History, Context, and the Benefit of Doubt

22 July 2009

I was five when I learned that I had an uncle I would never meet because he was strange fruit on an Alabama poplar tree.

I was ten years old the first time the word “Nigger” was hurled at me with venom.

I was eleven the first time I noticed bias from a teacher directed at the only Black kid in the class.

I was fourteen the first time that I found myself on the thoroughly correct side of the law but the wrong side of a police officer who took me to the station in handcuffs because I had the “wrong attitude” and the temerity to be “uppity” when I was right.

I was sixteen the first time a store clerk not so subtly hinted that I couldn’t afford to shop were I was standing.

I was seventeen the first time I was stopped for driving a car in neighborhood where most people who drove there didn’t look like me.  “Failure to come to a complete stop” was the reason.

I was eighteen the first time I was advised by some Caucasian gentleman that I might need only a half tank of gas and should move on.

I was twenty the first time I was asked if I was an “affirmative action hire.”

I was twenty three the first time a grocery store owner asked to inspect my bag before leaving the store.

I was twenty five the first time I had a series of terrific phone interviews, but saw the change in an interviewer’s eyes upon first meeting, followed by the shortest interview on record.

I was twenty eight when a false alarm at my home led to the arrival of a couple of police cars, me being handcuffed in front of my then wife and neighbors, before I received an apology for the “misunderstanding.”

I was thirty the first time I began writing down the time, date, location, and taxi number of every working cab that passed me when I needed a ride home.  At the end of each week I sent dozens of incidents from the prior seven days to the taxi cab commission for investigation.  Eight months of letters, and nearly eight years later I’m still waiting for the call back.

I don’t know if it was the first time, but the first time I remember being told by a woman that she “doesn’t date black men” was when I was thirty two.

I was thirty four the last time I was confused for a valet, bellman, porter, busboy, etc. even though I was the boss*.

I was thirty six the last time someone asked for the manager and upon seeing me declared that they’d rather speak with someone in charge.

It was two weeks ago that I stood at the host stand of one the “best” restaurants in the city I was visiting when I was ignored by some past her prime flibidigibit.  A Caucasian couple entering after I did was greeted warmly and taken right to their table.

No one would call me a militant or an “angry black man.”** I have two advanced degrees from top universities, national recognition as an expert in my field, multiple publications to my credit, and am widely recognized in my city.  None of that protected me from all of the aforementioned slights and it didn’t protect Harvard Professor Skip Gates either.  There are two sides to every story, but history – mine, his, and the world’s – demand that the professor gets the benefit of all doubts.

* all of those jobs are noble and necessary occupations, and I wouldn’t be ashamed of any of them, but white guys in tailored suits aren’t often thought to work at those level jobs

** not that militancy or anger wouldn’t be a bit understandable

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Housecleaning Friday…

17 July 2009

My new favorite text message: “It’s 5:30; do you know where you’re drink is?”

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The republicans are right: It is about time that Latinas end their long history of oppressing white men in this country.

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All of the people who complained about the disproportionate coverage of MJ’s death were right: the media never obsesses over the death of some people except the Billings, Joan Benet, Natalee Holloway, or too many other people to name.

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Even though I swore I wouldn’t return to Bar Dupont unless it was at the end of a Bayonet (apparently the end of a well wielded mascara wand was equally effective,) I went back recently and can confirm that it still sucks more than a hooker or a Hoover.

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I just found another reason to love a Canuck.  Margaret Wente may be a partisan ideologue but she sure is funny.

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When Screen on the Green was cancelled, I wrote this post questioning the existence of philanthropy and the moral bearings of the über wealthy.  Well SOG is back, and Richard Branson is doing a good turn too.  Virgin Festival is free this year – this almost makes up for that that reality television show he inflicted on the public back in 2004.

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Dear Chef from last night, my food ought not be a mini statue to your ego.  If I have to knock it down before I can eat it, you’re really just pissing me off.  I know that there are some people (usually with more money than good sense) who are easily impressed by the excessively whimsical aerosol spray in the mouth of a course – but do know that their numbers were small before the economic downturn and they are dwindling fast.  Rule of thumb – cook to satisfy the soul, the palette, and the eye in that order.

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To everyone that keeps asking about my Old Man, thank you again for your kind wishes and words.  He is rehabbing well and getting his ass kicked at backgammon by the home healthcare nurse that I love.

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Stream of (mostly) Restaurant Consciousness

1 July 2009

I have long maintained the following truths about the brunch scene in Washington, DC:

  • It is largely unimpressive with unimaginative cooking.
  • It is generally overpriced given the aforementioned mediocrity.
  • If I must go out for brunch, I would rather go to the exceptions to the prior two truths (Cashion’s, anywhere Gillian Clarke is cooking) or someplace with inexpensive mimosas because most place’s eggs are just eggs.

So it was that I found myself in a place with inexpensive mimosas and just average eggs on not too recent Sunday afternoon.  I was in the company of a food-loving woman with whom I used to be friends and to whose good graces I wanted to return.  Inevitably, our conversation centered on restaurants and food and I soon learned that she had never been to Restaurant Eve.  With a quick invitation, I returned to good graces…

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Restaurant Eve has for several years been considered, by anyone who knows anything about food, among the top five restaurants in the city and among the top fifty in the country.  Dining there is an exercise in elegant simplicity with a staff that defines superlatives for the region.  I have lauded  them before; the distinction in this mentioning is that I am stating without equivocation that it is the single best bar at which to dine in the area.

Comfortably elegant with reserved décor, Eve’s bar makes it clear that its focus is trained on libation and food.  You can have all of the “bar chef’s” in the world and I’d better serious cash that none of ‘em can make a Manhattan as good as Tammy.  As always, the food was rock-ya-socks good… which was rather important because the date decidedly sucked.…

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The date may have sucked but I did have the asparagus dish which inspired (minor inspiration, but inspiration nonetheless) the most awesomest salad ever…

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That was a dish that formed in my head while I was walking through Whole Foods shopping for ingredients to be used later that evening.  It reminded me of a recent challenge on The Next Food Network Star, which got me thinking about my friend/ NFNS contestant, Teddy Folkman of Granville Moore’s.  I don’t know if it is simply the editing, a mutation induced by the presence of cameras, or an act of desperation to remain before the cameras, but I didn’t recognize the Teddy that I saw on this show.  The Teddy I know is generous, magnanimous, gregarious and a consummate gentleman.  The Teddy on the NFNS is… let’s just say, he’s not that.  This is explained in more (a lot more) detail by a blog post at the Degustation Blog written by one of Teddy’s colleagues at Granville Moore’s…

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Speaking of Granville Moore’s, despite the new crowds that Teddy’s television appearance hath wrought, this place remains one of my favorite restaurants in the city.  A recent date there found the Moules Fromage Blue (Mussels cooked in a white wine, blue cheese, and bacon broth) to still be the best in driving distance as were the Frites.  The horseradish crème fraîche sauce surely has crack as its secret ingredient, and I will never tire of the rustic charm of the diminutive décor.  My internet date on the other hand…

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Why do people insist on including some variation of “as comfortable in a dive bar as a formal occasion” in their online dating profiles?  Besides being a useless cliché, I find it false for most people.

The first sign of trouble for a date that began promisingly enough with drinks in Chinablocks* came when we left to head towards H Street.  As I was trying to hail a cab, I noticed that the bus which would deposit us at GM’s doorstep, and in only seven minutes, was a block away.  My date balked at the notion of riding the bus.

Bowing to her preference, as is a gentleman’s wont, we caught a cab.  As we moved east, her expression began to change as we moved further from her Northwest DC comfort-zone.  Passing Union Station, she inquired “We’re not going to NE are we?”  I should have turned the cab (and the date) in another direction right then.

GM’s is far from a dump but this woman used her cocktail napkin to “wipe-off” her seat before in a move that made me think I was out with a “Female Niles Crane” but without the searing wit.  Sure the décor is sparingly rustic, but it has character that usually takes years to form.  And in my judgmental nature (shocking to no one,) my date’s discomfort with this place showed me that she had no character of her own…

Have a great holiday weekend everybody.  Be well, eat well, drink well, and I’ll see you all on Monday.

*Chinatown in DC is too small to be described as such, therefore, Chinablocks is more appropriate.  Further, I refuse to call it Penn Quarter.

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Only in the Movies – Really, Just the Movies

2 June 2009

It’s still spring but this was a summer storm – the kind that comes so suddenly it feels like God unzipped the roof. 

I was standing under the overhang of at a downtown Metro station with a growing handful of umbrella-less people waiting for enough cessation to dance between the fat and furious raindrops to our destinations.  I was more fortunate than most as my only appointment was a meeting of the Friday Four O’clock Cigar Club.

Angela emerged from the subway a few moments behind me.  She opened a silver cigarette case and pulled one of the contents to her lips.  She made no effort to find a lighter, perhaps because she didn’t have one or more likely because she looks like the kind of woman who is accustomed to having men light her cigarettes for her.  I was happy to oblige.

“Thank you, apparently it’s not dead” she said.

“All indications are that it’s on life support but certainly not dead just yet.”

I retraced the two steps I had taken to extend my lighter to her and went back to reading email on the crackberry. 

“So that’s your thing? You appear out of nowhere, light a woman’s fire and then go back to whatever you were doing so you look mysterious, is that you’re thing?” Angela volleyed.

“Ha, No, that’s not quite the plan.  I just think that courtesies should be extended on their own accord and not because the recipient happens to be good looking.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to let up anytime soon” Angela said by way of changing the subject.

“Yeah, I think I am just going to give up and just go upstairs to Morton’s for a cocktail. Would you care to join me?”

It was a throwaway invitation – the kind that is only accepted in the movies.  Not just because two strangers rarely meet on the street and share a cocktail minutes later (though more people should) but also because Angela is extremely tall for a woman and I am of average height for a man.  Yet she accepted.

I don’t think it took more than five minutes before I thought differently of both the offer and acceptance.  We had barely settled into a corner table on the covered patio and my bourbon had yet to arrive before a string of questions from Angela had been asked (and mostly obfuscated) in an effort for her to discern one thing: do I have enough money and/or juice to justify her sitting with me. 

Where did I go to school? Grad School? What do I do for a living? Where do I live? When did I buy? Parents?

About the time that Angela finished her glass of wine and the first part of her questioning, I had reached my breaking point.

“Thanks for having a drink with me.  If you leave me your business card, I am pretty sure that I can forward you my CV and credit report right from my blackberry.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary” she said her body unfolded from the chair and she grabbed her purse.

“I suppose not, but thanks anyway for having the drink.”

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Things I Would Tweet This Tuesday Were I to Twitter

12 May 2009

What is the appropriate etiquette when crossing paths with someone you have only met online through a dating site?

What’s the best way to respond when seeing a former lover in the lobby of her apartment building in the morning?

Why do some restaurants insist upon serving me cold bricks of butter that are more useful for building tableside forts than buttering bread?

In my closet, there are suits, great suits, and suits to wear when you’re going to run into an ex.  I wore the latter on Friday.

Screen on the Green has been cancelled and this DC summer will not be the same.

Go to Granville Moore’s now – like right now, before Chef Teddy Folkman appears on the Next Food Network Star.

Accidental Irony is 2.6 times funnier than Intentional Irony

Sunday – Funday, nuff said, wish you were there; and to the four siblings from Peoria, it was lovely drinking with you.

Any decent bartender can keep your glass filled; a great bartender keeps your secrets too.  I’ll miss you K.

Three days and counting…

Really what was so outrageous? Smart, literate, interesting, likes art, food, and drink, curious, mature, and gets me: that’s not too much to ask.

I suck at responding to comments and promise to be better.

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At Least the Mustard Was Good

28 April 2009

The mustard was very good – that statement fairly summarizes the one positive culinary take away from the experience Lemmonex and I shared at Bar Dupont recently.

There are few universal truths about restaurants, among them is that it is often unwise and frequently unfair to asses a restaurant based on one visit.   The problems at Bar Dupont, however, were so glaring, so pervasively systemic, and on some levels categorically unfathomable, that the only question about the accuracy of our assessment was if it would be sufficiently harsh? 

I passed through the place first, not so much looking for my companion (I was early) as looking for a place where conversation could be had without yelling across the café sized tables.  Amidst the soft lighting and intimate tables, there was precious little to muffle sound.  At 60% capacity on a Thursday night the volume of din was arresting to my ears.  So I settled for a place on the patio though it was not quite warm enough for that to be anything more than temporarily accommodating.

I watched the server walk by twice over the next several minutes without her taking notice of me.  Eventually a suit – to his credit – sees that I have been sitting for too long without drink and comes my way to help.  To his serious discredit, he gives me misinformation when I ask about the beers on tap (of the eight he knows four and pretends that those are all that exist.)  Unmoved by the malted and hopped options presented, I ask for a beverage list. 

Lemmonex has joined by the time drinks have been ordered – painfully ordered as the server was well meaning but unprepared for her job.  Since it is too cold for the patio, we ask for the check and indicate that we would like to move indoors.  The check/payment/change process was as excessively long as the get noticed/order/get a drink process.

Upon moving inside, it took all of 45 seconds to realize one of the reasons everything our server did seemed to take double digit minutes – she had an impossibly large section which included the entire patio and at least a dozen tables inside.  This was more apparent because of the plethora of suits about the joint but the overall lack of service (in case my snarkasm is unclear, managers = good, suits = waste of salaries and space.)

The worst suit of all of the suits was the one manning the bar.  I watched this guy pinch four fingers into the INSIDE of clean glasses to move them from the dish rack to the staging area one, two, three times.  Despite our quibbles Lemmonex and I remained optimistic about the food.  After looking over Bar Dupont’s menu which suffers from the physical affectation of opening vertically rather than horizontally, we decided to split the burger and the “Turf Flat.”

What’s a “Turf Flat?” you ask – yeah, we had to ask too.  “A Flat is a collection of the Chef’s favorite tastes on one plate” the lightly attentive bartender announces in a very scripted delivery.  They offer a Surf (seafood) flat, a Turf (various meats) flat, and a Veggie flat.  The Turf Flat offered the most promise – Lamb Carpaccio, Chicken Sandwich, Duck Terrine, Sliced Sirloin, Braised Short Ribs.  We ordered a bottle of Argentine Syrah from the poorly organized wine list – the two page and 30ish bottle list would be difficult for navigate for just about anyone save those will lots of experience.  to wash it all down.

Wine took a while.  Wine took so long that both the Bar Suit (he of dubious finger placement) and the bartender felt the need to explain that the wine cellar is “a couple floors away, and we don’t have a key – it’ll be here in a minute.”  The stupidity of storing your wine so far away from the dining area was the latest indicator of malfeasance from management but the most egregious was our food sitting in the bar service area while the suit and the bartender continued to make drinks for the service bar.  Our dishes sat there for a bit while they moved back and forth around it seemingly unconcerned. 

Still looking for positivity we chimed “I think that’s our food over there.”  Let me explain: perhaps the number one rule of service is that there are no detours once a plate leaves the kitchen – ever.  Nothing is more important.  Watching these two start and complete other tasks while our food languished there was particularly painful. 

The medium rare burger arrived just a shade under well done but it was well packed and reasonably flavorful.  The bun disintegrated under the slightest pressure and was never up to the task.  The burger has some sort of red pepper paste that was a mistake of conception, yet somehow lacked onions.  The accompanying cone of French fries was filled with obviously machine cut frozen potatoes and served with ramekins of ketchup, mayo (they called it aioli but seriously this was mayo and fresh from the Sysco truck no less) and a very good Dijon mustard with a light kick of wasabi. 

By the time we finished the burger and had nibbled a few of the “flats,” the wine finally arrived – laughable.  Fortunately for us, the vintage differed from that which was printed on the wine list so I had an excuse to send it back as I didn’t want to give these buffoons any more of our money.

We both heart short ribs so this unrecognizable dollop of meat atop an untoasted cube of bread was particularly disappointing.  The meat had been run through a food processor and spooned on to bread that was overly buttered and had the same consistency when chewed.  This was a bad idea that should never have been produced by anyone paid to cook food.  That condemnation didn’t distinguish the Short Ribs from the other of the “Chef’s Favorite Tastes.”  The Lamb Carpaccio wasn’t in fact Carpaccio but was cured somehow and reminiscent of the meat that comes with lunchables.  The Duck Terrine was barely palatable and had the consistency of strained carrots crossed with jello.  The chicken sandwich was un-marinated breast meat roasted long enough to kill it again and served on stale bread.  The sliced sirloin was cooked properly but under-seasoned and served a top a mixed green salad that was too slick with oil. 

Bar Dupont, despite its very attractive décor and perfectly accessible location in the heart of one of DC’s most vibrant neighborhoods, fails because they have made cripplingly bad management decisions in the front and back of the house.  They fail because they either don’t care about those mistakes or don’t know about them and it doesn’t matter which is worse.

 

 

Go read Lemmie’s account of the meal.

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Emotional Critters that Live Under a Rock

23 March 2009

“Lots of emotional critters live under the rock of cognitive dissonance” I wrote a friend in a recent g-chat session.  Fear of Rejection is one of the inhabitants under my rock.  Lured from hiding by three rejections in a relatively short span, he crawled into other spaces of my mind all weekend. 

The disquiet of each rejection is borne of the fact that each should be irrelevant:

  • A woman who gives radio silence after two dates which ended in her expressing fondness is a woman made unsuitable by that behavior. 
  • A restaurant owner who is more than an hour late and completely unprepared for an initial meeting would make a painful client. 
  • Some stringy haired harpy who is pissed at me for reasons I neither know nor should matter to me is, well, a stringy haired harpy of dubious standing for friendship. 

All of these were justifiable causes for my rejection irrespective of the other person’s thoughts.  Yet, their rejection has stuck in my craw long enough for me to vent to friends, and write this post.  As natural as the human desire for all forms of affection may be, we all know better when we should know better.  People tell us how to treat them with their actions more than their words.  Their actions have told me that I need waste no more energy on the rude, the disrespectful, or the stringy haired harpy*.

 

*Yes, I enjoyed typing that one more time.  I guess petty can crawl from under the rock sometimes too.

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Chopping Block – A Spectacular Failure

18 March 2009

I make a habit of not criticizing that which I have not experienced.  This habit has led me to read awful books, see dreadful movies, dine at forgettable restaurants, and partake in other avoidable experiences – all in an effort to avoid being trumped in countless cocktail conversations with cries of “have you read it, seen it, been there, etc.”

I am making a very public break with that habit since NBC premiered its latest salvo against decency and quality entertainment, The Chopping Block.  I don’t care that this is another reality television show, I am disturbed by the notion that the “Chef who made Gordon Ramsey cry” is being celebrated.

The premise, for lack of a more appropriately derisive term, is a well worn notion of the genre: competing teams operate two faux restaurants with a weak link from each team being booted at the end of each show.  The center of this reality circus is Marco Pierre White who I know from first hand experience to be a culinary thug and a bully with the all of the manners of a petulant child ampped on Ritalin and a satchel full of lollipops. 

I have asked the questions before – In what other profession do we make vitriol a virtue?  In what other environments would we allow the throwing of dangerous objects (a.k.a. felonious assault) to pass for leadership?  More importantly, when did we as a society accept this abhorrent behavior as the going rate for genius, as a reasonable price for greatness?  But those questions miss the point – it doesn’t work.

Leadership through fear and emotional abuse is as effective as interrogation through torture.  It is long term counterproductive.  Sure some people might be willing to subjugate themselves at the altar of a bully for promised knowledge and future riches, but as surely as a leader who goes ape-shit over apples, that person will flee abusive employ at the first opportunity.  As any first year business student can attest, turnover is expensive, and truly great chefs and restaurateurs know it.  How often can one go to the well of extreme before it will not quench anything?  How effective is the same f-bomb laden tirade when one’s default language is constantly dyed in the blue tint of profanity?

There are numerous examples of smart chefs who eschew the tantrum throwing business model, but Eric Rippert and Thomas Keller top the list (by the by, if you want to read a terrific piece of food porn describing a meal at French Laundry, check out Betty’s latest blog post.)

NBC, not only are you rotting our brains with this drivel, you are promoting an ineffective style of management.  This is one train wreck from which it is easy for me to turn away.

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Recent Restaurant Recaps Volume II

10 February 2009

 

My virtual acquaintance, Todd Kliman food editor at the Washingtonian, has oft mentioned that restaurant reviews primarily reflect a “snapshot” and that they have an expiration date.  Not that he needs further evidence to bolster the credibility of that position, but my recent meal at Oriental East provides it.  OE was once on Washingtonian’s Cheap Eats for twelve years running but Sunday night they were well below par. 

Known more for efficient rather than friendly service, this evening neither option seemed to be available.  Knowing how time seemingly accelerates when starving, it is worth noting that I received a text message as I sat down and then checked my phone again to learn that it had been 10 minutes before anyone bothered to stop by my table to give me tea and water.  It took another 5 minutes for someone to inquire about my order in the not very busy room. 

A “Chef’s Special” platter included egg drop soup that needed salt like I still needed the beer I ordered. The eggroll had a part of the wonton that was so hard that it literally hurt my tooth to chew; and the beef dish (sorry, I can’t recall the name) lacked any semblance of the heat that the two peppers printed on the menu promised.  Not eating all day will drive even someone who has a professional love for food to do strange things – like mixing in hot mustard to the brown sauce in vain attempt to give this dish some culinary gravitas. 

Since I never got my beer, my tab was only about $12 but I still felt foolish for paying for food this bad.  Owing to another maxim from you, I shall not cross this place from my list, because every place can have a bad night but still be a good restaurant.

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In my personal Burger Rankings, Palena is still in the top spot, followed by Hell Burger, and Toledo Lounge (also on my list for best jukeboxes in town,) however my most recent experience at Morton’s downtown vaults them back into the discussion.  Cooked perfectly medium-rare and topped with blue cheese, sautéed onions and bacon, this burger was beefy salvation on a bitterly cold day.  Dan, the extremely capable and friendly lunchtime bartender, helped make the experience even better.  That I had forgettable lobster bisque didn’t significantly detract from the experience.  Soup, burger, and a couple of Bass Ale (Morton’s, please get some interesting beers in your bar) was about $40 pre-tip.

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Since I left the restaurant industry and claimed refugee status, I have experienced a few restaurant weeks on the guest side of the table.  I have officially declared this experiment a failure.  The best places that participate provide hit or miss service depending on the luck of getting a server who embraces the concept rather than disdains it (mostly because, as any first year business student will tell you, the culture of an organization exists top down.)  Most places engage in some combination of the following: adding extra tables (hard to enjoy yourself when virtually sitting in the lap of your neighbors,) dumbing down their menus (hard to really appreciate the talent of a kitchen when they deliberately swing for the infield,) reducing portion size, or have excessive up-charges.  If a restaurant isn’t willing to view the increased food cost of Restaurant Week as the marketing expense and opportunity that it is, they should resist the strong armed tactics of the Restaurant Association and refuse to participate as I have by removing the list of RW recommendations from my blog.

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That the Oval Room waives corkage on Saturday evenings makes a terrific culinary value even better, but I am begging people not to mimic the behavior of the table next to mine who came with two bottles of supermarket plonk in tow.  Being gauche at a discount is still gauche.

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While DC’s cocktail attention has been deservedly focused on the excellent libations at PX Speakeasy and Gibson, Aroma lounge in Cleveland Park has long merited a place in that conversation – but only on the nights Karen is working.  One of the few bartenders in the city capable of making a Santero without instruction, she produces cocktails of great distinction (I am pecking this missive on my computer while enjoying one of them) and is a delight to have on the other side of the bar.

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In closing, if I haven’t mentioned lately how much Todd Kliman has added to DC’s culinary landscape, I’m mentioning it now.  He and his team are working on the side of food angels, and consistently provide the best restaurant coverage in the region.

 

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Someone Else Deciding What I Write…

21 January 2009

This interview has been making the rounds of the blogosphere for a couple of weeks.  One of my favorite Boston Bloggers, MegaBrooke did it recently and I was happy to have her ask me a few questions.

If you’d like to play along, just follow these instructions:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions. Be sure you link back to the original post.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

 

1- What is something about you that you don’t think gets too much airtime on your blog?

Oddly, I don’t think I write enough about restaurants on the blog.  I have a list of my favorite places, and a really dated list of restaurant week recommendations, plus a few other notes but; I still have a sensation that I am giving short shrift to that area.  I hope to better about that in ought nine.

 

2- Do you believe in soul-mates?

Yes.  Unequivocally, but I also expand the definition to include friends.  Romantically speaking I also believe in soul-mates.  I place my chances of finding one at roughly the same odds of being struck by lightening, or winning the powerball.  That pragmatic expectation does not stop me from playing in the rain, or buying my lottery tickets.

Though I believe the universe to have a twisted sense of humor – introducing us to the largely unavailable (geographically, emotionally, etc.) who feel right – I think that most excuses which prevent us from being with the right person are bullshit.  Those who wait for all things to be perfect are destined to wait forever.

 

3- What is something that a server has done to go above and beyond, guaranteeing a big tip from you?  

Like many current and former service industry members, I am a habitual over-tipper.  Give me decent service and you can expect at least 20%; good service will yield a gratuity as high as 50%; and for exceptional service, I have been known to double a tab.  I should admit, belatedly, that I know or am known by many servers, bartenders, and managers around town and these relationships often yield unsolicited comps which may inflate a tip in relation to a check. 

A few years ago, I was having a particularly craptastic day at the restaurant I was running at the time – a common condition whenever corporate muckety mucks left the confines of their offices and spent too much time in my restaurant.  Rather than inflict my bad mood on my staff and guests, I made the executive decision that both the restaurant and I would be best served if I gave myself the night off.  I found a cab and headed to Cashion’s Eat Place for dinner at their bar.  Upon arriving, I realized I had nothing smaller than a fifty and the driver didn’t have change.  I went inside – cranky with myself and the driver – to get change.  The bartender, like all good bartenders, was slightly clairvoyant because after I returned to the bar, I found a place set for me in the corner I prefer when I want to be left alone and a Manhattan was the cocktail flag that marked my territory.  Sullenness eased with the first sip of whiskey & sweet vermouth but it was erased for good when the bartender wordlessly produced an un-thumbed newspaper for me to peruse.  Reading the paper was a much better idea than reading the paperwork I had intended to be my dinner companion. 

Three incredible courses later, I was contemplating the cheese board to finish the meal and was in much better spirits.  No dessert menu was presented, but the following invitation instead: “Refugee, you just bought that young lady at the end of the bar a port and invited her to join you for dessert.  She’s visiting from New York and I am fairly certain you both could use the company at this point.  Don’t make me a liar; go have some cheese with the lady.”

The bartender and I had known each other for years; we were more than colleagues, but less than friends.  Still he read everything about me and my mood perfectly and introduced to me to a woman who remains a friend to this day.

 

4- How much is too much?

Too much is the saccharined sweet of arbitrary and unfounded affection.  Too much is a server who says “my pleasure” ten times during a meal in lieu of  giving good service.  Too much is one text message from the person you don’t really dig, and not enough from the person who has you smitten.  Too much is chasing buzz words instead of leading.  Too much is a coffee drink that takes more than five words to order.  Too much is the dress that renders my imagination useless.  Too much is the affected, the unnatural accessory that screams “I am not comfortable in my own clothes or skin.”  Too much is declaring that which should be obvious or discovered.  Too much doesn’t understand that so much is relative. 

5- What would your “warning label” read?

Contents are contraindicated for those who don’t dream, tilt at windmills, or believe in unicorns.  Common side-effects are eye rolling, exasperated sighs, and frequent arguments about the trivial, semantic, or unnecessary.  Also may cause extreme frustration, or profound dislike in severe cases.  Most test users found the side effects to be mild and decreased in frequency with repeated use.

This medication is not for everybody but those who respond to it generally have good to great results.

 

Oh yeah, since it is Wednesday, I took my turn as contributing editor at DC Blogs. Go on  check out that which moved me more than most this past week.

13 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, entertaining, random stuff, restaurants | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

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

10 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, booze & boozing, dating, random stuff, restaurants | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Restaurant Week Is Coming; Do You Know Where Your Meal Is?

11 July 2008

 

Most restaurants suck at Restaurant Week.  They view discount hungry guests with disdain, use sub par ingredients they would never allow into their kitchen save these two weeks a year, and in an effort to sustain profit margins, they will hustle you in and out as fast as possible in an effort to get more diners they disregard to take your place.  Most participating restaurants view this week as a necessary evil to maintain the good graces of the Washington Restaurant Association, rather then the marketing opportunity that it is.

 

RW should be viewed as any other advertising or marketing expenditure would be – an investment in future earnings.  In that spirit, I sought to craft a list of restaurants that embrace RW and make a great effort to impress.  They treat their guests well, don’t short change ingredients and generally get RW right.  They are listed in order of my highest preferences.

 

 

The Oval Room – flying under the radar since Tony Compte’s arrival about two years ago, this slightly aging dining room is producing excellent food.  It leans slightly toward the molecular gastronomy but it does so without sacrificing substance.  Waived corkage on Saturday nights make this a must-do.

Mendocino Grille – Chef Barry Koslow might just be the most talented chef in DC that is not a bold face name.  It is high quality and inventive food with a solid nod to classical techniques but presented in a modern yet unpretentious manner.

1789 – A bit over-priced every other week of the year, this old-school restaurant melds highly professional and polished service with solid food that is an excellent value during RW.  You must be in the mood for a formal experience here – 1789 is one of the few dining rooms that require gentlemen to wear jacket and tie.

Circle Bistro – Despite its corporate lineage this is charming restaurant with very precise cooking from a largely underrated chef.  Anything that comes from the water is a sure bet from this kitchen.  There are great values to be had on the wine list too – sadly no one on the staff besides the chef will be able to assist you with the wine.  If you plan on dining here, send me an email and I will help you go through the list. 

Café Mozu – the lovely KassyK asked me about CityZen recently.  CityZen would never, and should never to my way of thinking, participate in a promotion like RW.  As close as you can get is the terrific food at Café Mozu.  Chef Zeibold also directs this kitchen, rock-star sommelier, Andy, also runs this beverage program; it just costs less than it’s more celebrated big brother.

New Heights – John Waybeck has been one of the most talented forces patrolling DC kitchens since his arrival on the scene at the early part of this decade.  This will be his last RW behind a stove as he is leaving soon to become the wine director for a new restaurant.  Do not miss an opportunity to sample his crafts at a discount.

Ardeo – constantly changing management in the front of the house and chefs in the back have lent an inconsistency to this lovely Cleveland Park dining room.  However, they are currently in a very strong groove and producing the second best plates in this neighborhood (Palena is just down the street and Frank Ruta is a James Beard award winning culinary bad ass, and a nice guy to boot.)

Vidalia – I have been a fan of this place for some time; however it is making this list with some caveats.  I have heard recent complaints – some from people I trust, some from unknown variables – about the service and the consistency of the food at Vidalia.  On the strength of my last visit, it is included because when this kitchen is rolling they roll hard.

Edited on 18 December 2008 to add: Since the departure of one of the best sommeliers in the city, Doug Mohr, this wine list both the by the glass and bottle only has gotten criminally expensive.

Café du Parc – one of the few places on this list with conditions: if you work downtown, if the weather is midsummer night perfect, and if you are in the mood to dine outside, Café du Parc is a lovely under the radar choice for extremely good rustic French cuisine.  It is a restaurant that always provides great value, however, their normal pricing is such that you can normally get three courses for pretty close to the RW pricing.  In other words – don’t waste a RW pick here unless the aforementioned conditions apply; patronize this little gem some other time.

Poste – another conditional entry.  Chef Robert Weland’s food is sophisticated, carefully sourced – including getting most herbs from the restaurant’s garden, – and very consistent.  The dining room matches that elegance.  It is a fucking shame that guests virtually draw straws as they enter the restaurant to determine the quality of their service.  All that being said, a three course lunch for $20 is worth the gamble here; dinner, on the other hand, is most definitely not worth the risk.

Farrah Olivia – not many dining rooms are good enough to get me across a moat.  During RW this one certainly is on that list.

Inde Blue – the overly night-clubbish feel of the lower lounge is not my thing – it works for some just not me.  However, Michael Hartzer coming in to lead this kitchen that was adrift is nothing but positive for dining in that part of town.  Walk upstairs to the dining room quickly, don’t dine Thursday through Saturday and a grand grown-up meal is yours for the enjoying.

A recent visit to Inde Blue revealed food that is worthy of a much better location and better service.  I am in a gnerous mood – so they are staying for now.

 

Great Restaurants not Participating in RW

Many people detest restaurant week – not just servers and staff at participating joints but regular diners too.  For those of you that want no part of Restaurant Week, the following is my list of places that provide great value every day of the year and have dining rooms that won’t be overrun with bargain shoppers.

 

Corduroy – Now that Chef/Owner, Tom Power, has been released from the purgatorial confinement of the Sheraton Four Points he has a dining room as elegant as his food.  Precision and consistent food paired with one of the most fairly priced wine lists in town.

Cashion’s Eat Place – this is a dining room that is comfortably elegant, a kitchen that is carefully and deliberately ambitious, and has service that is always gracious.  The late night menu (Friday & Saturday after midnight) is the best eating you can do anywhere in  DC at that hour.

Granville Moore’s – if you haven’t taken a trip to the Atlas District to sample the best Moules and Frites in DC, stop what you’re doing.  Seriously, stop.  Right now.  In addition to excelling at the Belgian staples, the meats (great burger, steak and cheese, hanger steak, and daily specials) kick ass too.  They do not accept reservations; and get busy by 7pm during prime time.  Go early in the week.  Bonus – charming but small patio in the back.

 

 

I will be updating this list with more restaurants as we get closer to RW; check back for more information.

 

Last Update: 26 July 2008

 

 

 

 

 

12 Comments | restaurants, Uncategorized | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

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