpool back. With someone else. Who lived near him. No one who came lived close to him and I waited for him to leave, as I understand that taxis run regularly throughout a metropolitan area. I mean, he was wandering around my apartment, reading book titles and even opening some. He was bored.

But he stayed. Silent, but present. And slowly the crushes left. And he remained. And started cleaning. And picked up all the cups. Except for mine. And when the last crush left, leaving me and phantom boyfriend, top crush probably thought that phantom boyfriend was real boyfriend. And that phantom boyfriend would carry coffeetables and kill big spiders and fix broken things. When I just see phantom boyfriend as getting the wrong idea and waiting with a gleam in his eye for me to acquiesece to let him crash on my couch. At least buy me a two dollar taco, PB. It's amazing phantom boyfriend has the presumption to request couch-crashing, when I'd spent the evening trying to flirt with anyone but him.

Thankfully, I had stopped drinking way before, fearing in my heart of boyfriend-less hearts, that he'd pull some nonsense like that. And returning to my car, it occured to me this was likely his plan all along, as his magazine was casually left in the car still.

It was the longest 20 minute car ride ever driving him back. But, thankfully, with his phantom status, we didn't actually have to break up.

Goodbye Harry's

I'm back. Maybe not in my best form, but I'm back. The man's keeping me down at work, I stayed there too late to keep the reservation for the fancy DC Restaurant Week choice I pored over, and my trash can smells like the unwanted food items that got evicted from my fridge (because that is what happened when I cleaned a few days ago). The fabulous life of a single urban dweller I do not lead.

I am, however, lucky enough to enjoy the friendship of Andy and Kerry, intrepid posers for amateur food bloggers' photographic endeavors and adventurous menu orderers. Andy this evening was our benevolent gastronomical benefactor (he footed the bill) and Kerry, a kind and avid reader of the blog, knows more about food and restaurants than I do and indulges me in reading and commenting on my blog. And they were there for my Ray's the Steaks dinner. We go back.

So it was nice: no weird patrons to mock out of the corner of my eyes, no major faux pas by the waiter (and I was only mildly disgusted when he admitted a fork probably wouldn't be too helpful for my sorbet), and we felt welcome to stay way past the busing of our last plate. I didn't have to discuss excise taxes with any of them (as may have happened on a recent dinner outing) and there was more than enough gushing on my end at least about the quality of my food (and more as a reaction to my fellow diner's delicious food choices than my own).

Harry's Tap Room is in Clarendon, on the corner away from the bustle of recently graduated frat boys and barely sober girls in tube dresses wearing too-long fake gold necklaces and stumbling along like dazed toddlers. It's a dignified place. And it's a place that doesn't fear the provision of bread: we had mini cornbread muffins, birdseedy wheat or rye, and half a loaf of white. For my appetizer, I had the Jumbo Lump Chesapeake Blue Crab Cake, with a delightful little salad of roasted corn (officially: sweet corn-poblano pepper relish and red pepper sauce). I have to admit I was just eating. Prefunctorily, quickly, and while talking.

I did the same thing during dinner. And dinner was savorable, but essentially I ate Valenciano street food: paella. Of course, it was unlike any paella I've had.. typically they are drier--still moist, but a bit clumpier--with more bright saffron color. I fear this paella's jaundice was colored by butter; still delicious, just slightful less...saffrony. But it was full of delicious shrimp, mussels, fish, chorizo sausage, and sweet peas. And it filled a tupperware container to the brim for lunch tomorrow. It was called Paella de Harry's so gets a pass on authenticity.

My fabulous friends, who were the ones who chivalrously waited 1.5 hours after our reservation time, made stellar dinner choices. Kerry, twice orderer of shellfish tonight and fearless sipper of high-end cocktails, got the Halibut, which was pan seared and served on a mascarpone-soft polenta with sweet corn sauce and red pepper puree (again, their description, not mine). It was great (and if hers had sticks of butter in it, they were better camoflaged than in my dinner).

Andy got the chicken. And a good candid shot of himself while at it. He ordered the tarragon roasted chicken breast, with summer vegetables and tarragon natural jus. These summer vegetables were the most intriguing part. Kerry knew what they were.. some type of mini zucchini, while I imagined they were gourds. Gourds? Really. I did see pumpkin beer at the liquor store yesterday though, so it's almost in time for gourd season; I don't feel quite as foolish.

And dessert was good, but I was already off the clock by then. Kerry brilliantly got the peach cobbler, Andy the Carnegie Deli cheesecake, and I got the lemon-ginger sorbet with an anomalous pirouette cookie. It was like asking for Parkay when you can have truffle butter. Or bologna when steak if offered. I had 25% melted lemon juice with a chocolate cookie that didn't match in flavor and am still complaining that this still-edible mess took about four bites to consume. But it was a new flavor, so I won't complain. But it was lovely.. sorbet a meal does not define and Harry's and the company of my friends was a fitting beginning of my farewells.