” We should look for someone to eat and drink with before looking for something to eat and drink…” ~Epicurus
Kimber is the type of person you’d want to be friends with in the event of untimely serious issues or when you really want to drink and smoke inside of a bar (the horror! And no longer, because it’s illegal!) but not alone because when you drink alone, people consider you an alcoholic. She’s been my best friend for going on four years and knows things about me that I would never readily admit to anyone, including that when I lived alone I only did dishes when I finally ran out of cups and even then, I only did the cups and we’ve had more than one serious conversation about the state of the Middle East with her on the potty and the door open.
Since graduating, the time I used to spend with any friends of mine which once thrice daily culminating with wine at a Georgetown bar, has since been reduced to the occasional get together that needs to be planned weeks in advance because suddenly we’re all very busy; very busy with my Netflix queue and blogging of course. Even when planned well in advance, someone always ends up canceling because of this whole necessity to have Dental Insurance and a 401K. Financial stability is all the rage and at times trumps friendship.
This means that I haven’t seen Kimber since my birthday, in October. And since Kimber enjoys Movado and Coach bags that could fit a small child, she’d also enjoy a meal out that isn’t quesadillas and especially at the Ritz Carlton with the bathroom attendant and heat lamps under the taxi stand and warm towels with which to dry ones French manicured hands. Now that it’s January there really is no better time to meet up with people that you haven’t seen since 1978 for it is Restaurant Week, don’t you know and nothing screams, I will shed these unwanted pounds like a Mushroom tart that involves a flaky buttery crust and melted smoked
I’ve gone on ad nauseum about how I love Jeff Tunks and Geoff Tracy, because I feel comfortable in their restaurants and of course there is trepidation with eating at the Ritz, because do they allow people with roughly $8 to their name at the Ritz? I doubt it. But I do it for Kimber and also because I saw the aforementioned Mushroom tart on the menu. I’m a sucker for flaky crust of any sort especially when it melts in your mouth and I am also obsessed with mushrooms. My hat goes off to anyone who can sear scallops – mine usually come out in the rubbery form that forces me to question any chance I have at becoming a good housewife who can make scallops. The scallops were tender and set in a bed of some sort of tomato salsa concoction which was spicy yet sweet with a hint of pepper and gave the scallops this delicious tangy flavor despite not being deep fried. There were also potato sticks involved and if I hadn’t been in the Ritz, I would have licked the plate.
Shockingly enough, I ran my fingers over my dessert plate while Kimber went to the little girl’s room and then of course snuck a bite out of her key lime pie. I contemplated the Panna Cotta but instead opted for the chocolate tart. Chocolate crust with apool of dark molten chocolate in the middle that spilled over the sides when it’s chocolate dam broke. Right into hazelnut and butterscotch gelato. It was a chocolate butterscotch river and never have I prayed so fervently for a canoe to tip over in such a mixture, because I would gladly swim around and enjoy.
My thing about eating out is not only the food, but also the service and the atmosphere, because what else are you paying for?? Upon Kimber’s arrival she found me sitting in the lobby with a glass of Spanish Tempranillo and the man who would be our server was smiling ardently and we were already the best of friends and he’s now invited to my wedding. I’m a cranky person who is also impatient and so I like to be taken care of immediately and if I have a glass of wine before my ass warms the seat, then damn, I’m happy. Given that I couldn’t even remember one of the restaurants I went to for Restaurant Week the last time, I would say that writing about the melt in your mouth crust at Fahrenheit and it’s impeccable service, makes this Restaurant Week a success.
*Don’t forget, still delurking week. So delurk or risk eternal whore-dom.
*I should mention that people always ask me, because apparently I know these things, when RW is. I do not have some super insider information. I just actively stalk DC Foodies.
When Bacon Attacks
“We plan, we toil, we suffer – in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol’s eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs.” ~J.B. Priestly
Once upon a time. In a land not so far away but far enough of away that the local grocers sell Canadian candy; I went to Girl Scout camp. Let me be precise and say that I went to Girl Scout camp for 13 years. This was back in the day when my commie, pinko, dirty hippie side would only be able to make its appearance for roughly two weeks a year. But when you’re pre-pubescent it’s far more exciting to pee in the woods and have the smell of camp fire embedded in every fiber of your well worn clothing. I waded in creeks, drank whole milk, kissed a girl (or three) and passionately defended the rights of Jeremiah, a bull frog, and all the fishies in the sea.
It was a residual affect of 13 years of sinking knee deep into my own hippie liberalism. That I ventured into vegetarianism. Of course it was completely contrary to anything my parents preached or taught me about food. Hell, I still remember the siren call of Whopper Night after soccer practice. But that was me then and that is the one thing that – much to my parents chagrin – has yet to change; to go against the grain in the opposite direction they are headed towards. I think it’s part of my charm.
And so for years, almost eight to be exact my father has asked if I’m still on that “no meat diet”. For years, I had to make special trips for veggie burgers while the rest of my family held slabs of ribs in their hands. Eyeing my suspiciously as I enjoyed a multigrain mushroom burger while they allowed for a nice mixture of barbecue sauce and pork grease to run down their arms. And there I sat odd one out.
It wasn’t a political thing. Oh, please. I can sniff a Coach store from a mile away and I love to stick my head into a brand new bag to get high off of the smell of leather. It was just an ‘eh’ thing. I was never all that interested in meat so why bother. So going back wasn’t an issue. I braved the meat section of the co-op (still a dirty, liberal, hippy who eats that free range, grass fed $28 per burger stuff) and picked up some beef for a salad. I marinated. Sautéed. And had some beef. There was no excitement or thrill or sudden need to vomit. There was no major declaration unlike when I stopped and made a stand against my parents. My mother: “Ok, that’s nice”. My father: “The fuck?!?”
That is no declaration until today when I was smelled bacon. I was that dog in running laps around a table saying “baconbaconbaconbaconbaconbacon…BACON!!” So I had some bacon. You know, prior to vegetarianism I hated bacon. When it came to pork I was disinterested. Chops were rammed down my throat with a side of menacing threat and sausage could only be in link form. But once I took a bite of that bacon today? Everything gray turned to a beautiful blue. The sun peeked out a little more and birds chirped on my shoulders. And little mice started doing my chores while dwarves whistled while I worked. I think ‘delicious’ is the word I’m looking for here.
I’m now anxiously awaiting an email from my friend Torrie, telling me to step away from the barbecue pit and put down the hot dog. But once bacon has its hold on you, it’s so hard to pry it lose. There it is attached to you and your taste buds they remember as I finally understand the fuss and the fanfare. That crispy, smoky, sweetness. The melt in your mouth sensation. My god, Internet. I completely and totally get it.