Food

I'm an old woman and I'm entitled, at least so I tell myself, to one or two rituals that have no purpose other than my own pleasure. For almost a dozen years, I've traipsed down to Georgetown once a month to have R. do my hair. We have a system, R. & I. We say hello. I grab the latest W and the latest Architectural Digest. R. gets me a bottle of water and then we don't talk while he does my hair. Finally, just as he's finishing up, R. will dish a bit of Capitol Hill gossip to me and I act suitably impressed.

Then, if it's summer, I take myself to dinner at Cafe La Ruche and, if it's winter, I head over to La Chaumerie. The food's better at La Chaumerie, but Cafe La Ruche has a lovely hidden patio. Tonight, with the temperature a bit below 20 degrees, I walked the few blocks to La Chaumerie as fast as I possibly could walk.

The fire was burning in the fireplace. The oysters were as fresh as always. The crab and mushroon crepes were as perfect as they always are. The Suaternes was perfect. The waitress was as attentive, but also as nonobtrusive, as she always is and I managed to read a good chunk of the brief that I'd brought along with me. The ladies at the next table discussed their purchases from Ann Hand and then the Native American chants that one of them is transcribing.

I love Washington, D.C.