First night
I'm in D.C. now. Had a rather interesting night last night and I thought I'd write about it but I rather not divulge haha. Anyway I arrived in D.C. and got out of customs at about 4 p.m. Bad start to the trip-too many pieces of luggage to haul around, hardly any reception in the damned airport (if you remember I washed my phone so I was really worried that I screwed the sim card permanently), no where to sit where I could get reception on my phone, having to haul all my crap all around the place just to get a signal on the phone, my host busy and uncontactable (I could hardly make out what the receptionist was saying). I finally had to resort to paying $5 to check my mail (what the hell, 5 dollars? I was extremely reluctant, I tell you) because I had asked my host to email me back and tell me how we should meet up. I finally got some relief after that $5, because thankfully, my host replied. Urgh. I felt really homesick, knowing that my pampered ass (err, no pun intended) would be very well taken off at home, and I think I knew how Charles felt. Sigh.
But I made my way to the Metro Station and took a train down to my host's office. I had a very interesting dinner with my host, his partner and his gay friends (okay so I am writing about it). They are the first gay people I know, and they are very funny and interesting. One of my host's friend won a hell lot of money at poker and was treating us (even though he didn't know who I was) at this nice restaurant.
When we walked into the restaurant and I saw the menu, I was quite psyched-up. Now, I'd just finished reading A Cook's Tour and Kitchen Confidential (they probably are the books that I've finished the fastest) by Anthony Bourdain, and I was all excited about what happened inside and outside the kitchen. The place was some Thai/Asian fusion cuisine place, there were two bars, one on the ground floor and one on the mezzanine (if I remember correctly, a mosaic of mainly white tiles peppered throughout with black ones); several tables each enclosed by a structure resembling a cross between a large, golden bird cage and a pavillion, tucked away at various corners, and a main dining room on the third floor, the walls draped with red velvet curtains. The tables were rectangular, made of shiny steel, the chairs had metre-long backrests made out of err.. charred, carved wood? Urgh anyway I'm a failure with words and I don't know what image I've conjured, but the place was exotic la.
It was an expensive dinner, alright. Not uber-expensive, but expensive. I had a mojito (Ron cleverly gave me his drink and ordered another one, and then we swapped) and champagne, malu-ed myself by picking bread off the waiters plate with my hands when the waiter used tongs to serve everyone else (the waiter came to me first, blurted out the choices of bread, leaving me clueless as to what to do next), and then had the real food.
I must say, I couldn't really appreciate the food even though everyone else was complimenting that it was good. I had seared sea scallops on a bed of some green mushy thing which seemed to contain peppers and shallots and a soggy wanton skin. Guacamole? I dunno. It came on a plate, grilled, grated coconut scattered all around my two plump scallops.
For my entree I had the Wasabi crusted Ahi Tuna. Very exotic. For one, however, it was almost cold, just like the scallops. Wasabi was very light, and the tuna was medium-rare. Whatever Tony said about grade one and grade two tuna, I have no idea. I was clueless, and the meat got more and more red towards the center. Almost like sashimi.
I was stuffed, but my companions urged me to eat desert. "Don't worry, you're young, your metabolism rate is so much higher!" So I was compelled to order the vanilla bean ice cream, which was so-so. After forcing one scoop down my throat I stopped, not feeling good anymore. Head was throbbing from the drinks, and I had too much to eat.
Urgh I feel like Daxon, talking about all the food. But the point I really wanted to make was that it was an expensive dinner and I had 5 very interesting, funny companions. One was a navy officer who served for 10 years, having spent time in Okinawa. My hosts work in non-profits. I'm not sure about the other two. One of them gave me money to stuff into the belly dancers skirt, and to my further embarassment, the belly dancer got me up from my chair and asked me to dance. Thank god no one else was watching.
I came back and crashed in my bed. My hosts' house is really nice-three floors, and I have the top-the top constituting a nice bedroom and a bathroom. Once again, words fail me, so I'll show you the video I took if I ever get the chance to see you. I'm in the kitchen now, sitting one a turqoise and white leather chair that looks like it was plucked out from an ang-mor-ican diner. On the wall hang four Andy Warhol-ish prints.
"That's Brian (one of my hosts) in drag."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No, he won some drag contest in D.C. last year. There were 2400 contestants."
My hosts are really nice and interesting people.
But I made my way to the Metro Station and took a train down to my host's office. I had a very interesting dinner with my host, his partner and his gay friends (okay so I am writing about it). They are the first gay people I know, and they are very funny and interesting. One of my host's friend won a hell lot of money at poker and was treating us (even though he didn't know who I was) at this nice restaurant.
When we walked into the restaurant and I saw the menu, I was quite psyched-up. Now, I'd just finished reading A Cook's Tour and Kitchen Confidential (they probably are the books that I've finished the fastest) by Anthony Bourdain, and I was all excited about what happened inside and outside the kitchen. The place was some Thai/Asian fusion cuisine place, there were two bars, one on the ground floor and one on the mezzanine (if I remember correctly, a mosaic of mainly white tiles peppered throughout with black ones); several tables each enclosed by a structure resembling a cross between a large, golden bird cage and a pavillion, tucked away at various corners, and a main dining room on the third floor, the walls draped with red velvet curtains. The tables were rectangular, made of shiny steel, the chairs had metre-long backrests made out of err.. charred, carved wood? Urgh anyway I'm a failure with words and I don't know what image I've conjured, but the place was exotic la.
It was an expensive dinner, alright. Not uber-expensive, but expensive. I had a mojito (Ron cleverly gave me his drink and ordered another one, and then we swapped) and champagne, malu-ed myself by picking bread off the waiters plate with my hands when the waiter used tongs to serve everyone else (the waiter came to me first, blurted out the choices of bread, leaving me clueless as to what to do next), and then had the real food.
I must say, I couldn't really appreciate the food even though everyone else was complimenting that it was good. I had seared sea scallops on a bed of some green mushy thing which seemed to contain peppers and shallots and a soggy wanton skin. Guacamole? I dunno. It came on a plate, grilled, grated coconut scattered all around my two plump scallops.
For my entree I had the Wasabi crusted Ahi Tuna. Very exotic. For one, however, it was almost cold, just like the scallops. Wasabi was very light, and the tuna was medium-rare. Whatever Tony said about grade one and grade two tuna, I have no idea. I was clueless, and the meat got more and more red towards the center. Almost like sashimi.
I was stuffed, but my companions urged me to eat desert. "Don't worry, you're young, your metabolism rate is so much higher!" So I was compelled to order the vanilla bean ice cream, which was so-so. After forcing one scoop down my throat I stopped, not feeling good anymore. Head was throbbing from the drinks, and I had too much to eat.
Urgh I feel like Daxon, talking about all the food. But the point I really wanted to make was that it was an expensive dinner and I had 5 very interesting, funny companions. One was a navy officer who served for 10 years, having spent time in Okinawa. My hosts work in non-profits. I'm not sure about the other two. One of them gave me money to stuff into the belly dancers skirt, and to my further embarassment, the belly dancer got me up from my chair and asked me to dance. Thank god no one else was watching.
I came back and crashed in my bed. My hosts' house is really nice-three floors, and I have the top-the top constituting a nice bedroom and a bathroom. Once again, words fail me, so I'll show you the video I took if I ever get the chance to see you. I'm in the kitchen now, sitting one a turqoise and white leather chair that looks like it was plucked out from an ang-mor-ican diner. On the wall hang four Andy Warhol-ish prints.
"That's Brian (one of my hosts) in drag."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No, he won some drag contest in D.C. last year. There were 2400 contestants."
My hosts are really nice and interesting people.
posted by whypee | 8:28 AM
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