Bon Voyage, Bon Appetit

Seven years ago, the thought occurred to me that I might have been getting burned out on teaching. I had only been at it for four full years, but I wondered if I had it in me to continue, or if I wouldn't have been better off in another line of work. On the advice of my department chair at Wootton (Kim Boldon, a wonderful mentor, now the school's principal), I decided to take the summer off the ruminate on my future in teaching.

The time off turned out to be a good idea. In the fall, I returned to school re-energized and while I've had the occasional moment of doubt, I'm still going strong seven years later. Actually, the summer of 2010 turned out to be a pivotal summer for me, both professionally and personally. In August, I met my now-wife, which was, I'd say, a significant development, but that's a story for another time. In late June, already starting to wonder how I'd spend the next two months of my summer, I responded to a post on Craigslist: a new online newspaper was looking for a restaurant critic. I had no way of knowing that by responding to the post, I was signing myself up for a seven-year journey through the D.C. culinary world, that would continue until October 24, 2017, a date on the distant horizon.

The post on Craigslist was already a week old when I read it, and since the position sounded too good to be true, I assumed it had already been snatched up. But I decided to throw my hat in the ring anyway: I wrote a quick article on Firehook Bakery, a beloved local coffee place in my neighborhood of Cleveland Park in Northwest D.C., which I patronized three times a week on average. I was surprised when, a day later, I received a call from an unfamiliar number. It was Wendy Thompson, the editor of D.C. Spotlight. She had liked my writing and was calling to ask if I would be her new restaurant critic. I remember feeling that I was being punked. Surely, it couldn't have been this easy to secure a job as a restaurant critic. I could write proficiently, sure, but I had no food background to speak of - and, aside from my teaching, no real writing experience to speak of either. At this point, in the thick of my bachelorhood, I was often happy to call a Hot Pocket dinner.

But for Wendy, my shortcomings were apparently trumped by my adequacy as a writer and my willingness to accept a rate of $30 per 800-word article. She asked me which restaurant I wished to review first. What I heard was: "Please choose a restaurant from well outside your price range where you would like to dine for free." I wondered what any restaurant would stand to gain from giving a free meal to a twenty-something kid, so that he could write an article for some obscure paper that might reach an audience in the single digits. (Actually, now that I think of it, I've never received a reasonable answer to this question.) But it wasn't for me to say. I chose The Source, Wolfgang Puck's Asian fusion bistro in the same building at the Newseum - still one of the best restaurants in D.C. - and next thing I knew, I had a dinner reservation for one at 7:00 on Tuesday night.

It turned out to be simultaneously one of the best and one of the most awkward dinners I've ever had. I half expected to be turned away when I gave my name to the hostess. "Alex who? D.C. what?" But instead, I was told that the chef was expecting me, and I was seated at a table for one in the middle of a crowded dining room. I'm normally not one to mind dining alone, but when I do it, I usually pick a casual place for a quick dinner. My meal at The Source lasted every bit of two and a half hours. The restaurant was treating me to a special tasting menu and the food came out fast and furious, each mini course with a half glass of wine to go with it. I think there were about ten courses in all but I'm not sure: I lost count after eight. Having no companion, no reading material and very little to distract me from food and drink, I ended up overindulging in both. At around 10, I waddled back to the Metro uncomfortably full and more than a little tipsy. The food was outstanding though, and my notes on each dish were meticulous. (The least I could do was report accurately on this lavish free meal.) I wrote my article the next day, a bit tentatively. I felt laughably under-qualified to write about this or any restaurant, and I wondered just who exactly would care what I had to say about food.

I faked my way through the review though, and the more reviews I wrote, the better I got at faking. My doubts would continue to dog me, though. I'm probably my own toughest writing critic, but I always felt limited by my lack of real knowledge of food preparation and my weaknesses as a descriptive writer. But I knew a bit about D.C., and so I tried to compensate with descriptions of each restaurant's neighborhood and a list of its chef's accomplishments. I learned quickly that it depressed me to read Tom Sietsema's reviews: matching his lively voice, culinary knowledge and audacious opinions would have been impossible. I contented myself with the reminder that no one was reading D.C. Spotlight for the foodie insider scoop (provided anyone was reading it at all).

My reviews were overwhelmingly positive - even saccharine in tone. I admit, this positivity came partly from a misguided sense of obligation to the restaurant for feeding me. (I can only imagine this attitude is poison to professional critics.) But also - and I realize this is probably evidence of my unsophisticated palate - I enjoyed not only every restaurant in the seven years, but almost every dish too. I concluded early on that I'm just not discerning enough to be a real restaurant critic. Even after all the great meals, I never lost my taste for Hot Pockets. And besides, criticizing a slightly overcooked lamb shank or an over-seasoned bisque would have made me feel spoiled.

So instead of complaining, I spent seven years raving about every dish I ever had. "Integrity is for the professionals," I joked with friends (or maybe only half-joked), "I'll say anything to keep the free meals coming."

Some highlights from the seven year run:

- Dinner with celebrity chef Susur Lee at his D.C. restaurant Zentan. I assumed he would just make a little cameo - he's a really big deal, after all - but for two hours, Susur Lee sat and talked with us (a group of maybe six or seven reporters) while his staff served us an endless parade of Asian fusion dishes. He was an interesting and humble guy, too.

- At Food, Wine and Company in Bethesda, I tried my first oysters. And at the end of the meal, I came home with about a week's worth of doggy bags.

- I attended the 2012 RAMMY nominations in D.C. These are the annual awards given to restaurants in the beltway area. Once again, I felt I had no business being there, but it made for some fascinating people watching. And I filled up on little prosciutto and melon appetizers.

- My review of Brabo in Alexandria, Virginia just so happened to coincide with Maya and my first Valentine's Day. We were treated to a seven-course meal with wine pairings for each course. Still our best Valentine's Day to date, I think.

- The chef at Farmers and Fishers in Georgetown was a super nice guy who served us just about everything on the menu - including an epic burger with crusts made out of grilled cheese sandwiches. (Maya brought it home and pawned it off on her brother.) Again, doggy bags for a week.

- Press dinners were often lavish, but could also be dull, awkward affairs - especially when I was seated boring, pretentious people from publications I had never heard of. At one such dinner, at Blue Duck Tavern, our server told us that dessert was "hay ice cream." When I expressed surprise, my neighbor told me with an entirely straight face, "Hay is very in right now." (Also, this particular dinner took place during a Red Sox play-off game, so every two minutes or so, I had to excuse myself to run to the bathroom so I could check the score in peace.)

So why did I decide to quit? There are a few reasons: 1 - As you can guess, the twins take up a significant chunk of my time, which makes it hard to justify frequent trips to D.C. - especially in the middle of the week. 2 - While I certainly enjoy eating food, I have to admit I'm a little tired of writing about it. I don't consider myself a skilled descriptive writer. My wheelhouse, I think, is first person narrative (like this post) and D.C. Spotlight encouraged me not to use first person, so I really couldn't play to my strengths. 3 - For the last two or three years, I've had the sneaking suspicion that the only people who really read my food reviews are my mom and dad, my wife and my friend Andy (God bless him). Not that I blame the majority of my friends for skipping them. 4 - I don't blame my friends for skipping them because let's face it: these "reviews" were basically puff pieces. I place reviews in quotes because it's hard to define them as honest assessments of a restaurant's strengths and weaknesses. More accurately, they were restaurant profiles, written in a wide-eyed "Hooray for Everything" tone (as mandated by my editor at D.C. Spotlight).

I'll miss this gig a lot - but not as much as I'll miss telling people that I have a part-time job reviewing restaurants. What I won't miss is trying to feign interest when some solicitous manager tells me where the heirloom tomatoes have been sourced from. As though this information could be potentially helpful or interesting to anyone.

Cap-oat-ccino

Blog Assignment #5

This entry is modeled on "Big Boy," by David Sedaris. For this one, I want you to tell a story about something odd and funny that has happened to you. Like the incident David Sedaris retells, it should be fairly mundane. Avoid a big moral of the story here. Your only job is to tell the story in an amusing way.

Your must contain at least one example of each of the following techniques: parallel structure, assonance and dialogue.

Shoot for between 650 and 750 words. (Sedaris' essay is 713.)

_______________________________________________________________________

This story also appears on the website 404words.com, which features "palm-sized stories" of 404 words or fewer. In order to be able to submit the story to this site, I had to trim it down so that it no longer fits my suggested word count range.

Note: The website accompanies the story with what looks to be a pleasant and appetizing latte. It's basically the polar opposite of the coffee I describe in the story. Mine looked more like this:

Capp-oat-ccino

Nick and I were driving back from a rather disappointing day in Pittsburgh. It was supposed to have been a weekend, and we were supposed to have seen a baseball game, but Mother Nature had other plans. Instead, it had been a day of wandering around in the rain, and eating everything in sight, which had its merits – but ultimately felt a little lacking without the baseball.

About halfway between Pittsburgh and D.C. we stopped in Breezewood, Pennsylvania, a trucker’s mecca with some of the best rest stops anywhere. Of particular note is the largest Sheetz gas station I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, after a two hour drive, on a dark, wet evening, a stop was in order. This Sheetz seemed likely to stock just the sort of artificial, sugary cappuccino that I seem to crave only on road trips. Sure enough: the machine inside had ten flavors of Cappuccino, each crazier than the next. It seemed unadventurous to select a flavor as mundane as French Vanilla or Hazelnut. So I pressed the button for the “Brown Sugar Raisin Oatmeal” Cappuccino. I paid at the counter and eagerly awaited my first sip.

I took that sip in the parking lot, which was a good thing – because I wasn’t expecting to find solid chunks floating in my coffee. Big solid chunks, which I spat out onto the pavement. Clearly, the milk must have been curdled. On one level, this was oddly comforting – I hadn’t previously been certain that machine cappuccino was made with genuine milk. Apparently it was. However, this didn’t override the fact that I was now trying my best not to chew on pieces of this milk. I walked back inside to demand an explanation.

“There are chunks in my coffee. The milk is all curdled,” I said to the matronly cashier, placing my cup down on the counter.

“What kind did you try sir?”

“What?”

“Did you buy the Oatmeal flavor?” she asked, in what I took to be a somewhat judgmental tone.

“Yes. Why?”

"It’s Brown Sugar Raisin Capp-OAT-ccino. It has oats in it,” she said, tiredly.

“What? Why?”

“Would you like to try another flavor, sir?”

Adventure over. I chickened out and filled a new cup with some boring flavor of cappuccino. Still, no regrets. I’ve already forgotten every cup of French Vanilla I’ve ever had, but I’m unlikely to forget my first and last Capp-oat-ccino.