Cleansing Cucumbers

I needed something healthy and invigorating. 

I'd recently stuffed myself to the brim, eating my way through a weekend in Portland. On Saturday I lunched on Bijou's salad Nicoise, perfectly and minimally dressed though the herbs lacked fragrance and I longed for a few capers. Dinner began with the flaky biscuits piled high in the bread basket at Mother's Bistro, continued with Mother's roasted beet and blood orange salad and ended with her crab cakes. The decor impressed though the service did not, and the food, though slightly flawed, was rich and flavorful. I would return for the biscuits alone. Sunday started with Morning Star's eggs benedict, necessary after the night's libations. 

Back in Seattle, I came home to quietude, flipped through my cookbooks and went on a sunny stroll through Cal Anderson park, running into several neighbors on the way. We chatted on park benches until the shadows crept over us, relegating the sun to slender stripes on the grass and gravel. Still mildly hung over, faintly tired, I craved something light and cleansing. Cucumbers.

I played with David Tanis' Vietnamese cucumber salad, trying out a bias cut on my vegetables, adding rice vinegar and extra ginger, reducing the sugar. The results were flavorful and just short of fiery. I preferred all of my improvisations except for the bias cut. Simply sliced cucumbers make a more manageable mouthful. I garnished the salad with thinly sliced sweet onions and, though pretty, they were more delicious when tossed and marinated with the rest of the salad. I suggest taste over aesthetics on this one. 

After salad came sleep. A new week. A date with a new boy, even. I laughed at myself as I shared camera-phone images of my recent concoctions, lovingly pointing out ingredients like a grandparent naming children in a wallet photo. "I want that," the boy said as he pointed at the cucumber salad with his chopsticks, his gorgeous gray eyes lighting up. I smiled, remembering how the sweet crunch contrasted with the tangy, slightly salty dressing, the bite of onions and peppers. Suffice it to say, I hope to make it again soon. 

Vietnamese Cucumber Salad

Adapted from "A Platter of Figs and other Recipes" by David Tanis

4 large cucumbers

salt and pepper

vietnamese (nuoc mamma) or thai (nam pla) fish sauce

rice vinegar
2-inch piece of ginger, peeled and cut into fine julienne

palm sugar

3 serranos or jalapenos

2-3 limes

mint sprigs

basil sprigs

thinly sliced sweet onion

Peel cucumbers, cut them lengthwise in half and slice into half-moons. Place in a large bowl, add salt and pepper to taste, a dash each of fish sauce and vinegar, the ginger and a tablespoon of palm sugar. Toss well and let sit for at least 5 minutes.

David suggests finely chopping the chiles and adding them to taste by the spoonful, but I prefer them thinly sliced and added with a bold liberality. Add the onions, douse with freshly-squeezed lime juice and toss again. Cover and refrigerate till serving.

Just before serving, add a fistful of mint and basil leaves, roughly chopped or perhaps stacked, rolled and sliced into a pretty chiffonade. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more lime juice, fish sauce or salt as necessary. Though I halved this and enjoyed it as a hefty meal for one, Tanis serves it as a side to wild salmon. 

Portland with Pops: Part 1

I took the train to Portland, eager to meet my father in the middle-ground city for a weekend. He looked surprisingly small in his fleece cap when he met me Friday night at the Amtrak station. He stood to the side, as I knew he would, out of the way of the pouring masses and the meeting people who clogged their path.

Every experience with my father, almost as far back as I remember, begins with a greeting in a place of public transportation. It's as if he met me at a bus stop when I was born, a small suitcase in my baby fist.

He looked small, as I said before. He'd lost weight, as well as the desire to throw it around. Our interactions are so different now that I'm an adult and he doesn't hold the power over me he once did. Nor does he want to. Trading small kindnesses, he gave me rye bread and blackberry honey, an amber comb suspended deliciously in the jar, in exchange for homemade apple sauce. On the drive into Portland, he picked up 60 pounds (plus a few higher quality pint jars) of honey for use in making mead. My father, Aleric, acts much as his name implies, which is to say he behaves as if accidentally and erroneously transported from a past era.

When I was young, from the ages of 9-11, and lived with him every other week, I had to become accustomed to an almost Amish method of living (at least for a child of the 80's). When the toothpaste ran out, we would go weeks sprinkling baking soda on our toothbrushes before he bought another tube. We had to whittle our pencils with kitchen knives. He taught my Girl Scout troop how to turn cream into butter, but I have distinct memories of pouring chunky milk on my cereal. When it got really bad, I would just switch to water. The worst part is, we really weren't poor. At all. He just thought things like toothpaste and pencil sharpeners and fresh milk were unnecessary luxuries. He still doesn't believe in hotel beds (always preferring a truck bed or a floor) and doesn't understand why the post office hasn't yet delivered any of his sweet moonshine to my doorstep.

Portland was kind of like a custody week, 13 years after such things existed for my father and I, but much more enjoyable. Of course we spent more time together and ate better than I ever used to on those old occasions. It was always odd to me that he thought he lost me, that he thought my mother took me away, when I spent so many nights in his supposed custody hungry and alone.

This time around, we stayed at his cousin's adorable house in southeast Portland, hiding inside as the rain and wind peaked in stormy delight. The sweet woman, who doesn't drink alcohol or caffeine or utter profanities, bought beer especially for our visit and seemed positively smitten with the resultingly boisterous conversation. The words and laughter and confidence of our companionship escalated and we stayed up chatting, our feet somehow tucked in together on the couch, until my father's bed time.

On Saturday the three of us ventured to Ocean City Seafood Restaurant on SE 82^nd. A review in The Mercury prompted me to go, and I ate the best dim sum of my short-lived life. We had to wait 15-20 minutes for a table at 12:30 on a rainy Saturday, a very worthwhile endeavor. Anxiously watching the carts pass by other tables, my father and I sipped our tea in expectation. The steam cart finally worked its way to our white-clothed table and the server displayed basket after basket as we pointed at random dishes, briefly conferred, and then stilled our grumbling stomachs with the winning fare.

First I dove into the tofu-wrapped veggies, juicy meatball-like mounds of bok choy, cabbage and other unidentifiable ingredients served with a soy-based dipping sauce. The pork shu mai disappeared so fast I barely remember that meaty moment of heaven, but we all made sure to savor the fantastic shrimp noodles. Rolling the fresh pasta around in my mouth, I delighted in their delicate taste and texture, the shrimp in no way rubbery. My father ate an inordinant amount of the pungently flavored rice, wrapped carefully in banana leaves. Hum bao melted in my mouth, the lightest, whitest dough hiding a sweet dollop of barbecue pork. My father interrupted my creamy scallops to blurt out "That's the most succulent potsticker I've ever had." Indeed, the large hearty dumpling hid a juicy interior behind the thick dough layer. I think it actually squirted at him. A salty sauce brought out the flavor.

For dessert, we dined on egg custard, superior to the runny versions I've had in Seattle, but slightly overcooked and served in too much phyllo dough. The real triumph was the sticky sweet sesame buns. I wish I could have sampled more dessert dishes, but there just wasn't room inside of me. On our way out, I longingly eyed the cart full of buns (so many buns!), some glazed, some with a crackly cover, wondering what delectables might burst forth upon biting.

Ocean City Seafood definitely won over our hearts and gullets. It's a pretty classy joint, decked out in chandeliers and nice fixtures, though you might not know it from the outside. From what I understand, dinner can get pricey, but we made out like bandits at $10 per person.

We digested over a wet walk through the neighborhood and picked persimmons from an inviting tree. Back in our weekend haven, we sipped on more tea with honey, relishing our sweet hot drinks together. Together and happy, I'm not sure why it took us so long to get here. Perhaps because we're both trying to make up for past mistakes.

Lawfully Loaded

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The Harvest Vine

I know it's been around for a while, but people have been begging me to go to the Harvest Vine recently. Not with them. They go without me and then rave about it, begging me to follow in their stomach's footsteps. I admit it's a romantic destination and there are few in my life who would romance me. Few meaning one. So on Friday night, specifically chosen as "special date night" since I was to flee the following morning for a week-long vacation to California, Bugs and I walked out of the apartment holding hands and wearing dress shirts to catch a cab to our 8:30 reservation. 

"I'm so glad putting a nice shirt on over jeans means dressing up in Seattle," Bugs said as the cab pulled up. 

"I'm so glad we live in a neighborhood where we can walk to the corner and catch a cab in a minute."

As cool a couple we may be, I stumbled a bit in my heels when exiting the taxi, and I swear the (older, richer, more fashionable) patrons sitting on the porch watched my stumble and then cast their eyes to the floor when we entered. Inside Harvest Vine, however, exists a different world of comfort. 

Yes, forget about interrogating eyes and heeled hipsters with your fashionable food (such is the world when one leaves Captitol Hill!). Our server whisked us down a stone stairway, through a labyrinth of small rooms that made the good-sized restaurant feel hidden and intimate. Sitting just an iron-worked bar away from the booze-filled one (why do I always envy the bar patrons at nice restaurants, who I envision as both spendy and spontaneous?), Bugs claimed the wine list first while I ogled the food menu, revisiting friends' and family's recommendations in my head. At times I do wish someone would bring two wine menus for our table (and yes, sometimes I do get so impatient I ask for my own). Bugs has to pore through it, cover to cover, like his Neal Stephenson novels. He commented on the abundance of Lopez Heridia wines, a tasty Rioja producer, and of sherry. Most of the wines were a double mark-up, pretty standard, though some topped out at triple retail. 

Our friendly and handsomely bearded server brought us a palate cleanser of apple and fennel sorbet with fennel and parsley oil. Green and sweet like good wheatgrass, the sorbet was somehow creamy and crave-worthy as well. I arouse from my last green spoonful, wondering if food might be the fast lane to heaven. 

I assented to Bugs' wish to order the 2005 Muga Reserva Rioja, though he grumbled a bit that the 2004 was unavailable. A delicious decision at $55, and not a bad markup from $25 retail, we loved analyzing it while waiting for food to arrive and then observing the changes with time and food pairings. 

"Who will taste?" The wonderfully bearded and helpful man asked innocently. Bugs simply frowned his mustache a bit, fully prepared for the seriousness of the ordeal, and raised a pointed finger like a student affirming his presence in class. 

"Yes, him," I said, deferring to the expert at the table, though I do enjoy the first taste when I select the wine, or better yet, when a taste is offered to both of us like at our neighborhood favorite Table 219. 

From his askance glance as the waiter uncorked the bottle to his screwed up face as he tasted and discerned the quality, I loved him, like I only love my Bugs. One of the truly special things about date night is admiring your lover in public. 

The nose on the Muga smelled of cherries, blueberries and eucalyptus, the latter fulfilling a broader sense of the herbal, medicinal and alcoholic. 

"A little coconut," Bugs whispered, his nose buried deep in the glass, lifting his thick-rimmed glasses. And then I smelled it, too. Was it a subtle note, only obvious once pointed out, or powers of persuasion? Almost impossible to know in the wine world because in such a land citizens are often engaged in some stage of drunkenness.

Focusing again, I felt the smooth dry mouth feel, running my tongue through the broad tannic background. It finished black, with hints of soil, dark cherries and cocoa chalkiness. As the alcohol and medical smell faded, the acidity of the fruit broke free. I felt citrus on the back of my throat and a pleasing astringency on my tongue. The rich tannins, sharper acids and alcoholic sweetness all balanced on a hair. 

The Guisantes y bee gedarte, fresh peas with Marcona almonds, burnt lemon vinaigrette and ash-rubbed cheese arrived at our table. Though the flavors I forked up eagerly were bright and delicious, I would have preferred the peas just a little more plump and crisp, less cooked, but the nuts almost made up for it with their crunchy texture. Indeed, the dish hinged just as much on texture as it did on taste. Bugs, not usually a nut fan, commented on the spectacular almonds.

"That's because they're texturally important," I responded, savoring both their snap and sweetness. The ash on the cheese brought an essential bitterness, balancing the peas, baptized in their oil and lemon bath. I mopped up the last of the grassy olive oil, staining the bread and table cloth green. And so our waiter presented us with clean plates and forks! Such a surprise after Corson Building, where I paid twice as much to eat four times as many courses on the same dirty plate.

Next we ordered the clams with bacon, onion confit, chorizo and cream sauce ($10). The smoky pork slid around and over the juicy clams, the tenderly-textured dish rendered spicy by the onion and chorizo compote. Though it didn't pair the best with our Muga, the pork and seafood plate evoked a spiciness in the wine that we otherwise would not have noticed.

"I like how the waiter isn't pouring our wine," Bugs confessed, leaning over the table. I'd noticed it subconciously and greatly appreciated the lack the service, too. Of course, just then a gentleman (not our server! not on my watch!) must have overheard us, thinking we were sarcastic, and promptly filled our glasses. We really weren't being sarcastic! We just like to swirl our wine, really. Please let us fill our glasses at our own speed. At least the lights dimmed. Mood lighting is always better with bacon. Or is that the other way around?

I was then served and immediately devoured the blood sausage, which I later recounted in great detail to my very German and very blood-sausage-loving Oma. The crisp black exterior gave way to a rich but delicate interior, entirely reminiscent of bread pudding or a soft bread stuffing delicately flavored with fennel and nutmeg. 

For dessert we ravaged an Espellette pepper chocolate flan, the spiciness just warming the creaminess and sweetness, further flavoring our 1989 Colheita by Porto Kopke. 

As one of the last tables lingering in the stone-walled wine cellar of Harvest Vine, we said goodbye to the romantic lighting, rich food and surprisingly cheery air, leaving the stones to grow cold with the night. When the 11 didn't come, we hailed a cab (it took a little longer than on the hill) and made our way back home to say our goodbyes to each other and do anything but let the bed grow cold like stones.   

Poppy Blooms

Despite the saying, Poppy charmed me the fourth time. My friends and I had long-awaited Poppy's opening, from the first false rumors that it would take over Jade Pagoda's spot on Broadway. A good friend works at Kerf, the Ballard store that designed and installed Poppy's controversial cabinetry, tables and chairs. My furniture designing friend came into work on a Saturday to make herself a chair. Jerry Traunfeld, who came in for a consultation that Tuesday, saw and fell in love with her chair, commissioning 100 on the spot. The weeks preceding Poppy's opening were busy times for Kerf. A few months later, I remember giddily texted her news that her chair played a starring role on the cover of Metropolitan Magazine. 

I first walked through Poppy's tall door and sat in those delightful chairs shortly after the September opening. Bugs, his parents and I snacked on the eggplant fries and each ordered the nightly thali. The fries were tasty and coated with sweet honey, but they lacked the crunch and rigidity the name "fry" implies. Biting into them was a soggy experience the first time around, but don't fret; Poppy solved this problem a few months in. Kitchen staff now coat the cut eggplant in a chickpea concoction before cooking. One used to order a thali by selecting two of four main tasting items. Two were vegetarian and two meaty, with one of the meaty options almost invariably seafood. The remaining 8 tastes were the chef's choice, but all vegetarian. Other than a few a la carte items, the only other choice was a "smalli," consisting of one main tasting portion of your choice, and five or six smaller ones.

On a large circular tray, we were each presented with tastes of 10 items in 10 differently sized and shaped earthenware pots. Some were hot, some cold, some hits, some misses. I remember particularly loving a vegetarian fritter of sorts and a melon-mint gaspacho that acted as a palate cleanser. The restaurant was fun in its novelty, but the full thali was overkill. Stuffed to the seams, I told myself I'd get a smalli next time. 

In December of 2008, Lacy and Betty, a vegetarian friend visiting from New York, and I made reservations for a Saturday night with the intent to fill ourselves on Jerry Traunfeld's Indian-inspired food and then hit up a few bars in Ballard. We each ordered a cocktail and dove right into the thalis. Everything on the menu looked so good, but of course it was too much food. Again. I spooned up a delicious pea soup, biting into moist chunks of ham. The same ham floated in Betty's vegetarian thali. Gasp! I stopped our server and asked him if all the side dishes were vegetarian. "Yes, of course," he said brusquely and hurried off before we could point out the obvious presence of meat in the soup. A young man came by to fill up our water, and we pointed out the pork to him as well. He was gracious enough to explain that there was a meaty version and a vegetarian version, apologize for the mix-up, and replace Betty's soup. The water boy saved the day, but Poppy dropped the ball on both vegetarian-friendly cuisine and plain old friendly service.

Though unimpressed with dinner, Lacy desperately wanted to return for a sampling of Dana Cree's desserts. After a girls night at Anchovies and Olives (mediocre with the exception of amazing oysters and geoduck ceviche), we hit up Poppy, snuggling into two seats at the bar. We had both fallen head over heels for St. Germain elderflower liqueur over the holidays and ordered The Elite, a tartly fruity and floral concoction perfect for warming up two thirsty girls on a cold March night. Chowing down on the eggplant fries, we rejoiced in their vastly improved texture. I eagerly ordered the gulab jamun, a staple Indian dessert similar to a round doughnut, something I frequently indulged in during my study-abroad trip to India. Poppy's version sadly disappointed me with its overly dense, cloyingly sweet dough. Sigh. I tasted Lacy's hot dake cake, a vastly better dessert, but nothing I craved in the cold nights to follow. So Leah and I stumbled back to my apartment after a few rounds of overpriced cocktails to snuggle into my couch, put on a movie, and revive our long tradition of sleep-overs, and Poppy and I fell out of touch.

"I need a break," I thought, not sure I'd ever return. I didn't even look her way when Bugs and I walked to his parents' place. I had been there, done that, eaten it and enjoyed it for what it was. I couldn't change her or make her something she wasn't.

Then in the summer, rumors of an expanded menu piqued my interest. It's like I lifted up my eyes to look around me, and there she was, arms open, ready to take me back. Just last week, I dragged Bugs back to Poppy for the most fun Wednesday night I've had in a while. Really, all I had to do was resist my own temptations to order the full thali and secretly compare Traunfeld's dishes to Indian ones. I'd heard from a couple sources that Poppy had expanded their smalli menu, but the website didn't reveal anything of the sort. I finally decided to see for myself, and made a same-day reservation for two. 

The menu now consists of two full thali options: one meaty and one vegetarian. No more of that confusing "pick one of these and pick one of those." Even better, I had the choice of five smallies. I chose one featuring goat cheese stuffed squash blossoms. Bugs commented that their wine list had improved, and I ordered the nightly wine flight to check it out. 

The service was friendly and attentive, but it took us 30 minutes to receive food from the time we sat down, a little long in my book. In the meantime, I slowly sipped on my Paul Ginglinger Wahlenbourg Gewurztraminer, a 2005 Alsatian number, careful to save at least half my glass to pair with food. Since it was actually served at the right temperature (!), the fragrant floral nose bloomed in my glass. I loved the thick syrupy mouth feel and the oxidative nuttiness made me think of a good sherry. Next in the flight, Les Pallieres, a 2008 pinot noir rosé from the Rhone Valey, was served perfectly chilled, had a tart gooseberry nose, a watermelon Jolly Rancher palate, and a deliciously juicy finish. The 2006 Domaines Barons de Rothschild Aussieres Rouge finished out the flight. 

Our smallies arrived just as my stomach started to grumble, and my whole body feasted on the sight of the seven beautiful bites before me. The squash blossoms were amply stuffed, and paired deliciously with the gewurz, but I wished the squash flavor could have shone through a little more. I slurped up a seductively textured carrot lemon-thyme soup, occasionally dipping my potato coriander naan, and devoured a great green rice and ricotta fritter. Poppy definitely knows what to do with fritters. Span peas seasoned with peppermint and sesame were bight and crisp, acting as a palate cleanser between dishes. Though a fancier restaurant would have provided this dish at a specific point between two courses, Poppy lets you choose your pace, nibbling and comparing as you please. It's like breaking an ice pick into the formality of multi-course meals. Though Bugs ate them up early, I saved the pickled cherries with sage and lavender for last, pairing them with the rosé and loving the combined fruit acidity. I sat satisfied and happy in those proud chairs, admiring the airy yellow curtains, exposed brick walls, the way the door cast a shadow of the Poppy logo on the wood entrance. 

And for the meat-lovers out there, Bugs' grilled Wagyu denver steak, the feature of his smalli, was perfect. With all the new options, I'm convinced Poppy has something for everyone. 

Dim Sum Date

After a full lap around the rainbow rows of sake and candies, the live but lethargic lobster and geoduck, the mouthwatering mochi and miso pastes, I finally found her staring at a shelf of spices. 

"What are your best finds?" I asked eagerly, pulling my grocery cart beside Lacy's. She reached down and grabbed up bags of meat: pork belly, butt, fat back, and spareribs, as well as chicken feet and chicken carcasses. I had already picked up the spareribs, part of the week's "Philippines Special" and priced at only $1.99 per pound, just begging to be eaten for Sunday dinner, slathered with sticky homemade barbecue sauce and served up with the watermelon currently taking up half my crisper space.

"So are you going the barbecue route or the Asian route?" I asked, pointing at the ribs, quick to compare notes.

"Asian. I'm going to marinate it in miso." Lovingly eyeing her fat back, she said, "I'm going to make bacon."

Our eyes met and we inched closer together. "For BLTs!" We blurted in unison.

Just last week, we decided that this summer, once the tomatoes are just right, we're going to make the best, most lovingly-crafted BLTs ever. Lacy was over at my apartment, scooping up crab dip with my baked bread. She kept harping about my bread, incredulous that I'd made my own, even though it was just a dense baguette, nothing spectacular. For my mom's birthday, I'd gotten her a gift certificate to Cook's World, near the U-Village, and we finally cashed it in and went to a bread baking class not too long ago. I found I really enjoyed making bread. I would highly recommend the class to anyone interested. Anyways, last Saturday, Lacy told me that if I was competent enough to bake my own bread, I really had to make my own mayo. So we decided that I would make the bread and mayo, she would make the bacon, we'd go to the farmers market for the tomato and lettuce and then...with our powers combined...we form....Captain Planet!

Captain Planet, he's our hero, going to take pollution down to zero! This BLT just might save the world.

Back in the grocery aisle, I worked my way up to asking what was really on my mind. "What the fuck are you doing with the chicken feet?" It came out casually, like I had a whole list of possibilities in my head and just wanted to check recipe notes. Like I had some freaking clue why my favorite gourmand was buying three pounds of chicken feet. I stared at them in awe and disgust.

"I'm going to make chicken stock!" Lacy exclaimed, a quick glimmer in her wide eyes. "The feet make it so gelatinous." I nodded in understanding. "Gelatinous," she whispered again. "Just don't tell Bugs."

The beauty of it unfolded before me, like a flower. I hadn't made stock since the winter, when a satisfying weekend meant roasting chicken on Saturday night, then shutting myself inside with a few horror movies and stewing up the carcass on Sunday. On my second or third attempt, I found I preferred to skimp on the skimming, and let a fat layer develop when I refrigerated or froze the stock. The fat layer is actually supposed to protect the liquid, and it's easy to remove before cooking. Unfortunately, I ran out of homemade stock around March. And this time of year, a good homemade stock would really improve a spring-time spinach risotto or cream of asparagus soup.

I looped back to the meat case, hunting for the smallest packages of those crone-looking bird claws and breast plates. Since I was taking a while, checking the packaged date and price on every pound, a woman elbowed past me and I conceded her victory over the chicken section. I dropped back, eager to get back in the action. Her young daughter sat in the cart, eyeing me and pulling on her braids.

"Mommy, I want to eat the hands. I want to eat the hands with the fingers," she said, pointing at the package in my hands.

"We don't eat that shit," the woman muttered and wheeled her cart past, packed safe with chicken breasts and bread. Watching her go past, I felt like I had a secret, an alchemist's formula to transform garbage into the gourmet.

Uwajimaya is truly an adventure. Shopping at Seattle's home of "quality Asian grocery and gifts since 1928" is one of my favorite Saturday outings. Best of all, it's inevitably preceded by a lunch of dim sum. Today, Lacy and I tried out Jade Garden. Though more than a dozen people waited outside, and twice that inside, we were lucky to get seated right away. When the waiter called out an opening for two at an otherwise occupied table, we jumped at the opportunity.

Our stomachs growling, we previewed the treasures in each basket on the steam cart. Pointing at this and that, Lacy and I ordered to our "heart's desire," knowing that the shu mai, ginger pork dumplings, barbecue pork buns (hum bao), and sticky rice wrapped in leaves would barely add up to $8. We still desperately needed an order of walnut prawns, and when we finally hunted them down, they were delicious! The shrimp had a crunchy exterior, mimicking the slightly candied nuts, but the inside was cooked to perfection, not at all rubbery.

Feasted and full, we trotted over to Uwajimaya to fall in love with their imported goods and abundant produce. Hours later we emerged, cradling our bags back to Lacy's car, full of treasures to unpack and savor, gawk at, and get giddy on.

The Corson Building

My treasured dining companion Lacy and I arrived at the Corson Building via way of Vessel. There, seasoned bartender Zane Harris served up a Captain Handsome and a Cucumber Lime Swizzle, perfectly paired to match the palette of our dresses. In his silk finery and vestigial vest, Zane looked the part and played it well. I was glad to have decided on the pale purple Captain. It underscored the floral print on my summery dress, while Lacy's lime-colored drink quite complemented her turqoise and gold ensemble. Within my pretty glass, the gin, creme de violette, limoncello and lime juice settled into a surprisingly cohesive cocktail. The wash of absinthe might just be for fun, but the carbonation-infused drink fizzled my head and tickled my lips in more ways than one.

Next time I visit, I'll be eager to try the Obama Nation with Calvados, vanilla liquer and burnt figs, or the Vessel 75. It's the maple foam that gets me. I'll have to find a really good excuse to go back so I can try both. I know it's hard to get out when we're all limiting ourselves and counting coins, but we need to stretch our legs and twirl our skirts once in a while. The Corson adventure was certainly a big night out.

Since the bus schedule would only allow us to arrive 45 minutes early or 15 minutes late, and neither one was acceptable, we hailed a cab. After the usual neighborhood circling we ran across traffic on Georgetown's Airport Way and found the gate into the Corson property, another world entirely. While other couples milled about the garden and used the sunlit brick building for photo op's, we marched right inside, confident a glass of bubbly awaited us. The Chateau Gaillard Cuvee Charlotte was delightful enough to sip and enjoy while roaming the garden, but not one of the evening's standouts.

We sat down to a do-si-do of introductions with our dining companions, and were relieved to receive an amuse bouche, Vancouver Kushi oysters grown in suspension to develop deep pockets of shells and ample meat. An Alsacian Reisling, 2005 Meyer-Fonne Kaefferkopf, was served with a stinging nettle salsa verde, radishes and Lebneh from Vashon Island. The Reisling smelled faintly of petroleum, while the palate hinted at honeysuckle and pineapple.

About the time we were passing around the head cheese, Matthew Dillon emerged from the kitchen to introduce himself and his food, mainly his food. I was so amped up during his elocution of the menu, feverishly jotting ingredients and numbering the coming courses, I wanted to hoot and holler when he was finished. I swear I almost stood up and cheered like a goal had been scored at a Sounders game and I had just downed an $8 beer. And I loved the head cheese, served with pickled red onion and wood sorrel, though it was my first experience with "pork jell-o."

The raw King Salmon with Miner's lettuce, dill and chive flowers was spectacular. Everyone at our table loved it. The salmon was so fresh and firmly textured, not at all fishy, but the portions were so generous that we all ate our fill and still left some on the communal platter. The fifth (yes! already) course of fried soft-shell crabs and aoili was presented with a mutli-colored grapefruit salad. We were allotted half a small crab per person. Next came cold mussels and clams with fennel, dill and shallots. I ate up my whole plate, and then ate Lacy's mussels since she liked the clams better.

Next we ate a very interesting dish: blanched asparagus with marinated sheep's milk feta and a hazelnut-coriander crunch. I complained that the asparagus was terribly bland, but then the pretty lady across the table told me I had to have everything in one bite. The coriander transformed the feta and the feta transformed the asparagus. This kind of transmogrification doesn't happen so easily at home, though. The quality of each ingredient heightened the bite to a pallatable perfection. While the ingredients in the dish were so well paired to each other, the wine, sadly, was not. The 2005 Domaine Piron et Lafont Chenas Quartz, a Beaujolais, smelled of black cherries and tasted fine on it's own, but did not settle well with the salty feta or the upcoming pickled dishes.

Unfortunately, the cheesy asparagus was followed by the flop of the night: cold sand dab with creme fraiche, parsley, and pickled carrots. Now, the carrots were amazing, not even cooked but pickled to be easily edible, with a little snap and a lot of tang. I confess that I butchered my sand dab trying to remove it from the bone. Yes, they were served on the bone, and we had to fillet it with our fork and large spoon as we passed the platter hungrily around the table. After several botched attempts, the gentleman who worked at Maximilien deftly removed an entire little fish body from it's skeleton, barely any pressure applied, just the right tilt and he had an intact fillet with not a single bone. Alas, he was the only one who knew how to do it right. I could barely eat the smily flatfish; the texture was terrible and the flavor forgettable.

Out of the kitchem emerged another winner, just in time. The only plated dish of the evening was spotted prawns served atop black rice and garnished with green onion. Oh, the lovely, sticky, sweet black rice was so aromatic, with floral and lemongrass notes. Again, the rice and prawns played a duet, enticing each other to reveal their flavors.

By this time we'd moved on to my favorite wine of the evening, a Slovenian blend of Ribola, Pinot Girgio and Sauvignon Blanc. The 2001 Movia Veliko Bianco smelled surprisingly of brown sugar and sherry. The gentleman from Maximilien and I bonded over our instant attraction to this odd little wine. Though I said it was my favorite wine, my favorite food and wine pairing was still to come: Pinot Noir with veal braised in whey.

The platter brimmed with veal, piled high in mounds and surrounded by potatoes and morel mushrooms. I've had morels at three different restaurants recently and these were definitely the best. The meat was meltingly rich, the fat mellowing the 2005 Tasman Thorn Ridge Vinyard Pinot Noir from Sonoma Coast and its 14% alcohol content. So fruit forward and fabulous, it developed a subtle smokiness and spiciness as it opened up. As I took my second helping of fattened baby animal I think the heavens opened up a little, just above our table. Though the veal may have been the climax of the evening, another dish arrived to take its place. The local, hand-eviscerated chickens were delectably juicy, and quite enjoyable with a second pour of that Pinot.

All through the night, the sommelier, Mark (who really deserves a last name!), poured generously and answered my questions graciously, even if they were already printed on the tasting notes I was too excited to read. Last but not least, he slipped a stream of Chenin Blanc into my glass.

The 2005 Domaine des Forges Coteaux du Layon-Chaume tasted delicious with my rose petal-garnished Meyer lemon cake. A pretty, perky cap on a very big dinner. The whole thing was quite the event, lasting more than four hours and thoroughly discussed and enjoyed around the table. Thank you, Matthew Dillon.

Lacy and I were almost the last to leave when a cab pulled up to take us back to Capitol Hill. With dinner done and a Saturday night spread out before us, we had the cabbie drop us off at Sun Liquor for some Scarlet Ladies. We sat in the corner and giggled about inappropriate things, as if it were junior year French all over again. Bellies sated and minds sedated, we walked back to my apartment for a sleep over.