Since James Lipton Hasn’t Come Knocking…

12 January 2009

… and because Vittoria did it and I was similarly inspired:

What is your favorite word? Serendipity – though I blame John Cusack for tarnishing my word with that awful movie of the same name

What is your least favorite word? Any racial epithet used with venom by a non-member of the aggrieved class, and only slightly less so when used by a member of the aggrieved class

What turns you on creatively, spiritually, emotionally? Creatively – a chef’s knife and a clean kitchen; spiritually – a chef’s knife, kitchen in progress, and a glass of wine; emotionally – serendipity

What turns you off?  Failing, and knowing that most of my failures are from my own hands

What sound do you love? The hiss of a wine cork, the sound of the 8 ball falling, Coltrane’s horn, brilliant conversation

What sound do you hate? Something breaking in a restaurant, ignorance, Kenny G screeching like a wounded cat

What is your favorite curse word? I hate that I curse as frequently as I do and I refuse to have a favorite

What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? Teacher

What profession would you not like to do? Parking Enforcement

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? “You had to die to believe I exist? Really?  Whatever, the bar’s on the left; pour yourself a drink and we’ll catch-up.”


Recent Restaurant Recaps

7 January 2009

The day after Christmas I found myself having a beer with a friend near her downtown apartment – it was a faux date.  Both of us were hungry, and she was unwilling to leave the neighborhood so we figured we would check the wait for Matchbox – only five minutes.  When was the last time there was a five minute wait for a table at Matchbox…on a Friday night? 

A watermelon based cocktail was too sweet for my taste (and out of season, moving on…) but was perfect for her.  The platter of mini-burgers that began our meal was perfectly cooked, moist and flavorful.  The tower of onion strings that dominated the plate was cold but still more addictive than my diet would like.  A bottle of Tres Sabores Por Que No was served at the perfect temperature, and reasonably priced at around $35.  Our pie – the chicken pesto – was nicely blistered with a crust that was just chewy enough.  Service was warm, never rushed, and unobtrusive.

I’ve long been a fan of Matchbox but have never considered it to be a restaurant worth the waits required to dine there on many nights (Few restaurants are.)  This night the sum of the parts was largely good, but the whole was something subtly special. 

(In case you’re curious: two drinks, a bottle of wine, mini burgers, and a pie = about $75 pre-tip; don’t tell anyone that I’m a cheap date)

Lauriol Plaza is a frequent whipping post for me and just about anyone who actually likes restaurants.  When a woman I had been trying to date for weeks asked me to join her there  for a birthday happy hour I almost lost all interest in dating her.  Then she told me that the birthday girl was a work colleague and she promised that we wouldn’t have to stay long.  Nothing I sipped or supped in my hour there did anything to change my mind about that paragon to lemming mentality.

It always saddens me to see a line of lemmings waiting for LP when the extremely satisfying Regent Thai sits half empty across the street.   It was just more room for my date and me at their bar.  It’s not that I am an unadventurous eater when it comes to Thai food, just that it is such comfort food for me that I find myself returning to the same dishes.  This evening it was starters of Kanom Jeeb and Spring Rolls followed by Panang and Drunken Noodle.  We washed it down with a perfectly austere Alsatian Riesling from Erhart.  The heat was found wherever it was expected; the flavors were simple but still compelling and interesting.  Their service makes me feel like a once a week regular even though I haven’t been in months – something the good people at more than a few really expensive restaurants need to learn but I will tell those stories another day.

Two apps, two entrées, a bottle of wine, tea that was comped for no reason other then their kindness = $84 pre-tip

From one faux date to a first date to another faux date, I recently found myself at Axis’s U street bar for beers with a woman.  Since my first visit two years past, Axis continues to have one of the more interesting beer programs in the city and the coziness of the room was present as always.  They boast Twelve tap lines and not a single one wasted on generic beer.  Offerings from Red Seal, Anderson Valley, and Eggenberg were the highlights of the list.  The wine list is built for a place that specializes in beer, but has some well priced charmers that deserve the attention of both your money and your palate.  The night proceeded well enough until we got the munchies.  An order of their wings and a tomato and red pepper dip seemed like safe choices.  The wings arrived meaty and well spiced, the dip was problematic.  Watery and ambiguous were my first thoughts.  Another bite found my feelings growing harsher with every chew and swallow.  I don’t think the quality of a kitchen can be fairly assed based on one dish or even the culmination of a single meal.  However, there are times which beg the exception.  This dish was one of those times.  It was conceptually unsound, culinarily indifferent at best, and possessed the textural appeal of a Gerber product.  This was not simply the manifestation of an off-night, or a poorly executed notion.  No one who gets paid to feed people should serve this dish.  Axis remains on my list of great places for a beer, but I am more leery of their food than a woman who proclaims to be low-maintenance. 

Six beers, two glasses of wine, one good app and one abject failure = $104 pre-tip.

Faux date, first date, faux date, four, let me tell you about a Man Date more…

My dear friend, the Guest of Honor, had a free weekend when his fiancé left for the Christmas Holiday a few days ahead of him.  We declared a Man Date – there was much chest pounding and scratching as we basked in our masculinity.  The initial plan called for steaks, too much wine, enough cigars to choke George Burns, and excessive talk about women.  The appointed day arrived and the weather was much like it is as I write this post – cold, rainy and raw.  GH called and simply stated “a couple of the girls are going to this show in Clarendon, but I know I can’t convince you to go to the burbs.”

My response would have been a shock to anyone who has known me for more than five minutes – “Actually, all I really want is a good burger, some beers, the game on the tube, and a place to have a cigar; I think the Commonwealth is the logical idea.”  After assuring GH that he did not dial a wrong number, we formulated a plan to visit a mutual old friend who works at King Street Blues in the Crystal City Underground.  It was a sad state.  This Saturday evening every bar stool that cradled an ass was occupied by a person drinking themselves to death, one shot-gunned vodka tonic at a time.  The burger with blue cheese, sautéed onions, and bacon, however, was outstanding.  Cheap beers and burgers in a slightly depressing setting (more so if you have seen Leaving Las Vegas) is still worth the time if not the trip.

****************

It’s Wednesday so go check the DC Blogs Round-Up to see the blogs posts which made me laugh, smile, think, or cry this week.

By the by, I would like to note that there are a number of blog posts with which I have been particularly enamored this and every week but for whatever reasons were not appropriate for my weekly DC Blogs post.  From here forward (unless I get too lazy busy) I would like to note a few of them here:

If it Walks Like a Duck, Talks Like a Duck, It Might be a Gay Boyfriend – Seriously, Katertot, I love this post.

An Addiction from the Abbott of Reason

Capitol B – really like this lady’s style


Confessions of a Barbershop Slut

6 January 2009

I’ve only had one long-term barber relationship.  I was 19 and filled with the arrogance of your average college football player.  Mr. Wilson was much older but understood me in ways no one ever had.  There was never a need to tell him how I wanted it cut – he would have ignored me anyway.  Mr. Wilson cut it the way he wanted and it was always better than my ideas.  I gleefully visited him at the prescribed times knowing that compliments would flow from my contemporaries later.  Graduation day was bitter sweet – I moved more than a thousand miles away and never saw him again.  I don’t really like talking about it.

Every barber since has been chasing the memory of Mr. Wilson, and there have been many of them – my number is higher than I would like to admit.  Scores of one cut stands, a hnadful of 4 or 5 cut flings, but nothing proved lasting.  It wasn’t that I was unable to commit, I told myself, but that no one met all of my needs.  So I shamelessly flitted from barber to barber. 

There was Tony who always wanted to remake my hair in his image; I would return to him on occasion when whatever barber of the moment was unable to squeeze me into his schedule.  Jason always took too much but he was such a good conversationalist.  Almost two years ago Flip became the closest thing I’ve had to a steady since Mr. Wilson.  He was pretty good – just not quite right – but our relationship was strong enough that we could communicate about our problems and it got incrementally better each time.  Then he left me for another shop and none of his colleagues knew where.

With no Flip, I started seeing Wayne for a few cuts.  They were from the same shop but Flip left me – I rationalized.  Not more than a month ago my friend, Lemon Gloria, wrote about the relationship problems she was having with her stylist.  When I commented about the virtue of hair fidelity, I secretly knew the karma of my whorish ways was going to exact some comeuppance and soon.

When Flip returned to his old chair, I went back to him without condition and barely registered the hurt in Wayne’s eyes.  Apparently barbershop sluts, like me, quickly develop immunity to the jealous glares of an ex as another set of scissors touches our hair because I felt nothing when I said hello to Wayne.

This most recent Saturday the darkness of my promiscuity was met by the light of retribution.  I strolled into the shop and nodded hello to Wayne even as I settled into Flip’s chair.  He delivered on the progress of all cuts past and gave me the perfect haricut.  I’d finally found someone who filled the void Mr. Wilson had left all those years ago.  I stood, admired his work in the mirror and then Flip said it.

“Refugee, I love having you here.  You’re a great customer and a great tipper too.”

“Flip, I feel a ‘but’ coming.”

“Yeah, I’m not happy about it; but I can’t see you anymore.”

“What are you saying; you don’t want to cut my hair any more?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to; it’s that I can’t.  It’s creating too much tension in the shop because of Wayne.  He sees you as his client; and I can’t be the guy who interferes with relationships.  I have to work here everyday.”

I didn’t protest – I wanted to leave with some dignity – but I left a bit troubled and with knowledge that my whorish behavior had cost me relationships I valued at the same moment I was finally ready to commit.


Procrastination? Really? Just Get a Ticket…

5 January 2009

Did your invitation to Oprah’s inaugural bash get lost in the mail?  Too cool to attend Dionne Warwick’s Psychic Friends gig?  Not feeling sufficiently flush to drop a grand to attend one of the official balls?  Generally think it’s a dumb idea to spend a lot of cash for a party where it takes twenty minutes to get a glass of watery wine or bad booze and an indiscriminate mixer, but still want to celebrate this historic inauguration with like minded others?  Good news – you still can get tickets to the Bloggerational Ball that I am hosting in conjucntion with the authors of Who Invented Roses and Live It, Love It.

Join your fellow bloggers, lurkers, readers, and our friends (some of whom don’t even know about our blogs – please don’t dime us out) in a celebration of the inauguration of our 44th president.  One of the central themes of Barack Obama’s historic campaign for this nation’s highest office was access – access to affordable health care, access to a good education regardless of income, access to a country that honors its obligations to our civil rights.  This ball is also about access, priced at an exceedingly affordable $49

I attended three of Bill Clinton’s inaugural balls in two different years – it was a thrill to meet him but they were lousy parties.  The Bloggerational Ball promises to be a grand party.  Come out, wear that dress that you don’t wear often enough, don that tuxedo or suit that has been languishing in the back of your closet, throw back a few drinks, and have a great time.  It’s not a term paper – stop procrastinating and get your ticket.

Bloggers, if you are attending (or not) and wish to invite your readers, please feel free to link to this post or send an email to LiLu, my dear friend and co-host, to get a pictorial link (I think those are called jpegs)  to post on your blog.

I hope to see you all there, and in the words of one of my favorite old school singers – its gonna be a sho’ nuff shakem’ on down.

Ready to purchase tickets – send an email here: Bloggerational Ball Tickets


Why Did This Cabbie Have to Stop for Me?

4 January 2009

I presume that the overwhelming majority of taxi cab drivers in DC are good people who perform a service that is integral to the vitality of this world class city.  I am particularly fond of the old men with their immaculate Lincoln Town Cars, radios pegged to NPR or WPFW, and ability to find even the most obscure of addresses without direction.  Last night, however, I encountered a member of the odious and dishonest minority.

Since DC finally joined the rest of the world and replaced the efficient for a few but confusing to most Zone System with meters for every cab, I haven’t had to argue with a single driver about my fare.  I expected the trend to continue.  After throwing back beers in a few of my favorite haunts, I hailed a cab to head uptown and retire for the evening.  As we got closer to my place, I noticed that the fare was substantially higher than it had ever been.  I attributed the difference to the slightly circuitous route the driver took and went back to thinking about the hot oncologist who kept asking for puffs of my cigar earlier in the evening.

It wasn’t until we rounded the final corner with my fare at least 50% higher than normal that I noticed the Rate indicator was set to “3” rather than “1.”  The difference being that the 3 rate is for Snow Emergencies when the fare is 125% of the standard.  The cabbie drew to a stop and announced my fare.  Quibbling about money is unseemly and I make a habit of not doing it especially when the difference would barely buy me two cups of coffee.  This however, was about principal, and I don’t like people who try to steal from me. 

“Sir, I may not know the usual fare between the White House and the Kennedy Center, but let there be no doubt that I know the fare from my bars to my bed.  You’re trying to charge me the Snow Emergency rate and I won’t pay it” was my opening salvo in what I hoped would be short exchange.

“Your fare is $16.50, pay me or I will call the police.”

“Then let’s call the police.  You can explain to them why your meter is set to the wrong fare or better yet, how bout this: I am going inside and you can wait for the police by your damn self.”

At this point, the cabbie locked the doors and let fly a string of epithets and expletives.  I could feel my heart rate increasing as the fight or flight physical reactions began.  I took a deep pull of air and summoned my most calm voice.

“Sir, what you are doing is false imprisonment – a felony, and you over-charging me is petty larceny.  If you persist on this course of action, I will insist that the police not only write you the $500 ticket for the meter infraction, but that they take you to jail as well.  You need to unlock this door right now.”

The cabbie shook his fist at me, tried to give me a menacing glare, and made a half assed grab in my direction.

“If you want to add an ass kicking to those criminal charges, then keep thinking what you’re thinking, but you really don’t want to do that.  I’m not one of those Georgetown frat boys you’re used to; I will kick your ass and wait for the police to take your sorry ass to jail… hope your papers are in order*.”

“Fuck you, fuck you, get out, get out” he screamed.

Half expecting him to exit with me, I exited quickly and squared my body to face the vehicle.  He must have thought about it because it took him a moment before he roared away.

What a way to kill a buzz.

 

* I’m not proud of the latent xenophobia in my last phrase.


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