productive goal-keeping, or, if you’d like fries with that

Swede and I spent a month in DC this winter, and the night before we were to head back to Chicago, we happened to be cruising up Connecticut Avenue, just short of my old ‘hood.

“Medium Rare,” I pointed out to him as we drove past a strip of restaurants. “I hear it’s supposed to be good.”

“Want to go?” Swede asked. “We can go for dinner tonight.”

You guys, it’s true. I DO have a type. I obviously have taken to dating geniuses.

And also, five bonus points for spontaneous dinner outings!

Amirite?

Is there anything better?

Maybe spontaneous popcorn popping and movie night.

It’s a toss up, really.

We called a couple of friends to meet us and our awesome friend The Republican responded with great enthusiasm, as it seems that Medium Rare is one of her new favorite restaurants.

And after our visit there, I can understand why.

Restaurant #2 of 12: Medium Rare 

Pros:

The Food. Now obviously, as I discussed with The Publican, I am wholly on board with meat. But unlike the Publican, Medium Rare specializes in one dish: Steak frites. And they do a superb job, simply superb. They butter you up with some crusty French bread, then serve up a lightly dressed mixed green salad, both of which are delicious, but then, then they get to the true highlight of the meal.

They’ll bring out your steak—cooked to order, of course—in two helpings, starting with one portion, drizzled with their secret sauce that is savory and smooth, slightly creamy, yes?, and essentially a tray of fries. (Which, of course, are made even better when dragged through the secret sauce.) And when you polish that off (And you will. It’s okay. Embrace it.) they bring you out the second portion of your steak. And then you can roll around in beefy ecstasy. (Again: you will. It’s okay. Embrace it.)

Whether or not you’ll be up for dessert, well, I can’t really say. We passed, but that’s not to say that the selection wasn’t tempting. I was just full of beef and didn’t want to ruin my steak high.

The Price. All that food I just mentioned? (Minus dessert.) $20. Yes, you read that correctly. Beverages not included. I’m not really sure you can find a better deal at such quality in DC.

Brick Walls. I’m a sucker for brick interior brick walls. There. I said it. And being that the restaurant is at ground level, the brick walls and open(ish) kitchen create an intimate environment.

Cons:

Seating. The tables themselves are fine (though a bit on top of each other). My con on this one is that they won’t let you sit until all members of your party are there, which I find incredibly annoying and off-putting. As a patron, it tells me that you either think I’m cheap and I’m going to sit there drinking water for an hour waiting for the final member of my party to arrive or you only want me to be in your restaurant for as little time as possible so you can turn as many tables as possible. Neither of these are feelings you want to blanket your patrons with, and both are insulting, leaving me feeling like more chattel rather than a welcomed diner.

Service. At least, our server, whose name I’ve forgotten. But what I remember is that he was mildly surly and had a vague air of annoyance any time he had to come over to our table.

Service can really make or break a restaurant for me, and if the food was not so scrumptious, I probably wouldn’t return to Medium Rare. But the food is that good, and well worth plunking down $30 (tax, tip, all that stuff), and I’d go back in a heartbeat.

On a scale of one to Go?

Go.

Right now, in fact.

You won’t be sorry.

Take me with you?

Or maybe I’ll just see you there.

photo friday: viewing party

 

So when I mentioned that Swede and I went bowling at the White House, I left out the part about how he scored a strike on his first roll.

That’s right, all. I’m dating the Big Lebowski.

As such, we felt is on right that we celebrate with white russians afterward. Well, he celebrated with a white russian. I had a glass of cabernet.

Either way, the celebratory merriment happened at POV, where we’ve wanted to go for some time now. It’s often touted as having the best views in DC. “You can see into the Obama’s backyard!” is a common descriptor. And you…can…kind of. Really, you can see straight onto the roof of the Treasury. And from another vantage point you can see the Washington monument, the Capitol, planes landing at Reagan, and the general buzz of city life.

And it really is one of the best views I’ve had the pleasure of seeing, with the lights in the bar dimmed, and the lights outside glowing bright.

“This is a pretty great view,” Swede and I agreed.

And as an added bonus, we got to cross one more place off our ever-growing list of “Places To Go And Things To Do.”

photo friday: shoes to fill

For those of you who know me on the Facebook, you know from whence this photo comes. For those of you who do not, these are presidential bowling shoes you’re looking at.

After we returned from vacation, Swede and I hit up the Truman Lanes at the White House for some bowling. Before you get your laces in a knot, his high school alumni group sponsored the event.

I totally should have just lied to you right then and been all, “Oh, yah, we bowl with Barry and Michelle twice a month. How do you think Michelle got those guns of hers?”

But I’m not a very good liar.

So there’s the truth.

I’m also not much of a thief, and Sister #1 was disappointed that I didn’t walk out with these shoes on.

“I make it a policy not to bogart shit from the White House,” I said.

She said I should rethink my policies.

 

march photo challenge: day thirty-one

Today’s theme: END

Where she stops, nobody knows.

photo friday: wherein it’s time for happy hour

Back on President’s Day, Swede, his roommate and I took a trip out to Catoctin Creek distillery as part of Swede’s birthday extravaganza, and, well, because we are partial to tours that hand us free booze at the end.

Thankfully, this was pre-Lenten promise to not drink during the week, though to be honest, I’m not much of a straight hard booze drinker, and handed off most of my samples to Swede. Except for the sample of bourbon maple syrup.

That one I kept for myself.

And then immediately wanted to eat a short stack or a plate of silver dollars.

Yes, it was that good.

(For the record, however, what you’re seeing in the glass is not maple syrup. It’s Catoctin’s Roundstone Rye, which, if you’re a rye drinker, is apparently pretty delicious. Me, I preferred their gin, and no, not a soul from Catoctin Creek is paying me to day that. Of my own volition I will tell you that if you’d like a boozy good time, pay those friendly distillers a visit. You won’t be sorry.)

photo friday: shminter

To say that this winter has been mild would be an understatement. The past couple weeks we’ve been in DC have been especially warm, though that hasn’t ended sightings of commuters bundled up in scarves, gloves and hats as they bustle to and fro. Which means that hasn’t ended me rolling my eyes at said commuters and yelling, “It is 50 degrees outside! This is not Antarctica! It’s not even Alaska! Their mountains are much bigger!”

Okay, I didn’t really yell that. Except that one time, at that one girl. But it was in my head, so I don’t think it really counts.

And so now, at the risk of bringing another snowpacolypse down on our heads, I’m just going to go ahead and say it: Happy Spring, everyone!

And I swear to God if I see you walking through McPherson Square bundled up like Nanook of the goddamned North I will crack you upside the head.

conversations, part 1

Swede and I have been spending some time in DC, partaking in the joys of the Walnut House’s front porch, swigging cocktails, thinking deep thoughts, creating a ruckus, and in general annoying the shit out of his cats.

What the-- Are you f-ing with me? Dammit, why didn’t anyone TELL me you were coming back? Shit.

I’m not joking you guys. We showed up at midnight, right after the Super Bowl, tired and vaguely sore from sitting in a car for 12 hours and eyes strained from reading road signs along the Penna Turnpike because unless you suddenly decide to take up arms and go on a sno-ball binge at every rest stop you come across, there is not a damn thing that makes driving through Pennsylvania interesting. And we walked in to two cats who were, in a word, Pissed.

And since then, they’ve continued to be Pissed. This is not abnormal, of course. Since Swede and I started dating they’ve been irritated. The one doesn’t get why I don’t love him, and the other one is angry that I’ve stolen her man. A) I’m allergic and 2) OPPOSABLE THUMBS.

But now, they’re mostly pissed at Swede for leaving them for two months, though it’s just silliness, if you ask me, because let’s face it—they were left in the care of Swede’s very capable and fabulous roommate, who loves these furballs tremendously and does not ever throw them in Kitty Jail for being annoying like Swede does.

As of late, I’ve tried my best to make peace with the cats. The one, whom I like to call Lady Gaga because she’s freaky and kind of a diva, and I have reinstated our long-standing agreement that we will not bother each other and stay out of each others’ way, and she can continue to be irritated with me and I will continue to sneeze whenever she’s around.

But the other one. Well. We’ve been having a lot of conversations lately that are not unlike negotiating with a mute toddler.

Me: Seriously, dude, stop meowing. You have food in your bowl. Oh. I see you barfed in your bowl. Awesome. Well done you.

Him: * blink *  * blink  *

 

Me: Stop eating the flowers.

Him: Meow?

Me: Yes, now.

Him: Mrrrw.

 

Me: No, you can’t go outside. The last time you jumped out the back window all you did was walk around to the front of the house and show up on the front porch looking confused.

Him: Mrow.

Me: Well it’s not my fault you’re not adventurous.

Him: * blink *  * blink *

 

Me: I know you like the roommate better than me. YOU MAKE ME ALLERGIC. It’s all I can do to stay in the room with you sometimes. Not because of the allergies, though. Just because you’re you. Why can’t you be like the other one, and skitter away when I walk in the room? WHY DON’T YOU FEAR ME?

Him: * blink *  * blink *

 

Me: Listen, dude, I know you wish Swede would dump me and date a chick who likes cats and who is not made allergic by them. But the heart wants what it wants. And his heart wants me. And I want you declawed.

Him: Mrow?

Me: That’s what you get for scratching up my shit while I’m gone. And you can warn the other one, too, when you have your next catnap, i.e. when I know you two are acting like you’re napping but are really plotting how to kill us in our sleep. I’ve got my eye on you, you know. OPPOSABLE THUMBS, BITCHES.

Him: * blink *

I’ve got my eye on YOU, woman. Be afraid, be very afr-- Wait, is that new food?

photo friday: things past

I got a new laptop this week, and am mid-process of having half my stuff available to me, and the other half stuck on my old laptop, which I can only use sparingly because The Swede took my power cord back to DC with him, and, well, my battery on that laptop is for shit.

But that’s neither here nor there. What IS here is that I was going through some old photos on an external hard drive and came across this one, which is from a trip to a place that would become my absolute favorite winery in Virginia, Aspen Dale.

The Swede and I first went out there around(ish) this time last year, and I fell in love. You know how wine people always tell you to “drink that with red meat” or “sip this with a soft cheese,” or “for God’s sake, woman, stop guzzling”? The treat of Aspen Dale is that they actually GIVE you a plate of little bits of food that pair well with their wines, like a small piece of pheasant sausage, or a chunk of dark chocolate, a small round bite of goat cheese.

Delectable.

The grounds were simply gorgeous as well, which sealed my love. So much so that it was the last stop on my Go Away Wine Tour 2011 in March that The Swede arranged for me and the gals.

But I hope it won’t be the last stop forever. Something that good and wonderful should be experienced over and over and over, as many times as possible.

photo friday: beer me

If you pay attention to any of the food and booze news around DC, then you’re probably aware that the District and its surrounding environs are starting to explode with local breweries. It’s the yin to the Virginia and Maryland wine country’s yang, if you will. We hit up the newest one to open a couple weekends ago called Port City Brewing Company in Alexandria. Good beer, take-home growlers, friendly staff, and an awesome way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I’m so glad this place opened up….right when I’m moving back to Chicago….tomorrow. Isn’t that always the way?

 

10 things about dc, or: i’ll miss you, our nation’s capital, except when i won’t

In no particular order…

10 Things I’ll Miss About DC:

1. Metro. I realize Washingtonians’ eyes may be bugging out at that answer, but it’s true. I don’t care about the delays or waiting for the trains, and usually I have a reverse commute, so it’s not often I am wedged into an overcrowded Metro car. And despite my proneness toward mild motion sickness, my commuting has always been my time for a little quiet, decompress at the end of the day. And when I am coming and going on Metro from The Swede’s it’s always such a pleasure to see the city waking up or powering down for the night, the sun on either side of the tracks, rising or setting. (To get to The Swede’s house the Metro goes above ground, whereas to and from my house it’s all in the underbelly tunnels.)
2. Vinoteca. How can it not be something I’ll miss? It’s where I re-met and fell in love with The Swede. Plus, they have an amazing happy hour. Which may or may not have had something to do with me falling in love with The Swede.
3. My apartment. Holiday brunch. Chatting into the wee hours of the night with my gals, with The Swede. Tuesday Night Dinners. Oh, if these walls could talk. Actually, you know what? It’s probably better that they don’t.
4. Baltimore. Yes, I realize it’s a separate city. I realize that very, very much. But if you know me at all then you know that Baltimore was one of my happiest discoveries when I moved out here, and where I met some of the most awesome in my life, and I’ll miss living so close to it. Baltimore: you’re not even bored.
5. Pat Brogan. HI PAT BROGAAAAN! *waves at radio as if Pat Brogan can see it*
6. Rock Creek Parkway. OMFG, it was like a whole new world opened up when I learned how to make Rock Creek work to my advantage. And in the fall, the beauty of driving under an orange and gold canopy of changing leaves is nothing less than stunning.
7. The GW Parkway. Apparently I have a thing for parkways. (Then again, apparently so does DC. This city is rife with parkways.) But there’s a stretch (that’s mostly under construction right about now) that takes you from National Airport to the GW bridge (also something that I will miss) that parallels the Potomac. You’re on the Virginia side, and the view as it stretches across water is of the monuments, each in a row down the line. Magnificent, day or night.
8. Vace Deli. Best. Frozen. Lasagna. Also, Best. Pizza. Dough. It is because of Vace that I concocted one of the Tuesday Night Dinner favorites, “The Classic” pizza with tomato, fresh mozz, and prosciutto.
9. Wegmans. It is, far and away, the best grocery store in the universe, and they just opened one up about 30 minutes from my apartment. And if you think I won’t drive 30 minutes to do my grocery shopping, then you clearly do not know me at all. My only stipulation is that I’m allowed to eat lunch in the café before or after shopping. I can’t help it. I love their Asian bar.
10. My roofdeck. Okay, so it’s not mine alone, technically any resident can partake of its wonder. But people don’t often go up there. I, however, frequented the roofdeck enough in the warmer months for my share as well as that of the entire fifth and fourth floor residents. I love the view that stretches out in front of you, like you’re sitting on top of the city.

10 Things I Won’t Miss About DC:

1. Walking to the metro. Do you know how many bags and other sundry items I carry with me on a daily basis? My average is 5.64. Plus, I am a sweat-er. The littlest movement and I’m perspiring, which is just uncomfortable when you’re trying not to be sweaty. Add eleventymillion bags and that equals not cool.
2. People who don’t know how to drive. Specifically, merge onto an expressway. Seriously, people? Are you waiting for a goddamned engraved invitation?
3. My apartment. Damn, this place is small.
4. Arlington. I’m sorry, Arlingtonites. I really am. But I get lost every fucking time I go there. I like Old Town, though. Does that count for something?
5. Alarmist weather behavior. Listen, I know this metropolitan area does not have the resources to handle bad weather (see: Snowpacolypse 2010). I get it. But I rejoice in the day when I wake up to a half inch of snow and turn on my local NPR station and do not have to listen to 15 minutes of school delays and/or closings.
6. Cupcakes. I’m over it. This city is saturated with cupcakeries. Please pass me a bag of chips.
7. The Redskins. Holy Christ, listen, Redskins fans: your team sucks. Accept it. Give up the ghost, you’re not going to be good for a very long time. Trust me, I’m a Bears fan, I know these things. Sure, we’ve had a pretty good team lately, but there was a span of many several years when we sucked beyond sucking.
8. Lack of good gyros. It’s probably a good thing that I’ve lived this long without easy access to perfectly seasoned, compressed lamb meat hot off the spit and wrapped in a warm, buttered pita then slathered with tangy tzatziki sauce. But really, it’s not something a girl can go without forever, and after the past few trips home, well, DC, you just don’t compare, or even come close, to Munster Gyro.
9. Having separate grocery and liquor stores. It’s inconvenient. Period. I look forward to one-stop-shopping at The Jewel or Chez Dominick’s.
10. People who wear hats, gloves, and scarves when it’s 50 degrees out. It’s not that fucking cold. Grow a pair.