Zentan

"Damn it, a chick bartender," I thought as I snagged a bar stool at Zentan at Donovan House, what was mistakenly my most unfounded concern of the evening. Little did I then know that I would subsequently be obliged, via a parking infraction, to support DC's failing schools. Or that I would soon meet the tire-changer guys from Kashmir brothers towing, events that would underscore that my evening started out alright and the unidate would naturally devolve despite my best intentions.

Unidate date nights entail research the night before on a good single-girl restaurant, highest-heels wearing, packing smart reading material and charging my iPhone. I chose Zentan, because my last unidate at an Asian fusion place was one of my favorite choices from the list.

The beautiful bar and my magazine.

Traffic was horrendous. I parked with only three quarters in my wallet (that scored me 23 minutes on the meter) and because I was late for my reservation, I forfeited my opentable.com points when I finally arrived. Ah well. I sat at the bar next to a questionably-German conference goer and a woman doing overly-academic things on her iPhone and threatening to put her headphones in. I don't know if she was worse than the young, married Russian girl who was recounting a story regaling her confusion as to why a "nice old man" asked her to have sex with him. Yikesy.

I pulled out my Time and my iPhone (avoiding all types of academic tendencies on it) while I drank my cocktail: Thai chili infused vodka, sake, and a splash of cranberry, with a bit of ginger flower. The fruit flavor was subtle to the chili's heft and while I wouldn't order it again, it was beautiful.

I'll admit I was a bit unnerved by a woman bartender. She was good: mostly knowledgable and timely, accurate, and attentive. But, I'll admit that there's something preferable about the unspoken tension, the back and forth of glances, overly-filled-up-wine-glasses, and the understanding between mixed genders that sometimes silence is sexier. Or just preferable after a long day at work and weird bar neighbors.

To her credit, however, she did what many waitresses and bartenders are loath to do: convincingly recommend items on their menu. She validated my choice to order the Korean-style steak tartare, one of the best steak tartares I have yet had (which may mean little since I've only recounted eating it here). It was flavored with a spicy paste, adorned with a poached quail egg, and ringed by wonton chips.

My only complaint with this bar service is that I would have preferred to have this item last but everything came out more or less at once. Oh well: my multiple plates and cocktails created a protective cocoon around me from my fellow bar diners.

Next were the almond-crusted shrimp dumpling lettuce wraps with a mandarin orange chili sauce. These were full of shrimp pieces and lusciously chewy dumpling and while not quite wrapable, dense and hearty. I like dumplings you can eat with chopsticks, unless they are supersized and that method becomes impossible.

The dark horse candidate for best plate was the 19-ingredient Singapore Slaw, weighing in at $16 (I got the half order, the existence of which my bartenderess apprised me). It was exquisite and I played the guess-what's-in-it game and got as far as six (told you I'm amateur): Styrofoam noodles, parsley, carrots, ginger, onions, and cucumber. Oh, with a salted plum dressing and peanuts.

It's a good place: the bar is spacious and well-lit with sophisticated decor, impressive in its mandated entry through the hip and modern hotel lobby, and features charming staff (and very serious sushi chefs at their own bar running horizontally). Admittedly, small pacing events (I'm trying to apply rigor to my critiques) were off: my two menus weren't retrieved until nearly the end of my meal, empty plates waited to be bused, and I had to ask for the dessert menu (it's very American of me that I feel guilty asking for the menu, instead of considering it my right to get one, but even my bartenderess agreed I was obliged to order something).

The dessert was fine, but nothing special. I had the poached pear with the Meyer lemon sorbet. The sorbet was fantastic, while the pear was begrudgingly tender, so my spoon continued clinking the plate.

The accompanying cocktail, however, was a delight: cucumber vodka (I think? it was a verbal explanation) with cold sake and a slice of cucumber. It was delicately, amusingly, and chillingly flavorful.

I read a bit more, soaked in the fine unidate company, and got the check. The guy bartender told me that the bartenderess picked up my second cocktail. I come from a tradition (my own tradition and friends') of flirting with bartenders and waiters at a series of fine establishments and never have I secured a free cocktail from a woman. I had broken mid-meal and told her about the top 100 project and I think she took pity on me and my finances.

Delighted with my skills despite myself, I bounded out to my car and learned, unsurprisingly, that I got another parking ticket. When I was parking, I was too frazzled to determine how to re-orient myself to get to the valet at the hotel, so gave up and focused on my imminent cocktail and ignored my dearth of quarters. To my detriment and at the expense of another $25.

Bemused but becoming less thrilled I got a free drink, I drove a block and a half and realized my music was not drowning out what sounded like an automotive malfunction. This took the form of a flat tire, of course. After 45 minutes of texting, chatting, magazine reading (in a much less glamorous way than I had been doing 50 minutes before that), and watching my cell phone charge run down, Kashmir Brothers Towing swapped out my tire for a donut. And not a fancy play on French/Vietnamese beignet.

Karma would have been a real bitch if the Kashmir sisters had come.