Sir, Some Vodka with that Oyster?

My coworkers and I recently attended the First Annual Beer and Oyster Festival in the Sunset Room of the National Harbor. I’m not sure how we found out about this First Annual event, but for a pretty penny, we were entitled to over 60 beers and wines, and over 24,000 oysters.

For any oyster connoisseur, this Festival is utopia. The event boasted over 10 different types of oysters shipped from around the world. I, however, prefer Oysters Rockerfeller, or other grilled varieties, not having the appreciation for raw, which limited my selection to about 1,000 of the 24,000. Thankfully, the additional sliders and shrimp were able to combat the effects of the beer.

Most of the day was rather enjoyable. While gusting outside, the view from the Sunset Room provided a view above the piers jutting out into the water, the sun still high in the blue sky, much to the Sunset Room’s chagrin. The interior layout was similar to a bazaar or marketplace, with vendors formed in a labyrinth guiding the attendees through samples of roasted pecans, beer, shrimp ceviche, beer, gelato, beer and so forth.

The affair became more impish, and I certainly became more whimsical with each additional tasting; until I took umbrage at the Oyster Shooters station. As previously mentioned, I do not run to the front of the line for raw oysters. So what could make a freshly shucked raw oyster with its juice any better? Clearly, vodka, hot sauce, and garlic. None of these variables sound independently enticing, so this power four combination reeked of temptation. I wanted nothing to do with this oyster shooter, but succumbing to employee/employer peer/superior pressure, I stepped to the plate. Needless to say, the look on my face told the entire workforce that my intuition was correct. The sun had officially set on my afternoon.

Hoos For Hoosiers

One of my best friends Chelsey Jones was turning a quarter of a century. In celebration, a collection of the East Coast’s finest decided to organize a surprise birthday visit to Bloomington, Indiana, where Chelsey is currently enrolled as a graduate student. Not wanting anyone to underestimate our collegiate pride (nor our pretention) we swiftly titled the trip Hoos for Hoosiers.

Each participant played an integral role in shaping the trip. Having the prescience to know that Chelsey would be emotionally moved by our surprise, I emailed her Hoosier cohort to put out the flash flood warning.

The Brains of the Operation: Me, I mean, I didn’t get the name Brain Garvon for nothing.

The Decoy: Everyone knows that in the execution of every great surprise, there exists a decoy. Our friend Hang stepped into this role and planned her trip with Chelsey to ensure that the weekend was wide open.

The Plan: Hang and Chelsey were planning on dining at Chelsey’s favorite Thai restaurant…Noodles and Company. Little did Chelsey know that dinner would transform Hang from a one-woman wolf pack into a full-fledged wolf pack.

The Surprise: I can’t be certain on this, but if tears are a good proxy for level of surprise, then Bloomington had a certifiable peppa twister.

After our fine cuisine at Noodles and Company, we spent the rest of the weekend doing what young professionals do best, wining and dining, yes, in that order. The two days were filled with memories, pictures, and one-liners that Mrs. Grundys would find objectionable.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect of Bloomington, Indiana. I like to consider myself fairly well traveled, though officially, I’ve only been to twenty of the fifty states, mostly along the east and west coast, cutting out the greater part of real America. Well, I enjoyed my wayfaring; almost feeling a bit compunctious of my longstanding landlocked prejudice. Officially, this surprise weekend to Indiana University was my first visit to what I later found out the U.S. Census Bureau calls the East North Central division of the Midwest region. Seriously? With three of four cardinal directions and two directionally neutral word segments, it’s a relief we found the right state. Hoosier Daddy?

Be Mine

Saint Valentine; he is among the elite in American history. He is among the Final Four of demigods (along with Martin Luther King, Saint Patrick, and Columbus) to have a national holiday in his name. I’d even go as far as saying his idyll celebration of love among intimate companions has been pretty instrumental in shaping American foreign policy over the past few decades. I would also conjecture that he was a relatively homely man, since more people associate his day with a naked baby with a crossbow than with himself. But that is beside the point.

Now, for all the love Valentine exhumes, the holiday has an ironically polarizing effect, drawing people into a game of tug-of-war, with those on Team Hate sporting macabre clothing in an attempt to draw Team Love off of cloud nine. On the scale from one to love, I usually fall somewhere around indifference. Historically speaking, I am more often than not (alright, always) single on Valentine’s Day. This doesn’t bother me because my independent spirit can’t be restrained by the shackles of a relationship (or so I rationalize). And the optimist in me see’s Valentine’s Day as an annual self-evaluation. What went wrong this past year? What improvements can be made for the upcoming year? (For example, I’ve come to terms with my flawed logic when I hypothesized that braces would up my game).

Well, this year, I decided to throw a little oregano in my Ragu. I received an email advertising for a Vanetine’s one time cooking class in Sunny’s Kitchen. For $55, the class offered to impress your someone special with the following 3-course menu: Caprese (tomato basil with fresh mozzarella) salad, wild mushroom risotto, roasted balsamic asparagus, Thai marinated flank steak, and chocolate covered strawberries. Class will also include tips for setting the mood to make Valentine’s Day 2010 unforgettable! My friend Molly and I signed up, figuring that we would at least get a decent meal out of the experience.

Well, one week prior to Sunny’s cooking class, I receive a call from an unknown number. Whenever I receive a call on my cell phone from an unknown number my heart sinks slightly. My mind immediately wanders, wondering if I incorrectly filed my taxes the previous spring, or, with frequency that even surprises me, I think maybe it’s someone calling to tell me it’s the Truman Show (which would really bring some of the pieces of my puzzle together). Hello? It’s Sunny from “In Sunny’s Kitchen”…[sign of relief]…informing me that we are one individual shy of being able to host the Valentine cooking class. How many is one short? Three. In order to host the cooking class a total of four individuals needed to sign up for the class. Molly and I aside, only one other individual in the entire Washington Metropolitan area found this cornucopia of food intriguing? Where is the love? Apparently not in DC (another point I use to rationalize my single status). Sunny said he would call me in a few days to give me the final verdict.

If the omens hold any truth, it looks like another year of celibacy. A few days later, Sunny called me back. With the Snowmageddon that pummeled the region, Sunny was able to save face. This culinary class was cancelled due to inclement weather, not lack of interest. Looks like not even Sunny could keep the sun out this Valentine’s Day.

Snowmageddon

Having grown up in the Washington DC area, I’ve always had a fond appreciation for snowfall. At an early age, I learned the direct relationship between inches of snow and number of days off from school. But just like a good mathematician, learning the intricacies of differential equations comes with experience and time. As a young professional I am just now learning the impact of an impending blizzard on worker productivity. Empirical evidence indicates that nearly 100% of commerce and roughly 50% of worker productivity is spent in anticipation of the snowstorm.

Of course, the threat of even the slightest flake-falling or flurrying frightens frantic families from facing the fear of famine (V : Vendetta :: F : Frozen vapor) and likely accounts for a 30% surge in daily grocery store revenues, with more extreme surges for staples such as milk, bread, hot chocolate, Aunt Jemima, and Yellow Tail Shiraz. But when the National Weather Service issues a blizzard warning and snowfall predictions are approaching record flakage, a state of emergency is preemptively declared for the inevitable Snowmageddon.

As a consultant, I have the uncharacteristic joy of having two email accounts; one account with my firm and one with my client. Usually the dual account system provides me with a method for keeping my colleagues on their toes; a game of anticipation (to which account will I email? Or receive an email with one and reply with the other). But I have never been more entertained with having two accounts than the day leading up to the historic DC snowpocalypse. Two accounts = double the snowy emails.

I’ve captured the 10 emails I received the day before the snowfall to demonstrate the workforce’s alow and aloft commitment to local weather:

10:19am – Client sends National Weather’s Winter Storm Warning

2:16pm – Client sends Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

2:26pm – Boss 1 sends Tailored Storm Caution

2:43pm – Client sends Safety Tips for Blizzard

2:56pm – Client sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

3:02pm – Business Assurance Office distributes Updated Winter Storm Warning

3:21pm – Boss 2 emails Tailored Storm Caution

4:15pm – Facilities sends Snow Related Towing Enforcement Notice

4:32pm - Client again sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

5:35pm – Client distributes Gospel; Announces 4-Hour Early Dismissal for Federal Government

I won’t even bother documenting the number of emails I received the day of the storm… (Government at its best: I received three emails alone documenting the hours and offerings of the client’s first floor eatery). The emails were falling so fast the authors didn’t even have time to plow the e-streets before blasting out to the entire office. The ensuing snow forced one victim into sending the revised schedule for the Handicap Stutter Bus…only to then get a follow up email within the hour correcting this to read the Handicap Shuttle Bus.

And to think I made a big deal about the calm before the storm. SnOMG!

David and Goliaths

Again riding the coattails of my roommate, Kyle, I was invited to sit court-side for the melee between two of the worst teams in the NBA; the home-team Washington Wizards taking on the Sacramento Kings. Normally, attending a Washington Wizards game is about as exciting as discovering a penny, the Lincoln Memorial dully shimmering back at you amid a rainbow of motor oil. Combining the abysmal records of the Wizards and Kings with the fact that Gilbert Arenas, the Wizards point guard, was recently suspended for being literally caught with the smoking gun sans smoking, the only redeeming quality was the ability to sit courtside.

For the greater part of the first half, we sat in some of the best seats at the Verizon Center. My perspective as a spectator has always been angled downward toward the action; never before have I been level (or rather below level) finding myself looking up at the athletes…and forget looking at the Jumbotron unless you preemptively took aspirin in anticipation of the oncoming neck strain. Sitting courtside made me appreciate the talent of NBA stars – not everyone can live their life as a giant. While the talent is enough to land them multimillion dollar contracts, watching these leviathans interact with a seemingly doll-sized world made me unremorseful for having neglected to drink my glass of milk with dinner every evening as a child.

Having apparently not gotten exposure to the titans in the Verizon Center, we went to the Wizards Club Lounge during half-time. While sitting at our table nursing Bud Lights and snacking on Nature’s Promise Vegetable Chips, our friend Remy spotted Gheorghe Muresan from across the room. Standing at 7’7”, Remy recognized him from his role in the hit movie My Giant. Not being able to find an escape from the Goliaths, I turned to what I do best in moments of insecurity – rodomontading.

I spent the greater part of the second half expressing to those around me that I would have, in fact, been a professional basketball player had all the stars (and genes) aligned. In a matter of minutes my theory was foiled by Earl Boykins. Standing at an inspiring 5’5” and posting 13 points to secure a Wizards victory, I realized I had to revise my supposition. I’m now using the excuse that I have philosophical differences with the NBA; I am simply a staunch supporter of the 2^nd Amendment.

Broomballer

My Mer-friend Megha recently organized a game of Broomball. Played on an ice-rink, broomball is similar to hockey, substituting sneakers for skates, a miniature kickball for a puck, and plastic brooms for hockey sticks. With the approaching Winter Olympics, I was excited to take my athleticism to the ice.

Although I don’t often socialize my aspiration of being an Olympian (or at least knowing one), it has always been a deep dream of mine. So when the opportunity presented itself to demonstrate my foot skills on the ice, I couldn’t resist.

Just a few weeks prior, some friends and I went skating at the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden Ice Rink. Along for the ride was our eager first-time skater, Jess. After lacing up and taking to the ice, she hugged the walls while the rest of us tried to teach Figure Skating 101. As the fast learner I know her to be, I had high hopes for Jess, thinking she’d likely master the triple salchow after a few hours on the ice, and would eventually go on to claim gold in Vancouver, and consequently, fulfill my lifelong goal. By the end of the two hour session, a few numb appendages later, I revised my position and am now setting her sights on 2014.

Anyway, another weekend of winter athletics had me yearning to demonstrate my icy instincts. We arrived at the Kettler Capitals Iceplex, most of us novice broomballers, not knowing what to expect. Upon arrival, we took to the ice with our brooms and divided up into our respective teams. $10 and one hour later, we concluded our game in a 2-2 tie, managing to send one girl to the Emergency Room (whoops). I'll admit, I left the ice feeling pretty smug; after all, I only fell once and thought I was pretty broomballer. But even with only one fall, I still spent the following week recovering from the innumerable bruises that had my body resembling a spotted leopard. I now have a greater respect for Jesus; we attempted to simplify the miracle by walking on frozen water, and even that proved to be near impossible.

I guess if I’m ever going to have a shot at landing in the winter Olympics, I’m going to have to get a pied-a-terre in Whislter. It’s either that or seriously take up curling.

Synsepalum Dulcificum

On the second Friday of every month, EFN Lounge draws an eclectic crowd assembling for a common cause; synsepalum dulcificum. Commonly known as trippy fruit, this West African berry contains a glycoprotein molecule that binds to the tongue causing acidic and sour foods to taste sweet. My friend Mimi organized a group adventure, and frankly, I couldn't pass up this science experiment.

Usually I am not one to like surprises, particularly when it comes to edibles. I much prefer to know the taste and texture of my nourishment so I can preemptively send an expectation based on my other senses to my brain. Any dissonance caused by the inaccuracy of my signaled expectation results in a mental eruption to rival Vesuvius. But this idea, while unsettling, was still worthy enough of wasting a Friday evening in pursuit of sweet-toothed happiness.

Like all good scientists, I’ve documented my observations:

1. Set Up: The instruction manual for eating the berry such that you maximize its impact was too long. The whole production paralleled my middle school years spent attempting to master the art of tying maraschino cherry stems into knots with my tongue. And much like middle school, things fell apart in the execution. Somewhere between rolling the berry on my tongue, removing the skin with my teeth, trying to determine which pieces of the berry you’re supposed to eat, which pieces your supposed to dispose of, my mind received the common command: information overload, power down.

2. Experiment: The buffet of consumables at EFN Lounge included a variety of citrus fruits and unsettling beverages (vinegar, Tabasco sauce, soy sauce, etc.). I quickly filled my plate and whet my palate. While one New York Times report indicated that berry trippers became literally like wild animals, tearing apart everything on the table, I went for the more civilized approach, starting with something simple (lime wedge) and working my way up to the big ticket items (shot of vinegar). Overall, I found EFN’s website to be misleading. EFN indicated that lemon wedges become candy canes, hot sauce becomes donut glaze, goat cheese becomes cheesecake. My taste buds had a different experience – lemons tasted like lemonade, limes tasted like limeade, vinegar tasted like…vinegar. My conclusion: I either got lost in the how to or I got a placebo (my money is on the former) See 1. Set Up.

3. Effects: It is important to remember that the berry’s impact is limited to the taste bud. While to some, Tabasco sauce tasted like sugar water (let’s come clean, nobody thought hot sauce became donut glaze), there was no deceiving the rest of the digestive tract, beginning with the burning sensation in the back of the throat.

4. Conclusion: If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, and if all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, I’d (a) not be standing outside with my mouth open wide and (b) have to guess Synsepalum Dulcificum was responsible.