Metro(poetry)lis

One of my favorite holiday traditions is one that I learned from my mom. At our house, holiday cards surrounded the door frame from our living room into our kitchen. I always felt that when I walked through the cards that I was being hugged by all the people who loved our family.

The cards contained letters from my mom’s family in Missouri and awkward school photos of kids she had babysat. Sometimes the cards just contained a signature, and very much the same as now, I wonder why people didn’t share a short note of cheer. I loved the cards that had textures and ornaments, and the funny ones I would read to myself again and again as I passed by, laughing at the Christmas jokes. Over the years the number of cards grew fewer and I worried that people not care as much about our family. Of course the introduction of e-mail made that reason obvious.

Now I do the same thing in our apartment although admittedly it is also looking a little bare this year. I would gladly welcome your card to my “holiday hug” collection–and if it’s funny, I promise to chuckle every time I walk past.

Like holiday hugs, although our doorway is looking a little bare.

ShopHouse...still finding its sea legs, but I want to like it.

In the weeks since our fridge has been out of order I’ve eaten out a lot. Combine that with the rich fare of the holiday season and I’m feeling a bit nostalgic for comfort food. For me, that will always be Aloha Wok.

In my small town there were three Asian restaurants: one of them was probably Szechuan, one was Japanese and one was Polynesian–but they were all called Chinese. The polynesian restaurant was Aloha Wok. On the outside it was a dilapidated building in need of so many repairs. On the inside, an authentic 60′s style tiki vibe is replete with red plastic booths and bamboo. And Linda.

Wherever she is from, Linda Yang still lives and breathes that place. Thick accent, but always smiling. Glasses. I remember she wore a red t-shirt and black dress pants–the same every time we met with her.

Our order never changed: chicken chow mein, chicken fried rice, two egg rolls, duck sauce. On special occasions we had steak and pineapple skewers, maybe wonton soup. The order was prepared by Linda, but cooked by her husband. In the more than 20 years that our family ate at Aloha Wok, I never saw her husband emerge once from the kitchen.

It was mostly just them at the restaurant, and many times it was empty where customers should have been lined. Linda would tally your order on her manual cash register and you could pay with cash or check only. She would ask me about school, tell me about her daughter Ping-Jade and stuff an extra fortune cookie in the large brown paper bag for me.  In high school I brought boyfriends there, she made them laugh and then she’d wink at me, “He very good,” she said. In my own way, I loved her. I loved her food. I loved her company. I loved the way that their heritage stepped through in every bite.

Lovely, oily tastes of crisp cabbage and carrots; large crunchy egg rolls (what are these wimpy spring rolls anyway?) and fried rice with peas still so green and real that I have never seen the likes of them again anywhere.

—

A few years ago I went home in need of the meal, very much like I am tonight. I think my mom may have held some tears in her eyes when she told me that Aloha Wok had shut down. Business wasn’t good, Linda and her husband were getting older, having health issues. I’m sad I’ll never get to take David there.

I drove past the dark restaurant that season and felt genuine hunger pains for a meal of my childhood. A few months later, they tore the restaurant down completely.

—

Tonight I visited ShopHouse, a sister restaurant to Chipotle (which I love, very much). It’s part nostalgia, but I wanted to feel like someone cared about the food–that it had a history somewhere, that someone stood in a room and built a menu that reminded them of what it’s like to feel full. It’s meant to be fast food and I know that, but I felt a real hole in my stomach for that missing narrative. ShopHouse, when you’re ready to find a story, tell me, I’m hungry to listen.

Tonight we dipped into Pasta Mia in Adams Morgan–and if you know anything about this restaurant, it’s not a place people normally “dip” into. The line outside is usually historic and they don’t even open until 6:30 PM on weeknights, so waiting in a line outside the door is de rigueur. I’ve lived around the corner from Pasta Mia for nearly three years and we finally–impulsively–made our way there tonight.

The hostess (who, according to this Washingtonian review was very likely the chef’s wife, Antonietta) nodded us in the direction of a deluxe window seat where we could watch people on the street. The red checkered tablecloths sat upon tiny tables and the wooden chairs completed the rustic Italian scene. The menus arrived and simply stated: cash only, no substitutions, minimum $15.00 per person.

The menu is made for a pre-Adkins era, friends. Pasta, pasta, pasta says the menu. Fussili, gnocchi, fettuccine, capellini, ravioli–an authentic list of handmade pastas. The sauces come in three varieties: cream-based, red sauce with meat or without. There are enormous family style salads (we didn’t try one, but they looked fairly basic) and a bread basket, plus a single dessert (tiramisu) and a hearty wine list if you’re ready to pay $25-$50 for a bottle.

I asked our waiter to tell me about Pasta Mia–he had only been there four months and said there wasn’t much to say. Then I asked the busboy to share anything about the history of the restaurant–same answer. Rough start. Does this mean they will not have food recommendations?

The bread basket appears about 15 minutes into our meal and the busboy pours a little olive oil on to our plate. The sliced bread basket is a sad little thing when compared to amazing loaves I had tried in Florence. The stingy olive oil is disheartening, but I held steadfast–the reason we came here was for pasta.

Ten minutes later the waiter comes to take our order. Recommendations? Tortellini Rose (mix of red/cream sauce) and Spinach Ravioli with red sauce. Done, we’ll take them. Our half carafe of wine arrives and we were both pleasantly surprised by a nice simple red.

About 40 minutes into our visit, the pasta finally arrives. David’s pesto and spinach ravioli is a beautiful, steaming, bold serving (read: bold=enormous). My tortellini arrives in what looks very similar to Velveeta. Also steaming, also bold.

First bites. David’s eyes roll back. A groan from somewhere deep inside emerges. Tortellini is interesting, “Macaroni and cheese on steroids,” says David. The noodles in both cases are perfect. Perfect. Perfection. Word on the street is that the pasta is handmade by the chef–the solo cook in the restaurant.

We eat until we aren’t able to eat anymore, which isn’t very soon into the meal. Those are some big plates. The check comes, ouch. An unexpected nice meal on a weeknight.

We debate on our way out–why is it so good? Why do people, like ourselves, wait in line for their food? The restaurant has a measure of control, their expertise is what’s driving the meal, every dish on the menu is their recommendation. But the control is well, controlling. And it’s because what are our other options? Bucca Di Beppo. La Tomate. Dino. Ah yes, Dino. Next time.

Relevant Reads:

Little Serow review from Borderstan

Last night I had a beautiful dinner with my pal Nikki Rappaport on ScoutMob’s dime. ScoutMob asked a question: if it could be anyone, living or dead, who would you bring to dinner? The winning reply got dinner with food bloggers Lisa Shapiro and Mary Kong and the Scoutmob Team. Before I give you my winning answer, I wonder who you would bring?

The meal was amazing. Cashion’s Eat Place is quickly becoming one of my favorite places in DC. The chef and his team obviously care about a well-presented meal, but the restaurant is still casual enough to come in jeans.

First Course: Path Valley Butternut Squash Soup with Creme Fraiche, paired with Weimer Gewurztraminer (ah-maz-ing. Sad I didn’t get a photo).

Second: Chilled Tuna with a Salad of Local Pears, Yuzu, Fresh Chilies, Daiikon Radish, and Ramari Soy, paired with Adelsheim Pinot Gris.

Third: Wild Kodiak King Salmon Fillet over Organic Pumpkin Risotto with Velvet Pioppini Mushrooms, Baby Pea Shoots and 20-year-old Balsamic Glaze, paired with Colli di Lapio Fiano d’Avellino.

Fourth: New Frontier Bison Strip Loin with Winter Greens, Truffle’d Potato Puree and a Red Wine Bordelaise, paired with Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon.

Fifth: House-made Cannoli with Spiced Hot Chocolate, paired with Vin Santo.

Combine this kind of menu with a lovely waitress and I would call us all very lucky diners indeed.

Oh, and who I would have dinner with? Easy. Ernest Hemingway.

I’ve lent my copy of A Moveable Feast to someone, so thanks to the interwebs for pulling this selection for me:

…I sat down on the bench against the wall with the mirror in back and a table in front and the waiter asked if I wanted beer and I asked for a distingue, the big glass mug that held a liter, and for potato salad.

The beer was very cold and wonderful to drink. The pommes a l’huile were firm and marinated and the olive oil delicious. I ground black pepper over the potatoes and moistened the bread in the olive oil. After the first heavy draft of beer I ate and drank very slowly. When the pommes a l’huile were gone I ordered another serving and a cervelas. This was a sausage like a heavy, wide frankfurter split in two and covered with a special mustard sauce.

I mopped up all the oil and all of the sauce with bread and drank the beer slowly until it began to lose its coldness and then I finished it and ordered a demi and watched it drawn. It seemed colder than the distingue and I drank half of it.

This year, I’m doing this season differently. No presents, a limited holiday card list*. Making an effort to focus on gratitude and experience. What can I learn, what can I give to others before the end of this calendar year? This month I made a commitment to 30 days of yoga. And now I’m making a same commitment to twelve days of blogging.  So friends, here we go.

Tabula Rasa

Holy cow. My inbox is junked like none other. Between tempting Rue La La emails and Mashable updates, my digital life is beginning to feel as cluttered as my closet. The past few days I’ve been making an effort to unsubscribe or limit the communications I need. No, I’m not striving for #inboxzero, but I am hoping to redefine what kinds of information I consume.

So far I’ve eliminated:

• Groupon
• Living Social
• Recoup/Deals for Deeds
• Buy with Me
• Apartment Therapy
• Virginia Wine is for Lovers (sorry)
• Rue La La
• Mashable
• Most bridal emails (The Knot, Dress Rush, Wedding Wire, +++++)
• Broadway.com

And at least ten other communiques that have continued to be trashed without being read or still clutter my inbox (also without being read).

So what stays?

Twitter and Facebook updates, newsletters from non-profit organizations I financially support, blog updates from friends. I’m staying on the DC community listservs because I just love reading about people in my neighborhoods. A handful of stores that I like that often have coupon deals. TED weekly emails. I like to hope that these forms of communications are at the heart of the people and ideas that are meaningful to me.

And what about my time spent browsing? Well, for one, I’m about to give up one of my guiltiest pleasures:

God help me, I love me some celeb news

I think that there are better ways to spend my digital unwind time, for example, reading any one of these fine folk’s blogs.

So, day one. It’s a time to do big things.

*Admit it, you’re sorry you won’t get to see our holiday card this year…