Tag Archives: DC

Further adventures in workday tailgating. Or food trucks.

2 Jun

In keeping with my Summer Challenge (by which I mean trying a new food truck each week, hardship that it is), today I found myself hovering between three trucks, completely indecisive. There was Stix (which does veggie, meat, or fruit kabobs on the grill), Tasty Kabob (ironically, less kabob-by than Stix, but featuring gyros and halal meat), and Sauça Pangea (more eclectic world cuisine).

I took a false step toward each truck, got in the longest line (Kabob) and then felt guilty for not patronizing the underdog, so shifted to Sauça at the last minute. Man, I’m glad I did.

Sure, I’ll try the others later this summer (they looked great as well), but the menu at Sauça really just struck my cravings. Even after making the shift, I was torn on what to get. The menu options (each for $8) included: Mumbai Butter Chicken, Polpette Marineara and Mexicali Fish Tacos.

I got (also for $8) the Beef Shawarma. I was not disappointed. Loads of sliced, flavored beef served on a fluffy pita with fresh tomatoes, spices and — the dealmaker: a great chimichurri sauce? Heaven.

As I counted out my singles, the guy working the register (sitting in what appeared to be the passenger seat of the van) was singing along to “Billie Jean,” which didn’t exactly blast onto the sidewalk, but appeared to give the truck a rocking internal beat.

Late for a meeting (but sad to miss the moonwalk), I grabbed my food to go and toted it back to my office, where the entire DC team was holed up in a meeting.

I took a seat at the table, and as soon as I unveiled my sandwich, then meeting derailed.

“Holy shit,” someone said. “Where did you get that?”

I explained that it came from a food truck, and then was rewarded by getting to explain what a food truck was, making me happy that I was not, in fact, the last person on the bandwagon. (“There will be dolls uglier than you, Jillian,” I thought with a smile.)

By the time I peeled back the foil and revealed the full glory (and aroma) of the shawarma, every person at the table was drooling asking me to draw a map to the truck. And I couldn’t blame them: it was fabulous.

The only downside to the meal: chimichurri in my teeth. But that’s not actually Sauça’s fault. That blame goes to my orthodontist, Dr. Balbach (rhymes with Ball-Sack) for ambitiously providing me with a straight smile AND a facial herb rack.

In summary: I definitely recommend visiting this truck (in fact, I can’t wait to try some of the other menu items), but I advise bringing dental floss if you don’t want to look like a carved up jack-o-lantern when you’re done eating. In other words: BYODF.

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Any “Modern Family” Fans in the House?

31 May

In the true spirit of the Inaugural weekend of summer, I kicked off Memorial Day weekend with a book in hand, relaxing next to Alan’s pool. Despite the temperature pushing 90, there were only a handful of people there with me.

Fortunately, the only gay couple there bore a striking resemblance to Cameron & Mitchell from Modern Family, so in addition to cooling off and relaxing, I was able to blur my eyes and imagine I was chilling at a private party in LA instead of a community pool in the suburbs of DC. Because these are the places my mind goes.

Shortly after claiming two deck chairs, they both reclined. The heavier of the two (whom I was mentally calling “Cam”) draped a towel across his eyes, as if he were at a spa. (Apparently I wasn’t the only person imagining myself elsewhere.) “Mitchell” pulled out his phone and was preparing to dial when — all of a sudden — PPBBBBFFFFTTT!

A rather noisy fart broadcast from Cam’s suit. I knew it was Cam because: a) there weren’t really any other people in the vicinity from which the noise emanated; and b) Mitchell just started shaking his head from side to side, eyes closed.

“No. You. Didn’t,” he finally mustered.

“Oh. Yes. I. Did,” Cam replied.

Rather than even ask for an explanation or lecture him about being foul, Mitchell just kept shaking his head in silence, as if resigned to it.

Watching this whole exchange over the top of my book, I was amazed with the nonchalance. It kind of reminded me of when my sister tore up a stall at the YMCA with really bad gas, then made eye contact with the other guests and — by way of explanation — said, “Didn’t want to do that on the bike.”

Screw it. If other people aren’t going to get embarrassed, then neither am I. So I pulled out my camera and took their photo. I was practically inviting them to call me on it:

Probably not a great celebrity look-alike if it means you have to cover your face with a towel.

OH. YES. I. DID. 

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I say “Pie,” you say “Pizza,” and we’ll see who finishes hungry.

27 May

Apparently, street food is all the rage. As with most trends, I’m late hopping on the bandwagon. It reminds me of the year I asked for a Cabbage Patch Doll for Christmas months after the cool kids had requested theirs, leaving me holding a homemade “Cabbage Patch” with a head made from stuffed nylons. True story. In retrospect, I now realize my doll was more awesome.

Back to food trucks. I’ve known of the Lobster truck, with its butter-soaked lobster rolls ($15), for at least a year. Of course, I haven’t actually tried one yet, because I’m so cheap I can’t justify a double-digit lunch, but I’ve at least seen it before. Maybe if I ever have cause to celebrate, I’ll go bananas and find a friend to split a roll with me. Because I’m just that wild!

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Sometimes I forget I live in a building with other people.

23 May

I’ll admit, I was spoiled by my last place. I had one of only two condos on the top floor of a building, so foot traffic past my door was almost non-existent. Especially because the first four years I lived there, my only neighbor was stationed in Spain. It was awesome.

I’ve since done an absolute reversal, moving onto the middle floor of a much larger (and much noisier) building. All because my condo fee was creeping up too high for my taste. Dumb Alison. I’d gladly pay twice the condo fee if I didn’t hear my neighbor stomping above me at all hours. (And by all hours, I specifically mean between 3:30-5:00am. And by neighbor, I mean you, Michael.)

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I’d offer you my seat, but you’re an ass.

17 May

When I arrived back in the US on Saturday, Dulles airport was a zoo. Apparently there had been thunderstorms holding many flights at bay, so when we landed, the line for Naturalization & Customs was RIDICULOUS.

Seasoned travelers around me groaned with impatience, all of us exuding the unmistakable (and un-maskable) Eau d’Plane. Unfortunately, we had a 45 minute wait ahead of us before getting our passports stamped for re-entry, so we just prayed that olfactory fatigue would kick in sooner rather than later.

After finally clearing Customs, I decided to take the Metro bus into the city, rather than springing for a more convenient (and $50 more expensive) cab ride. That meant kicking back and waiting 25 minutes for the next bus, which I did with a surprising amount of patience.

By the time the bus arrived, there was a sizable crowd waiting to board. As one of the first in line, I secured a seat near the front. Which ended up being the perfect vantage point for what was about to unfold. Across from me, a friendly guy with graying hair and a Boston accent sat down.

The bus started to fill up, and more passengers pushed to squeeze on. I made eye contact with a woman about my mom’s age and gestured to my seat. She declined the offer.

The bus was filled to capacity and two more people (toting large suitcases like everyone else) tried to force their way on,  but there simply no room. Every seat was taken and people were wedged butt-to-butt in the aisle.

It felt almost like this. ALMOST.

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