This D.C. Hipster Had The Most Cringe-Worthy Weekend

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Making a diary of everything I eat and spend during any given weekend is enough to give me heart palpitations. My girlfriend brought up my credit score on Sunday night on our ride home from dinner and I nearly ejected myself from the car and moved to a mountainside shanty in Wyoming.

Noted insufferable millennial site The Washingtonian runs a weekly series called “Food Money Sex” in which they “ask anonymous Washingtonians to diary the food they ate, the money they spent, and the sex they had over the course of their weekends.” Have I considered doing this myself for this very site? Yes, I have. Do I read them week in and week out to feel better about myself in the same vein as everyone’s worst weekend stories? Of course. Was this week’s column particularly insufferable? Absolutely.

The original text from this installment is unedited in blockquotes below.

Friday

Friday: They brought in Latin pastries for breakfast, some kind of empanada, but more like croissants filled with chicken tinga and chicken mole. I had one of each and 4 cups of coffee by lunch time. The Lavazza K-cups are a touch weak so I pour 6 oz cups instead of 8oz.

That is an insane amount of consumption by lunchtime. Two chicken-filled croissants and four cups of coffee? That has “I’ll be spending lunch in the handicap stall” written all over it. That’s the sort of morning that gives you a food hangover and prevents you from going out on Friday night.

Furthermore, to poo-poo the strength of the Keurig is just a fruitless endeavor. If you’re enough of a coffee snob to complain about K-Cups, you’re enough of a coffee snob to bring in your own coffee. Buy a pour over or AeroPress for me one time rather than humblebrag that you can taste the difference between a 6-ounce cup versus an 8-ounce cup, dude.

But it got worse once this anonymous asshole began describing the rest of their work day.

Thrilled because there is a vat of leftover Taco Bamba from the “Lunch & Learn” (don’t waste my time with those), I assemble a few carnitas tacos for my lunch. We have a happy hour around 4:30 to celebrate the September birthdays. I ate a handful of Fritos and two beers before heading out.

Okay, so it’s barely fucking noon and this person is absolutely elated that they can pile a bunch of carnitas onto the chicken empanadas that are already sitting like bricks in their stomach. This is Man vs. Food levels of eating. I sincerely hope that 1.) this person took a personal day because you simply can’t be productive with that diet, and 2.) they have a family-sized container of TUMS at their desk.

For dinner I make salmon in parchment with carrots/leeks in a mustard, white wine, crème fraîche, and dill sauce, and finish a can of Pinot Gris with dinner. My downstairs neighbor messages me to join her for a beer. I mix my dough and let it autolyse and went downstairs, had two cans of beer and a cigarette on her patio. Return upstairs to mix in the salt and levain and begin the bulk ferment.

I don’t even know what “autolyse” means and I don’t think I even want to. Topping off today’s tasting menu with two beers and a cig is a recipe for disaster. And I can’t imagine these are your standard Miller Lites – no, these have heavy IPAs written all over them. We all know how IPAs mix with carnitas. Sewage City.

But hey, let’s have some more fucking coffee.

Ground and brewed a cup of coffee then poured some whisky over ice and smoked a maduro on my balcony, going back inside every half hour to fold and turn the dough and top off my glass. I get some reading done in between (Meet Me in the Bathroom by Lizzy Goodman) and listened to adult contemporary music over the stereo (Banks, FKA Twigs, Blood Orange). Two hours later, the dough has had enough fold and turns, I steam two Trader Ming’s Char Shiu Baos to eat, and finish an episode of Poirot before going to bed.

My stomach is turning just reading this. More coffee? Baking bread? “Adult contemporary” music? Baos? Poirot? Are you kidding me? Don’t get me wrong, I’m a content guy through and through. But it’s almost like this person made a laundry list of aesthetics they wanted to get off so they could anonymously show the world how absolutely cultured they are.

For those of you who don’t know, Poirot is described as “stories from the pen of Agatha Christie.” Even I’m not white enough to watch that.

Saturday

Brewed a cup of coffee and ate the last of some olive oil cake I made the other night, then shaped my sourdough and preheated the oven for the bake. The dough had slightly over proofed but not the end of the world.

“Not the end of the world.” I’d certainly hope not. It’s a fucking sourdough loaf.

Brewed another cup of coffee while the bread baked in the oven, and edited my grocery list on Google sheets. Headed out to run errands/groceries after I pulled the bread from the oven. Returned home later and made Karahi Gosht to pack for my lunches during the week, made a salad with tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, and mint for lunch.

We get it, you’re a foodie but also not a foodie because half the shit you’re piling into your body is either from Trader Joe’s, leftover in your work fridge, or comes from a Keurig. Every person on Snapchat had already ruined food prepping going into the work week, but this person crucified it and burned it by noting that they made Karahi Gosht. That’s Indian food for those keeping score at home. Yes, they made Indian food for lunch every day this week because their stomach is made of steel.

Found a bag of Brussels sprouts in the crisper that I had forgotten about. They smelled fine so I ate those later for dinner, blackened in the skillet and tossed in oil with garlic, anchovies, chilies and honey. I slowly tidy up my kitchen, brew another coffee and make some toast with the fresh bread, with butter and radish, before taking a shower. I have a beer and a cigarette on the balcony then head out.

We all have our vices. Mine are Frasier and cottage cheese. This person, though? Well, their vices can be classified as “anything you can possibly ingest before a hole gets melted into their stomach.”

But this is truly where they get next level with their insufferability.

Windows down with late period Lana Del Rey and driving down GW Parkway always pairs well. I peer inside Maxwell for a seat at the bar, and walk past Columbia Room and there’s a few people in queue outside. I step inside All Purpose and order a Lambrusco at the bar.

1. You can’t say “late period” and Lana Del Rey in the same sentence. Lana Del Rey has been around for, like, a few years. I’d get it if you were talking about Bob Dylan or something, but Lana del fucking Rey?

2. Referring to people in line for a bar as being “in queue” is so pretentious that I actually may need to steal it for my next version of Words I’m Going To Start Using That Will Make People At Parties Hate Me.

3. Why is this person just drinking solo Italian red wines at bars on a Saturday night after pounding their system with food and cigs? I understand the whole wanting to be mysterious thing, but this is just downright gluttonous.

I notice the couple beside me at the bar, I’m 90 percent sure we had an exchange on OkCupid some months back, but nothing came of it.

Huh, I wonder why, you voyeur. Oh, here’s why.

They are drinking a decent bottle of Pinot, and he is waxing on, dropping all the usual clichés about “terroir” and a “wine’s sense of place.” I open the app on my phone to verify it’s her: She has the same nose piercing and the same bob, but is she really 6 feet tall? She was more tan than in her picture, more attractive in person than expected.

Uh, okay, dude. This is so next-level that I almost don’t want to give him the publicity. You can’t just sit at the bar judging the bottle of wine two people are dating when you didn’t even have the balls to ask this woman on a date in the first place. She probably didn’t want to go on a date with you because you lead with some bizarre quote from an 1800s novel that you picked up at a used bookstore days earlier.

And what world is this guy living in where clichés about “terroir” and “wine’s sense of place” are possibly “usual”? I thought D.C. was supposed to be for dudes wearing Vineyard Vines vests and women blacking out at bars in Hunter Boots. This guy is flipping everything I’ve been told about this city and turning it into a punchable hipster haven. I sincerely hope she doesn’t read The Washingtonian because it will be an absolute bitch for her to have to bother getting a restraining order against this guy.

Yet, somehow, it gets worse.

The bright lighting inside was bothering me and they were gradually closing up shop. I paid my tab and left for Showtime. I have a shot of Fernet and a couple Tecates while there. I was solicited for and offered cigarettes. It didn’t take two minutes before someone mentions the Seth Rich tragedy. We re-litigate the 2016 Democratic Primary and discuss the efficacy of antifa.

I… I, uh, goddammit, I don’t even know anymore. I want to put out one of those cigarettes in your eye.

Meanwhile, this dude who was hitting on these girls inside earlier had crossed the bouncer and got kicked out, but kept lingering, so the cops came and picked him up. He’s shouting “I was in the Peace Corps in Namibia…What have you done…” or whatever while he gets cuffed and shoved in the wagon. I headed home, with Sade’s Love Deluxe for the drive back.

I don’t feel comfortable living in a world where people like this exist, but even more, I don’t feel comfortable that this guy is driving after drinking several beers, glasses of wine, and shots of Fernets. Yeah, Sade still goes and everyone knows that, but call an Uber or take a pedicab.

I stop at 7-11 on the way, they are out of taquitos; sad. Got two cans of Foco Juco de Coco and steamed 8 or so Trader Joe’s Pork Gyoza when I got home.

Nothing beats capping off a 5,000-calorie Saturday with eight pork gyozas and double-barrel coconut waters.

Sunday

Sunday: Fried eggs and a steamed Trader Jose’s green chile and cheese tamale, all doused in Valentina, for breakfast with coffee. Brewed a second cup of coffee to ensure bowel movement.

I’d call this guy’s bowel movements “the elephant in the room,” but that insinuates that we actually needed to confront them. Uh, hey dude, based on everything you’ve eaten leading up to this point, we get it – you take big ones. Maybe don’t douse everything in hot sauce after falling asleep with 8 gyozas on your bedside table.

Suited up for a bike ride, about 30 miles, from Tysons to Shirlington, through Gravelly point and up the Mt. Vernon trail along the Potomac, looping back from Rosslyn, with a pit stop at Northside Social in Clarendon for iced tea. Three Nuun Energy tablets dissolved in 48 oz of water, and 4 Clif Shot Blocks for the duration of the ride.

Zero percent this bike ride ever happened. You can’t just pedal away on your fixed-gear bike when you’ve had BMs like that all weekend. You’ll find yourself on the side of the road crouched over behind a bush trying to figure out what you’re going to wipe with.

Steamed another tamale when I got home.

Of course.

Headed over to my friend’s rooftop later in the afternoon, I brought over cans of Gose and rosé and Pamplemousse LaCroix, made spritzers with those and drank those poolside. We grilled tuna, broccolini, and garlic bread for dinner and drank half a bottle of champagne, then headed to 9:30 for a show.

Honestly, after you noted that you were heading to your buddy’s rooftop, I figured it would be filled with beers and cigarettes. These spritzers were a breath of fresh air in an otherwise disgusting weekend.

We stopped on the way at Grand Cata wine shop, and at Right Proper for a round of beer (Blanc Slate). The crowd was eclectic at the Badbadnotgood show at 9:30 Club, but there was a preponderance of man buns.

Newsflash: you can’t criticize the amount of man buns when you’ve referred to “late period Lana” and spent 50 percent of your weekend actually steaming Trader Joe’s buns back at your apartment. The statute of limitations has passed for you criticizing others, especially after that whole private investigation you did last night with your old OKCupid match.

I got us a round of Narragansett, then I switched over to water. 70 minutes of improvisational jazz was plenty, so we headed out. My friend thought he spotted his ex and her dealer up above in the balcony.

Of course, you roll with other voyeurs. Of course.

Walking back we spotted a millennial pink veiny penis water bottle sitting on a bench outside of Glen’s Garden Market, I grabbed it for some future to be determined purpose.

Much like you should’ve done with the “pink veiny penis water bottle,” I’m not going to touch this.

We stopped in at Maxwell and shared a half bottle of JL Chave Crozes-Hermitage at the bar. There was some dude with a notepad spouting off blind tasting notes; his date did not look entertained.

You. need. to. stop. secretly. watching. people. drink. wine. in. public.

I like people watching as much as the next person, but this psycho has simply gone too far. If you can re-litigate the 2016 Democratic Primary and discuss the efficacy of antifa, this random wine drinker is allowed to write down notes into his pad.

A young woman asks me where I got my top, I tell her it’s vintage Nike. She says she came to DC from Salt Lake City with her husband he is a German immigrant and she is half Native American (he was not at the bar) and they are here in DC for their honeymoon because they “love the Constitution.” She starts sniffing the other guy’s wine glass next to her. We finish our wine and head home, Mulatu Astatke on the ride back.

Attention: If you went to Washington D.C. for your honeymoon and your wife has been missing ever since, please contact The Washingtonian in addition to the authorities. She is currently shackled in a random hipster’s apartment being force-fed ethnic foods while listening to late period Lana del Rey.

And in the most unsurprising turn of events, this person failed to have any sex for the first time in the history of the “Food Money Sex” column series. They simply noted:

Daily masturbation. Tried to find the link of the porn video Ted Cruz liked on twitter, but no luck.

And I just threw up leftover carnitas I found in our work fridge. .

[via The Washingtonian / This dude named Topher who emailed this to me.]

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Will

Will (Twitter / Instagram) is the host of The Sunday Scaries Podcast.

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