So, I had this story all good to go this morning, and then I looked at it and actually read it, and the whole thing made me ill.
It was about Tuffey Geffling, and if you know who he is, you already know more than we ever needed to know, and the predictable has happened, and the story is disturbing on several different levels, all about the level of discourse in this fine nation and I am just sick to death of it.
Anyway, I was more interested in talking about clams Cassini, which Tracy O’Gady, executive chef and co-owner of Willow has whipped up as a specialty topping for her legendary flatbreads just in time for Restaurant Week next week.
It is sort of fun to be along for the vicarious ride as Chef changes her menu, tinkering with it, moving from culinary triumph to triumph. I have been staying away from carbs, but was saving up to try the clams Cassini flat-bread last night.
I sort of egged Jerry-the-Barrister into buying one- I offered to have a couple slices of the small one, but he was expansive and ordered the full. He is jetting off to Italy late today, so I took advantage of his hospitality.
That was before some unidentified part of his heritage tomato salad went down the wrong pipe and I thought we were going to lose him, but that is an entirely other story, like the one Old Jim was spinning about the proper Richmond gentleman in the seersucker suit who came to dissuade him from messing around with his wife, who was in the travel game and was interested in turning a convention dalliance into something longer term.
That happened in the One Step Down, a bar that that sat for decades at 2517 Pennsylvania Ave. It was a quirky place, with equally quirky management but was a low-key D.C. jazz hub that welcomed those of all ages and backgrounds.
Jim used to live in an apartment upstairs, and at the time of the story, a pal who was a burly African American was crashing with him, just until times got a little better.
It was a good story, having all the proper elements of a bar time yarn, in that it happened in another bar, but was not a country story, since there were no trains, or pickup trucks or Momma’s failed expectations in it.
It was an urban tale, featuring some hard cases, all of whom had pistols in their back pockets, and drinking in the afternoon, and the incredulous look on the Richmond fellow’s face when he announced he was looking for Jim. Knowing that proper Southern Gentlemen do not come calling on matters of Honor without a pistol in their back pockets, and Jim decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
After the Owner claimed that he hadn’t seen Jim all day, and the man in the seersucker suit became more agitated, Jim decided to do the right thing. He pointed at his very large temporary room-mate and announced that he was Jim.
The Richmond fellow was nonplussed, and his eyes got large in the dimness of the bar. He sputtered that Jim should no longer mess with his wife and skedaddled out of the bar as fast as he could go.
Jim’s pal looked at him and put a massive hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” he said. “He could have had a gun.”
“Well, so do we.”
“Just don’t do it again.”
The One Step Down is regrettably closed now, turned into a place for high-end condos or something like what is happening all over the District as the Yuppies take over and gentrify the buildings. A Subway franchise occupies the venerated spot now.
The Lovely Bea and John shared some of the clams Cassini, but that wasn’t enough. After we were fairly sure that Jerry was not going to die, they decided to split the award-winning burger and one of the braised short-rib sliders.
This is what the award winning burger looks like:
They enjoyed it. Maybe we will see you at Restaurant week?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303