Random Comments to Unknown People from an Imperfect Stranger

7 November 2009

Post-It Revolution

The other day I found a Post-It Note while riding the Metro.  It brought me smile and I started leaving the occasional note for the random person.  Here are a few:

The men’s room of a bar I frequent – Just go talk to her

The Red Line Friday morning – Good moods are contagious; feel free to infect someone with your smile

The humidor of my regular cigar shop – Cigars taste better when smoked with a friend, go ahead and buy two

The table at my favorite coffeshop – There are very few problems that cannot be solved with a mostly honest explanation and some champagne

The Whole Foods grocery cart – Never be too busy to appreciate random beauty or accidental art

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No Statute of Limitations

6 November 2009

My second to last high school football game was the single best half of football I played in my high school or college career.  We were playing one of our more heated rivals on their field.

As a defensive back, one of my favorite plays called for a corner blitz – we ran it three times.  Two quarterback sacks, and a tackle for a loss left our rivals in a pretty deep hole.  Of the eight passes the QB was able to throw, I intercepted two and my teammates grabbed two more.  On his way to the locker room for halftime, he blew a kiss to his girlfriend… I’m pretty sure we picked that off too.

The starters sat most of the second half.  We didn’t blitz on defense, or pass the ball on offense, but the final score was still 57 – 6.  Did I mention that it was their Homecoming Weekend? Yeah, it was a pretty severe beatdown.

I hadn’t thought about that day or that quarterback in a very long time.  When I walked into what I hoped would be the last meeting to ink a potential client, I still hadn’t thought about that day.  When I was introduced to their attorney, neither his name nor face rang any bells for me.

I went through my entire presentation, explained the myriad ways that I could help them launch a more successful restaurant.  As the attorney asked what my hometown was, I assumed it was just a question about my local ties to the restaurant community.  When he asked about my high school, I assumed that our paths must have crossed somewhere.

When he asked me if I played football, I was still unclear about where the conversation was headed.  He finally told me about that day, told me that we “beat [them] like a drum.” When he concluded with “we’ll call you,” I was pretty sure that call would be incomplete.

5 Comments | bad clients, restaurants | Permalink
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Can Post-It Notes Change the World?

5 November 2009
postit note

I hope you have a great evening and decide to forward some random kindness in the world.

I found this note on the Metro yesterday, and I began to wonder “what can we accomplish with post-it-notes?”  I don’t know that answer; but I did go buy a pack of em’.

If you were going to leave a note to a random stranger, what would it say?

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Can’t Buy Class, a Soul, or Good Manners

4 November 2009

As promised, and I’ll leave it to you to debate whether they were worse than the V-Day dinner…

I knew Sam and Toni would be a problem when they cancelled and rescheduled.  Twice.  In 48 hours.   I would have blown them off, kept the deposit as my contract allows, but, like most of my clients, these two were referrals – specifically from Jimmy & Sophia.  Thus, I try to avoid unnecessarily salting relationships.

I was about to walk into Sam & Toni’s condo building when I got the phone call asking if they could “push the start time an hour.”  I agreed but only because I happened to know a bar around the corner where I knew the owner and knew he would let me stash my perishables in his walk-in refrigerator.

“Just call me when you’re ready, but understand that I still need three hours of prep before the first course.”

Two hours later, I finally got started with my prep.  The first hour was uneventful filled with Sinatra, slicing and simmering, though I was actively ignoring the clamor coming from the other room.

Round about the time that I was setting the Pumpkin and Pine Nut Bisque to simmer, Toni whirled into the kitchen and announced “Refugee, we’re only going to be two this evening, I don’t want to inflict us on any one else tonight.”

Glad to know that I am not really a person to you.

“That’s fine, Toni; changes are inevitable” I said cheerily, knowing that the evening will go a little faster now.

“Open this champagne for me, will you dear” Toni demanded, ignoring my completely full hands; before continuing “and don’t worry you’re still going to get paid for four people even though we’re only going to be two.”

I put down my immersion blender and opened a bottle of vintage Krug.  More than half a dozen bottles were stacked shoulder to shoulder – the collective value of which was greater than that of the SubZero unit in which they sat.

Toni downed the glass, handed me the bottle and said “Feel free to cook with the rest of this.”

That bit of obnoxiousness just lost them a lovely Amuse Bouche of Lobster Claw and Shallot Confit.

About an hour later Sam came into the kitchen.  I was moving at my usual twenty minutes to service pace – like my hair was on fire and I couldn’t find water – when he announced “So Refugee, have you had a chance to go through the wine cellar to pull bottles for the night? I’m excited to know what we’re gonna drink.”

My patience had just reached its Hubert Peak.  I took a deep breath but continued to stir the bisque in an effort to mask my frustration before turning to Sam and saying “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding but our contract was only for the chef services, Toni indicated that she didn’t want sommelier services as part of the package…”

“Yeah, I know that” Sam interrupted, “but I figured that since we’re paying for four but we’re only two you would just throw that in.” His words were soaked with both privilege and entitlement.

I took another deep breath and couldn’t help the smile curling my mouth as I tried to explain the issue.  “Sam, the cost differential of cooking for two versus four is related to food not time, and I arrived with all of the food.  I would be happy to take a spin through your cellar and pull a few bottles – it won’t be the same as the sommelier service and it will delay the first course by a few minutes – but I’m happy to do it.”

“Door’s over there and we’ll just make up the difference in your tip, ok champ.”

I fucking hate being called “champ” – that just cost you the Dark Chocolate & Truffle Petit Fours

Three hours later, I had completed the contractually promised courses:

Salad of Asparagus “Linguini” with Wild Mushrooms, Pancetta and Poached Quail Egg

Pumpkin and Roasted Pine Nut Bisque with Garlic and Truffle Au Jus

Lamb Tenderloin Medallions with Lamb Shank Confit Spring Rolls and Spinach & Artichoke Cassoulet

The Refugee Cheese Board with non-traditional & traditional Accoutrements

The big “get under my skin” moment of the dinner came when Toni inquired about the absent amuse bouche.  As I cleared the salad, she said “Refugee, that salad was divine, but isn’t it traditional to serve the Ah-Mu-Say before the first course?”

“Toni, the Amuse Bouche is gift from the kitchen but it’s kind of an optional thing and the first that gets cut when time is tight.  When I had to go through the cellar at the last minute I just had to cut it; but I certainly understand why you would expect that gift.”

Not only am I ok with not serving you an undeserved gift, I am totally fine with lying to you about the reason it got cut.

As I was cleaning and they were on the the cheese course, Sam came into the kitchen to give me final payment.  “That was just terrific, Refugee” he said while scribbling in his checkbook, “like I promised, there’s a little something extra in there for ya, champ.”

Fuck you, your obnoxious wife, your pretentious habits, sense of entitlement, the horse you two assholes rode in, and what I know is a less than ten percent tip.

“Thank you, Sam; I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said rather than my usual “It was my pleasure” because I’m trying to avoid lying.

“Say, I know you came in through the front door, but you mind leaving through the service exit?  Thanks, champ.”

Whatever gets me away from you fastest, you more-money-than-good-sense fucktard.

With my knife roll over one shoulder and my cooking bag on the other, I walked out weary, and a little bent but far from broken.  Curiosity got the better of me and I removed the check from my pocket…

My estimate was too generous – 3% tip.

 

23 Comments | Dinner Parties, advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bad clients, recipes | Permalink
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Culinary Dispatches from the Restaurant Refugee

3 November 2009

I’ve been to Restaurant 3 once more than their name and have been a little more impressed each time – the one time I had dinner being an exception.  Judging by the largely empty dining room and mostly full bar on my latest visit, I think the place is received mostly as a place for noshing and sipping rather than dining.  The good news is that they do a very solid job with filling that elegant but unpretentious niche in North Arlington.  Their wine list is approachable and affordable with many selections under $60 per bottle and several glasses under $10 (I am depending upon memory because incomprehensibly their website lacks both by the glass listings and prices – note to restaurateurs: that’s a huge party foul.)

As one would expect from a place where the bar is far better than the tables, the starters / bar menu are better than the entrées.  The Blue Cheese Potato Chips are guilty pleasure of the highest order – housemade chips served warm with melted blue cheese and big bits of bacon are irresistible.  The Mussels aren’t the best in the area, but they might be the best of any place that doesn’t specialize in them.  Steamed in beer and gussied up with Andouille sausage (according to the menu and the website, but they tasted more of spicy Italian to my palate.)  Short Rib Quesadillas might be the best example of Restaurant 3’s displayed, if not explicitly stated, mission and their most frequent miss.  In an attempt to make the mundane more interesting and elegant, they’ve dressed common bar food with a more engaging ingredient but they lose some of the charm of the Short Rib.  The tasty and tender are there, but the succulence of the meat is slightly overwhelmed by the gooey cheese.  The same is true of the Lettuce Wraps that are served with “slow roasted duck” (actually duck confit) that is marred with too little salt.  Given their exceedingly reasonable pricing, solid wine and beer program, and pretty good food, the occasional miss when they aim high is more than forgivable, it’s appreciated.

*******

One recent Thursday night I was driven from an unnamed Westend bar by too loud techno music that was inconsistent with the promised Sinatra Night that enticed me there.  My guests and I quickly decamped to Firefly which I had been eager to revisit after hearing good things about their newish chef.

We took a table in the dining room and went through a couple of courses, and a couple bottles of wine.  Little Bacon Meatballs over Potato “Spaghetti” with Olive Oil and Tomato Sauce had textural problems – it was powdery, and a little bland.  The Yellofin Tuna BLT had conceptual problems.  The strip of tuna was perfectly cooked, but so thin (maybe ¼ inch after cooking) that it was destined to be overwhelmed by the other flavors in the sandwich.  The only vegetarian entrée, a mushroom and [insert vegetable I cannot recall] casserole was just “eh” as described by my tablemates.  That lack of enthusiasm described my feelings towards the entirety of the shared meal.  It was just boring, made worse by the fact that the service was lackluster and not a single manager-type touched the table to inquire about our satisfaction (nor did the server check after the first couple of bites.)

*******

A Few Closing Thoughts:

While drinking with a former colleague who now runs one of DC’s nicer dining rooms, he told me about a problem they’ve had recently in their bar area.  Two purses have been stolen in the last couple of months.  This is not the kind of place where people would typically expect such things.  As a friend, I won’t name the place; but a public warning for increased vigilance and caution is warranted.

Advice to Restaurateurs: Stop using cheap toilet paper – it doesn’t save money, women hate it, and it just makes you look cheap.

If you have a jukebox in DC, there may not be a law requiring you to have at least one song by Chuck Brown, but maybe there should be.

Perhaps the only substantive culinary contribution Pizza Hut has ever made is the Priazzo*.  It was a true pizza pie that was made in a 1 ½ inch deep pie pan with a layer of pizza dough on bottom, sauce, cheese, and multiple ingredients in the middle, and topped with another layer of dough, more sauce and more cheese.  It was bliss of the highest order and nothing like a pedestrian stuffed pizza.  Surely there is a pizza joint or Italian place in the area that wants to bring this dish back.  I’m looking at you Pizzeria Paradiso, Matchbox, Coppi’s, Two Amy’s, and Pete’s.

* watch the YouTube video of the original commercials from the 80s for a visual description of the brilliance

5 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, restaurants | Permalink
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I’ve Got This Dream by the Tail

2 November 2009

It’s rare that I can recall my dreams, even more rare that I understand the seemingly wackier ones.  But this morning I woke with a clear image of a tiger in my life – an actual tiger had become my pet.

He was a sweet boy – I named him Gus – and he would fetch things (sticks and rubber balls, not small animals,) and was very affectionate.  I was, of course, terrified of Gus because he was a fully grown tiger, no matter how good it felt when he would nuzzle my face, I knew the power of the teeth behind the fur.

Later in my dream I am speaking on the phone with a woman.  I was lamenting how I cannot recall who gave me the tiger, but I have to get rid of dear, sweet, Gus.  The woman on the line said that she gave me the tiger.  Of course she gave me the tiger, I thought, it’s just like her: rare, beautiful, powerful, loving, and capable of ripping my heart out with her bare hands.

____________________

By the by, I didn’t go to the costume party; I didn’t dress as Top Chef, but I did have the most interesting Halloween since third grade when I – the only black guy in a school filled with shiny white people* – went as a Klansman.  Recall how awkward I thought it was to have bickering clients at a Valentine’s Dinner?  Yeah my Saturday night clients made the V-Day couple look like Ward and June Cleaver.  That story will be told later this week.

* Phrase shamelessly lifted from my favorite Mommy Blogger, Lemon Gloria, who probably would bristle at the notion of being called a mommy blogger

7 Comments | Crush with a big C, advice I'm slightly qualified to give, dating, dreams, something else I have started that I may or may not finish | Permalink
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Is Dick Wolfe Running Top Chef?

1 November 2009

Top Chef, the ground breaking culinary reality show that made Tom Collichio a bonafide star and the phrase “Thrown under a bus” my most hated cliché since douche bag, is winding down its sixth season on Bravo.  Last summer we saw the terrific spin-off Top Chef Masters and now they are creating Top Chef: Just Desserts.  Do you think you’ve got what it takes to be on the Sweet Sibling, or the flagship?  They’re holding an open casting call in DC on Wednesday, 10am – 2pm at the Occidental Grill.

I won’t be there but I am certain that hundreds will – maybe I will post just to watch what happens, but I doubt it.  I am not the kind of chef who would do well in that environment (though I am pretty damn positive that I could cook Robin under the table with provisions from a 7-11 and a bunsen burner.)  Good luck to anyone who does audition.

______________________

p.s. special thanks to the little birdie who gave me the heads-up about this.

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If You Have to Ask…

30 October 2009

…Whether something might be offensive, it usually is. Still I need some general guidance.

Despite my general disdain for what Halloween has become, I am considering going to a costume party this evening. With such a last minute plan, my costume options are limited. I am thinking about going as a “Top Chef” as in a chef who is a top. Too much, offensive? Thoughts anyone?

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Blue Jean – I Just Met a Girl Named Blue Jean

28 October 2009

When I told one of my dear friends that I was going denim shopping, she let out a bit of a little-girl-squee, and then pouted for a minute when she learned I wasn’t taking her along for the ride.

“This is what I do” she declared, “You have no idea how important the right pair of jeans is.”

“I am not a denim person, don’t wear it often – maybe once a month, had maybe three pairs in 15 years,  and I won’t let it become a big deal,” I reasoned.  I declared my intentions to shop at a relatively normal department store before being convinced by this friend and a couple of others that I really needed to try Anonymous Fancy Denim Place.

A week or so later I wandered into AFDP and my bullshit sense immediately started tingling as an Extremely Attractive Red-Headed woman headed my way with a cheery “Good afternoon, sir.”

There are few times when the really beautiful people face discrimination for the genetic accident of good looks.   When I enter a restaurant or retail organization and everyone is preternaturally haawwt, I assume the collective to be less qualified for their jobs because the applicant pool was so restricted.

“Good afternoon” I replied to the woman who could boil water just by looking at the glass.   “I need to buy a pair of jeans” I stated to demonstrate my talent for declarations of the obvious.

“It would be my pleasure to help; would you like to have a seat so we can discuss what you’re looking for?” EARH asked while motioning towards two post-mod chairs with distressed leather finish.

As we took our seats, it felt more like a date at some coolly elegant lounge – which is, I think as the designers and managers intended – when another genetically fortunate person came over to offer me “cocktail, cappuccino, bottled water?”

My bullshit sense was now in overdrive.

I liked the fact that EARH didn’t make suggestions but just asked questions – what kind of fit, what kind of color, how did I feel about the pockets, how do I wear jeans?

“As loose as is reasonable, normal jean color, standard five pockets, and infrequently but most often with a sport coat and a collared shirt or sweater” were my answers.  I added in the fact that I wear suits most days and really don’t like any trousers that fit more snugly than the ones in my suits.

After a bit more conversation, EARH declared that she was “ready to assemble a palette for me.”

I had a strong desire to explain that unless there was painting, or warehouse wooden flats were involved, she was misusing the word… but refrained mostly because pretense in response to precious is a vicious cycle.

After a few minutes, I was led into a fitting room and given instructions to don each pair and then come to the mirror for feedback.   On one of this fitting room’s three shelves sat five pairs of jeans.  The first pair was hipster tight to the extent that I saw no value in emerging from the dressing room to offer my feedback or get theirs.  The second and third pairs were still too fitted for my taste but closer to my thoughts so I go out to the mirrors to explain.

There were the expected “those look good on you” comments before I explained my discomfort.

“I don’t like the look or feeling of tight trousers on me, and both of these pairs we’re too tight for my taste” I tried to explain.

“All of those are either relaxed or loose fit, and they’re tighter than I expected” EARH said before fumbling a bit to recover from “tighter than expected” as unintended dig.

“Styles have gotten much slimmer over the last ten years, but my tastes haven’t.  I’m getting the sense that what some consider relaxed fit I think is skinny fit.”

I think we finally had a true understanding.  EARH grabs another pair from the rack and said “Try these next – I think this is what you want.”

She was right – a conservative dark blue, ample room through the leg, sat well on my waist and seat – I was happy… and then I asked about the price.

EARH smiled brightly and said “Those are on sale for three seventy-five.”  The number hung in the air for a minute.

“I am so sorry to have wasted your time.  I understand that for some people that is a completely reasonable number, but it’s just not for me.”  Because I felt a need to defend my financial priorities a bit more, I continued “The same people who would buy these jeans would look at me like I’m the crazy one for what I spend on cufflinks but it’s a question of what’s important to you… and I just can’t make a case for jeans being that important to me.”

EARH was earnest and undeterred “I have another pair with a similar cut that’s only three hundred.”

“I really apologize for having wasted your time, I guess that I didn’t understand what you all do here” I offered as I went to get dressed.

The opportunity cost of those jeans = (dinner at Central + drinks at Gibson) or (box of la flor dominicana cabinet selections #1 + a bottle of good bourbon) or 0.5(prescription drug cost for parental units for one month) or (too many other things that are more important to me)

EARH was professional and gracious to the end as she helped me with my jacket before giving me the valediction “If you change your mind, here’s my card and alterations are on me.”

All I could think was “At that price, you have to pay to have jeans altered?”

Let  me see if I can answer some question before they make it to the comments:

No, neither her mobile number, nor any personal message, was on the back of her card.

Yes, I did eventually find a pair of jeans that fit to my satisfaction, at Macy’ and for less than seventy bills.

my new jeans

26 Comments | blog friends, random stuff, women | Permalink
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Are You Faking or For Real – What’s the Deal Dapper

27 October 2009

One of my most frequently googled posts led to the post in which I make the argument that Sexy comes in all shapes and sizes.  It is a belief to which I have fervently cleaved and embodied throughout my adult life.  The corollary notion that I am primarily attracted by intellect and words in equal or even greater measure than one’s luck in the genetic lottery is also a long held concept.  Like many other personal ideals, it can fall short when tested.

As I write this from the patio of my regular coffeshop, a woman sitting a few feet to my left is testing it.  I see Dr. Bly here all the time.  We became fast friends about a year ago when we shared a table because all others were taken.  Over the course of all those months we’ve had countless coffee dates both planned and unplanned, and I have found her to be brilliant, wickedly funny, a scintillating conversationalist possessed with a healthy dose of snarkasm*, love for wine and baseball**, and a terrific flirt.  By any reasonable measure of people, she’s aces over aces.

Dr. Bly also happens to be, according to scientific definitions she helps write and her own admission, morbidly obese.

When we don’t find someone attractive but others think wee should, or we wish we did, the lack of interest can be rested on absence of the indefinable spark.  I can’t do that because intellectually we spark.\; the chemistry exists and it is mutual.  If the fates were to realign and place her into a size 2-20 body, I would cross six lanes of traffic to ask her to have drinks with me, but this day, like every other day our paths have crossed, I choke on the invitation before she leaves.

I am not certain that the superficial demons on my right shoulder have shouted down more enlightened angels on my left; but I don’t like what it says about me either way.

 

_________________

*the evolutionary cross between sarcasm and snark

* her love of baseball is substantively mitigated by the fact that she is a Red Sawx fan

15 Comments | crush with a little c, dating, random stuff, sucks to write this, women | Permalink
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