The Boca Sola: Table (and other things)

Is there any other better season than summer? Admittedly, I think all three other seasons are better because it's just too damn hot in DC. But what about the ethos of summer: the general disregard for severe responsibility? The brazen toleration of humidity? The full embrace of fun things like condensating beer, pools, and squinting-into-the-sun baseball games? The charmingly Darwinisitic tendencies to embrace utilitarianism by ducking into museums to stay cool, parking in shaded spots, and seeing rain as a natural air conditioning system?

It's been a good summer. So good, in fact, I've elected to sit on my couch frequently and not move (unless to find newer, colder spots on the couch), hydrate with cheap beers (pretty much all across the city), or travel south (where, it seems, it was hotter, but we'll get to that in subsequent editions). However, by excuse of heat-induced exhaustion, I've not described my summer much to my extensive readership (I jest; all of my readers will almost certainly be mentioned below) since early this month, when I was in a delightfully air-conditioned delicatessen. So, it doesn't count.

The most emblematic of blog-worthy dining events was Table: we had a charmingly French-speaking waiter, exquisitely delicious food, and an air conditioner that protested and died when the block's power was turned off. That's right: my friend Ashley, her husband, Saad, and I battled a summer brunch--sans air conditioning--and were the last table to leave. Gladiator style.

There are many things to say about a summer, but the unique thing about a season like this is that it's fun--sports events, outdoor concerts, fireworks--but it's also hard to rustle up energy to viscerally exhibit excitement. Except at good brunches with a lady like Ashley. She had spotted Table, run by a Belgianman (incidentally, a chef from whom I took a cooking class), and we raptured about its brunch menu and decided to go. I arrived early and, delighting at the menu, French-accented waiter, and minimalist but welcoming interior, was (metaphorically) jumping up and down before she arrived as I could hardly contain my excitement. I'm no meteorologist, but would peg DC as having 100% humidity (equalling 100% of sapping one's energy), making this an impressive manifestation of elation.

We hydrated immediately: I had a kir (probably no surprise there) and Ashley and her husband had juices and coffee, the latter of which came with a real milk bottle, which Ashley presciently (for posterity's sake) suggested I photograph (isn't it charming in its anachronistic-ness?).

Ashley was kind enough to warn her husband (who, himself, charmingly acquiesced) that I have this little side project, which necessitates I photograph things before they are eaten. You can see that Ashley is (also) posing charmingly and patiently while I excuse myself for delaying their gastronomical enjoyment. How lucky am I have to have such supportive friends.

Saad had vibrantly-colored smoked salmon and Ashley had a beautiful humbly-colorful salad. We had a three-course brunch, so they started off responsibly light.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. I got the duck (salad), because I know someone who likes duck (this is a food/romance blog after all) and I like duck too (let's not kid ourselves). Who knew it would look a bit gastronomically pornographic when photographed?

That's right: not only does it have duck, but bacon too. With a rich (what I would guess was a) Chinese five-spice dressing. "But what about that elusive other pre-meal course of which you speak?" you may be asking yourself. We had a plate of pastries, with copious amounts of butter and/or nutella. Just what a growing 30-something needs on a summer day.

Around this time, we learned that the electronic groaning sound we had heard was, in fact, the electricity going off. Our charming (yes, to emphasize, French-speaking) waiter let us know that the electricity was off for unspecified reasons in surrounding buildings, but that our meals had been started pre-energy crisis.

Saad went for the admirably-delicious-looking stuffed French toast, during which we realized we could have been at the same Capitol Hill fundraiser together had events not conspired against us (how DC-sounding is that?). The lovely Ashley ordered eggs en cocotte, which tasted like (because she was so generous to offer) a light-ish quiche or more-solid omelette.

I, apparently, wanted to see if my arteries and/or cholesterol could hack it, so had the croque monsieur omelette, which was ham and bechamel in an omelette, with grilled hearts of palm on top.

We would have stayed longer--eating, sipping, and soaking in the ambiance that featured herbs growing on the walls--had we not actually been soaking and had the temperature not become prohibitively fatigue-inducing. My friends kindly transported me to the National Gallery of Art where I, instead, took photos of foods. I had to work off duck + heavy cream somehow.

Do you have time for me to tell you about the rest of my summer?

I had German food (with Dotti) and photographed it, papparazzo style:

We had pie (at Dangerously Delicious Pies), post-German-food, because that's what drinking German beer does to a person.

And, drank more beer, because that's what pie does to a person.

On another day, I had cocktails (multiple, all across the city, actually) with Sonia. We tried Le Diplomate and Vinoteca. And two other places I forgot to photograph.