Thai Time Aplenty

By the time you get to my neighborhood, Florida Avenue has become desolate. With the exception of a few liquor stores partitioned with bulletproof glass, and gas stations that seem unnecessary as anything but repositories for the homeless, there’s not much to do or buy on the thoroughfare. Given my financial situation, this latter probably works to my advantage. But man, no matter how penny-poor, must eat. Wendy’s is an occasional option; KFC in case of early-onset starvation.

The first time I saw it, Thai X-ing seemed to add little to this barren culinary landscape. The restaurant is in a converted English basement. Casual readers may be gulled by the word “English.” Those with more experience realize that no adjective could supplant the descriptor sine qua non: subterranean.

Whenever I tried to cook in my old basement apartment, the smoke detector would chide me furiously. My landlord, a penny pincher to the last, considered ventilation a luxury. But even if Mr. G----g had been more inclined to fulfill his legal obligations, I’d still have been dubious of my building’s capacity to accommodate a full-service restaurant. Thai X-ing’s proprietor clearly anticipated these space constraints. He’s done an excellent job paring away the inessential.

For starters, Thai X-ing is without staff. Apparently acting on the old wisdom that too many cooks can stir the pot bad, Taw’s decided to go it completely alone. No pesky waiters, cooks, busboys, pastry chefs or deliverymen to crowd the space: Taw fills all roles. A customer wants an order for delivery? Taw will rev up his Dodge Econoline, and close down shop. Someone just called in an order ahead of yours? You’ll just have to wait thirty minutes until Taw can begin to think about cooking your food.

There are also no dining tables or chairs. You may order food from Taw, but you must also carry it away prior to consumption. If you’re hungry, you may take comfort in the knowledge that if you’re mugged, it won’t be for your food. And if you’ve ordered soup, you’ll have a one-time, do-or-die opportunity to blind your assailant with heat.

The first time I visited Thai X-ing, I’d not been apprised of Taw’s glacial pace. I placed my order, for tofu soup and Udon pork, and sat down to watch a PBS special on dead Marines’ parents. Taw did little to enliven the convivial atmosphere. He grinned at me a few times, said nothing, and walked back to the kitchen. With Taw in the other room, I could now absorb the atmosphere fully.

The television set is crowded into a nook by the front wall. Shelf units filled with folded tapestries, art books, amulets and pieces of fruit are crammed against the walls. Every square inch of the floor is triple-layered, at least, with rugs. Crayons and scrap paper are thoughtfully provided for those who might have little interest in the available reading material: a 1989 World Atlas, Mysteries of Cape African Art, A Scientific Glossary of the Human Body: A Useful Reference for Artists. If it weren’t for the carryout counter (also jammed with bowls of change, bananas and carved figurines), you might very well mistake this space for a hippie’s living room (or bedroom).

As the Marines show ended, I noticed, through the curtains and beads, that Taw had just begun to work on my main course. Since my arrival twenty minutes earlier, Taw and I, strictly speaking, had not exchanged any words. I’d done all the talking. In the meantime, PBS had transitioned from depressing to banal. In the place of grieving parents, we now had a special on “The Rise and Fall of the Concorde.” Old men with black glasses and gravelly voices spoke of high viscosity and jet fuel. I considered changing the channel, but feared Taw’s censure.

At last, Taw emerged from the kitchen. He grinned at me. Finally, he began to speak:

“So...this neighborhood seems to be improving.”

I considered the statement. Taw’s obviously got a lot riding on the area’s prospects for short-term renewal. Even though he doesn’t employ a staff, the expenses associated with owning a restaurant can be onerous. And right now, it’s hard to believe that Taw’s on the good side of breaking even. Speculation is a shady business at best, but I secretly wondered whether Taw was engaging me this way because I was white. Sad though it may seem, I might be the living embodiment of someone’s target demographic.

“It’s true: the neighborhood’s nicer now than it was when I moved to Washington.” I wasn’t lying: Florida Avenue isn’t yet Martha Stewart Living, but it’s also not boarded up anymore.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries; Taw could probably use the business, but he was certainly in no hurry to dispossess me of my money. For a second, I had the sneaking sense that he might invite me to spend the night. Finally, he gestured at the television, a move that seemed to invite comment. On PBS, the narrator was talking about the supersonic jet’s unsteady history with Airbus, a company based in Toulouse, France.

“I used to live in Toulouse. In fact, when I first arrived, I took the bus in the wrong direction, and ended up just outside that very airport.”

As far as anecdotes go, I was clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel. But Taw had wanted me to say something, and I’d done my best.

“Oh, you lived in France?” Taw’s demeanor betrayed no emotion. I’ve learned from casual conversations at Ghana Cafe, for instance, especially during the late hours, to temper my enthusiasm for France against the French colonial relationship with my interlocutor’s country of origin. Algerians and Tunisians, for instance, are always pleased to learn that I regard France with steady distrust. Now I scoured my mind for any connection that might link Taw and France.

“France was enjoyable, but I sometimes had trouble getting around,” I managed lamely.

For some reason, my noncommittal assessment of France seemed to please Taw. He grinned broadly and shook my hand vigorously. He continued to shake my hand until he came up with a suitable rejoinder.

“And now, may I ask, what is your name?”

I told him.

“Oh yes, yes. And watch out for the soup: it is burning, burning hot!”

Total time elapsed: 53 minutes. I practically sprinted home. But to replicate a true Thai X-ing visit, I’m going to force my reader to wait to hear about the food itself.

In the Footsteps of History

When Halfz and I saw the facade of Yenching Palace, we had no idea of exactly what we might find inside. We had already been around the block once, as Halfz unsuccessfully sought out a suitably secluded spot in which to relieve himself. He rejected each of the half dozen chain restaurants we passed, so when we found ourselves in front of Yenching for the second time, it seemed clear that we were being given a sign from on high.

The interior of the Palace is, indeed, palatial. The space is bisected by a sturdy masonry wall cut with shallow arches, and could comfortably seat perhaps 250 people. The surfaces are covered by a dizzying array of materials -- mirrors etched to resemble marble, crumbling vintage wallpaper, and enough faded red vinyl to outfit a small army in stiff, syrupy capes. Museum-style display cases house various artifacts of untold value, and at the center of the room in which we were seated is a large sculpture of an ornate boat, made of what we guessed was either beeswax or the tusk of an enormous elephant.

The atmosphere created by this decor was nearly overwhelming -- we had to resist the urge to cut and run, thinking we had trespassed into some part of the notorious Cleveland Park underworld, in which outsiders are unwelcome and killed for sport. It was only upon seeing the menu that the explanation for the bizarre room began to come into focus. Stamped in gold on the inside cover was the following:

"Throughout the years, the Yenching Palace often has shared a page of history with the United States. During the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, the Yenching Palace was one of the meeting sites of the personal intermediary of President John F. Kennedy and the Emissary of the Soviet Premier, Nikita Khrushchev. It was at the last of these meetings held at the Yenching Palace that final terms were agreed upon which ended the crisis and avoided war.

"The ABC television hour-long documentary, "The Cuban Crisis," was filmed and narrated by the distinguished reporter, John Scali (U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. in 1974), at the Yenching Palace. Then, in 1971, when President Nixon initiated rapprochement discussions between the United States and the People's Republic of China, the Yenching Palace had the honor to be chosen the site for diplomatic and social exchanges between Secretary of State, Dr. Henry Kissinger, and high-ranking representatives of the Chinese delegation to Washington, D.C., in their efforts to normalize relationships between the two countries."

So there it was; we were following in the footsteps of history, and I had no doubt that not a single thing about the restaurant had changed since 1971. What had seemed a vaguely creepy rendezvous point for middle aged gay men was actually a veritable salon of late 60s charm, untouched by the likes of Philippe Starck chairs, laser-etched plexiglass, or modern lighting. It was as though one might turn around to find Jack Kennedy himself seated in a corner booth with Marilyn. Halfz ordered a Dewar's and soda, and the choice was so appropriate I had to make mine the same.

A friend ended up joining us as our appetizers were arriving, so the three of us squeezed into a booth intended for two. Our hosts graciously offered to move us to an adjacent semicircular booth of the sort one associates with floor shows in Las Vegas, but we decided we were comfortable enough. To move would have deprived us of our close-range view of the peeling wallpaper, which I at least was not ready to part with.

The food was nothing terribly special, though it came promptly and certainly met our expectations. The pork dumplings were better than average, and served on a bed of lettuce that was not at all tired or droopy. While it's true that some 35 years have passed since the crack staff last served dignitaries during tense negotiations, they've clearly been keeping themselves razor sharp on the offchance that Li Zhaoxing will walk in one day and request "Stir-Fried Two Kinds" and a stiff Manhattan.

I often wish that for just one day I could be transported back to New York circa 1965, to take in some of the forgotten minutiae I have glimpsed in movies of that era. Yenching Palace is without a doubt the closest I have ever come to time travel. Even the bathroom seemed like a place where one might find a pistol taped inside the toilet tank; indeed, all three of its urinals were out of commission, and it is not implausible that this has been the case for three decades.

FOOD: 79
SERVICE: 84
ATMOSPHERE: 89

Fine Dining Returns

I neglected this blog for several weeks. It seemed for a while that I'd never muster the energy to resurrect this silly project. After all, I can be uproariously funny, but only in limited doses. And, oh, what an effort!

But I recently had a meal that reminded me of my original intent when I began writing last autumn. I've visited some bizarre restaurants since my arrival in the nation's capital, and some of these, I felt, deserved to be exposed to a wider public. Leave aside, for a second, the issue of whether this site might reasonably expected to reach a "wide" audience. Readers who have tracked this site from the beginning will recall Ghana Cafe and Sumah's Restaurant as two prime examples.

Today's restaurant review will not be as glowing.

Recently, I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I hadn't eaten all day, and I was about to board the Amtrak for New Haven. Train fare is already exorbitant, and I'm a bit chary of eating most Amtrak food. I don't want to seem effete, but I always throw up in my mouth whenever I see the attendant shovel another of those gruesome "cheese" pizzas into the microwave (and points to anyone who can tell me why it's safe to microwave those things without first removing the plastic wrap). And with a can of Mountain Dew going for $2 on the train, it seemed prudent to seek grub before boarding.

The food court at Grand Central Station in New York is a delight, compared to Union Station's pathetic version. Things are expensive at GCS, but at least you're pretty certain that you're eating 100% food. Union Station's food court is under what might euphemistically be termed "permanent renovation." A fine coat of plaster dust coats every surface. There's also an underground multiplex cinema on this level. This makes me feel kind of like a giant rat. More important, there are some restaurants that serve obviously disgusting food. China Bowl is one example. Every dish looks the same. Thats's because every dish is drenched in greasy, brown hoisin sauce. China Bowl has a very unpleasant odor, but people still line up. The last time I was at Union Station, I saw two people linking arms, feeding each other China Bowl noodles. Little goops of lukewarm sauce ran down the man's forearm. This sort of romantic schmaltz might do the trick at nice restaurants, but it's depressing to see in the underbelly of a filthy train station. I wonder if those two feed each other Ramen noodles and Hungry Man Xtra Hungry Breakfasts.

Anyway, on this particular afternoon, I chose what appeared to be an inoffensive sushi bar. I had Chiragi (sashimi and vegetables over rice) and Futomaki (jumbo roll). The meal was fine. I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn't, however, worthy of blog print. In fact, the best part of the Kabuki Sushi Bar meal was that no one on the crowded Amtrak train sat in the seat adjacent to mine. This was probably because I chew with my mouth open. People were probably also worried that I'd spill soy sauce everywhere once the train started moving.

Though I hadn't been wowed, I filed Kabuki in the back of my mind. In case of need, an $8 dinner near Capitol Hill ain't bad. Sure enough, I called on Kabuki this past week. I'd already had an eel omelet at a real Japanese restaurant for lunch, but I didn't feel like China Bowl, and I'm terrified of most of the restaurants in my neighborhood. I figured I'd just order what I'd had last time, let the good times roll, and fall asleep during the 10 PM news.

I waited to begin eating until I arrived home. I was not eager to see any displays of unpleasant romance. I mention this short delay only in the interest of fairness to Kabuki. It's unlikely that waiting 25 minutes before consumption materially altered the freshness of my food, but readers will be free to draw their own conclusions.

The first thing I noticed about the chiragi was that the cucumbers were rancid. I didn't know that cucumbers could go bad. It was surprising to me in the same way that it would be if my jug of spring water fermented and turned into grain alcohol overnight. Whatever the scientific explanation for bad cucumbers, that's exactly what I had. I could pick them out, but everything they'd touched tasted rotton.

My stomach is iron-lined, like German beer casks. I wasn't too worried about becoming sick, but it did strike me that a restaurant that can't keep cheap produce fresh probably shouldn't be trusted with fish. A restaurant that it is willing to serve its cheapest ingredient rotten will probably have no qualms about selling you 1999's whitetail. And it's a perfect business model: a train station restaurant isn't really designed to attract anything more than passerby foot traffic.

Well, this was bad. I was hungry and my appetite was ruined. Furthermore, there's nothing to eat in my neighborhood except for the faux-wood panelling on my cabinets. Otherwise, I can stand in line behind the guys smoking Sweet & Milds at Wendy's.

Kabuki Sushi Bar gave me the worst meal I've had in Washington. For that, they earn my first failing grade.

FOOD: 50
SERVICE: 60
ATMOSPHERE: 20
GROSSER RESTAURANTS NEARBY: 50