You know what? Fuck it. We're back.
Some friends of ours who live in Dupont Circle recently started a Dupont Circle drinking club--The DCDC, they call it. Despite being Capitol Hill residents for some time, Forever Bisque and I have been invited to attend various DCDC functions on a trial basis. The DCDCers are lovely people, but they seem to lack the rage to live that CHBarReview brings to the table. It was this realization that convinced us of Capitol Hill Bar Review's continued relevance. After a nearly 3 year hiatus, it's time to rumble again.
Last night, after a plenty of drinks and palaver at the Black Fox. The DCDCers appeared to be winding down. We walked a few of them back to their homes in the gayborhood around midnight with a tacit understanding that Bisque and I would keep chasing Wednesday night around town. The odds that we would find what we sought at the bottom of our next glass seemed, at that point, to be at least 50/50, so we turned the corner and ducked our heads into Townhouse Tavern, a divey little dugout in Dupont which we Cap Hillers have come to appreciate.
I ordered us two beers at the basement bar from a golden-haired bartendress and we sat across from each other at a table in the center of the room. Talk wobbled from hard-boiled detective novels to gambling on college basketball. As we were talking through the bubble teams for this year's tourney, a slender young Indian woman in a white sweater came in, sat down at the bar, and began jotting things down in a small notebook. Now, my weakness for dark-haired women is well documented. Suffice it to day that I was a bit intrigued. As Bisque, rambled on about Donald Westlake, I kept one eye on the mysterious maiden and the occasional staccato bursts of her fine-tipped pen. A poet? An MFA grad student knee deep in creative writing coursework? Is she returning my glances? I think she might be...
I went up to get us two more beers. She said hello and suggested that we sit up at the bar with her. I coolly accepted and motioned to Bisque to join me at the bar. Bisque, the bartendress, the mysterious girl, and I started chatting. At this point we were probably the only people left in the bar. I was enjoying myself and figured I was well on my way to at least making out with the mysterious girl at some point in the near future. Then we started talking...
"So, what's with the notebook?" Might as well get the obvious question out of the way, I thought. "Lists." she said. " I make lists." She began paging through her notebook and stammering semi-unintelligibly about various lists, notes, and drawings she'd produced over the last few weeks. I looked her in the eye again and that's when Morpheus handed me the red pill and saw things as they really were--this girl was crazy as a two-headed billy goat.
My brief illusion now bludgeoned, we downed two more beers and walked out into the cold. After a few seconds, Bisque lit a cigarette and said, "Was it just me or was that girl strange?"
"Wasn't just you." I said. "Let's go home."
We went home.
R. Chowder
Showing posts with label Field Trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Field Trip. Show all posts
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Don't Call it a Comeback
Yes, we've been away again, but now we're back with a vengeance. Bou and Row have spent the last month frolicking about Europe.
Our first adventure led us to Spain. After a relaxing fishing trip off the coast of Mallorca, we headed over to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls where many a poor red scarf wearing sap was gored because of his drive for meaningful participation in his own culture (lucky for us--we can just go to McDonald's and down a McRib for that shit.)
Many bibulous and riotous times were had. The calimoxo flowed like coke and wine, paella was eaten like it was leftover, room-temperature Papa John’s laying around the morning after a good 2nd Saturday. Many Museos de Jamon were visited, and lispy, aggressive women with lusts for life fixed our eyes in conversation while we tried to plead innocent of American barbarism. Despite Row beating up some vegetarian bullfighter named Romero, and some other drama which we may or may not save for our mamas, the Spanish leg of our trip was a drunken success.
Next it was on to the Tour de France....
At first, watching the alpine stretches of the race was a bit tiring due to the elevation sickness that befell us both. However, we found our way to the training tent, and after a few EPO cocktails, we felt surprisingly refreshed, what with all the extra red blood cells. An unexpected downside of doping our blood to better observe the race was that it took longer to get drunk, and when the Euro is bludgeoning the dollar like it is these days, that makes France expensive.
Following Montaigne's famous aphorism, "For what ails you, Albania the answer be," we decided to trek down to Tirana. After an emotional visit to the Unkown Partisan Monument, we felt inclined to drown our sorrows in carafe after carafe of Raki and Korca beer at the local pub. For one reason or another, we fell in with a bad crowd, and only by our wits and guile did we manage to escape. Still, there's nothing quite as rousing as a Raki fueled night at the Pravda Lounge if you ask us. But hey, had to be done. We had to fight them there so none of you have to fight them here. (We're pretty sure the Albanian mob won't come looking for us on the Hill...)
So Capitol Hill Bar Review is back, and none the worse for wear, whatever that means.
Soon we'll be making our way to the H St. bars and you'll finally find out whether they're cool or not.
Our first adventure led us to Spain. After a relaxing fishing trip off the coast of Mallorca, we headed over to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls where many a poor red scarf wearing sap was gored because of his drive for meaningful participation in his own culture (lucky for us--we can just go to McDonald's and down a McRib for that shit.)
Many bibulous and riotous times were had. The calimoxo flowed like coke and wine, paella was eaten like it was leftover, room-temperature Papa John’s laying around the morning after a good 2nd Saturday. Many Museos de Jamon were visited, and lispy, aggressive women with lusts for life fixed our eyes in conversation while we tried to plead innocent of American barbarism. Despite Row beating up some vegetarian bullfighter named Romero, and some other drama which we may or may not save for our mamas, the Spanish leg of our trip was a drunken success.
Next it was on to the Tour de France....
At first, watching the alpine stretches of the race was a bit tiring due to the elevation sickness that befell us both. However, we found our way to the training tent, and after a few EPO cocktails, we felt surprisingly refreshed, what with all the extra red blood cells. An unexpected downside of doping our blood to better observe the race was that it took longer to get drunk, and when the Euro is bludgeoning the dollar like it is these days, that makes France expensive.
Following Montaigne's famous aphorism, "For what ails you, Albania the answer be," we decided to trek down to Tirana. After an emotional visit to the Unkown Partisan Monument, we felt inclined to drown our sorrows in carafe after carafe of Raki and Korca beer at the local pub. For one reason or another, we fell in with a bad crowd, and only by our wits and guile did we manage to escape. Still, there's nothing quite as rousing as a Raki fueled night at the Pravda Lounge if you ask us. But hey, had to be done. We had to fight them there so none of you have to fight them here. (We're pretty sure the Albanian mob won't come looking for us on the Hill...)
So Capitol Hill Bar Review is back, and none the worse for wear, whatever that means.
Soon we'll be making our way to the H St. bars and you'll finally find out whether they're cool or not.
Monday, July 2, 2007
RFK-- Stadium Arcadium
You may have noticed that Capitol Hill Bar Review hasn’t posted much for awhile. In the meantime, we’ve been inundated with email from thousands of readers wanting to know what gives and demanding new posts.
Armless Jane: “Are you guys on the wagon or something? WTF?”
Saucy Chaucer: “Has CHBR lost its Rage to Live?”
Feckless Finnegan: “I swear to you. I am perched on the edge of my balcony. If you guys don’t post again by June 26th, I’ll jump.”
Well, with apologies to Finny’s mum, it so happens that we’ve been spending a reasonable amount of time drinking beer in RFK stadium since our last post. Bouillonnui is a bit of a Tigers fan, and Rowdy is down for basically anything that involves baseball and/or nachos, so we wound up watching the entire Detroit/Washington series. (Quick note: If you, by some strangeness of character or act of God, have become a Nationals fan in the last couple of years, you might want to stop reading now because this story won’t end well for you.)
Just before Game 1 of the series, we grabbed some dinner and margaritas at La Lomita on 13th and Penn. The Bouillonnui/Detroit contingent was large—Papallionnui and Mamallionnui had actually driven down from Michigan to watch the series with several other family members in tow.
There’s always something slightly intoxicating about walking into a major league baseball stadium on game-day. Don’t get me wrong. Watching a game at RFK is nothing like seeing a game in old Tiger stadium, Fenway Park, or Camden Yards, but it can still give you a little tingle. What grabs you first is the sound—the slow roar that emanates from the crowd interspersed with the looping cries of the vendors. Then you look around. There is beer everywhere. There are hotdogs and nachos and pretzels, and as you walk down the corridor looking for your seating section, you catch glimpses of the field, the green carpet of Bermuda grass trimmed tight like a fresh military haircut.
I have these moments when I forget that America is the greatest country in the world. It’s natural, I suppose, to have thoughts like “Is it really ok that we’ve dropped thousands of tons of depleted uranium munitions on Iraq?” or “Is this really the ‘freest’ country in the world? I bet I could hold up a ‘Bong Hits 4 Jesus’ sign in Sweden.” Well, there are two things that render those thoughts meaningless—one is March Madness; the other is the elation of walking into a baseball stadium in mid-summer. And I can promise you all that as long as those two American traditions remain intact, the terrorists will never win.
We found our seats near the middle point of the lower section on the first base side and sat next to a couple of middle-aged, mustachioed Dominicans who spoke lazy, Caribbean Spanish. It was hot, about 96, and later, when I arrived home, I would take one look at my sweaty, matted hair, and shave it all off.
Now, beer at baseball games has never been known to be too cheap, and RFK is certainly no exception. However, you can get a reasonable amount of bling-bang for your buck if you hit up the Guinness/Harp stand. I mean, a Guinness will run you around $6 in most D.C. bars these days. You can get one at RFK for $6.50 so you don’t exactly feel like you got sodomized on the deal.
Here is the skinny, baseball-wise:
· Tigers came to town for interleague play with a chance to move into first place ahead of the Indians.
· The Nationals suck and have sucked all season.
· Detroit’s Magglio Ordoñez is flat-out redunculous this year. Right now, you could throw a chick-pea anywhere near the plate and he’d hit it for an opposite field double. (see Rowdy’s post-game phonecall with his Pa below)
Rowdy: Hey Pa, what’s up? I just got back from the baseball game.
Pa: How’s Detroit look?
Rowdy: Indestructible, but they were playing the Nats…
Pa: Ordoñez get any hits?
Rowdy: You tryin to be funny? He went 7 for 10 in the series.
Pa: Wow, he’s batting like .350 isn’t he?
Rowdy: Try .382
Pa: Dear God.
· Tigers swept the series and scored 32 runs in 3 games.
A particularly pathetic play occurred midway through the top of the 5th inning in the series finale that I feel I must mention. Detroit’s Brandon Inge hit a ground ball to Nats shortstop Cristian Guzman who, instead of getting in front of the ball, bending his knees, and trapping it in his glove with both hands, decided to lazily bend over at the waist and make a one handed grab at it without moving his feet toward the ball at all. He bobbled it, was charged with an error, and allowed Inge, to take first base. Inge later scored.
It was, perhaps, the most insultingly lazy play I have ever seen attempted by a major league short-stop, and a slap in the face to all of Washington. I would’ve been pissed if the shortstop on my little league team had pulled a stunt like that, and my little league shortstop wasn’t being paid $4.2 million dollars a year. Not to mention that here we are in a city chalk-full of problems that need urgent attention and we’re about to spend our tax dollars on a new, $611 million baseball stadium, so you’ll have to excuse me if I find it F-ing incredible when Guzman decides it’s too much of a bother to move his fat ass two steps to the left to get in front of a ground ball. That’s a show of disrespect to the entire city. Also, Guzman may not have heard any of the curses I threw in his direction from the upper deck of center field, but I like to think they had something to do with his recent thumb injury.
By invoking the outlandish cost of the new stadium in the previous paragraph, I don’t mean to come off anti-baseball, because I’m anything but. What I basically object to about the new stadium is the swankiness of it all. The new stadium is clearly designed to cater to the wealthy, and given the diversion of public funds into it, it is bad form to spend so much money on things like “luxury suites” that will almost certainly be gobbled up by rich lobbying firms. The one thing that will make me puke up my ballpark frank at the game is watching a pharmaceutical lobbyist in the luxury box rub some congressman’s ass while Ryan Zimmerman strikes out for the 3rd consecutive time. (speaking of Zimm, MLB needs to put some theme music rules in place. Should Zimm really be able to play “This is Why I’m Hot” every time he steps up to the plate when he’s batting .245? Get on that, Selig. Might be a good distraction from Balco et al.)
On a slightly different note, I gots several lefty friends who reference certain intellectuals (Chomsky) out there who say sports serve to re-direct the energies and attentions of the public away from political realities, and towards meaningless events that feed into primitive gladiatorial pleasures and contribute to a false consciousness that positions subjects of the same political class against one another. They aren’t necessarily wrong, but they commit the same error of omission that many Marxists and folks on the left commit—they fail to acknowledge and properly account for the symbolic side of social existence. It's such a terribly unimaginative position to take, and what I would say to Chomsky is this: Do sports not also serve a valid, theatrical function in our world?
Each game is densely laden with plots and subplots. Protagonists triumph and fail due to combinations of natural ability, character, and chance; and all you can think to say is “sports are a meaningless distraction”? Ummm... Since when isn’t all of life a meaningless distraction? The next thing you know you’ll say we shouldn’t read novels because they’re just fake stories meant to distract all the rest of us from being just like you. Thanks for your concern, Noam, but only an unimaginative dullard could think that professional sports can’t be more than an empty distraction. I shall keep watching baseball, anti-capitalist sympathies intact. And while I'm at it, I think I'll have a few beers and some nachos.
-Rowdy Chowder
Armless Jane: “Are you guys on the wagon or something? WTF?”
Saucy Chaucer: “Has CHBR lost its Rage to Live?”
Feckless Finnegan: “I swear to you. I am perched on the edge of my balcony. If you guys don’t post again by June 26th, I’ll jump.”
Well, with apologies to Finny’s mum, it so happens that we’ve been spending a reasonable amount of time drinking beer in RFK stadium since our last post. Bouillonnui is a bit of a Tigers fan, and Rowdy is down for basically anything that involves baseball and/or nachos, so we wound up watching the entire Detroit/Washington series. (Quick note: If you, by some strangeness of character or act of God, have become a Nationals fan in the last couple of years, you might want to stop reading now because this story won’t end well for you.)
Just before Game 1 of the series, we grabbed some dinner and margaritas at La Lomita on 13th and Penn. The Bouillonnui/Detroit contingent was large—Papallionnui and Mamallionnui had actually driven down from Michigan to watch the series with several other family members in tow.
There’s always something slightly intoxicating about walking into a major league baseball stadium on game-day. Don’t get me wrong. Watching a game at RFK is nothing like seeing a game in old Tiger stadium, Fenway Park, or Camden Yards, but it can still give you a little tingle. What grabs you first is the sound—the slow roar that emanates from the crowd interspersed with the looping cries of the vendors. Then you look around. There is beer everywhere. There are hotdogs and nachos and pretzels, and as you walk down the corridor looking for your seating section, you catch glimpses of the field, the green carpet of Bermuda grass trimmed tight like a fresh military haircut.
I have these moments when I forget that America is the greatest country in the world. It’s natural, I suppose, to have thoughts like “Is it really ok that we’ve dropped thousands of tons of depleted uranium munitions on Iraq?” or “Is this really the ‘freest’ country in the world? I bet I could hold up a ‘Bong Hits 4 Jesus’ sign in Sweden.” Well, there are two things that render those thoughts meaningless—one is March Madness; the other is the elation of walking into a baseball stadium in mid-summer. And I can promise you all that as long as those two American traditions remain intact, the terrorists will never win.
We found our seats near the middle point of the lower section on the first base side and sat next to a couple of middle-aged, mustachioed Dominicans who spoke lazy, Caribbean Spanish. It was hot, about 96, and later, when I arrived home, I would take one look at my sweaty, matted hair, and shave it all off.
Now, beer at baseball games has never been known to be too cheap, and RFK is certainly no exception. However, you can get a reasonable amount of bling-bang for your buck if you hit up the Guinness/Harp stand. I mean, a Guinness will run you around $6 in most D.C. bars these days. You can get one at RFK for $6.50 so you don’t exactly feel like you got sodomized on the deal.
Here is the skinny, baseball-wise:
· Tigers came to town for interleague play with a chance to move into first place ahead of the Indians.
· The Nationals suck and have sucked all season.
· Detroit’s Magglio Ordoñez is flat-out redunculous this year. Right now, you could throw a chick-pea anywhere near the plate and he’d hit it for an opposite field double. (see Rowdy’s post-game phonecall with his Pa below)
Rowdy: Hey Pa, what’s up? I just got back from the baseball game.
Pa: How’s Detroit look?
Rowdy: Indestructible, but they were playing the Nats…
Pa: Ordoñez get any hits?
Rowdy: You tryin to be funny? He went 7 for 10 in the series.
Pa: Wow, he’s batting like .350 isn’t he?
Rowdy: Try .382
Pa: Dear God.
· Tigers swept the series and scored 32 runs in 3 games.
A particularly pathetic play occurred midway through the top of the 5th inning in the series finale that I feel I must mention. Detroit’s Brandon Inge hit a ground ball to Nats shortstop Cristian Guzman who, instead of getting in front of the ball, bending his knees, and trapping it in his glove with both hands, decided to lazily bend over at the waist and make a one handed grab at it without moving his feet toward the ball at all. He bobbled it, was charged with an error, and allowed Inge, to take first base. Inge later scored.
It was, perhaps, the most insultingly lazy play I have ever seen attempted by a major league short-stop, and a slap in the face to all of Washington. I would’ve been pissed if the shortstop on my little league team had pulled a stunt like that, and my little league shortstop wasn’t being paid $4.2 million dollars a year. Not to mention that here we are in a city chalk-full of problems that need urgent attention and we’re about to spend our tax dollars on a new, $611 million baseball stadium, so you’ll have to excuse me if I find it F-ing incredible when Guzman decides it’s too much of a bother to move his fat ass two steps to the left to get in front of a ground ball. That’s a show of disrespect to the entire city. Also, Guzman may not have heard any of the curses I threw in his direction from the upper deck of center field, but I like to think they had something to do with his recent thumb injury.
By invoking the outlandish cost of the new stadium in the previous paragraph, I don’t mean to come off anti-baseball, because I’m anything but. What I basically object to about the new stadium is the swankiness of it all. The new stadium is clearly designed to cater to the wealthy, and given the diversion of public funds into it, it is bad form to spend so much money on things like “luxury suites” that will almost certainly be gobbled up by rich lobbying firms. The one thing that will make me puke up my ballpark frank at the game is watching a pharmaceutical lobbyist in the luxury box rub some congressman’s ass while Ryan Zimmerman strikes out for the 3rd consecutive time. (speaking of Zimm, MLB needs to put some theme music rules in place. Should Zimm really be able to play “This is Why I’m Hot” every time he steps up to the plate when he’s batting .245? Get on that, Selig. Might be a good distraction from Balco et al.)
On a slightly different note, I gots several lefty friends who reference certain intellectuals (Chomsky) out there who say sports serve to re-direct the energies and attentions of the public away from political realities, and towards meaningless events that feed into primitive gladiatorial pleasures and contribute to a false consciousness that positions subjects of the same political class against one another. They aren’t necessarily wrong, but they commit the same error of omission that many Marxists and folks on the left commit—they fail to acknowledge and properly account for the symbolic side of social existence. It's such a terribly unimaginative position to take, and what I would say to Chomsky is this: Do sports not also serve a valid, theatrical function in our world?
Each game is densely laden with plots and subplots. Protagonists triumph and fail due to combinations of natural ability, character, and chance; and all you can think to say is “sports are a meaningless distraction”? Ummm... Since when isn’t all of life a meaningless distraction? The next thing you know you’ll say we shouldn’t read novels because they’re just fake stories meant to distract all the rest of us from being just like you. Thanks for your concern, Noam, but only an unimaginative dullard could think that professional sports can’t be more than an empty distraction. I shall keep watching baseball, anti-capitalist sympathies intact. And while I'm at it, I think I'll have a few beers and some nachos.
-Rowdy Chowder
Monday, May 14, 2007
2nd Saturday and the Turkish Problem
As usual, we attended the 2nd Saturday celebration at Capitol Hill Books. The wine flowed like Faulknerian prose and the patrons were ensconced in conversation that carefully wound its way from Baudelaire to Biggie Smalls. Giddy grad-students grabbed copies of Jane Austen, and tried to sound as if they knew what Ayn Rand’s books were about when their friends asked. (“It’s about, like, her philosophy…”)
The generally genial mood of the party was momentarily deadened by deep, guttural pronouncements projected from the mouth of an 84-year-old Serbian nihilist who had quietly entered the store, propped himself up with his wooden cane, and then stood proclaiming the death of Europe for several minutes. (Why is it that we want to take old men from the Eastern Bloc so seriously? and more so when their eyebrows are untrimmed?) Eventually, his Malthusian meanderings gave way to talk of chesty young women and soccer-style field goal kicking, but not before he had cast his aura of impending doom upon those within earshot.
Our next move was Tunnicliff’s, mainly because it was right across the street. We rolled into the bar 6 deep and ordered 5 beers and a cider. As is customary, the Admiral bought the first round and we settled into our stools. Talk then turned to our Turkish tablemate and his feelings on a secular Turkey. The Admiral, never one to mince words, got down to brass tacks:
Admiral: “So are you gonna vote for those Muslims?”
Mehmet: “No. I’ll vote secular.”
Then, in a brilliant non-sequitur:
Admiral: “You guys killed all those Armenians.”
Mehmet: “Well, you guys killed all those Indians.”
Ah yes, the scandal of origins. And of course, the Admiral is caught in a paradox—he wants a secular Turkey, but at the same time wishes for an acknowledgement of genocide that would undermine the meta-narrative that helps legitimate the nation-state as he wants to preserve it. Perhaps a secret acknowledgement of that fact, miraculously timed with the arrival of our appetizers, ended that vein of conversation.
On our table lay plates of calamari, buffalo wings, spinach artichoke dip, wasabi glazed tuna, and quesadillas. We were at once overwhelmed by the bounty before us and at the same time driven to annihilate it which we did in short order. After another round of drinks, the weak and girlfriended (Boullionnui, Never Bisque) and the old (The Admiral) went home, and the hearty moved to 18th Amendment.
The first floor of 18th amendment was inexplicably filled with Republicans in green polo shirts. It didn’t seem worth asking what was going on, so we didn’t. Instead, we headed straight to the basement in hopes of open jukebox and pool. Our hopes were partially dashed when the bartender informed us that someone had stuck a baseball in the pool table the previous night and as such, it wasn’t working. We played a few tunes on the jukebox and decided to move on to Capitol Lounge.
Cap Lounge was on its way to hypeness when we arrived. We sat on the west side of the bar and ordered beers. Rowdy petitioned for shots, but there were no takers. The bartender on the west-side is of Brazilian origin; More specifically, from the historically significant region of Minas Gerais, but just as she and Rowdy were about to toast “the Inconfidencia”, the female member of our party informed him that someone had etched “for a good time, call Rowdy” on the back of the stall in the lady’s room. Incensed at the besmirching of his honor, Rowdy stumbled downstairs to investigate…
At this point, as so often happens when 2nd Saturday draws to a close, details become nebulous. What is vaguely remembered is that the Mad Turk was missing, the rain drops fell more and more insistently, and as revelers scattered home, the need of self-intoxication slowly ceded its will to the practical problem of retiring to one’s private ambient.
The generally genial mood of the party was momentarily deadened by deep, guttural pronouncements projected from the mouth of an 84-year-old Serbian nihilist who had quietly entered the store, propped himself up with his wooden cane, and then stood proclaiming the death of Europe for several minutes. (Why is it that we want to take old men from the Eastern Bloc so seriously? and more so when their eyebrows are untrimmed?) Eventually, his Malthusian meanderings gave way to talk of chesty young women and soccer-style field goal kicking, but not before he had cast his aura of impending doom upon those within earshot.
Our next move was Tunnicliff’s, mainly because it was right across the street. We rolled into the bar 6 deep and ordered 5 beers and a cider. As is customary, the Admiral bought the first round and we settled into our stools. Talk then turned to our Turkish tablemate and his feelings on a secular Turkey. The Admiral, never one to mince words, got down to brass tacks:
Admiral: “So are you gonna vote for those Muslims?”
Mehmet: “No. I’ll vote secular.”
Then, in a brilliant non-sequitur:
Admiral: “You guys killed all those Armenians.”
Mehmet: “Well, you guys killed all those Indians.”
Ah yes, the scandal of origins. And of course, the Admiral is caught in a paradox—he wants a secular Turkey, but at the same time wishes for an acknowledgement of genocide that would undermine the meta-narrative that helps legitimate the nation-state as he wants to preserve it. Perhaps a secret acknowledgement of that fact, miraculously timed with the arrival of our appetizers, ended that vein of conversation.
On our table lay plates of calamari, buffalo wings, spinach artichoke dip, wasabi glazed tuna, and quesadillas. We were at once overwhelmed by the bounty before us and at the same time driven to annihilate it which we did in short order. After another round of drinks, the weak and girlfriended (Boullionnui, Never Bisque) and the old (The Admiral) went home, and the hearty moved to 18th Amendment.
The first floor of 18th amendment was inexplicably filled with Republicans in green polo shirts. It didn’t seem worth asking what was going on, so we didn’t. Instead, we headed straight to the basement in hopes of open jukebox and pool. Our hopes were partially dashed when the bartender informed us that someone had stuck a baseball in the pool table the previous night and as such, it wasn’t working. We played a few tunes on the jukebox and decided to move on to Capitol Lounge.
Cap Lounge was on its way to hypeness when we arrived. We sat on the west side of the bar and ordered beers. Rowdy petitioned for shots, but there were no takers. The bartender on the west-side is of Brazilian origin; More specifically, from the historically significant region of Minas Gerais, but just as she and Rowdy were about to toast “the Inconfidencia”, the female member of our party informed him that someone had etched “for a good time, call Rowdy” on the back of the stall in the lady’s room. Incensed at the besmirching of his honor, Rowdy stumbled downstairs to investigate…
At this point, as so often happens when 2nd Saturday draws to a close, details become nebulous. What is vaguely remembered is that the Mad Turk was missing, the rain drops fell more and more insistently, and as revelers scattered home, the need of self-intoxication slowly ceded its will to the practical problem of retiring to one’s private ambient.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Lazy Sunday
One benefit of the DC Smoking Ban, besides not killing off all the local waitstaff and bartenders, is that area bars have been forced to provide more outdoor seating. On a recent Sunday afternoon, we were trolling around the neighborhood, looking for a place to drink some oat sodas out of doors when we noticed 18th Amendment recently put out a few tables.
It was a fine day. There was a cool breeze, it was sunny, Eastern Market would still be intact for another 7 hours or so, and we had a pitcher of Yuengling on the way. Unfortunately, the Yuengling came up Assling, and even the replacement pitcher of Bud Light was flat. Rowdy's an 18th Amendment veteran, and he's had good fresh and frosty beer experiences in the past, so we're hoping that this, too, is a fluke.
While both Rowdy and Bouillonnui are big fans of the burgers and wedge fries at 18th, (the pizza ain't too shab neither) their appetizer menu could use some work. Capone's Nachos aren't too bad, but would anyone ever order Capone's Nachos (with mozzarella and pizza sauce) over regular nachos? Before you respond, remember that regular nachos are the supa-shizz.
Now, you wouldn't know it to look at him, but Rowdy is not long back from a jaunt in Tuscany and he felt like ordering the bruschetta. When it arrived, he was, in a word, disappointed as it was utterly senza flavor, which is something most of us like food to have. The Admiral, who was likewise resting his bones after a hard day in the metaphorical sea of letters, was also summarily unimpressed. That, combined with the flat beer was enough to send us on a hike to the East-side of the Hill.
- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder
It was a fine day. There was a cool breeze, it was sunny, Eastern Market would still be intact for another 7 hours or so, and we had a pitcher of Yuengling on the way. Unfortunately, the Yuengling came up Assling, and even the replacement pitcher of Bud Light was flat. Rowdy's an 18th Amendment veteran, and he's had good fresh and frosty beer experiences in the past, so we're hoping that this, too, is a fluke.
While both Rowdy and Bouillonnui are big fans of the burgers and wedge fries at 18th, (the pizza ain't too shab neither) their appetizer menu could use some work. Capone's Nachos aren't too bad, but would anyone ever order Capone's Nachos (with mozzarella and pizza sauce) over regular nachos? Before you respond, remember that regular nachos are the supa-shizz.
Now, you wouldn't know it to look at him, but Rowdy is not long back from a jaunt in Tuscany and he felt like ordering the bruschetta. When it arrived, he was, in a word, disappointed as it was utterly senza flavor, which is something most of us like food to have. The Admiral, who was likewise resting his bones after a hard day in the metaphorical sea of letters, was also summarily unimpressed. That, combined with the flat beer was enough to send us on a hike to the East-side of the Hill.
- Bouillonnui and Rowdy Chowder
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Bouillonnui Goes Down the Rabbithole
For one reason or another, at certain points in our lives, we have to go to
a bar that's not on Capitol Hill. I know, it can be a strange and confusing
concept to deal with at times, and it can have grave consequences. I
decided to venture off of the Hill this past Tuesday night.
I entered the Capitol City Brewing Company on 11th and H NW, and saw
that the bar was full except for one seat.
B: Is this seat anyone's?
OO: Yours.
B: Thanks dude.
OO: I love you.
B: Sweet.
OO: Lemme buy you a drink. (motions towards bartender)
B: Ummm, (I could probably take him in some sort of rape situation)
sure. Sooo......
OO: What's your name? (winks)
B: Bouillonnui
OO: What line of work you in?
B: I work at a bookstore. You?
OO: I rob banks. USED TO. USED TO rob banks. Not no more. 10 years
in the Pen.
B: Was it awesome?
OO: The Pen? It was ok. Lemme ask you somethin'; I'm testin' you.
How many crumbs in a loaf of bread?
B: One?
OO: Nope. None. None till you break it.
B: "None till you break it." I see. What's your name man?
OO: Double O. (winks) I looove you.
B: That's cool. Love's such a complicated thing....
OO: You want another drink?
B: I'll buy this one.
Sadly the night ended up unrequited, and Double O never did pay for that
drink. But it's good to think that I came out of my field trip a little wiser
to the ways of the world, mostly the bread and crumbs part.
- Bouillonnui
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