Daring to Do Duck

Ocean temperature: 74 degrees
Beach read: Jazz Cleopatra, Josephine Baker in Her Time
Best song heard randomly on the radio: Bad Reputation, Freedy Johnston

Thing 3 and I were trying to choose some live music for our evening's entertainment last night, having greatly enjoyed the Cracker show just nights before. It was perhaps a mistake to attempt such a thing during happy hour because we misguidedly decided to choose based on band name, which is probably akin to betting on a race horse based solely on its name and with no regard to the odds.

We narrowed the choices down to three we found amusing: Monkey Booty, The Morons and Rubber Pants. You'll have to cut us some slack, as we were well into a bottle of K Vintner Viognier, a personal favorite (thanks, B) and as close a sensation to "drinking pretty" as I know of offhand. But I digress. After much deliberation, Thing 3 gave the final vote to the Morons and our fate was sealed.

They were playing at Aqua S Deck in Duck, an area I avoid for all the SUVs, shopping meccas and traffic. But we figured we were up to the challenge and for a change headed north to the land of flattops (those vintage Southern Shores houses) and McMansions (the bane of the beaches, imho). Thing 3 liked all the vegetation around the houses, but I just felt like I was in suburbia and the ocean was but a distant memory.

To sum it up, the band consisted of two middle-aged guys and one of them was wearing tennis shoes with velcro closures. I know we shouldn't have even noticed such a minor detail (I blame Thing 3), but it cracked us up nonetheless. We may even have laughed out loud.

In their defense, however, they said that they only had one Buffet song in their repertoire because there were so many middle-aged beach bands whose entire schtick was Buffet, so they left that niche to others. Instead, they played everything from Jack Johnson to Todd Rundgren, basically covering the entire musical period since before there were velcro closure shoes. Really.

Music and velcro aside, though, we were on a good-sized deck facing the Sound and the sunset was magnificent, long-lasting and colorful. We watched a duo para-sailing and they remained in the sky for over half an hour, which seemed to us an extraordinarily long time to be hovering up there, legs dangling and silhouetted against the orange sun. We decided, Thing 3 and I, that we were better suited to less adventurous pursuits, like drinking on a deck while people-watching.

As the sign on the lifeguard station has said the past few days about the strong surf: Know Your Limits! Thing 3 and I are well aware of our limits; luckily we know how to have a whole lot of fun within those parameters. But if you ever see either of us in a pair of velcro-closure shoes, just go ahead and take us out.

It's what we'd want. Really.

Eating and Talking Like a Critic

I'm not a restaurant reviewer, nor do I play one in the blogosphere, but I'm more than qualified to accompany an actual critic to dinner and play eater and conversationalist.

The invitation came from Todd, the food critic for Washingtonian magazine and a fellow PG County-ite I'd met here. Not having finished his new book, The Wild Vine yet, I wasn't quite ready to present my book report, but he was gracious enough to overlook that, so I hit the highway to DC.

The restaurant under the microscope tonight was going to be Blue Duck Tavern at 24th and M, which provided a wonderful trip down memory lane for me since for years I lived three blocks away at 21st and N Streets. Tellingly, the parking goddess must have recognized me from years gone by because I scored a space directly out front. Unheard of.

Since we were new friends, with less than an hour of conversation under our belts, there was no way of knowing what to expect out of an evening eating together. I couldn't have hoped for a more intense or enjoyable outcome, though; the abundance of food was exceeded only by six hours of non-stop conversation with someone as talkative as I am. Maybe it was something in the water in P.G. County.

So what did we eat while the overly attentive staff hovered around us? Morel mushroom custard with roasted morels, fava beans and caraway oil (tasty but oddly served in a wide, shallow dish), sauteed frog legs, fiddlehead fern ravioli and fava beans (we were friendly enough by then to suck meat off the same bone), oven roasted bone marrow (oilier than I've ever seen it), ricotta cheese dumplings, ragout of young goat with English peas and Virginia ham (yes, I drove to DC for Virginia pig), baby green Romaine with yoghurt dressing and salted anchovy (definitely a highlight) and the pork chop and braised pork cheek with grain mustard sauce (done in the sous-vide method, so let's talk texture).

It was interesting that Todd made the same comment that Ruth Reichl had when I'd seen her talk at the Smithsonian back in April, here. Critics bring people along on reviewing expeditions for company, for amusement, for conversation, but not to share their opinions of what they're eating. Which worked out well for me, because I'm an eater, not a critic and I'd much rather be over analyzing relationships and discussing reading habits than dissecting dishes. (Full disclosure: when he asked for my opinions, I did provide them. I can't help it. Opining is what I do.)

Afterwards we moved to the bar to escape the helicopter staff buzzing about and get comfortable in the lounge for even more, surprise, conversation. I'm telling you, this is a guy who was no more spent after the first four hours of continuous talk than I was. Some restaurant critics can go on and on.

And, as we know, I like that.