Chinese New Year and Asian Spice

Photo: flickr.com

I missed Brown Bird at the Black Cat on Thursday and was purely, singularly bummed, so I needed a prize analgesic by the weekend.  While my Saturday was spent writing, giving some much-needed attention to my languishing novel, Sunday I dedicated to getting some much-needed culture and sunshine.

It was cold on Sunday, but at least the sky was clear. I met my friend Brian over in Chinatown where the Chinese New Year parade was set to take place on H street (to eventually pass under the Friendship Arch, pictured, at H and 7th) from 2-4:30. It was still early, around 1, so we decided to get some lunch before we staked out a spot on the parade route.

We walked to Matchbox first (that’s the one beneath the bowl of fire and next to the Chinatown bus hub) but it had people standing outside waiting to get in.  So we looked down the block and right on the corner of H and 8th was a place called Asian Spice.  The menu was extensive and eclectic, the place was warm and smelled delicious inside and it was close to the parade route.  As a plus, the owner was jovial and chatty, and convinced us this was the place to eat.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him I was already sold on the place, but maybe it swayed Brian a bit.

The hostess was kind enough to seat us upstairs and next to a window just in case we were still eating when the parade began.  If we craned our necks, we would be able to see the festivities as they snaked down H Street, as were on the 8th street side.  The upstairs area was simple and elegant, with dark wood floors and structural beams, and with different levels separated by one or two steps to create a sense of intimacy despite the open plan.  I felt like I was in someone’s really, really big and awesome house.  As we sat, the place filled up around us but I never felt overwhelmed (as I am prone to do).

I got the Tom Ka Gai, which is a spicy coconut milk soup with chicken and enoki mushrooms, and Asiana Shumai which are shrimp and pork steamed dumplings.  Both were absolutely delicious — well spiced and satisfying.  Usually I have to walk off with a doggy bag after visiting a restaurant, and I definitely didn’t want to carry food around with me at the parade, but since both items were appetizers, together they turned out to be just the right amount of food.

Brian got the Thai Chicken Salad. He said, and I quote, “The dressing was good.”  He wanted me to put that sentence in this review.  So…I’m guessing the lime-chili Thai dressing on his salad was satisfactory.  I didn’t get a chance to sample his salad, as I was too busy putting other delicious things in my mouth, but the fact there was none left over for me to try says much more than I could.

So as we were nearing the end of our meal the owner comes by and lets us know they had altered the parade route.  A few minutes later we looked outside and realized they were using the block of 8th street below us as the start-point for the parade.  As we sipped tea and sat comfortably we watched dancing dragons, parade walkers, martial arts students, dancers and a marching band pass below us.  A member of the media brushed past us to take pictures from one of the windows.  It was all said and done in about a half hour.

A half hour.

Now, maybe it’s because we were at the start of the route, and they spaced the different elements of the parade out as they stretched down H street, but it seemed fairly anticlimactic to us.  Right on the heels of the last marchers was a cleanup crew, walking behind them almost like they were part of the parade, raking large refuse from the street as little fleet of street-sweepers brought up the rear.  By the time we paid the bill and left the restaurant the streets were clear of crowds, and clean enough to forget there was even an event.  The only lingering reminder was the traffic and the police directing pedestrians and cars at every intersection.

So Asian Spice is what’s up.  The parade, well, I’ll skip it next year.

Death Grips at Rock and Roll Hotel

This was my first time at the Rock and Roll Hotel on H street in Washington DC. This isn’t to say I haven’t walked past it about a billion times, and often thought, “oh yeah, I should check that out sometime.”  But thanks to my friend Halil, who suggested we go see Death Grips, I got to go inside.

This venue is the perfect size. Local shows wouldn’t feel empty and national acts get give an intense, close-quarters show. It reminds me of all those crowded, sticky punk clubs I used to go to and play in the San Francisco Bay area, except this club kept the performance at the ground floor (I am sure every drummer in the world thanks R&RH for that).

Despite the fact that this show was on a Tuesday, it sold out (!). Even so, there was still a surprising amount of breathing room at the show, and upstairs there was another bar that never got too crowded — much like the back bar at Black Cat.  The opener was Mykki Blanco, who we sadly missed while we were stuffing our faces at Shawafel (which was delicious. I had a flalafel wrap that tasted like a spicy dream wrapped in cucumber/yogurt sauce). We walked in in the middle of his last song,I think. 

I’d never heard of Death Grips, and they put on an intense show.  I could’ve done well with a step stool or a balcony or some sort of tiered area to stand on since I’m only 5 feet tall, but that has more to do with R&RH than the band.  The band has two people. It’s loops and pre-recorded music, a live drummer with triggered deep bass, and a super-intense front man. The show is continuous, with no breaks between songs, so it’s like performance art almost.  They also had an AV component that was on such a small display it was barely visible — something I’d figure the venue would have worked out ahead of time, but didn’t.  

Death Grips is hard to categorize, as was the audience. 

Now, the audience was the third man to this band.  Okay, Death Grips is rap, crashy, trashy drums, electronic loops.  Their audience was mostly white guys 16-30 (it was an all-ages show).  There were tiny babies who were still pre-adolescent bean-poles, there were punks with their patched jean jackets, there were hippies with their head bands and long, unwashed hair, there were about five black guys and about a dozen women, and then there were the 40-50 year old white couples who, I’m guessing, brought their kids to the show?  I think?  I can’t figure it out.  These dudes must have some genius universal appeal I don’t get — I wonder what their marketing strategy is.  They put on a helluva high-energy live show, so perhaps that is their selling point.  As someone who blindly walked into Death Grips, I enjoyed it, but still wonder how all these different folks heard about and opted to come out on a Tuesday night to see the show.

But I like new stuff, and this was all new.  Holidays are here, so I’m trying to get my quota on cool stuff here in DC before I go off to different places for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years.  Happy holidays, world.

News flash: Naomie Harris is in Skyfall (SPOILER — apparently)

Hey America, did you know there’s a smokin’ hot, ass-kicking black woman in that new Bond movie Skyfall? No?  Maybe that’s because she’s in the previews for only about a half-second, just long enough to see her if you freeze-frame.

Okay, look, I get the story and franchise is more about the BLOND (please don’t get me started on that) Daniel Craig as Bond and Judi Dench as M, but come on.  I saw Ben Whishaw in the previews (and who the hell is Ben Whishaw??) but you can’t toss in the woman who, SPOILER ALERT, apparently shoots Bond off a train to his death? (Not to disparage Ben Whishaw.  Superb actor, gorgeous thing, and is, in his part as Q, like a cross between Merlin and Dr. Reed on Criminal Minds.)

So I’m working through some scenarios where this might be okay…maybe Naomie Harris is a big reveal in this movie?  I mean, I never saw Ralph Finnes in any of the previews, and by God can he wear a navy blue three-piece suit, BTW, but his entrance was somewhat built up to.  Naomie just pops on the screen at the beginning of the movie and then fucks everything up.  And thanks SO MUCH for that last part, MGM, Lions Gate, Columbia Pictures.

I found myself liking this Bond movie more than I expected to, despite a rocky start.  After Naomie Harris’ turn as Selena in 28 Days Later, a character that seemed to fully encapsulate where my personality and psyche would be in a post-apocalyptic scenario, I like her more than most people I actually know.  Her character’s playful, no-shit approach to Bond in Skyfall was well appreciated.  And the potential of her return in future Bond franchise movies is quite titillating…

However.  She’s Moneypenny.  Works perfectly for the personal dynamics Harris and Craig set up between their characters.  I get it, crazy movie conglomerate.  But she’s the secretary.  The help.  That hurt real bad, MGM/Columbia Pictures/Lions Gate.  It hurt real bad.  But I’ sure you didn’t mean it like that, right?  Didn’t even cross your mind.  Fine.  Yeah, we’re cool.  It’s fine.  It’s not like black people are gonna flock to this movie or anything.

So I’m just going to take a breath and hold tight knowing there’s more will they/won’t they Naomie/Daniel fun in the future, and hope you don’t seriously fuck this up.  Because I’ll be watching.  And maybe, just maybe, put Harris in the freaking (American) preview next time.

Thanks,

The Black Girl in the Room

Brunch and Cafe St.-Ex

Recently I went to brunch.  Okay, now I know how that sounds. We brunch hard. We get up at 1 pm. Etc.  I’m not generally a brunch person, even though I LOVE breakfast food. Usually I feel too shitty in the mornings to eat much of anything, and even the awesomeness of buckwheat pancakes turns my stomach.  But after getting out of bed and going for a hike and coming home to drink some tea and soak up some down time, I’m all in for all things breakfast.  Usually by then, though, it’s time for lunch.

Thankfully, one glorious day every week there are establishments all over this great city (and greater-city area) who serve bountiful and delicious morning fare until  3 pm.  Last weekend, I visited Cafe Saint-Ex.

I’ve been to this place before, but never in the day time.  I’ve had their dinner and drinks but never their biscuits and gravy. Also, I’d never been able to really study their decor.  I believe I’ve sat outside more than in when visiting this place, and with the added benefit of daylight and the Cafe’s great corner location lending itself to many windows, I noticed the aviation theme for the first time. And that the Cafe was named after Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, known best for torturing me in French class with Le Petit Prince (The Little Prince).  The ceiling’s metal tiles reminded me of a great bar in Albany, California called the Hotsy Totsy, which worked in Cafe St.-Ex’s favor.

The place was busy, but not over-run, filled with usual, casual brunch folk.  It wasn’t until about 1 pm that the younger, hipper crowd started showing up, and there was a wait to sit. By then, though, I’d already eaten my biscuits, gravy, sausage, potatoes and eggs (what I could of them, anyway — the portion was hefty).  There’s a full bar, and I saw quite a few bloody mary’s and mimosas passed out around me.  My friend Halil and I stuck with tea and coffee and ate the sausage breakfast.  Halil finished his off tout suite, as he’d spent about an hour waiting for me because Metro is fucking terrible at what they do, and I ate as much as my little heart desired.  We thought it was delicious.  I could have done with a bit more biscuit and a bit less egg, but that’s my personal preference.

Okay, so…brunch.  It’s a thing I like.  No, uh, gosh, it’s been a while since I blogged.  What was that thing I used to say?  Oh yeah!

Brunch.  It’s what’s up.

Doctor Who fanfic

Oh, and speaking of nerding-out to Doctor Who, I wrote a fan fiction in which he and the Ponds visit Nietzsche.  It’s perfect.  Have a read.

Lock/unlock, On/off, Righty Tighty/Lefty Loosey

I’ve spent the last couple Fridays at the Black Cat watching Doctor Who.  If you’ve looked way back in my blog, you’d know I’m a huge fan of the new series’ of Doctor Who (Doctors #9-11).  I’ve never been a huge fan of Doctor #9, but a friend of mine, Larry, has attempted to argue his virtues.

Lucky for Larry (and for me) Black Cat started hosting Doctor Who Happy Hours the beginning of August, starting with the new series 1, and Doctor #9.  And I have to admit, that Doctor’s (as played by the elfish Christopher Eccleston) growing on me.

However, I did attend once with a guy who had never seen Doctor Who.  He was aware of it, having glanced at a couple episodes of the 70s series on TV as a kid, but he definitely had no idea it had been revamped, remade, and re-awesomed in 2005.  So, watching a pretty kickass episode for a reintroduction, The Unquiet Dead, I got an interesting question: “what’s that magic wand thing?”

“It’s not a magic wand!!”  That was my response.  It was like a reflex.  Kinda like in 30 Rock when Liz Lemon was talking about the Death Star and Jenna told her never to speak about Star Trek with hot guys and she reflexively corrected with “Wars!”

It’s a sonic screwdriver.  A Sonic. Screwdriver.  It’s a tool, not a wand. It’s not magical.  It can only do what any tool can, just faster and from a remote location and it only does certain things.  It does lock/unlock, on/off (stop/go), and righty-tighty/lefty-loosey (as any screwdriver must do).  It’s also a diagnostic tool, taking readings about the ambient surroundings. It can’t make things disappear or make rabbits bust out of hats.  Also, it doesn’t do wood.

Now Larry, a true, blue Doctor Who enthusiast, contended it may, in fact, be a wand.  WTF?? I’ll be honest, I’m not up on wand lore. I never read or watched Harry Potter.  But I’m pretty sure a wand can conjure things that weren’t there, create states of being that didn’t exist before, and turn people into other beings or forms.  That is magic.  The sonic screwdriver only does things an actual tool could do, it just does it a lot faster and without having to go through each step to make it happen.  For instance, if The Doctor needed out of a situation quickly he couldn’t just poof make himself and his companions disappear, he’d need a transport device which he could then activate with the sonic screwdriver.  I can’t even remember specific arguments for wand, but we did discuss its limited capability.  Like that it doesn’t do wood.  In the end we settled on: Sonic Screwdriver is an epic tool, but a shitty wand.

I have literally never, ever had a nerdier conversation in my life.  I am a self-described nerd, mostly because I know too much about a lot of stuff (please, please don’t get into an argument re environment and sustainability with me), but besides Firefly and Doctor Who I am not much into sci-fi stuff.  But that argument felt so nerdy and so right.  Black Cat, a Doctor Who happy hour drink in my hand, surrounded by, like, fifty+ Doctor Who enthusiasts, a few with sonic screwdriver replicas in their hands — it was the only place I could have this conversation in public and feel accepted.

So 7 PM (show ends up starting around 7:30, but get there early to assure a seat), Fridays at the Black Cat in DC, Doctor Who’s on like…Dalek Khan?

Well anyway.  Doctor Who’s what’s up.

Rosa Mexicano and Dancing Crab

Hey Internet!

So I’ve been toiling away trying to get into writing this next novel of mine.  The story is in a dark voice, from a pretty psychologically bent perspective so the shift from work-brain to writing-brain is pretty much impossible on weekdays.  I set aside a weekend a month and dedicate it to writing, no socializing, and find those Saturday and Sunday mornings to be quite productive.  But it is so slow-going and there are so many ideas swirling in my head I estimate it to be about a year before I get it all out and can jump into editing.  I do love to edit, so it’s sort of like the carrot at the end of the very, very long stick.

Anyway, this past weekend my good friend Christine had her last hurrah in DC, as she’s moving to pursue a PhD.  Super sad.  She’s awesome.  Anyway, we (and a few friends) first had dinner at Rosa Mexicano, a few blocks from the Friendship Heights metro.  There are apparently a couple other Rosa Mexicano locations, one in Chevy Chase and another in National Harbor.  This one in DC is relatively new, but it was really well attended.  The place is pretty big, but broken up into managably-sized rooms so it feels more intimate. The service is quick and the food is really good.  I had a duck enchilada which was a perfect size, slightly spicy and came with sides of black beans and a seasoned rice which were both delicious.  Rosa also has an excellent selection of tequila, if that’s your thing, and since I was glovin’ up for karaoke at the Dancing Crab (our next stop) I did imbibe a couple different tequilas.  The price was reasonable, ambiance good, food yummy.  Overall, I give it an 8 on a completely arbitrary scale.

Dancing Crab is a few blocks to the south of Rosa Mexicano, and it’s a wonderful, wonderful dive bar.  During the day, apparently, it serves crab, but at night it’s got dim lighting, cheap drinks, rowdy regulars, and on Saturday nights, karaoke.   It’s not particularly crowded so I got to get up and sing about three songs, not including group songs with my little band of merry-folk.  The song selection is pretty good — it’s not the type where you can pick a song from the internet or anything, so it has its limits, especially when it comes to very current songs, but it is pretty impressive for a place like Dancing Crab.  It doesn’t look like it’d be as badass at karaoke as it is.  The dude running the show was quite attentive when it came to levels, and forgiving of drunken stupidity (as one would have to be at a dive).  There’s a nice patio out front for a smoke break or to get away from the music or enjoy the coolness of deep night.  Parking’s easy on weekends as the meters are free.  Last call’s at two, as with most bars, and the Tenleytown Metro is about a block away.

Karaoke’s oddly one of those things people either like or don’t.  I can’t understand anyone who doesn’t want to pretend to be a rock star for night.  Next chance you get, fucking get on stage and belt out anything you know!  Dancing Crab’s a great place for this, cuz no one cares, everyone’s drunk, and you can get up a few times before your courage wears off.

So karaoke.  It’s what’s up.