Busboys and Poets … and PC

Being annoyed with my inbox filling up [52 to date and growing] with reminders of their gathering/socials/information sessions, I caved; and for all the wrong reasons. They’re web site and recruiters explained plenty. My reasoning: checkout a new bookstore/bar/coffee shop I had heard about. Previous patrons mentioned it was “cool”. Upon entering, it’s immediately obvious why they selected this social establishment for their social gathering. Painted murals of peace advocates, like Rigoberta Menchu and Joan Baez, blanketed the walls alongside Bush-hating Iraq War slogans. The aura was that of a first-date. After listening to, in the reserved large back room that included a stage for poetic performances, a Malawi RPCV and two hopefuls who were dragging their feet to press the “Submit” button for their applications, and some PowerPoint slides put to indie rock with an iPod, I made a hegira for the door. Not needing a motivational boost, with my paperwork hasta luego, I was ready. But tonight, I was physically hungry.

Meandering back to the McPherson Metro, and ducking into another Mexican-Salvadorian dive, [I’ve come to accept the marriage of these two bordering nations as one cuisine in DC.] a wasted night was averted. Why is it that the rain exposes us to diamonds in the rough? Apparently, it’s not just the humidity it helps clear up, but an astute awareness is excreted from our stomachs. If not for a slight drizzle, one would walk right on past this place … again, as it rests quietly close to many densely populated high rises. The hole-in-the-wall is apparently romantically attached to Las Placitas on Capital Hill, which I’ve never tried. But if La Villa pollo a-la-brasa mirrors their grub, I’m running for Congress. Mounted on the entry-way bulletin board are 4x6 photos from former fiestas held at this casa. Senoritas es muy caliente!!! Crawling past the digital jukebox blasting Mariah Carey in Espanol, I plunked down on a bar stool, botching my order in pathetic Spanish to a very pleasant wait staff. One horchata and nachos ranchero w/ chicken later left one extremely pleased soon-to-be PCV.

DC translates into decaf

FOR ALL THE scenes this douche-hole enjoys flaunting, when the subject of good local coffee shops creep into a discussion, seldom do unpopular names rush to the lips. In an area where big business is the best friend to so many, [“There’s a good Starbucks ...” or “There’s a good Dunkin Donuts …”] chain locations are highly likely replacements for hole-in-the-wall recommendations; thus making DC the decaf zone for good local coffee shops in the United States. This is not to suggest none exist, au contraire, the ones that do, are quite good. It just needs to wake up and put more baristas inside, as well as beyond the beltway, that don’t wear green aprons and bake macaroons all morning.

Like what is being constructed early on for the upcoming presidential race, many in the mainstream media, in their infinite wisdom, are prematurely assigning each pundit to a tier level. Similarly, local coffee shops have their own stages; each with its own patronage [campaign followers] faithfully assigned to them.

First, like any grouping, in order to be highly successful and respected in the world of science, parameters and constants are to be established. Local: must be metro/short drive (5 miles or less) accessible. Coffee: limited to bean-based drinks, condensed pastry selection, and sandwiches. Nothing fried. Shop: cannot be part of, or affiliated with an existing organization. Sovereignty is key here. This same categorical formula can be applied to your town’s local candidate and coffee shop tier levels. Seriously, try it. Plug in the variables to this equation with your city’s local coffee shop scene, alongside its democratic candidates, but in reverse order to see the correlation between coffee shops and campaigns (i.e. very convenient² + only coffee² + one shop² = Tier 1 local coffee shop, and coupled with a current Tier 3 Democratic Presidential Candidate).

This is not a hypothesis, rather the culmination of many undergraduate, as well as weekend hours studying why some shops are more appealing than others. As you will recognize below, from a candidate’s perspective, it’s not always good to be on top:

Tier 1: Gravel and Kucinich

Who? Exactly, one you don’t know, the other you barely do; parallels to perfect local coffee shops. Greenberry’s, Mocha Hut’s, 14^th and U Café’s, and Java Shack’s, collapse here. Like having only your hometown populations familiar with you – let alone your campaign even existing – encapsulated are the hole-in-the-walls only the locals know. Like a surfer’s spot on the Big Island, these baristas, and their patrons, have very little tolerance for Euro trash-like behavior or dress. If you do get music, you will not recognize it. Classifieds en Espanol and CityPaper are available for your reading pleasure. You will be asked to return your dishes to a plastic bin in the back. An off limits area to the public where mad chemists can test new product, is heard of but rarely seen. There will be a minimum on all debit/credit card transactions; they don’t care, sans any cash, be prepared to pull out your platinum. Metro/subway/transit accessible 99% of the time.

Tier 2: Biden, Richardson, Dodd

One can run his mouth; the other knows how to be diplomatic. The other one is barely at this level, but should be in a higher tier. These fall under the Tivoli’s, Murky’s, Firehook’s umbrella; quality brew, and a decent environment. Tendencies are, but not limited to, high-speed hoarding and pastry overkill, however, good roasting and who really minds the pastry smell anyway? Only the slightest remnants of douchebagery occur. City papers and classified ad publications creep onto the shelves. Since there are only a few of these in an area, they need to cover a lot of territory, thus strategically opening on weekends, whist some of Tier 3 can often be found closed in a city’s financial district. Vehicle access is required 50% of the time.

Tier 3: Edwards, Clinton, Obama

One spends oodles on putting product in his hair, the other a NY Senator, and one who raises bazillions; it’s safe to say this is the mafia of coffee chains. These are the Starbuck’s, Dunkin Donuts’, Caribou Coffee’s … vomit … Cosi’s, Au Bu Pon’s, Panera’s … further vomiting. Monday morning lines mirror depression soup lines. The Times and Post are normally the only available reads. International, eclectic music selections fill ones ear drums. Pushing their own products to consumers often results in a free froufrou beverage of their choice, reducing half the original price for a bag of beans. Making you buy more. Again, vehicle access is required 50% of the time, lowering to 25% during the work week.

You’re Italy, I’m Indonesia

Fellow sophisticates, approaching a well-manicured espresso escape is not my cup of tea. Correlating high-priced Tiffany light fixtures, with well brewed coffee, is a miscalculation. You’re Italy, I’m Indonesia. I’m thatched roof, you’re expensive drapery. Furthermore, indicators of high quality brew are hidden in the subtle, less-sophisticated elements of a java hole-in-the-wall. Emphasis on less-expensive furnishings allow for focus to be placed on conjuring up new frothy inventions. Work from local artisans shrouding the old brick walls, or a separate corner for barista lab work to take place, are good signs – not red flags. A billion pastry options are; a billion classified ads on the corner bulletin board are not. Limiting to biscotti’s, croissants, and bagels, as well as the occasional sandwich, is essential.

If a place has a hard time being “Google’d”, it must be good; further suggesting that only locals know about it. Lacking a thatched roof, one small brick-walled oasis, that fuses local musicians with its beans, is tucked alongside the U St. corridor. Being caught of guard by meeting my aforementioned décor pre-qualifications, not one, but two musical acts resulted from a long wait to receive my mocha and dry pastry via the high-strung barista [Legend has it that he previously bounced people out of his shop for hogging the high-speed.]. Some of the best coffee artwork dotted the old brick edifice. Ethan Allen had been replaced by an eclectic Goodwill selection and potted plants. And, of course, everything from yoga lessons to Realtors could be found on the bulletin board above the cream and sugar. And, probably due to shop owner inflicted fear, not everyone has connected to the internet [see Coffee Shops and Computer Labs].

PC Update: ¡papeleo acabado!

In the words of Jack Nicholson [As Good As it Gets - 1997] “Done, done, done …” and really not all that bad. Some impediment occurred, I’ll spare the details, but all the “papeleo médico, dental y pscych” is in the mail. And now we wait.

Bar Hopping

Stop. I already know what's going through your cranium. This is probably going to be some top ten list for the best bars in DC, Salt Lake, Seattle, or Portland. Wrong. Rather than attempt to elaborate on what edifices serve up the best adult beverages, I'm imparting a morsel of wisdom on a different assortment of bars; one’s that assume a rectangular form, and come in tight plastic wrapping. Nothing remotely resembling shots or pints; highballs or martinis. Furthermore, if not consumed in a modest dosage, can cause you to “fall of your rocker” and perform unfamiliar acts to the rest of society – such as running or biking.

While on a highly successful unemployment binge, I delved deeper into the world of energy/protein/good-for-you bars. Insistent on removing the Michelin from my waistline and possesing endless amounts of time, my excuse tank was on empty. I didn’t feel like doing the shakes or smoothies science experiment; rather a quicker, easier formula that included all the healthy shit (i.e., vitamins and minerals) one shoves into a blender. Considering the unwavering commitment and focus I possess towards good health and exercise; bar area top ten lists are not far off the horizon.

Before falling off the horse again and to keep you occupied, three rectangular objects taken at various parts of the day, serve a very utilitarian purpose, often found for a $1 and don’t taste like cardboard:

1. Zone Perfect Strawberry Yogurt (Breakfast) – Be realistic. You don’t have time to sit down, make a bowl of cold cereal, and watch a rerun of Saved by the Bell. Unless you’re my routine ridden cousin, even shaving becomes debatable when the fire alarm goes off. [Side note: very successful beard was grown during aforementioned binge.] Good taste for the morning. Out of Stock: grab the graham cracker or mint flavor.

2. PowerBar Harvest Oatmeal Raisin Cookie (Lunch) – It helps if you actually like oatmeal raisin cookies. If not, the proselytizing icing makes a convert out of you. I tried a few others from the Harvest collection, but still came back to the ORC. It’s like a quad espresso in plastic. Taken about an hour or so before you leave the office, it will make the jolt out the door even easier. [2^nd Side note: a quad espresso is the last thing I need.] Out of Stock: any one of the other Harvest selections.

3. PureProtein Smore's (Dessert) – This is the tiramisu of protein bars. I am hooked. There is crack in it. Out of Stock: Nothing. Cry. You’re life sucks. Ok, not really, but it would be better off. Get your grubbies on some real Tiramisu instead.

Burberry and Blackberrys

Beginning a new job always lends itself to comparisons of old gigs. Thoughts of how matters were previously carried out by superiors and subordinates in relation to the present state of protocol creep in. Environments drastically mirror or are a refreshing opposite state of turmoil. By comparison, like having a different teacher each year in school, the students remain the same; coworkers (students) of each category seem to follow from job to job, while the employment oasis (school) remains constant. Some recent observations.

In the U.S., people work in one of two places: the city or suburbia (or at home, which can be either city or suburbia). Recently, after migrating back into the nucleus of the nation's capital, I became reacquainted with the typical metro DC worker. Either public or private sector, it need not matter; ethnicity or gender not an issue. Regardless, there is the double-breasted dark suit sporting individual endlessly attracted to the crack in the palm of his or her hand, known as the Blackberry, which has assumed a highly addictive form, known as the Pearl (not to be confused with the little white rock-like substance from the '70s). Then, clothe made from the fancy flannelled fabric known as Burberry. Ranging from shoes to purses to umbrellas, the black and tan flaunts the upper white-collared class of the city. We are way beyond Starbucks at this point.

Of course, I am one to properly assimilate with the current fads. Proudly flaunting my fashion sense with khakis (so to maintain a certain highly-distinguished level of professionalism) and carrying in my pocket a cellular device, known as a phone, that I only take out once I've arrived at my desk, my highly decorative polo shirt and a I put in eight hours, eat lunch and go home.

¡Mi casa, Su (Oaxaca) Casa!

¡Los amantes de Guajillo rejoice!

The same owner who brought the Mexican restaurant on Wilson Blvd in Arlington has built another Mole Casa. When I search for a new restaurant, I do so on foot, not by turning pages. This is largely in part from not residing in the area very long; allowing me to explore the realm of culinary possibilities more meticulously by taking in each passing establishment. Also, proudly, I don’t own a car. Besides, it allows me to independently judge for myself how good a hole-in-the-wall is; thus reducing the amount of disappointing possibilities from reading pages of reviews. So, stop reading and start walking, lazy bastards.

Separated by two levels, it only faintly differs from its sister restaurant in Northern Virginia, Guajillo, most noticeably: the dark-orange painted walls, crucifixes, and no outdoor seating. But the menu and service are mirrored. Resembling a fine wine list at an Italian bistro, a tequila catalog blankets the right portion of their menu. Try the el Conquistador or Cazadores. No chips and salsa while you’re waiting. No burritos or taquitos anywhere. Rather, jicama wedges sprinkled with chili powder while you wait for your Mole Poblano or Red Snapper Ceviche with pineapple.

The cantina below, which is where I spent most of my time, carries a quiet feeling that includes additional restaurant seating from above. Since I’d previously had Mole, I wanted something new. A couple of them: Cheladas and Grasshoppers. Chelada is Mexico’s version of a bloody mary, infused with cerveza. The strong peppery liquid is not your ideal thirst quencher, I still can’t figure out why so many people were drinking them. The grasshoppers had been diced up and layered on a queso dip called Cazuela de Queso con Salsa y Chapulines served with tortillas. While it seems a stretch to try an insect, the cheese overpowers it, leaving you wondering where they even were.

On to the Mole – 50 % of the reason I was looking for a place like this. Enmolda is Black Mole caked on a cheese quesadilla with diced onions. It was just like I remembered: simple, distinct and good. The Mole rainbow ranges from green, yellow, and red, often served together as Tres Moles in most casa’s; separately, Poblano being the hottest. For those unaccustomed to this type of authentic fare, there are tacos to settle the distant feeling. For your peso, this is place is reasonable when you consider the rare plate of food in front of your jaw. Significant infrastructure upgrades are necessary, such as outdoor seating and additional beer taps (only Dos Equis Amber is flowing). But if enough people keep drinking that lethal Chelada, maybe they don’t need to. I’m not coming in out of the cold for it.