Yummy Changes

Change, as I'm discovering in my mini-adventures about this new-old DC, is not an entirely bad thing. It's especially wonderful when an old rowhouse on 9th street into the delicious Etete, an Ethiopian restaurant in the emergent Little Ethiopia (9th and V Streets).

Ethiopian cuisine is already a weekly ritual and mutually satisfying compromise for my meat cravings and her commitment to vegetables and fish. For the past couple of weeks, we'd been frequenting a place I've grown to dislike. Poor service, cold ambience, okay food. No honeywine. Time to find a new place.

I took a hint from a great review in the Post and walked to the glass window of Etete, and looked into skepticism.

For me, delicious Ethiopian is served on wicker ottoman style chairs, an equally low wicker table, and beneath pictures of Jesus and Haile Selassie I. Etete drastically diversges from the traditional, and embraces a modern decor. Consistent with the shot-gun style of the rowhouse, sleek straight-backed leather chairs and a maroon bench run the length of the dining room.The flat-screened television accentuates the bar area. Hmmm, doro wat or buffalo wings?

Absolutely doro wat, among other delights on the focused menu. We began with a salty-flaky-yummy lentil sambusa. I can only imagine how good the beef version is. The carafe of honey wine filled my glass at least twice, and christened the beginning of a succulent Friday dinner of lamb, fish and vegetables.

The moment the waitress began to spoon lamb onto our dish--a disappointingly boring silver tray--I knew it would be fantastic. The sauce was a rich reddish brown color with a slight film of oil on the surface. Chunks of juicy lamb bob around the spoon. Excuse me, I'm about to eat the entire dish.

Katrina worked around the side of the dish with the vegetables--cabbage, greens, corn, carrots, and something red I can't ever identify--and fish. Of that selection, the cabbage, greens and corn were the highlights. Though a generous portion that fills a to-go box, the fish was a bit less than flavorful.

As for the ambience, eating at Etete is like sitting at a Thanksgiving Day table. Conversation volume varied from raging to intimate. Luckily, Kat and I arrived early did most of our talking before the crowd arrived (including a ridiculously loud dude two tables down. Was his dinner partner not just 24 inches in front of him?).

Just as we were leaving, Etete--a sweet woman after whom her sons named the restaurant--emerged from the kitchen to greet patrons and take a well deserved break at the bar. Don't sit too long, Miss Etete. I'm coming back for my beef sambusa.

A link to a dated but informative article on Ethiopian food from the Washingtonian. http://www.washingtonian.com/dining/ethiopian.html

North Capitol Street Tableaus

Because of what I just saw on North Capitol and P Streets, I offer this colelction of tableaus.

...woman with skirt waist around her knees fully baring striped underwear, and frantically working her shirt over her head to reveal...

...8 am Sunday morning, older scruffy haired white man watering the traffic light signal with his own...

...9 am week-day morning, girl leaning upagainst shirtless teenage boy with two bulges. one in his pocket, the other...

i travel North Capitol street every day, to and from work. it has yet to fail to deliver something interesting to break up the routine...

Tell me a DC story

War by Candlelight is the title of a college buddy's debut collection of fiction. They are wondrous tales of his birth city, Lima, Peru and a few of New York. His work, as well as that of fellow Peruvian author Eduardo Gonzalez Viana, was featured as part of the panel discussion "Peruvian Writers in the United States: Writing While Living in the Bridge of Cultures." A fascinating talk. Even more fascinating is Peruvian humor, always just shy of, "Oh no he didn't say that..."

Anyway, how does such an event become today's post? Well, amidst thought provoking dialogue (moderated by Marie Arana of the Washington Post) on the question of identity among Latin American writers, I started thinking about Chocolate City's life in the written word...Who writes about DC? Not the Capitol Hill DC, or K Street DC (of course, folks who understand "La Cuidad Chocolat" Know that Already). But the DC that Washingtonians Know and inhabit.

Two authors come to mind. The immensely talented Edward P. Jones, and the up and coming author Kenji Jasper (shout out to Banneker--we're so on the move).

Edward Jones just came to my bookshelf by way of the "is this annual?" Library of Congress Book Fair on the Mall. After I heard that a brother won the Pulitzer, I started tracking Mr. Distinguished Jones. "What's this dude about?" More than I ever fathomed, or am ready to absorb.

Not quite finished The Known World, I picked up Lost in the City. This is the first answer to "Who writes about DC?" Right now, Jones is my authority. His writing is rich. The scenes are intriguing and thought provoking. The characters remind me of Who Black People Are. Jones also masters the craft of writing stories where not much happens by way of plot, but the end of the story is a crushing blow to your reading pleasure.

However, there are limitations. Jones's writing is of my parent's generation. The landscape is the 50s-60s, obviously not this chick's era. His writing explains the present through compassionate and evocative examinations of the past.

This is where Kenji Jasper's writing pick's up. Dark and Seeking Salamanca are stories of people we know doing things we've done. We can relate.

2005, the city has changed drastically. Who will write the stories?

When Lightning Strikes

We were driving in the Expedition—just back from the shop after a botched attempt to hotrod it rendered it useless—from an equally unsuccessful evening of croaker fishing. Dropped the rods in the water and caught a whole lotta nothing. The waters were too choppy still from the ferocious storm the night before.

The city itself was still recuperating from the house-rocking thunder, deadly lightning and winds. Off of New York Avenue, streets were fairly empty and quiet. As Dad, David, and I approach South Dakota Avenue from 18th, we were struck by how dark these neighborhoods were still, a full night after the storm. Downed trees lay like helpless victims, weak and humiliated in front of their stronger peers who withstood the rain and wind. Caution tape surrounded the neatly stacked logs work crews sawed earlier in the day.

“I’m surprised there aren’t police in this neighborhood," Dvid said. We were passing the McDonald’s on South Dakota. The traffic signals were the only lights in all directions. Every house sat dark, and their vulnerability was magnified. A lone cruiser appeared briefly, and turned behind us.

Right there, he explained, this guy I knew was rolled on by two guys in a car. They shot him, and stole his tennis shoes. Right there. This was around twilight like six or seven o’clock in the evening. Curiosity still lingered in his voice years later.

Just beyond, a mammoth tree lay helplessly upended, branches and leaves still attached. Fairly normal with the gross exception that it was in the fatal position of being parallel to the ground.

“These other guys I knew,” David said, “were chased by some guys in a car. The dudes in the car crashed into that tree, then got out on foot and shot him.” At the red light, I glanced at Lamond-Riggs library, where Mom took us to stock up on books in bulk like we were preparing for three months of house arrest. In this light, the trees wore a benign expression, as if their participation in anything nefarious was simply a lie. “Who, us?” they mocked.

“Damn,” I said. “Some people put themselves in it.”

“And some people get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.” We turned off of Missouri Avenue. “Like my friend who was visiting this girl at an apartment complex in Southeast. He was there by himself, and this dude high on PCP tried to stab him. Right there in the apartment.”

“Just for nothing?”

“Yeah, he was high. My friend got away, but then some of the dude’s friends got him in the courtyard. He ran to this lady's yard, jumped the fence, and luckily she let him in and called the police. Me and John visited him the next day at the hospital.”

We wait at the stop sign before turning a slight right onto Blair Road. “I’m amazed I made it through school without getting caught up in it, and just knowing the guys, or the friends of guys who were shot or stabbed, or whatever.”

Well, they say that it takes one influential adult in a kid’s life to make a difference. And you had plenty. Like a hundred. You’re so about to run that yellow light.

“Yeah, I guess. But…”

“I’m so happy, too, that I made it through school without getting jumped, or shot, or shaken down for anything I had. I would not want to be 17 again.” One Christmas my father gave me a Discman—this was when they were first hot—and he told me to be careful taking it to school. On the bus, I used to hide it in my book bag, and wear a hat over the headphones.

On our street, trees stand as they ought to. They had the temerity to remain erect. Maybe it was luck. Maybe they were strong. Maybe it was…whatever we want it to be. The porch light illuminates Mom’s anticipation that we would be home soon.

The Nation's Capital

Once a comfortable home for generations of working and middle class folk, DC is now a city for the rich. DC has been—at least for the minutes I’ve lived here—a place where working and middle class families could live in a fairly nice home with trees on the sidewalk, grass in the backyards, and necessary conveniences nearby. Lots of families have done so for grandparents and great-grandparents deep. I say this with full awareness of the city’s many, many shortcomings and failures to provide basic services to many of the residents. These thoughts are clearly the reflection of a woman who grew up comfortable and, to a degree, privileged.

Before my eyes we morph into a southern New York City, where on nearly every block sits luxury residences, a sign for coming luxury residences (O bliss! O rapture! More condos!) or conveniences for the wealthy inhabitants of such residences. Whole Foods, Storehouse Furniture, Bistro this, Cafe that.

The oddest juxtaposition I’ve seen in the last few months is the Design Within Reach store in Adams Morgan. This store brings upscale design to urban living. (I admit I’ve never been inside). What’s so interesting about this new face in the neighborhood is, financially, it is out of reach of the ever-shrinking population of working and lower class residents who’ve sustained the neighborhood for years. O the irony of walking from your efficiency or one bedroom unit past the gleaming neo-whatever windows of the design store, knowing it is as within your reach as the rings of Saturn.

How disheartening to notice the stylish proclamations of “Luxury Condominiums Opening 2005,” or “Coming Soon Loft and Flat Style Living.” Signs abound across the city, and each time I see one the urge to yank them from the ground is almost incontrollable. The buildings may be physically constructed in 2005 or 2006, but they will never come to me or other sorta middle class folks like me. (Is a young professional complaining about the luxury she’ll never enjoy, without being grateful for the comfort she already enjoys? Yes. I am.) With the exterior walls not yet developed, I can see how lovely the condos will be—high ceilings, grand staircases—and that is the limit of my enjoyment.

The recognition of that distance is hard to bear. As a lifetime resident of this city, I anticipated my generation (shout out to Banneker ‘95 and ‘96) and colleagues would one day inherit it. We were groomed to one day assume leadership. Our parents and extended family managed the city through good times and worse, riots and all. Then once we entered the workforce, I anticipated we would apprentice ourselves in preparation. Friends have entered a variety of fields needed to manage a city—law, education, city planning, social work, engineering, business and finance—and, as I go about daily routines, it gives me a thrill to recognize the name or face behind the counter, on the phone, or a letter. In a small way, our ascension has begun.

This ascension, however, is being rapidly eclipsed by the booming real-estate market. If we didn’t buy just out of college (this would be early 2000), or don’t have a six-income occupation, it will be difficult for us to make a permanent stake in our city’s growth and care. I take that personally. I recognized some neighborhoods would always be out of reach: Woodley Park, Cleveland Park, Gold Coast Sixteenth Street. Never did I think I wouldn’t be able to afford a nice house in Brookland, or LeDroit Park, or Takoma Park. (Cynics, I hear you saying “that’s capitalism, get over your entitlement.” Yeah, okay.) This is the struggle of living in a small town with a big reputation, national and international purpose and prestige. Lots of folks want a piece of it. Having generations of family and history in the nation’s capitol isn’t nearly as powerful as the leagues of capital you can invest in it.

The exclusion I feel as a result of understanding my new place in the city is discomforting. I thought I knew and was apart of this sweet pseudo-Southern town. Maybe now I just live here.