Dining early

Cashion's Eat Place
1819 Columbia Rd NW
Washington, DC 20009
202-797-1819

I count myself among those who consider dinner the largest meal of the day, and I find it positively barbaric when circumstances decree upon myself and my dining companions an early dinner – I am of the belief that my dessert fork should not have to set itself on the table before the sun does over the horizon. There are however, restaurants – and occasions, needless to say – on whose accounts this idiosyncrasy can be relaxed, and Cashion’s Eat Place is one of them. My friend Kevin was visiting in town this past weekend – a last-minute trip that provoked a last-minute plea of desperation to the hostess at Cashion’s. They could accommodate us, a table of 3 – us two and Sarah – but unfortunately only at 5.30pm. Shocking, I know. Some of us are barely done with lunch at that time.

Cashion’s is a place I bring visiting friends and gourmands to whenever it falls upon me to show off the wonders of DC. It is one of those restaurants that immediately feel familiar, even if you are stepping into it for the first time. I think it quite the compliment that I can never quite remember the exact colour of the walls – are they pink? orange? mauve? – for when I am in there the physical space just seems to melt away, and I am at a dinner table I have always been at, with friends and family I have always dined with. The food is quality – I have a sweet spot for the veal sweetbreads – and the staff always pleasant. Finally, if you have heard the story of Ann Cashion you will know that she was two years away from a PhD in English at Stanford but gave it all up to pursue her dream of cooking professionally. She may kind of be my hero.

So an early dinner it is, at Cashion’s, and it does not disappoint. I had the duck, but I sometimes enjoy it more when someone else at the table orders something that turns out to be much better than your own choice, like that one time in Bologna when Annie got the pumpkin ravioli which were really orgasms in disguise. It's almost as if just because you only get that one forkful, that one taste - that it inevitably has to taste better. I refer, of course, to Sarah’s halibut, which was that perfect texture between crumbly and firm, moist and meaty. Fish is a delicate thing, with so little margin for error, and it is a momentous occasion when it is done well. Mishandling it, as I no doubt have many times, is nothing short of a gross sin.

So all’s well that ends well, and the best part about Cashion’s is that it is literally a stone’s throw from any number of establishments that serve alcohol and encourage booty-shaking into the night. In our defense: we are young, and have a whole lifetime of mistakes to make.

***Footnote: I also want to admit that unless you are not averse to making a fool of yourself, I am perhaps not the best of dining companions. There are many reasons why: I like to make a pompous jackass of myself at the dinner table and savour every ritual, I like to talk to bartenders and waiters and have been known to insist that they share in our bottle(s) of wine. Sarah is much the same way, which is why we get along so famously. But even Sarah had to hide her face in shame and ignominy at my latest indiscretion: as our waitress graciously topped my wine glass off in the middle of our meal, I looked her straight in the eye and said, without irony, “Thank you. You’re like an angel, in the darkness.”

Is that so wrong?

Etouffee and the agony of eating alone

As i write it is 8:33pm Eastern Time on the eighteenth of April in the year 2006; and I just made and ate etouffee with crab meat and sausage. Not that I want to toot my own horn or anything, but it was so good it made me bust a nut in my pantaloons.

First I seared the sausages in a pan, then removed them to cook in the oven. I added butter to the rendered fat and tempered the mixture with paprika and pepper. I left the fat on high heat until I could smell the nutty, almost-woody smell of burning butter and could see wisps of smoke coming from the pan. Then I took the pan off the heat, added flour and whisked it to make a roux. So apparently the longer you cook a roux three things happen: a) it becomes darker, b) it loses its thickening ability and most importantly of all c) it becomes more flavourful.

If there are some things in the realm of the culinary arts that I think I am reasonably competent at - making a roux is probably one of them. After all, I was trained by the best. So I cooked my roux till it was a deep honey brown - the colour of delicious - and then threw in garlic, onions, green peppers, mushrooms and crabmeat. I seasoned it like there was no tomorrow and cooked the onions and mushrooms down before adding stock. A little while after that I took the sausages out of the oven and sliced them into pieces before adding them into the etouffee. Then I let it reduce while making rice. Approximately twenty minutes later I had my dinner. By myself.

Holy crap, it was better than sex.

That first taste was like someone smacked me across the face and I had to sit down. I know that I probably say that I come in my pantaloons too often and that it is a crass and overly graphic expression that nobody needs to hear, but this really warranted it. And it absolutely killed me, absolutely gutted me to pieces that i had nobody to share this with. It was a curious feeling, like I had stumbled upon a treasure and wanted so much to give it away but did not have anyone to take it. It is a feeling i have only ever gotten with food. Now, I travel a fair bit for work, and am no stranger to eating alone - but to experience an amazing meal and not have anyone else to eat it with you is sin visited upon sin.

Well anyway - that's my rant. Now I probably should go clean up my pants - you thought i was being figurative, didn't you?

And yes, Morgan, I then had to do the dishes.

All.

By.

Myself.