It beat puking in Goa
Still an hour to go, but I think we dodged the bullet here.
I was a bit worried at the start of the day, when K inadvertently woke me up at 7:45 while rather sweetly attempting to surprise me with freshly-baked breakfast rolls. I didn't quite see the sweetness at the time (as a general rule, once woken, I cannot fall back asleep), especially as the rolls seemed to represent a lot of time and kitchen destruction for what even K admitted later were rather uninspired and insipid doughy lumps. He's actually a pretty good cook and baker, K. He's just an awful lot better the second time through a recipe.
In the afternoon, we saw a matinee of Speed the Plow at the DCJCC, and, while I wasn't crazy about either the play or the production, it was decent enough, and easily what I would've picked out for myself among the current available theatrical choices, so points scored for K.
We stayed for a post-performance discussion of Mamet'srant book The Wicked Son, which (the discussion, that is) was quite interesting. I made a mental note to myself for future birthday planning: Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe = bad; Klatschen with the Modern Jews of DC = good. The Judaic leitmotif across the years, is, incidentally, entirely coincidental. I think.
Dinner was at an ostensibly romantic little all-vegetarian restaurant, the oddly-named "Vegetate," untried by either of us. We liked the ambiance (except for the anti-aesthetic photos on the walls), and both thought the menu was both intriguing and reasonable...until our first dish arrived, both morsels of it. Y'know how when a menu describes a dish and lists a few ingredients, you tend to sort of figure they're just hitting the highlights? And that other things actually go into it? My baked cauliflower was exactly as described on the tin: one piece of unseasoned blackened cauliflower, surrounded by a tablespoon each of the other listed ingredients. We both went into "Ah, right. Tapas" mode, while re-evaluating the menu and wishing we'd had lunch.
Don't get me wrong: what there was on the plate -- what little of it there was, and excepting that pathetic piece of charred cauliflower -- ranged from not bad (the black tea polenta) to pretty good (the spicy shitake ragout). And the overall meal experience was tipped into the delightful range of the hedonic scale by an O'Reilly's pinot noir. But, other than having the good judgment to stock Oregon pinot noir, the restaurant doesn't really get credit for that. And even it had, it would've lost it with that profoundly irritating pomo nonsense of presenting an unadorned vegetable in its naked glory like some sort of precious bijou. (It's cauliflower. Get over it.) The conclusion we both reached independently was that Vegetate was attempting to be an American version of Brighton's Terre a Terre, but that, basically, Vegetate wasn't worthy to braise Terre a Terre's tempeh. (Italophile and other veg Londoners: that one's worth the trip.)
After three entrees, we were still famished. The pumpkin gelato dessert sounded intriguing, but I think we'd both flashed on a vision, at about the same time, of an elegantly-presented thimbleful of custard. K had told me earlier that he hadn't gotten/baked me a cake, mindful of my attempt to cut down on sweets. We'd joked at the time about getting a Carvel ice-cream cake, which is a bit of nostalgia both of us ex-New Yorkers mention wistfully from time to time, but neither of us ever really feel we've banked the calorie offsets to afford.
"Do you want to..." K began shyly, looking down at his placemat.
"Yes," I said. "Oh god, yes."
We bolted Vegetate (still a discomfiting name. Perhaps they'd find more energy if they tried eating?) and headed straight for the Giant supermarket.
"It's like a different dessert every night of the week," I babbled happily to K, twenty minutes after the feeding frenzy. "Totally frozen: one taste. Almost melted: a totally different experience. Same for every state in between. And the thing is: they're all really good."
In the end, I guess, it's the age-old story: High culture meets low culture. Low culture has chocolate fudgy bits. High culture doesn't stand a chance.
I was a bit worried at the start of the day, when K inadvertently woke me up at 7:45 while rather sweetly attempting to surprise me with freshly-baked breakfast rolls. I didn't quite see the sweetness at the time (as a general rule, once woken, I cannot fall back asleep), especially as the rolls seemed to represent a lot of time and kitchen destruction for what even K admitted later were rather uninspired and insipid doughy lumps. He's actually a pretty good cook and baker, K. He's just an awful lot better the second time through a recipe.
In the afternoon, we saw a matinee of Speed the Plow at the DCJCC, and, while I wasn't crazy about either the play or the production, it was decent enough, and easily what I would've picked out for myself among the current available theatrical choices, so points scored for K.
We stayed for a post-performance discussion of Mamet's
Dinner was at an ostensibly romantic little all-vegetarian restaurant, the oddly-named "Vegetate," untried by either of us. We liked the ambiance (except for the anti-aesthetic photos on the walls), and both thought the menu was both intriguing and reasonable...until our first dish arrived, both morsels of it. Y'know how when a menu describes a dish and lists a few ingredients, you tend to sort of figure they're just hitting the highlights? And that other things actually go into it? My baked cauliflower was exactly as described on the tin: one piece of unseasoned blackened cauliflower, surrounded by a tablespoon each of the other listed ingredients. We both went into "Ah, right. Tapas" mode, while re-evaluating the menu and wishing we'd had lunch.
Don't get me wrong: what there was on the plate -- what little of it there was, and excepting that pathetic piece of charred cauliflower -- ranged from not bad (the black tea polenta) to pretty good (the spicy shitake ragout). And the overall meal experience was tipped into the delightful range of the hedonic scale by an O'Reilly's pinot noir. But, other than having the good judgment to stock Oregon pinot noir, the restaurant doesn't really get credit for that. And even it had, it would've lost it with that profoundly irritating pomo nonsense of presenting an unadorned vegetable in its naked glory like some sort of precious bijou. (It's cauliflower. Get over it.) The conclusion we both reached independently was that Vegetate was attempting to be an American version of Brighton's Terre a Terre, but that, basically, Vegetate wasn't worthy to braise Terre a Terre's tempeh. (Italophile and other veg Londoners: that one's worth the trip.)
After three entrees, we were still famished. The pumpkin gelato dessert sounded intriguing, but I think we'd both flashed on a vision, at about the same time, of an elegantly-presented thimbleful of custard. K had told me earlier that he hadn't gotten/baked me a cake, mindful of my attempt to cut down on sweets. We'd joked at the time about getting a Carvel ice-cream cake, which is a bit of nostalgia both of us ex-New Yorkers mention wistfully from time to time, but neither of us ever really feel we've banked the calorie offsets to afford.
"Do you want to..." K began shyly, looking down at his placemat.
"Yes," I said. "Oh god, yes."
We bolted Vegetate (still a discomfiting name. Perhaps they'd find more energy if they tried eating?) and headed straight for the Giant supermarket.
"It's like a different dessert every night of the week," I babbled happily to K, twenty minutes after the feeding frenzy. "Totally frozen: one taste. Almost melted: a totally different experience. Same for every state in between. And the thing is: they're all really good."
In the end, I guess, it's the age-old story: High culture meets low culture. Low culture has chocolate fudgy bits. High culture doesn't stand a chance.
3 Comments:
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Anonymous said...
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- 3:48 AM
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Anonymous said...
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- 4:39 AM
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Anonymous said...
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- 11:17 AM
Post a CommentMy Dear Ms. E:
Delighted to hear that all's well that ends well, to coin a phrase. In my community college classes and tutoring at the local high school, I can always count on meeting up with recent ex-pats of the PRC. I love to regal these sons and daughters of Han (who have no idea who the Emperor Han was--I think my Mao books were a little too liberal in their translations) with my favorite stories about Dr. Sun, the Long March, the Cultural Revolution--pretty much everything except the Tiananmen Square Riots of 1989. I do tell my new friends of that wonderful week we spent in Beijing, and how in the Great Hall of the People you kept me from hocking a loogie at the chair where Kissinger sat. I also tell of the three biggest disappointments I suffered at the capital of the Middle Kingdom. First, how I burst into tears when the Museum of Chinese Military History was closed, and my hand signals explaining that I was 1) from Oregon, USA and 2) knew something about Chinese history were not enough to convince the woman (who spoke no English whatsoever) to let me in. Second, how shocked SHOCKED I was that the granite stones of Tiananmen Square were literally covered with old chewing gum. And finally, the part that never ceases to amaze my audiences: The very worst part about my trip to China was the food. Do you want to know where the worst Chinese food in the world is served? Beijing.
No doubt you have blotted out the memory, but do you recall that restaurant where we ate a lunch of some noodle 'soup'? I use that meal by way of illustration. What do you do when you are a poor person, and you need to make chicken soup? First, boil the crap out of some chicken. Second, do NOT remove the grease, or chicken fat, that rises to the surface. Next, add a bunch of salt, so that the soup will have *A* flavor (god knows, it won't taste anything vaguely like 'chicken'). Then you stir the soup up like crazy, to mix all the chicken fat as evenly as you can through the mixture. Add a bunch of overcooked spagetti, stir it up some more. Dump in bowls and serve immediately. The overall effect is a somewhat salty, but still pretty much tasteless and greasy combination that makes a body wonder if maybe being an ugly american isn't all bad.
And before there is any more less than charitable things thrown at Vegi-gate (cf Watergate et al), might I remind you that meal we shared was **not** the worst meal you ate in Beijing? Perhaps you recall that afternoon you told me about, where you dined alone in the restaurant with swings instead of chairs. Now that was a good story.
All in all, I am delighted to hear that while the Bengals Chad Johnson calls himself 'Ocho cinco,' you are now a warmly esconced member of trenty ocho.
Regards--
Bill Abendroth
I have just eaten breakfast, yet my stomach is grumbling for Carvel. (Mental note for my late-December visit to the parents.)
In one of the numerous chef shuffles that happens in DC the chef who opened Vegetate moved to Viridian, on 14th St NW next to the Studio Theatre. We've had spotty service there but the food's generally quite good -- although I'm vaguely recalling that the chef who left Vegetate to go to Viridian has moved on and there's yet another chef there.
As for theatre, go see Edward II at the Shakespeare Theatre's new building. Skip Tamburlaine, unless you want to see it first in order to make Edward II seem as much better by comparison as it did for us.
Also: you've got birthday related email.
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