It is my contention that at the heart of even the most blue-blood DC diner, there exist a simpleton with the most boring and ordinary of desires. In a city that practically invented the “power lunch” and elitist dining, you might find this hard to believe. However, as consumer dining trends ebb and flow, what does not vacillate is the love and pursuit of something genuine. All over, we can see that society (and, specifically, Washington, DC) is infected by a pretentious brand of hubris, leaving many trapped in a substantive void. Restaurants, like fashion and automobiles, have always been at the forefront of societal-sparring. After all, there is nothing like a great meal at a popular restaurant to fill that hole in your stomach and in your ego. Yet the restaurants with real staying power have always been the ones who have mastered the art of simplicity. In their genuine and uncomplicated approach to business, they win over the hearts and stomachs of serial dining neophytes everywhere. Keep it simple, stupid.
After 9/11, the restaurant industry (and hospitality field alike) experienced something of a humbling blow. Almost overnight, the romantic façade, which many of the high-end concepts operate under, had begun to wane. People just felt better eating simple meals with families and friends. And before you knew it, even white tablecloth restaurants were incorporating comfort food into their repertoire. It was not so much the “fleecing” of American restaurant-goers, but a simple reminder of what was important in life. It was a return to what we all knew about ourselves and perhaps had forgotten for a while. It’s an affirmation that great dining is not measured by the celebrity of their chefs/owners, but by the restaurants ability to pull you away from the doldrums of life. It is a pilgrimage of hungry souls searching for substance in a world so wanting in that, which is pure. Restaurants are but one of the many institutions that attempt to offer solace for those painfully in need of something genuine, honest, simple, and sincere. A good restaurant, knowing or unknowingly, opens its doors every day hoping to serve up a bit of relief. That is, relief from a bad day, relief from cooking, relief from planning, or maybe from the need to entertain. Good restaurant reporting identifies and lauds those who succeed at this endeavor and challenges those who do not. The less convoluted, the easier it all goes down.
To a great extent, restaurant journalism has missed this audience. Albeit, there are exceptions, however, a disproportionate amount of today’s restaurant columnists are entirely too focused on saturating their articles with exhaustive rants; trying ever so hard to impress you with their recitation of the Food Lover’s Companion. Honestly, why call it beurre manie when it’s just roux? Look, I get it already. You’re smart. But guess what? The James Beard Foundation doesn’t award verbosity or egoism – they recognize people who create accurate, exciting, and uncomplicated expressions through food and food reporting. So why not focus on that? Let’s talk about the sous chef at Macaroni Grill who’s busting his hump to create some amazing specials that might give his cookie-cutter concept a new shape.
The point is I enjoy foie gras and truffles as much as the next petite sophisticate; and there should (and undoubtedly will) always be a place for the kind of royal escape that only upscale dining can provide. However, there is no need to placate to the bourgeois dining circles in hopes of gaining acceptance into the culinary community. As my friend and former colleague Scott Swerderski (Executive Chef at Buddakan in Philadelphia and China Grill in Miami before that) used to tell me, “Hey, if it tastes good, it is good.” In fact, most nights (after dispensation of dozens of self-conceptualized dishes like his Miso Tuna Tartare and Thai Lobster Crepes) he couldn’t wait to get home for a chili cheese dog and pint of beer. Not because it was a break from the norm, but because a chili cheese dog is damn good. And, as we all know, what satisfies the digestive soul is what satisfies. Why do you think hamburger sales have continued to grow in perpetuity since their inception? It ain’t marketing my friends. From upscale to fast food, burgers make their way onto menus because people want ‘em. And why do they want ‘em? Because even an average burger can be terribly pleasing.
I do not hope, or care to, attenuate the rich diversity and broad palate of dining in DC. In fact, it is this very potpourri of ethnic and multi-scale dining that excites me and enriches my perspective. At the end of the day, I’m still just a kid from Mississippi that has had the great fortune of seeing something of this country, working for some great restaurants and amazing chefs. So with my pen and my appetite, I will dine on. Writing and eating. Eating and eating. The expression on my face as I finish dining – my litmus test. Good food, happy people, honest reporting – my mantra.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Purpose
08.09.2005
Wait. Ponder. Sit. Think. Of what real value is there less we act? I am convinced that philosophy and cogitation are merely opium to underachievers. It’s exciting and romantic to write and speak of what we all can and should be – its just easier that way. You are free to be the person you want, living in the world you want, without fear of failure or the inconvenience of effort. For years I have sat in many a place intellectualizing over my lot in life & just how close I was to brilliance. That was more years ago than I care to remember; maybe not so close after all. Perhaps if I didn’t demand so much of myself the things which I desire would flow much freer. Maybe it’s all like a bottle of soda: if you turn the bottle completely upright and shake it, the soda almost refuses to come out. But if you slowly turn it at the softest angle, it forms a deluge.
Wait. Ponder. Sit. Think. Of what real value is there less we act? I am convinced that philosophy and cogitation are merely opium to underachievers. It’s exciting and romantic to write and speak of what we all can and should be – its just easier that way. You are free to be the person you want, living in the world you want, without fear of failure or the inconvenience of effort. For years I have sat in many a place intellectualizing over my lot in life & just how close I was to brilliance. That was more years ago than I care to remember; maybe not so close after all. Perhaps if I didn’t demand so much of myself the things which I desire would flow much freer. Maybe it’s all like a bottle of soda: if you turn the bottle completely upright and shake it, the soda almost refuses to come out. But if you slowly turn it at the softest angle, it forms a deluge.
Freestyle 1
12.22.2000
what is writing but a bunch of words that hope for shape to give your life meaning words that say what you feel words that say what you feel you may never be able to speak it is scraping the bare carcass of the soul to remove its organs its stench its every utterance to place it all on paper and say see that’s me the bloody mangled mess of an existence scratching its way to the surface so that you might find a place among the masses this pen gives me hope it is beauty in everything that can seem so ugly but it serves me well or do I serve it I only know that I must write I do it because it is my only hope fear means nothing when you can wield the pen like a sword as big as the sun giving you immortality in a way that only words can stamping your you on this wretched rock for all to see and future others to reminisce it takes me places that I would never dare visit less I were a coward or a man whichever comes first cant you taste it is like the lemon to the honey the honey to the suckle and the suckle to the bee the bee knows what it is that I speak of for it knows its place it knows where to find joy it knows who its master is it lives inside of a flower the flower is life and death to the bee yet always beautiful to you and i.
what is writing but a bunch of words that hope for shape to give your life meaning words that say what you feel words that say what you feel you may never be able to speak it is scraping the bare carcass of the soul to remove its organs its stench its every utterance to place it all on paper and say see that’s me the bloody mangled mess of an existence scratching its way to the surface so that you might find a place among the masses this pen gives me hope it is beauty in everything that can seem so ugly but it serves me well or do I serve it I only know that I must write I do it because it is my only hope fear means nothing when you can wield the pen like a sword as big as the sun giving you immortality in a way that only words can stamping your you on this wretched rock for all to see and future others to reminisce it takes me places that I would never dare visit less I were a coward or a man whichever comes first cant you taste it is like the lemon to the honey the honey to the suckle and the suckle to the bee the bee knows what it is that I speak of for it knows its place it knows where to find joy it knows who its master is it lives inside of a flower the flower is life and death to the bee yet always beautiful to you and i.
City Park
01.30.2001
The auburn extension of wooden capillaries thrust wide into the marshmallow blue sky. Like some chaotic beauty, the oak sits defiant against the stone and pollution of humanity. Has my perception digressed? That I might find equal beauty in the symmetry of descending row houses? Like a child, I sit and witness the eclectic playground of architecture, humbled by the dignity of arbor.
To sit in this park, enveloped by the erected geometry of unnatural edifice, is to love the city.
Thinking of Snow
12.26.2005
Winter keeps, locked at bay
frozen thoughts for years away
With stiff embrace I'm overwhelmed,
in icy air the memories play
Deep inside, a warm relapse
of childhood and lovers past
Smiling like a forest fire,
warming soul with nostalgic ash
In tight air, I'm drawn inside
not of house, but of the mind
And like a lute I'm strung and struck,
melodic memory plucked in time
A chilly joy with coats and mittens,
in city park the candles glisten
On this bench I remember of old
and old I shall be, thinking of snow
Untitled
11.05.2003
Venus was the harvest moon, that indian summer, in fiery swoon
Running into yesterday, those nether fields, for us to claim
Orion could not protest one, Montana sky, we came undone
Sweeter was the August sour, innocence lost, that eternal hour
In the fields like raging seas, in your eyes, emerald green
Pure as hope and soft as clay, we found one, right as rain
No never more and not again, sufficient memory, stored within
Prologue's stitched a bitter thread; each day unravels, inside my head
To love for her I'd gladly die, from her I lived, and never why
With this ash I summon fire, to reclaim, a life expired
In this park I hear the leaves, a requiem, of autumn's thief
Summers passed without remorse, within the earth, I stay my course
True
02.01.2005
Verse 1:
There's songs within the trees, there's rhythm in the seas, with you
A boy can find his dream, a king deserves a queen, like you
And when I'm near you I can hear the birds, they're singing and they're saying...you
Are the one who keeps the stars held high, and oceans stay forever blue
Chorus:
There's magic in this world, a cotton candy-flavored girl
Fairies paint the sunset like the glitter from the pearl in you
Oh, but its true
Verse 2:
See my stomach turn, hear my engines burn, for you
You scare me like a bee, you're in me like disease, thank you
And when the flowers stretch their legs toward the heavens are they begging you
To hold them in your power, please grant me one more hour or two
Chorus
Music Interlude
Chorus
Outro
Mes Deux Cents
A group of friends who care not for each other is nothing more than a crowd. But a group of friends who are bound by love is an army.
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