The Restaurant Refugee

So in the spirit of “Something else I have started but may not finish,” I am kinda sorta, maybe, don’t hold it against me if I don’t quite finish, participating in NaBloPoMo.  There is a new post over on My Recipe Blog – go read about my take on Lomo Saltado – so this counts.

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?

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.

…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?

I know where you and your drink should be tomorrow.  We have worked out an arrangement with the owners of Evolve such that people attending the Happy Hour will be getting the HH discount well after the normal 7pm cut off time for their HH.  I can hear the wheels turning in all of your pretty heads right now.  You’re wondering how the staff will know that we are all in one crew, right?

Three words: Mardi Gras Beads.  It’s an idea so fraught with potential for rapid descent into debauchery that it carries just a touch of brilliance.

Find me, or LiLu, or Lemmonex to get beads or bring your best beads from your closet.

I had my last first date today.  For those of you who know of my whorish ways, this may be a shock that’s larger than a bread box; but I am officially off the market… and she’s the one.  I know it with the certainty of my own name.

Ours was a chance meeting – I was just passing a store that could pound a nail I didn’t know was sticking out until I saw a place selling hammers.  Sydney seemed to be waiting for me.  Almost six feet tall with a crown of dreadlocks draped just past her shoulder, her look was almost regal.  Words were a melodic mélange of Caribbean, British, and Spanish flavors that reflected her Jamaican upbringing and British prep schooling.  I could sit for hours just listening to that voice.

Courtship moved so quickly – within moments of our meeting Sydney was massaging my neck and shoulders.  And that was before she really started to work on me.  Forty-five minutes later I knew I was in love…with the best haircut I can remember and I was off the market for a new barber.

This blog began because of an urgent need to purge something painful anywhere and the whole world seemed like a logical choice at the time.  More than a year later it has become the source for more than a few friendships, a couple of … ahem, interesting dates, and a few people I can’t imagine my life without.  So when two people in that last group told me they wanted to throw a bloggy happy hour, I endorsed the notion wholeheartedly and joined the merry band to host the shin dig.

Next Friday at 7pm we’d love it if you joined us for drinks and shenanigans at Evolve.

Leave a comment, post this picture, or just drop me an email (restaurantrefugee@gmail.com) to let us know you’ll be attending.  When you arrive just look for the group with the loudest and most raucous members – that will be us.  If that fails, just look for LiLu who’ll be wearing a tiara.

It was a year ago today that we lost you.  I have missed you every Sunday and many other days since.  You were a giant, and the world is poorer for not hearing your voice.  Tim Russert, I hope you are resting in peace.

A year ago to the day I cut out this slice of the internet and claimed it as my own.  I wasn’t sure then what I wanted it to be and I am still not sure where exactly I want it to go, however I am grateful for the ride.

Borne of heartbreak, this ride has been more fun than I could have imagined.  Along the way, there have been friends made both real and virtual (and I value you both in equal if different measures,) a contest about the worst date, a literary fantasy or two explored, and a smattering of regrettable moments as well.

I never thought that so many people would clickety-clack their way here on regular, sporadic, or the occasional basis.  I don’t want to appear to be a victim of vainglory, but I thank all of you readers too for making this ride so pleasant. However, I will ask you for an anniversary present nonetheless – I am asking all of you to comment.  Lurkers and regulars alike, I beseech you to leave a comment.

My Favorite Vegan: Yeah, yeah, yeah – I know that sucks for you but can we get back to me now

Refugee (laughing): It’s all about you I suppose

MFV: Well you know I’m a narcissist

Refugee: You think you’re a narcissist?

MFV: Why are you surprised; how long have you known me?

Refugee: I’m not surprised that you’re a narcissist; I’m surprised that you’re that self-aware

It was a chance meeting – she entering the metro and I exiting.  My bus was alighting just yards away and I still stopped her to say hello even though she hadn’t seen me.  That is among the foolish things that kryptonite will make a man do.  Our pleasantries were brief – a couple of “Hi, how are you’s” and a “where are you headed.”  My plan was for the evening was only semi-fluid but still I responded with a tacit invitation for Kryptonite to join me for a drink.

Fortunately for me, Ms. K. was headed to a different bar uptown to meet friends and watch the hockey game.  She invited me to join but reason overcame my brain and I declined.

My fluid plan changed to solid form and I had a couple of drinks, some appetizers and a magnificent steak at Capitol Grille’s bar.  Yet as my companion and I left Kryptonite crept back into my head. 

I cannot explain, to myself or friends, my attraction for her at least not to my satisfaction.  On the plus side, she is very smart, reasonably attractive, and we mostly have good conversations.  The negatives are more pronounced – she is needlessly argumentative, combative, has unresolved private traumas that manifest themselves in interpersonally harmful ways, and is a bit of a drunk.  By any reasonable measure (and I consider my mind a reasonable measure) she is a bad element for me to have in my life.  Still she has this power over me.

Why?

I know that I would never be able to love her and that my feelings are not lustful; but I do not understand my desire.  I know that there is no future –for the love of bacon, she drinks bad wine – but seeing her makes me want her… badly.

As I related this to my companion for evening, it finally hit me.  Though I do want her when I see her, more than that, I want her to want me.  Thus is the nature of Kryptonite.     

This most recent Sunday I had a day ahead of me – a roving bachelorette party with four bars on the agenda, multiple sports games to be watched.  However, before Sunday Funday could begin I had work that demanded my attention.  As such, I sat dutifully at my coffee shop and clicked keys on my laptop until I satisfied my inner workaholic. 

When the appointed hour arrived, I hopped on the metro for my trip to the insanely gentrified part of the inner city.  The train was Sunday afternoon crowded, so I had a two seat bench to myself for most of my ride; and then I got to the Chinatown station.

With only two stops to go, the train was filled sufficiently that most people sat two abreast.  My perch was an exception until a very large man eyed the position next to mine.  In an attempt to appear unaffected, I kept my eyes on my newspaper.  He waddled closer, reversed his position and shoe horned himself next to me.

Still attempting to show no affect, I made myself as small as I could; but his weight against me was oppressive.  My breathing became difficult, shallow breaths were all his girth would allow. 

I could have stood for the remaining two stops but in my overly polite mind that would have been rude.  It would have sent a subtle message that I objected to his size and by extension, him too.  It was really hard to breath. 

I have no issues moving to a different seat or even a different car when some asshat has his/her iPod cranked to profane volumes.  I have no problem relocating when there are rowdy teenagers whose jocularity I have no interest in hearing.   For some reason, at that moment pinned against the window struggling for air, I couldn’t summon the will to move, though there wasn’t an open seat elsewhere.

Finally, the longest two stops of my life were traversed and I stood as soon as it wouldn’t have been obvious.  I inhaled deep and often.  The first opportunity for oxygen to hit my lungs felt great. 

I harbor no ill will towards overweight people; hell , I generally refrain from using the term “fat” (with one glaring racist exception of which friends are aware and about whom I generally use words like fire hydrant, basketball with arms, and rhino.)  This, however, was different.

I am indifferent about the prospect of large people paying for two seats on flights.  The metro is different, I don’t give a flying fuck about how crowded it may be, nor do I concern myself with your difficulty in standing.  You know if you occupy two seats and need to be more respectful of others.  If you are going to restrict my ability to take in air, you, you fat fuck, need to stand because I need not choose between air and polite.

The best argument is always the most simple argument.